Tomura Shigaraki

With each passing moment Tomura spent in the relentless blizzard, he felt his consciousness slip further and further out of reach. Dragging his steel-tipped boots through the thick, icy slush, he huffed with visible effort, his previously purposeful stride reduced to a sluggish meander as if he had lost his direction. He couldn't tell the scenery apart anymore. Pine trees lined his field of vision, towering over him like they had the intention of ambushing him; the snow gathering along their slim, spiky leaves slid down with a low thump, collecting stubbornly in his pure white hair; and he realized now that his line of sight was obscured by the blowing snow that had now presently formed to resemble blurry, white strokes.

Everything blended together into a striking impressionist painting. With the mix of dim light from the setting sun overhead and the shivering fog slithering around him, he was starting to realize he wasn't sure if he could hold out.

He had survived worse, but he had greatly underestimated the snow storm's potential as a hazard to his objective to find that cleric. When he left the League's base earlier, Kurogiri had warned him quite harshly, the strict yet worried advice echoing through his skull as he continued on his fruitless endeavor under the cover of snow.

"Master Tomura, it is not wise to leave yet," he had said, his voice deep and smooth but laced with hesitation. The mist around him had coalesced into something almost protective, like a shield designed to keep him safe. In the past, it had, but Tomura didn't care for warnings as much as he should have. "I suggest you stay.. for now. Until the storm has passed."

"I'll be fine, Kurogiri," he spat, "just keep the League warm. I'll be back." Tomura had rolled his eyes, brandishing a map and very minimal winter gear consisting of a tattered coat and extra thick gloves. Marching out of the base, he had certainly expected cruel conditions, but his strength was being drained quicker than he had anticipated. Something about the storm's timing felt so deliberately puppeteered as if its irony was specifically designed to spite him. The temperature had dropped several degrees since he separated from the League's base so delicately cared for by Kurogiri in his absence, and, by this time, the tips of his fingers were ice-cold.

Tomura came to a halt, his breathing coming out in rough, jagged pants. His stance was uneven, his weight leaning on one of his legs much more than the other so his posture began to take after that of a scarecrow's. He pulled his coat tighter over himself, fingers (pinky exempt) curling instinctively into the threadbare fabric for any scraps of warmth left. One of his hands dug into a worn, stitched pocket to drag a crumpled map out of it, and he struggled to straighten it. Even when he did, the snow refused to let him see anything other than blobs of lands and blurred scribbles. "Fuck off," he muttered to no one in particular as he stuffed the paper back down a random coat pocket. "Can't I just.. decay the snow?" Tomura let out a wheezy, frustrated whine when the thought hit him that it was most definitely not a valid option.

He let himself fall back into the snow, his back hitting the yielding slush beneath his coat. Feeling too numb to move, he didn't; he just laid there and closed his eyes. Tomura wasn't gonna give up, but how could he really go on now? The only choice was to tough it out in the snow, to keep walking, or to wait for the storm to pass properly. With the energy of a deflated balloon, he dragged himself over to the nearest pine tree, wrapped his coat around him a little better, and scowled out from under the pine leaves above him. Tomura could wait. Just for a little bit, he thought as slumber finally claimed him. Once the storm cooled off, he could get it over with.

The only thing that forced him awake next was the faint candleglow dancing in front of his eyelids. Tomura's sharp eyes snapped open, involuntarily scanning his surroundings, a rigid habit he had fallen into after he was taken in by All for One. As he investigated, he heaved himself upward and found that he was awake, alive, and.. warm. Fingers curling into the soft, smooth sheets he had been laying in, a surge of adrenaline shot through his veins first, then some panic, and lastly an outrage. Hadn't he just been sleeping in the snow? Who found him? And who had the audacity to drag him in his slumber?

As he looked around the room, he noticed several things. Whoever was living here was.. soft, soft enough to allow a scarred stranger to stay in one of the rooms of their home. The room was decorated quite simply, lined with the singular necessities that one would need to keep on living. He didn't really care about the look of the room though. One of the main things that caught Tomura off-guard was the fact that they had bothered to even give him a blanket—it wasn't even tattered, mauled, or dusty in any way. It was draped over him like how someone who cared would put it over him. "What the fuck?" He mumbled under his breath, his voice dry and parched. "Where the hell is this?" Tomura wasn't even sure whether he had actually made it to the healer. Was this their home? Or was this simply the result of a stranger's pity towards someone so unfortunate as himself?

Before he could get up, he watched the door open gingerly, and he spotted a set of eyes looking around the room and eventually landing on him. A biting insult formed at the very tip of his tongue, begging to be released when he parted his chapped lips, but nothing came out. Damn it. Can't you just speak? he mentally cursed himself. Tomura was left awkwardly staring at the crack of opened door, eyes blown wide in an almost rabid manner despite his inability to force any words out. He needed to get out here. Now.