A/N [22/08/2018] : To celebrate five years of reading and writing Fan Fiction, I've worked on this fic. Hope you enjoy it – let me know what you think so far. Come natter with me on Tumblr! I'm yuilhan-writes-things, or you can drop me a comment below.

A HUUUUUUUUGE thank you to InsertImaginativeNameHere for Beta-ing this first chapter for me. Words cannot describe how thankful I am, truly.

LATE HERO ACADEMIA

CHAPTER ONE

ORIGINS: [MIDORIYA IZUKU] ITOU HAJIME

"Have you ever thought about doing something more with your life?" Hajime's Aunt questioned, her voice echoing out from the storeroom to where Hajime was stood behind the cash register and the glass cabinet they kept the more expensive pieces of costume jewellery locked away in.

Hajime couldn't say she had, truthfully. There weren't a lot of opportunities for people like her – a fact that her Aunt knew. She had narrowly dodged becoming part of the growing statistic for Hajime's kind in early adolescence, so at twenty-two Hajime felt she was already pushing her luck.

As it stood, she was in a comfortable situation. Her Aunt had taken her in at the age of five. She'd graduated through mediocre schools – the only ones willing to take her, or rather, the one's struggling with funding and looking to bump up their student intake with marginal levels of prejudice present. Hajime had done well enough in her studies to continue and pursue a useless degree at University. She was well-read (however reluctantly) and despite her situation, could probably wangle herself a respectable occupation should she try.

Yet there Hajime was, working in her Aunt's vintage and thrifted clothing store, stood behind the counter day in, day out, sorting items and modelling for photos to use for the store's online sales, and even watching out for the weirder customers as they wandered around the shop floor.

The guy wasn't bad looking; dark hair, tall – if poor – posture, and a set of muscles that couldn't quite be contained inside his white tank top. Even without sleeves, the garment strained across his body. He was stood in the shoe section currently and eying up two different pairs of boots. Hajime was sure the man, who had either spectacular physique or clothes two sizes too small for him, didn't have, or was missing most of his nose. Even though the mop of dark unruly curls hanging over his forehead did a (poor) valiant job of hiding the missing appendage, she could tell.

"Have you though?" Her Aunt pestered.

"Sorry Auntie Miwa, I need to serve this customer!" [1]

The no-nosed wonder had finally settled on a pair of chunky heeled military-style boots; the more expensive of his two options, if Hajime wasn't mistaken. The sturdy leather had hardly been broken in – untested by the arches and quirks of the previous owners' feet. Neither were the shoes creased by the way ankles could rotate and hinge to make the heels of the boots yielding to the stride and supple. The buckles, laces, and straps looping around the calves and uppers were pristine and had hardly needed buffing when Hajime had pulled them from the store room a week ago.

She had, however, wiped a suspicious looking stain from the cleat-like spikes protruding from the toes of the boots, but had thought nothing of it at the time. Miwa had handed her worse to steam-clean before.

"Y'know," Hajime drawled conversationally to her customer with a smirk. "I'm almost sad to see this pair go. They're pretty killer – suited for total badassery. Not something I could pull off though."

The customer paid in silence. Hajime's smirk drooped as he looked her in the eye. His mop of curls shifted momentarily as his gaze moved from the till's display screen to Hajime's face, and she froze.

Then, the no-nosed wonder snorted and the tension broke. "Killer… yes."

Hajime placed his boots into a printed paper bag with extra efficiency. Anything to get him out of the store quicker. The boots quivered in the grasp of her shaking fingers.

"So?" Her Aunt continued, clothing draped over her arm and a pair of bedazzled sandals hanging from her left hand, as she emerged from the crowded store room. "Have you?"

"No," Hajime returned, watching the customer leave. The unsettling feeling he'd evoked within her was yet to subside, and Hajime bunched her unsteady hands into fists.

At this point, Hajime thought that the world outside of her Aunt's store, located in the back end of Hosu, may not be safe anymore.

This story begins in much the same manner as one we already know.

