TACO Run

Chapter 7

Olberic frowned at his reflection in the small mirror, rubbing his chin.

The cell he'd been allowed to borrow was in the back of the guard house, set in a group of short halls, each of which held two or three cells. There were no prisoners in the cells near the one Olberic had used, which was one of the three closest to the cell-hall's entrance.

The cells themselves were startlingly clean, compared to what he was used to. The floors were bare stone—or rather, a smooth substance that imitated stone—and the walls were constructed of heavy rectangular blocks covered in a layer of thick white paint, with the front barred by good steel sunk directly into the floors and ceiling. Curious prodding had revealed that the hinges of the cell door were well-oiled, rather than left to rust and creak whenever opened. There was no bed or cot, of course, but he was pleasantly surprised by the thin, foldable mattress provided in the cell, which was long and broad enough for even his frame, though by no means comfortable.

Three structures occupied the cell. A small privy stood in the most secluded corner, which was a vast improvement over the chamber pot or simple hole in the floor most prisons provided, as it could wash down whatever was in it by turning a small handle. There was also a shelf which could double as a reading-desk in a pinch, although it had no chair, and a small basin attached to the wall, made to catch the water which could be expelled by the curved pipe set above it.

I have stayed in inns less comfortable and convenient than this, Olberic mused, splashing water on his face. Though the lack of privacy or a window marks the difference. Thankfully, the guardsmen monitoring the cells had avoided the hall his was in, in an effort to afford him some modicum of privacy. They had also provided him with an extra blanket, seeming both worried and apologetic as they did so.

Olberic was unsure of what all Kikuchi had told them. The language of this land was opaque to him even after the hours spent conversing with the clerk the night before.

Kikuchi had been very polite, even deferential, and yet somehow exuded a surety in himself and his duties that Olberic found admirable. He had explained how, a little over a hundred years ago, their world had undergone a change; children began being born with odd abilities and appearances, causing objects to float, giving off light, sprouting tails, or any of a number of unpredictable powers. The chaos, fear, and conflict born of this phenomenon was great, and the turmoil rocked the world. Some born with such powers turned to crime, some tried to rid themselves of their abilities, some attempted to gain a fortune from them, still others used their gifts to protect their fellow man from harm. When at last the laws of the lands were adapted to the change in the world, there were three new terms which had emerged from the chaos:

'Quirk', meaning the distinct superhuman ability an individual might possess. The name was a reference to how each person's ability was unique. Even within family lines, which often inherited a variant of the previous generation's power, the specifics of a 'Quirk' frequently differed. Kikuchi had offered himself up as an example. While his family had possessed the ability to speak other languages for three generations now, his allowed him to speak and understand the language of anyone within a certain distance of himself, but his mother's form only allowed her to understand a language, not speak it, and his cousin's required physical contact. Roughly four in five people had Quirks now, though Kikuchi did say that the number was likely even higher than that, as not all Quirks were easily detected.

'Villain'. Rather than simply a criminal or one who had malicious intentions, in this world the term referred to one who chose to use their Quirk to commit crimes. Truthseeker Tsukauchi's duties specifically focused on the solving of crimes committed in such a manner, and his own ability to detect lies spoken near him helped him greatly in this regard.

'Hero'. An individual who not only used their Quirk to help others and defeat Villains, but who did so with the official approval of the government, and was compensated for their efforts. Many of them did not combat Villains directly, but rather used their Quirk to assist and protect the common folk in a multitude of ways. They were not a part of the city guard, which had chosen to disallow the active use of Quirks as weapons by those among them. Rather, a Hero acted on his or her own recognizance, much as a hedge-knight would, although they were still subject to the laws and regulations of the land, and answerable to the courts and guard if they strayed too far from their path.

When Olberic had asked him if the advent of Quirks had changed the balance between humanity and the monstrous races, Kikuchi had winced, and taken a deep breath, and explained something that had shaken Olberic almost more than the knowledge that he was in another world.

This world had no monstrous races. Animals, yes, and many were quite dangerous. But intelligent races besides humanity simply didn't exist. There were no Froggens menacing the plains and riverside roads, no Birdians carrying off lambs and young children. No Ratkin skulking in forest shadows, or Lizardmen ambushing those traveling the frozen slopes and desert wastes.

And there were no Caits.

