" 𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙀𝙖𝙧𝙩𝙝'𝙨 𝙂𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙩𝙚𝙨𝙩 𝙒𝙚𝙖𝙥𝙤𝙣 𝙄𝙨 𝙈𝙮 𝘽𝙪𝙞𝙡𝙙𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝘽𝙡𝙤𝙘𝙠 "
If You're Looking For A Love Story, A Healthy Family, And A Totally Non-Chaotic Plot Line, GET OUT. Instead, This Is Hitomi Todoroki, our fierce, brilliant...
And take my hands, they'll understand Take my heart, pull it apart And take my brain, or what remains And throw it all away
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Oh Hitomi.
You should've stayed awake.
Hitomi's lungs burned up as the pain from her dislocated arm vanished, her body burning with a powerful fever. Sleep overtook the girl even when she wished to wake, to be sure her friends were safe. Even as sleep whispered in her ear, she dazedly looked across what terrain she could, watching as the lava from above solidified on the dying branches, the miniscule glow from beneath them making wonderful little stars.
Her cheeks flushed just at the sight of the hot liquid, her body overcoming with chills as the air was brushed with another layer of heat. Curling into the tree's side, the hoarse breath's Hitomi took slowly eased their way into dry whispers, her body clinging to itself for comfort.
From afar, in the lava-covered trees, appeared two figures, stalking forward slowly as their eyes were drawn to the forest sky, watching as lava dripped and solidified into a dark material, similar to a rock. They kept their eyes peeled above, hoping to avoid being shit on the head by lava. The air boiled right before their eyes, wilting the leaves with the flucuating heat of the lava.
Casting his hand aflame, Dabi advanced with a fist of blue fire to defend him, well aware of who might be ahead; god knows if she'd made such a mess fighting before she'd probably fight twice as hard against them. Twice waved his hand forward, an army of Dabi copies scowering the area, their hands lit aflame like the original. They, too, recognized the above setting watching as trees aged and wilted from the leftover power, leaves dipping towards the ground as they lost their will to live.
Shrunken and ugly, trees folded in on themselves like raisins as they resented the one who turned them this way. The one who'd hung their leftovers like vines, pools of the sticky liquid still burning the trees' exterior as twigs and branches fell from above from the loss of strength. The ground appeared worse; dark holes of fried and charred dirt, scorches laying the grass as the freshly hardened obsidian elapsed the grass and weeds.