Naturally, it all starts in China – Qingqing City, to be precise – with the birth of a luminescent baby. Within an incredibly short period of time this strange emergence of abnormal power became less of a medical novelty, and more of an inescapable reality. For those without these powers, or 'Quirks' as the had come to be known, the change was more of a harsh wake-up call to a society which had been shifting subtly for years. There was nothing to be afraid of considering differences now, because in truth, everyone was different these days.

One might think, with how this story is shaping so far, that perhaps it is to be a long-winded rhetoric on the nuances of the Quirk-Privileged against the Quirkless – or that a dissection of Hero and Villain politics may be the main focus of this tale.

It is not.

Unlike Izuku Midoriya's stubborn optimism, determination, and skill – with which the young teen shaped his future as the greatest Hero of all time – this story begins with a far flatter premise. The foundations of this tale take root not in the midst of sneers and snickers while Midoriya pillows his head in his arms in shame. It begins in the bedroom on one twenty-something woman who would, in fact, not notice or care if the whole schematic of Heroics collapsed overnight.

No, this is no longer the origin story of one Izuku Midoriya, or even anyone closely connected to the boy. This is a tale of reluctance, otherness, and lassitude. It begins, not with a bang or even Midoriya's anxious whimpers, but with a gentle –

"POP!"

One of the buttons from her shirt popping away from its cotton confines and slapping against the full-length mirror of her room, really should have been the first sign for Hajime Itou that her day was already starting off badly.

Sighing, Hajime dolefully eyed the white button on the floor, but made no attempt to pick it up.

Sticking her head around her bedroom door, she called to her Aunt down the hallway. "Do we have more clean shirts ironed?"

"No," was the quick, curt response.

"Well I need one," Hajime grumbled, lumping down the cluttered hall to find her Aunt. Or a needle and thread. Or anything else to wear really.

One would think, with living above a vintage and thrifted clothing store, that there would be plenty Hajime could wear. That shirt had been her last clean and undamaged one, however. The rest were coming loose at the seams or had several fixings missing. Hajime hadn't been able to find the buttons for those and stripping off the remaining ones only to sew on a new set seemed like a waste of her time.

As she entered the kitchen, and therein found her Aunt Miwa already nursing her third cup of coffee that morning, Hajime said, "I don't understand why this always happens."

Hajime's Aunt's eyes followed the line of buttons on her niece's shirt from collar to hemline, noting how the one button that had gone rogue had been settled in a most unfortunate place. "I can. You need bigger shirts."

Hajime grunted, deciding her shirt wasn't worth the hassle yet and helping herself to some breakfast. "Sounds too much like hard work," Hajime replied, eying Miwa expectantly. "I'd only have to take in the darts even if I did."

That was, unfortunately, Hajime Itou's problem. Most things to her sounded too much like hard work. Hajime would be perfectly content to let the world burn around her, because she'd be warm throughout the cremation (both she and her Aunt wouldn't have to work to pay the winter heating bill either) and maybe tasks she hated doing would no longer exist or have a place if they'd all been burnt to a crisp?

Hajime could only hope.

"Get a needle and the white thread from the tin," Aunt Miwa groaned, sipping from her coffee cup. She'd decided that it was still too early, and that she was far too coffee-deprived to even suggest Hajime should repair the garment herself. That was a verbal battle Miwa knew she would lose. "I'll sew it back on."

Hajime, reluctantly, did as her Aunt had asked. The bizarre thought that maybe her Aunt would scoff and tell her not to bother with going into work had crossed her mind, but alas, that was not to be. It would have been great to change back into her pyjamas. She dumped the rusting metal biscuit tin (and wasn't that misleading, that it was full of sewing equipment and not cookies or shortbread?) on the kitchen table.

"Where's the button?"

"Oh, it's in my room," Hajime nodded indifferently, stripping off her shirt and grabbing another round of softly toasted sliced bread. The Itou's didn't prefer their toast burnt, and obsessively went out of their way to ensure each slice was perfectly golden.

