DISCLAIMER: I do not own 'Boku no Hero Academia'. All rights belong to Horikoshi Kouhei. I also do not own any of the songs mentioned. All rights belong to their respective artists. I only own this fanfiction. Thank you.
The night was slowly, agonizingly so, crawling towards an end. The deep shades and shadows of the sky were just barely beginning to lighten, clouds thinning and fading as the hint of sunrise crept upwards, tickling the skyline with hints of warm, purifying light. After such a raucous, eventful mess of evening hours, it seemed fitting that the day would bring with it calm and security.
At least, for most of the populace, and especially those affected on the side of the line in the sand – the one that wasn't etched in blood and broken glass – it represented safety. But not everybody still awake fell into the category of 'normal', let alone 'healthy'.
Those last beams of moonlight seemed intensely trained on a lone structure, out on the edges of the city. Far away from the dispersed sirens, sticky-sweet traces of smoke mixed with fallout and loosened dirt. Kept tight under willful lock and key, hidden from the invasive glare of headlights, streetlights and the media buzz, practically salivating for the juicy, after-hours scoop. Yes, they were covered up skin-tight...
...but they weren't unaware. In fact, they'd been all too knowing of the events that had transpired earlier, from the towering buildings, all the way back into the peaceful, untouched suburbs. The near-cataclysmic crash between fresh-faced heroism and a monster, built from the nightmares of criminals past. So many familiar sights and feelings; the sensations were almost overwhelming for the wiry, trembling figure, seated before the laptop upon lone table in darkened room.
The artificially generated glow was awash over him, giving him a ghastly sort of luminescence that only served to bring out the pale, sickly notes to his skin and hair, shadows stretching further beneath strained eyes. His flesh mask was hidden by a tightly grasped hand, but the faint, though dulled glimmer of teeth biting into dry, parched lips was visible beneath a sealed off wrist. Whether the hand was actually real or just a frightfully crafted artificial appendage was anybody's guess...but most had never gotten close enough to determine otherwise.
Reflected back at his hungry gaze, was the now deserted scene where once had been a battlefield. The craters continued to smoke upon the grass, a faint breeze teasing the dark strands, lifting them higher into the air, dispersing the scent and consistency for all to inhale and consume. Even here, tucked away in his room, so far from the rest of the world, he could practically feel it absorbing in his lungs. Burning his eyes. He could taste the ash upon his tongue, the hint of nitroglycerine and sparks. The earth was in an absolute upheaval; what had taken place here so many lifetimes ago, yet just a few hours in actuality, was still freshly etched out, both before his stare and in his memories.
He'd recognized them both, the two males that had done combat with his borrowed puppet. It had been nearly ten years since their last encounter, but like hell he'd ever forget them. Theirs was the start, the beginning of his end; when everything they'd been working for, everything he'd been striving to leave him, had been effectively ripped away and apart. Just remembering the faintest flash of memories was enough to make his teeth sink in further; he felt the slight give and split of skin, then the tiny, almost timid trickle of blood starting to gather at the point of contact. He made no motion to wipe or lick it away, simply squeezing harder. The spill began to rise up just a little faster.
It wasn't supposed to go this way. This wasn't the way things were meant to be. He hadn't trained and ground with his team, under his Sensei's tutelage, just to be tossed aside, a mere footnote in history. Yes, his Master had succeeded in one thing: bringing down the Symbol of Peace before the entire world, revealing him for what he truly was: a pompous bag of bones, who was more concerned with saving face and upholding a ridiculously unrealistic ideal, that he'd been willing to sacrifice everything else. He'd fought tooth and nail just to protect such an unjust, askew order to things, an order that threw more under the bus than anyone was willing to admit. The few, the fallen, the nameless – they were the ones who'd gradually begun to gather together, led by his mentor, his savior...practically more of a Father to him than -
All For One.
