Young Shigaraki, in his prime at twenty-odd, walks through the crowd, unconcerned with it: his neighbourhood, his people. He is wearing a washed-out black hoodie, black slacks and shoes. He's the epitome of a street rat, but the last thing you would ever do is laugh at him. He goes into an ice cream shop.
Shigaraki leans against the counter, smiles,
"Hi."
The terrified proprietor hands over money. Fifty bucks, a hundred, doesn't matter.
"Riots. Disasters… the world goes on. You all right?"
Don't get him wrong, Shigaraki is never the threatener. His demeanour is gentle, philosophical. Almost a shrink's probing bedside manner. He has great interest in the world as he moves through it. As if he originally came from a different world and his survival in this one depends on close continual observation and analysis.
The proprietor looked up, slightly more relaxed now,
"I'm all right."
Seated at the counter picking at a plate of over-scrambled eggs is Izuku Midoriya. Fourteen years old, he looks small for his age. Bookish nerd.
Shigaraki notices Izuku, but doesn't look directly at him. Instead, he takes a propane lighter, and, strangely, pays for it and waits for change. He lights a cigarette.
Through the screen of his cigarette smoke, Shigaraki turns to look at Izuku. The freckled boy stares back.
"You Hisashi Midoriya's kid?"
Izuku nods, putting down his fork.
"Who you live with, your mother?"
He nods again.
Shigaraki hummed, taking a drag of his cigarette. He then takes three loaves of bread and some soup off the shelves and puts them in Izuku's bag. He reaches up above and behind the counter and takes down some cigarettes, the same brand he's smoking. He goes over to the fridge and puts two half gallons of milk in the bag. He pops in a couple of comics as well. When the proprietor looks at him, Shigaraki takes out the money he put in his pocket and gives back half.
"You do good in school?"
Izuku nods, holding the big bag of loot.
"That's good. You keep doing good in school. I did good in school. That's what they call a paradox." Shigaraki looks intently at Izuku to see if he gets it. He does.
"You ever want to learn a little extra money, you come by L street. You know where I am on L street."
Izuku nods, but he won't be going.
Izuku Midoriya, the good boy, the very good boy, is serving at a funeral Mass. Inko Midoriya is lying in the stained-glass light. The altar is still wreathed in the smoke of incense.
"O God, to whom mercy and forgiveness belong, hear our prayers on behalf of your servant Thomas, whom you have called out of this world; and because he put his hope and trust in you, command that he be carried safely home to heaven and come to enjoy your eternal reward."
Izuku stares.
"We ask this through our Lord Jesus Christ, you Son, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, on God, for ever and ever."
A liturgical bell tings.
Izuku doesn't blink.
Two weeks later, he comes by L street.
Eight years later, he's a State Police academy graduate.
Meanwhile, on the other side of the coin.
Enter Katsuki Bakugou.
It's a rainy day. A working-class burial. Priest's cassock whipping in the wind. On top of the coffin is a picture of Masaru Bakugou. Among the mourning workies, in his blue suit, the dry-eyed, introspective Katsuki looks like an ethereal prince. Across the grave from him in a collar and tie is his street-smart cousin Shindo. The two lock eyes before Katsuki tore away his gaze first. The splatter of fat raindrops on black umbrellas nearly drowning out the eulogy.
Katsuki likes rain.
When all have muttered condolences and walked away, Katsuki is alone at the grave. He looks at the tags on windblown wreaths. Face wet but eyes dry, Katsuki lights a cigarette and looks around. The threshold of a new life. He exhales, smoke carried by the wind.
Clock ticks, and Katsuki is wearing a blue suit again. Only this time, it's a cadet uniform.
Autumn whirls by. Izuku, dressed in a crisp suit, looks up at a black-windowed, modern police building.
Before he knows it, he is standing at suave attention before Captain Aizawa.
"Congratulations on passing the detective examination, and welcome to the Organized Crime Unit."
"Hurrah." A guy with dark purple hair, not much older than him added tonelessly, the bags under his eyes making him appear even more disinterested than he is, if possible.
"We won't be working directly together, you'll be working for Captain Vlad, but I like to see everybody. You have a fine record. You rise fast."
"So do turds in a swimming pool. Make sure you're not one of them."
"Thank you, Sergeant." Izuku nods, "Thank you, sir."
As Izuku leaves the office, the secretary gives him a flirtatious wink,
"Congratulations."
Izuku smiles.
As the greenette leaves, she turns her attention to the blond waiting restlessly.
"You can go in now."
Funny how quickly someone's voice can be laced with ice just like that.
Izuku and Katsuki brush by each other, both minds too preoccupied to notice the other.
"You can sit."
A slightly overdressed Katsuki does as he's told.
Aizawa is an intelligent, fairly refined man, witty, slow to smile. He tries to smoke more than he's allowed to by society. His eyes tired but discerning nonetheless, taking stock of Katsuki.
"So,"
Shinsou is drinking coffee and staring at him aggressively, with contempt. Stirring, stirring his coffee. He's more intelligent than he seems.
"Do you know what I do? My section?" Aizawa speaks.
Katsuki doesn't want to answer unless he can answer correctly.
"I have an idea-"
"Let's say you have no idea and leave it there. No idea. Zip, none. If you had an idea about what we do we would not be good at what we do. We would be stupid. Are you calling us stupid?"
Katsuki wouldn't normally take crap from this guy; but he does. He's openly intrigued by the situation. Shinsou is staring at him. Katsuki looks evenly at Aizawa.
Aizawa sighs, eyes still on his papers,
"Sergeant Shinsou has a style of his own. I'm afraid we all have to deal with it."
He clears his throat, indicating he's about to get down to business.
"You have family connections. Through your mother. Tell me about her."
"She was a carpet layer."
"She was a small-time bookie who tended bars at the Vets until she got popped by Matorano in 1982. They found her out by the airport."
Katsuki bites his words out tightly,
"That's right."
"Your mother-Mitsuki Bakugou-you named after her?- got busted selling machine guns to federal officers. Among many other departures from, ah, 'normative behaviour'."
Aizawa is inspecting Katsuki, watching his reactions. Katsuki gives him nothing.
"What's that got to do with me?"
"Why are you pretending to be a cop?"Shinsou shoots.
"Your father was a baggage handler at the airport. Family's all criminals except your old man."
Katsuki waits for more.
"Old man, handsome guy, working stiff, which was the best he was ever going to be able to do, and said he wanted some excitement. So la-di-fucking-da, enter your hag mother. You were kind of a double kid, I bet, right?"
Katsuki, opened up expertly and crudely, stares with contained hatred.
Shinsou ignores him,
"So you begin your life. One kid with your old man. One kid with your mother. Upper middle class in the week, and then dropping your ahs and hanging with your dad the donkey on the weekends. But mostly ... You have different accents? You did, didn't you. You were different people."
Katsuki looks at him with an "I'm going to kill you" expression which is not without wit and which Shinsou seems to admire.
"You a psychiatrist?"
Aizawa cuts in,
"We have a question. You want to be a cop, or do you want to appear to be a cop. It's not a strange question. Life's all about appearances. Lot of guys want to appear to be cops. Gun. Badge. Pretend they're on TV. We play with appearances, here. With what seems to be. I'll ask you again, do you want to be a cop, or do you want to be seen as one?
"What do you want from me?"
"You don't have any family." Aizawa ignores the question.
"And three years of your pathetic life's not worth shit." Shinsou inputs.
"The only way you're gonna be a cop is this way. You want to serve the common good, here's your chance."
Well fuck.