Hajime missed her Aunt's incredulous expression as she slathered strawberry jam over the slice, and somehow managed to spatter the condiment across her now-exposed stomach. Miwa ended up retrieving the bottom herself while Hajime, oblivious to her Aunt's ire, ate on.

"I've got another shipment coming into the shop later," Her Aunt chattered as she looped thread through the eye of a fine needle. Hajime hummed blithely and took another bite of her toast. "I'll need your help posting some of the better stuff online."

"Sure," Hajime yawned, swiping at a glob of jam stuck to her lip.

Five harried minutes later, Hajime was – unfortunately – dressed once more. Her Aunt shoved a box of clothing to be sorted into her arms, and the shop keys, before she ushered Hajime out the door; telling her she had at least twenty-five minutes try and get to the container unpacked and the items inside sorted onto racks before they opened up the shop for the day.

With an extremely put-out expression clearly painted on her face, Hajime hefted the box in her grip upwards against her chest so that she wouldn't drop it. Her Aunt wished her a safe journey down the fire escape, and that was that.

Exiting the door to their apartment – situated at the back of the building where they lived due to the lower floor acting as commercial premises – Hajime made her way down the rickety metal steps and platforms into the alleyway bellow. She wondered if her Aunt would kill her if she dragged her feet and made herself late for opening time.

Probably, was the correct answer. Hajime's Aunt had rather good aim and a strong throwing arm. All it would take was one well-lobbed belonging of theirs or item from the shop below beaning Hajime on the head for her life to end.

It had bad enough when her Aunt had gone through yet another ninja-themed anime phase and insisted on throwing things randomly at her niece at unexpected moments. Hajime had concluded that her aunt was either hell-bent on turning her into a ninja, exercising her secret sadistic side, or had perhaps hoped having things flung at her repeatedly and randomly would startle Hajime out of her lethargy.

It hadn't, but Hajime was definitely better at dodging now. Bruises were an uncomfortable menace she disliked having on her skin, and if simple avoidance, well, avoided bruises, she'd damn well shift out of the way.

As she rounded the corner and neared the front of her Aunt's store, Hajime pointedly ignored a (late) Yuuei student dashing to the subway; a brown-haired teen with jittery fingers and feet, which he probably he tapped in anticipation on the tops of his thighs and the train's carriage's flooring respectively – much to the ire of other passengers. She watched how he darted down the flight of steps at the station's entrance, no doubt going to fumble with his train pass and miss his ride as he hit the electronic gates.

Hajime grunted, and heaved the box (slowly slipping down her front) upwards to sit comfortably against her hip while she tried to unlock the shop's door. She nearly dropped everything and wobbled uncertainly on her feet as the door finally swung open.

"Like I'm going to make it," Hajime mumbled, checking her watch and wiping her feet on the shop's door mat. "I haven't been on time all year."

Hajime spoke the truth. Running a family-owned business, unless the person in charge was a stickler for punctuality, usually meant that your opening and closing times were a little off most days unless you ran a chain of stores. Putting Hajime in charge of the former was a recipe for disaster, seeing as she had little to no motivation for anything, but Miwa wasn't exactly a morning person herself and had no desire to run more than one shop at a time.

It also did not help that it felt like a waste of time opening the store too.

Up until a few months ago – late April, really – Hosu hadn't been a bad area to live. A little scummy, and really not the ideal place for bohemian, artisan shops like Aunt Miwa's, but decent. Since that day with he no-nosed customer, Hajime just hadn't been comfortable living where she did. They hardly saw their neighbours. Any Heroes that patrolled kept to themselves or travelled in large groups to prevent being singled out and hacked to pieces.

No one stepped inside the bright yellow painted thrift store or were drawn in by the bright red and black typography stating 'Ensō'. [2] Not even the more outlandish vintage pieces Miwa had acquired over the years could tempt people out of their houses, however Ensō's online business was booming.

The unease in the air made Hajime worried in a way she hadn't felt since she was nearly six and starting school with people who would undoubtedly not like her for what she was. The world just didn't seem like a great place anymore; Japan as a whole felt tired and ragged around the edges, like an overly buffed piece of leather that was losing its pigment with time and wear. Plus, there was a new threat for everyone to worry about, according to Yuuei.

