The Symbol of Death: Part 1
1 Week, 6 Days and 15 Hours remaining
After the chaotic crash and their escape, the crew, now consisting of Mio, Drekus, Ookami, and Feral, found refuge in an abandoned ski resort nestled in the snowy mountains. The air was crisp, and the only sounds were the distant howling wind and the crunch of snow underfoot.
The abandoned ski resort, while frozen in time, seemed to offer more than just shelter for the makeshift team. Furniture adorned the rooms, the electricity miraculously still worked.
Mio, as pragmatic as ever, meticulously arranged her belongings. The sound of zippers and the soft rustling of fabric filled the room as she unpacked her things with a precision that bordered on obsessive.
Ookami, her loyal attendant, stood by her side, eyes fixated on Mio. She couldn't help but marvel at the way Mio carried herself, each gesture demanding attention and respect.
Meanwhile, Drekus and Feral, having claimed their rooms with childlike enthusiasm, reveled in the luxury of their newfound abode. The wooden floors groaned under the weight of their roughhousing, and laughter echoed through the halls.
The jovial atmosphere grated on Mio's nerves. The echo of their boisterous antics invaded her space, and irritation crept into her voice as she barked, "Go outside, both of you. Make a snowman or something."
Drekus and Feral, taking the suggestion as an opportunity for more fun, happily complied. With a burst of energy, they stumbled into the crisp winter air, leaving Mio in relative peace.
Sandatsu trudged through the thick boreal forest. His clothes were tattered and stained with the evidence of countless struggles. He moved with an odd mix of determination and exhaustion, his steps leaving deep imprints in the snowy terrain. The air was frigid, biting at his exposed skin, but Sandatsu pressed on.
Eventually, the trees relented, and he emerged into a clearing.
A crack echoed through the stillness, followed by the sickening impact as a sniper's bullet found its mark. Sandatsu's head snapped back and he crumpled to the ground. The hidden assailant, concealed in the shadows at the forest's edge, lowered the sniper rifle, their presence known only through the glint of a scope catching the moonlight.
Sandatsu lay on the snowy ground. The wound closed with an unnatural speed, and his eyes flickered open with a renewed intensity.
The sniper, hidden in the shadows, remained unperturbed. They had expected this, planned for it. In the blink of an eye, without uttering a single word, a strike team emerged from the depths of the forest. Clad in sleek, black uniforms that seemed to blend with the night, each operative carried remarkably advanced equipment. High-tech visors covered their eyes, scanning the surroundings with augmented reality displays. Silently, they fanned out in a flawless formation, moving with an eerie synchronicity.
Within the span of a heartbeat, Sandatsu unleashed his psychokinetic onslaught. A torrent of invisible force erupted from him, reaching the strike team like a tsunami. The embers quirk ignited within him, and with frightening speed, he melted the snow beneath his feet. The frigid landscape transformed into a hellscape of scalding steam, obscuring the battlefield.
Seizing the opportunity, Sandatsu surged forward, his movements a blur. He materialized from the dissipating mist, appearing directly in front of the disoriented strike team.
However, the advantage was fleeting. Sniper shots pierced the air. Two different trajectories, two different snipers, each with deadly accuracy. The bullets hit Sandatsu with surgical precision.
Blood splattered in the snow as Sandatsu staggered backward, momentarily halted. The strike team, undeterred by the brutal assault, regrouped with a chilling efficiency. With a savage roar, Sandatsu unleashed his psychokinetic fury once more. The strike team, now recovered, responded by opening fire on him.
Sandatsu's self-rewind quirk proved a constant thorn in the side of his adversaries. Every wound inflicted upon him triggered an instantaneous regeneration, allowing him to withstand the damage they inflicted as he moved for cover.
The deafening roar of helicopter blades sliced through the air as an attack chopper descended upon the clearing. Sandatsu's eyes widened as he spotted the deadly arsenal mounted on the hovering war machine. Bullets, missiles, and other projectiles rained down upon the snow-covered battlefield. The once-pristine clearing transformed into a war zone.
The helicopter's relentless assault showed no sign of abating. Sandatsu, realizing the need to neutralize the aerial threat, channeled his embers into a searing blaze. Flames erupted from his body, and with a furious roar, he unleashed a torrent of fire towards the helicopter.
Despite the chaos, the helicopter persisted. It circled the clearing, its lethal payload ready for another assault. Bullets struck him from multiple angles, causing his body to convulse with each impact. Sandatsu, pushed to the brink, staggered under the onslaught. The tendrils beneath his skin surged forward, elongating into sharp blades.
In a final act of defiance, Sandatsu unleashed a surge of psychokinetic force, creating a shockwave that rippled through the clearing. The chopper, destabilized by the unexpected assault, ceased fire briefly. Within the swirling tempest, he lunged towards the chopper, embers blazing. With relentless ferocity, he gouged into the mechanical beast, tearing through armor and machinery.
