DON'T GIVE IT A NAME // OPEN

[Grey]

The art of healing. He's complained about his incompetency enough times in his mind, frequently frustrated because he knows that saving has never really been his forte. It infuriates him to feel useless, to watch helplessly in the sidelines, only be there as yet another entity consuming space. When the ones he cared about were injured, he can do nothing. And yet the Reaver has never had the initiative to pursue medicine because he knows it is better left to the ones who were capable of absorbing such information, far more willing to sit down and learn than he was. Bakugou was capable of studying, highly capable of learning as unintelligent as his social skills might have suggested, but he was the combative type. Patience does not sit well with him, especially when it had to do with him. Almost everything has to do with him because the world he sees and manipulates is all read through his mind, filtered into his perspective of what his mind wants him to see, hear and feel. The real enemy was himself. Everyone else was just an afterimage, flickering manifestations of all his distastes and anger.

His eyes float towards Owen's snark at one of Pincher's children, cold and inexpressive when he approaches to glance briefly at the cover page of the book. Too many big words, he thinks, too many big words for the likes of a child. Regardless, it seemed interesting to bury your face in. It was better than interacting with the likes of Owen or anyone on the island. "Teachin' yaself to read or an aspirin' medic?" he chooses to ask before scoffing at Owen. As helpful as medical knowledge is in a supposed apocalypse, he doubts cramming everything will be helpful unless Peppino was some kind of clairvoyant.