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He isn’t necessarily a bad guy.
Sure, sometimes he does some less than savoury things. They may be terrible, traumatising and nightmarish things, but Dabi has never considered himself to be completely damned. He has some redeemable features. Surely, his fashion sense counts for something. Or perhaps his fluent sarcasm can be misconstrued as endearing.
Dabi acknowledges these fleeting concepts on his own morality with little regard. They’re soft against his skin. Gentle like the wind that runs its fingers through his hair, whispering nonsensical kisses across his jaw. Barely carrying the weight many would expect them to, their pressure almost comfortable when pressed into his shoulders.
The moon watches on. Lonely and far too tired to pass judgement on the world unfolding beneath her. Though, she is still gracious enough to share her light with those below. It’s a consistency Dabi appreciates. A partnership he can always rely on. The moon and her stars will always be looking out for him, no matter what atrocities have been worn into the soles of his feet and still heated palms.
Calm seems to be the most appropriate word. His limbs heavy and mood flat lining into something comfortable enough to lull him to sleep if he were so inclined. He should feel something, he knows this. Knows that being so still and unfazed is less human than it is ideal. Still, doused in the ethereal afterglow of the flames that had ravaged through the tight, brick lined space; Dabi spares the numerous crumpled and charred forms at his feet an uninterested glance.
Alright, he hums begrudgingly, watching as the dimming remains of lackadaisical blue cinders tumble over one another to leave the alley and join the stars. Maybe that’s not entirely true. Maybe I am a bad guy.
Dabi slouches further into his duster, hands buried deep in his pockets while he continues to wait for the remnants of his work to dissipate. Content in the warmth dusting his skin, and more than satisfied with the itch he’s managed to burn from his palms. There is always something about the smell of a bonfire on a cold, bitter night that he gets drunk on. Even with every deep, stinging breath he draws into his lungs, it’s not enough. Still, he sucks in the night. Greedily taking in the concoction of savoury and sweet caught on the wind, skin alive and draped in the muted chatter of those enjoying the festival outside the narrow passage he occupies. Swallowing the stars and familiar scent of burning. He wouldn’t mind returning to the night life. To a sense of normalcy.
“Hm.”
It had been another night hunting for a handful of hopefuls that the League might have some use for, and yet another night he’s wasted on the bodies crumbling to ash at his feet. He’d actually tried this time. And it’s true, Dabi really had. He hadn’t insulted the potentials immediately, instead waiting for his second breath before breaking them down and picking what was left of them apart.
But it hadn’t been appreciated, it seems. A collection of clumsy threats had responded to the rehashed gospel of Stain, but Dabi is unwavering in his commitment to the cause they seemed to have no consideration for. A pointless barrage of insults that he hadn’t bothered to dodge had been spat at his feet, and he was grateful. There had been some good quips in amongst the overused and battered names he’s all too accustomed to and tired of hearing. There are a few that he’s relatively eager to try out and add to his collection of baratements.
Shiguraki must be getting desperate, Dabi remembers thinking once he’d happened upon the cluster of wasted space, and he himself is becoming increasingly frustrated with cleaning up the mess his boss insists he chaperone. There is no respect for conviction amongst the gangs infesting the streets, Dabi grumbles to himself. He removes a hand and stares at it, watching the light dust his palm and dip between his leathered, scarred skin, catching against his piercings and lost in the gentle blue flame he wills into existence for the shortest of moments. There is no sense of purpose or loyalty to an ideal amongst the gangs he’s sent to assess.
“Well, it’s not all bad,” Dabi muses, nudging apart a mound of dust and extinguishing a flame with the toe of his boot, “at least they’re off the streets.”
He smiles to himself as he turns away from the destruction, greeting the light pouring in from the alley way’s entrance. The sounds of chatter is dull against his senses. The thuds of footfalls tracing through the maze of stalls packed onto the paths a pleasant accompaniment to the gentle throb of his heart. The odd burst of sound as something hits a hot wok draws out his smile a little more, until there is a visible quirk on his lips.
Funny, he thinks, It’s almost heroic in a twisted sort of way.
Dabi stops for a moment, frowning. A silent scoff turns down the corners of his mouth, the concept unpleasant as he wrinkles his nose and knits his brows. “Ew.”