The tendrils tore through the helicopter's armor, creating openings for the embers to infiltrate. The flames reached inside the mechanical beast, causing catastrophic malfunctions. Smoke billowed from the damaged parts as the once-menacing chopper spiraled out of control.
Sandatsu, his body battered and scorched, braced himself for the next wave of assault.Though formidable, he was teetering on the brink of exhaustion.
The bitter cold seeped into Sandatsu's bones as he dragged the surviving operative through the desolate snow. The man, battered and disoriented, struggled against his grip. The clearing behind them lay in ruins.
Back in the clandestine meeting room, the operative with a steely demeanor, reported to the tall figure.
Marshall spoke with a disciplined cadence "Our target, is as unpredictable as they come. But he's not a problem. It barely feels like we're facing a villain. It's closer to hunting an animal."
The tall figure's gaze remained fixed on the fireplace as he spoke. "Marshall, do you think he's taking one of your replicas alive for interrogation?"
Marshall's brow furrowed in thought. "No, boss. My replicas dissolve into sludge when they die, but he's keeping one alive on purpose. Testing if he can eat parts of them."
"Trying to eat them?" The tall figure's voice resonated with a mix of incredulity and curiosity. "What kind of lunacy is he practicing?"
Marshall, his expression unyielding, clarified, "I've seen him trying to eat my bodies before they dissolved. He's probably trying to keep one of them alive so he can eat without having it turn into sludge when they die."
The figure's eyes narrowed in contemplation, the sharp edges of his silhouette playing against the subdued glow of the fireplace. "Madness takes many forms, I guess."
The snow-covered forest lay silent, interrupted only by the distant sounds of nature. In the midst of this serene scene, the captive replica of Marshall kept a wary eye on Sandatsu.
He strained to decipher the fragmented words emanating from Sandatsu's lips. "The...ine..."
As the seconds passed, Marshall pieced together the disjointed mantra. "The world is mine..." Sandatsu repeated it like a twisted incantation.
The snowflakes gently settled on Sandatsu's unkempt hair, and his gaze seemed to transcend the immediate surroundings. His eyes, ablaze with an unsettling determination, scanned the quiet expanse as if assessing the world he aimed to conquer.
Marshall couldn't help but shiver, though not from the cold. The resonance of those words, the conviction behind them, sent a chill down his spine.
1 Week, 6 Days, 1 Hour and 59 Minutes remaining
The ski resort's atmosphere, once filled with the carefree laughter of Drekus and Feral, took a somber turn as Mio laid out their next move.
"So, here's the plan," Mio began, her tone steady and resolute. "We're going to crash the underworld gala."
"Party time!" shouted Drekus raising his arms.
"Can it!" she pinched the bridge of her nose before she continued talking. "It's a once-a-year event where the worst of the worst gather to flaunt their power and make deals. We're not on the guest list, obviously, so we'll have to figure out how to get inside."
Feral scratched her head, still processing the audacity of the plan. "Infiltrating a criminal gala? Isn't that a bit—"
"Insane? Risky?" Mio cut in. "That's because it fucking is. If one of you messes up we're dead."
She let the silence linger before dropping her bombshell. "First things first – we need to blend in seamlessly with the elite." She paused for dramatic effect, eyeing Feral with a mischievous smile.
Feral, perched on a nearby table, raised an eyebrow.
Mio grinned. "Alright, get her in a dress. I brought one with me. It's in my room."
Feral's eyes widened, and she promptly shook her head. "No way in hell."
Drekus, sensing an opportunity for mischief, approached Feral with a devilish glint in his eyes. "Go help him out, will you?" requested Mio. Ookami nodded and proptly left to assist Drekus.
In the background, Feral's protests echoed through the room. "I swear, if you try to put a frilly dress on me, I'll make you regret it!"
With a wry smile, Mio muttered to herself, "Distraction accomplished. Now I can work in peace."
1 Week, 5 Days, 8 Hours and 39 Minutes remaining
Mio furrowed her brows, surrounded by scattered blueprints and half-empty cups of cold coffee. She tried to make sense of the chaotic jumble of thoughts in her mind. The plan seemed to slip through her fingers.
Mio's frustration was palpable as she crumpled a failed blueprint and tossed it into the growing pile of discarded ideas.
Meanwhile, just beyond the frost-covered windows, chaos ensued. Drekus and Ookami grappled with Feral, attempting to coerce her into the dreaded dress. The muffled sounds of protest and laughter drifted through the cold air.
Drekus, muscles strained, grunted as he tried to grab onto his pretend sister. Ookami, relentless and determined, barked orders in an attempt to maintain some semblance of control. Feral, on the other hand, loudly complained, twisting and turning, doing her best to avoid the dress.
Mio sighed, her eyes flitting between the unfolding dress debacle and her scattered blueprints.
