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𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐎𝐖𝐍𝐏𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐎𝐅 𝐑𝐀𝐈𝐍 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐁𝐔𝐓 𝐀 𝐏𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑. You could only frown at the hazy gray sky; the thundering roar that presided among the bunched up clouds seemingly held gritty intentions.
It had been nothing but a clear sky when you entered the cafe, but this went against the very definition of 'clear.'
Although, no matter the frustration that began to ensue in the pits of your inert soul, you couldn't deem yourself as surprised.
It was of no natural occurrence, of course, nothing now these days was natural. "Damn heroes," you mutter under your breath, long legs striding towards your designation.
Even if it is a normalcy you've experienced for an idle twenty years, it is still a disorder. Individuals of power holding responsibility; heroes, a known aspect in society, and implemented to distinguish the good and evil, to use their potentiality for the greater good as they claimed.
It's pretty crappy nonetheless. To be the only ones in power and choose what is right and wrong for the rest. That's definitely some savior complex type of bullshit.
Shaking your head, you watch from afar with the rest of the moving crowd. You were already late as it was, with a soaked blouse and damp feet, the day worsened but curiosity seemed to be the only barrier preventing you from doing any reckless act.
Holding the cups of coffee a little closer, [eye color] eyes venture towards the sky in absolute curiosity.
In the reasonable distance, a known verdant hooded figure grabs on the brilliant white of lightning in the graphite sky and strikes it through the unsuspecting ground--where you assume lays a villain.
You don't want to find out the rest. The scream is enough; it's guttural and sharp, and you've never felt so cold until now. Whether it's the sounded banshee cry that wails for impending death or the rain itself, there's no reason to watch nightmares diminish the dreamers and lurk around the innocent.
The world keeps moving, but the people will always stop to gaze at those playing gods and allow themselves to burn in the violence.
Even as your heels hurriedly click against the ground, you can see a scope of light flourish amongst the sky; it separates a figure with posh, large wings from the man with the unknown face and a very well-known identity.
The illusion, flickering only for a few moments, fades, and the two burst towards each other once more. Blinding and roaring, the sharp clash echoes throughout the SMP; people near you take in the destruction with awe and frightfulness.