He'd picked naught but the best, and on that night, the night when all those so-called 'Pros' thought they'd gotten the jump on his crew, thwarting their carefully crafted and molded plans...he'd stepped forth. Shown the universe, even, that he was still alive, that his doctrine and loyalists hadn't died or faded away; that they were just as strong as ever. He'd been able to knock those 'Heroes' aside like nothing, like mere toys, dominos, lined up in a perfect row.
They'd fallen with just his presence, a wave of his hand, the briefest application of a sole Quirk, collected by his hand and applied with utmost precision and yet, near nonchalance. He could command armies and wield God-tier powers as though he were merely thumbing through files, categorizing names and reports; issue orders without so much as a flinch or second glance. They'd been fighting against the big boss, the final obstacle toward total completion of the game. And their trump card, the one who'd been keeping their ragtag team of rooks and knaves together, was now facing off against pure evil. To someone like him, this thin, haunted figure in the dark, people like All-Might were nothing short of despicable.
And still, even with all his advantages, his plans, his devotion...
...it had all fallen apart in the end. All For One had still lost. He'd lost. He. Had. Lost. His savior, his Hero – nay, his God, had been struck down, by that tattered, skeletal, bloodthirsty glory-hog. He hadn't been able to do a damn thing about it, either; as if to shield him from yet another one of life's many indignities, he'd swept him away, activating Kurogiri's Warping Quirk at the next to last moment. He could barely breathe, barely get out a single word in protest, as his protector offered him his one last shield. Sent him far away from the cruelty and sinful injustice with those final parting words:
"It's your turn now, Shigaraki Tomura."
He hadn't been alone that night, though. That bastard Father of the morally righteous. Oh, no. The pro Heroes hadn't been the only ones in tow after him. There had been others...others who were just as infuriating; maybe even more so, considering their status, and their prior encounters.
Before the culmination of events at Kamino Ward, he and his team – the League of Villains, such a foreign name on his tongue nowadays, but not for much longer! - had accomplished something quite delicious and noteworthy. They'd ambushed the students from All-Might's alma mater while on a training field trip, and managed to steal away one of their brightest star pupils. One spiky-haired, foul-mouthed, unapologetically powerful and driven students...
...who he'd just watched beat the ever-loving shit out of that poor Noumu they'd sent out on this test run suicide mission. It was vexing, the emotions swirling within him, seeing this boy, now a man, using those fearsome abilities of his against his creed, as opposed to in favor of it. After all, that was what they'd kidnapped him for in the first place, right? The winner of the annual Sports Festival, who'd acted far more like a holy terror than anything else, both in the ring and on the award podium. He refused to accept his so-called 'victory', simply because he hadn't gotten the chance to truly wrest it from the clutches of his opponent. That other boy – the one of fire and ice, Endeavor's son – hadn't even bothered to put up a fight. Of course the blond had been distressed! He had a certain way that he'd wanted things to play out, and when he couldn't get his way...
Oh, what a sentiment that this spindly, hunched-over voyeur could understand, down to the very core of his being! Wasn't it just so. Unfortunate. When things didn't go the way you wanted them to? The way they should've gone?
But wouldn't that have been the ultimate humiliation and deathblow for the Symbol of Peace – next to actually dying, that is. To have one of his own pupils turn his back on the lights of righteousness, to instead walk beside him, the man who could destroy everything and anything with a single five-fingered touch.
And then, to accept servitude, just like the rest of their army, under the watchful, eyeless stare of All For One. The man who could survey and affect all on a level that no mere mortal, no mere sycophant 'Hero', would ever understand. Having someone like that, be accepted as nothing short of a deity, by this fresh-faced youth, who had all the expectations of the 'Old Guard' dancing just above his shoulders...oh, the look on All-Might's face would've been priceless! Surely a photo-worthy moment – before All For One had beaten it down and thoroughly squashed it into the debris of the wasteland that was their impromptu battlefield.
