Countdown to Reality
1. I hope this chapter will confuse things just the right amount!
2. Thank you for all the reviews, they are always encouraging, I love reading them! Since the begining, you had interesting theories, and one was realllllly close to the truth! But I won't say which one!
Day 3. Shopping center opening hour. Countdown: 19: 17: 30
Did Bakugo like shopping with his mother? Did his mother like shopping with him? Hell no. Not in million years.
In normal life, she would not even envisage bringing him near a shopping mall. She would simply give him an irritated glare, grumble something about "Being a Hero was fancy and all, but did he really have to bulk up that fast?", and then she would toss new stuff on his bed.
If he complained, he would automatically be rewarded with a "Lazy ungrateful brat, you're fucking sixteen, you're lucky I'm still paying for your crap!"
Which was fine. Normal.
The first time he had received a package at the dorms – a mix of old clothes that initially did not fit in his suitcase and new ones – the room had felt oddly empty. The flightless-silence had almost overwhelmed him, and tossing everything on his bed by himself had demanded an effort he had not anticipated.
At that time, he had refused to give it thoughts, but still, it had not felt fine, or normal. Just empty, as if something was amiss.
He remembered looking at the empty box, at his home address on the sender section, and taking it to the trash. Following her into aisles after aisles revived these thoughts. Her current pestering sweetness was worse than a thousand silent empty packages.
It was not fine. It was not normal.
She had chosen the less crowded place she knew, and even though, he had never seen her that anxious. In the street, she had never let go of his shoulder. She had also refused to take the train or any street with too many people, and had asked him thirty times if walking that long was okay. That they had managed to reach the marketplace without any explosion was in itself an achievement.
It was horrible.
He had his papers, and they worked. He was wearing lens – another fucking gift from Miss-perfect Ponytail – and he was keeping his head down. Nobody was paying them any attention, and yet, she was still fretting over nothing.
He hated it, and he hated even more not being able to yell how much he hated it.
When they entered a first shop to get some new shoes, she gave him thirty seconds to decide on a pair. He was fine with it. The faster they were done, the better.
In a matter of minutes, they had all he needed. Since everything would probably disappear once the world would be back to normal, – it would – he paid no mind on how he looked.
"Just a phone and we are good," His mother uttered, getting out of the latest shop.
Unfortunately, the place she had initially in mind was closed, and the only other one in the area was having a launching event. It was not close from crowded in normal standards, but it was far beyond his mother comfort zone. She strengthened her grip on his shoulder.
"Katsuki… maybe… we should come back another day? I… I was thinking we can buy something to takeaway and call it a day?"
"Fuck, stop chickening. That's just goddamn random nobodies." He annoyingly shook her off, and without waiting for her, started queuing.
She caught up immediately, and put her hand back where it had been a second before. That was oppressive as fuck, but he still let her.
"Stay close," She ordered, as if he had a choice. "…you've been doing so well until now, if it's too much people… don't force yourself, baby… If you don't want to come back home right away, we could go to some park, eat the takeaway outside … It would be quiet and you always wanted to go visit the parks…"
Staying quiet, calm, and composed was hard.
Not exploding was harder.
He just could not act the way she expected him to! He would not. He hated everything about the other him, from his shitty room to his stupid nightmares…
He did not want to ask about that, but as painful as it was to admit it, Deku had a point. He had to know what to expect… and besides, the queue was not making any progress, they had nothing better to discuss.
"I'm fucking fine with that sorry excuse of a mob, that's not even thirty people!" He grumpily answered between his teeth, before continuing with his next sentence. "…but I had another nightmare last night."
She squealed loudly and put a hand in front of her mouth. A few people turned their heads their way, curious.
"What are you doing?!" He whispered angrily.
"A…a nightmare?" She stuttered, as if her reaction was completely legitimate. "Why did not you tell me sooner?! What was it about? How do you feel? Oh, baby, why didn't you tell me?!"
Next time she'd call him that he was stomping on her toes the harder he could.
Yet, he did not shout. He did not insult her. He tried his best to play his damn role, as hard as it was.
