A/N: The reason this chapter exists is (mostly) because I originally posted this fic as a one-shot, and then even though it was marked as complete I got a handful of followers for it? And I was so confused. The story is complete; why are these people following it? What else would I write for it, even?

...And that's how another 7K of fic happened. So to those followers: know that this is all your fault ^_^

***Every single warning from the first part, plus: child abuse, lots of allusions to unethical science and unlawful captivity, police brutality (non-explicit), unhealthy family dynamics, err—hostage situations? kinda? and also these scenes are still not in order. Such a happy, well-put-together story this is.***

Your name is Urashiki Takehiko, 19, and a perpetually dour little shit. Eye for an Eye doesn't like reclusive social outcasts like you, but Eye for an Eye is also allowed to have absolutely zero impact on your life, because it's crucial that the two identities are not linked. Even coming to Aniki's lair as you are is a risk.

"All for One," you greet respectfully, because even if you fear no one and even if you're irked, you still know enough about respect to fake it.

"Brother," he returns, nodding from his cot. (Eye for an Eye feels a pang of concern; Takehiko doesn't have a single damn to give.) "Come in, have a seat."

"What's this about." You pause, just long enough to make it clear that you're sitting because you want to and not because you were told to. "Are you finally done with my Quirk?"

"No. I'm afraid there have been some complications concerning Super Regeneration," All for One admits. You twitch in poorly suppressed impatience.

"Complications. What complications."

"The one I gave it to was taken into police custody yesterday."

"Yesterday. When that successor of yours attacked U.A.? The news said no major players were arrested." Your fingers tap out a slow one-two-three-four on the armrest until you force them still. "Did you seriously give a Quirk like mine to someone disposable?"

"Not at all. Calm yourself, brother," he warns.

"Don't 'calm yourself' me, All for One," you reply, voice flat and dead. In even, measured tones you lay out, "do you know how far and hard Eye for an Eye had to look to find someone like me? A body like this, a personality like this, a life like this? You could've lived as Urashiki Takehiko for the rest of this one's natural lifespan, and no one would've suspected a thing. And even if they did, what could they possibly do to put down a man that recovers from even the most fatal of injuries?" A beat. You snort derisively. "Oh, I'm sorry, it's recovered now, isn't it."

All for One is ominously silent and utterly still. You stand up from your seat, irritated and reckless with it. "Give me Eye for an Eye back and tell me who has Super Regeneration," you hiss.

"There will be no need for that," All for One tells you.

His voice is cold. You match him ice for ice when you cross your arms and say, "Oh? Then you're going to have your pet clean up his own mess?" You let your voice be as skeptical as it wants to be, and you don't bother sitting back down.

All for One doesn't betray his annoyance in any movement or expression, but you can sense it anyways. "The situation is not entirely Tomura's fault. And it is more complicated than you believe. If it were a simple matter of breaking someone out of jail, I could have arranged that myself."

"Obviously," you interject with a snort. You deign to sit down, since it seems like All for One's finally going to stop dancing around the subject.

"The one who has Super Regeneration is in a particularly high-security prison. I don't know which one, and I don't believe you could break him out even with Eye for an Eye. He also isn't someone you'll want to use your Quirk on; there's a good chance it will leave you effectively brain-dead."

You wait, but it seems like that's all that All for One is going to say. "So you're saying I should give up on getting my Quirk back." A beat. "Right, if that's all you're going to give me, I'll be taking my leave now." You get up and walk out, muttering, "waste of my time" under your breath as you go.

All for One, of course, can't let you have the last word like that. "It isn't as though you share everything with me either. Tell me, brother: who is the next holder of One for All?" He calls after you.

You freeze, insides cold with something that has nothing to do with anger or Takehiko. This base is relatively secure, and Tomura has been sucking up all the attention from law enforcement lately; you can probably afford one slip. A grin spreads over your face, bright and familiar, and you stick your head back into the room to direct it at your brother.

"Now, now, Aniki. That's not how it works—I only confirm or deny guesses, remember?"

You don't know your real name, and for simplicity's sake call yourself San. You're somewhere in your late twenties, at a guess, and strapped to a makeshift operating table. There are tubes and needles in uncomfortable places. Two hours ago you were brain-dead for the fourth day in a row; a week ago you were running across rooftops as a vigilante.

Ominous footsteps echo down the hall. This place has such a creepy atmosphere, you think you're actually getting chills down your spine.

"Hey, Aniki," you greet loudly, twisting your head upside-down to look at him. The footsteps stop dead.

"Brother. What are you doing here," Aniki hisses. He always sounds so surprised to see you now-a-years.