But no, he couldn't even be afforded that much! Instead, they had showed up: that gaggle of brats, led by that green-haired runt...the one who reminded him so strongly of a miniature All-Might, almost a 2.0, if you would. He'd recognized them from the Sports Festival as well, and even the encounter at USJ, shortly before that. It wasn't as though he hadn't issued a kill order for him that night in the woods. Midoriya Izuku. Just another bite-sized thorn that needed to be hacked apart.
It didn't matter so much who they were, however, as much as the fact that they were there, storming into things from across the sky, and why were they there?
Who told them they could be here? He hadn't consented to any of this. None of it was in the script! The guides and FAQs made no mention of invaders and interlopers like these! It was bad enough that All-Might and his cronies had swept in, but now the rugrats were trying to steal his last shred of satisfaction, too! Who had hacked? What was this all consuming glitch? Who had corrupted his save file?! Wrong, it was all wrong! So very very very wrong.
And it hadn't even been that freckle-faced pipsqueak, the one who'd nearly become dust in his grip at the mall the one day, who'd delivered the finishing blow, by snatching up their prized piece! No, it had been that redhead, the one with sharp teeth, stretching out his hand and screaming at the top of his lungs. The one who'd now stood beside his former bounty, trading blows with the Noumu until he'd eventually sent its head flying into the next dimension. It was apparent that, basic though a Hardening Quirk may've been, he'd certainly been training just as hard over these last few years, if he was able to stand up to one of their creations and live to tell the tale.
Bakugou Katsuki. Kirishima Eijirou. Of course he knew their names. He'd had to know the moniker of his potential future comrade, but after that damn mess at Kamino, he'd buried himself in all the files and backstories he could get to on UAs top class of future hopefuls. A lot of it had been locked down tight, but he'd at least managed to score some names and general info. That had been about as much as he'd been able to handle, before the last thread had finally snapped.
He'd been locked away from the others for a couple of months after that; the only one allowed into his chambers had been Kurogiri, and that had merely been to deposit food, or lead him to the bath facilities. But the exchanges had been wordless; if he hadn't been staring off into space at the cracked, stained tiles or the running water, he'd been shrieking at the top of his lungs, ripping out his hair and smashing apart the mirror, even after it had been shattered thrice-over.
He didn't care about the bloody gashes in his skin. When the glass and frame had effectively been rendered into innumerable pieces, he'd gone to work with delicate plucks and picking, placing them in his palm, before closing all five fingers around each one, relishing the sensation of dissolving material and matter against his flesh, then the sting of fine powder seeping into his wounds. It was much the same in his room. Personal care hadn't been at the forefront of his mind; he'd been lost entirely in a mental asylum of his own creation, feeling for all the world like a freakshow, on display at the mercy of the world. This world that continued to take everything away from him, refused to let him win.
No matter how many times he played the game, however many cheat codes he tried to apply, the results were always the same. It was though the AI was self-sustaining; constantly rewriting the program to prevent his victory. With every loss, the level of difficulty increased. He'd slaved away, under the guidance of Sensei, attempting to combat the system...but in the end, even that hadn't been enough. Even Sensei had been taken from him, too.
It was when he'd finally stepped out of his room – this very same one he occupied at this moment, in fact – that the League had effectively been disbanded. Or, would 'temporarily put on hiatus' been a better way to describe it? Oh sure, they all still kept in contact, but as far as any real missions or new grand schemes...that was over. All For One had left everything to him...but, what was 'everything'? How could he handle 'everything', when he hadn't even been able to stop that smug fucker from stealing away the one person who cared for him, that he gave a shit about, above all? The one who had offered him any sort of life, a reason for his existence?
Time had seemed to pass by in both a flash, yet at a snail's pace. He'd watched, from his hiding place on the fringes of society. Watched as the world went on without him. Watched as the number two Hero, Endeavor, was promoted to top spot. How he'd struggled to become somebody even close to the caliber of All-Might – not just in power, but in persona. How the new generation of Heroes gradually grew up and moved on, graduating and spreading out. Some were able to secure good careers for themselves in the field of heroism. Whether as fighters, sidekicks, or rescuers, they were successful. Others hadn't been able to garner any prospects, and had thus gone from being tomorrow's hopefuls to yesterday's forgotten; one-hit wonders who now, even with everything they'd experienced, were about as memorable as...as...