"I don't remember what it was about. Something about lights, maybe."
"Lights?" She asked. "That's… that's all?"
"What do you mean that's all?"
It was as if he had just told her that someone had died. The hand on his shoulder shook, and he saw her bottom lip waver. Oi, they were in public! She could not burst into tears in the middle of the shop!
"It…It's okay," she said, when it was obviously not. "Katsuki, don't get upset, okay? Just promise me."
"Why?"
"Because we had that discussion many times before, and you always get angry at some point."
"What do you mean?"
She hesitated, checking if nobody was listening, but the crowd was more interested in the discounts than in her.
"After a nightmare, you never remember your life, you don't remember it happened before, and you don't admit your dreams are dreams. Sometimes you remember reality after a few minutes, sometimes after a few days, but in between, you always get angry when we try to explain the truth."
She took a break, as if she expected him to burst with some sort of usual anger. He did not. He would not until he had the entire explanation.
"Sometimes, you open up and speak about it. You tell me incredible stories, and that's why I am sure it's not just lights. It's never just lights, it's always much more complex."
No breaking news so far, it was what his father told him on the first day.
"How complex?"
"Well…" She hesitated, as if it was hard to repeat for the umpteenth time an explanation that apparently, his other version tented to forget quite a lot, "Really complex. The first time it happened, we sat together in your room, and you explained to us an entire life. You could name classmates, give birthdates, describe places, tell what happened on made-up TV shows, describe what I did for a job, and so on. You had lived an entire different life in just a night… I was so relieved, really, when you admitted it never happened and when you did not remember anymore all the details."
Bakugo hesitated on what to say next. His life, the real one, was not a dream – he had Deku and the rest of his classmates to back him up on that – yet, he had listened very carefully to what his mother had just explained.
He could name all his classmates… or almost everyone – he was not 100% sure if Ojiro was the tailed guy or the bunny guy – and he could definitely describe U.A., Jeans agency, his old middle school and many other places… but he had remembered an entire life in just one night.
Which made his next question quite important.
"What do you mean I don't remember anymore all the details?"
"You don't remember the first dream you ever had, right?"
"No."
"Well, usually, at some point, you start forgetting all these small facts… and then, you admit that what you dreamt about, or sometimes what you saw, is not real."
"What I saw?"
"You said it's like the nightmare replayed itself while you are awake. Sometimes, you saw things from your dreams during the day. But Dragons in the sky were just planes, and your grandfather was not in the living room talking to the Emperor, for example."
She smiled, as if she found it funny, afterwards. He absolutely did not.
He was thinking about the neighbor next door, and his inability to tell if she had been there, standing in her apartment.
"At some point, you admit that it is just impossible. Then… it's better. You remember stuff that really happened."
His life really happened!
"How long does it takes, at most?" He still blurted out, a feeling of urgency making its way to his brain.
"The longest was last time. I should not… I shouldn't make fun of that, but you were really sad to admit the dragon looking through the window couldn't actually be real. For one thing, I couldn't see it."
He could not care less about dragons or the Emperor! His other self was an idiot for believing it more than a couple of seconds. His real life was nothing like it! It was credible, for a start.
"How long, old bat?!" He still half-shouted.
She lost her smile instantly.
"It was not just lights… can you tell me what your dream was about? Is it still that hero story, baby?"
He stomped on her foot, and he did it with energy. She let go of his shoulder and let out a small, yet very satisfying insult.
"Katsuki! Don't get angry!"
"Stop calling me that and fucking tell me how long it takes!"
"You are so…! Last time, it took you about three whole days to admit that dragons cannot actually exist, and just to clarify something, brat, heroes don't exist either!"
Three whole days.
How long was it since he woke up?
Eri was here.
Like here, here. In front of him, less than fifteen meters away.
She only wore a hospital gown and her bandages were back. At the sight, he almost felt real, physical pain in his own limbs.
No. Not again.
Her horn was menacingly pointy, again. She was wounded, again. She was alone, again.
He inhaled sharply, anger, disgust, guilt, fear, revulsion and one thousand other feelings filling him up.
