A blank face washed over Matsuru. His eyes, usually filled with inquisition or allure, are deadpan. He’s staring at Spectra with a thousand yard stare. In truth, his mind was elsewhere. The past few days were a whirlwind for him. His mind was a place of turbulence and bridled frustration. He thought he knew enough about Rin other “personalities”, but twice now they’ve forcefully shunted him into a dreamscape to either taunt him or to tell him foreboding news. His thoughts about what that damned Harpy told him were branded in the forefront of his psyche…
"Ah...so you're a 6th Generation too. You won't have my Quirk but I'll let you have something else, you see, you're running out of time. Go to that French Restaurant, Le'Nombril Restau, Kazuki and Hikari are doomed to fail against Nemesis."
He grinded his teeth in anger. He shouldn’t be here. At this damned restaurant. Talking to one of Hawks’ *puppets*. He doesn’t even know why he listened to Harpy’s orders. Last he remembered, Rin and him fought best together. Two pieces of machinery that work in harmonious tandem. She was the engine, he was the gauge. Every fiber of his being is screaming at him to leave. To join the fight. But he won’t, he can’t. Matsu sighs and softens his gaze.
‘I need to trust them.’ He thinks to himself. ‘Hawk has a good set of kids he instructs… I think. Either way, trust that Harpy has a decent plan. Trust Kazuki and Hikari. Now is not the time to jump the gun. Wait for the signal.’
"I am intrigued that you have survived an encounter with Ryukazuki Keyaru, tell me more…"
He chuckled at her question. “Keyaru…” Matsuru said in a slow, drawn out sigh.
“He’s not human. He’s a nightmare. A Claudius to Hamlet. The Moriarty to my Sherlock… He is the antithesis of all we hero’s do. In some ways a fold to your organization, Spectra. You all kill for a perverted, fanciful idea,” He didn’t let the venom in his words go unnoticed. “But if you were to use those same tactics against Keyaru and his Eight Bullets? You would find yourself outclassed. If death was an artform, he would be the Van Gogh, the Monet, the Picasso. And you would be a third grader, who thinks fingerpainting is the pinnacle of creativity. “
He picks up the juice and takes a long sip. “But I’m sure you know this already. You want to know about my fight with him”...
**eight months ago**The torrent of rain and thunder did little to help the miserably cold night. Though that did little to stifle the nightlife of the city. Noises from pedestrians, vehicles, night clubs, and everything else in between echoed through the concrete jungle like a symphony. Minus the horrid weather, it was a peaceful night. If you were a normal person going about your daily life, little would be out of the ordinary.
In one of the back alleys, a businessman holding a black briefcase was darting between corners and jumping over obstacles with an obscene proficiency. He was on the run. His face was largely obscured by a white hat, but it did not take much to see he was running from something, or someone. This businessman kept looking behind him, ahead of him, all around him, trying to make sure the person chasing him was not close. Unfortunately for him, the business man did not notice the large iron ball that was thrown at his torso.
A crack, a yell, and the sound of crashing made some of the pedestrians crossing a rather busy sidewalk stop in their tracks. Out from a dark alleyway, stumbling onto the main street, the businessman’s body hurled onto the ground. He quickly recovered, ruggedly standing up and grabbing his suitcase that fell off the floor. No one could see his face. Was there fear? Dread? Fascination? Pure entropic malignance? The only thing the people could see was the direction the man was facing. It was the alleyway he was shunted out of. The businessman took in a deep breath and sighed. A small figure was emerging from the dark alley. A small rime of frost crested off the sanguine-colored brick and into the open air. An arming sword, now gleaming in the artificial light, refracted some luminance onto the businessman’s face. From the dust and frost the man saw his pursuer. The indigo glow. The Judgement Gaze.
The businessman chuckled, his voice coming out raspy and potent. “I’ll hand it to you, Sherlock. You managed to hit me. Not many say they can.”
Matsuru stepped out of the alleyway. He was pissed. Angry. He wanted to kill this man. No, death wouldn’t be enough. He would display his grotesque corpse all across the Hosu Prefecture as a message for the villains. In this brief moment he allowed himself this vengeful, cathartic thought, Matsuru pondered if this is how the Hawk’s Agency feels when they kill a villain… Best not to pursue this line of thinking any further.
“The chase ends here, Keyaru.” He huffed out. He was panting from the chase, his breath could be seen with the low temperature surrounding his body. Some of the passerbyers started to back up, some ran, some tried calling for help. “Do not try to continue this pursuit. You would find my gaze to be hard to break.”
“Oh, on the contrary, my goodman Sherlock… I think I have just the solution to our little game.” Though Keyaru moved with blinding speed, Matsuru saw everything. Keyaru pulled a pocket knife from his coat, rushing the Observant Hero. A quick parry, jab, and a blast of frost rendered Keyaru back on the ground. Matsuru sighed again, “Stop playing these games, Keyaru. This is the last time I will ask. Surrender yourself, or the next bout will be your last.”
It started as a small cackle, then a chortle, then to a laugh from a nightmare. Keyaru’s laugh exhumed a malefic ardor. Reverberating off the stone facade of the buildings. “Know this, Sherlock… Our little dance won’t end tonight. Soon, when the time comes, we will see eachother again. And when we do, let’s finish our danse macabre!”
