Red Finger Finds Out
Imamu Belmitope
[Soundtrack: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SyqNtJSQvZo ]
A breeze trickling in through the window carries a cool mist, swirling with unclear shapes. In times of ire they form eerie, unsettling imagery and coalesce into tricky illusions. Now they form a pleasing nebula, like the aurora come down to Earth. Kettle in hand, Imamu pours out four cups of breakfast tea. He towers over the other occupants of the floor-height Japanese table, even sitting with his legs crossed. Strange guests, this trio of Sidhe-Fae. Tiddy Mun in his tall, crooked cap, lifts the cup to his mouth and blows gently on the hot liquid, then takes a sip. Beside him, the narrow, lanky build of the young man Tod Lowerie stoops over the low surface and cradles his cup nervously. Lastly, a levitating hand gently dips the tip of one finger into the liquid and then jerks back, too sensitive yet to the heat. Imamu lets his sit as well. There will be a feast later, and it would be a shame to scorch his taste buds.
“And so,” he finishes his gentle, euphemism-laden explanation of why he does not bring Red Finger business and Temple business together, “I prefer to keep matters of church and state separate. For now.” Though they had come to him for aid in his other guise, he fears they lack the constitution for the darker work. The boy, or perhaps changeling, in particular. Certainly the Fae can be wicked and cruel, but these three have done little to harm the peoples of Man directly. “I am pleased to offer my assistance to your cause, and act as a speaker in the courts of men. The plants and the animals have precious few advocates in these lands with voices that carry to those with high and heavy crowns. This I know.”
The High Priest’s English is formal and flowery. He worries it may come off as too ‘posh’ and ‘noble’ to these country-living fair folk. Their own dialect is often difficult for him to parse.
”For ye welcome so grig’aryus,”
”In’eir position precar-yous,”
”A thanks offered be,”
”By th’ Fae of Sidhe!”
Tiddy rhythmically chuckles alongside his small stanza. His eyes travel around the room, taking in the fine decor and sturdy walls.
”Wonder ‘ere, do he, innis Temple o’ yer,”
”Y’ol’ protector o’ leaf ‘n slough.”
”Why t’Temple rightly must for stone abjure,”
”A bright’n greenly hue.”
Drumming his fingers along the side of his porcelain cup, Imamu considers the whimsical words. “You are right,” he resolves softly, looking sidelong at one of the few fake potted plants that sit in the corners of the rooms. “I have offered ample home for spirits of stone and air and light. Even spirits of blood. But I have neglected to decorate this place with the fair hues of nature,” mouth set in a solemn line, Imamu raises his hand towards the false shrub of unclear species within reach of him, brushing its felt branches. “This design is of unfortunate necessity.”
Eyes agleam with sensed opportunity, the High Priest plants the seeds of purpose. “In this region there is a villain who calls himself Greenfinger. He enslaves nature to his whims, chains it in production houses and siphons its natural gifts for his own profit,” smoothly, he lays the blame at the enemy’s feet. “Peddling drugs crafted in vile apothecaries to addict and addle, or misappropriating and misusing ritual herbs by lacing them with chemicals. He holds power over all things of leaf and root, and so long as his corruption looms on the horizon I cannot pay proper heed to these things in my Temple. Plans are already in motion to remove this invasive weed, have no worry.” He leans forward and takes a sip of his tea to hide his smile, disguising it as mere pleasure at the flavor with a lick of his lips.
Shifting from side to side, the shade-boy Tod Lowerie twiddles his thumbs.
”Well fekkin’ weed inn’t so bad innit?”
”Or er-” he fidgets, his sing-song attempt to imitate his master cracking as he tries to piece together a rhyme. ”Be smokin’ a… sinn’it?”
“Ach, boy,” Tiddy Mun giggles and shakes his head. “Tis awful tis, t’butch’ry.”
“Marijuana,” Imamu guesses the weed’s proper name. “Some say it has medicinal properties. I am no doctor, and so I shall not argue them. I know it as a ritual herb, to some beliefs. Whatever the case may be,” he pauses for another sip of his tea, prompting the others to drink some as well. Tod finally manages to down some with his sensitive lips, and the Dead Hand dips his finger in, the water burbling strangely as if being drunk from by a bobbing bird. When he lowers the cup to its plate, Imamu resumes, “When Greenfinger laces the herb with unsafe, addictive cocktails, it becomes a problem. A drug.” Reaching into his pocket, Imamu produces an old, outdated cellular phone. He lifts it up to his face and squints at it, tapping some of the buttons. Frowning, he sets it aside. “I will have a missive sent to the Japanese hero Rosethorn. In the past, she has lead operations against Greenfinger’s drug empire. If we offer her our aid, it will forge us a new alliance in the light of day. And, perhaps, lend her voice and legitimacy to your environmental protection movement.”
”Heard Tiddy did, a wise ’un say,”
”T’seek ye t’roses ‘long t’way.”
”But always nature ye mustn’t scorn,”
”Lest ye feel t’sting of ‘er thorn.”
Imamu simply nods along, interpreting it as a wary go ahead. “Then I shall invite her to today’s evening sermon.” He raises his large hands and claps. “Servants! To me. I’ve a task for you.” From the door, a set of three men and a woman file inside, clipboards waiting and clerical robes rustling.