Yet, something stopped him from jumping forward.
Eri had pigtails on each side of her head.
It was probably not the work of her bulky-bearded-armed-nanny, as purple hairbands were usually not included in standard yakuza weaponry. However, Quirkless objects rarely tied themselves on little girls' heads, so someone must have done it.
That was not all.
Eri had several toys in front of her, and she was playing with it. Dolls of all sort of sizes and colors were in her hands.
That was still not the most disturbing thing.
Eri's was smiling.
Eri could not be smiling, not with these bandages.
Not their Eri, at least.
She slowly looked up, noticing his shadow on the courtyard grass. Their eyes met and he held his breath, hoping, wishing, begging all gods to see no recognition on her face.
He needed her to be another person.
He was not sure he was strong enough to meet up with the real Eri, to pick up the pieces and to find a way to put them back together.
He would not even know where to start.
Milliseconds suddenly felt awfully long, but at the same time, they were incredibly too short for him to word all his prayers.
"Who are you?"
Kirishima felt immensely relieved, so relieved he almost wobbled forward.
It was not his – their – Eri.
The man on the bench rose an inquiring eye from his magazine.
"… I'm Kirishima Eijiro. I'm just a patient here. Are you… are you sick too?" He hesitantly asked, awkwardly taking a few steps forward.
His legs felt like jelly.
"I'm not sick." That Eri answered, "I live here."
"b…but you g-got all these bandages?"
"I had a bike accident."
Eri lied.
She lied naturally, smoothly, as if it was a well-crafted skill.
So naturally that he would have actually believed it if he had not known better. He gulped down. That Eri was different. She looked more determined and confident than her original version, but she was still so small…
"Wow. Man, you must have flown really far." He still managed to half-laugh.
"Flown? Like a bird?"
"Erm… birds actually know how to land, so maybe not like a bird. More like a… a kite? You must have made loops and then… pouf, no wind, and bang, big boom down."
The man watching Eri got his other eye above the magazine while the little girl repeated enthusiastically "Bang, big Boom down."
"Y-You… you are her father?" Kirishima asked, suspecting he could not ignore him any longer and hoping it was not too obvious he knew that he was not her father. "Do-do you mind if I s-stay here? They told me I have time and I have nothing to do…"
"She's not my daughter and I don't care." He said, looking back at his magazine, as if he had assessed Kirishima as not dangerous.
"I was just opening a restaurant." Eri stepped in, showing how she had arranged dolls around little cuts of paper with rounds on them. Plates, obviously.
He slowly sat on the grass – not too far, not too close, not planning-to-kidnap-a-kid-kind-of-distance – and tried to assess discreetly Mafioso-nanny. The man's Quirk was not visible, but the gun in his pants was.
Kirishima had the advantage of surprise, but that was the only advantage he had. He could try to jump on the bench, hit him the harder he could, and hope it was enough…
"You want to play with me?" Eri asked.
"What?" He jumped.
"Play with me. I opened my restaurant and I need a waiter."
… and if it was enough to knock the man out, then he could grab Eri, run, climb the wall… and so many, so many things could – would – go wrong. First, that Eri did not know him. She could fight back – and her horn was pointy, for real –. If she made a sound, reinforcements would come. If she used her Quirk…
… game over.
On the other hand, if he could befriend her, and if they worked together… no one would ever try to shoot him if she was in his arms. At least, they would not until Chisaki was around, approving, and ready to turn the damage back.
"Which one is in the waiter?" He hurriedly asked wondering how long it could take to befriend a perfect stranger to the point where kidnapping them would not be called kidnapping anymore.
"That's this one. I have not decided on a name, you can choose."
Kirishima did not remember when he had last played with anything remotely like a doll, but he took it without questioning any of it. The doll was in poor condition. It had almost no ink left on its face, it wore small dark clothes and the reaming hair on her head was red, an old, dirty red, spiking oddly in several odd angles.
"Huh… we can huh… call it Crimson Riot?"
Or it was creepy-faceless-worn-out-clown, but Crimson Riot was a lot more manly and lot less creepy. Eri had obviously played too much with that doll.