The Cait who had so startled Olberic was not a Cait at all, but a man named Tamakawa Sansa, whose Quirk had given him the head of a cat but left him otherwise unchanged. Olberic was glad that he had surrendered his sword to the guardsmen long before that encounter. Had he been armed, he might have struck out at Tamakawa from sheer reflex, knowing the thieving, treacherous nature of Caits and the swiftness with which they fled those who put up even a token resistance. And to do so would have been a mistake he could not atone for. As it was, he had asked Kikuchi to extend his apologies to Tamakawa for the hostile reaction, even if he had done the man no injury.

Kikuchi had agreed, and asked Olberic for tales from his own world, and descriptions of the monstrous races he had encountered, so that he might warn him of any other members of their division whose resemblance to his past foes might cause an adverse reaction.

Olberic had been more than willing to comply, and spoken of the Ratkin that plagued the roads near Cobbleston, and how he had trained the villagers to defend against them. Swords were effective against most Ratkin, but some required skill with a spear to defeat safely, and bows were almost always a useful alternative, at least for the weaker among them.

When Kikuchi asked if Olberic had always lived in Cobbleston, Olberic had only shaken his head. The tale of Hornburg's fall, and his failure to protect king and country, was not an easy one in the telling, even now. Though he had made peace with Erhardt's betrayal, and with the man himself, he still often dreamed of a blood-stained standard, broken and trampled underfoot, and his liege's body felled by the blade of his brother-in-arms.

Olberic sighed, firmly setting the memories aside as he unbuckled the strap of his shaving kit. It was a small one, meant for travel; a gift from young Philip's mother, when he had first taken the boy on as a prentice. He carried it at the back of his belt when on the road, where it wouldn't interfere with his draw.

In the end, he had given a crude recounting of Hornburg's fall to Kikuchi, and admitted to the years he had spent without drive or purpose afterward, living by the sword because it was all he knew how to do, and the people of Cobbleston had no master-at-arms to defend them, or teach them how to defend themselves. That led to happier topics, such as young Philip's growing skill, and how a bright young merchant, a scholar on sabbatical, and a cleric on a holy pilgrimage had joined forces with him to clean the brigands out of a nearby cave system, rescuing his kidnapped prentice and revealing his identity to the villagers in the process.

"You were concealing your identity?" Kikuchi had asked, startled.

Olberic had shrugged. "I was not a common soldier in the service of Hornburg's king," he'd said simply. "Both myself and Erhardt were his champions; the first in every desperate charge, and the last in every desperate retreat. To hold that pass alone, even from a hundred men, was known to be within my abilities. And…" A sigh. "Hornburg fell. Had its enemies known my whereabouts, it would have brought danger to the people of Cobbleston." Another sigh, one hand rising to rub at the discomfort stiffening the back of his neck. "And too, I had little desire to be reminded of who I had been before. For many years, I wished for no more than to lose myself in the day-to-day trials of a common man. I convinced myself that Olberic, the Unbending Blade of Hornburg, had perished with his liege and land, and now I was only the hedge-knight Berg, whose past was of no consequence… whatever his skills might be."

Kikuchi had seen his discomfort and changed the subject, asking more about the people he'd met, who had become his traveling companions, and then his comrades-in-arms. Bright Tressa, out for adventure and treasure and always looking for a bargain. Clever Cyrus, who could not keep his nose out of others' business, yet always meant well. Fair Ophilia, whose warmth and kindness gave guidance to even the most lost of souls. Skeptical Therion, whose speed and skill at theft were as admirable as his unspoken honor. Warm Alfyn, whose open-heartedness could loosen the tongues of even the most secretive of men. Cunning H'aanit, whose knowledge of wild beasts and skill with the bow made her more than a match for any opponent her pride provoked. And ever-shadowed Primrose, whose wiles and loveliness could turn the head of any she chose, and who, more than anyone, knew what darkness lurked within the hearts of men.

Olberic blinked back to the present, splashing more water on his face. He missed his friends, more with every moment in this land. He might be a warrior, meant to stand at the van and bear the brunt of any attack, but that was only so that his comrades could bring their full talents to bear without fear for their lives. He might be good at it, and he did find a thrill in single combat… but outside of honorable duels, he did not like to fight alone.

