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Alright, let's just get one thing straight: Kendo is no one's responsible adult.
He is no one's babysitter, no one's moral compass, and definitely no one's fam. Kendo's been on his own for more than half his life now, and passing flights of fancy for a team aside, he's glad for it. He was one of the lucky ones; Kendo saw what happened when you trusted the wrong sort, fell in with the wrong Fam and trusted too easily. Looking out for número uno is the best way to live, when everything is said and done.
So, the Eight Precepts? Kendo doesn't give a shit about them. He's only sticking this out to cut his teeth with Overhaul's blood, take his first step into the bigger cesspool of the underworld where the true monsters reign, and that's all. That's his goal, anyway. Kendo heard the rumors after the whole shake up in Kamino, about just who exactly took All Might out of the game permanently, and realized he… was just a big fish in a little pond, irritatingly enough, so.
Kendo knows how to win the long con. Mostly.
Doesn't mean he has it like it.
With a growl, he sips at his glass, and shoves Kurono off his shoulder and clear across the booth seats. Completely trashed, the man spills to the dirty floor with a whine. Having lost his 'date' to Setsuno, of all people, he drank himself quickly into a stupor once they'd been soundly abandoned into the night.
"I'm no one's babysitter," Kendo gripes to himself, his thirst for a fight warring with the pleasant warmth of his stomach. He ought to start a fight, honestly — just kick a table over and slam a head into the floor.
But, he also doesn't feel like being kicked out. Getting to drink on cash strapped Overhaul's dollar feels like a win — and it is galling that he has no others yet — but it still isn't enough to make Kendo like any of these freaks. He'd tagged along for the free booze and the potential of a bar fight, but the sight of the little old lady behind the counter squashed the idea of the latter, really; she'd wring Kendo's neck faster than he could break someone's head in.
Dispassionately, he watches Kurono drag himself back up to the table and get served a fresh glass of almost legitimate piss by a blink-and-you-miss-it iridescent tentacle. At least the service is still fast even with the dwindled service population. Small mercies, but.
But, again: I am no one's babysitter. Kendo tips his head back and chugs the last of his beer, stands before it can be spirited away. He pushes his way through the meandering bodies and leaves Kurono to fend for himself.
This bar is… fine. Under the searing red and orange lights, he can appreciate the tall ceilings, and the wide booths, the fact that the beer jockeys are only a little chipped and he hasn't cut his lips on a rim yet. He can even ignore the dubious stains, the peeling paint, and spidering cracks in the foundations. Hell, Kendo'll give the place points for the well endowed and impressively detailed dick statues that coat an entire wall just outside the front door. Very out-dated, but charmingly old fashioned in a way for a 'host' bar.
Too good for the sketchy ass bottom of the barrel scum filling the place with their crooked laughs and groping red stained hands honestly, but money is money — it makes the world go round.
So. Kendo should be forgiven for marching right up to the bar and tossing his tankard down without much thought, snagging a corner seat before immediately stalling in muted confusion. Sure, it's a decent but trashy bar just barely hidden in the recesses of a prolific red light district that caters to the worst of the worst clientele, but even this makes him question the last drops of amber liquid in his glass.
Before him, the bartop is deserted except for one small figure to his immediate left, and Kendo isn't so far gone he can't recognize the twisted folds of a middle school uniform. Sure. Sure some crank might be into all of that, but.
But.
Kendo leans closer, eyebrows furrowing, and—
"Fuck off," the kid snaps, and under the vivid lights the barrel of an honest to God gun shines.
Kendo blinks, gaze drifting from the gun to the side of the kid's face, the round fat of his cheeks and the irritated pull of his lips. Yep. Definitely just a shitty kid with a real gun, and not, in fact, a very short adult.
Probably.
Huh.
Erupting with laughter, Kendo slaps the bartop, and the kid jolts, startled, as the entire counter rattles. He doesn't seem to know what to do with Kendo, especially since he doesn't get lost like the brat clearly wants. Lucky for him, Kendo isn't one to be deterred so easily.