Gustave has been growing more confident. Imamu stands beside the crocodilian giant, their two massive frames seizing the attention of the entire temple. While Gustave delivers today’s community news updates, Imamu scans through the crowd. The Sidhe are seated near the front, guests of honor in the temple. Ryuji Inoue stands- he prefers to stand- beside a statue of Atlas, holding up the globe. Mochi Uranus is there, and to Imamu’s delight the vessel of Quetzalcoatl has come with him once more. Yet, to his disappointment, the hero Rosethorn is nowhere in sight.
Imamu’s retracted tail quivers, above his tailbone. The hairs stand on end, and a sudden feeling of unease passes over him. Something in the air is changing. Something is coming-
Something has arrived.
[Soundtrack: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YGUmlenmnas ]
Before the large double doors at the front of the temple, the air shudders and ripples. A slithering trail of eerie blue light runs down like a dribble of water through a fold in space, then it tears violently open. Air rushes in. Shapes step through. Imamu’s fists clench at his sides, his legs tense. Gnash drops the microphone, letting loose a clattering boom and a screech.
Tall, pale skin contrasted strongly with dark clothing. A tattered black cape floats behind. The strands of blue hair stand out, like the only source of color in an otherwise black and white film. The Reaper, the vessel of Apep, strides with purpose down the central aisle of the temple. On either side of him, people crowd against each other to get away.
Remaining near the door, a brutish man with blue skin, horns and wings flexes his shoulders. “Drekus is very disappointed in you!” Holding up a fist with a single finger outstretched, he wags it in Imamu’s direction. “The priest man gives good sandwiches, but he is rotten liar!” Standing on either side behind the blue-skinned man are a pair of unidentifiable figures, dressed in long, dark robes and gray masks- modeled like the bloated faces of drowned bodies.
Pacing in front of the brute and his sidekicks is another fearsome villain, a woman with brilliantly gleaming eyes- and teeth, bared with all the vicious sharpness of the ridiculous chainsaws strapped to her hands. A long, crocodilian tail sways from side to side behind her. One man tries to make a run for the door, and with the roar of a revving motor she cuts his attempt short at the knees. Screams interrupt the dialogue for a few moments, before shock and blood loss cause them to fade.
“I thought gods were welcome here,” holding his palms out at his sides, Apep smiles hollowly up at the stage. He stops, before the altar obstructs his view of the two hulks standing there. “I don’t feel very welcomed.”
“You dare to set foot in this sacred place, Apep, serpent of chaos?” Imamu lets his voice boom, projecting confidence to the cowering masses. “You will-” in a sudden outburst of violence, a long, bony arm emerges from the Reaper’s back and impales one of the women nearest him. The limb yanks her body into his arms and he bites into her throat with his teeth, choking out any attempt to cry for mercy. Even Imamu is shocked out of his speech.
“I hearf oo gib ree mneals,” the long-haired boy says through the meat in his mouth, swallowing it down with visible effort. “The sign says help yourself.” He leans his head, on the side towards the sandwich counter. “I thought I’d help myself.”
Hands shaking in rage, indignation and- though he would never admit it to anyone, least of all himself- fear, Imamu steps around the altar. The stinger tail emerges from his back, slipping out from beneath his vestments. “You will face me, demon-!”
“Okay.”
[Soundtrack: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4kPJltIagPM ]
A kick off of the ground sends the Reaper flying towards the stage. Imamu shifts one leg behind himself and raises his hands, preparing to catch the incoming blow- those moments vanish from consciousness the moment an impact cracks Imamu’s chin and sends him sprawling backwards. It’s only when he skids to a stop against one of the sacrificial grooves for draining the blood of larger animals, that Imamu processes what happened. His foe had grabbed him by his outstretched arms and driven a knee into his chin. The world spins. Stained glass high above paints colors across the High Priest’s vision, a dark figure walking placidly across the stage. Gustave is gone, fled.
“This is a god?” the dry voice from above mocks.
Curling his tail, Imamu uses it to kip up from his fallen position. He barrels forward to meet the challenger, twisting at the last second to lunge with his stinger. The Reaper makes no move to dodge. It penetrates, punching through skin and flesh. Then freakishly large, white hands wrap around the appendage and twist it, sending a searing pain up Imamu’s spine. Using it to yank the priest forward, Apep slams a palm into his chest, knocking him flat on his back once more.
Tilting his head to the side, the Reaper scratches his neck. The hole in his chest already disappeared, as if it were never there. “Not even going to use your eyes? You might stand a chance if you did.” Imamu clenches his teeth. The monster is toying with him. Trying to force him to break character. Then, Imamu’s brow furrows. The light from the windows is gone. A fog is rolling in.
Raising one foot, Imamu kicks the Reaper in the shin and rolls to the side, clambering to his feet. A second Imamu rolls in the opposite direction. One stands up in place, and one rolls backwards. Mouth a flat line, the Reaper backhands the one standing in front of him, and it scatters into the gathering mist. “That’s fine,” more limbs of bone sprout from the boy’s back, stretching and poising themselves like serpents ready to strike. “I brought enough hands for all of you.”
