Underground Hatred - My Hero Origins (MHO)

26: Sickened Play

Word Count: 2942

TW: Violence, Strangulation, Sickness

(Kat)

 "So that's the door?"

Kat peered over the ledge of the abandoned warehouse, amber eyes glued to the warehouse across the massive parking lot that haunted her memories. All was still besides for the hustle and bustle of workers on the left wall from where the two young adults were positioned. The sun was beginning its descent, a warm orange glow casting itself across the increasingly chilly world. The smell of freshly pressed asphalt wafted from a few blocks away. The sun warmed Kat's back, which faced the star. It was a comforting sensation, soothing the pain that continued to throb her head all day—and now spreading to her chest. The heat was almost like a hug that was held from her, the breezy northern wind flipping the small wisps of hair that stuck out from her two French braids.

The people at work at the warehouse were as small as ants, but as clear as day in Kat's line of sight. Boxes were moving out of the large location and into a van to be transported somewhere. For fifteen minutes, Kat and Davis watched the process, waiting for their time to make a move. There was commotion and barks of orders from the workers, but nothing decipherable. Images ran through Kat's brain of what could be in the boxes: weapons, drugs, whatever an underground market could pick up. Those options were only scratching the surface of how creative the answers could be.

"Th—That's the door," Davis replied in his apathetic tone, a nod of his head to follow. His bloody red visor was directed towards the nearest wall of the warehouse, an emergency exit sitting there. "I—I'm pretty sure it's l—locked, but I can unlock it."

Kat's right index nail tapped against the concrete ledge that her chin sat atop. "Are we going in through that door while there's people outside?"

"N—No, we wait. They'll probably be d—done soon."

Kat watched Davis's face for a moment, her lips drawn into a tight line. Her toes lightly tapped to a beat in the air as she sat with her legs crossed: her limbs were begging to twitch. "I hope they finish soon. If the sun goes down before they're done, we're gonna freeze."

It was Davis's turn to peek at Kat. The two met eyes, his lips twitching upwards a tad. "Y—Your red hands say you're already cold."

Confused, Kat glanced at her paled hands, which turned out—to not much surprise—to be a bright, firetruck red. Her cheeks grew in heat to match with her palms. Her hands turned to fists, bashfulness overtaking her. "We've been out here for a while. I'm getting used to it. No need to call me out like that."

A blow of a breath came from Davis, as if he had laughed slightly. His face turned back to the scene before them. "I—I'm cold, too. D—Don't worry."

A tense silence fell over the two as they went back to their waiting game. Five minutes. Ten minutes. The sun grew colder against Kat's back. The fire was dimming. At the fifteen-minute mark, the crew outside the warehouse closed up the van's back doors and all but two shuffled into the complex. The other two hopped into the van and took off at a quick speed, as if they were in a hurry. The lack of movement on the outside perked up Kat, her chin peeling off the concrete edge and aching head at attention.

Davis hopped to his feet beside Kat, dusting himself off of the left-over grime and rubble of the rocks beneath their feet on the rooftop. After, his left hand stretched out towards Kat, offering a hand up. The glow of his indigo eyes haunted Kat's brain, reminding her of what hid behind the visor that became his usual apparel. "I—It's time."

Kat took the hand up with gratitude, a meek smile crossing her lips—yet the sense of dread filled her being. The darkening sun gave no helpful advice, the fear of reencountering her battle from the other morning looming in. The sting of her arm that faded over the day grew bright with its hot pain, every bruise across her skin aching. Kicks and punches threw themselves her way, knocking the breath out of her lungs. The abuse was coming back—in more ways than before.