Chapter Text
"This just in: The Hero Killer: Stain, now identified as Chizome Akaguro, was finally caught on June 12th at 10:00 P.M. GMT by Pro-Hero Endeavor after the attack in Hosu, Japan. There is speculation that this was a joint effort compromised by the same group that had infiltrated one of the best hero schools, U.A. We have yet to have a name of the—"
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"—Killer was apprehended tonight, and citizens are already discussing what Stain had said before his arrest. Here is the video recorded by our cameraman Dastukie—"
"This society is overgrown with fakes! The only one I'll let kill me is the true hero— All Might! "
"Those were the final words of The Hero Killer Stain! He left Japan in inquiry after succumbing to unconsciousness due to internal injuries. Now going on too —"
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"What does he mean by fakes, Rachel?"
"Well, Phil, it's clear his motivations were to cause distrust between civilians and the heroes, but I think, as an entirety, we can agree his ideals on our society are correct."
"You can't be acknowledging the words of a psychopathic villain to be reliable, are you, Rachel?"
"No, I'm not. However, our society, shaped by the ideology of heroes vs. villains, is a world that used to be in comic books. Now, they are here, and we should hold them accountable for their actions as villains, make sure they bring justice lawfully as heroes, and not let this power struggle continue."
"Come on now, Rach! We are in a new era, a super-powered one. Comics like that are hundreds of years old. Let the past be the past. Heroes are here to stop people like Stain from getting too many ideas in their heads and acting on them. Now, what they need to do is—"
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"Hero killer—"
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"—his ideology is insane—"
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"Stain—"
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"Death toll in Hosu City is in the hundreds—"
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Click.
"Ugh. Stupid T.V. and its international-only news channels."
A young teenage voice grumbled from a notable red beanbag chair. In the chair was a peculiar being. Instead of human skin, there were fluctuating, blazing flames. The tendrils of fire lazily coil and stretch around the teen's body. They warmed up the proximity around the boy but never scorched what they touched.
Mostly.
The teen was like the exact manifestation of a bonfire, head to toe. He wore only short black cargo pants that were charred around the edges. It was easy to tell how the flames flowed in his body, upwards and around, like a live circuit. They pulled, curled, and went aimlessly about, only to return to the mass that made up the boy's very being, not unlike a supernova about to implode.
Around his neck was a techy, black, metallic neckband. Snuggly fit to not slip off, barely flexible enough to not cause neck cramps. On the front, embedded into the collar at its center, a vibrant green screen displayed black digitized sums that flickered to more prominent numerals. A small circle was next to these numbers, a degree symbol. The futuristic tech worked like a baby monitor. It could tell the exact temperature of his body core to the slightest of degrees.
A sigh escaped from the teen's lips. Sitting up, the boy stretched over his only beanbag chair and gazed about his room. Many posters, from comic heroes to fighter jets and space consolations, littered his walls. To his right were low shelves with figurines and modeled planes. Along with the shelves was a dresser, very plain looking and white. It is filled with a moderate amount of the same black cargo pants and multiple specialized under-shirts in black, gray, and white. No other accessories were in sight.
On the left side of his room was a twin-sized bed pressed against the wall. The comforter was the same color as his dresser, and the sheets underneath were of the same bland white shade. A body pillow covered the foot of the bed while two short plush ones sat at the head.
The teen turned back to the T.V. remote forgotten in his hand, tinged red. The glossy darkness of the television glared back at him with his image. Animated eyes aglow like molten gold. The rest of his face was undistinguished from the shifting fires and dark spots like the sun. After all these years, he could barely remember what he used to look like before.
His flaming hair moved like flowing magma: untamed, stagnant, and fluid like he was underwater. Some wisps would occasionally drift off but would always return to their origin. It was cosmic; that's what he had overheard from the few guards that sat beyond his room. But now, staring back into the black abyss of his T.V. screen, he could only see what he had always known: something inhuman .
A sudden buzz filled the teen's room. One second. Two seconds, then three— A staticky voice filtered out of a speaker overhead:
" Category V: S.579_Marshal, Flint, to training gym A-1012, Category V: S.579_Marshal, Flint to training gym A-1012..."
A crackle sparked, and then a low hiss brought the boy's attention back to his lap. There laid the remote. The stench of burned rubber clogged his senses. Everything transpired quickly: the remote caught aflame, the collar rang its warning cry, and then all he knew was pain . This was his life. For what it is, his life was not his own but a cell. A chain was created not to protect him but a chain to safeguard others from himself.
Sprinklers hung from overhead. They poured out water that felt like shrapnel from a bombing. The teen didn't flinch. The monitor turned from vivid green to harsh orange.
Flint Marshal, fire incarnate, and this story's Rapunzel, lay hunched over his body, spread dormant on the floor. The boy's skin was vile . Ruptures littered his whole being like rivers. Dark as scorched earth, there was no flat plain of human skin. Veins of orange heat lurked underneath, breaking out and releasing a hellish steam in his room. Flint understood the pain like a child knew their mother. The water barely registered as a sting.
It hurts endearingly, so he doesn't want to do this anymore—
Deep down, he knew it wasn't right; he was meant for more than this. He was born for something greater than a monster in Pandora's box. Yet, for all he knew, maybe he was meant to be here, locked up tightly and forgotten.
He was, of course, dangerous after all.
A villain.