Chapter Text
Slicked with blood, the ground beneath him violently swayed. His hand trembled where it held the chipped sword, a sword which did not belong to him. Breath coming out in ragged bursts, unable to look away from what was before him, he desperately searched for anything to ground him, be it to keep himself from drifting off his feet and into the nearby dumpsters, or to the smoke-filled clouds above.
As the excruciating pain shot through his arm again, he dropped the blade. Tears were pricking in his bloodshot eyes, from the realisation of what he had just done, and the pain that was coming because of it.
He had just killed someone.
Five minutes prior, he had forced every unwilling muscle in his body to stand again. From the sheer rage he felt, he had stalled himself into near paralysis again, just to get a shot against the villain who had opposed him. Coherent thought lost, he had picked up the sword of his enemy, and aimed for the heart.
His aim had been correct.
A sob came next. Disbelief. Shock. Realisation. Pain. But it was mostly realisation.
Disbelief that he had let his own consciousness be tossed aside for a vain motivation. That he had let it go this far.
Shock that Stain was dead, and he was the one who had done it.
Pain from the blood that ran in torrents down his arms.
Realisation.
Realisation that he would have to forever live knowing he had killed someone – just because this man was a villain did not justify reciprocation. No principle, however glorious, may justify the taking of life. Realisation that he could never return to Manual and admit to what he had done. Realisation that he could never walk in society again like he used to. Realisation that he was a fugitive. A murderer. A villain.
Realisation that his brother would be so disappointed in him.
Realisation that, all along, Stain was right.
He was no hero.
Native had escaped in the brawl, at least that he could be thankful for. His mind flashed back to Manual, and his gut roiled at how he had used him. What had Masaki ever done wrong? He had been nothing but kind to him, and what had he done? He used the hero. He used him for his selfish desire. How could he look the man in the eyes ever again?
Looking at the body before him, he thought of Tensei. What would Tensei think of him, if he found out his little brother had killed someone to avenge him? All he wanted was for his little brother to take his name. He never wanted vengeance. Everything the Iida family stood for. They would never accept him again if they ever found out about this.
Already, a plan to hide this was hatching. Maybe, just maybe, nobody would find out. Maybe he could hide Stain’s body. Maybe he could pretend he wasn’t a killer and return to his training. He could run back out to Manual and apologise for running, explaining the blood as a brawl with an entirely different villain. He could walk among his classmates again.
That very same thought brought him to his knees, sickened that he could ever think of escaping this. Collapsing, his arm hit the ground, electric pain shooting through every muscle and nerve, vomit being his response. The noxious stench of blood couldn’t have helped.
How dare he think he could hide this. How dare he think Manual would believe a lie like that. How dare he think that he could just go back to being the Class Rep and train to be a hero when he was a cold blooded killer.
The crackling of electricity sounded somewhere down the alleyway, and without another thought, he jumped to his feet and sprinted the other way, not caring if it would only harm his engines further. What if that was someone? What if they found him there, having just being kneeled over the body, looking so suspicious?
He sprinted.
He sprinted until the city limits were behind him, the foul smell of the alley was out of his nostrils, and his legs could run him no further. Unable to move at all, he stared emotionlessly into the sky, stars blotted out by the smoke that ebbed into the countryside.
He deserved not to see the stars.
No longer filled with the adrenaline of the run, the pain in his arms returned, and the pulsing, electric sting caused him to sob. What else was there to do? No way, in good conscious, could he take himself to a hospital to be treated. Someone like him didn’t deserve it. He deserved this. He deserved the pain – the consequences of his crimes.
Exhaustion put him out of his misery for the few hours he could sleep. Nightmares, visions possessed that weary rest, and when he awoke, it was only from crying from pain that he could find the heart to ever sleep again.
That nightmare would stay with him. He wasn’t aware of it when he picked himself up the next day, with only two things on his mind.
He had to rebuild himself from the ground up.
And the new him was going to have to embrace villainy if he ever wanted the pain to stop.