"Well, you found this guy before I did." You smile cheerily and waggle your fingers; you can't move much else, honestly. And your current face is one built for smiles. "I thought his Quirk looked familiar too."

Aniki harrumphs. "I'm fairly certain his Quirk is unique," he says, which is not untrue and also is a lie. You grin; you've missed Aniki.

"You can't take this Quirk, can you," you tease. "I don't think you can even feel it with yours, or you'd realize how familiar the shape of it is."

You've never actually traded with Aniki before, because he can get touchy about that sort of thing, so you don't know what Quirks feel like to him. But nii-san wasn't so discomfited about trading places with you, even after he got a Quirk to call his own, and you've traded into a lot of different bodies since—most of them with their own unique Quirks.

You recognize the thrum of this one's, dancing in your stomach and burning in your bones. You've recognized it since you saw the news broadcast on TV, really.

You smile, bright and happy and astonishingly real. This man's face really was built for them. "It's nii-san's," you tell Aniki, "but you already guessed that, didn't you?"

Aniki never was able to take nii-san's Quirk back. Maybe your brothers wouldn't have gone so far if he'd been able to.

"He's dead. He's been dead for decades," Aniki says bluntly. Your smile dims involuntarily.

(Aniki never uses nii-san's name. And you understand it, you do, you can't quite bear to use it either, but. Sometimes it still hurts.)

"I know that. And I know you're going to kill this man, because he made a big splash on TV and broke up a lot of your political stranglehold on Osaka and talks far too much like nii-san for your tastes. But you're not going to do it until I figure out how to pass this Quirk on."

"I'm not, am I?" Aniki asks, quiet and dangerous.

You haven't seen him in fourteen years, and you're still strapped to a table, and your Quirk is still with the 43-year-old body of Morigawa Kana in the next room over. In the space of a shiver, you wonder if this is how you die.

"I know that you've been leaving me alone for old times' sake," you tell Aniki, cautious and desperately trying to hide it. His face doesn't change, doesn't even twitch, so you know your words are truth. "I'm saying that you don't have to." How to approach this? "Do you remember that little girl that followed Nii-san around? You... took her hostage once, I think, to get nii-san to back off from one of your bloody little demonstrations." Your mouth curves into a grin despite yourself, Pavlovian amusement twanging through you even when there's nothing remotely funny about any of this. "He was so mad."

Aniki doesn't respond. His face is an empty shell of of a thing, hard and smooth and hollow underneath. If you could rap it with your knuckles, you think it might echo.

"And I don't know if you kept tabs on her, but she developed a Quirk an awful lot like nii-san's. I thought it was coincidence—one of the world's little jokes, or something. But then this guy's fight video made it online."

You don't state the obvious result of that. Few things burn through Aniki's patience quite so quickly as talking about his and nii-san's fights, and this self-proclaimed hero uses the same moves as nii-san, as nii-san's little disciple.

"I think that this is something he did deliberately, Aniki. It seems like something he would do. So even if it isn't... I... let's make a deal. Leave nii-san's legacy alone, and I'll do whatever favors you'd like to ask of me."

"Oh?" Aniki sounds bored now, which is how you know he's not. "I thought you intended to live a civilian life."

"I did. I've lived several, in fact, and it's not bad. But it does get a little lonely," you admit freely, because this is your brother and even when you don't trust him you will never lie to him. "No one but you knows who I actually am anymore, Aniki. And I only ever see you when one of us is getting a little too old. I've missed you."

Aniki hums, which means he's uncomfortable, which makes sense—he'd made truth-telling into a useful tool a long time ago, but open sentiment still makes him break out in hives. Maybe time will dull his aversion to displays of affection. "That's still quite the offer."

"And one I intend to follow through on. You know I can." You eye him. You haven't seen him in years, but Aniki-speak still comes to you easily enough. "I have the capacity to follow through, and the motive. I can prove it if you need me to. Just leave what's left of nii-san alone."

"...Even when he's dead, you still take his side over mine," Aniki muses.

His words sound more thoughtful than irritated; you know better that to trust that. Your answering smile is a thin, bloody little slash of a thing. It doesn't suit San's face at all.

"Nothing so childish, Aniki. Last time you two fought, I didn't interfere, and one of you died. Now that I know there's something of nii-san left alive, I will not repeat my mistake."

"And what about what he'd think of you? If you follow through, and do all the things I'm going to ask you to do, and do them in his name?"

"I don't care." You scowl, and make your voice extra petulant when you say, "if he's going to yell at me, then it's going to be at a time when I'm dead too and I can yell at him back."

