+ also sticking in his ooc prompt bc why not

Many options lingered out there in the extensive world. Perhaps, Marco could’ve abdicated his inadmissible quarter in the Typhoon for a position in a group which enjoyed his angelic presence, by any chance finding company with those that didn’t have a few which stared down their snout towards him. Additionally, it was possible for the lynx to procure comfort by joining the likes of his brother’s folk in the swamp, tacking on a much-desired sense of family into his routine. Yet, the angel found himself reappearing on the same edge of territory which he had disembarked from weeks ago, the very same site where he had been ridiculed by some for pursuing his own kin, and purely existing as a whole. There was triumph in his voyage, for he had tracked down the phantasmal feline, whom remained his sole family left on Earth after all these years, running with the meek sorts in Tanglewood. Marco was as sure as sunrise to not brag about this -

In fact, the winged feline had sworn to never gloat over anything ever again; both in verbal from and action-wise. It wasn’t that he had ever hotdogged about his status of “mighty holy warrior”, which he had not, though one could merely tell from the way Marco diligently drifted around the camp that he was more-than-proud of his merit. These acts had come with a deuce of consequences to them. Initially, he had only believed his cavalier nature to be the source of the dirty looks his way which that were dropped on the daily, though, as he continued his ways, it was realized that something much more big league was at stake. The halo, a ring of nothing but pure light, that hovered above his hardy noggin purely for decades on end, had faltered. It had been brief, but nothing short of noticeable. Nearly immediately had he discovered the errors of his ways - pride. One of those “seven deadly sins”. In his mind, the sins were outdated, rules of thumb that were maybe appropriate to follow at one time, but not now. Marco was incorrect on this, he now understood, and, if he had remained any longer in the confines of those foul-smelling glades, the angel feared that he’d next fall victim to greed. Why greed? Why, he had never paid those creatures in the Typhoon his visitation fees, of course. A parasite, the lynx had benefited from others’ hard work in keeping the Typhoon shipshape, and provided no effort to speak of. The ring would only flicker more if nothing was done, thus, he’d return - but, he couldn’t think of it that way. No, this was not an attempt to redeem himself out of fear, it was an endeavour done out of the goodness in his soul. ”The ocean ain’t goin’ nowhere”, he could remember the double-negative plagued statement by a particularly unhappy fellow when he confronted Marco. If he had been thinking clearly that day, the angel would have responded, ”neither am I, for I am intent on returning.” Unfortunately, other matters cluttered his mind that day, leaving no room for retorts.

His landing was not graceful. Purposely shoddy. The way his paws cage to a rough, skidding halt upon reaching the dirt’s surface was comparable to that of a car’s failing brakes. It felt... odd. Through the years he’d served his role, he’d gotten so perfect at everything, that it was a foreign experience to actually mess up like that. No, that’s an overbearing way to put it. He wasn’t perfect, he was just able.

If anybody could hear him, especially Bakugou or the savannah, if any of them were still kicking around, he’d announce his presence. "I have returned," he’d remark straightforwardly, his tone ushered along with hints of integrity, ”and I owe the Typhoon my free will. I have not been very assisting in the past, here, and for that I apologize. The group deserves an equal dosage of work from everybody, and I selfishly did not put in my share. So, please, have me at your command.”

This was going to get interesting, to say the least.

Bakugou holds a broken kind of pride, his refusal to be rivaled or belittled. His ego is damaged in a way that the shards have fallen, scattered, to form a web of a complex. Broken pride. The Quartermaster's throat feels dry. He doesn't usually like to think of his ego, his id and inner emotions. His nature is flawed. He knows this and yet it hurts to acknowledge the idea that his feelings are vulnerable, his vanity is frail. He walks along the line of glass-like potential. Beautiful, glistening and yet easily shattered - rattled to a brink of extinction. Then there is wrath, a method of defending himself. This way he avoids letting himself melt into the soils, seep into the underworld cursing and crying. Anger is passion, it is a way of feeling so strongly about something that you are willing to throw everything behind, become the enemy to be your own hero. He turns a blind eye to the state of his soul, his awareness that he has an irrational belief that he is, indeed, weak. No matter how much he trains or hardens his state of mind, his emotions are capable of igniting and exploding. Always he tries to convince himself that he is strong. He tells others that he is powerful, that he will be unrivaled, but the truth of it stays the same: it is what he wants to be, it is a goal he may never reach.