Already within the first few weeks of Yuuei's term time, Hajime had sat through the dinner time news harping on about Yuuei's latest batch of Hero hopefuls. Class 1-A in particular had been offered the metaphorical short end of the stick, and had apparently battled against invading villains, and then each other at the (barbaric) annual sports festival. Not to mention there was a Hero killer loose on the streets.

Hajime couldn't be bothered to eat her dinner that night when the news anchor announced that the Hero Ingenium had been severely injured by a Vigilante – or was he to be classified as a Villain now? – by the name of 'Stain', roughly two blocks away from where Hajime and her Aunt Miwa lived. She felt sick. It was a hard reminder that danger lurked around every corner and resurrected an insecurity within Hajime that she thought she had buried long ago.

How did people live like that? Hajime wondered whilst unpacking the box of clothing. Without uncertainty and their little oblivious bubble never being popped? Did you have to move to the boonies to live like that?

Hajime heard the ornate bell attached to the shop's front door jingle and a rumble of coins inside a metal, lockable container. She set down a dainty pair of satin kitten heels to the side (they were clean enough to be priced and put on the shelf that very morning) and straightened to nod at Miwa as the older woman made her way behind the counter. Her Aunt had arrived with the tin they kept the till's change in, and a handful of notes they made the day before but hadn't banked.

Most of Miwa's money was made from online sales these days, but she kept the store almost like a homage to previous decades' fashion trends. Miwa also had a healthy distrust of banks, seeing as there were robbery attempts occurring every time one so much as blinked. The majority of said attempts were foiled by a Pro Hero attending to the scene, but Miwa hid the meagre earnings the physical store brought in inside the removable (and lockable) cash register draw and disguised it underneath a pile of scrap fabric in her extensive wardrobe.

In all seriousness though, living without a Quirk made you more susceptible to danger – even from those society thought had harmless powers. According to Government statistics, Hajime should have topped herself when she was around fourteen like the rest of her decreasing demographic, but she had not. Miwa would never let her suffer that way, Hajime knew, and sometimes it felt like people with Quirks were the ones to be pitied for their idiocy and their pride in a dodgy genetic mutation – not Hajime and her recessive genes.

Bigots were still idiots no matter the generation, or if they had fancy new Quirks to show off with. Hajime wanted no part in it despite what society thought of her and if it tried to butt its beaky nose in. She would be happy though if no one decided to pester her at all for the rest of her life; quite comfortable with the routine she shared with her Aunt.

After a quiet day stood behind the register once more, with the occasional need to straighten up the clothing racks or dust off some of the display items, Hajime turned the key in the front door's lock with a relieved sigh.

"Drop the shutters but leave the once covering the door up," Aunt Miwa told her, reopening the door Hajime had just locked. "We're not done yet."

So, Hajime dropped the venetian blinds – or shutters as Miwa liked to call them – inside the windows while she waited patiently while her Aunt retrieved her camera, tripod, and a moveable photographer's light from their apartment on the floor above. She'd forgotten that her Aunt had told her they would be photographing new arrivals for the online store.

"Here, clean yourself up," Miwa threw a pouch full of makeup at her niece, which Hajime, for once, did not dodge. Her shoulders merely sagged with understanding; she wouldn't be getting away from this easily, and it would be best to just do as her Aunt asked. "Oh, and take these-"

A roll of thick crepe bandages bounced off of Hajime's chin, and she rubbed at her tingling lips. "What am I supposed to do with these?" She asked, eying the roll – now on the ground.

"Flatten the girls," Aunt Miwa snorted, eying Hajime's rather prominent chest.

Apparently, that was a trait Hajime had gained from her mother – Miwa's sister – but that Miwa had missed out on completely. In the latter's own opinion, that was totally fine. She'd rather not have Hajime's struggle to find decently fitting and modest clothes. The trick was to find garments that still clung and supported the body yet yielded enough space and movements for Hajime's top-heavier frame, which wasn't easy.