"Cr-crim… crmi- crimison Riot? Is Crime-isson a last name?"
"Crimson."
"Cr-mission?"
"That's English for the color red. I mean, the hair made me think of…"
Eri giggled, and Kirishima was cut short by that sound.
Eri was laughing. It was not just smiling. She was laughing.
"You're stupid." She said knowledgeably. "I learned English numbers and colors. They don't say cr-mansion, they say 'red'."
"No but… well, okay, you're right. But it's another word for 'red' and… wait… you learned English?"
"I'm seven years old." She said as if it explained it all.
It explained nothing.
"How did you…"
"Cr-missision is too weird. Red is better. So let's switch to Red."
"…learn English? …huh… no, not Red Riot. That would be too weird."
"Why?"
Kirishima looked down at the small red-haired doll in his hand. It was faceless and worn out. If Eri had been in a normal family, maybe they would have thrown that doll long ago.
"You're right, it cannot be Crimson Riot." He whispered. "Red Riot is more fitting."
He tried to focus on the fact that Eri kept that doll anyway.
"Okay, so let's open the restaurant!"
He put the worn-out Red Riot in the grass, and tried to smile while listening to her explanations.
She was just opening a brand-new restaurant. There was only salad on the menu – grass – but they had to advertise. The doll with marker-makeup was a critique and maybe they could get on TV if she was satisfied.
The plot was easier to understand than all the recent games he had played with Kaminari, Mina and Sero. He had sometimes wondered how old they really were, but if it was not sixteen, their real age was still above seven, obviously.
The basis being established, he played Red Riot, the not-crimson doll.
Surprisingly, playing Red-Riot was easier than playing Fake-Kirishima. The former could save her restaurant, he could be a funny doll, and he could be not perfect, let plates fall and mistake orders. The latest had to lie, deceive, and could not afford any misstep.
Kirishima found out that Red Riot could also ask funny questions. Silly questions and Pumpkin laughed – Eri's doll had orange hair – because Red Riot was stupid.
Of course, Eri knew what a fast food was! She had ordered stuff there before. Of course, Eri knew how a restaurant worked! She had eaten at a real one before: she was seven. Of course, of course, Eri knew how to write 'Beautiful Green-Salad' and 'Flower-Pie Desert' on the menu! Of course, Eri could write the menu in English as well, for the tourists, if Red Riot spelled it, she had learn letters.
All in all, Red Riot was a much better spy than any Kirishima. In a matter of minutes, he had learnt that Eri had a teacher coming every day, that Eri had been out of the compound a few times and she was sometimes allowed to play with adults' phones and to order food with them.
The faceless doll still had ears.
"Is the pie ready, Chef Pumpkin?"
"Not yet, Red-san. Please give our guests some more appetizer."
"Can I add a few drinks?"
"Great idea, you are such a good waiter!"
"How did you manage when I was not in the restaurant?" Red Riot asked.
"I can do everything myself." Pumpkin proudly answered. "… but sometimes, daddy was the chef."
"Daddy?" Red Riot repeated – or maybe that was Kirishima, he was not sure who did.
Eri shot him a weird look, as if his question made no sense. He smiled and dropped the subject, falling back into his role instantly. Red Riot could not ask Kirishima's questions.
Not that directly anyway.
Eri did not drop it. She put her doll on her bandaged knees, and for the first time, she stopped smiling.
"…daddy died, so he can't be the chef anymore. He was bad as being the chef, so I am now, and I am better than he was. I'm good at saving things all by myself you know, so I can save our business all by myself as well. Its easy."
For one minute, Kirishima and Red Riot stayed silent, not sure what to answer.
"Oh. Huh. I see. So… huh… when did you… decide to save the business?"
"Yuki-chan and Pink-pink-chan loved too much going to the restaurant." She said, gesturing towards some other dolls. "Also, Uncle-Kai helped me design new tables, so it looks better than the previous ones… but now, can you get these drinks to our clients please? They are waiting! We will chat when we will wash the dishes, Red-san."
Red Riot did not react as fast as he should have.
