He didn't have wings like his father, nor did he have the sensibility of his mother to get out when there was still a chance. Instead, Koumori shut the door to his apartment with nothing to show for. He handed off his syndicate's supply and Mimic snatched every bill out of his hands the moment they were out of the League's sight, and their vision ran wide. Especially these days, people he met and even ran with were joining their numbers.

"This could be our only shot," they'd told him, buddies and enforcers with Quirks that could tear Koumori limb from limb.

When the invitation went to his group in a middle of passing on needles, drinks, gum, and anything else their syndicate had a hold of at the time, Mimic had laughed in their faces.

"Me? Sure, don't mind roughin' up some heroes." Koumori knew plenty of names that Mimic had been acquaintances with that'd gone off to Tartarus, not that the man seemed to care. "But you'd do better grinding them into our last supper than relying on these idiots." He'd pointed back at where Koumori and the other members stood. Rude.

But the blak mist, with nothing to him but golden eyes that always watched, never blinked, offered him a place. The golden eyes fixated on his elongated ears. "A Quirk like yours would be useful."

Useful.

It's all he's ever been.

The offer still stood, even as Koumori hid in his apartment's shower thinking gold eyes hid in the hallway's shadows. He was useful.

Instead, when he got out of the shower, when the drizzling water no longer muffled the outside world, he slipped on the black, bulky headphones, again. His mother bought them just before she left his father.

Hallway empty, no eyes. His roommates were out of town and clueless of who his friends were that he always met up with or whatever job he claimed to be holding at the time. He could hide in his room without question for the next forty-eight hours as hell would rain down. Phone off, TV quiet. Inside the sanctuary of his room, he could relax and hear his own thoughts. And in his silence he could pretend nothing was happening. He wasn't a runner or dealer or scout or child murderer because he was home in his room ignoring it all.

In the safety of his room, he pulled from his bundle of dirty clothes the taser his handler gave him, not trusting him with a real weapon (not that he'd ever use it), along with the emergency pack.

They were small, packaged as chewing gum that none turned an eye at if pulled out in broad daylight. But he learned a long time ago never to use your own product and even more so to never nick it. Besides, it made everything worse.

And yet he carried his own little pack on himself for when they needed him to scope out a place. Already, Koumori was sensitive to sound, but with a little trigger?

Yet it sold like candy. That high schooler is one of many kids. That day was too close. Mimic already was jittery from a run-in a week before, then the same guys show up? The fire in the warper's eyes. . .

His roommates never entered his room. It was the only rule that everyone upheld: stay out of bedrooms. It became a bit of a blessing when he first started running. First it was just information, sharing meet up locations and the like, sometimes passing along burner phones. Then he remembered the first gun, wrapped in a thin rag, dropped into his 16-year-old hands. It sat under his bed for days and he never left his room, never trusted no one to walk in to find it while he was out. Soon it upgraded to trigger hidden in a gutted textbook that he hid in his closet.

Today he hid the pack of gum and taser in what was once his mother's jewelry box, her photos stacked on top.

In the safety of his own home, his own room, he let his guard down. The noise cancelling headphones were a blessing, a silencer. His room dampened the noise of the street, the floorboards replaced to reduce creaking.

So it shouldn't have been surprising to feel something sharp pointed at the nape of his neck.

He didn't move. Something knocked off the headphones.

"Remember me?"

He did. He slowly turned to match the voice to the face. It was the boy from before, the one with the gas mask. Pointed at Koumori were the thin spikes protruding from his arm, the same that were shot at Mimic.

"I don't want to hurt you. But I have some questions."

"Okay."

"I'm going to put this away," the boy said, eyeing the protruding spikes. Are you going to run?"

Run where? Who would save him? He shook his head.

And the spikes sank back into the skin, leaving no indication they were ever there. "What's your name?"

"Koumori," he answered.

"Koumori. I'm— I'm Deku." Not a real name, that much was obvious, but it was better than nothing. Deku knelt before him. "You told me something interesting the other day."

Why is he talking like this is a casual conversation? "Okay."

"Who are the League of Villains?"

Shit shit shit. "I don't know."

"I think you do."

"I don't— I don't know anything useful."

"Okay. You told me the League of Villains are buying trigger from you."