One by one, the spear-tipped bone limbs lash out, slicing through copies. Those torn apart split into two, juking and dodging both ways. But luck can only go so far. One limb launches in Imamu’s direction- the real Imamu- and he reaches up to grab it. As the bones creak between his thick hands, his arms bulge with the strain of holding back the thrust. His shoes skid against the floor. Apep turns and looks his way. “Found you.”
A searing pain punches into Imamu’s back just below his left shoulder blade, jerking upwards. It tears into muscle, causing that arm to buckle. His other can’t hold on by itself. Bony digits press forward, clutching their claws against his chest, barely held back from disemboweling him by one straining grip.
His tail. Imamu tries to lash out at whatever struck him, but when he swings his tail out all he feels is something tearing free from his back- just beneath the shoulder blade. His tail. His tail stabbed him.
“It looks like the god in you,” walking towards him, Apep maintains a relaxed posture, contesting all of Imamu’s strength with one bony arm, “Has sided with me.” Cold fear, at last undeniable, causes Imamu to falter. His blessing betrays him. His tail is hijacked by Apep. The dagger-like fingers digging into his chest move deeper. Clones of Imamu run and swing at the Reaper. Not a flinch. Then others, copies of civilians, others from the crowd. The Reaper ignores them all, marching through and swiping away the visual obfuscation with his many hands whenever it becomes too much. At last, raising a hand a mere foot from Imamu, he flicks one finger. A wall of force launches Imamu backwards. The fingers slip free, letting blood run down his chest from the fresh wounds, as he’s laid out on his back, pressed against the stage by an invisible force. The broken jaw moves painfully, but only raspy babbling escapes. Not even a last word.
“This,” the figure towering over Imamu looks at him with inhuman, white eyes. With a blank smile, he waves a hand at Imamu’s bloodied and busted-up body. “I wanted this to send a message.” The smile disappears, turning into an idle frown as the boy looks around. Fog fills the temple, the sounds of screaming and fighting reaching them from the direction of the doors. With a passive shrug of his shoulders, the boy laments, “Looks like someone ruined the spectacle. Oh well. I guess there’s no reason to keep you alive.”
Mochi Uranus
[Soundtrack: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oHJw7IqqGww ]
The moment he hears that voice, Mochi is frozen in place. Sandatsu Owari walks down the central aisle. Behind him, Mochi sees Lixdite tense up. The godling’s tail lashes behind him, two keen eyes scanning the situation, looking for a way out. For one terrifying moment they rest on Sandatsu, and Mochi can tell his friend is considering intervening. The ice cracks and his arm reaches out, grabbing Lixdite by the wrist. “No,” Mochi hisses, in a whisper. Lixdite snaps out of his intense focus and looks down. “He’ll kill you. We have to get through…” a chainsaw roars, and a man screams. Mochi twists in his chair, struggling to look back towards the doors. “Them. We can get people out past them.”
The other members of the Wild Hunt are there, as well as strange, masked men Mochi doesn’t recognize. One of the men has two long knives in his hands, and the other is holding a revolver. “Alright,” Lixdite whispers back, “Through them.” As if it were the easiest thing in the world.
Dropping a bloody corpse at his feet, Sandatsu leaps at the stage, at Imamu and Gnash. The croc-man turns and flees, making a mad dash for the side aisle. From beneath the doors on all sides of the room, a thick fog begins to pool in, slowly at first and then rapidly. Hell breaks loose as others from the crowd try to run past the villains through its cover. The tailed woman sweeps her massive limb, knocking swathes of the fleeing crowd off of their feet, leaving them exposed for the slaughter. Lixdite poises himself to rush at her, but before he can a huge log appears in the path of one of her chainsaws, with a flash of white light. The weapon tears halfway through the length of the wooden pillar before its momentum dies out.
“Stay back!” a large man with a dark gray muscle shirt stands, his hand on the log. People who were in the path of Feral’s attack scramble away while she snarls and sweeps her other blade at him. Anything further vanishes from Mochi’s view behind the billowing fog. Lixdite takes flight in that direction, and Mochi struggles to turn his wheelchair around, getting stuck on one of the floor cushions and jerking himself free by throwing himself forward. The reckless motion sends him careening into a statue, slamming his shoulder into the stone. It smarts like a bastard, but at least it wasn’t his head.
Grabbing his wheels, Mochi struggles up the incline towards the doors, trying to catch up to his friend.
Inoue Ryuji, the Transport Hero: Rescue Ray
Leaping sideways into the air, Ryuji plants his foot on the flat of Feral’s chainsaw as it sails beneath him, and kicks off. The principals of Aikido: the redirection of force. Her strength is thrown into the huge redwood log. Coming in from the side instead of lengthwise, the teeth tear through the wood with her strength behind them, severing a large chunk.
It leaves her arms crossed over one another, the free weapon trapped on the opposite side of the log from Ryuji. Shifting his stance, he punches forward. Another fresh log extends from the end of his fist in a gleam of white light, slamming into her face.
