Scrawls and Chicken Scratches {Mcyt x Bnha}

𝔸𝕞𝕚𝕒𝕓𝕝𝕖

A⋅ mi⋅ a⋅ ble
(a.)
Having or displaying a friendly and pleasant manner.

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“Do they hurt?” The winged man questioned, pointing out the man’s scars by gesturing where it would be if it were on his own face. THis stranger had very tired eyes. Eyes of someone who didn’t grow up in the best environment for a child. Eyes of someone who had seen and done actions of which no person would do or choose to do with average morals. They looked as though they had given up on the mere aspect of society and it’s mal functions. The eyes of a human being who wasn’t mentaly in the right place because of past events.

“Hmm-?” The hooded man lightly touched his face, but took his fingers off very quickly so as to not show weakness. “What’s it to you old man?” Despite the harsh tone being let out of the stranger's mouth, the bucket hatted man in front of him still held a patient smile. Phil was never one to judge so quickly about one who he has never seen before in his life. I mean, he did blow up an entire country once. And he has assisted in the making of anarchist empire. The list goes on, but now was not the time for that.

“Well I only made a guess from how those marks don’t look necessarily closed up.” He paused for a second to look at the metal holding up the scarred, scorched skin. “Those staples are a bit obvious, mate.” He deadpanned, looking back at the food items at hand. Maybe he would buy seaweed. Not for eating purposes of course, but he could use it to smelt stuff since coal was probably limited in the location designated to him and his friends. Plus, the food was being sold for cheap. He actually didn’t have the correct currency for this world, but he was sure that the shop would hesitantly accept gold.

“Why do you care, you fucking wierdo.” It was rhetorical, but Phil didn’t really care. He had his experience with salty people. Children especially. 

“Here.” The winged man spoke, waving around a vile with pink liquid in it. “That should gradually make you feel better.” The glass container was being shook in front of the face of the stranger, the winged man, not even sparing a glance. “Sorry if it doesn’t work right away. I didn’t have the original ingredients on me so I had to improvise.” He, once again, looked over to the mysterious stranger, continuing with his pleasant smile.

“Are you offering me drugs-? Damn, for such a shit eating grin, I didn’t think you were part of the trades.”

The man burst out cackling. “No no no no no, mate, this is medicine that I made.” He said in between breaths. He stopped for a second, processing what he just said. Finally realizing his wording, he covered his face with his unoccupied hand. “I swear I didn’t mean to say it that way.” He sighed, pulling his face as he slid his hand off. “Just take it man.” Phil dropped the vile, not bothering to see if the stranger was prepared to catch it. The hooded man fumbled a bit, not expecting for the bucket hatted man to suddenly drop it, but he managed to catch it.

The scarred man pulled the cork off, wondering why the hell there was cork for a liquid that was (supposedly) not wine. He gave it a small sniff, still unsure and hesitant. It smelled melony. A bit metallic. Rusty, perhaps? Glancing back over to the man browsing through items who offered him ‘drugs,’ the stranger tried to detect any slightest form of mal intent. He got nothing except a strange feeling that this man was a lot more messed up than he appeared, but it didn’t seem that any of the said evil background had anything to do with right now.

Hesitantly, he took a swig and unexpectedly, it tasted sweet(?) Why was the taste so comforting and cool? This thing had come from the guy's pockets. Actually, when thinking about it. The stranger never saw him reach for his pockets. He didn’t even have pockets from the looks of it. So where did he get the thing from? Was it in his hands the whole time? The mysterious man’s thinking paused when he felt that his wounds didn’t sting as badly. He even felt the pinching feeling of skin weaving around small muscles in his face (If that was even possible). What the hell is this stuff? Why did it actually work, unlike the average illegal substance?

“Feel any better?” The bucket hatted man politely questioned, looking back to the stranger with a calm face and small, patient smile.

“Where'd You get this shit, old man.” He quizzed, pointing to the now empty vile.

“I told you, mate, I made it.” He calmly answered, standing up with two medium sized bags of seaweed in hand. “I’m hoping to find ingredients that are closer to the original ones so it’s more effective, but- ya know- you work with what you got... If you want more, I’m sure you won’t find it hard to find me.” He paused and looked over, through a window to outside the building. “Whisper to a crow about ‘the father figure,’ I believe that’s what they call me currently.” His voice was laced with not a trace of sarcasm or deception. Was his quirk talking to birds? It was a possibility.

“I best be going now. Have a nice day, mysterious stranger.” The bucket hatted man gave one last warm smile before turning away to walk to the cash register. The stranger stayed in place to watch the transaction out of curiosity. It appeared that the kind man placed something shiny on the counter. Was that gold? Who the hell was this guy and why is he paying with gold?

After a long time spent on reassurance and nervous declining, the cashier was finally convinced that it was no big deal and hesitantly took the money. Phil offered a smile to the young man operating the system before grabbing a fabric bag that he bought with the food to put the items in. The main reason he purchased it was because it reminded it of a special someone of his. The bag, being decorated with multiple silvery wings layered in a pattern. He then finally left the building, immediately being shrouded with crows on sight of being outside.

‘Today was a pleasant surprise’ he thought with a smile. Walking away from the store, he continued to get stares from those who were confused as to why a man was basically one hundred birds in a trench coat or a kimono to be more exact. Either way, it was peaceful and he hopefully got some dude with trauma a little hope.

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-☏ Palavras☏- 1151

{It's my boy, Chris P. Bacon}