Well, him. He, himself. Him, and the League of Villains, and All For One – hell, even Stain, that self-righteous dead man walking! They'd all been forgotten, glossed over, tucked away as simply a chapter in history, never to repeat, forever to be written over. Sure, every once in a blue moon, someone may mention their names. But even with the attempts by the criminal element after All-Might's retirement, nothing had ever taken off; the Heroes had become ten times as vigilant, refusing to allow anything to take root.
In all honestly, Shigaraki figured he should've been grateful for this. It meant that he still had a potential throne to claim. Why?
It had been three years after the disbanding of the League that he'd received the call. An unknown number, that had somehow gotten a hold of theirs, blocked and concealed from all but the previous players. Who would dare be knocking at the entrance to the demon's lair? It had come to him, directly; Kurogiri hadn't been around to intercept or field this time. Deciding to take a chance, he recalled picking up the cell with tense, rough fingertips. His answer was delayed, voice scratchy and parched, with a slight annoyance. "...who is this?"
The thick, heavy chuckle that had reached his ears then had been like an electric jolt to his system; starting in his head and traveling like a drop of water on a windowpane, straight down his body. "Oh ho ho! So, that's how you choose to greet me after so long? Well, I can't really say that I'm surprised." The curve of lips was almost visibly evident to his tone. "It's certainly been a while, hasn't it, Shigaraki? Are you ready to stop sulking and start again?"
He'd kept in touch with the Doctor regularly since then; aside from All For One, he'd been the only other person who'd played any sort of part in his development, growing up. He'd even been the one to give him the 'gift' of his beloved hands...
However, even as the Doctor had offered him that first hint of possible redemption; to make good on what his Sensei had left him, both in assets and mission, he hadn't been so willing to dole out the tools. While Shigaraki had gotten through most of his 'grieving phase' by this point, he still hadn't had a clear idea of where to start, with the reins entirely in his hands this time around. And the good Doctor wasn't about to lend his services for a cause with no purpose; a point with no end. He'd been cultivating these things for how long, under the order of All For One, and all for Shigaraki's use. But without a plan, he wouldn't hand over his meticulous work for nothing.
And, no matter how angry Shigaraki would get, every time, at his refusals, he would simply continue to remind him, in his rebuttals, like a parent to child: "All For One wouldn't want you wasting this chance. He saw potential in you, but unless you understand truly where you stand, where to go, and where to stop, then I can't – and will not – help you. These are not mere toys I have created. This is your arsenal. Prove to me that you capable of wielding it."
Five years after Kamino, and two years after he'd started his communications once more with the Doctor, Shigaraki had learned of his continued research on the Noumu project. He'd been witness, albeit from a terse distance, to the various leaps and bounds that the mad genius had made, in the years following that bitter defeat. He'd created a whole variety of walking, crawling, flying – hell, even talking! - monsters of accumulation, settled at different power levels, like collectible creatures just waiting to be tested.
Still though, he could not have them. Through their discussions and chats, sessions and interviews, the Doctor had continued to gauge him, where he'd fallen in terms of development, and whether or not he was making progress in his understanding. Bit by bit, Shigaraki was being forced to craft an entirely new identity and mindset, all on his own.
All For One was locked up, most likely for eternity at Tartarus, since based on the fact he had so many Quirks at his disposal, it was impossible to come to a complete consensus on what to do with him. So, they'd chosen to bury him deep behind the walls and restraints of the impenetrable fortress, a place where the truly notorious and evil were condemned for all eternity. The place where that human defect, Stain, had wound up. To think of his Master in such a hovel...!
Yes, that would certainly be a tenement of his future plans: to free his Sensei, once he'd crafted a new world, that new world, which he'd been entrusted with the keys of tomorrow to. How proud he would be, seeing his nearly son, standing on his own two feet, welcoming in the new age with arms wide open...!
