09-15-2018, 03:43 AM
Running is for cowards. As far as he can remember, he’s never really run away from anything. Perhaps there was the one time he had been kidnapped, looking for a way to escape, but Bakugou considered an escape to be his victory. Although hotheaded, he is at least vaguely conscious of biting more than he could chew. There is little gain for attempting to defeat every single villain. No. He had known that there will come a point where his fame would skyrocket so high that no one would dare challenge him, quiver should he even look at someone the wrong way. His death was a miserable death. No pride, no fighting, no running. Death came to him in seconds and Bakugou, as hard as it had been, chose to move on. His perspectives haven’t changed. Running is for cowards. To run is to drop the chance of winning, to be afraid of losing. There’s nothing wrong with fearing loss but he does find something wrong in giving up. It is an infuriating thing to watch. The day he runs away will be the day he is no longer Bakugou Katsuki – a day of tragedy.
Does turning a blind eye count as running? He may not run but he certainly neglects. The ragdoll is far too willing to close his eyes and walk blind, muffle the noises that overwhelm him. His response to the pain which rips his very cells, makes him feel as though he is burning inside and out, is to merely block it out. Painkillers. There always comes a point that avoiding becomes too much. It lets the problem grow, evolve and mutate into something worse, something much uglier and monstrous. He would rather drown to death. Let his lungs scream and his own neck strangle themselves as his brain cries for air only to let his own body fill with saltwater, intoxicate his normal functions, kill him when his mind shuts down. Or perhaps he would rather burn to death, flames crackling across his skin and burning so hot that his sensors don’t believe it. The heat will become so overwhelming that his skin feels cold, freezing because his body will go into overdrive. Then it will be the carbon dioxide, the toxic fumes which crawl down his trachea and into his alveoli that shrivel and die. Anything, he thinks, to forget the pain is there.
A tragedy struck this morning. His bottle of drugs is running empty, few remain because he’s been taking too much. He’s woken up before to realise he can’t feel his own paws, unable to recognise the unsheathed claws were his. Even Bakugou’s own eyelids felt foreign. He doesn’t feel the sensation of lids closing, clapping against each other to keep his eyes from drying. It puts him in a strange predicament because he can’t remember where he stole them. He’s had a hard time remembering anything lately. Perhaps it is another side effect of the painkillers but even though he knows they’ll do him more harm than good in the long run, he can’t stop himself from taking them. The reaver wonders if anyone has noticed as he walks into the rainforest, turning his ears like radars as he hopelessly listens to the calls of an array of birds and other loud, screeching animals. He smells blood. A kill? Bakugou scrunches his nose. It must be considering he smells no crewmate stench and nothing about the metallic scent resembles decay. Recent. He notes that it must have been a recent appearance to The Typhoon’s borders, but whatever it is it has set itself within their imaginary walls.
His eyes squint, looking past the low-growing vegetation and prowling towards the smell. It isn’t accompanied by the smell of a crewmate so the reaver grows more suspicious the closer he gets. The idiots haven’t been setting traps around the area, right? He quickly stops to check his paws, as if expecting to have tripped over some rope and be consumed by a steel box. No, nothing. It is just his imagination. So far, the only logical explanation he can make is some prey or stranger has run into The Typhoon looking for help, or perhaps the animals are fighting with each other. He is aware the rainforest is home to many sorts of beasts far bigger than him and much, much stronger. If it weren’t for his fire elementals, he would perhaps be dead the moment he stepped into the forest. It was his tail that possessed the shape of fire that often warded the animals away. Nature hates fire.
Not too far now that he recognises a large, brutish form pressed against a tree. The beast looks as if it is being crushed by gravity and his sanguine eyes are instantly drawn to the large feline’s blood. A plethora of cuts and bruises. The ragdoll wouldn’t be surprised if the tiger was racked with broken bones and miseries. The creature would look impressive with palette of colours if not for the red accents oozing along his body, painting him with the kiss of agony. Bakugou comes closer, several metres away from the foreigner who appears to be dripping in and out of reality. A blur, he imagines. He can relate to everything becoming a blur. When the vision breaks, it is the ears that go on overdrive. Sounds become a sea of noise, so loud that it becomes as though you are underwater, unable to hear anything clearly. The reaver’s mistake is standing there for so long, assessing the situation but not actually absorbing anything. He can’t think, still frazzled with his own problems.
Maybe, he thinks, it is best to go find Silus or Junji…but their black mambas are always working too hard. It is their job, but The Typhoon needs their attention more than some stranger lurking around the depths of their forest. It is better he leaves the tiger to die. He hates liabilities. Although The Typhoon has always maintained a prosperous society, he sees little point in wasting away feeding the useless mouth of an extra. But, at the same time, there poses the problem of the rest of the allegiance. Some crewmates might wish to save the pitiful being for the sake of being nice and hospitable, to build upon a positive image for themselves. Perhaps this tiger seeks to join. Truth be told, he wishes he can just look the other way or summon a typhoon to throw this tiger away, let it return to the underworld where he belonged with all that blood and gore.