"Go ahead, take a shot," Kendo snickers, and waves a balled fist that's twice the size of this kid's little head. "Think you can kill me before I knock your lights out?"
With a frustrated grimace, the kid tucks the gun back into the loose fold of his uniform, clearly deciding Kendo isn't that sort of freak. "Great, a stupid drunk," he grumbles, and chews at the straw to his—
"Is that a juice box?" Kendo howls, absolutely delighted. "What, are you like ten?"
Scandalized, he swats the clearly empty juice box off the countertop and behind the bar, much to the little old lady's disapproving glance. "No, I am not!" the kid hisses.
Kendo laughs, pushing his jug forward with a quick tap. One of the old lady's tentacles refills it from the tap, and then shoves another juicebox into the kid's face. He sputters, and after a daring glare at the thin, neon green slits of her eyes, rips the straw free from the box. The kid stabs it through the side, and drains it empty in one long angry pull.
Suitably impressed, Kendo downs half of his refill and then leans forward again, knocking elbows with a funny looking brown helmet and gas mask; its lenses flash gold in the light. Kid wants to posture? Sure, Kendo can match that in spades.
"Y'know, with those thin little baby arms, it's no wonder you have a gun," Kendo drawls, because the brat's too clean to be a desperate runaway, but what good kid hangs out in a shitty bar on a school night? "Real men fight with their own power."
The kid gives him the driest, droll look. "Great, stupid and sexiest," he scoffs, and, really, Kendo takes offense to that.
"I'll have you know I kick ass equally." Kendo pauses, takes another swig, and then amends with another laugh, "Well, kicking is for losers, actually."
Biting his lip briefly in clear frustration, the kid snipes, "Only a fool would think that something smart to boast about," and then grinds the straw between his teeth. "What would you know, anyway, drunkard."
Kendo blows a raspberry. "Plenty, since I ain't dead yet, brat…" he starts, and then eyes the bartender as she turns away, the whorl of tentacles sprouting from her back spasming briefly. Hm. "... What would you know, being all of five years old."
"Plenty, despite my age, like wininng by any means necessary," the kid spits, disgusted and riled, hands flying up. Must not get listened to much, huh. "Purposely limiting yourself from using your legs to kick is moronic; be smarter or you're barely worth killing. Age doesn't matter."
Huh. Yeah, now that last bit, Kendo gets, and he likes that conviction; the fuzzy warmth allows Kendo to humor the kid instead of bullying him by shoving him off his seat. "So, become a jack of all trades and a master of none, is what you're saying," he says, pretty sure it isn't what the kid is saying. "I'm a master of punching, don't need anything else."
"A jack of all trades but a master of none is oftentimes better than a master of one," the kid mocks. "God, why am I talking to you? I can feel my brain cells dying. Go away already."
With a grin, Kendo leans in closer. "No, no, really what's a brat like you doing here anyway, don'tcha have a bedtime?"
The kid's lip curls, and he looks away. "Wouldn't you like to know."
Kendo very much would for no real good reason. He remembers being a shitty brat just like this in all the ways that matter, but this kid is the sort who should make it, he thinks. Just so the world has to stay on its toes.
"How about a name?" he burps, and the little shit wrinkles his nose. Manners, who needs 'em. "C'mon, need to know the name of the kid I'll need to remember to curb stomp in the future, just to prove you wrong."
Frowning, the kid chews on the straw for another moment before narrow eyes rake Kendo over from head to toe. Kendo knows what he sees, and it's all pure power; it has to be intimidating, honestly. He opens his mouth, maybe to answer, most likely to tell Kendo to shove the curiosity up his ass, but.
But, the moment is lost. The air shifts, and filled as it is with nearly every sort of lowlife known to mankind, the atmosphere already charged with lust and aggression and volatile content, something about it goes… focused. Intent. Kendo straightens in his seat just as the bartender melts, dissolving into glittering and sparkling dust that scatters in clear escape.
