Izuku literally weeps when his mom gives him his gear back. A week without the option of skulking around in the dead of night has him feeling stifled and stir crazy. He wants to get back out there and see the city in the way he can only see it behind the mask. Not to mention, Dabi has been on his ass about the necessity of posting to Winstagram as soon as possible. He says they have to establish a good base of appeal before they start sharing ideals about heroes and villains. Dabi's sudden change from apathetic loner to social media guru is jarring, but Izuku appreciates what he's trying to do. Dabi is so passionate it's hard not to get swept up in his ideals. Izuku often has to remind himself to remember to form his own opinions, to cultivate Yamikumo's voice.

Izuku does unnecessary inventory of all his gear to kill some time. He double and triple checks that everything is in working order, and that his suit is clean and devoid of any holes. He keeps staring out his window, almost begging time to move faster. The sun's slow descent on the horizon is killing him. Night can't come fast enough.

When the moon and stars have finally come out to play, and his mother has kissed him goodbye before her night shift, Izuku calls Dabi.

"Out and about yet?" Dabi sounds just a bit excited, like he might be fighting his stitches to smile.

"Climbing out the window now. Where are you?"

"Working a job."

"Legally?"

"Yes, I'm behind the counter at a McDonald's as we speak."

Izuku rolls his eyes. They were supposed to be meeting up. Apparently, Dabi doesn't trust Izuku to post a decent picture on the internet.

"Guess I'm on my own for the night, then?"

"Don't get yourself killed," he says, two parts condescending and one part concerned. "Don't take on more than you can handle."

"Worry about yourself! Your customer service voice is shit."

His joke is rewarded with a low chuckle before there's a clatter on the other end of the line.

"Gotta go. Seriously, don't die. And post something!"

"Don't get arrested!" The line goes dead shortly after.

Izuku spends hours fiddling around with his grappling hook, practicing swinging around on it without getting stuck, hurt, or embarrassing himself. He's no Spiderman, but he's managed to work something out that he can use in a pinch, but it's best for him to stick to sprinting across rooftops and parkouring to his heart's content. He's so excited to be out, literally back in black, that he forgoes stealth entirely.

He lets out little whoops of joy every time he jumps from building to building. The few people still on the streets notice him every now and then, shouting his name to get his attention. He waves, a beaming smile under his mask. Some snap pictures, and for just a moment, Izuku thinks he knows what it feels like to be a hero adored by the public.

He finds himself on the roof of a konbini only a short walk from his apartment. He's run himself ragged, but he's buzzing with contentment, laid out on the concrete roof, the orange and blue neon lights blinking in and out in his peripheral vision. He thinks he might go grab a slushie, mask and all. He's just rolling to an upright position when he hears the tell-tale sound of shattering glass, and muted shrieking. He's off like a shot, his earlier fatigue completely forgotten.

He goes straight through the broken glass of the door to tackle the idiot waving a knife in the cashier's face. The assailant is rather small, which is rich coming from Izuku. He's got a mask and a hood on, but he's almost certain that this person is around his age. It's sad to realize, but it doesn't stop him from subduing the would-be thief, taking all his weapons off him, and zip tying him to a drainpipe at the front of the store.

Izuku sits at a distance from the hooded thief. He decides not to unmask him, as something of a solidarity thing. His identity will be outed tonight, but it won't be done by the other person in a mask.

"Why'd you do it?" Izuku asks, surprised by the voice modulator. It's so compact, and he speaks so little as Yamikumo, that he forgets about it entirely.

"Fuck off, hero," he spits, venomous and hateful. It's the kind of sharp, embarrassed defensiveness that comes from being found out.

"I'm no hero. I don't think being a hero is all it's cracked up to be."

"You're sure as shit not a villain."

"You're not a villain either. It's nice to exist between the extremes."

"What's that mean?" The eyes behind the mask are wide, childlike and trying to understand.

"It means there are millions of people existing between the binary of heroes and villains, good and evil. Knocking over a corner store is bad, but it's not enough to brand you a villain, right? You don't have to let one bad night define you."

"You're delusional," he says, head lolling around and eyes rolling viciously.

"And you're young, so you can turn this around. Good luck."

He stands from his crouch, shaking out his muscles before he pokes his head through the shattered door frame, feeling odd interacting with people under bright fluorescent lights in his shadowy disguise.

"Anyone hurt?"

There are only three people in the small space, still hiding behind the counter and shelves. They seem to be unharmed.

"We're okay. You got here so quick," the person behind the counter, a kindly middle-aged woman, says.

"You're Yamikumo, right?" A boy not much younger than Izuku stares at him in awe. An unfamiliar feeling of warmth surges through him. The recognition—the attention—feels a bit like a drug.

"I am," he says, a bit awkward about it. He feels like he should strike a pose, or say something witty, but he's got nothing. "Did you call the police?"

The woman shakes her head, slightly frantic.

"We wanted to give you time to run away."

"Oh. Thank you! I'll give them a call soon. For now, can I buy a slushie?"

Tsukauchi gets an email around midnight, and he's immediately irked. It's untraceable, the sender's name only a jumble of letters and numbers. It's a link to Yamikumo's Winstagram page—as if Tsukauchi wasn't constantly keeping eyes on it ever since it started. Yami sits on the roof of a konbini, bathed in the orange and blue glow of the lights. The neon logo is familiar to Tsukauchi. There's tons of them littered throughout the city. He holds an Icee up to his masked visage, the straw poking into the fabric where his mouth is supposed to be. The other hand throws a casual peace sign.

He clicks back to the email. Much like the phone calls Yamikumo still makes every now and then, the email is composed of short, clipped half-sentences and the cross-streets where he stopped a crime.

One perp. No obvious Quirk use. Tried to rob the konbini with a knife. The owner gave me a free icee, so they probably won't give me up. ✌?ᅡᅠ

Toodles!

Your friendly neighborhood Yamikumo

BONUS

Katsuki lays in bed, scrolling through Winstagram in hopes that it'll bore him to sleep. He only has social media accounts to check up on heroes, and observe how they're doing their advertising. That shit is stupid, but it's what'll put him at the number one spot. A necessary evil, he supposes.

He's about to give up and lock his phone when a new post lights up his screen. It's from that new, shitty vigilante. The extra's got no style, no sense of branding, and no consistency. And don't even get him started on the lack of originality. Katsuki may not be as openly into nerd shit anymore, but he can spot a Spiderman reference a mile off.

Still, he likes the photo. He's not sure why.

Maybe it's the mystery of it all. Maybe it's because Yamikumo is clearly a closet superhero nerd, too. He's obviously studied the way heroes promote themselves on social media. He's just the right amount of radical, likable, and relatable. He's worth studying. Maybe he'll still be active in a year or two, and Katsuki can track him down during work study, expose him, and ride that fame all the way to the top.