A.N.

I'm not dead lol

Uploading this was an absolute bitch, but it's here now yay

School has been in full swing for like 3 weeks now, so you'll have to forgive me for weird upload schedule. To anyone who enjoys this, I don't plan on abandoning this story any time soon if I can help it so don't worry.

Anyway here, hope it's a good read in spite of everything

Chapter 5

The ride was silent, the driver's countenance grim, and although he recognized the officer Naomasa made no attempt at small talk. Instead, he watched the buildings whizzing past them turn gradually from shiny skyscrapers to faded apartment blocks.

In the beginning, it had been little more than an unusual couple of occurrences. Targets had ranged from petty criminals at first, but quickly escalated to mobsters and underworld bosses. What was strange, pondered Naomasa as the city rushed past his car window, was that he couldn't remember even a single death. Whoever it was didn't kill, but.. that seemed to be their only rule. There was only one other thing all the occurrences had in common. Each and every victim's quirk was completely.. neutralized.

Neutralized, he thought to himself. It was a revoltingly clinical way of putting things.

His finger twitched at the memory of the first case he saw, barely two months ago. Had it only been two months?.. Four petty arms dealers. Lots of blood, a miracle they survived. Or a precise calculation.

According to police records of the victims, one had some form of laser vision. His eyes were slashed. Another one could light his body on fire like a torch; he'd been doused in liquid Nitrogen, wherever the assailant had even found that. When he tried to activate his quirk, the combined cold and heat fried every nerve ending in his body. He could move his limbs but couldn't feel them, and hence couldn't regulate the heat output of his quirk. Last Naomasa heard, he suffered second degree burns further attempting quirk activation.

The same song and dance had continued with everyone that followed them, a total of 23 targets over the past nine weeks: criminals or mobsters for the most part, permanently maimed or injured. A number that would clearly only continue to grow unless they stopped whoever was responsible, permanently.

As if on cue, Naomasa was pulled from his thoughts as the car skidded to a stop in front of a worn-looking warehouse. Striped tape barred all visible entryways, and stepping into the beating sunlight, Tsukauchi saw several patrol cars and ambulances parked up and down the street. The investigator wound his way through the crowd of frenzied officers and paramedics, pausing briefly to flash his badge to the officers at the door who hastily parted the tape for his entry.

Inside the warehouse was dark and damp, echoing urgent voices and rustling coats into the climbing shadows of the roof. Naomasa walked quickly across the eerie, open expanse of vacant storage space, flickering neon bulbs dangling on wires from the roof spitting sparks at the law enforcement below. Naomasa trudged up stairs, through dimly lit hallways, the only indication that he was on the right track being the taped off doors on either side and the fellow officers he crossed on his path with a nod or tip of a hat.

The smell was what he noticed first, hanging thickly in the air as he spotted his destination.

That's the place, he thought, staring down the hall. The pair of doors was bigger than others, and two of them, albeit the one was all but ripped off its' hinges. As he neared, three paramedics and a stretcher rushed out exchanging hushed, frantic words. The stench of blood hung around the stretcher who's occupant was covered with a sheet, which in Naomasa's experience was simply to spare to the eyes of possible onlookers outside the fact that in many cases death could appear a mercy.

Naomasa watched them until they disappeared around a corner, and steeled himself for whatever waited for him before stepping through the doors.

The smell worsened as he entered, but not as badly as he had anticipated. A long table spanned the length of what appeared to be some kind of conference room, splintering pieces of chairs littering the room alongside other varied debris, and a hint of fresh air caught his nose as he saw a window at the opposite end of the room, shattered to its' roots. Naomasa's brow furrowed as he glanced at the blood splattered across the room, dripping down the walls in long, crimson threads and pooling on the floor.

He stalked over to a small group near the window overlooking the street, the tape stretched over the opening fluttering in the breeze. A tired-looking man in faded jeans glanced up at him through messy black hair as he approached. Tsukauchi noted the long, jagged scar under his right eye. "Detective Tsukauchi." His voice was gravelly, glum.

"Eraserhead." Naomasa nodded, acknowledging him by his hero name. "Finding you here is as pleasant as it is unexpected."

"Save it." Clipped the hero. "I just followed the police cars." His mood seemed foul, but then Naomasa could hardly blame him. It wasn't the prettiest of pictures.

"What's it looking like?" The investigator gazed at the people mulling around the crime scene.

"Three victims," Frowned the Hero. "Nobody else that we know of. Whoever planned this did their homework." He jerked his head at the clusters of wires dangling in the corner of the ceiling nearest to them. "Security cameras cut down, all footage from the last 24 hours is wiped or just plain static." Naomasa took a notepad from his trench coat, writing as the hero spoke. "Blood, well, everywhere," the man gave a wide gesture. "But mr. Asashi over there was able to identify it as the victim's. Handy quirk, that one. Still, I take it the standard tests will be done to make sure?"