The impact barely moves her. Feral swings the entire log stuck to the end of her trapped saw, slamming the mass into Ryuji’s side. He tumbles through the air and rolls along the ground. A large boot pressed against his back stops his roll, and he looks up to see a smiling blue face. The friendly expression twists as a sadistic gleam appears in the villain’s eyes, vast dark wings spreading out behind him. Powerful wingbeats begin to banish the mist around them, as more steel feathers erupt from Drekus’ skin. The sharp edges streak towards Ryuji’s exposed face.
A surge of wind smashes into the villain’s flank. Standing with one foot raised leaves his balance wanting, and Drekus topples sideways, twisting to land on his back. A swift flex of Drekus’ own wings kips him up to his feet, but Ryuji uses the moment to scramble away. A second winged mutant appears, a scrawny boy who looks like a twig compared to the mass of the blue-skinned monster, soaring above them on broad, colorful wings. Ryuji recognizes him. One of the temple-goers.
The boy’s eyes go wide just before a crack of thunder hits. He twists in the air, and a bullet ripping through the air punches through his wing instead of his head. The impact sends him spiraling down onto the row of cushions below. A bystander tries to help him up, just some man, and the bullet turns in the air and pierces the good Samaritan’s skull. The projectile impacts the floor and ricochets back into the air.
Ryuji can see one of the men, hooded and masked, guiding the shot with an outstretched finger. The man is about to swing down at the winged boy again when he suddenly chokes and starts gagging, doubling over. Vomit drips from behind the edges of his mask.
“Don’t just sit there! Help is on the way, we’ve got to get in the fight!” someone grabs Ryuji by the shoulders and helps him up. When he turns his head, it’s not the Top Ten hero Rosethorn he’s expecting to see. But he nods his head, feeling his body revitalized by her words.
“Right!”
Aiko Ami, the Motivational Hero: Rosethorn
[Soundtrack: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SyqNtJSQvZo ]
Standing outside the doors of the Kwoolani Temple, Ami leans against the wall, wearing a pair of sunglasses in an attempt to conceal her identity at a glance while staying casual. The sounds of the sermon being delivered echo out past the door, and she listens more intently than her posture would let on. She’d been invited out by the temple’s priest, Imamu Belmitope. Something about the temple and its sudden interest in Japan always rubbed her the wrong way. Opportunistic.
She’d figured he wanted to piggyback off her popularity by getting her to make an appearance. Drum up more followers, or something. So instead she lingers outside, listening covertly. And then… a strange silence suddenly falls over the temple. Hairs on the back of the heroine’s neck stand on end. Her instincts are too honed to miss the danger.
Reaching with one hand, Rosethorn grabs her phone. With the other she sidles to the side and opens the door- just a crack. When she peeks through, her heart goes cold.
Sandatsu Owari, and his new friends. Holding the door steady, she quickly dials with one hand while peering through at the unfolding situation. The hotline for the Reaper Task Force. Beneath her, a thick fog crawls over the ground, slithering inside through the cracked open door. Strange shapes flicker and move within the mist.
Feral begins cutting down civilians, and Rosethorn grits her teeth, turning away from the scene to make the call. “This is Rosethorn. Kwoolani Temple, west Kyoto. Owari is here, the Wild Hunt is with him,” she rattles out a report.
“Dispatching,” the cold, precise voice of Endeavor’s secretary states. “Expect us in sixty seconds.” A lot can happen in sixty seconds. Tossing her phone in the grass where it can be tracked for a more precise location, she shoulders the doors open and steps inside. A fight has already broken out.
[Soundtrack: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jfleA3UOBR0 ]
A man is on the ground near Rosethorn, a man whose civilian identity she recognizes. Grabbing Rescue Ray by the shoulders, Rosethorn hauls him to his feet. “Don’t just sit there! Help is on the way, we’ve got to get in the fight!”
“Right!” regaining his footing, her fellow hero adjusts his stance. On one side of them, the villain Feral uses a powerful coiled, tail to yank her chainsaw free from a dense log. “Leave her to me,” Rescue Ray insists, and Rosethorn nods. From the corner of her eye she detects movement, and sidesteps a knife blade that stabs through the air where she’d just been standing.
That makes you mine. Rosethorn doesn’t spare the breath to taunt the masked cultist. His outstretched arm is twice as long as a normal human arm, but bounces back to him like elastic. Spinning with the momentum, he thrusts with his other arm, launching a blade-tipped whip in her direction. Lunging into and past the attack, Rosethorn clinches the extended limb under her arm and shifts her body weight. When the elastic reaches its full extent and rubber bands back, the masked man is tugged towards her, stumbling forward. Using the momentum borrowed from the arm under her grip, Rosethorn steps into their meeting and drives an upward kick into the man’s gut. A precisely targeted liver shot brings him down instantly.
Reaching back and pushing off the ground with one hand, Rosethorn regains her footing. Another man in identical robes and mask is retching on the ground, and she leaps into an axe kick, slamming him in the square of the back. His head is driven down into the floor by the impact, and he is knocked unconscious.
“Rosethorn-sensei!” she hears, a young voice, a student’s, calling out. It takes her a moment longer to place it than to look, just as it vanishes into the dense fog deeper into the temple… Mochi Uranus.
