"You acted out of your jurisdiction."
As cliche as it is, the worst part of Hitoshi's job is the paperwork. For Heroes with agencies, these paperworks would be sorted out by hired administrators. But the gods of fortune never did smile much upon Hitoshi and Hitoshi's life, as always, does not provide him much luxury.
It sucks. Reminds him too much of the doleful days in middle school, drowning in stacks and stacks of paper, wondering where his life will start. Funny thing is, now that his life has started, those papers never went away. Fauxing absent-mindedness, Hitoshi taps his pen twice on the desk before spinning on his seat to look at his mentor.
"Good morning to you too," Hitoshi says, aiming for polite and missing rather spectacularly.
His mentor stares at him, grave in his dark attire and dark hair and dark, menacing, menacing eyes that says: you are in trouble, kid.
Despite the hour—four forty-five ante meridiem—Aizawa-sensei looks more awake than he does all day long. Or perhaps, it's precisely because of the hour; this time of day is Eraserhead's working domain, and has been so for more than a decade.
The door is closed behind him, but Hitoshi knows work is still being done in the squad room. Crime is as prevalent at night as it is in day, it does not sleep, etc, and both the Heroes and the police are working round the clock in an ouroboros of caffeine and back pain. Hitoshi sighs.
"Did Tsukauchi-san call you?" Aizawa doesn't reply, which Hitoshi takes as a yes. Hitoshi sighs again. Hitoshi thought Tsukauchi rather liked him, but evidently, he was wrong.
"He called to tell me that you did a good job."
Hitoshi blinks, surprised. Before he could process that, Aizawa speaks again, "we need to talk. Finish up in five," and then he walks out, closing the door behind him.
Charming as always.
Hitoshi, alone in the room, looks at his papers. In five? Yeah, right. Even All Might wouldn't fucking manage that.
In five minutes, Hitoshi walks out of the door with the finished paperworks in hand.
Their eyes meet. Aizawa doesn't bother to say anything else before storming off, fully expecting Hitoshi to follow him like a good little duckling. Which, of course, is exactly what Hitoshi does.
Like most independent Heroes, Aizawa Shouta does not have a headquarter. Underground Heroes work nomadically most of the time—chasing cases and blood and all that jazz. There is no high-tech secret lair with a computer room, to ten year old Hitoshi's distant disappointment. Most of Hitoshi's training has been conducted on location. First hand experience in the hand of someone who knows the ropes.
Hitoshi sometimes thinks of those early schoolboy days in the woods—located just east of the city, in the sun with the capture weapon entangled around him—in an odd, stilted, disbelieving kind of nostalgia. Now, his terrain is mostly in the night, in the shadow, in the skyscrapers. One wrong move, and he would die between glass and concrete.
If a Hero agency is successful enough they would not only be having headquarters, they would also be owning safehouses. In Musutafu, these safehouses are littered all around the city—opportune spots where Pros could recuperate, medically attended to, or just be having a good lunch. For Undergrounds like Eraserhead and Mindjack, what they have are gritty basements, seedy alleyways, and silent rooftops.
Aizawa-sensei opens the hatch to the station's rooftop with a habitual ease. Hitoshi follows suit, feeling the breeze against his cheeks almost immediately.
No one could hear them, up here. There is a CCTV, blinking at the top of the door, but the rest of the roof is an open space. Hitoshi follows as his mentor walks to the middle of the helipad, and then beyond, to the edge of the roof.
The wind is whipping Hitoshi's hair against his eyes. From up here, the city lights are glittered like diamonds beyond the roof; a kaleidoscope of neons replacing the stars. The air smelled almost fresh—as fresh as a city can be—compared to the claustrophobic, smoke-filled space of the club. Hitoshi, despite it all, takes a deep breath.
It's cold, the morning air, biting against Hitoshi's bare arms. His jacket is still wrapped around the girl—nineteen year old Morine Masami—who is now detoxing in a nearby ER. Hitoshi doubts he'll ever get it back.
"This case," Aizawa finally says, voice rising against the wind, "is not under your jurisdiction."
"Then put me on it."
"No."
"Why not?"