Aniki's amused chuckle is genuine this time. "Very well then," he says, beginning the laborious process of unhooking your body from the machines and restraints. "We have a deal."

Your name is Shiragaki Ayame, still. Your nephew Tomura has been living with you for less than a week when he has his first fit.

You might call it a panic attack, except it's something beyond simple panic. The boy rages, at nothing and everything, and he sobs and he rants and he stomps his feet and he disintegrates your apartment's furniture. It's loud, and messy, and not very much of it at all seems to stem from fear.

You don't know what triggered this. You don't know why he's doing this, or what he's seeing, or how to help. So you sit quietly near the TV and wait for him to burn out. When the tears subside, when his anger turns listless and exhausted, when he runs out of breath and passion both, you offer him some milk for his wrecked throat and say nothing as he dusts the glass at a touch.

"What happened today?" You ask instead, soft and unobtrusive. He grumbles wordlessly; his eyes smolder up at you from the little ball he has made of himself.

This in itself is not a problem. You can handle Shiragaki Tomura—can handle Shimura Tenko and all the trauma and frustration that comes with the boy. No, the problem is your neighbors.

You don't have papers for your nephew. Legally, there's no Shiragaki Tomura, no ward of Shiragaki Ayame, and this is ideal—less fuss, less money wasted on bribes and forgeries, and no evidence left of any Shiragaki Tomura existing when the boy inevitably disappears into Aniki's underground kingdom.

But it also means you can't afford your neighbors calling the police because they hear a child screaming in your apartment.

Mikage-san lives behind the door to your apartment's right, and she's an incorrigible gossip. She comes knocking mere minutes after Tomura quiets down, her concern layered honey-thick into something intrusive and unwelcome. Her voice is gentle and her eyes are sharp, and you've never once thought of her as dangerous before she came asking questions and softly offering to call the police for you.

You fend her off in the mild, polite manner of Ayame. You suggest that perhaps your ward's troubled past isn't really her concern, or her business to pry into. You apologize for his unruly behavior. Mikage-san's eyes are bright and innocent and dangerously curious as they survey your apartment; you know the excuse won't last.

The walls of your apartment are thin. When Tomura next has a fit of temper, you try shushing him, try soothing him into silence. He doesn't let you comfort him, and he lashes out when you touch him with gentle hands, and he yells and rages with reckless abandon. Ayame fades out, ever so slightly, and Eye for an Eye surges to the forefront with a vengeance.

Tomura needs to be quiet; you cannot afford an official investigation into either of you at this stage. You capture his wrists, put your hand around his throat, and press him face-down into the couch—tight enough to choke, gentle enough not to bruise.

He's still just a child, after all.

When the flailing subsides and the gurgling stops, you lessen the pressure. Tomura breathes rabbit-quick and blessedly silent under your fingers, and you pull away entirely. The boy sits up, huddled into the couch, and watches you warily as you begin cleaning up the mess in your apartment. You hum a jaunty little tune under your breath, and ignore him.

Over the next two years, you train him (sometimes forcibly) in ways to vent that are less likely to attract police attention. His uncontrollable ranting fades from screaming to a soft undertone. His violent tenancies turn from wanton destruction to the efficient and utter obliteration of a few choice targets. You teach him ways to ground himself in the present when he gets lost in his head, and find it unsurprising that he responds best to pain—scratching himself, mostly. Not ideal, but also not your problem.

When Aniki decides that your time together is up, the boy leaves without so much as a parting word. His gaze, whenever it happens to land on you, is just as wary and resentful as it was the day he moved in. That's okay. You've had to choke him silent on a few too many soft surfaces to really mourn his passing.

(You wonder if this isn't the real reason your brother sent Tenko-kun to you.

Aniki is the sort of man who has no use for emotion, and thus crushes it out of himself. Given someone like Tenko-kun, whose rages might well become a thing of legend, who burns so inexorably and intensely that you wonder if he won't raze the world to ash once his body catches up to his nigh-biblical temper—Aniki would have no idea how to teach your nephew to channel that.)

"A ring?"

Your name is Hitsugashi Akio, 31. Older brother to three, fairly settled into your position as an actual stock broker instead of an office gopher, and yes, wearing a ring on your left hand.

Aniki sounds somewhere between bewildered and amused. "I don't recall getting a wedding invitation, brother," he mocks.

"It's just an engagement ring, we're not married yet," you deny. You blush -very convincingly, you might add- as you lift your hand up to show it off. "But she's really sweet. Oh—did you want one? The invites have already been sent out, but we can introduce you as an old friend at the reception if you'd like."