Not that there will be much fighting in the near future, I should think, he acknowledged ruefully. I am for now without my sword… and I do not think the Truthseeker meant a mere few days, when he said regaining it might take a while.

Olberic had not been left unarmed in near two decades, not for longer than it took to bathe—and even then, his sword had always been close to hand.

He didn't like it. He felt… not naked without a weapon, but vulnerable. Unready. Unsettled, as though at any moment the world might tilt beneath his feet.

A yelp from the corridor sounded as though it had done just that, but beneath the feet of another. Olberic started, hand twitching towards the sword he did not have, and looked over to see a young guardsman—guardswoman, rather—whose braided-back hair rippled green and gold for a moment, before settling into a solid dark grey. She said something that sounded vaguely apologetic, giving him a crisp, professional bow, and then moved past him down the corridor. Likely to relieve the guardsman stationed further inside the cell-halls, if his understanding of the shift changes was correct.

Shoulders only reluctantly untensing, Olberic turned back to the task at hand. Tapping his razor's blade against the side of the basin to shake off the worst of the foam, he inspected himself in the mirror, and nodded his satisfaction.

He was still unsettled. Likely would be, even if he had been allowed to keep his sword. This world was different and strange, and though he of all people would proclaim most of those differences to be positive ones—this land had not seen true war in decades, not the kind where the fate of kingdoms was at stake—he would also be the first to admit that he felt… lost.

What use was a swordsman, when merely owning a weapon was restricted? What purpose did a warrior have, when even lethal foes were to be defeated and captured with non-lethal force whenever possible? When a man could not simply act to protect the weak about him, without the permission and approval of the government?

I swing my sword in the defense of the innocent, against any who would bring them harm. Yet if I cannot wield my sword at all…

There was no place for him in this world. He felt it, down to his bones. And if Cyrus could not find a way to return them to their proper world, or worse, if Cyrus and the others were not here, and could never even find him…

Olberic was no stranger to fear. It was a natural, practical emotion, a sign that one understood the danger one faced. Anyone who said they felt no fear when faced with danger and uncertainty was either a liar or a madman.

Fear was sensible. Panic killed. And every time Olberic thought about being trapped, unarmed, in a foreign land where he did not and could never belong, where he was not a help and guardian to others, but a burden instead… panic crept closer.

You're like a tall tree, Tressa's bright voice proclaimed in his memories. He could practically see her smiling up at him, overfull backpack slung over narrow shoulders, eyes green as sea-glass sparkling with life. Steadfast and calm. Nothing sways you. And you have a great view!

Olberic took a deep, heavy breath. Finished cleaning and sharpening his razor, and packed his kit away. Steadfast and calm.

So. He was unarmed in a foreign land. He was not among enemies, and thus, in no immediate danger. But unarmed or no, a warrior could not let himself grow rusty.

Practice, then. I have nowhere pressing to be, and while this cell is small, the corridor might be open enough. It would be difficult without actual weapons, but he had trained without proper equipment before.

Folding the blankets he had been lent neatly at the end of his borrowed pallet, Olberic moved out into the corridor. It was always best to begin by stretching.

Naomasa had barely sat down at his desk when the interdepartmental phone rang. He blinked at it, rubbed his face, and then picked up the receiver. "Detective Tsukauchi speaking."

"Sir, were you aware that the foreigner you lent a cell to was not searched prior to being left there?" Ogushi Iromi's tone was, as always, polite and controlled. She worked hard on that, since her Quirk, Pathochromia, caused her hair color to change with her emotions.

Naomasa blinked again. "Pardon?"

"I walked in on him shaving with a straight razor, sir. It was… startling, to say the least."

He would not facepalm. Not this early in the morning. "I hadn't realized, no," he admitted with a sigh. "I'm sorry you walked into that unprepared, and thank you for letting me know." He hung up the phone after assuring Ogushi that he would handle the situation.

He'd have to talk to the officers who'd dealt with Olberic before Kikuchi's arrival, though he was as much to blame as they were—he should have realized that just because Olberic gave up his obvious weapon didn't mean he didn't have any others on him. Not that a straight razor technically counts as a weapon. They're usually under the six-centimeter edged blade limit, right? A prisoner still shouldn't have one, though… not that Olberic was actually a prisoner.

