Youmu dreamt of eyes in the dark.
She tried not to dwell too much on what happened between the phase of sleeping and awakening. Had anybody asked, she would have said she was far too busy trying to readjust herself to ordinary life to think about something as vague and insignificant as a dream. But that would be a lie. Youmu kept it quiet, but she knew that the weird things that were happening, the phonecall, the card, the man she saw in the doorway...they were a threat. A reminder that she couldn't just shake off the world of crime and fade into the crowd like she wanted to. Whether it was her surly parole officer or the man who had started it all, the past would not leave her be. But to obsess over it was to admit that the situation was out of her control, to admit to feeling once again like hunted prey. She wasn't quite prepared to make that sacrifice just yet.
At least her volunteer work - boring as it was, gave her something of a sense of routine. In prison, everything was timed with dull, predictable patterns that dominated their lives while they were in there and Youmu was a little chargrined to note that with a full day of nothing to do, she still felt peculiarly untethered. Hopefully that was a side-effect of prison life that would eventually fade with time. She was helping out in a charity shop, sorting through musty old clothes that she wouldn't be caught dead wearing. She wondered if it was someone's idea of a joke, setting her up here. It was just typical she was working with clothes but they were about as far away from the word 'fashion' as it was possible to be. She pouted throughout her shift - why did she have to spend her time touching these things? She wanted to go home and pour hand-sanitiser on. True, she could still be in jail, instead, but that didn't mean she had to like this stupid job she wasn't even being paid for.
She therefore generally dressed to the nines when she went there - she wanted to make a point that she did not belong here, that she appreciated nice things like a silk blouse or designer skirt. Such was her outfit when she returned to her apartment one sunny evening, wedges clomping against the stairs, keys jangling in her hand.
She still felt light, unsteady on her feet, even though Yamamoto's poison was gone from her system now. Youmu kicked off her shoes with a sigh as she entered her place - she loved her wedges, but it was nice to take them off and massage the balls of her feet. She heated some passable teriyaki in the microwave and plopped herself down on the sofa, flicking on the TV. She needed something to switch off to when she was alone, from all the chattering and questions in her head that she didn't have any answers to.
Idly, Youmu channel-surfed, knowing that in about half an hour a movie about glamorous actresses and their equally glamorous problems was coming on - perfect brain-rotting television. Until then, she'd have to find something halfway-
"...death of Jin Shinbuya at seven o' clock."
Youmu froze, then hurriedly flicked back to channel five, swearing under her breath, then an image flashed up onscreen behind the solemn newscaster. Youmu sank back against the sofa cushions, gaze transfixed on the photograph. She knew that face, though it had been a long time since it had appeared before her.
"The founder of Shinbuya orphanage, Jin Shinbuya, was found dead in his home yesterday afternoon by his cleaning lady. Mr. Shinbuya was unmarried and lived alone - his cause of death is being ruled as a heart attack."
Youmu snorted in a decidedly unladylike way.
"You need a heart if something's going to attack it," she sneered, suddenly craving a big glass of wine.
That face...he hadn't actually visited the orphanage that bore his name much, but he'd seen it enough to know that the conditions were poor, crowded and cramped, with only two meals a day for the children supposedly under their care. Youmu had vague memories of a camera crew coming to film the orphanage for a day once - she and the other very young children had been kept out of the way, to maintain the illusion that there was indeed plenty to go around, including clothing, beds and food. Their stick-thin frames and faded, oversized hand-me-downs were no doubt not camera-ready. She remembered peeking through the gap of an ajar door at the strangers with their fancy equipment for a few fleeting seconds before she was roughly yanked back inside.
Youmu scratched an itch on her arm, barely listening to the news report anymore a memories played out in her head, long lonely nights on sagging mattresses, the taunting playground jeer of her old nickname, a constant ache in her belly.
Good riddance. Youmu thought savagely, as the old man's face flicked off the screen as the newsreader smoothly moved on to other topics. She was only sorry that his death had probably been a quick one.
Youmu let out a startled shriek as the phone began ringing, nearly toppling off the sofa in surprise. Her face burned as she stood up and smoothed a hand over her hair, even if nobody had been there to witness that undignified display. She rolled her eyes and snatched the phone from the plastic cradle - it was probably just Aizawa reminding her when her next appointment was or some such thing. Thus her voice was already disinterested when she answered;
"Hello?"
"Hello, Princess."
Youmu's fingers tightened on the receiver and she found herself standing up a little straighter. The voice on the other end couldn't see her, of course (at least, she sincerely hoped he couldn't), but the reflex to seem utterly put together and composed was still there. She knew all too well how he loved to make people squirm.
"Motoya?" she breathed, though she already knew who it was, she couldn't quite believe his sheer audacity. Truly, his ego knew no bounds.
"Glad to hear your voice, Youmu-chan," he drawled. "Heard life isn't going so well as a good little citizen. Cyanide poisoning, wasn't it?"
Arsenic. Youmu thought automatically, even as her mouth dropped open in soundless surprise. How could he have known that in such a short space of time? Unless...her mind went back to the card she'd received at the hospital.