Dropping down the third shutter over the plain glass door, and effectively blocking out most of Hosu's passing trade from watching her undress, Hajime stripped and began to bind her breasts flatter to her chest. Not enough to cause her pain or permanent damage, but just right so that she could easily fit (and more importantly) not damage Miwa's acquisitions. It helped that Hajime was tall and lean, and with a little bit of posing, clever makeup, binding, and Miwa's camera skills, the pictures more or less focused on the clothes and not who was wearing them. Hajime was the perfect mannequin.

"I think we're done," Aunt Miwa said finally, placing the lens cap firmly onto her camera and powering it down. Hajime slumped in relief. "Don't bother getting changed, we need milk."

"And you couldn't have told me this during my lunch break?" Hajime questioned.

"We had milk during your lunch break – then you went and fixed yourself a bowl of cereal," Miwa retorted testily. "It's a five-minute walk Hajime, surely you can manage that?"

Of course Hajime could, she just didn't want to.

"Fine." Hajime plucked a couple hundred yen from the cash box – yet to be locked and taken back upstairs to safety because the store hadn't officially been closed up for the night. "Do you need me here still, or…?"

Miwa waved her off.

The streets were quiet as Hajime walked alone. Her thin, lacy shirt not enough to hold back the faint chill in the air. The tinkling of the coins in the pockets of her wide-legged trousers, the irritating swish of her hair ruffling against her shoulders, and the methodical clack of the heels Miwa had forced her into. These were the only sounds around her until she hit the main streets.

It wasn't a five-minute walk really; Hajime's Aunt had been exaggerating slightly about the swiftness of the assigned errand. Trying to cross the street, Hajime was bowled over by a boy in blue with dual coloured hair – red and white. She toppled over in the middle of the striped crossing, and the boy's muttered apology was swallowed by the irritate blaring of car horns when the lights turned from red to green.

Bowing apologetically to the drivers she was blocking, Hajime tottered unsteadily to her feet and brushed herself down while safely crossing to the side of the road she needed to be on. She wished she'd challenged her Aunt further, because now there would be the slight possibility Hajime could have ripped the vintage set of trousers. Her bindings were uncomfortably working themselves loose with every step, and Hajime could feel the bruises forming on her backside from her hefty landing.

The shoes she would have to keep if they couldn't be cleaned up; a nasty black scrape now ran along the blocky cork heel and platform.

Hajime kept on walking. It wasn't too far now.

"Ma'am, you can't go this way," someone called to her.

Hajime walked on.

"Ma'am-"

"I need to buy milk," Hajime told him shortly noticing how the top of his head only reached below her chin in these heels. They danced around one another – Hajime taking a step to the right, the Hero one to the left and blocking her advancement.

"Ma'am, we're going to be evacuating civilians from this point," the man – a Hero – told her, positioning himself in front of her once more. His blue helmet, adorned with fin-like protrusions along the top, was distracting. Hajime scowled at being stopped yet again but didn't deny she was curious. She wondered if he had a water Quirk; Heroes liked to convey their powers through costuming choices, right? "Ma'am there's a fire-"

That was why it had been so quiet then, and why motorists were so eager to leave.

Hajime jutted her chin out stubbornly. "I still need to buy milk, and it seems fine out."

"Ma'am look up."

The sky was ablaze. Smoke hugged the top of skyscrapers in a choke hold. Hajime's mouth popped open, and wordlessly she closed it again. The Hero shuffled nervously on his feet, but Hajime was transfixed by the burning skyline.

How had she not noticed that before?

She blinked. "I still need to buy milk though."

"Ma'am, it's dangerous – I would ask my intern to guide you to a safe area but he's missing," the Hero told her.

"Did he have red and white hair?" The Hero shook his head. Well, Hajime thought she'd ask just in case. The Hero wasn't going to budge until she moved. It looked as though Hajime was going to be taking the scenic route to another convenience store. "C'mon then, Mr Hero."

"I am Manual."

"Hajime."