Mochi Uranus
[Soundtrack: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oHJw7IqqGww ]
Pushing hard to roll uphill out of the fog, Mochi is struck by a cool rush of air. Great, steel wings upon the blue man’s back sweep away the nearby fog in powerful wingbeats. The water droplets in the air, cold and wet, spray Mochi’s face and smear his glasses’ view. Reaching up, he wipes away the moisture with his sleeve.
When his view is clear again, Mochi hears a booming sound like thunder. Lixdite’s shape collapses from midair, and Mochi feels a shock of panic stab into his chest. One of the grim masked men is aiming upwards with a gun, his finger dancing as he alters the trajectory of his bullet on the fly, sending it through the head of a man trying to help Lixdite. Nozawa Yuuto. He helped Mochi up the hill sometimes. A good man.
Eyes reduced to pinpricks in his panic, Mochi presses his quirk into overdrive, hitting the gunman instantaneously with the smell and taste of raw sewage. In only a moment, his body reacts with reflexive revulsion. Doubling over forwards, he loses control of his bullet, the projectile disappearing somewhere into the fog.
Danger isn’t gone. The built blue bastard is lunging towards Lixdite, who’s rolled onto his side now and is struggling to get up. Mochi tries to flood his senses with the same rancid concoction of raw sewage, but it doesn’t seem to be having any effect- the man just spits to the side. Raising a foot, the villain slams it into one of Lixdite’s arms, and Mochi’s kohai writhes under the boot. Lixdite’s tail tries to slice into his tormentor’s body with a slash of air, but a metallic wing blocks it.
Grabbing the wheels on either side, Mochi charges at the melee, crashing himself and his wheelchair uselessly into the villain’s body. An arm immediately back hands him, and razor-sharp feathers leave cuts along Mochi’s shoulder and cheek. “Ah!” the monster says, with surprise, as if just noticing Mochi now. “Drekus is sorry. It is very rude to hit disabled child. Out of way, da?”
Indignant, Mochi tries to grab the larger man’s arms as he takes hold of Mochi’s wheelchair, but it only serves to cut his unprotected hands on the bristling feathers. The mutant drags Mochi’s chair into one of the open aisles, and planting a boot on the front, he kicks. Mochi sees just past the blue beast, for a moment, the face of…
“Rosethorn-sensei!” he calls out. She hears. She can get to Lixdite in time. For the first time, Mochi feels relief at the sight of her, instead of impotent rage. Then the fog swallows up his sight of the battle, as he rolls backwards towards the stage. Skidding into a jostled floor cushion, Mochi spins out and tumbles to the ground in a clattering heap. Only the safety strap keeps him from falling out of his chair- not that it helps much when he’s fallen like an upside-down tortoise.
Spindly arms grab Mochi’s wheelchair by the handles and help him up. “Oi,” the thin boy, covered in shadows, then valiantly hides behind Mochi and his chair. “This shite’s focked, innit? E’s gonna kill ‘im!” Mochi’s English isn’t the best, but he can recognize a jumble of slummy British accents.
Following the Brit boy’s gaze, Mochi can see the stage.
The misty shroud is thinner there, sent swirling away in gashes with each punch and boney claw-swipe that Sandatsu Owari makes. Efficiently, the Reaper cuts down a crowd of Imamu-shaped illusions, fragile copies destroyed when the mist composing them is dispersed. Those with enough substance reform into more distracting bodies, but the target of their efforts only looks annoyed at the waving arms that attempt to monopolize his view. Then, in another gut-wrenching moment, Mochi sees one of the images catch a bone limb in its hands. “Found you,” Owari’s uncanny voice heralds a shift.
Imamu is stabbed from behind with his own tail. He looks confused, his bloodied face delirious, his jaw broken, reaching and swiping behind him for a foe that isn’t there. As Owari approaches his prey, taunting, Mochi wracks his brain. If that monster is so used to living in the sewers that the sensory gross-out assault doesn’t affect him, what might a freak like Owari be too used to?
“I guess there’s no reason to keep you alive.”
[Soundtrack: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4kPJltIagPM ]
No more time. Mochi raises his hands, frames them around Sandatsu like the frame of a photograph, and it feels like something else is pulsing underneath his skin. Like his body is heating up, nearing a boiling point but not crossing over. Not just in his hands or his eyes, but all over. Simply replicating a scent isn’t difficult, effortless if he’s ever smelled it himself. Mochi hadn’t always neglected his training. There was a time he was very passionate. Passionate enough to seek out the worst smells humanity has ever crafted, for research. The things he’s smelled, the things he’s tasted, could render a lesser man unconscious. Adjusting the intensity, mixing things, is a simple matter of imagination. It shouldn’t be physically strenuous.
But something about Sandatsu is like forcing a nail into wood by hand. Like he’s trying to penetrate senses that aren’t entirely human. Quirk straining, eyes bulging, Mochi feels a sympathetic disgust inside his mouth as he imagines the smell.
[Ultimate Series: Zero-to-One-Hundred Selenol]
[Special Technique: Sensory Blending]
[Ultimate Series: 100% Pure Capsaicin]
It is a novelty on this earth. A mixture too vile to have been conceived by god. This comes from somewhere else. Like injecting the mucous membranes with white phosphorus. Like garlic so rancid it’s dissolved into paste, consuming all free space in the mouth and nostrils. It burns down to the soul, a wound nothing can heal, because it doesn’t exist.
