Genuine. To be honest, he lacks self-awareness. He knows there is a tornado inside of him, fanning air and fuel for the fire inside of him. An anger. He's always angry at something because no matter how he feels, all that negative energy evolves and mutates. It transforms into fury. It's the only emotion that gives him comfort because he knows that it is him. After a while, he begins to think that his own feelings define him. That is Bakugou. He is anger, he is rage, he is that unmistakable wrath. It lurks and swallows him whole. It lives both inside and out, burning him like the way his flames touched metal and stone. He is sure that everything about him isn't fake. It is all raw energy, channeled in ugly ways because he never stops to self-assess. Perhaps one can say that he is genuine. He doesn't like to lie about who he is or what he thinks. He hates dishonesty so much that he is willing to be rude to newcomers, giving them an accurate picture of who he was rather than act so kindly for a day. It's easier that way but he still doesn't know if such behaviours made him who he was. Maybe there is more to him, lurking within his soul, cracking at the seams as they try to escape the confines of his struggle.

He feels he is tied by ribbons. Gorgeously wrapped about his imperfect, ash-coated body. They try to cover all the faults, all the insecurities. They tangle and spiral, holding him in place so that he doesn't move. Strings, threads, ropes. Ribbons feel more appropriate. Beautiful, shining and unseen. They are the unseen horrors of his tale, his discomforts brought into the darkest abyss of his thoughts. He wants to look, he wants to see. He needs to know who he is and what he was. He knows there must be someone who owned this body before but the ribbons pull his eyes away, they grip him in an artificial assurance. It'll be okay, it'll be okay. They cloud his vision. He lacks self-awareness because of the ribbons that coil about his body. The smoke of his flames become the fog, the mist which he daringly continues to delve through. He wants to know, he wants to know. He knows he lacks the self-awareness to understand himself but no matter how hard he tries, they refuse to let him see. They too are buried in ribbons, smothered and strangled, gone from sight until their form could be recreated, raised within the mass of a beautiful mess.

His fire is spluttering inside of him. He quietly wonders if there was a way to rejuvenate his flames, the hearth that sat within his body. In its purest form, his fire is golden. They were jewels without a shape, crackling and shifting, rich embers spitting to the ground. The only fire he's ever known, though, was red. Sanguine like his eyes - wild and untamed. An attempt to douse water over it would cause it to rage, burn even brighter, refusing to die and back down. If he was held down for too long, he could probably take down a forest. He didn't like to be confined, trapped with no answers. Maybe it was why he was so angry. Ribbon after ribbon, every single time he tried to rip them away, they reformed and held tighter. They were stopping him from seeing the truth, stopping him from seeing his emotions so vulnerable. All his walls, high and strong. Within those walls was something crumbled, dilapidated because truthfully, from the core of his emotions, he was wanted appreciation. He needed a little love. He was angry because he couldn't see this, even more angry because he didn't know why he always felt this way. He always boasted his independence but the truth, in its ugliest form, was that he needed just as much help as everyone else did. He was lonely and needed company. Bakugou was just too stubborn to see that.

If Bakugou got injured, he doubts anyone would extend themselves to help him. He is awful and atrocious, a bad personality. Everyone saw him as either an opportunity to ignite their own amusement or a need to be cautious with their tongue. He was really just...a nuisance. Every time the ones he cared about were injured, he could only watch or call for help. He felt useless because the black mambas held information that seemed so sacred, sacred enough that if he so dared to try and learn, he would feel the holy sting of the heavens. Junji was their only healer as of this moment, the only one who acted as salvation, a body who extended as a sanctuary. Now all the potential black mambas seemed to be crawling out from the ground, heaving their bodies from the soul and into the bright light. Lessons were being thrown everywhere in a scramble for the top, to make the best impression for a tryout. He doesn't mind learning a thing or two but every time his eyes look at them, the ones hosting the tryout, he sees just another face who won't help him. They won't go near him, he's too argumentative. His injuries would only be an opportunity to condescend him, put him back where he came from.

His sanguine eyes blink plainly at Beck's voice, unfamiliar with the croaky sound. Irises like fire, twinkling when they float towards the spectral boy's form. Another one, Beck was just another candidate. Like most of them, there is a fear which laces their tones, mixing with the words. Just first aid, his mind echoes. His brain feels empty like a chasm, drained from his discomforts. Everything that unsettled him stuck to the walls of his thoughts, leaving the middle empty. He decides to approach for the sake of it. The tryout stated that it was a lesson and healers had to be used to dealing with many faces so he comes and sits down, blackened specks falling gently to the ground. Ashes. They were the ashes he was never too fussed about shaking off.