when I saw that fantasy AU outro for season 2 my mind went crazy. I...love that shit.
also, I love these two nerds.
I mean, this is so out there...but here I go anyway. (when don't I)
oOo
Daybreak. Pale light illumines the city. It sheens through the ash that falls from the sky, through the storm clouds of smoke which never bring rain, but the stench of the dead which burn in the distance.
It is a place of stone, stripped of warmth and color. Slums bisect the sewers, mud and grease and brackish water acerbate the air. Blowflies whir, fat with plague. Foul drafts waft from the darker portions of the alleyways. Limbs push out from the shadows, the cruor that they drip wedged between the cobble. Izuku hesitates. They must tiptoe over corpses, some that may not be corpses yet. He watches as the others slip across them, leaving silence in their wake.
"Come on," whispers Denki. "You've gotta catch up."
Izuku looks at his friend, his fair hair tucked beneath the hooded rag he's wearing. His brows are knit, his breath is shaky. He's not to blame. The week's meal is on the line, and the market will soon be overrun by guards, and any precious chance of pilfering the butcher's shop will wilt, and they will starve.
"Yeah," Izuku nods. "Sorry."
He hides his nose behind his arm and forces forward, wary that he may not look down to recognize any of those dead.
oOo
Dusk falls. The sky is dark and heavy without stars.
It is their third night in the district's shanty, a blue-black box of concrete alongside dozens. A single window lines the wall, dusty and opaque with cobweb. The floor is cold and the leftmost corner of the room is a busy home to rats, but it is better than any other place they've found to hide in. Must always hide in, as any guard to find them moneyless and orphaned would not think twice to fling them into pens. They sit now, knees brought up to chins. A little fire crackles in the center of their circle, a skill Ochako'd learned from an old text Master Torino had (indirectly) allowed her to read.
"It was just lying there," she says, leafing through the leatherback booklet. "Not much to it without a match. See?" She unpockets a handful of duff and unveils the dried mound in her palms. Two miniature knots of obsidian lie on the heep, a valuable nab she might've held on to from a year's worth of picking through pockets. "Anyway, I asked, but he kept trying to make me think he was snoring. So I...um, told him it was actually one of you guys who'd wanted to read it!" She smiles, embarrassed. "Not that it's news..."
It's subtle, but Izuku catches her tone.
"Ochako—"
"Figures." Eijirou crosses his arms. "Maybe next time the tired old fart'll decide to teach us all how to get the fuck outta here instead of treating us like a buncha delivery puppies."
Denki giggles. "Yeah, that sounds like something he'd see us as!"
Iida hushes them. "Keep it down, you three. W-we don't yet know if one of those monst—"
"Anywho," interjects Ochako. She straightens, tucking her hair before reaching across Iida to invigorate the flame. The water bubbles. The soup is almost finished brewing. "I'm really glad all of you made it back from the market."
She glances quietly at Denki, whose knees and arms got badly bruised on the sprint back into the alleys. They'd outrun two of the guards, and if it hadn't been for Eijirou skidding back just to drag Denki up by a fistful of his clothes and hair, not all of them would be here. And sure, they'd dropped the majority of the meat along the way (the good, fatty kind that sates the stomach), and Denki had only been able to gather back a handful of the plums that had scattered from his pack after he had fallen...but at least they were all here now, the five of them together.
"Maybe..." Ochako swallows. "I dunno...Izuku and I could double our errands for Master Torino, we could save up, stay here, and...that way we wouldn't have to steal from the merchants, not anymore. The guard w-would eventually forget and have no reason to arrest us—"
Her hair slips from her ear, too oily to hold. Izuku supposes the short brown strands have seen better days. He's seen those days, Ochako's hair...soft and vibrant. His gut turns, and it is not from hunger. His fists tighten. If only he'd managed to make off with more of the upper district's water, if only he could lug the entire well of water to them, Ochako'd be able to bathe and wash her hair whenever she wanted, all of them could, if only they weren't—if only they weren't like this—
"Don't be a fool," voices Iida. He's studying the ground, despondent. "They'd have us all in chains with or without small change on our person. As we are...as we are, we're no more than...those people littered in the alleys. More vessels for infection, more bodies that will burn—"
"Don't say that!" Izuku shouts, and it is much louder than he'd meant for it to be. "Ochako...she's right." He clears his throat, his face warm. His friends stare at him in silence. "There...there has to be another way. Other options. Kaminari almost...he almost didn't make it! Don't you see? We can't keep making these kinds of trips, better yet, we could ask Master Torino to help us figure out a cur—"
"He's right," adds Eijirou, ignoring the start of the last part. "The assholes have multiplied. There ain't no way we can skirt'em, not in the light. We're more noticeable now, bigger." He hints with a thumb, "Even Kaminari. He ain't the stealth gnome he was—"
"H-hey! Who are you calling a gnome?"