Naomasa didn't like how ambiguous the situation was. Writing up the report had been an excruciating task last night, and he still wanted to go over it again before he sent it to Chief Tsuragamae later today. He needed to read Kikuchi's report too—it included full transcripts of their conversations, translated into as accurate of Japanese as Kikuchi could manage. Ōmeda had forwarded him a report as well, from the evidence room where Olberic's sword was being held for now. Apparently, it had been identified as a variant of a European executioner's sword, designed for removing heads and limbs as efficiently and with as little pain for the subject as possible. The lack of a piercing tip meant that the sword was not actually designed for combat.

And this is the weapon Olberic favors? It seemed odd, for someone who claimed to be a warrior before all else. Then again, I don't know anything about his world. He may have a personal reason for using that specific sword.

Well, Naomasa couldn't get any work done until he handled the situation with the razor. How should I handle it, though? he asked himself as he left his office. He isn't a prisoner, so technically a personal care tool such as a straight razor isn't something we can forbid him to keep on his person. But for anything that could be potentially used as a weapon to be in the prisoner detention area and not under the control of police personnel isn't exactly tenable either.

Maybe if he assigned Olberic a locker near the physical training room? It would give him a dedicated, secure place to keep his belongings that wasn't anywhere near the cells, but which he could easily access if he needed to. And since the showers were nearby, he could wash up and shave without having to travel back across the department to his cell.

It would bring him into contact with a lot of people, though. Report or no report, I wanted to be discreet about his presence. Both to avoid interfering with everyone's jobs, and to prevent Olberic's presence from becoming popular news somehow. He didn't need the kind of trouble the media could bring, even if they did focus almost exclusively on Hero and Villain activity.

Naomasa nodded to the officer on door-duty for the detention area. I suppose it's too late to really avoid the department as a whole knowing about him. It's not like his arrival was subtle. "Anything interesting happen?"

"Not that I know of, sir. Although Ogushi radioed me just a second ago, and told me you were on your way. She said to tell you that you'd want to come to the monitoring station, sir."

"Thank you, Mitani." Mitani Masshiro was one of the oldest men in the department, and he had absolutely no intention of ever being promoted beyond his current station. His Quirk, Pure White, allowed him to turn anything he touched pristine white for ten times as long as he maintained contact with it. "I'll do that; can you let her know I'm on my way?"

"Yes, sir."

Naomasa heard Mitani doing just that as the door to the detention center closed behind him. He made his way briskly to the monitoring station, bypassing the entrance to the cell block Olberic was occupying entirely. "You wanted to see me, Ogushi?"

"Not exactly, sir." She didn't look away from the monitor, hair dark grey save for the occasional flicker of pale orange. "I thought you'd want to see this. Before you walked in on him."

Him? "You mean mister Eisenberg?" Naomasa moved over to stand behind her, looking at the monitor she indicated.

Olberic stood near the south end of the corridor, side-on to the hall, one arm extended as though holding out a sword in challenge. And then he moved.

Fast, came Naomasa's first, startled thought, as he watched the warrior cleave an imaginary foe's arm from his body. Or… no, not fast. Sharp. Efficient. If he'd had any doubts that Olberic really was a swordsman, they'd been erased. Naomasa could practically see the foe he fought, even if they weren't really there.

Someone Kikuchi's height, wielding a knife. Fast, and vicious, and all too willing to take advantage of any openings he might leave. Olberic attacks, but his enemy dodges the strike and retaliates—it's a glancing blow, turned aside by those armored sleeves he wears. Another overhead strike, and the knife-wielder is down. Olberic takes a step back, double-checking his footing without looking away from his opponent, slides his sword home into its sheath—

Naomasa blinked. In the same motion that Olberic had used to sheathe his imaginary sword, he'd drawn another imaginary weapon from over his shoulder with his left hand.

Buccaneers. Olberic imagined the caverns near Tressa's home of Rippletide, and the pirates who plagued the shores. Three of them. Wielding cutlasses—

He braced the spear's haft between his elbow and side, and then lunged forward with a series of rapid piercing attacks. Inaccurate, but that was secondary to maintaining the range between them. Four strikes and seven misses. But the blows that had struck had caused two of the buccaneers to drop their cutlasses, which would leave them briefly vulnerable. Better to focus on those two, remove at least one of them before they could retrieve their weapons.