A sleek hearse rolled to a stop near the entrance of the abandoned ski resort, its engine's low growl echoing through the cold mountain air. The sight of the vehicle prompted an abrupt end to the dress-related antics outside. Drekus, Feral, and Ookami, suddenly serious, darted into the building like shadows avoiding the spotlight.
Mio, standing near a dusty window, squinted against the fading daylight as she observed the tall figure emerging from the sleek vehicle. Dressed in a black suit that seemed to absorb the ambient light, he moved with long strides, the crunch of snow beneath his polished shoes echoing in the crisp mountain air.
He stepped into the range of Mio's quirk, and tried to have a glimpse into the man's past, but what unfolded before her was a nightmarish collage of fragmented prophecies.
Gory scenes flickered through the chaos of memories — faces contorted in agony, bodies twisted in grotesque poses, and a pervasive atmosphere of death. In one vision, a figure plummeted from a great height, limbs flailing in a macabre dance. Another showed faces frozen in terror as a dark force enveloped them, their bodies crumbling into ashen remnants.
The memories weren't bound by time or logic. Mio witnessed blood-stained snow, lifeless eyes staring into the abyss, and haunting screams echoing through a desolate landscape.
The door creaked open, and the man stepped into the dimly lit interior. Mio, against the skepticism of her companions, boldly approached the enigmatic stranger. With a rude tone and a sharp edge to her words, she demanded to know the purpose of his intrusive arrival. The others, still on high alert, eyed the man cautiously.
"Where is he?"
The tall figure scanned the dimly lit surroundings, his gaze flickering across the dilapidated remnants of the ski resort. Mio, though taken aback by the inquiry, didn't falter. "Separated," she replied curtly, her arms crossed.
A small, almost unnoticeable shade of anger flashed across the stranger's face, his fists clenching momentarily. "We need to make sure everything else is going as planned," he declared, regaining his composure.
Mio, undeterred by his display of emotion, shot back, "Who's 'we'? You creep..."
Trup's laughter echoed through the hollow spaces of the resort. "You probably already know, through your quirk, but a good introduction is the basis for any solid alliance. I am Ivan Trup."
Mio eyed him, a mix of skepticism and wariness on her face. His, tall, slender frame moved with an eerie grace as he circled Mio. His long, white hair hung disheveled, clashing with his pitch black suit.
"I've glimpsed your futures, dear companions," Trup continued, his voice taking on an almost singsong quality.
"Why are you so interested in him?" Mio demanded, trying to cut through the weirdness. "And why pop up now?"
Trup halted, fixing Mio with an intense gaze. "I've long awaited this performance. He's the protagonist, and this is the main act."
Mio shot him a skeptical look, her irritation growing like a storm within her. "Performance? What are you blabbering about?"
Trup's bloodshot eyes stared into the distance. "Years, my dear, I've spent years meticulously preparing for this. We're about to witness the culmination of my efforts."
Mio, her arms crossed in skepticism, met Trup's unsettling gaze. "Cut the cult stuff. Just spill what it is you want."
Trup grinned, his satisfaction palpable. "A future where Sandatsu embraces his role as The Symbol of Death."
Ookami scratched his head, exchanging confused glances with Drekus. Feral, still avoiding the dress, remained brooding in the corner.
Mio rolled her eyes. Why was she always attracting these nutjobs? "Fine. How do we fit into this?"
Trup's demeanor shifted, his tone now casual and almost friendly. "Simple, my dear. I've secured reservations for you at the Underground Gala. A gathering of the underworld's finest, hidden in plain sight.
The mention of reservations left the group stunned, their confusion palpable. Mio, in particular, seethed with annoyance. "You made reservations? How did you even—" she paused to avoid losing focus. Mio's eyes narrowed, a subtle glare directed at Trup.
"You know why we're going to the gala?" she asked, a hint of annoyance in her voice.
Trup smiled. "Of course. His recent tribulations have left him in need of aid if he is to recover fully. The person you're looking for will be attending the gala. That man is probably capable of restoring his damaged quirk factor."
Trup continued, his tone more hushed than usual. "There are three big shots running the. First, you've got Elyn Fa'al, the cult leader. Our rivalry is definetly one-sided, as he probably is not even aware of me or my group's existence. Then, Hiram Verner, the warmonger – the most recent addition. He is in charge of security. Lastly, Amatsu Yamaoshi, yakuza royalty, and he's managed to keep the family business booming even after the appearance of quirks."
Mio raised an eyebrow, processing the information. "So, which one of these lunatics is our guy's boss?"
"Our man works under Elyn Fa'al. The Gala is being hosted on his turf."
Mio sighed, running a hand through her hair. "Great, just what we needed– going into the psycho cultist's den all by ourselves. How do we even get close to this guy without getting killed?"
"If you know who we're after," Mio conveyed through the invisible channels of her quirk, "then you should also understand the importance of keeping your mouth shut. Especially when it comes to Drekus. We can't afford to have him go wild, not now, not here."
Ivan's responded with a slight nod, imperceptible to the rest, acknowledging the unspoken directive.