There's just enough time for Kendo to see that all of the servers are gone, that the smarmy mood of the bar has soured with unattended and piling empty glasses. Just enough seconds to see wide eyed surprise wash over the kid, straw dropping from his lips, before the front entrance bows inward with a shower of splintered wood.
"Pros!" someone shrieks over the sudden rush of yells and shattering glass, the sound cut off with the crack and whip of tree roots.
Kendo's heart leaps, his blood roars, and the tingly swoop in his belly draws a grin across his face. He leaps to his feet as a swath of the flailing crowd is pinned to the ground. He doesn't really know a whole lot about the Pro that steps in, some newish guy with uniformed police scurrying at his back, but Kendo knows enough. A good fight. Just exactly what he needed—
"Idiots!" hisses a muffled voice to his right, and Kendo remembers — right, the kid.
He's got the funky helmet and mask on now, uniform and a bag shrugged on. There's a pressurized hiss, the faintest waver of white mist under the orange light, but Kendo kinda likes the kid. It sure would suck for him to get snatched up in this ratty bar on a school night, so.
So, later, he'll just blame it on the alcohol making him sappy. It's the altered state of mind and all that, that has Kendo wrap an arm around the kid's skinny chest, and heave him back and up. Tree roots burst from the floor, splitting the bartop and grasping for the kid's ankles. Laughing, Kendo clears the toppled halves, arm rotating, and shatters the weak back wall with one punch.
Concrete, glass, and alcohol rain over them. The kid yelps and elbows hard at Kendo's ribs. He takes the pitiful hit in stride, bursting into the wire strung alleyway with a whoop, his vision swimming from the sudden change in lighting. Coiling wood races after him, orange spilling out of the hole in the wall, but Kendo is faster, better, and it flies past him, missing.
He takes off cackling into the night, the kid flailing in his hold the entire way. The roots stop chasing pretty fast, probably wanting to limit the property damage, and, really, this is why Kendo just can't have much fun fighting Pros anyway. They worry about the most nonsensical things sometimes; he already jacked up the bar and integrity of the entire building, what's a little more damage to city streets going to do?
Kendo laughs again, and the sound rushes back in on, "—down, I didn't need your help!"
"Sure you didn't!" he says, loping to a stop, heart racing. The kid forces his way free, and nearly eats asphalt; that backpack is surprisingly heavy. "You got some sort of gas quirk, huh? Think that would even work on a guy who's a literal tree?"
With an aggravated hiss, the brat picks himself up, thoroughly ruffled, and yanks the gun out and up. He levels it with Kendo's face, smoothly clicking the safety off. The barrel shines silver under the buzzing street light, makes it easier to see that the metal's marred with the scratches of use, but Kendo isn't afraid. Stupid little thing must know he's outclassed because he's oh so smart.
Huffing, Kendo shakes out a fist, flexing the fingers. "Listen kid, I'm not gonna tell you to go home 'cos that'd make me a hypocrite; you've got your reasons and despite what anyone else might say, they're your right reasons, right now," he says, because he ought to know; it's almost like looking into a mirror with this kid. But, giving life advice is sure to bring on hives, so he grins, and continues with, "But, you wouldn't have won that fight. So, scram, or I'll toss you in a dumpster."
With the mask, it's hard to guess what the brat’s thinking now; its polished lens gleam, emotionless and dispassionate. Kendo stares the kid down and doesn’t flinch. He’s seen worse, done worse, and this pipsqueak has a long way to go before Kendo will ever take the first swing because he wants to, but… he looks forward to it.
The kid lowers the gun, finger light over the trigger. “... Whatever,” he mutters, and tucks the pistol away.
They regard one another for one more moment before the squirt spins on a heel without another word. Kendo watches him go, gakuran bleeding sharp blue and pink under the seedy alley signs, and then disappear fully into the dark. He'll try to remember that arrogant, tiny back, that dumb as hell mask. Shouldn't be too hard, kid seems to like his theatrics.
“Brat,” Kendo says to no one, and rolls his shoulders.
Let's meet again.