The one still armed swung his cutlass; Olberic deflected it with the haft of his spear, fire-hardened wood turning the blow aside so that the buccaneer stumbled to his right. Olberic took a half-step forward diagonally and lunged again, taking the leftmost buccaneer in the throat; he fell with a gurgling scream and did not rise again.

Olberic stepped back once, twice, preventing the remaining two buccaneers from flanking him as the one he'd disarmed before regained his cutlass and made a hasty slash in his direction, which skimmed over the armored back of his left glove but left no mark. He set himself, and drove them both back again with another series of rapid strikes—one tore a ragged track over a buccaneer's bicep, another sent one tumbling to the ground, bleeding out from a hole in his thigh. The rest missed, but there was only one remaining enemy now. Olberic whipped the spear sideways to knock aside a hasty, desperate cut at his flank, and then drove the heavy metal spearhead through the buccaneer's belly and out through his back, just to the right of his spine.

Olberic levered the body free of his weapon, shook the blood off, and moved on to the next fight.

Creeping Treant. Olberic switched from spear to axe, blinking at the memory of leaf-dappled shadows on a forest path. He'd need the extra chopping power to sever this foe's tough branches. For two rounds he simply defended, observing and gauging his enemy's strength. Then, in a brief pause of leafy flailing, he unleashed four blows in rapid succession, cleaving through the half-rotted trunk and leaving kindling behind.

The forest faded, opening up to a wide blue sky only occasionally studded with clouds. His axe returned to the back of his belt, beside his shaving kit.

Froggens. Four. Wielding spears. Olberic drew his bow, set arrow to string, and loosed. He would never have half the skill H'aanit did, but the arrow pierced through the leading Froggen's flabby skull and caused it to collapse, thrashing, to the grass edging the path through the Flatlands. He loosed another arrow after dodging or deflecting the remaining three Froggens' spears, this one taking the Froggen to the rear squarely in the left eye. Two steps back to buy himself some space, and he loosed two more arrows in rapid succession, taking down the remaining Froggens almost at the same time.

Olberic paused in his imaginary fights, walking himself through the process of unstringing his bow and putting it away. Next, he would practice his staff-work—never his best weapon—by combating the memories of the aberrations occasionally found in the caves not far from Cobbleston.

Ambling Bones. He held an imagined staff crosswise before his chest, ready at any moment to let one end snap out and strike the reanimated skeleton. Better to fight defensively, lest the monstrous claws of such a foul abomination make contact, and force unnatural terror on his soul. When he was certain he had an opening, he shifted his grip on the staff to allow for a mighty overhead swing, caving in its skull under the force of the blow.

Shaking bone splinters from the staff's imaginary end, Olberic moved on to his final round of imaginary enemies—one of the Collared Salamanders common to the Riverlands. Therion was the one who had first taught Olberic how to wield a dagger, how to use speed and finesse rather than brute strength to turn a light blade into lethal trouble. He still wasn't anywhere near Therion's level of skill, or even Primrose's, but he'd learned enough to slide the dagger between the slippery folds of salamander skin, to bite into the flesh beneath and dart back again, before the creature's noxious breath could sting his eyes and leave them blinded. It took several slashes to render the aggressive beast's defenses broken, and he endured a few blows of his own—blunt slams of a slimy tail, the force spread out over a blocking arm and shoulder, rather than knocking his head aside and straining his neck.

When at last his foe was finished, Olberic sighed and cleaned the imaginary dagger, before bowing his head to the imaginary bodies of the fallen. "May the Sacred Flame guide you to your rest," he murmured, hands clasped before his chest. Just so would Ophilia have prayed for their enemies, no matter their race or origins. He had not always done so, had told himself for decades that the lives he ended did not matter… but after meeting the gentle cleric, he had found a better peace in praying for their souls.

I hope that you still pray for me as well, Ophilia. I fear I need your guidance more than ever now, when I cannot see you to receive it.

Naomasa stood back, letting out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. That was… something else. He'd seen plenty of impressive fighters. Even setting aside how incredibly awe-inspiring All Might was, almost all Pro Heroes had some combat ability, even if they specialized in disaster relief or community renewal. But Olberic…

"Sir, where exactly is he from?" Ogushi's hair was still dark grey, but it had taken on a purplish tinge. "Rumor has it he's a retired Hero from some obscure part of central Europe. Like a small town in Switzerland or Liechtenstein."

