Uncivil War [Timey-Wimey Lord/Iratze] [Closed]

"Bloody Hell, you're awful."
Seemingly mocking the now-decimated Hollow, Charles took a moment or a few to laugh at what had once been a minor irritation towards him. Granted, he could have just shot it while he was behind it – thus ending the battle in one fell swoop, if you could call it even that. However, Charles was willing to spare the Hollow for a few minutes, to study its mannerisms and powers. Alas, this Hollow possessed no unique abilities that he could note down without endangering the general populace more than he was doing already. And then there was the matter of he himself being hurt, a matter he thought far more important.

The streets in this area of town were, quite unusually, abandoned. Whether it was due to there being something going on, or that it was just a building site he had not been notified of, was not known to Charles. Not that it would have mattered much to him anyway. There had been some Hollows in the area, but they were weak to the point where it was laughable. He recalled that one of them couldn't even tell where he was, even when he was standing directly beneath him. He did commend them for their tenacity, though – like how they continued to crawl after him, even when he had shot their knees.

Truth be told, he was looking for the Bount that had beaten him black and blue not too long ago. The physical wounds had healed, no problem – they were flesh wounds, and any impediments that had occurred were just temporary. However, there were wounds on him that would not heal until he had put a baker’s dozen worth of holes in the smug creature’s face, and those ones were psychological. She had not just dishonoured him, she had downright humiliated him. And he wasn't going to stand for it. He would wander far and wide to find her, and show her that the power of a Quincy was not to be underestimated. He had increased his training to the point where it was ridiculous how much he did so. All to try and get back at a single person.

Regardless of motives, there was little else the boy saw that he could do in the area. Nothing had posed enough of a threat to him – his parents refused to train him, and no opponent he had faced thus far had proved to be any sort of real challenge to him. Granted, some had been hard to hit, but if anything, they were simply moving targets. He needed a challenge, something to stimulate him. His mind was like an engine, racing out of control – when compared to most others’. It was like a rocket, tearing itself to pieces on the launch pad.
“I need a fight!”