"Shh," hisses Ochako. "We're being too loud!"
A duo of rats scurry back to their nest, unnerved by the noise. One of them crashes into a bucket, spilling some of the water inside it. In the dark, the clatter is deafening, a noise likely heard through the alley. The color drains from Iida's face. Ochako stiffens. Denki, too. Slow, Eijirou turns towards the window, fingertips hovering over the knife at his hip.
Nothing.
"I meant that." It's less than a whisper. Izuku scoots, watching the fire. "We'll find it. The cure. We'll save everyone."
The kindling snaps.
Silence.
oOo
The soup is mostly gizzard. Ochako carefully slides the pot out from the fire while Iida stands to hand out bowls. No spoons, and so they sip and taste in treasured slurps.
Izuku swirls his share, counting the bits of meat that float up to the surface. He takes one in his mouth and lets the flavor sit. He chews. It is a heavy work of teeth, and by the time he's made it swallowable, his jaw has started aching.
"It's real good," says Denki, licking the wet spots of his lip. "Better than that gross stuff from last week."
"Yeah," agrees Eijirou. "Anything but that crusty old bread."
Ochako perks up. "Speaking of which..." She sets aside her bowl and searches through her satchel. A little pouch dangles from her fingers. "Take a guess."
Iida leans to take a closer look. "Ochako…"
She smiles. "A gift from Master Torino. For our hard work. Worth it, don't you think?"
Izuku's mouth waters. He can tell just from looking that it's salt, the tang of the coastline undoubtedly clinging to each individual crumb. Pure, untouched, a piece of the sea.
He shakes his head vehemently.
"It's yours," he tells her. "You earned it. You really don't have to—"
"I want to," she cuts. Izuku's words stay put on his tongue. "So here. There's enough for all of us."
She undoes the string and sprinkles a few grains into her broth. She passes it around until the pouch sags empty. Time passes as they eat, though the occasional conversation sparks a muffled chuckle or a grin. It's nice, watching his friends laugh and smile, seeing them safe and warm and away from the maw of unhealth. Izuku's fingers rouse on the stone. Anything to keep them this way, anything to help others have the same opportunity—
Shuffling. Faint.
The sound slithers from the alley. The conversation ebbs. His friends have heard it, too, and the utter look of horror blanched on Denki's face is enough to freeze Eijirou where he sits, unable, for once, to reach for his blade. They listen. That is all they can do. Not one of them moves, or breathes, and soon, the shuffling has rustled closer, louder, an elongated shadow looming just outside the window.
Izuku staggers to his feet, the room so fraught with fear that neither of his friends reach out to stop him. He presses up against the wall, and advances towards the pane. He can hear his heart, the incoherent buzzing in his skull. He rests his head back, inhales, and for a moment glances at Ochako. Her eyes are wide, the brown in them overtaken by the pupil. She's covering her mouth, her nose, her head shaking no—
He turns his neck. And sees it.
There, stretched thin and oozing blight, the delineation of a starven man ravaged by disease. The feet twist inward, the orifices of the face suppurate in yellow. The fluid drips, a spumous trail which spreads and smears beneath its amble, the mouth opening and closing disconsolately. Flies immure the body, a fetid hive they've conquered as their home. It stands there, searching blindly for a noise, and Izuku knows full well that the faintest whisper would have the creature lurching forward, would have it clawing through the old wood of the door, frantic, croaking, gnashing—
Izuku lifts a single finger, indicating that there is only one of them. The creature starts to move. Step for step it stumbles closer to the window, likely drawn by the quiet popping of the flames. Izuku turns his head away. He tries to think—think think think—but his mind is useless. He shuts his eyes. It doesn't help. This close, he cannot overlook it, the sick man's gargled sob of help me.
