Disclaimer: BNHA does not belong to me, this is only for fun.
"Howdy there, you looking for someone there partner?" Sitting behind a desk immediately in front of the entry door. a tall man with a round gut, small glasses rest on his nose. He runs a quick hand threw his receding hair before offering it to shake to the reporter, "We've been expecting you, you'll find him sure as rain by that there fire, with the stars and stripes blanket over his shoulders," He points a finger the size of sausage link in the direction he is referring to.
It's a large hotel, large for this part of the country anyway, electricity is flowing through the building, white walls and green carpets, high ceilings, painting adorning the walls showing great herds of beast, stagecoaches, cowboys and Indians, iconic scenes of the 'Old' West there are in the beginnings of being forgotten. People moving about, some going to there room, others leaving for day. Most are wearing attire not much different from what he'd see back on the east coast, it's almost jarring to think of how different this place was decades ago when it just some little no name mining and trade town. Over the years the town gained a reputation; so many important people and events took place, or at least are alleged to have taken place here.
A quick nod and the the reporter briskly walks to the only other chair opposite his mark, digging a pad of paper and a pencil to write with as he walks.
Sitting down he comes in view of this rare specimen, one of last real legends of the old West. Stories say he's seen it all, and heard from first hand accounts of everything he hadn't seen. This is the primary source he will use to write his book about the tales of things were here out west, before civilization finally dragged its way from the east coast, bringing in electricity, modernity, and riving away the old rough and tumble life he heard stories about. Now will be his chance to talk about cowboys and Indians, barroom brawls, and train robberies, his excitement radiated from his face, until he say him.
Gaunt, disheveled, eyes so far back in his head, one could easily be mistaken to say he didn't have them. His clothes had seen far better days; dark, and possibly bloodstained, his graying hair; long and string-like covering his head, a few tangled strands falling over his face, he had seen far better days, if he didn't hear the constant breath sickly flowing a few short feet from him, raspy and low, the reporter would say he was sitting next to a corpse, in some ways, maybe he was?
"I knew you would arrive one day, it's so good to see you ag...hm? Who are you? Oh, that's right the one to write down an old man's stories. you really think you can capture the spirit if the west in that little book you've got there?" He slowly points an emaciated finger at the pad.
"HA HA hA!" He begins to laugh, the sudden exertion causing him to cough violently, he bring up a crimson rag with his other hand to wipe th dark pink spittle from his lower lip.
"No no, sit I'm fine, it's just a...very old would that's been giving me trouble for some time now, one day it will kill me, not today though, for I AM HERE!" he coughs again, more violently, and for a greater duration.
"Sorry, let's get started young man, before we do though? Tell me how will you capture the spirit of the West in a some lines on fresh pressed timber hm? That's not the West. No. The West is riding cattle all day and night, fording a swollen river saving a calf that got washed away only for it to butcher later. It's the love of tavern beauty, full of face and charm, that leaves you as soon as you run out of gold in your pocket and leaves you a reason to check with the doctor. It's the thrill of riding shotgun, fleeing from bandits, with cloth over their faces so you don't know who they are. The gallop hard and fast taking shots as the driver weaves back and forth. You're holding on for dear life, hoping you can see just one more sunset with the misses and suddenly the driver stabs you in the side and pushes you off. Turns out you were the only one that wasn't part of the inside job. It's lazy afternoons on the prairie watching a thunderstorm in the distance move at its own pace dark and ominous, but your little homestead fine and all is well and healthy. It's the hunt of big game and bigger mounds of gold in the hills, surely this time you will strike it rich, this time will be the last, maybe it is? Maybe it is for a different reason? It's news of a war-band razing some small town that you've never heard of, will you be next, will they go away, time will tell. It's camp following the progress on the railroad, littering the map with little towns and trade-spots, most get abandoned, other like a rare and beautiful flower bloom and prosper in the dust climate, hard and graceful at the same time. It's a man on the run for doing what he thought was best. It's men chasing that man cause someone says he did wrong. Are their absolute wrongs and rights out here? There might be, there might not be, maybe someone comes to make sure that people are safe and protected, maybe that man meets his fate by a coward in the dark. It's scraping and biting and fighting for all you have, is it enough though? Is it ever? It's going to church on Sunday hot as hellfire outside, but the preacher's words cools and soothes the body and soul. It's leaving your home to come out here to make something of yourself, to make it big, earn a name, become a legend. It's a place were people talk plain and not like how tourists think they should." he finally pauses to wipe the red leaking from the left side of his mouth as he eyes the man at the desk, before beginning again.
"So, young man, you think you can put in little marks on that there pad? It's not bad to dream. But you also have to consider what's realistic. In order to do what you want, you would have to live it. Not read about it, that's how all this could be remembered as it was, not this tourists nonsense. I've see 17 tin stars that say they belonged to the great sheriff Toshinori Yagi, the symbol of peace in the west. 23 guns, that were the personal revolver of the legendary quickdraw artist known simple as Snipe. So many teeth from the cannibal of the desert Moonfish. 8 pair of glasses that claim to have belonged to the man know as Sir Nighteye, a man that could, if it to be believed could see into the future, but couldn't see his own death." A single tear falls from his face that he does not register, but the reporter does.
"You're undeterred I see. Very well, others before had left by this point. Why not? Let's give it shot." Meekly he makes a gun gesture with his hand.
"Did you notice on your way into town there was a French flag flying above that abandoned mine on the outskirts of town, did you approach that way? Ok. Yeah, how about I start by telling you the story of why its closed, and the heroism of that fateful day."
I'll leave this here a bit, see if there is any interest. This a short prologue, a set up for many stories focusing on one or more BNHA characters some may have multiple chapters, we will see what I can come up with. I'd like to have this in time flesh out a little world or what if BNHA but Western AU?