Manual looked up at her sceptically. With what Hajime supposed was meant to be a reassuring smile, Manual said, "Is that what the kids say to each other these days, instead of 'Nice to meet you.'" [3]

"No, my name is Hajime." Just how old did this Pro Hero think Hajime was? Was it the bound breasts that made her look like a gangly pre-teen or had she missed the punchline entirely?

"Oh."

Manual had her walk quicker, grasping onto her forearm and pushing her forwards with a gloved hand against her back; Hajime presumed his stress levels were just short of him tucking her under his arm and bolting away from the encroaching fire.

"This really isn't ideal," he stressed, and Hajime found she could relate. If she had her way she'd have been asleep by now. "There's been an attack, and Iida – my intern – is missing. You're safer here with me than going it alone though."

Manual thought rather highly of himself, Hajime thought. Or perhaps there was some truth in good old safety in numbers?

"We've been putting fires out everywhere while Endeavour fights off these monsters, but it's really not an ideal strategy," Manual babbled. Was he really supposed to be telling her all of this?

They'd reached the shadier streets, not too far away from Aunt Miwa's store. A loud crash and an explosion of ice from one alleyway had Manual (with Hajime along for the ride, seeing as he still had hold of her arm) darting towards the commotion.

Was the milk even worth it anymore? Hajime was in walking distance of her Aunt's store, and she was certain that unless her relative turned on the radio or the television (unlikely, as Miwa had got into the odd habit of cooking without distraction – that meant music, background noise, and even Hajime were banned from the kitchen while she was working) then she wouldn't know about a potential evacuation notice.

"Mister Manual, my Aunt-"

"Iida?!" Manual bellowed; two parts enraged, a third relieved.

The mysterious 'Iida', a spectacled teen in boxy armour who sported a bloodied leg, the kid who'd bowled Hajime over earlier, and a tiny forest child with green hair and an even tackier green jumpsuit, were emerging from the alleyway with two other bodies in tow. One was dressed in tan, feathers, and fringing, and clutched at a sluggishly bleeding stab wound. The other was bound and likely unconscious. The long tails of his mask's ties trailed along the ground as the three teens hefted him out of the alley and onto the street.

"Is that-" Manual looked like he was going to have an aneurysm. Hajime pet him on his shoulder, which was easily in reach while she wore those heels. "Is that the Hero Killer?"

Hajime took a step forwards, shaking off the Pro Hero as he tried to hold her back. "I'd recognise those boots anywhere," she muttered, and sure enough, they were the same pair she'd sold to the no-nosed wonder weeks ago. "Oh my."

"Miss Hajime, please come away from there," Manual pleaded.

Hajime was going to respond, but then more Pro Heroes dropped to the sidewalk from out of nowhere and she was slammed into a wall.

That was going to leave a mark.

Something cracked within her.

Hajime wanted to scream, but all that burbled from her lips was a pathetic whimper.

Her eyes closed to the sight of rising flames, soot, a shaky feeling of uncertainty, and a godawful screech. With a final hurrah, her fatigued eyelids shot open in horror before the pain claimed her consciousness once more.

Aunt Miwa was going to kill her if the vintage lace shirt Hajime was wearing had been ripped.

"Why didn't you listen to Mister Manual when he told you to evacuate?" Aunt Miwa, while mad at her for damaging the store's property – though technically it had been Miwa herself to authorise Hajime in doing so – was more furious over the fact that Hajime had broken two ribs and cracked three others even though it was not her fault she'd made close acquaintance with a wall.

In Hajime's defence, neither she, Manual, the kids, their captives, or any other Heroes that had eventually turned up hadn't expected a giant winged mutant descending from the heavens and wreaking havoc.

Its first victim in the Hosu back alleyways had been Hajime Itou's ribs, and then it had taken one of the foetus-Heroes (as Hajime liked to call then when had Manual tried to explain what had happened and internships to her on pain meds) captive. Then the no-nosed wonder had leapt into action as well. It was all very confusing, and Hajime suspected the morphine the nurses had given her wasn't completely out of her system yet, even days later.