Huh...was he making progress?
From there, he'd gotten back in contact, one by one, with the former members of the League. Nothing extensive, nothing too deep. Just telling them to stay alert and vigilant; anything they hear that might be of use. Any potential connections or pathways they could foster. Any notable faces they could keep tabs on to manipulate later, through generous abuse of their identities – oh, Toga had seemed really excited at that particular possible task. As long as they knew about it, they could eventually take it for their own. They were starting from the ground up, all over again, but it was still a game. Different rules, but in the end, it was a game.
And soon enough, he would no longer be the player. He would win, become number one, and then, from the position up on high, gradually infect the universe and system with his all-consuming glitch. All the useless NPCs and so-called Heroes, they would bow to him, fall to him. They'd be forced to acknowledge their wrongdoings, their failures upon accepting the title of 'Victor', 'Savior', 'Winner', 'Good', 'Pure', all of it. He would rewrite, reprogram every last bit of coding, until the only ending available, was his. It was an utter genocide he had in mind, a twisted lullaby to usher in the good night of a corrupted world, lying in beautiful ruin.
All at the hands of a young man who'd just. Needed. A. Hero. But. Instead. Became. A. Living. Virus. By this point though, he wasn't afraid of being sick. Not anymore. No, being well was far more terrifying.
He must've been making some sort of progress that was pleasing to the Doctor, because finally, three months prior to tonight, he'd allowed him a visual tour through a section of laboratory – he wasn't able to see the outside, much less how he'd reached the area of exploration – but that was fine, whatever. The Doctor had brought up a trio of three large, life-sized vials. In them, Noumu lay slumbering among the chemicals and bubbles, capable of things that he could only begin to imagine. Trying not to tear open the skin at his throat by excessive scratching – something that he was quite prone to – he'd listened patiently enough, as the Doctor had explained their purpose.
"If you plan to bring back the League, you need an entrance that is fitting of a comeback. At the same time, many things have come and gone. You have a generation that very well may not know your names." He'd tapped at the glass of the Noumu closest to him. "When you first arrived, you did it with flash and a bang, offering out your entire hand of cards at once. It certainly left an impression, but you went through resources rather quickly that way. And I didn't create all this just for it to go to waste under inexperience."
Shigaraki had let out a hiss through clenched teeth. His eyes had been wide, as a pointer nail had picked in irritation along his collarbone. "Get to the point already. I'm not here for another lecture, Doc. If we're not going for a big number, then what do you propose we do, instead? Inquiring minds would like to know." He'd practically spit the last line at the screen, in mocking. A flashy entrance had let everyone know what they were capable of. What could possibly be better than that?
"Trepidation." Another tap of the cylinder. "To remind those who would forget entirely, the secrets they tried to bury. And to inoculate the new vast ocean of impressionable masses. We take one step at a time, and plant the seeds of discontent." His index finger raised. "First, confusion. Not a strong wave, but enough to trigger. So familiar, and yet not. Is this just a dream, or reality? It couldn't possibly be them, right? The bad guys were defeated a long time ago."
Middle finger lifted, and a chuckle. "Second, worry. A bit more forceful this time. It seems like the same MO, but whether or not it actually belongs to them is as yet unseen. Perhaps someone else is trying to emulate? Or maybe, just maybe...they'll have to face the truth. After all, secrets won't stay buried forever."
Finally, the ring finger. "Third...assurance. The final nail in the coffin. Yes, we have returned. Your greatest fears have come true. This is no drill, no imitation. The Heroes of yesteryear and today must now explain to the herd why, why are they here? Why weren't they destroyed? Why did you make us yet more promises you couldn't keep?"