Kirishima neither.
"Uncle Kai" drawing plates on paper cuts with Eri was a hard image to process.
He stared at her bandages, at the hair ties, the dolls, at the smile on her face.
At the work of Uncle Kai.
Her life was different, and it did not mean she did not need saving, but it meant that Red Riot had some additional investigation to do before kidnapping her.
What did it mean, "I am good at saving things all by myself?"
Well, politely said, FUCK.
Until that moment, he had envisioned that world as a two-team field. The "I don't remember" team and the "I remember" team. 1-A was in the second team, and the rest of the world was not.
That vision still stood, but he was not sure which team he belonged to anymore. Deku was in the "I remember" team, as Ponytail or Kirishima. However, if his mother was telling the truth, Bakugo was not. He could be part of the other team.
… no. That was not even credible. He remembered everything, and she was a damned old bat, trying to convince him he was crazy.
"Well, fuck you. It's been three days, and I'm still sure I attended a hero school four days ago."
"Katsuki…"
"Shut up, I'm not discussing it."
"Katsuki… three days? Okay. So let me try to prove it to you… for example, can you still tell me when your best friends' birthdays are?"
That was a bitchy question.
He had no idea.
He hated everything, and even her.
"I am not playing that game."
"Just answer that one." She said, looking really confident.
It was a bitchy question because nightmares or not, he had never known that!
He hated her smug face, as if she knew she had a point… but she did not.
"I don't have best friends, and even if I had, I never asked them, they can die!"
"Katsuki, can you or can you not answer that question?"
"WHY WOULD I EVEN CARE WHEN THEY WERE BORN?! THAT WAS YEARS AGO!"
"Stop yelling!" She hurried, looking at the crowd. "It's nothing! You can't answer, and I am glad! It's a good first step. It's the kind of details that go away first. "
Bakugo stared blankly at her, at loss for words.
GLAD?
That was the last thing he wanted her to be! Fucking glad!
"Katsuki, you told me you lived at a school, if I remember well. So let's say, okay, you never asked. Even though, some must have celebrated. At least one or two. Can you tell me when it happened?"
He had never cared.
Never.
Suddenly he wished he had. He wished he had not stayed in his room after eight every day. He did not remember participating to any party. It was normal, he never did!
He did not even know if anyone had had a party at the dorms. But… Kirishima not having a birthday party? Himslef no attending that party? …at least for five minutes? Or Pinky's? Or… When was even Kirishima's birthday anyway?
Why had he never cared, or asked?
"It's okay, Ba…brat."
He had no idea when was Kirishima's birthday, and he suddenly doubted if it was normal or not.
Did he care that little?
Was his mother right?
Fuck.
In both cases, fuck.
"Deku remembers U.A. as well." He blurted out. "… and he knows birthdates."
The hand on his shoulder suddenly annoyingly pat his hair. She tried to pull him closer, and he rooted his foot on the ground.
"You mean Izuku…right? He is so nice, to play along… I could picture him too as a hero, you know."
FOR FUCK SAKE!
He needed to blow up something.
"Deku is not…!"
He turned away from her. He needed to calm down. He needed space, he needed air, and he needed to ask Kirishima or Deku all fucking birthdates next time they'd meet.
He rubbed his eyes, feeling three almost sleepless nights were starting to take their toll. He was tired, tired of that shit, of all that shit…
Something caught his eye, something he recognized in the middle of the crowd, and the next second, all his doubts were thrown to a secondary level of importance.
There was something much, much more important.
Someone, in the crowd, was watching them.
The man was standing far away, just close enough to see them, just far enough to be almost unnoticeable. He would have been unnoticeable, would he have been anyone else.
The entire crowd paid him no attention, but there was no way Bakugo would not notice him.
He was staring at that boring, tired, scared face for hours five days out seven. He knew it on the back of his hand, from the black unruly hair, to the chin disappearing into this scarf weapon.
How could he still wear the scarf?
The question hanged in the air for a second, and Bakugo totally brushed it away. He shook his mother hand off, ignored her as if she had never existed, and rushed forward.