"And what were you wearing, Hajime?"

"Gucci," she mumbled. That was going to affect their takings for a bit. Miwa's regulars loved an outdated joke from the Before Centuries just as much as they liked a well-known brand or Hero merchandise. Designer lace was nothing to be sniffed at, and it brought in the money for Miwa whenever she made an addition to the store.

"We can't keep living like this," Miwa sighed, dropping into one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs in the hospital room. The Heroes had pulled in a few favours, so Hajime was in her own private room rather than on a ward full of nosy, noisy patients. Something about confidentiality, or her witnessing something she wasn't supposed to regarding the kids and the Heroes buttering her up with preferential medical treatment.

Hajime couldn't care less, because her ribs were throbbing. When were the nurses coming back to kick her Aunt from the room and to administer more medication? She hoped it was soon.

Miwa wasn't done yet though: "I can't keep living each day wondering if you'll come back to me in a matchbox – all because you can't defend yourself."

This was it then. This was the moment Miwa Itou kicked her niece out of the apartment, fired her from working in the store, and told Hajime she could no longer care for a Quirkless relative. It was like being five again, and Hajime saw her mother – expression cold and prying her father's protective hands from Hajime's shoulders as she pushed her eldest child into the care of her sister – supersede herself onto Miwa's features.

Nothing remained of that abandoned child other than the dregs of trauma and her first name. Hajime was an Itou, as she had always been for the last seventeen years. Was that really coming under threat now?

"When you're healed up…" Hajime held her breath. Miwa was going to leave her. "When you're all healed up, I'm sending you to a self-defence class or something."

Oh. Hajime's mind blanked.

In that case, she hoped her ribs never healed.

It was a relief to know that Miwa wasn't sick of her just yet though, and Hajime blamed the flustered tears streaming from her eyes and her sniffly, snotty nose on an adverse reaction to whatever it was the doctors had decided to sedate her with.

"I'm sorry," she whispered to her Aunt, swallowing a lump in her throat.

Miwa scowled. "You've got nothing to apologise for. But the lace is coming out of your paycheque."

Instead of opening her mouth and arguing that Miwa didn't pay her as such, more like deposited an allowance into her bank account (the instalments growing larger the older Hajime became) every month and took whatever Hajime owed her from that. Miwa didn't charge her for rent, so long as Hajime – unenthusiastically – completed most of the housework or ran errands for her; though if anything was damaged that her Aunt could have made a profit from, then Hajime was to reimburse the cost.

"I didn't get any milk though," Hajime finished weakly, pushing down her childish fears. Of course her Aunt wouldn't wash her hands of her. If she had been like Hajime's birth parents, she would have done so already – or when Hajime was eighteen and she couldn't claim tax credits anymore.

"As if I could care about milk when you're in the hospital!" Miwa barked, much to the dismay of Hajime's growing headache. Crying always left her drained, and messy crying even more so. She hadn't sobbed like this since middle school when Aunt Miwa and her last toxic fiancée duked it out in the street, and she'd resolved never to cry like that again if she could help it.

Stupid pain meds.

"Maybe the saying should change then," Hajime muttered, almost to herself. "Maybe it should be 'No point crying over no milk' instead?"

"They've got you hooked up on the good stuff, haven't they?" Aunt Miwa finally uttered in understanding. Hajime could only nod.

[1] "Miwa" - a Japanese name meaning "beautiful harmony", and "three rings."

[2] "Ensō" – meaning 'circle', and strongly associated with Zen practice.

[3] "Hajimemashite" / "はじめまして" – sort of like saying, 'Nice to meet you,' when being introduced to people. It's a play on words, with "Hajime" meaning "first" or "start", and Manual really not coping well around kid(s / Iida.) There's probably a better way for this pun to work, but I got nothing.

Musical Inspiration for this Chapter:

"Till The World Falls – 7" Version" – Nile Rogers and CHIC, feat. Mura Masa, Cosha, and Vic Mensa, 'Till The World Falls (7" Version)'