A staring match. Impressively, despite being the guy who quite literally kills with a look in the right circumstances, Aizawa Shouta is the first to look away.
"You have no idea what you're getting yourself into," he says, words rushing together in an uncharacteristic show of—emotion. "You're too—"
"I'm not too young," Hitoshi says. His eyes narrow, resentful. "I graduated three years ago," for fuck's sake, he doesn't add. "I'm ready."
Aizawa-sensei turns to look at him. The sky would be pitch black—it's a new moon—if not for the light pollution in the horizon. The dark shadows most of his teacher's face, gaunt cheekbones and harsh lines. And then he laughs.
He doesn't laugh very often, this teacher. This man. This presence that has been steadfast and constant in Hitoshi's life ever since he stepped into UA. "If you think three years is ample enough time for what's out there," he says, voice low with the baritone that Hitoshi knows so well, "you are not ready, kid."
"You started solo right out of graduation—"
"A year after graduation," Aizawa corrects him. "And—"
"—that is not the point—"
"—you can be better than I was, Hitoshi," Aizawa says. "You can be better than I am."
Hitoshi's heart stuttered in his chest.
They can hear the city noise, from up here. Sirene and cars and music, someone playing a piano from a few blocks over. Hitoshi stares at him in silence, speechless. Because a, where the hell did that even come from, and b, what the fuck is he supposed to say to that?
You are not my dad is a cliche line that Hitoshi refuses to even consider.
Hitoshi is saved from that little EQ dilemma because Aizawa is the one who breaks their sudden roadstop to silence. "You are legally bound to report to me before you act. You apprehended a criminal in radio silence—"
Of course, because if Hitoshi hadn't, he would never get the chance to even do anything at all.
"—what you did was unwise at best and—"
—idiotic at worst, says the tiny Aizawa-sensei that lives in Hitoshi's head.
"—idiotic at worst," says the Aizawa-sensei that stands in front of Hitoshi.
Hitoshi clenches his jaw, and attempts not to feel too much like a reprimanded child. "I did not act out of my jurisdiction," Hitoshi says, slowly. "I acted out of necessity. Which is my job as your sidekick."
"I will be the one to decide what and what is not your job."
"You're not my teacher anymore," says Hitoshi, and regrets it instantly.
Bad move. Stupid, stupid move. Why did he say that? Hitoshi would like to blame it on the fatigue, the night sky, the non-existent alcohol. He knew that he never could keep his mouth shut on a third-grade smartass remark, but he really did think he'd gone past that.
"No, I am not," Aizawa says, his voice several degrees colder and decisively unforgiving. "I am your superior."
Damage done. Okay. Hitoshi tries again, pressing his voice into something that resembles calm. "Koga Daichi is just a pawn," a fence, one of many. "This drug, this Cure—whoever is spreading this, they have a motive, and it's not just profit."
Most drugs that come into Japan are shipped from China. The Chinese triad is an active presence in the piers of Tokyo—but not Musutafu. At least, not until now. This sudden shift of focus between cities is amiss at best. "These people, they're driven, they're professionals. The location of their drop always changes—we barely can keep track of their fences. And Overhaul—"
"—is dead," Aizawa says coolly, and that inadvertently stops Hitoshi short.
Eight Precepts of Death. The Shie Hassaikai raid.
It was one of the biggest busts in this decade—involving several UA students and over a dozen of Pro Heroes of well-respected agencies. There was huge media coverage, Hitoshi remembers. There were several casualties on their part; and one of them was Sir Nighteye, a prominent Pro-Hero who had been the sidekick of All Might himself.
It was a tough fight. As a result, the Yakuza group is entirely obliterated, and their leader Overhaul—Chisaki Kai—is dead. Overhaul has been dead for six years and counting, and Aizawa Shouta knows that best of all people.
Everyone knows that it was the Underground Pro-Hero Eraserhead who had put a bullet in his head.
"Which means," Hitoshi says, after a beat, "someone out there is using his name."
The numbers of local organized crimes have dropped drastically in the past few decades, and after the Shie Hassaikai case, the government had pushed the anti-organized crimes clauses to finality. The numbers of active Yakuza groups in recent years have now—tentatively reported—dropped to zero.
