Made Ordinary

1

“Overwhelming strength,” he paused and frowned. It didn't matter. “It's boring.” He wanted to ask a question; wanting to know why. But eventually, eventually the why didn't matter much anymore.

“Brother!” They were brothers? Ah, what a shame. The two looked nothing alike, well, he hadn't even caught sight of the other man.

“Wha—” in the end, it mattered not.

Cracking like candied apples, the sound shatters broken. “Huh?” His fist flattered against the giant’s jaw, as it did, mist filled the air and rained down on the ground like soaked clouds.

The blood seeps into the crevices of City Q: white cars turn red as does everything else. Saitama watches as the red splatters miles out, some even making it outside of the city walls.

“What a shame,” he said and fell back down. His ears filled with tinnitus rings and rushing winds. “You died.”

Maybe if it lived…maybe? But again, when in front of him, it mattered infinitesimally in the Grand scheme of life.

Nearly non-existent.

You'd have died the second go-round anyways. “Ugh,” he sighed and fell, the ground was so far and the air was so loud. The wind whipped through his nose and encircled his black lungs.

He wants a cigarette—how appalling. He was supposed to quit, after all, the cigars, no matter how much nicotine he stuffed in them, they'd still not work.

Not even when saturated in oils(THUD) he fell. Snippets of dust and bramble knock into the air.

He couldn't feel it: this body, Saitama is sure, it isn't his. Without a doubt in his mind as he pulls out a mangled cigar and matchfrom his pocket. He lays the match against his teeth.

And flicks, sizzles fill the air with burning wood. He watches the blackening wood and brings his roll towards it.

“Ah,” he sighed, filling the cancer entering his body, he breathed in harshly. He can't feel the burning flame trying so hard to wilt at his finger.

He places the match on the ground and stands up.

His shoes stepped the fire out…was the fire hot? Would he sweat if he had let it consume him? No, obviously not.

If it could, if the fire could truly cause boils he wouldn't smoke. He wo—Nihilism.

Saitama could define the heat, but his pores would not open to relieve his body of the heat. Saitama looks back at the red covered ground and the body of the dead giant.

“Ugh,” he tossed the cigarette out: right. He frowned and turned back to the world.

[Try as hard as you can to burn his skin, you'd fail…horribly so.] “You should've come up with something better,” he mumbled and walked with his head looking down on the ground as he left the rubble-filled ground. “Being strong isn't worth it.”

Nothing is, but he didn't say.

He kept his mouth close, what's the point of speaking with no one to hear you? What's the point of speaking in a meaningless world?

“Aye!” Someone yells, Saitama doesn't care. If they're pinned beneath the reinforced concrete, they are. Not him. “Where are you going?!” A car screeches in front of him.

He sighs and looks back…but there's no o—”up here!” He looked up. A green haired girl.

Is she here to gnaw at him? Like the others: “no one cares!: And, “stop showing off!” And, “I hope you die!” If she is like the others, he doesn't care for her glares anyways.