"I can't say," Naomasa replied apologetically. Because telling you 'another universe' would cause me no end of headaches, whether you believed it or not. Better to have the department believe that it was restricted information, than to openly reveal the truth before he could discuss it with the Chief. "I can tell you that he's determined not to cause us any trouble while he's here if he can help it; do you think assigning him a place for his belongings in the men's lockers would work to keep the detention area secure?"

Oguchi considered that. "Yes, sir," she said crisply after a moment, purple fading out of her hair. "Though if he's going to continue shadow-training like that, it might be a good idea to find him a better place to do it. It's somewhat… distracting, to have that happening on one of the monitors."

"I can see how that would be distracting, yes," Naomasa agreed, smiling wryly. More than once, he'd had to remind himself that Olberic did not, in fact, have a weapon, let alone more than one. A sword, a bow, a knife of some kind… and I'm pretty sure one of those stances was for staff-work. The other two he wasn't sure about. They could either have been different types of sword—one piercing, one heavy cutting—or maybe a spear and something that required a chopping motion. An axe, maybe? "Was he praying at the end?" Naomasa wasn't religious, but there were a few in the department who were devout followers of one faith or another, and the bowed-head pose had seemed very reverent.

"I think so, sir. Most of Europe is Christian, so it wouldn't be surprising."

Naomasa nodded to indicate he'd heard her, but didn't immediately reply aloud. Olberic had finished his prayers, it seemed, and started going through what looked like sword kata even to Naomasa's untrained eye. Not the forms associated with any Eastern sword-style, but something similar enough to be recognizable anyway.

After a moment, Naomasa deliberately turned his back on the monitors. "I'll go try to explain things to mister Eisenberg," he said, as Ogushi continued to watch the warrior practice. "It might take a while though, with Kikuchi off-duty until this evening."

"Yes, sir," Ogushi agreed almost absently. "Good luck, sir."

"Thanks, Ogushi." He'd probably need it.

By the time he'd explained things to Olberic and gotten him settled, Naomasa had received three apologetically grateful messages from All Might regarding spontaneous acts of heroism, a preliminary medical report on the Villain brought in the night before, and a notification from Officer Kaniyashiki that they'd gotten some good intel while on their last assignment, and she and Fat Gum would be by the department later this evening to discuss it. That reminded him that he needed to bring Eraserhead in to talk about their analysis of the Naruhata Vigilante activity data he'd brought them, and he called the underground Hero to schedule another meeting.

It wasn't until three or four in the afternoon that Naomasa got around to reading Kikuchi's report. He wanted to double-check his understanding of Olberic's background and circumstances before he sent Chief Tsuragamae his own report, and Kikuchi's transcripts would be critical to that.

The report was long, with plenty of details to be gleaned about the world Olberic had come from; enough to build a very rough idea of what it had been like, and what Olberic's place in it had been.

Pre-industrial for sure. Not once had Olberic mentioned any weapon more modern than a longbow, or any mechanical structure more complex than a windmill. The closest thing they had to an actual medical professional was an apothecary, a self-taught travelling herbalist with some of the skills of a field-medic. It was a world where the divide between the wealthy and poor was wide, and even the civilians went everywhere armed for fear of bandit or monster attack.

Kikuchi's concluding comment did manage to wring a rueful smile from Naomasa, though.

"Sir, next time you get to teach the medieval soldier about the miracles of modern plumbing."

He was looking forward to Kikuchi's arrival this evening; he needed to ask the records-keeper how to get Olberic a refugee's visa, so his presence would be legal. And he wanted that translation program up and running as soon as possible; communication would be key.

A/N: Since this is set post-game, yes, Olberic has achieved the Warmaster secret job. He still calls himself a warrior, as it is his first and primary calling, but he can and does wield all six weapons in battle. For fans of the Vigilantes: My Hero Academia Illegals setting, this story takes place a little over two weeks before the Sky Egg incident. And Olberic has a futon in his cell instead of a cot.

A/N: I'm sure there's SOMETHING I'm getting wrong about the Japanese criminal justice system here, but the layout of the police department and the cell Olberic is occupying are based off of pictures I found of actual ones in real-life Japan. Mind you, this is MHA. It's NOT real-life Japan, though it's closer than a lot of other manga.