Which leads to this—whatever this is. The name Overhaul is making a comeback to the streets does not spell good things. Not when there already are casualties from this Cure, not when the toll keeps rising and rising. Something is up.
"Something is up," Hitoshi says. "You know this. This is bigger than—"
"And why should that be a reason for me to give you a go in this case?" Aizawa cuts him abruptly. "Do you believe that your mere involvement alone will give us a head start?"
His voice isn't condescending—it never is. It doesn't need to try to be, sharp and metal cold as it is; Aizawa Shouta has a voice akin to knives laid bare. Against Hitoshi's best wishes, he can feel his own cheeks heat up almost by reflex.
"There are capable, seasoned Pro Heroes handling this case. Underground and otherwise," Aizawa says, not bothering to address Hitoshi's sudden embarrassed lapse into silence. "What can you contribute?"
In the past years, Hitoshi has grown tall enough to surpass Aizawa-sensei's height—but it never makes him feel less small than the other man. If Hitoshi says that the words do not cower his heart, Hitoshi would be lying. But Hitoshi would not get to where he is now if he didn't have a skin as thick as they come and the cut-throat audacity to match.
"I captured Koga Daichi," Hitoshi says, unwise and defiantly. Even as he says it, he sounds too defensive for his own liking. Koga Daichi is just a pawn, his own voice echoes in his head. "We gained valuable information on—"
"I did not give you permission to capture Koga Daichi," Aizawa returns. "I did not give you permission to be involved in this case at all."
"I don't need your permission to do my work," Hitoshi replies.
Silence. Another staring match.
Those hazy, half-forgotten schooldays. Aizawa-sensei's voice, from summers ago. If we're not able to do things on our own when the time comes—
Remembering those summers, the clumsy way he had run and fought and climbed—it's a little surreal. Hitoshi has gone a long way from tripping himself up with his own weapon.
But evidently, to Aizawa Shouta, not quite long enough.
Hitoshi rarely ever thinks of his mentor as old, but there is something about it just now—perhaps in the stern line of his mouth, the lines around his eyes, the bone-deep weariness in the sharp lines of his figure. Those summer days have long gone, Hitoshi realizes. A shocking kind of nostalgia that he has no idea what to do with.
And then Aizawa says, with the clinical voice that Hitoshi knows he uses in interrogation, "you need my permission to do your work, Hitoshi, because you are working with me. Until the moment where you stand on your own as an independent Pro-Hero, this will not change."
A very Aizawa-sensei thing to say. Simple and logical and painfully clean-cut. Two can play that game, Hitoshi thinks.
Hitoshi has learned from the best, hasn't he?
"Then I'm not working with you," Hitoshi says.
"And then you quit," says Mashirao.
"Yes, and then I quit," says Hitoshi. Mashirao nods agreeably, pouring in another shot and sliding it to Hitoshi. "Outstanding move on my part. Thank you."
"No problem," Mashirao pours some for himself. His hair is still wet from Hitoshi's shower—he's come over straight from work. He's out of his Hero costume and is wearing one of Hitoshi's shirts instead. "Cheers to post-teenage rebellion adjacent semi-honorable discharge?"
"Fuck you," Hitoshi cheers Mashirao's glass and downs his shot.
Mashirao doesn't. He leans back, swirling the glass in his hand, a thin smile on his lips. "What?" Hitoshi says.
"What?"
"Spit it out."
A pause. And then Mashirao sighs. "I'm kind of jealous," Mashirao admits.
Hitoshi snorts. "Jealous?" he repeats, increduled. What kind of deranged person would be jealous of him? Hitoshi's life sucks ass. "I just made what probably is the worst decision I could make that could possibly derail my entire career—and you are jealous?"
Mashirao laughs. "Well. True. But. You seem, I don't know," he sips his drink, shrugs a little. Despite being the shorter of the two, Hitoshi's shirt is snug against Mashirao's broader shoulders. "You seem excited."
True.
Hitoshi is excited, which does sound crazy in this situation (jeopardizing his venerated position as the sidekick of one of the best—if not the best—Underground Pro in the country, et voila: future prospects effectively destroyed.)