He expects the clamor of the window breaking, expects himself to move on feral instinct, to tackle forward with all his weight so that his friends may have a chance to flee.
It does not happen.
He opens one eye. Then the other.
Ochako grabs her bowl. She crawls forward, and in a moment's blur, douses the fire with the remainder of her soup.
oOo
No words. The dragging footsteps of the creature slowly fade into the distance.
They rearrange in silence, using what they can as blankets. Pillows, too. They lie on the floor, the five of them close enough together so that the warmth of their bodies may combat the witching hour's chill. Time hies. The others softly snore, but Izuku cannot sleep. He slips from the pile and goes to his pack, carefully unearthing one of the few of Master Torino's journeying memoirs he'd been permitted to safekeep. Izuku cannot recall the number of times that he's read it (this one especially), knows only that he has ingrained it to memory. He clutches the text in both hands and goes to sit where he will not be of nuisance.
He traces the elegant pencraft, reverent of the frangible vellum as he gently leafs through each page. The binding creaks, brittle with age. He buries himself in each sentence, as enraptured by the impossible claims as he'd been the first time he'd read them. A forest. A forest so green that no blackness could foul it. Trees that stretch, tall as towers, their sea of leaves of every color, a timeless wave of life below the stars. Vines that always grow, mighty ducts which twist and braid, creating pathways, caves, hardy grottos for other living things to refuge in. Grander still than even the manors of the city. Far stouter than any precious rock, of far more value than any noble's ring, free of winter's bite and instead warm, tender as an everlasting spring. But that's not all. Berries, too, fruits of every flavor. Ingredients for all and any ailment, put forth for those who know of secrets. Beasts, too. Some as big as wagons, some bigger, glut with meat and useful hides. Gilt sunlight, blue skies. No smoke, no dungeons, and, above it all, absolutely no infection.
Instead, stars. Brilliant orbs of white which rival moonlight. Undiscovered lengths of land which lead to open oceans. No cause to run, nor need to hide. No them. Not one.
Izuku stares, grazing the many labeled drawings on the margins of the page. Answers in the softwood, is what it says. Fibers that may be remodeled into tools, arced to be twice times more efficient than even the sharpest dirk or halberd. Seeds that carry the initials of a cure; a certain pulp, redolent scurfs of a botanic wyrm, a blood-darkened molar, to return it all here, to restore the health of the ill, too old now, too tired, these old bones…
Izuku gently closes the journal. He looks up. His friends yet snore, unperturbed as Denki wriggles in his dream.
He watches them a moment, how even in deep sleep Eijirou safeguards Denki, forfeiting warmth as his back slightly peeks out from the comfort of the blanket; how Iida must keep Ochako cozy, how Denki spreads obliviously, his leg and arm draped across the spot where Izuku should be.
Izuku smiles. He looks down, caressing the book with his palm.
He'll take them there. To the forest.
He'll take them.
oOo
He sleeps, then wakes. It's a cycle that continues well into the hour. Eventually, Izuku just lies there, staring at the dilapidated ceiling. He keeps still, careful not to rouse the other two beside him. He folds his hands across his stomach, chewing on his lip. It's so silent that his ears ring. His toes fidget. His thoughts do, too. Then, finally, a sound.
Not a bad sound. Nor a warning. It starts quietly, so faint as if he were simply drifting towards a dream. Smooth, mellifluous, as if the air itself had begun crooning in his ear. He turns his head, glancing at the window. The sound eddies from a distance, low-toned as a heartbeat. He does not move.
It's sad. An ache. A poem trapped beneath the soundboard of a piano.
The music dwindles. Like feathers on the water. Izuku's eyes are heavy. His breathing slows. He curls in on himself, and dreams of graceful hands on the white keys of a piano.
oOo
Days pass since the creature traipsed the alley. They do not speak of it, nor do they keep the cooking fire burning for any longer than they should.
For Izuku, the nightly tune becomes routine. How, without fail, the music starts to play at the apex of the evening, when the sky is blackest and all the others lie asleep. It's a secret that he keeps, even from Ochako. He frets to even write it down. And when at last he cannot help but write it down, he finds his cheeks heat up as he speculates on the appearance of the person creating such a sound. He thinks he can almost see her as he scribbles through the pages of his journal: her long white fingers alternating across the burnished keybed of a concert grand. High up, out of reach, safe from harm in one of the upper district's manors, swaddled in the moonlight.