The gleam reflected off his glasses was practically blinding. "Now, they must face the unknown; what they remember, is not the same as what they see here and now before them. They don't know what to expect next – all they know, is that something is coming for them. Hunting them, like prey. Them, and all the little sheep they've sworn to protect. But it's not the same. It could never be the same. The poison of anxiety and panic will surround them, building up and breeding into quiet chaos. Enemies of varying strength, familiar and yet not, coming at them from an unknown location, being manipulated by who-knows-who from who-knows-where. They know, but are still unaware." Another chuckle. "They scramble, becoming open and vulnerable. And from there..."
A shaky, ragged breath had escaped Shigaraki's lips then. "We make them feel cornered, watched, before even sealing off the exits. And in the uproar...we can strike from the inside out." Instead of one big wave, they could infiltrate slowly, steadily. Use the smaller pieces first, and carefully set the stage. Then, when the Heroes began to twitch and squabble from being unaware of the latest script revisions...the understudies could gradually rise up, and knock off the leads, one by one.
Was it an accident? Negligence? Or cold blooded murder? Nobody would know, until it was too late, far too late – like rigging the entire playing field, and not allowing the other team a chance to upgrade their inventory, or consult a map. This time, they'd be the ones going in blind. This time, the system would be gamed by the players, and oh, but the ensuing mayhem would be glorious.
No longer was victory out of reach. No more would the undermined and invisible have to suffer. None of them, they had absolutely no idea what was to come. Just keep moving, moving through the smoke. Hold your breath, but he couldn't say you're safe tonight. Not now. Not ever.
Thus, back to the present moment: the early hours of Sunday morning, huddled up in his battered and fractured shelter, bathing in the gleam of an empty lawn and collapsing house upon the monitor screen. There had been someone in that house, he'd vaguely recalled. A woman. She'd been interacting with the two heroes after the Noumu had been defeated. A pity, really. It would've been nice if there had been at least one body to add to the count in their first step at a comeback, but oh well. This was just a drop in the bucket.
Of all things though, it had to be those powerful irritants who'd shown up to dispose of his first sacrificial lamb. Perhaps it was a coincidence, or maybe it was fate. Whatever the case, it gave him a good look at just how far they'd come in terms of growth since their days at the academy. They were probably so damn proud of themselves for dispatching the beast.
What a treat it would be, to knock them down a peg or two. To send them hurtling straight to Earth, head-first. To see what happened when angels got too fucking cocky for their own good and flew toward the sun. Their wings would be ripped off clearly, their weakness all too visible to the people down below. They'd truly know then, that no miracle could possibly save them this time.
Maybe even, that blond brat would cry, for once. He'd beg and plead for mercy, at the regret of not having joined them when he had the chance. Maybe he'd swear allegiance to them, with his life flashing before his eyes, just like the explosive Quirk he bore and was so fond of showing off. Perhaps, Shigaraki would grant him solace, and allow him to live. He'd release him, and welcome the boy with a nod of the head. He'd forgive him for the one strike he'd taken at him, how long ago, nearly destroying the 'Father' hand that he kept so near and dear.
Even the green-haired one. 'Deku', as he went by now. He was almost like a miniature All-Might, though he'd certainly never gotten the recognition of being such. He wasn't even as yet close to being the Number One Hero, though he'd made some significant progress in terms of status. But their abilities, and inability to just keep their noses out of everybody else's business, were far too similar to be ignored. It wasn't like he hadn't kept an eye on him after Kamino either – once he'd actually been in a state of mind to properly handle seeing his nauseatingly cheery face.
Perhaps he, too, could be convinced, in a humiliating, disgraceful moment of weakness. Taunting him with his life, just barely held out of reach, to denounce everything he stood for, and turn to the darkness instead. Oh, if Bakugou's conversion weren't bad enough, then Deku's would've been nothing short of an all-out betrayal.
Twitch, twitch. His teeth ground together. Or instead...
Now, a violent grin tugged at the corners of his mouth, bloodstain having dribbled down to his chin, while the rest was smeared across cracked, brittle lips. He'd watch with childlike fascination and glee, as a hand came forwards and down, securely planted over their entire faces. He'd relish the anguished screams falling away into nothing, just like his head, under his cursed touch. Until there was nothing left, nothing left of the promise, of the future, of the squandered opportunity. A dead legacy, brought to an end in the name of true justice.