He is mortified, sure, but excited is also the right word for it. Hitoshi's life has never been a smooth sail. If anything, it's been a derailed trainwreck of one shit after another and it's still, despite it all, going in strong. So yes, surely another sinkhole of fuck-up would not snag Hitoshi's goddamn groove. And yes, Hitoshi is excited, because—okay.
Did Hitoshi purposefully fuck up? Just a little?
Maybe.
Did Hitoshi want to prove something—by acting out, like some kind of child?
Maybe. He can be insane like that. He is most definitely not looking for approval like some kind of—schoolboy. And he definitely is not drunk.
"Sure you're not," says Mashirao, because Hitoshi has apparently been narrating his woes out loud like some love-stricken teenager.
"Okay," Hitoshi says. "Okay, so I fucked up. So what. We all gotta make fantastic life choices some days."
"Uhuh," says Mashirao who has been invited for a drink over another one of Hitoshi's fantastic life choices.
"I'm just sick of the way that he—" Hitoshi cuts himself off. "He's handling me with kid gloves."
Mashirao sighs, knowingly, in that little endearing slash annoying way he does whenever Hitoshi is … Hitoshi. "Face it, Hitoshi. What happened between you and sensei?" Mashirao shakes his head. He gestures vaguely in the air. "That was a family squabble."
"He is not my dad," says Hitoshi immediately, and fuck, so much for cliches, isn't it?
Maybe he's drunk, but just a little.
"Sure he's not."
"Don't," Hitoshi says, and Mashirao blinks innocently.
"I'm just saying," says Mashirao, who is definitely not justsaying, "you've always been his favorite—"
"Did you forget the time he had me running laps shirtless in winter because I didn't hand in that one assignment?"
"That was hilarious."
"That was authority abuse."
"It was pretty funny. Can I crash here tonight?"
Hitoshi makes a gesture that says duh, and Mashirao proceeds to pour himself another one. Higher tolerance, that guy, due to all the … muscle weight, probably.
Hitoshi's apartment is a one-room studio he gets for dirt cheap at the edge of the city. Nothing fancy, but everything is working well enough for him. A place to eat and shit and sleep and occasionally, drink.
Pretty rare occasions, if he may add. Hitoshi finds, with a grim surprise, that he can be a pretty intense workaholic on some days. More days than not, lately.
Huh. Wonder who he got that from.
Most definitely not his dad. Fuck.
Hitoshi lays down to his futon, watching the fan spin idly. Mashirao crashing here means that … that's right, it's the weekend. Tomorrow is not a work day.
And even if it is, Hitoshi is now his own goddamn boss, isn't he?
Mashirao downs another shot and presses the bottle of Asahi—still cold from the fridge—against the inside of his thigh, and groans a little. "Egh. That's the spot."
Hitoshi tilts his head to eye the yellowing bruises littered on Mashirao's skin. "That from the fight, the one at the bank?"
"Yeah," Mashirao's forehead pinches in a wince. "The one where I fell on my ass like a dumbass."
"You didn't fall on your ass," Hitoshi tries to assure his friend and fails terribly—it simply is not his forte. "You didn't look like—like a dumbass."
"You know I did," Mashirao says. "The whole of Japan knows I did."
"You were pretty cool on camera."
"Screw you," says Mashirao, because even now he is still strictly PG-13 like the good straight As boy he is.
The fight was recorded live. Bank robbery. Mashirao's agency was on it—pretty good job overall, no casualties except for Mashirao's ass. Which is unfortunate, but he really did look pretty cool.
"Screw you," says Mashirao for the second time, because that was not, again, narrated only in Hitoshi's head. "Did you see Todoroki-kun's fight from that Villain attack, near the hospital?" Mashirao's face sours. "Now that was cool."
"Fuck that guy," Hitoshi says, and he means it, because really, no one should have that much talent and a perfect bone structure while they're at it. Fuck that guy for real.
Mashirao laughs. And then he says, "I think it's great you're not a sidekick anymore. You're the first one, then."
Hitoshi blinks. "Huh." Hitoshi knows what he means.
You are only eligible to apply as a Pro-Hero legally after you are twenty-one years old—an age restriction due to the overwhelming amount of aspiring Heros in recent years, implemented just the year before their class graduated. Until twenty-one, all of them are stuck with side-kicking and internships.
