[ It's a lot to take in. And frankly, it's the sort of stuff he probably wouldn't have been able to accept -- back before ending up here, and back before Milgram. Back when he still believed he'd live and die a completely boring and mundane life, he probably would have flipped his shit at the thought of there being a whole different world out there where people are blessed with superpowers and can work as 'professional heroes.'
Hard to get too upset about any of that now, though.
Fuuta just spends a moment digesting that information, intertwining it what he's heard of Dabi so far. A world where people are born with superpowers. Dabi's parents having created him. Dreams of becoming a superhero squelched after being replaced by a 'superior' younger siblings. His shitty attitude, the rage clearly bubbling below the surface, his resentment -- everything clicks together in a way that starts to make sense, and there's something admittedly satisfying about that. It doesn't feel nice per se, but there's something oddly rewarding about feeling like he's gotten a better grasp of what kind of person Dabi is. Having a better hold of him. (How many other people here know this stuff, he wonders. Other than the people he was brought here with. Not many, he hopes. Something about the exclusivity is appealing.)
Thoughts organized, Fuuta abruptly throws back the remainder of his drink; the ice piles at the bottom when he plunks the empty glass down and shoves it across the bar for the bartender to take. Then, as he leans back into the warm press of Dabi's palm, tells the bartender, ]
One more. [ A clear of the throat before he looks to Dabi. ] I'll pay for it. Credits, or whatever you want. 'm not taking my shirt off, though.
[ Already, he sounds a little tipsy; a third drink in such quick succssion is definitely a bad idea. Fuuta's hardly the type to get drunk drunk on a regular basis, to boot. But -- he needs it in this context. Muddying his brain like this helps him forge on and keep talking before his own thoughts can choke him. His turn to talk, so he can address the remaining questions Dabi had laid out. Dabi's turn will be after. ]
-- I dunno if the warden had anything out for me, specifically. But ... they said we were there to be judged. [ His posture's starting to slump. His knee knocks against Dabi's when he slouches in his seat, and he keeps it there; that little extra spot of physical contact helps ground him here, in this moment, away from Milgram, and it soothes his nerves. ] We'd be tried three times -- not that we knew what'd happen after those three times. But still, there'd be three trials. The warden interrogated us a bit, then there was this machine ... supposedly it extracted our thoughts? Our memories? Something like that. And the warden used that to decide whether we were innocent or guilty. [ Fuuta sighs, though it peters off into a bitter laugh. ] S'all bullshit. One person getting to make that decision. They said I was guilty, the first time. I finished my second interrogation before ending up here.
[ The bartender slides him his third drink at this point, but Fuuta doesn't pick it up just yet. Instead leans more firmly into the press of Dabi's palm against his back, mulling over his words for a moment before looking to him. ]
What's your -- ... [ No. 'What's your quirk' feels too easy, after Dabi's asked him to talk about all this stuff. So instead, he asks -- ] What ... was your quirk supposed to be, then. What your shitty parents were aiming for.
no subject
Hard to get too upset about any of that now, though.
Fuuta just spends a moment digesting that information, intertwining it what he's heard of Dabi so far. A world where people are born with superpowers. Dabi's parents having created him. Dreams of becoming a superhero squelched after being replaced by a 'superior' younger siblings. His shitty attitude, the rage clearly bubbling below the surface, his resentment -- everything clicks together in a way that starts to make sense, and there's something admittedly satisfying about that. It doesn't feel nice per se, but there's something oddly rewarding about feeling like he's gotten a better grasp of what kind of person Dabi is. Having a better hold of him. (How many other people here know this stuff, he wonders. Other than the people he was brought here with. Not many, he hopes. Something about the exclusivity is appealing.)
Thoughts organized, Fuuta abruptly throws back the remainder of his drink; the ice piles at the bottom when he plunks the empty glass down and shoves it across the bar for the bartender to take. Then, as he leans back into the warm press of Dabi's palm, tells the bartender, ]
One more. [ A clear of the throat before he looks to Dabi. ] I'll pay for it. Credits, or whatever you want. 'm not taking my shirt off, though.
[ Already, he sounds a little tipsy; a third drink in such quick succssion is definitely a bad idea. Fuuta's hardly the type to get drunk drunk on a regular basis, to boot. But -- he needs it in this context. Muddying his brain like this helps him forge on and keep talking before his own thoughts can choke him. His turn to talk, so he can address the remaining questions Dabi had laid out. Dabi's turn will be after. ]
-- I dunno if the warden had anything out for me, specifically. But ... they said we were there to be judged. [ His posture's starting to slump. His knee knocks against Dabi's when he slouches in his seat, and he keeps it there; that little extra spot of physical contact helps ground him here, in this moment, away from Milgram, and it soothes his nerves. ] We'd be tried three times -- not that we knew what'd happen after those three times. But still, there'd be three trials. The warden interrogated us a bit, then there was this machine ... supposedly it extracted our thoughts? Our memories? Something like that. And the warden used that to decide whether we were innocent or guilty. [ Fuuta sighs, though it peters off into a bitter laugh. ] S'all bullshit. One person getting to make that decision. They said I was guilty, the first time. I finished my second interrogation before ending up here.
[ The bartender slides him his third drink at this point, but Fuuta doesn't pick it up just yet. Instead leans more firmly into the press of Dabi's palm against his back, mulling over his words for a moment before looking to him. ]
What's your -- ... [ No. 'What's your quirk' feels too easy, after Dabi's asked him to talk about all this stuff. So instead, he asks -- ] What ... was your quirk supposed to be, then. What your shitty parents were aiming for.