The inhuman monster retches and vomits mid-scream.
Imamu Belmitope
The pressure grows more intense. The wood beneath Imamu cracks and threatens to buckle. He can’t breathe- his lungs aren’t strong enough to fight the downward force atop them. Ribs crack. Muscles strain. All in vain.
Then, the force falters and falls away. Opening his eyes, blinking away the black spots as he sucks in a breath, Imamu can see the Reaper’s body wracked by convulsions. He hiccups, then he gags, gripping his chest, then gripping his throat. The Reaper tries to plug his nose, making pained hooting sounds, but then he’s thrown forward by a final muscular reflex- he uncontrollably vomits red fluid onto the stage, joined by bubbling stomach acid. It’s speckled with chunks, the remains of that woman’s throat and whatever else he’d eaten recently. More screeching follows the surge of sick, the moment the throat is no longer obstructed. An inhuman scream.
Heaving upwards with all his might, Imamu forces his body to his feet. The tail, Serket’s blessing, once again pays heed to his commands. The demon has been shaken from his body by the Uranus boy- Imamu knew his investment would pay off.
Moving is an agony, but Imamu moves. He’s struggled through this sort of trauma before… years ago. So many years. When he was a boy, in the killing fields of Africa, fighting to survive like an animal. The only path to life is through. Vision blurry and swaying from side to side, he stumbles diagonally forward. The movement pulls the Reaper’s eyes to him.
Apep speaks true. There is no audience to this fight any longer. Letting power expel from beneath his eyes, Imamu meets the Reaper’s eyes with a petrifying glare, momentarily blinding the demon. Clumsily, the High Priest charges for the ritual altar. Behind him, invisible impacts of force shatter the surface of the state, peppering his back with jagged shrapnel. Reaching out, he grabs the sacrificial blade from its resting place and hurls it.
It impacts the Reaper’s chest, punching through. Momentary elation is replaced with immediate despair when the boy takes it by the handle and tears it out. The wound vanishes in moments. Already, the brief flash of petrification is fading from his eyes, the stone flakes changing back to dry, bloodshot eye-gelatin- and then returning to peak condition. A gagging hiccup escapes his throat, and a dismissively waved hand blasts a scattering of red light. The shotgun blast of beams peppers Imamu’s body, and the smell of burnt flesh and smoking clothing fills his nose as he trips backwards. The Reaper spins towards Mochi, below the edge of the stage.
Then, the Reaper freezes.
At the edge stands a woman with brilliant white hair, one of her eyes blazing. It reminds Imamu of his own, mid-glare.
Aiko Ami, the Motivational Hero: Rosethorn
Sailing through the air, Rosethorn’s heel strikes the back of the mutant’s head. He dips forward, staggering on the uneven flooring, while she flips backwards through the air and lands in a poised crouch. A wing, bristling with blades, sweeps behind him. Rosethorn tumbles to the side, rolling underneath the jagged attack. A foot comes from behind the wing, and she doesn’t have time to get out of the way, so she lets the impact of the heavy kick come, and rolls with it.
Chest stinging, Rosethorn rolls onto her knees and pushes to her feet. Her eyes widen, seeing a slim form trying to slip silently behind the villain. Lixdite reaches up with his tail, wrapping it around the larger mutant’s throat, and starts delivering swift, raking blades of wind to the spine with his fingers. Drekus batters the boy behind him with his wings, but Lixdite endures the bladed impacts. Their blood mingles on the floor, and Rosethorn feels a surge of panic run through her, overpowering any thought of tactics. A student is in danger. Rushing forward to join the melee, Rosethorn ducks under a punch and aims for another swift, efficient liver shot. Her fist connects- but Drekus doesn’t flinch, and she takes a brutal knee to the chest instead, knocking the wind from her. Mutant. Liver must be in a different place. Always a risk.
Opening his mouth wide, Drekus extends a set of arachnid mouthparts and bites into the tail choking him. Lixdite grits his teeth and tries to hold the grip, but it starts to go slack, losing strength. Grabbing onto the loose limb, Drekus yanks on it, pulling Lixdite over his shoulder and slamming him into Rosethorn. The two of them crumple to the ground. Opening her mouth, Rosethorn tries to give the barely-conscious student an encouraging second wind, but her lungs are still choking for air and all that escapes is a wheeze.
A shadow falls over them. Drekus licks his lips, tongue tracing over the mandibular mouthparts as he looks at Lixdite. The mutant-eater. Rosethorn’s veins run cold, and she shoves Lixdite off of her, springing to her feet with a desperate surge of adrenaline. Drekus grabs her by the arms with his massive hands, so she pushes off of the ground and delivers a headbutt straight to his chin. His mouth slams shut on his tongue and mandibles, and he bellows from the pain, letting go of her. Refusing to let go of momentum, Rosethorn leaps onto him like a pouncing animal, grabbing his skull and pressing her thumbs against his eyes. They topple to the ground, her on top of him. Rosethorn feels a pricking in her wrist, and looks down. One of his fangs.