At that moment, the screen flickered. Shigaraki blinked, as the graphic dispersed, replaced with the familiar shadowy layout of the Doctor's room. He could, as always, barely make out anything behind or around him. Exactly the way that madman wanted it. Shigaraki would never learn anything about him unless he chose to grant him access. Secretive old fart. That full chuckle greeted his ears, as the chair before him spun around slowly.
"Well, now." His fingers laced together, and he leaned forwards upon his elbows. Those lenses of his were nearly glowing like miniature moons. "What do you think? A satisfactory brush with the spotlight, wouldn't you say?"
Shigaraki let out a scoff. "It was passable. Next time though, I want more damages. This was packed up too quickly for my liking." An eyebrow cocked at the reply, but the sickly male was greeted once more by that low laugh.
"Patience, dear boy. Slow and steady wins the race. You did good tonight. I can only imagine what the papers and news outlets will say about this, come daybreak." He tilted his head slightly. "I told you, this one was just a warmup. Noumu can be crafted for all sorts of purposes, at all sorts of levels. You'll get your big bang in due time."
A cough then. "Until then...I think it's safe to say that the League of Villains...is officially back in action as of now, yes?" He pointed towards the door behind him, tightly locked. All this time, Kurogiri never once questioned what he got up to in here; never complained for every fit he'd experienced, or every bit of damage he'd caused. Truly, All For One had known what he'd been doing when he'd assigned him to Shigaraki's cause and care.
Shigaraki let out a gutteral groan, but stood up nonetheless. "Alright, alright. I'll get him on it. It's been forever since I called any of those fucking loonies myself...I ain't in the mood to talk with them right now. But if they're actually doing what I told them, how long ago, then they should figure it out pretty quickly." Indeed. They may've all been absolutely unhinged, but the League of Villains had managed to accumulate some useful folk. And ultimately, they followed orders well enough to be worth something more to him alive, as opposed to dead.
Unlocking the door, the Doctor called after his retreating form. "I look forward to our next talk, Shigaraki. Until then, do take care. And clean your face, hm? That cut might get infected." A last chuckle before the screen, and effectively the room as well, went pitch black.
Of course, those parting words hadn't registered with the skinny terror. The door had already shut behind him, as the gamer got to work once more, building his team for the upcoming journey. A journey that would eventually, ultimately, lead to slaughter.
He wasn't sorry for what was to come. The demons would be feasting to their hearts content.
…...
It was the sound of distant car horns and fluid engines, that wafted into Uraraka's hearing, dragging her out from the heavy veil of sleep, and back into the waking world. As her brown eyes began to flicker with recognition, she winced momentarily, at the sunbeams striking directly into her line of vision. Rising up slowly, shakily, from the tangle of blanket, she raised a hand to shield her gaze, she could only wonder for the briefest of moments, why the neighborhood was so busy today -
- when she nearly went falling over the edge of the couch, to the hardwood floor below. Letting out a garbled yelp – her throat was thick with tension and morning lumps from lack of use – it gradually began to come back to her, as she tried to calm her skipping heart with slow, deep breaths. As she rubbed the last traces of drowsiness from her sight, the night before flooded into her brain at warp speed, striking her like mental thunder.
This wasn't her room, or her house. Nor would she ever be seeing them again...or at least, not for a very long time. The flashes of destruction and havoc flittered to and fro in her mind's eye; everything familiar and cherished having been ripped away, in just the course of minutes, maybe longer. Time had been flowing at a pace she couldn't follow; maybe it was over a few hours that everything had taken place, she wasn't sure. One moment, she'd gone to sleep, and the next...