Too focused on the fight, Matsuru never noticed the open briefcase until it was too late. In it were seven syringes, with space for eight. One was missing. He quickly looked around and saw a horrifying sight. A random pedestrian has one of the syringes sticking out of her neck. Her eyes were lulled into her skull, her body shaking violently. ‘Shit… he must have thrown it during his attack…’ He thought to himself.
Matsuru tried to move to help the lady, but by that point it was too late. Her body started changing, like a forced evolution. Soon, her screams of pain were overshadowed by the sound of cracking bone and mutating flesh. For one of the few times in his life, Matsuru froze up. All his training left him, he was scared. Terrified. Once this creature stopped mutating, it towered over Matsuru. It still had a humanoid body, but it grew an avian-like mouth with an exposed brain. Matsu stood in awe, fear, and confusement. It was too much for him. It was so much, in fact, that he didn’t even register the Nomu driving a haymaker into his gut.
The world was spinning for him. That one punch sent Matsuru flying through the air, crashing almost five stories up into a random window. He grunted in pain, fleming out some blood. It took him a few minutes to get back up. All the while he could hear screams, crashes, and general terror. But all that occupied his mind was the ringing in his ears. The glow from his eyes faded, the frost aura he had kept up dissipated as well. It was a personal hell for him. He knew he had to move, to rush into the fight, to try to kill this creature or save as many civilians as he could. But he couldn’t move. No matter how much his mind screamed at his body, it refused to cooperate. In that limbo between dreams and reality, where the waking mind falls into dreamful sublimity, he fought with all his might to stay afloat. To stay above the sea of unconsciousness.
“Fight on… move… MOVE DAMMIT!” In his mind's eye, he could hear his father screaming at him. “You cannot stop unless I give you that explicit permission. You will keep on moving, even if your bones snap. Your fight will never end. You are a Yaoyorozu, and that surname is everything to you. It is your life, your light, your sacred duty. Above all, above everything and everyone else, above being a perfect hero. You will make sure to not abscond that name! Am I understood?”
A flush of adrenaline and hatred filled Matsuru’s body. He never liked his father. Hell, he would damn near say he resented him. But for some reason, that speech he gave him has always stuck with him.
In a groan of pain, Matsuru stood up. He stumbled to the window where he saw the scene of a terror attack. Cars have been flipped over, bodies lay strewn aimlessly across the entire street. Keyaru was missing, but Matsuru didn’t care. He only had one thing in mind. To stop the Nomu.
He baited his breath, concentrating on regaining some strength. “What can I do?!” He thought to himself. He doubts using the quirk of his cousin, Momo Yaoyorozu, would do much good. And using Rin’s was too exhausting and taxing to keep up for such a long period of time. Matsuru decided to do something he rarely does. “I don’t fully understand this quirk… but I have to use it.” In one swift move, he jumped from the roof. Falling directly towards the Nomu
“OVER HERE, FUCKFACE!” He yells out. He bites down his teeth as a searing pain starts to slither down his right arm. It was like the blood in his veins were boiling his arm from the inside out. First it was a spark, then a tinder, then a maelstrom of fire and brimstone engulfing the sword. Like a streaking star in the night sky, Matsuru yelled out a roar of defiance as he came crashing down onto the Nomu. That strike reverberated across the battlefield. Crushing the stone under the area of impact and making a soundwave course throughout the entire city.
When the dust cleared, Matsuru and the Nomu were still standing but badly harmed. Matsuru’s sword was completely broken, and his entire right arm was burnt and singed. The Nomu showed signs of significant damage, but still had fight left in it. It barreled towards Matsu, its head pointed down. It intended to gore the hero, like a bull charging at a red flag. Matsuru tried to move, but his body was significantly damaged. In a split second, he formed a shield out of his left arm, hoping it could possibly dampen the blow. He closed his eyes in anticipation.
But the blow never came. When he opened his eyes, he saw the Nomu frozen in place. Matsuru instantly jumped back, activating his Judgement Gaze. After the adrenaline had cooled down, he recognized this frost. He knows this feeling all too well. “Ara, Matsu~ Did you have all this fun without me?”
“About time.. You showed up… Rin.” He said through pants. Rin, dressed in her official hero attire, loomed behind him. A gale of rime and frost emanated from her like a blizzard. Matsuru was about to fall into her arms when he heard a crack. Than a chink. Then a break. The Nomu was breaking out of its ice prison.
“Shit… It’s coming out. Ready yourself, Ladyice!” He yelled out. The two of them adopted a battle stance, positioning themselves to attack the Nomu once it broke out. Though Matsuru was hurt bad, he knew he had to fight. At least until another pro hero comes. Admittedly, the thought that he had Rin by his side gave him confidence. His eyes began to glow brighter as he reached to his chest and pulled a spear out of his body. He will fight, he will win. He has too… He still has an unanswered dance.
**back to realtime**“... After that, Endeavor and that Spider-whatshisface hero came to save us. The total count was twenty seven dead, seventy five wounded. The Nomu was either killed in a blast or disappeared, we don’t know.” Matsuru gripped his glass tightly, finishing up his story to Spectra. “If it’s true that Kazuki and Hikari are going after one of those… things, then we can’t be sitting idly by. I know that your ‘Harpy’ has a plan, but I can’t in my right mind sit here while my colleagues could be fighting for their lives at this very moment.”
Matsuru takes a deep breath and leans back into his chair. “If there is a Nomu lurking around, than that must mean Keyaru and his Eight Bullets are close…” He goes back to his pensive state, rapping his nails on the glass. Tip, tap, tap…
“He still owes me a final dance.”