Which, hey, makes Hitoshi the first one in their class—class A—to officially become a Pro. After the registration is done, that is.
"Bakugou-kun will be so pissed."
"Oh, he will," says Hitoshi delightedly. Fuck that guy too. Fuck that guy especially. "I'll make sure of it."
Would you look at that? Maybe this was a good idea after all. Fuck side-kicking. From now on, it's the real deal. Hitoshi's fucking ready. Yeah. He's excited.
Maybe-family squabble notwithstanding. Maybe-ruining-his-own-career notwithstanding. Maybe—
"Hey," Hitoshi says, suddenly. "Do you remember the Shie Hassaikai raid?"
"Shie Hassaikai?" Mashirao squints. His cheeks are a little red, but Hitoshi is sure he looks redder himself. "That was … second year? No. First year, wasn't it?"
"Yeah."
"Umm. Aizawa-sensei and Eijirou-kun were on that raid, weren't they? And that one senpai.."
Hitoshi turns to look at him, surprised. "Eijirou—Kirishima Eijirou?"
"Yeah, he was—" Mashirao blinks at him, slowly. "Oh. Right," he says. "That was second semester. You weren't in the class yet."
Hitoshi was still in 1-C back then. "Ah."
"Yeah, Eijirou-kun was on that raid. He was interning at … okay, I don't remember, but. Yeah."
"Huh," Hitoshi says. Kirishima Eijirou, is it?
That Kirishima, apparently, was one of the UA students who were involved in that raid. Huh.
That's interesting. Hitoshi sips his beer slowly. Kirishima … when was the last time he had spoken to that guy?
Kirishima is doing good, Hitoshi vaguely knows that. Good agency, decent track records, rising popularity. Not a surprise, with a Quirk like that.
Okay, that's not fair. Kirishima is a good guy. Annoyingly too good a guy, even—all blinding smiles and light-hearted jokes, Hitoshi remembers that. One of the strongest kids in class, those with a sparkling bright future ahead. And unlike either Todoroki or Bakugou, Kirishima has got that affable, lovable charisma of a classic Hero.
Heh. Hitoshi still remembers the resentment he held—the insecurity-fueled jealousy he felt, as a fifteen year old. And the residue of it, thick in the mouth, as a twenty-one year old.
In any case, Hitoshi would pick Kirishima over Todoroki and Bakugou any day. At least he isn't a jackass.
Connections really are everything.
"Why're you asking that, out of the blue?"
Hitoshi turns to find Mashirao watching him behind his glass. Perceptive eyes.
"No work talk at home," Hitoshi says.
Mashirao's mouth twists. "Okay, mister Underground Pro-Hero Mindjack sir."
Despite popular belief, Mashirao can be a little shit sometimes. Hitoshi would try punching him, but it would hurt, because Mashirao's bicep is basically a brick, so he settles with a very mature middle finger instead.
"Okay," Mashirao says, undeterred by Hitoshi's middle finger, "mister I'm-not-here-to-make-friends—"
Hitoshi punches Mashirao's bicep, which is a bad decision. "God damn, what kinda gym routine do you even do?"Hitoshi's knuckles are red. "Seriously."
"Congrats."
"What?" says Hitoshi, who is still in the middle of shaking off his hand.
"Congrats," Mashirao repeats. Sincerely, smiling. But he's always been sincere, this guy. Always. Hitoshi figured that out a long time ago. "I'm happy for you."
"Okay, no need to cry about it," says Hitoshi, because emotional vulnerability makes him want to shrivel off and die.
"I'm serious," Mashirao says. "Hitoshi. Be careful."
Hitoshi knows what that means too.
The welfare statistic of being a Pro-Hero isn't pretty, and Undergrounds are three times more likely to die than conventional Heroics. Hitoshi knows that.
Hitoshi knows what he's getting himself into.
"I will."
"Don't get yourself killed," Mashirao says. "Okay?"
"I won't," Hitoshi says.
He probably won't.
If we're not able to do things on our own when the time comes, says the Aizawa-sensei from many summers ago, we'll die.
He knows what he's getting himself into.