Now that consciousness had returned to her, she allowed her eyes to careful roam over the scenery that greeted her. It was a bright, mostly tidy living area that lay before her. The low glass table not too far from her sleeping spot had a few magazines and newspapers upon its surface, plus a couple of empty cups. Other than that, there wasn't much clutter to be seen. Again, the loud fitness posters on the white walls, along with the equipment, stood out like neon lights, reminding her exactly where she found herself now:
An apartment, belonging to the two rookie Heroes who'd accidentally turned her beloved house into half of what it used to be, and had attempted to make up for it by offering her a second job at their agency, as well as residency in their own domicile. Everything had been so out of control last night, and that was the cherry atop the sundae; the most insane possible conclusion to something that shouldn't have happened in the first place.
Still...she'd agreed to it. Thus, why she found herself here now. Sure, she was safe, at least, but...where did they go from this point on?
Suddenly, the sound of padding footsteps, a low groan, and something opening plus shifting to her right, caused Uraraka to jump where she sat. Vaguely, she recalled having been told to stay in the parlor while her new temporary room was set up...though, from the looks of it, she'd passed out on the couch before that had happened. Whoever had found her afterwards had at least been nice enough to apply the decorative throw over her, as opposed to just leaving her bare.
And her small bag of belongings had been placed to the side of the table neatly, where she wouldn't wind up stepping on it accidentally upon awakening. Most likely, it had been the more easygoing of the pair - Kirishima, right? - who'd done it. She'd have to remember to thank him later...and okay, she'd thank the other one too, Bakugou, for not demanding she wake up and haul herself over to the living space he'd had a hand in putting together for her.
First things first, though.
Tenderly, on trembling legs, Uraraka arose from her place on the couch – a comfy seat, really, black thick material with red pillows – and timidly made her way over towards where the noises had been coming from. She saw that it was none other than a kitchen, and beyond the long counter top, curving around on the left to contain a sink and stove, was a dining table with chairs, partially obscured by a refrigerator door, which was wide open.
Amid the shuffling behind its cover, she could now hear the sounds of...humming? As she drew closer, a hand was visible, wrapped around the lower part of the handle, while a pair of bare feet stuck out under the edge. Not sure what else to do from here, but figuring she couldn't just hide from her new companions the whole time, the brunette cleared her throat. "U-Umm, hi, I - "
She was cut off unexpectedly by a sudden yell, coinciding with the hidden figure jolting upwards – and promptly smacking his head on the inside of one of the fridge shelves. Letting out a string of colorful swears, Uraraka instantly jumped in to apologize. "I'm so sorry! Are-Are you okay...?"
The words died on her tongue, as the decidedly male form of one Kirishima Eijirou rose before her, shaking his head and wincing, rubbing the top where it had clearly made contact with solid plastic. Interestingly, his crimson locks were flat, hanging down at just slightly above shoulder length. Huh, they weren't naturally spiked? What about Bakugou's, too?
That question would have to wait for another time, however. Uraraka had already whirled around, hand cupped over the lower half of her cherry red face, eyes bulging wide. As the door had swung closed, she'd been greeted by quite the sight – and no, it wasn't Kirishima's hair.
It was his body, muscles now on full display before her...save for a pair of red plaid boxers. Uraraka could feel her heart thudding in her chest like a train engine. Her cheeks were on fire. It wasn't as if she'd never seen a guy topless, or even pants-less before, just...not so freaking close to her - !
Behind her, the redhead had finally stopped massaging the soon to form lump on his skull, and taken note of her presence. His eyes widened slightly as he addressed her. "Uraraka-san...?" Hopefully, he hadn't forgotten her existence here. She couldn't tell by the tone of voice, as she hesitantly turned around, face still partially covered with hands.
Well. Seems like her new life was kicking off at full speed, with a whole plethora of fresh experiences. Like unexpected walking shirtless scenes, for one.
A/N: ...
My apologies for doing this, but...this story has unfortunately been discontinued, hence marking it COMPLETE. This is just the last Chapter I have in storage, that I didn't want to hold onto any longer. Circumstances have changed, and...I don't think I can finish this. I'll keep it up, as a memory, but other than that...yeah. I'm sorry, everyone. Take care now, and stay safe.