Naomasa nodded with a sigh. It looked like no leads this time either. "Any idea who it is?" The question sounded even more foolish than he had imagined. The long-haired man shrugged, kicking a piece of broken chair across the floor.

"That's your job investigator, not mine. Still, the usual I take it. Dna, fingerprints, you know the drill. Can't say I'd want to be you." He said dryly. Naomasa sank into a chair which, missing it's fourth leg, teetered precariously as he groaned in frustration.

"And the victims?" He already guessed the answer.

"Well, to put it simply, they're.. debilitated." Eraserhead said slowly. "Honestly, it's looking like they'll never use their quirk again."

"Here too, huh."

The hero stared at him in silent question.

"It's.. happened before." The detective continued quietly. "The thing all these damn cases have in common."

"Hmm." Turning, the man took a grey jacket from the table and slung it over his shoulder. "Well, it looks like everything is under control now with you here. I'll be going, but" he glanced back at Naomasa somberly. "Contact me with the details. You can find my number just about anywhere with a status like yours."

The older man nodded. "It's information due for disclosure to all Pros anyway, so it'll no doubt be common knowledge among heroes soon enough."

The dark-haired man raised a hand as he walked through the damaged doorway into the shadows of the hall. "Good evening then. See you around, Tsukauchi."

"Likewise."

Getting up, Naomasa slowly strode over to the window, overlooking the two-story drop. He watched Eraserhead walk out into the street below, eventually losing him among the gathering crowd and flashing red-and-blue sirens of the patrol cars blocking off the perimeter.

The site was beginning to clear now, the ambulances gone and the remaining law enforcement packing up and stationing guards. Soon, the only people left in the room with him were those clearing debris and scrubbing blood from the walls and floor. Tsukauchi wrinkled his nose. He hoped the smell would dissipate soon.

The early evening sun bathed the room in a soft orange glow as he flicked open his lighter and lit a cigarette.

.

.

.
Long after dark had covered the city, a pair of iron-studded boots crunched against the gravel towards a run-down shed. A bedraggled figure in a blood-stained costume fumbled with a padlock briefly, before bracing against the large door and heaving it open with a screech that echoed into the pattering rainfall.

The flick of a switch inside brought a dim bulb flickering to life, illuminating rows of steel shelving and piled boxes in it's pale light. Unbuckling a number of straps, the man shed his iron-plated vest, tossing it onto a metal table with a heavy clunk. Untying a crimson headband, he shook free a crop of messy black hair before arching his back, grunting in satisfaction as his spine popped.

He pulled up a rusted chair then, easing into it gently, and set about cleaning blood off a variety of sharp weapons concealed or sheathed in the armoured suit and laying them orderly on the table before him, finally ending with the draw of a long, ugly sword from the scabbard on his back.

"You said you were going to stop hunting."

The quiet voice broke the silence before the man even noticed the footfalls behind him. In his peripheral he glanced a silhouette in the doorway, but didn't look up from his work. "And I will."

"You said as much a month ago. So when?" A simple question, one that prompted a conversation that had been had before.

"This time it was necessary." Stepping closer then, he peered at the assortment of weapons on the table.

"There's so much blood." Something quivered in the boy's voice as he spoke, and Chizome felt it twist in his stomach.

"There was a fight."

"You killed?" Almost accusatory.

Silence again, broken only by the rainfall outside, then a metallic clang as the sword hit the rusting table. Chizome's hand gripped the boy's collar tightly and pulled him close, until their faces were mere inches apart. "I never killed." Steely red eyes locked with vibrant green. "It just got.. messy." The red eyes flickered away a moment, then back. "But they'll live. I simply took their quirks from them." He got up, patting the boy on the shoulder with a sigh as he walked past him. "Training in the morning, Midoriya. Get some rest."

"So.. you did it so they can't hurt anyone now." The statement sounded almost hopeful, as though begging affirmation. The older man paused, and looked back.

"They were corrupt. So I judged them." A twitch in the boy's bruised hand, by now near as callused as Chizome's own.

"And who made you the judge?" A hint of venom rising in his voice. "If you're to decide, why stop at them?" He cried. "Why stop at all!?"

"I do this for everyone's sake." The man's tone was carefully level. "Your job now is to train, and my job is none of your concern."

"But where does it end!?" The boy challenged coldly.

"When society is at peace!" The vigilante roared. Silence followed, blood-red eyes narrowed to slits that dared Izuku to answer. After a long moment where no more words came, Chizome turned to go.

In the moment before the door clanged shut behind him, his ear caught a quiet murmur between the click of steel-toed boots against concrete.

"When you said you wouldn't kill, I never imagined.. this."

The man scoffed then, an answer only heard to himself and for his own peace of mind.

"People are too easily disappointed."