Dizziness comes on in a sudden wave. First Rosethorn’s one arm goes weak, then she feels her power crash coming on early. Drekus takes her in his arms and stands up. He’s staring at her, and her bleary eyes look up at him through the haze of the poison. A softness has come over his face, and he reaches up to touch a flower barrette in her hair. He speaks, softly, in Russian. “Little flower girl?”
Then, an explosion of force hits Drekus from behind and they’re both lifted into the air.
Inoue Ryuji, the Transport Hero: Rescue Ray
There’s a wild intelligence to the way she fights. Inoue was able to catch Feral off guard the first time, using his log trick, but now she’s keeping him at a distance, using her superior reach to her advantage, paying keener mind to the arrangement of her limbs. She’s taking this fight seriously now, and it’s swiftly turning in her favor. Forced on the back foot, Inoue defends himself with deflecting logs and blocks of wood to ward off her lunging blades, his reserves gradually dwindling. There is some solace in the stream of panicked templegoers now pouring out the doors, as he leads the vicious villain away from them. He got them out. That’s the important thing.
If Inoue could just get close enough to make skin contact, he could- SLAM! The smooth surface of a stone pillar strikes Inoue’s back. A sharp pain from the back of his head shocks his body, and a surge of panic runs through him. The jagged teeth of a combat chainsaw sail straight towards his neck. His feet lock up. It’s over.
Something shoves him in the shoulder. Inoue loses his balance and falls, just in time for the weapon to impact the pillar. Chunks of shattered stone and bent, ruined chainsaw teeth fly through the air in jagged shrapnel, stinging his bare arm. A pallid hand floats in the air, its appearance baffling both the fallen hero and the villain standing over him.
The visual non-sequitur of its appearance allows the Dead Hand to jab two of its fingers up Feral’s nostrils, tugging upwards. She steps back, tail holding her balance, and swipes in front of her. The unwieldy chainsaws can’t reach close enough without shaving her entire face off alongside the hand, but they don’t make any contact with a hidden body or arm. It’s just a hand.
Sensing his opportunity, Inoue scrambles forward, reaching for a bare portion of Feral’s leg. Something heavy slams into his own leg, but it doesn’t shred him open. The chainsaw with broken teeth. His hand makes contact with smooth, hard scales, and in a flash of brilliant red light the reptilian woman is gone. Her weapons clatter to the ground, still running and loudly skittering against the floor. While Inoue catches his breath and backs away, the Dead Hand maneuvers into the grips and switches them off. “Thanks,” the hero gasps. “They… I’ll put in a good word for you. Let them know. You’re a- a lifesaver,” he praises the environmental villain, who responds with a thumbs up.
Then, an explosion of force rips through the temple, sending people, light fixtures, and cushions flying. The stained glass windows above shatter outwards, and the fog still hanging around the stage is blasted in all directions. Already lying down, Inoue escapes the worst of it, and reaches out to grab the Dead Hand when it’s sent flying by the shockwave. It gratefully shakes his hand.
Rosethorn isn’t so lucky. As he struggles to his feet, Inoue sees her pinned underneath Drekus, the mutant-eater. The villain is getting up, and she doesn’t look in great condition. Neither does the colorful serpent boy, sprawled out on the ground with many bruises and cuts, and a small, terrible bullet wound in his wing.
Inoue looks down at the stage. The fog is gone.
Gustave “Gnash” Gavail
[Soundtrack: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oHJw7IqqGww ]
“Dammit.” Gustave tosses aside a useless cabinet and grabs the lock on the next, tearing it off with a screech of protesting metal. He sifts through the medical supplies inside, but it’s all useless. “Useless! Dammit!”
“W-what are you looking for?”
Spinning around, the crocodilian deftly maneuvers his large tail around the clinic’s wheeled beds without toppling them. His wrath is saved for intentional targets, like the useless cabinet. From a supply closer, one of the male nurses who volunteer at the temple clinic is peering out at him. “Where’s the sedatives?” Gustave demands.
“Sedatives?” the nurse stares at him, agape. “Uh, we don’t have those. This is a donation clinic, we have, like… over the counter painkillers.”
Right. Donation clinic. Voluntary donations. Gnash is still getting accustomed to this whole ‘Father Gustave’ thing. The priesting. Back in his blood farms, you’d have to keep the supply sedated and calm. There’d be sedatives in the blood, but hell, the buyers weren’t complaining. Free bonus. “Dammit,” he grumbles again, in his deep, baritone voice. When the Reaper his godsdamned self showed up, Gustave knew there’d be no chance of a head on fight. That fucker tore through Paris. But if they could sedate him, then maybe… “Alright. Get out here, grab a first aid kit,” he orders the nurse.
More than one emerges, three nurses, two men and a woman. Gustave takes charge, ordering them to collect supplies. “If someone’s reported this shitshow,” he explains, the veneer of civility slipping back into the tongue off a hardened gangster, “Endeavor’s going to show up soon and blast that freak somewhere else. Once that happens, you all get to the wounded, and I’ll cover you.”
Shaking, the medical staff nod their heads, falling in line. It feels good. A different kind of good from ordering around the old gangsters in Osaka. For one, he doesn’t have to worry about showing his back to these people, lest they take a shot at the crown. Maybe going straight ain’t such a load of horseshit after all. Maybe if they make it out of this alive, he’ll give it a real shot.