"Yes. Anything we had in stock."

"That's a lot of trigger, right? For a lot of people, I'm guessing. And you said you knew why."

"I don't-"

"The raid."

He was shaking. "They. They're planning a raid. Make their debut."

"Do you know where." It sounded more like a statement than a question.

"A—At," he started then paused. He felt like he couldn't breathe. "Are you going to kill me?"

"What—wait, no!" Deku held his arms up in surrender. "No, of course not." The harsh light in his eyes was gone, and Koumori noticed how round they are. The fat of his cheeks filled the edges of the gas mask. This was just a kid. Maybe, just a little younger than Koumori. "I want your help."

"Help?"

"You said it's a raid. And they're going to be armed with trigger. The damage they're going to cause. . ." He looked at Koumori, watching him. "And I don't think you want to be a part of it."

He thought of illuminated eyes among black mist. Useful.

The boy looked around the room. "Did you set this up yourself?"

He followed Deku's line of sight. Yah, it looked a bit odd. From floor to ceiling, even coating the ceiling, was black foam. "Sound proofing. It's, it's loud outside." His Quirk is loud. He chose this apartment because it was far from any schools, any railways or manufacturing. But it was still, all so loud.

The boy looked at the headphones he knocked off Koumori. "Is it hard?"

Yes. "Sometimes."

The boy eyed the open jewelry box, his mother's photo still piled on the ground with the gum packet of trigger. The top photo was before his mom left, when his cheeks had still been plump from baby fat and her eyes still bright. They stood in front of the Hackiko statue in Shibuya, tiny Koumori drowned in his bulky noise-cancelling headphones as his mother smiled at him.

Deku stared at him with eyes softening. "I don't think you're a bad guy, Koumori. I think you've been dealt a bad hand and don't know how to get out."

Koumori said nothing.

"I'm going to give you some options. One, is to turn yourself in to the police. Tell them everything."

They would never let him out. He'd seen so much, been a part so much, it would be years before a new gang picked him up.

"Two, get out of here. Get out and don't look back. I don't mention this to anyone, and you can restart somewhere new." He paused to watch Koumori, who knew there was more to this offer. Nothing ever came without a price. "On one condition."

Deku held out his hand as if to shake his.

"Tell me where to find the League, give me the trigger you have left. . . And give me your Quirk."

His mind reeled. Give. Give a Quirk. Actually give away a Quirk. Make a person Quirkless. "How?" he whispered.

"Don't worry about that. Koumori, I can't make you do anything, but I can't let you keep doing this." He paused and carefully chose his words. Deku looked at the photo. "And it won't stop unless, unless you're arrested or lose the ability to work. Without your Quirk, you can't hurt anyone again. The yakuza won't have use for you either. It will be your payment for a 'quiet' life." He looked right at Koumori, seeing right through him. "It's eating at you, isn't it? Your Quirk. Tell me what you know about this raid, give me your Quirk, and you walk free able to hear your own thoughts."

Use. Losing his usefulness. Having no use to yakuza meant you're dead.

To be Quirkless. He knew what stigma lies in society. He knows he would be ostracized wherever he runs off to. He always thought of running, going somewhere, anywhere , but he knew there would always be someone who saw his potential uses. People were drawn to him, people that never had good intentions.

To be Quirkless.

To be useless.

To never have heard his mother's screams and his father's shouts. To have never overheard her call her only son a mistake before walking out of their lives forever. To have never been groomed in high school to join their ranks and hear of the people the yakuza "took care of." To never have to smile and say he's fine as he heard a grown man scream in a basement, a man's whose body would wash up on shore a week later unrecognizable except for his dental records.

To never have to hear just how steady Deku's heartbeat was, nervous but honest.

It should have made him pause, make him consider all his options and consequences, but his body moved faster than he could think. He placed his hand in Deku's, his grip tight and desperate.

"Deal."


His first consensual Quirk taken.

I hope you're all doing well with quarantine, of whatever your area is doing. I'm in Oregon, USA, and we're currently in lockdown with classes completely online. Both of my jobs don't exist, since many locations have shut down or minimized the number of staff, so I'm stuck in limbo. Hopefully, with everyone cooperating, this can end quickly.
Stay safe out there!

Next chapter (April 4th): Always Listening