"You...you came to-?"
"Couldn't. Got things to do, sweetheart. But did you get my card?"
Youmu didn't answer, letting the silence stretch between them for a few minutes, winding the phone's cord around her finger. It was a luxury she wasn't used to having, making someone wait before she replied. Especially not when it came to her former employer.
"What do you want, Motoya?" she asked, frowning at a crack in the wall where the beige paint was starting to chip around the edges. "I certainly don't recall you trying to stop the cops when they came for us. You didn't come for the trials and you definitely didn't show your face while I rotted in jail thanks to you. Excuse me if I'm not feeling terribly thrilled to hear from you now."
"You're cute when you get annoyed," Motoya remarked, exhaling, and she could just picture the sinister smirk on his face as cigar smoke curled leisurely around him, the ash burning vivid orange. Her teeth sank into her bottom lip. "Be reasonable, Youmu-chan. You capture a king in chess and you lose the game."
"So we're your pawns? Is that what you're saying?" Youmu asked sharply, eyes narrowing.
"Hardly." he purred. "You're more like my lieutenants. Sometimes you have to make difficult choices. And besides, you should be a little more grateful."
"Grateful?"
"Mm. You haven't seen the news? Apparently, Shinbuya Jin is dead."
The words doused her anger in one fell swoop. She felt like she had a bucket of ice-water thrown over her, which was no doubt his intention. Her eyes flicked towards the TV, Shinbuya's dour mugshot fresh in her mind's eye.
No sign of a forced entry. Lived alone. Death ruled as a heart attack.
Motoya could show you the deepest, darkest fears. He could reach into your mind and make whatever kept you up at night a temporary, horrifying reality. In theory...wouldn't that be enough of a shock to an old man to induce a heart attack?
"You..." she breathed.
"Too bad I can't see you right now, Youmu-chan. But I know who's watching you, so our reunion will have to wait for now. Kind of like a princess being guarded by a dragon. One of those fairytales."
"How did you know about Eraserhead?" she asked, digging her nails into her palm, her heart thudding hard in her chest, despite her idly curious tone.
"Let's just say I have an inside source," Motoya said, smoothly. "I hope you don't end up in hospital again - but then, people will always try to make you pay for what you did, hm? Someone like you walking among them must drive them crazy. And you can't even use your Quirk to protect yourself. You must feel so helpless, Youmu-chan. So many people waiting to hurt you."
Youmu said nothing.
She didn't need to for Motoya to know he'd won.
"Talk soon, Youmu-chan. Sweet dreams."
He hung up, the whining drone of the dial tone filling her ear. Slowly, she put the phone back into the receiver.
Motoya...had he really killed an old man because of her? Or was he just claiming it a fortuitous accident as his own work? She didn't know. She couldn't see what Motoya would gain from doing that, especially if he was still lying low...but wasn't it so typical of him to play games with her the moment she was within his reach? If he thought killing her old tormentor would impress her, then why hesitate? Who gave a shit about some old man?
Ugh...I can't deal with this right now. Youmu thought, shaking her head.
She'd just gotten out of hospital after a round with a different former bully. She didn't have the energy to ponder over Motoya's reasoning or pretend to feel anything but cold satisfaction over Shinbuya Jin, and knowing he had been murdered soured that little victory, much to her chagrin.
No, what Youmu needed was a drink.
A smile flickered across her face at the thought. Yes, she needed to get out of this confining apartment and try enjoying herself. Her mind made up, she strode towards her room with newfound purpose. Going out for a few drinks seemed like the perfect solution to avoid the growing knot in her stomach, the sense of dread that lingered in the room like a bad stench after that phonecall. Plus, she could do with some enjoyable company for a change. No wonder she felt gloomy with only Aizawa, Miyawaki and nurses to talk to! She needed to be around people who weren't there because they were paid to be.
Finally, she found what she was looking for and pulled it out of her wardrobe with a little smirk. Her favourite little black dress, just waiting for her to slip inside.
Time to have a little fun.
"How long have you been babysitting her now?" Hizashi Yamada asked, peering at Aizawa from over the rim of his glass. Off the clock, it was astonishing how different he looked from Present Mic...until he smiled or started speaking, of course. "A couple of weeks? Doesn't seem like your usual type of job, Aizawa."
Aizawa sighed, flicking a wry look in Hizashi's direction.
"The pay was good and I'm one of the few people who can neutralise her Quirk," he shrugged, slouching back against the sofa with a weary air. "It seemed like a logical decision."
"And someone's already tried to kill her?" Nemuri asked, with a disbelieving note in her voice, circling her wineglass rim with her fingertip.
"I don't think death was the intent," Aizawa said, blackly, "They just wanted to make her suffer."
The prison guards were probably wishing they'd left well enough alone, now Aizawa couldn't help but enjoy the sweet irony that they would soon be on the other side of the bars. They'd better watch themselves.
"Jeez!" Hizashi whistled. "We finally get some free time and you take on this extra work?"