A blast shakes the building, shatters glass, and Gustave reaches down to steady the male nurse who’d stepped out first. “Alright. Stay behind me, we’re moving.”
Mochi Uranus
[Soundtrack: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LMPV5ANrFlk ]
Tension upon the stage is so thick in the air that it could be a cloud of mustard gas. Sandatsu Owari stares down an image of a white-haired woman. Mochi doesn’t recognize her, but Sandatsu does. Something about her is enough to cause him to hesitate, shift his feet into a defensive stance. Does the fellow illusionist boy crouching behind the wheelchair know something Mochi doesn’t? Maybe he can see things Mochi can’t.
The rancid assault on Sandatsu’s senses still clings to him, but he’s regained enough composure after vomiting to only gag and cough on the irreal film in his mouth and nose.
The woman shifts her stance as well. Sandatsu’s eye twitches with impatience, and then his face smooths. “Another illusion,” he says, and the boy behind Mochi tenses up. The woman springs forward, drawing and swinging her sword. Sandatsu raises an arm, and the air itself ripples in front of him, shattering the image into specks of shadow. Like a wedge, the wave of force jams itself beneath Mochi’s wheelchair and lifts, hurling him forcefully into the air. He surfs on it, until it swings upward like a wave and slams him into the ground, continuing over him in a violent rampage. Mochi lands on his side, his shoulder, but he’s too out of breath to scream. Only a whimper escapes. There’s a cry of pain from someone else. His wheelchair landed on the skinny boy’s legs.
A small gnome-like creature has the good fortune to faceplant violently into one of the seating cushions.
All of the fog is dispelled now, blasted away by Sandatsu’s psychokinetic wave. A heavy impact rattles Mochi’s fallen heap, and something like a vice grip grabs his arm, pulling until it pops from the socket. The muscles and ligaments scream, threatening to tear. Now, Mochi screams, too. Fingers grab him by the jaw and force him to look up. Sandatsu’s mouth, grimacing and dripping spittle and vomit, looks down at him. “Turn it off,” his former senpai commands. A wrench on his arm turns Mochi’s scream into a strangled sound. “Or I’ll-” Sandatsu hiccups. He spits a mouthful of bile into Mochi’s face, stinging his eyes. “Nevermind. I’m just going to kill you and turn it off myself.” The hand around Mochi’s chin flexes, preparing to snap his neck backwards.
“Stop! Or Feral dies!” a voice calls from above. Sandatsu stares down at Mochi with impassive loathing, like a man looking at a disgusting insect. His hand releases Mochi’s chin and he slumps down, but his arm remains in the monster’s grip.
“Where is she?”
Mochi struggles to look up. A large man is standing above them, near the door to Imamu’s sitting room. Rescue Ray. One of the pro-kwoolani heroes, temple regular. His hand is outstretched, but nothing is in it. “My quirk allows me to store organic matter,” the man narrates.
“So? I can kill you and take it from you, and her with it.”
Rescue Ray doesn’t flinch. “I don’t need to release it all at once. Try anything and I’ll reduce her to dust. So unhand the boy.”
“What makes you think I care?” the villain tilts his head, white eyes boring holes in Rescue Ray’s skull.
“That you’re even negotiating right now tells me I’m right,” the hero confidently claims. Mochi isn’t so sure. Flexing his fingers, Rescue Ray lets a small trail of dust sprinkle from them, like specks of salt. “Those were her fingernails.”
A beat of silence passes. “Unhand him is it?” Sandatsu asks, coyly. Pointing the finger of his free hand at Mochi’s outstretched arm, Sandatsu releases a narrow, focused beam. In only a second, it slices clean through flesh and bone, and Mochi’s arm drops to his side, a stump just below the elbow. Sandatsu smiles and holds up the hand. “If you say so.”
Staring bug-eyed at the place his hand used to be, Mochi feels sick. His vision blurs and he sees spots of black. The stump barely stings. His body tries desperately to pull him into a state of shock, swaddle him in comfortable oblivion before his nerves catch up to what happened. They succeed.
Mochi faints.
Inoue Ryuji, the Transport Hero: Rescue Ray
Looking on in horror, Rescue Ray clenches his fists. “Last warning, stop now or-”
“Anything less than Feral’s death I can fix easily. Using her as a hostage is the only thing stopping me from killing you, but if you kill her then I’ll just kill you,” the Reaper points out, speaking with erudite clarity. “It’s the hostage-taker’s dilemma, see. You tried to corner me, but you’re the only one cornered.” Walking up the central aisle, the Reaper reaches down and helps his blue-skinned comrade to his feet. He looks at Rosethorn, who’d been crumpled underneath Drekus. “Hello, sensei. Fancy meeting you here.”
Rosethorn groans and tries to drag herself away.
“So,” Sandatsu continues to narrate to Rescue Ray, walking calmly towards Rosethorn. “I can’t kill you. But there’s nothing you can do to stop me from killing them.”
As he’s raising his hand to point it at Rosethorn, Sandatsu is slammed into by a blazing missile. It carries him the length of the temple in seconds.
Rescue Ray releases the breath he’d been holding in. Endeavor has arrived.