He realises the male hasn’t noticed him when a hostile roar explodes through the territory, cloaking the landscape with an awareness of the tiger’s presence. Bakugou looks back at the male who had been whimpering when the feline had first arrived, contorting his face into one of disgust. ”Ya need healin’?” the reaver lazily calls out, agitated because he would rather have just given the situation a blind eye and walk off to continue his meaningless stroll. Little does his know, however, of the other male’s aggression. Having boldly stepped another metre forward and revealing his position, Bakugou leaves himself open to being attacked. His fire elementals have always given him a sense of security, he can’t ignore the fact that his powers have saved him a number of times from grave injuries. Unaware of any danger that may befall him, the ragdoll daringly turns around to begin to look for Junji or Silus, the two overworked black mambas they happened to have.
Does turning a blind eye count as running? He may not run but he certainly neglects. The ragdoll is far too willing to close his eyes and walk blind, muffle the noises that overwhelm him. His response to the pain which rips his very cells, makes him feel as though he is burning inside and out, is to merely block it out. Painkillers. There always comes a point that avoiding becomes too much. It lets the problem grow, evolve and mutate into something worse, something much uglier and monstrous. He would rather drown to death. Let his lungs scream and his own neck strangle themselves as his brain cries for air only to let his own body fill with saltwater, intoxicate his normal functions, kill him when his mind shuts down. Or perhaps he would rather burn to death, flames crackling across his skin and burning so hot that his sensors don’t believe it. The heat will become so overwhelming that his skin feels cold, freezing because his body will go into overdrive. Then it will be the carbon dioxide, the toxic fumes which crawl down his trachea and into his alveoli that shrivel and die. Anything, he thinks, to forget the pain is there.
A tragedy struck this morning. His bottle of drugs is running empty, few remain because he’s been taking too much. He’s woken up before to realise he can’t feel his own paws, unable to recognise the unsheathed claws were his. Even Bakugou’s own eyelids felt foreign. He doesn’t feel the sensation of lids closing, clapping against each other to keep his eyes from drying. It puts him in a strange predicament because he can’t remember where he stole them. He’s had a hard time remembering anything lately. Perhaps it is another side effect of the painkillers but even though he knows they’ll do him more harm than good in the long run, he can’t stop himself from taking them. The reaver wonders if anyone has noticed as he walks into the rainforest, turning his ears like radars as he hopelessly listens to the calls of an array of birds and other loud, screeching animals. He smells blood. A kill? Bakugou scrunches his nose. It must be considering he smells no crewmate stench and nothing about the metallic scent resembles decay. Recent. He notes that it must have been a recent appearance to The Typhoon’s borders, but whatever it is it has set itself within their imaginary walls.
His eyes squint, looking past the low-growing vegetation and prowling towards the smell. It isn’t accompanied by the smell of a crewmate so the reaver grows more suspicious the closer he gets. The idiots haven’t been setting traps around the area, right? He quickly stops to check his paws, as if expecting to have tripped over some rope and be consumed by a steel box. No, nothing. It is just his imagination. So far, the only logical explanation he can make is some prey or stranger has run into The Typhoon looking for help, or perhaps the animals are fighting with each other. He is aware the rainforest is home to many sorts of beasts far bigger than him and much, much stronger. If it weren’t for his fire elementals, he would perhaps be dead the moment he stepped into the forest. It was his tail that possessed the shape of fire that often warded the animals away. Nature hates fire.
Not too far now that he recognises a large, brutish form pressed against a tree. The beast looks as if it is being crushed by gravity and his sanguine eyes are instantly drawn to the large feline’s blood. A plethora of cuts and bruises. The ragdoll wouldn’t be surprised if the tiger was racked with broken bones and miseries. The creature would look impressive with palette of colours if not for the red accents oozing along his body, painting him with the kiss of agony. Bakugou comes closer, several metres away from the foreigner who appears to be dripping in and out of reality. A blur, he imagines. He can relate to everything becoming a blur. When the vision breaks, it is the ears that go on overdrive. Sounds become a sea of noise, so loud that it becomes as though you are underwater, unable to hear anything clearly. The reaver’s mistake is standing there for so long, assessing the situation but not actually absorbing anything. He can’t think, still frazzled with his own problems.
Maybe, he thinks, it is best to go find Silus or Junji…but their black mambas are always working too hard. It is their job, but The Typhoon needs their attention more than some stranger lurking around the depths of their forest. It is better he leaves the tiger to die. He hates liabilities. Although The Typhoon has always maintained a prosperous society, he sees little point in wasting away feeding the useless mouth of an extra. But, at the same time, there poses the problem of the rest of the allegiance. Some crewmates might wish to save the pitiful being for the sake of being nice and hospitable, to build upon a positive image for themselves. Perhaps this tiger seeks to join. Truth be told, he wishes he can just look the other way or summon a typhoon to throw this tiger away, let it return to the underworld where he belonged with all that blood and gore.
He realises the male hasn’t noticed him when a hostile roar explodes through the territory, cloaking the landscape with an awareness of the tiger’s presence. Bakugou looks back at the male who had been whimpering when the feline had first arrived, contorting his face into one of disgust. ”Ya need healin’?” the reaver lazily calls out, agitated because he would rather have just given the situation a blind eye and walk off to continue his meaningless stroll. Little does his know, however, of the other male’s aggression. Having boldly stepped another metre forward and revealing his position, Bakugou leaves himself open to being attacked. His fire elementals have always given him a sense of security, he can’t ignore the fact that his powers have saved him a number of times from grave injuries. Unaware of any danger that may befall him, the ragdoll daringly turns around to begin to look for Junji or Silus, the two overworked black mambas they happened to have.