Version A, Too | Boku No Hero Academia Reader Insert

XVI: The End of the Horizon

At first, I was unsure of what to do. It seemed as if all my muscle memory from nine years of training like this had faded away within the span of one week. I felt pitiful, weak, useless, in front of the bag, but I raised my fists anyways, with one hand guarding my jaw and the other slightly extended out in front of me, and started.

There wasn't much progress made at the beginning. I touched the leather, gently nudging it with my fist as sweat dripped down my back, streaking across my skin in small zig-zag patterns as I trembled. I didn't know how to approach this, or what would come out of it if I did.

As incessant chatter plagued my conscious, I groaned and took a deep breath, attempting to pick out the only important theme amongst the clutter. 

The least I could do was try.

And in taking this acknowledgement, I built my strength. The smaller, weaker smacks soon filled the mold of larger and more powerful hits. It didn't take long for me to begin striking the bag at my usual strength. It was comfortable. It was familiar.

But soon, just as I was settling back into the scene, something unexpected arose. A certain rage started to build up in my chest -- a rage which let intrusive, fierce conceptions past the gates of my frontal lobe and into the forefronts of my mind.

Wouldn't it be nice to imagine if that bag was Compress?

The upfront thought surprised me as I landed a hook, then a kick onto the punching bag.

After all that he did to you, wouldn't it be nice to have him here? Humanity hanging by a loose thread -- if it isn't already?

I clenched my jaw as my core burned, the thought spurring an assault of incoming convictions.

It's a dog-eat-dog world. Violence is the purest form of gratification in itself. The raw bloodshed of animalistic behavior. It's the pinnacle of justice. And villains need to be brought to justice.

Was this wrong?

So why don't you pretend those villains are in front of you while you can fight back?

Suddenly, the room was still. The tension threaded into my limbs disappeared, along with the grasp regret held on my heart. My eyes widened as I looked down at my arms, trembling and sweaty and raw red, but unhurt and numb to all wordly pain.

A new awakening.

I threw a straight at the bag. The sound of my knuckles against the leather resounded with a bang. A curious smile curled the edges of my lips upwards as I realized how much the noise resembled like a gunshot.

This interest soon turned into a crazed infatuation. My breaths grew labored as I started to pour every ounce of my strength into my punches, sweat lining the entire surface of my skin, emphasizing the redness that began to form underneath in large pools, all for the purpose of hearing, of experiencing that golden moment in which I felt like I had the upper hand. 

For you, Compress, you bastard.

Five hard hits. Two hooks, three straights.

For the stupid blue pearls and the mockery you made of me.

Three strikes.

To the hope that you may never see the light of day again.

Two shots.

And for you, Tomura fucking Shigaraki.

The violent sound of chains smashing against each other echoed through the room as I blew the last cross onto the leather-covered sack and collapsed onto the ground. I sputtered out coughs and heaved hefty breaths, completely worn out from the intensity of the training session. As my blind exhaustion subsided and the adrenaline spike wore away, my muscles were beginning to ache, so I made haste to move and recuperate in the shower before I was only limited to flailing around on the floor, tired and unable to bend my joints.

In the process, I ignored the lingering rage that still scratched at my subconscious.

__

The afternoon had come and gone, and the evening was upon Musutafu.

From my room, I could hear the sizzling of vegetables as my parents prepared dinner, and the muffled talking of radio show hosts as they discussed the latest news. I appreciated how homely it was -- gave me something to latch onto, and served as a reminder that I was still present in reality, even in the midst of my mindless studying.

At some point I was feeling too wearied to continue, so I closed my textbook and exhaled, relieved, then drowsily turned my head to the side to peer outside my bedroom window to observe the happenings of the outside world.

As I watched the clementine Sun disappear behind the black horizon, I wrapped a blanket around myself to trap in some warmth between its woolen layers before the Sun descended into the deep violet pools of night. While doing so, my clammy hands grazed the burning skin of my upper arms. I flinched at the sensation, feeling shivers hurriedly running up my spine and sending jolts of nerve lightning to my head.

Quickly retracting my hands, I managed to salvage some of the delicacy of the scene when calming down and continuing to stare at the declining Sun.

It was slow, nearly unmoving, but captivating nonetheless. Perhaps calming was a better word for it. Or rather, unnaturally pacific -- not as stirring as it had been with its beauty in the past.

There were no fervent emotions brought forth by this sight. Only flat, two-dimensional introspections that resulted in no substance being formed.

My lips pressed together in a firm line as I absentmindedly touched the callouses and rising blisters that lined my palms.

The moment felt different, somehow.