"Somebody had to." Aizawa shrugged.
"You and your logical choices." Nemuri snorted, shaking her long black hair out of her face, blue eyes flicking to him with a look of fond exasperation. "Only you would agree to watch a villain on your break time just for a little extra pocket change and because you're suitable for it."
Aizawa snorted at the pair of them, shoving a hand through his hair. As much as he considered Tanaka troublesome, now that he had met the woman, he couldn't help but feel...ingrained. A darkness lurked at the heart of this job, one that Aizawa wanted to hunt down and destroy, and she was the potential key to finding the source of it. He couldn't help himself - it was that very drive that made him get up off the floor after taking hard knocks, back when he was a student at UA.
"I think...one of her old associates might be trying to get back in touch with her," Aizawa said, after a pause. "Motoya. Call it intuition, but someone left a note for her in hospital and she seems...distracted. Like she's not telling something."
"Really? How d'you know it's him?" Hizashi asked, raising his eyebrows. "Nobody was ever able to track their ringleader down. Would he really risk getting caught now?"
"People get cocky when they've gotten away with something." Aizawa replied. "I don't doubt he's clever, but hopefully not as clever as he thinks he is. He'll know I'm watching her, but I can't let her know I know something's up."
"You sneaky bastard." Nemuri said, amused.
Aizawa sighed.
"It wasn't my original intention, but if she's going to provide us with a lead, then I'm going to take it. Until I know for sure where her loyalties lie, I can't let her in on the situation. She did time for him."
"Why, Aizawa, it almost sounds like you're bothered about lying to her."
"Lying never bothers me when it's for a logical reason."
"Forgive me if I don't quite believe you~" Hizashi chimed and Nemuri smirked at him.
"Shut up-" Aizawa began, when his phone began ringing. He fished it out of his pocket and held it to his ear. "Eraserhead. What's - fine, play it."
Nemuri and Hizashi fell silent as Aizawa listened intently to a recorded message just picked up from Tanaka's apartment, his brows knitting together in a frown, a hint of teeth showing in displeasure.
"Someone like you walking among them must drive them crazy. And you can't even use your Quirk to protect yourself. You must feel so helpless, Youmu-chan. So many people waiting to hurt you."
The sly, insidious tone made Aizawa's hackles rise. He pulled the phone away from his ear, seized by a peculiar urge to dig his finger in, as if he could physically rub away the sound of Motoya's voice. No wonder she sounded so...hesitant. Nothing like the way she sounded when she was aiming catty barbs his way.
"I have to go." he announced to Hizashi and Nemuri, and despite the abruptness of his announcement, neither began pestering him for a detailed explanation, either thanks to the look on his face or thanks to their own finely honed Pro instincts.
Aizawa snatched up his goggles and scarf and left - his friends could let themselves out, this wasn't the first time he'd suddenly left because of a mission. But after that little phonecall, Youmu Tanaka went from a side job to someone that he was actively observing. He wanted to know exactly what she was going to do in response to that conversation - Motoya said they couldn't meet 'yet', but there could have been a code hidden in that conversation that an outsider would completely miss. He couldn't take that chance. And as for Shinbuya Jin...he'd have to do his homework on that later, but the name was tickling something in the back of his head.
His timing was off, so he ended up having to stop atop a building across from her apartment block, scarf rippling in the light breeze, crouched like a bird of prey.
When Tanaka stepped outside, his eyebrows shot up, nearly disappearing under his hair.
Just what the hell are you wearing, Tanaka?
In high black heels that wrapped around surprisingly long legs on such a petite woman, Tanaka strode towards the gates, with a confident strut that made even Aizawa turn his head to watch her. That little black dress wasn't what he'd call suitable for a crisp spring night, but it did show her off to her best possible advantage without being tacky. No doubt she figured that having legs like those and keeping them hidden was truly a waste. Her light hair billowed behind her and she held a little quilted purse that looked expensive.
When she turned into the street and climbed into a taxi, it was a simple matter for Aizawa to jump from the rooftops to keep pace with the taxi. A Friday night meant that the traffic was slow, plenty of people ready to blow off steam after a long day of work. Tanaka got out once they reached the main street, smoothing down her dress and heading down the road, a purposefulness to her walk that had Aizawa tsking when he realised where she was going.
A bar? You've just gotten out of hospital, you little idiot.
Well, scolding her inside his head wasn't going to accomplish anything. He wasn't exactly surprised she wanted alcohol after listening to Motoya drip poison in her ear - hell, it was actually pretty understandable - but that didn't mean he approved of her being so careless with her health so soon after she'd had an encounter with actual poison. Perhaps she was simply going out for a drink, or it could be she was intending to meet, if not the man himself, then a contact or friend of Motoya's. He couldn't risk letting her go without verifying just where she thought she was going.
That's what Aizawa told himself, anyway, as he swung down into an alleyway and headed for the bar, his hands sliding into his pockets. He wasn't going to sit and ponder on irrational things like emotions while he was on the job, but he had one mission tonight, one he intended to carry through:
Don't let her out of your sight.