675Summary:
Blood of Sinners...
... And of Saints
The tang of blood was like the taste of victory. A taste his body craved.
Growing up, Chizome learned the hard lesson of self control. When his quirk first came in, Chizome struggled to keep his quirk under control. In many ways Bloodcurdle did more then give him the ability to paralyze people, it messed with his senses and affected his mind. His body craved the taste of blood, the very smell of it only served to inflame his monster like urges.
But even as a young child, Chizome's dedication to his morals was strong. He was stubborn. He knew the desires caused by his quirk were wrong. The hunger for blood, the burst of adrenaline every time his quirk paralized someone. It was wrong. It hurt people. It served only himself.
Bloodcurdle was a villainous quirk.
His parents were afraid of his quirk. People were afraid of his quirk. So Chizome spent his childhood struggling and battling his very nature. He taught himself self control. He reigned in his quirk until he mastered it so it no longer mastered him.
For his family and for the people Chizome had selflessly sacrificed his own quirk's needs and wants to protect others.
It was because of his quirk, his childhood, his struggle that Chizome had decided to become a hero.
Only… once he entered the field, he saw the reality of hero society. Heroes were selfish, cowardly, greedy. They were power hungry, adoration needy scum who paraded around and showed off their powers under the false guise of caring for and helping the public.
It was the realisation of how fallen hero system was, of how many false heroes saturated the world, that led Chizome to where he was right now.
In an alleyway far from the eyes of the world with the blood of another false hero upon his tongue.
His quirk flared, paralyzing the hero while awakening Chizome's hunger for more blood. But the hero killer had long ago become accustomed to ignoring the urgings of his quirk. He did not spill blood to service himself, after all. He did this for the good of his country.
The vigilante only ever took as much blood as he needed.
Admittedly, controlling the cravings of his quirk had become easier now that he had lost his nose. No longer could the smell of warm, wet iron infused fluids threaten his self control. The sight of ruby red liquid and the taste of its harsh tange were enough of a temptation on their own without the added enticement of the scent of blood.
As the last drops of blood oozed down his throat, Chizome reached out to hold the hero against the alleyway wall before the scum's paralyzed body could collapse to the floor. His calloused hand encompassed the hero's face, covering the mocking pageantry of war paint which the hero so thoughtlessly wore as part of their costume.
Native was a false hero of filth. One who used the identity and culture of a people hunted, killed, and suppressed in ancient history as a cheap gimmick to appeal to Western American fans. What did this scum truly know about the people he had stolen their tradition and garb from? Did he know about their genocide their rape of culture and identity by white westerners who called them savages?
Native could have used the war paint, the feathers, the name to speak out against discrimination of minority group, to campain for equality among cultures, to stand for protection and acceptance of every person's right to their identity.
But no. The hero was just a child playing at Injins and Cowboys. And for that, he was unworthy. For that, he must die.
Chizome leveraged his blade, preparing to sacrifice another soul for the good of the people and the betterment of hero society, when a ragged scream interrupted his focus and an armoured leg bashed into his side, nearly cracking his ribs.
Chizome skidded back with the momentum before grounding himself and twisting to face the new threat.
It was a child all decked out in a familiar style of armour.
A mini-ingenium it would seem.
Indeed the child revealed themselves to be just that, the younger brother of a false hero he had recently made an example of.
As the child screamed at Chizome their raging words only confirmed for the hero killer what he suspected the moment he saw the Inginium styled costume. This child had not not attacked Chizome for the noble cause of saving a life. Instead the welp was only here for petty revenge.
Another false hero.
Pathetic.
Made more wretched by their pompous view of their own ability, which Chizome quickly dispelled by easily overpowering the little hero.
"You're about as far away from being a hero as I can imagine." Chizome scoffed down at the child he now had pinned under his boot. The hero killer pressed down harder, grinding the whelp's head into the cold grime of the alleyway as with a squelch he yanked his blade out of flesh and muscle.
Droplets of crimson trailed down his jagged blade, shining out in the meger light. Like a moth to the flame Chizome's eyes were immediately drawn to the sight, his quirk causing what senses remained to him to flare and focus on the blood. Yet the hero killer did not hurry in bringing the blade up to his mouth.
He even paused to announce his final verdict over the child's fate before letting his tongue snake out and curl around the bloodied blade, absorbing the thick liquid that was still warm from its previous sheath.
The mini false hero's body stiffened the same moment a fresh wave of adrenaline coursed through his veins. As a child Chizome and his family had considered his quirk a curse. But now, years later, the hero killer saw the truth. This quirk had been given to him for the very purpose of cleansing the world from false heroes. The fact that imprisoning the bodies of others increased his adrenaline was proof of how perfectly suited his quirk was to this thankless job.
As Chizome lifted his blade, intent on piercing the child's heart, a part of him could not deny his regret at having to do this. It was truly a pity that one so young had been corrupted.
"Goodbye." Chizome spoke. "You're an offering to make the world a more just place."
"Shut up, shut up, shut up! Shut up!" The pathetic hero raved, drunk on their fear and anger. "No matter what you say, you're just a criminal who hurt my brother!"
The child's words mattered little to Chizome. He marked them only in the way a predator would mark the last breath of their prey.
His katana flashed in the dim lighting as he drove it downwards.
But it was not the only object of metal to glint in the gloom.
Suddenly Chizome found himself thrown to the side. A large weight crashed into his shoulder and head, the feeling of many thin blades sliced across his skin as his body slammed into the ground, his head ricocheting off the ground.
Heaving the heavy force off of himself, the hero killer leapt back to his feet, blade raised in front of him ready to battle what his mind figured must be another armoured hero.
But instead of finding another Ingenium sibling come to seek more revenge, Chizome was faced with an air conditioning unit.
…
Who the fuck threw an air conditioning unit at him?!
The flying air conditioning unit is an homage to an unforgettable memory from my childhood.
Pro Tip for Parents: don't let your kids install window air conditioning units. And if you do, make sure that there is no one and nothing right below their second floor window.