Post by Bucket on Mar 8, 2019 23:13:11 GMT -4
It had been a few days since the shackles holding Bucket's body down, his injuries, had finally become manageable enough for him to work and fight at an acceptable level, to move to his liking, even if his arm and leg were still stiff and, occasionally, jittery and flashing with pain. The last one wasn't a particularly large problem, to him it really felt like, out of the blue, getting a thousand injections of the purest cocaine in the world -- bliss, pure bliss.
Though, it still was like cocaine to him.
He felt empty.
Age was getting to him.
Not physically of course, he was still very much in his prime, more than able to take down any young little shit trying to prove that they're big dogs in the world, when they are nothing but specks of dust compared to the real big boys around there. No, his mental age was getting to him, where even a deeply broken, never whole man like him must come to terms with life's emptiness and lack of natural purpose, one that usually is filled with a person's dreams and desires.
A job.
A job.
A lover.
Happiness.
Success.
Those were some common wishes and, though his wish had fallen a bit into the more uncommon side, it still wasn't at all rare to wish for something like what he wished for, something he hadn't exactly kept a secret, though it just wasn't known to others just how much it mattered to him, just how much it troubled his mind day in and day out, specially during his injured two months of inactivity, where thoughts, nightmares and misery rained upon him while he was unable to use violence to mask and numb everything.
It was time to face his weakness and start living for an actual desire, a dream.
"I do hope it works now." The lumbering, unusually quiet giant spoke to himself while looking over his own hands at a large, slightly cracked mirror he kept in a room he fashioned for himself out of the barkeep's old storage room:
Bucket had just gotten him the building next door by force to replace it;
Taking a few minutes to slather his face with polish and, with a brush, clean over the scratches that would usually appear in his face after every training session. It was just like rubbing some lotion on damaged skin to let it regenerate to him, though the polish really made him ticklish.
Yet he did not laugh. He forgot how to, unless he fights.
Next up, he looked over his recently uncovered right side once again, moving his arm a little while listening to it creak and, once he really snapped it forward, crack, sighing while letting it loose again. Same thing for his leg, his eyes closing to really bask in that feeling, sighing out as if releasing pressure.
He'd smile and giggle at how nice it felt to crack his stiff limbs, if not for the fact he never actually learned to enjoy things like that in the first place.
What he did not dare to look at again was the horrifyingly brutal scar on his right pec, his usually light-toned skin now having a dark, circular shaped scar from being shot directly by a high-pressure water cannon, the veins being permanently visible under his fragilized skin. Well, fragilized was the command word there, though it still was just as strong as the rest of his skin, he tested it himself when he tried to stab that spot and only got the very start of the tip in, same as with the rest of his body.
Kinda hurt more than the rest of his body, that was to expect.. "You look awful.." Bucket quietly told his scar, knowing fully well that it did not have sentience or the ability to answer. Just a remark about himself, if anything.
Slipping his favorite prison shirt on, tightening his belt with that stupid-looking skull as the buckle, tying his boots, the only footwear he could actually tolerate, he felt as ready as someone like him could be to go out, stepping outside of the pub, not before giving his kitty Flufferbutter some rubs with a single finger, talking to it in almost whispers, as he usually did.
"You reminded me that I am not completely gone, Flufferbutter. I still can feel, I.. feel it." A pun he could giggle to himself about, if he had the capability to do.
Bucket couldn't help but look at his own hands yet again, feeling a deeply ingrained sense of dread, in fear of his quirk truly being gone once and for all, as he was told by the doctor who treated him, his nervous system was deeply damage and reconstruction is still a non-exact science, so it might change his quirk a bit -- or just delete it entirely.
"..Please.
...
CHAIN GANG!" He roared out while swinging his right arm around, swinging his hand forward, palm open to divide the skin in his palm connected by a large chain, actually smiling genuinely for once in a long time outside of violence when he saw it fly out as fast as he could ever throw it, the angle which he threw it at snapping right onto a high road lamp-post.
"What a relief..~" Quietly muttering to himself, some water beads quietly slipping down his bucket-shaped head, something that he remembered as being "tears", something he thought only his victims could ever shed, he quickly snapped himself back to his palm, repeating the process with several other lamp posts, buildings, everything he could grapple on.
It took him around thirty minutes since getting the coordinates from this "Oracle" and between landing, cutting a two hour car trip in half with sheer mobility. As he landed with a large crash, his weight and strength crushing the very concrete below him, the massive 7'2 foot man standing around, waiting for the person he looked for, Oracle, to appear and reveal themselves.
Yet, he stood. Hours upon hours, it was about five long hours before Bucket even moved a muscle other than his head to look around, quietly realizing that he had been tricked, lead on and left hanging when he was getting ready to put himself vulnerable. He had been invited, lead and flaked on.
He'd swear to kill Oracle for her insolence, even going right onto his phone to curse her out, until he realized that his DMs with her were basically empty.
He dreamed it.
The entire thing.
Fuck