It's all he thinks about.
Tonight is another night in which he waits to listen. He lies there, eyes half shut, focusing on the melancholic fluctuations of her song until slumber slowly starts to take him.
oOo
On the sixth night, the impulse overwhelms him.
He slides from the comfort of the blankets without a double thought and slips into his coat, taking but a handheld oil lamp into the dangers of the night.
oOo
He's light on his feet. He follows the sound almost blindly, the light of the lamp just low enough to aid in his step. He can hear himself drawing nearer, the source of the music echoing clearer from somewhere in the upper-class precinct. He stops when he's reached it, careful to stay out of sight. He weighs his surroundings, the wide and uninhabited streets of the wealthy made of only the smoothest, most impervious stone. The display is so lavish that Izuku's hold on the oil lamp slackens. Too few gates yet so many large and extravagant buildings...it's hard to believe that no creature has found itself here. Is it that they simply lose their way in the alleys? That they are afraid? No. Why wager a journey for a single lank noble when they may render a limitless feast of the poor.
He glares. That there could be such privilege at the side of day-to-day squalor, that there could even be this when others have nothing—
The harmony changes. Faster now, a desperate lament. Izuku snaps out of it. The sound is so close now.
He weaves through the shadows, and pauses when at last he discovers the source. Here, before the most imposing of homes.
His heart pounds. He rebounds, pressing his back to the brick of the estate. It's just overhead, in the moon-reaching spire, a single large window left open with no candle to disclose the interior. He closes his eyes and delights in her tune. He's learnt it, has dreamt it. He doesn't think twice when he slips from the shadow, stepping back on his heels until he is all but presenting himself to be potentially jailed. He searches above, the quiet rush of a fountain behind him. He stands on his toes, moves left to right. Try as he must, he cannot discern her, nor catch a glimpse of her face. He can, however, perceive the trace of short hair, seemingly red in the caliginous light.
The music suddenly stops. He freezes. His grip strains on the lamp. It's difficult to prove or to even be sure, but he thinks he can see her standing away from her piano, her lithe silhouette approaching the other side of her window.
"Hello," Izuku says, though it's more of a whimper.
She doesn't say anything. Izuku swallows.
"It's so nice," he tries. "How you play. You must be famous…"
Again, nothing.
"I've heard you. That same song," he falters, the words slipping out of his mouth before he can stop them, "just down that way." He points to the east, to the alleys. "I haven't been able to sleep, not this whole week, and well, I thought I was dreaming—"
She steps closer. She hasn't slammed down her window, nor has she yelled for the guard. Izuku's breath snags in his lungs.
"Um, uh, may I...may I ask for your name?"
Silence.
"Well, in that case..." His heart is racing, heat fills his face. "M-my name is Izuku. I'm, well…" He pauses. "I'm going to save the town soon. My friends and I are."
At first, nothing. But then he sees a pair of pale hands clutch onto the window sill. The wrists are cuffed in ornate silk, the fingers limber, no less graceful than he'd imagined them to be.
"I-I know it sounds silly, but—"
"Save?"
Izuku's words stick to his throat. Her voice...it's deep. Soothing and poised with inflection and...deep. A boy, then. Never a girl. The tips of Izuku's ears start to burn.
"Y-yes!"
"How?"
Sh—he, presses up to the berm of the window, as if a secret had suddenly flourished between them. Izuku's eyes widen. The light is dim and not yet enough to unveil exact detail, but the short strands of white on the right side of his head are distinct. Red and silver, a binal marvel that leaves Izuku with an awe-struck desire to simply stand there and stare. At not just his hair, but his features, as well. From where he is, Izuku can only surmise that the boy is imperially handsome, an undeniable symmetry accentuated by the tenuous dark.
"I, you see— "
Immediately, a bright orange light.
Izuku's heart stops. It's lit up the room of the spire, and for just the speck of a moment, Izuku is able to see all of the boy's face, the fear in his face, the instant that he slams down the window and unfastens the curtains.
Footsteps. Heavy. A baritone voice.
Izuku runs, so panicked that he loses grip of the lamp. It snaps to the floor. He sprints, fast as his legs can allow him, and does not look back, not until he thinks he can hear something sharp in the distance, like skin being struck.
oOo