Design
A common sight between classes and dinner, Izuku sat on a park bench in the shade, knees drawn to his chest as he scribbled in his notes. The increasing cold kept everyone inside the dorms, giving him a little privacy at the cost of enduring the late autumn wind.
"Costume: something to conceal the face, a jacket or a deep hood, (a mask?); gloves—important! no fingerprints; needs to be imposing—drawback small frame, little intimidation without manifesting power…"
A thought exercise, that's all it was, this concept of vigilantism rolling around in his head, gathering ideas as it grew larger and larger. A thought experiment taking form on the page.
"What about colors? All in black? Green hair color would stand out—still not that common. Dye jobs would be tedious—worth it as camouflage? DNA matches are a danger—"
The school bell chimed. Classes and training had been done with, but the marketing students were coming back from a field trip to a banking exposition. In small groups, they carried briefcases and plastic bags filled with convention fliers and freebies, their ID cards on dark lanyards that matched their formal slacks and skirts and ties. They were all would-be salarymen and hopeful CEOs of their own companies, although a few rumpled outcasts followed at the fringes.
The students went nowhere without their usual escort of a black car after their bus. Without the powerful quirks of the heroic classes nor the inventions of the designers,the marketing classes were still UA students and tempting targets. And the government insisted on offering protection.
Izuku had asked the teachers what they thought of the added security. No one had answered him without looking around first and cursing afterward.
Today, parked behind the school bus, two government agents stepped out to stretch their legs, leaning against the car and smoking. In all the time Izuku had seen them, they'd never stopped to talk to any of the students, despite the numerous school trips they'd shadowed.
This was the third expo the marketing students had been to in the semester, and Izuku heard the difference in their conversations as they passed by—vague guesses about business trends gave way to specific items in their portfolios, job opportunities and the stock prices of each company, the creative freedom of one firm vs. the sure success of another. Izuku had several of the students in his notes, those who had stood out, already building their reputations, and what they were increasingly known for: bold costume designs, social media optimizing, business card minimalism, and networking between current heroes and potential sidekicks.
He wondered if they'd ever imagined designing a costume for a vigilante. Aside from a few wealthy stand-outs, most quirks who didn't follow the hero rules also didn't seem to have the support of a professional team. There had to be some designers willing to create for a vigilante —
"—don't know why you even bothered to show up, dressed like that. You're practically warning investors off with that look."
Izuku glanced up. A pack of girls faced a slightly disheveled young man, his shirt half-untucked, his shoes slightly scuffed. His coat jacket looked half a size too big and he fidgeted with the watch on his arm, clearly not used to wearing it. Unremarkable on his own, but framed against the pressed and steamed perfection of his classmates, Izuku had to admit that he stood out for the wrong reasons.
But Izuku's attention didn't linger on the outcast, ducking their scorn and retreating back to their dorms. The girl who had spoken—petite, rail thin with overly large glasses—had tipped her head back at the precise angle to show off her polite smile. She held her briefcase over her shoulder playfully without a single crease in her clothing. And her eyes held nothing but sharp contempt, following her victim's back all the way to the door. She could have twisted a knife without changing her smile, never letting a drop of blood fall on her soft winter gloves.
He blinked.
It was her outfit, he realized. The gloves and neat vest she wore made her seem all the more imposing, backed by some kind of official authority. If "clothes made the man," then these clothes gave her power.
Only after staring for half a moment did he realize that she also had green hair, and he added the note: green hair=no problem.
Her triumphant smile flashed at her classmates as she melted back into her group, as innocent as if she hadn't been involved at all. She had stomped her classmate's pride into the dirt as well as any villain on a fallen hero. The thought occurred to him. Who would look for a villain inside a school for heroes? And—
Izuku paused.
Villain?
Something in him clenched. He remembered Tsuyu's look at them before rescuing Bakugou, thinking that breaking the rules was the same ethos that villains lived by. Any hero who worked against his friends would have to see that same look, the same sadness and regret, possibly again and again.
A vigilante was a villain in society's eyes. Anyone deliberately setting out to terrify criminals would have to cause fear and pain. An anti-hero? No, a villain for sure. Someone who could turn his back on the people closest to him and lie right to their faces. Anyone who could do that…?
Worthless.
He scribbled it on the top of his design notes.
But the description didn't bother him as much as it once had.