Jefferson St. John
Location: Campus, wandering (Probably to the medical offices of some kind)
Interacting with: MC Smokesalot
@Rob, Potentially: Severa
@Pirouette, Ryoma
@NobodiesHero
Jefferson stared blankly at his hand, knuckles leaking blood onto the stone floor. Something was being said, but he wasn’t paying attention. Standing to the side, he undid the handwraps on his right fist, gritting his teeth against the pain. He finished, greeted by the sight of two busted knuckles already swelling. As he turned his hand over a few times, the borders of his vision went gray, the world flipping end over end. After a time, he realized he was being carried, and that he was outside. Part of him wondered if he had blacked out before his reverie was interrupted by Mako’s gruff voice.
"Rushin' in with brute force is sorta my style." He calmly spoke, with his eyes focused straight ahead. "I wouldn't have stopped the fight if ya planned on usin' yer quirk." Whether or not this surprised Jefferson, Mako didn't really care. For all he knew, the American had already figured it out the moment the match had ended.
"So Blue, if ya don't mind me askin', why didn't ya use it?" Seeing a massive wolfman carrying a student around with one arm, so early in the day, would make anyone look twice. Chances of this spreading across the campus was incredibly high.
Jefferson was being carried, and as he looked up he realized people were watching. Color rising to his cheeks, he wriggled out of the wolf’s grasp.
“With all due respect, my fist is broken, not my legs.” He straightened up as he landed, pulling the rest of the wraps off of his bad hand. He was normally more polite, but with his reputation on the line, it was a matter of urgency.
“...Sorry. I shouldn’t have been so rude. I… Yeah.” He finished lamely, unwrapping his uninjured hand. He was obviously frustrated, but he couldn’t take that out on someone else. He was raised better than that.
Dante had done a number on him at the end of that fight. His arms were scratched to hell and back, he was already bruised from her steel fists, and his hand was steadily dripping as they walked. All told, he looked like he had been hit by a truck more than a person. Absentmindedly, the student cradled his bleeding arm as he answered the wolfman’s questions, laughing softly.
“I couldn’t use my Quirk. Handwraps cover my palms and shoes cover my feet. You can't slap in boxing, anyway.” He flashed the wolfman a glimpse of the inside of his hands, a pitch black contrast against his otherwise pale complexion.
“Besides, it wouldn’t make a difference. My Quirk is a little useless. Won’t clear rubble, can’t move me, and sure as hell doesn’t help in a fight. Not a fair one, anyway.” He smiled at the stovepipe of a teacher as he said it, though the look didn’t extend to his eyes.
“Besides,” he said, frowning as his gaze wandered, settling on a pair of bickering students in the direction they were wandering, sitting beneath a few of the smaller trees.
“People rely on Quirks too much. The best fighter I ever knew never used hers.” 