But, then again, a bad guy is all a matter of perspective. Maybe being a villain doesn’t equate to being evil, but is simply the title given to someone that opposes society’s warped concept of ‘good’.
He dislodges the unsettling image of himself as a hero before it can gain any traction, leaving it graciously on the remaining piles of cremated dust.
Ducking to retrieve the bag he’d previously discarded besides a dumpster, Dabi dodges his train of thought and instead palms through the darkened contents before locating the item he’s looking for. Removing the navy sweater and heathered gray scarf, he’s quick to shrug off his duster. Reluctant when packing it away, but careful all the same. Dabi gives the treasured item a longing glance before zipping the bag back up. Slipping the less conspicuous clothing over his head, a hand ruffles his hair back into the mess he prefers before he dons the scarf.
As he emerges from the alley and melts into the crowd beneath the hum of street lights and flicker of celebrations he wonders, briefly, whether Stain would approve of his efforts. Would he commend his actions and convictions?
Dabi doesn’t let the considerations press too heavily, but they weigh enough to consume his being for a fleeting moment as he gets caught in the bustling stream of bodies and flows with the crowd. He follows the lines milling through packed market stalls until he’s surround with tents brimming with food and sound. The light cast from small lanterns is a comfortable and warming orange, welcoming despite the biting cold of the winter’s night. Shouting and laughter merge into a consistent hum, broken only but the yell and hiss of woks or clik clak of chopsticks.
He watches as families huddle together in bundles of mismatched jumpers and bobble hats, arms around each other and cheeks gleaming with the same pink nibbling at any and all exposed skin. Children dressed as heroes run through the legs of mothers and squeal with delight all while others watch on with glee around mouths full of noodles or sticky treats. Comments of ‘oh to be young again!’ are easy enough to tune out, but the conversations in high pitched tones are a little more difficult.
Repetitive arguments skitter from one youth to the next, the same played out ‘who should play as who’ debate as lively as ever. Yells about being All Might and the rejections of being Endeavour collide with a wince. No one seems to mind, but it makes Dabi’s palms itch. He fights to keep the scowl off his lips and the sigh from his tongue, dipping his bitter expression into his scarf and hoping his gaze remains as lazy as he wills it to be.
He supposes there is a sense of evil to his actions.
Dabi isn’t entirely certain when the mantra he’d taken to heart, the driving force that had led him to seek others with a similar hatred of false heroes, had become so twisted. So angry and unforgiving. So contorted that the death of those like himself is justifiable, and the pain of innocents almost equally so. Before the League his hands hadn’t seen blood, but now they’re coated with the names he can’t bring himself to remember. Their screams pooling in the folds of his palms while sins stick beneath his fingernails. Theirs, his, it didn’t matter as a red no one else can see runs from his knuckles and traces the path he carves.
Moving with the mulling crowd he keeps his head down, chin tucked into his scarf and hands buried in his pockets. Excited eyes slip over him, attention refusing to settle on the scarred features he’s managed to mask. He almost envies those around him living with the false sense of security the heroes have granted. Almost wishes that government funded violence was something he could put his faith in, too. That he could somehow forget the struggles and the pain and the heartache such self proclaimed heroes produce. Of course, he’s caused a fair share of his own. He’s not foolish enough to miss the irony, but Dabi puts this unsettling thought out of his head once he steps into the dimly lit and mostly unoccupied restaurant before it can become a nagging sense of guilt.
It doesn’t particularly matter if there is a difference between evil and villainy, he reasons while muttering his order to the woman behind the register, not when there is still a job to do. Not when such actions are necessary. Besides, he muses, moving deeper into the warm space and locating an isolated seat in the back, trying to be evil sounds like a lot of work. He doubts he’d have the energy to keep it up for long.
Striving towards something he believes in, however, is much different. Seeing the future he invisions come to life, and to have a better world take its first breath, is worth the effort. Taking power from those who feel entitled to wield it, from those who proclaim themselves heroes but leave those below them in the dust, is enough to make late night cremations easier.
He’s happy to play the bad guy, he determines firmly over the steaming bowl of ramen set in front of him. It sure beats the alternative. Dipping a spoon into the broth, he hums happily over the hearty smells invading his senses, flavours bursting across his tongue as he remains pressed into the small booth away from prying eyes.
Dabi certainly isn’t, and never will be, a hero. It simply wouldn’t suit his scowl.