He bites his tongue upon seeing large, angelic wings soar through the skies, moving in a way that signaled that the flier was about to land. Bakugou likes to think of himself as being as honest as he can be. He doesn't like liars, he doesn't like being artificial. Ironically he is a victim of reaction formation, refusing to play nice because he is helpless in his expression. Marco, he recognises. There are no feelings of aggression. When he asks someone a question in a rude manner of speaking, pointing out that they are being useless, he simply doesn't know how else to begin a conversation. It feels wrong to say anything else. Admittedly, however, he does not feel particularly happy about the lynx's return. While he is not upset, he does not want to remember Caesar who had been exiled two meetings ago. He can only imagine what the savannah was doing now, perhaps living alone or joining the likes of The Pitt or The Rosebloods - two enemies of The Typhoon. He figures the former Officer would have done that considering the fact that he knew the yellow feline to be rather petty, doing things to spite others. Well, he should be the least of his concerns for now as Bakugou draws his attention to Marco.

He doesn't say anything to Leo. He is a child of Owen - another one of those disgusting mutts. While the boy has done nothing to deserve his hatred, Bakugou dislikes him for simply existing. That being said, there is no reason for the male to answer the questions on Marco's behalf, merely snorting at the angel's words about doing work. "You can start with patrolling or checking if the tavern rebuild needs any more help," Bakugou simply says. No 'welcome back' or 'good'. "While you're doing jobs keep in mind that Owen's preparing a raid on The Rosebloods for being attention whores and killing one of our members. I'll leave it up to you if you want to stay back or join in because we don't want to leave The Typhoon to the likes of kids." Or maybe Bakugou will stay behind. With Junji stepping down as soothsayer, they no longer had a high position to stay behind and look after the island if everyone was going off raiding.

Seconds ago fixed in a state of intense focus, the approaching clamour deriving from what sounded like a child or a munchkin pitched an expression of minor perturbation across the male’s facial features. To be frank, Marco anticipated being met by hawkish glares and piercing stares of disapproval, not a curiosity-twanged pup. That is not to say he didn’t appreciate running into a friendly face - it just felt somewhat more logical for a grumpy higher-up to come along and belittle him, instead of a friendly juvenile. An smile heavily spiced with uneasiness made itself present as the kid began his seemingly ceaseless tirade of inquiries; for, as much as the angel welcomed being acknowledged in in the world, he could foresee a less chummy individual showing about and completely ruining a moment. Though, that appeared to be not the case in this scenario. His tall ears could not pick up on any more activity encroaching yonder.

”How’d ya do that, mister?” - well, it was quite simple, actually. He was an angel, after all, wings came with the package. ”Why do ya speak funny?” - the same could be asked towards you, outplacing your ou’s with a’s. ”Can I fly, too? Can you teach me?” - if you had wings hidden underneath that thick pelt of yours, then things could be arranged. However, that looks not the case.

Of course, answering the child’s starstruck probes with the aforementioned witty responses would be completely unlike the lynx; hence, he’d proceed to shut his olive eyes in delight, augmenting his uneasy jawline into an elated grin, and replied earnestly, "Maybe I could show you more, another day?" Good kid. It was a treat to see that some of today’s children still retained their  innocence, so many were delving into the bleak paths of life at such a young age.

During his response, Marco came to the realization that the number of those greeting him hadn’t stopped at one. It occurred that perhaps, for the entire time, it had been possible for a less chummy individual to come about, said individual being the top dog in the category. As he showed himself to the angel and the tot, memories of the first day he’d been around, as well as the the last, immediately sprung into his sound mentality. To this certain fellow, he did not stare down his nose to see. He did not think little of him. The male’s personality indeed needed good tweaking, though it bothered Marco none at all. Actions spoke louder than words, as tough-sounding and intimidation-intended they were, and as far as he could remember, not a single proper kinsperson had been harmed by the likes of Bakugou. For his, the ragdoll was observed as an equal, not as meaningless scum.

Nearly instantaneously, the quartermaster began listing off potential opportunities for which the Romanian could provide himself for, whom nodded eagerly in rhythm. A raid, patrols, and repairing the tavern, all sounded good to him. These Rosebloods, or ”attention whores” as the smaller feline vulgarly referred to them, did not sound like an agreeable bunch. If they were creating disorder between the two groups, then it was likely in the best interest for him to take action. Could these hypothetical actions affect his holy status? Maybe. Though, an attack on them seemed justifiable, as long as the Rosebloods had initiated it. ”I will do what I must,” he’d react respectfully, carefully choosing his phrases in order to avoid conflict with his superior.