Underground Hatred - My Hero Origins (MHO)

9: Officiated

Word Count: 2476

TW: Violence, Blood, Intense Scenes

(Kat)

Blood smeared against the back of her hand as Kat wiped at the flow. Her stomach rolled at the dark, shining blood that pooled across her pale skin; though, it was difficult to decipher what was from her nose and what was from her split knuckles. Every inch of her was bathed in blood, bruises, or both. Her fingers twitched to match her shivering, her breath shallow with pain stabbing through her ribcage at each move. She was stuck, frozen, legs crippled beneath her as she remained plastered to the ground. All of the energy in her soul diminished, leaving her in a heap that was helpless, frail.

Boots sat in front of Kat. Kat's blood coated the toes with each beat that brought her to her knees. Anger boiled in her chest, but it wore away with the lack of spark Kat had left in herself. Her hand wished to reach out and wrap itself around the ankle—to strangle with a feeble grasp. The touch was out of hatred, but the smallest piece of her soul also signified it as the urge for comfort from the figure. Her already-twisted face from pain and suffering cringed at the thought, but that bit of her mirrored the dependence she threw away: the part of her that never grew up.

"Please," she croaked out with her hoarse voice, a plea towards the figure that stood above. A hand gave half an effort, launching outward and crashing against the ankle of the left boot. Her blood-slicked, purple fingers latched to the boot, slipping but remaining firm. A violent set of coughs overtook her chest for a brief moment, her torso exploding with pain. A single forearm held her figure up, but collapsed at the mighty force that overtook her—but she kept her grasp.

"Why are you acting so weak?" the voice barked at her: a feminine tone, but held the harsh tone of an ordering army man. "I thought we taught you better than this. You haven't learned; you've never learned."

"What I—do," Kat gasped, her voice gurgling with blood and mucus slicking the back of her throat, "is go—good eno—ough. I—know i—it."

The foot shook Kat's hand away, swung backwards, and brought a brutal force to the right of Kat's abdomen. A scream erupted from Kat's throat, scratching like a record player. Kat rolled to her back in agony, arms crossing over her midsection to comfort the pain. Gasps for breath echoed in her chest again, even more shallow than before. Black spots danced in her vision from the lack of oxygen, also mingling with the white sparks that floated there from the exploding pain.

Kat's face scrunched up, preventing a glimpse at the face that stood above her; one of the boots pressed itself gently on the top of Kat's left bicep, but the gentle touch was a thousand knives with the bruises that covered the area. The whimper that escaped Kat was half-alive, her gasping breaths and coughing overtaking it.

The seething voice grew closer to Kat, like the woman leaned down slightly. "A hero would get up. You could never be one. You never had the drive to carry the name—the name that we wear proudly."

No words fell from Kat's mouth as she continued to writhe—but she fought with her thoughts: I could never be a hero! A hero isn't this fucking brutal! And, besides, I wasn't fit to be one! Why can't you get that shit through your thick skull?

"Face it: you deserve every bit of hell that comes your way. Not after you disgraced us like this."

Kat's jaw clenched at the sound of that. The need for dependency melted away, leaving a hollow shell in Kat's chest to boil with fury. A coursing fire raced through her veins, her limbs tingling with an odd but familiar feeling: it was hotter than anger, brighter than spite. Lava was in her blood, forcing itself to explode like a volcano. The strange feeling was comforting, like Kat regained her autonomy she was refused time after time again. The power surge ignited her limbs, adding a new adrenaline that was undiscovered previously.