You give Aniki a quick once-over. "...Might need to borrow a different body for the day, though," you comment neutrally, "or just pick your next body with a harmless appearance in mind." Your gaze is fixed rather pointedly on the bulging arm muscles and unsettling third eye Aniki's current form sports.

Aniki is unamused. "Why are you really getting married?" he wonders idly (which is, of course, how you know it's a genuine question). "You must know she's going to die sooner or later."

Akio's practiced, slightly lovestruck smile slides off your face like a pat of melting butter. "Aah. I know, and I've made my peace with it. But for appearance's sake, at the very least, I should find a wife; a man of my standing without one is either gay or into something illegal, after all." Your mouth twists in a sardonic way that doesn't suit Akio at all; you force it back into it's usual smile. "Besides, Haru-chan really is a sweet girl. I wouldn't mind spending a lifetime with her."

Aniki eyes you in a way you interpret as uncomprehending. Your smile gains a slightly wicked edge as he takes just a moment too long to come up with a response. "You should come to the reception, Aniki," you offer, teasing but still entirely honest. "I'm sure you'll hate her."

(Four months later, Aniki does come, in the guise of a gangly, thick-eyebrowed man. You were right—Aniki hates her.

But he still attends. And, two lifetimes later, he comes again. And again, and again, and every wedding after.)

Your name is Shimura Takeshi, 33.

"Aniki! I need a favor," you call as you slam the door open. A trio of men obviously up to No Good whirl around and brandish various Quirks at you. Aniki barely twitches.

"Now is not a good time," he replies, infuriatingly calm. The implied obviously in his tone is both rude and unnecessary; you can see perfectly well that he's in the middle of something, you just don't give a damn.

"I. Need. A favor," you bite out, with just as much intent to insult. Aniki regards you coldly for a moment.

"If this is about the death of your pet project, it can wait long enough for my guests to make their offer," he states. You snarl wordlessly for a moment.

"You knew? Then who-"

"Calm yourself, Eye for an Eye," he interrupts, and the name surprises you into silence. Aniki has never called you that before, though you've both jokingly referred to your Quirk that way. You suck in a sharp, harried breath; you're in front of an audience, it's not just you and Aniki here. You should pull yourself together, you know this, it shouldn't be as hard as it is.

"Please. I just need to know if... if the Quirk is dead."

"If it is, waiting out the hour will change nothing." Aniki's voice is stone. The outsiders glance between you and him warily, and their sharp gazes prickle across nerves already wrenched taut. "And if it's survived this long, I'm sure it will hold for a while longer yet."

"...Fine. Fine." There's nothing for you here. You withdraw; you were hoping to do this without an obvious body count, but if it comes down to it you don't need Aniki to get things done. You're perfectly capable of investigating on your own.

Two weeks and nearly a dozen fresh corpses later, Aniki sends a message to you through the usual channels. It's simple; just a name and a face. That's enough for you.

(And while you don't quite forgive him -Aniki hasn't apologized yet, after all- you let a goodly chunk of your cold rage drift away.)

The sixth holder of One For All is an accident, a desperate decision made by a man who wasn't supposed to die just yet. He's a hero, yes, but only in the barest sense of the term—self-absorbed and arrogant and a sucker for publicity. Nii-san would've hated him.

So you make friends with him, in a sense. Shimura Takeshi is his biggest supporter, his closest fan, a trusted confidant. Shimura Takeshi gives him helpful suggestions to better use his Quirk, and expounds on his brilliance exuberantly when he manages to put those suggestions into practice.

Shimura Takeshi also introduces him to his daughter Nana, when she's still a little girl. Both Nana-chan and the sixth are smitten—not with each other, really, but rather with the idea of each other, of hero and pliable successor.

(You wouldn't go so far as to say Nana-chan was born for the role—she's not Takeshi's first child, won't be his last, and certainly wasn't his only option. But somehow, looking at the jumped-up celebrity that is the sixth wielder makes you pull on every lesson that nii-san ever embodied, and teach them to your children as how heroes ought to be.

Shimura Nana might not have been born into the role, but she was certainly raised to thrive in it.)

Your name is Yuchiriko Tsubasa. You're not quite sure how old you are -the police badge you lifted the name from wasn't that specific- but from the way you do your hair and the fact that your socks are slightly mismatched, you'd guess that you're a pretty casual person.

Aniki is in a foul mood when you track him down. "Heya, Aniki," you drawl, and his bloated hand freezes centimeters from slamming you into the wall.

"...Sister," he greets, like he wasn't just about to break your bones as easily as matchsticks. "That's an unusual choice of body."

"Isn't it just," you simper. You do a little runway twirl, showing off your uniform; it's an ugly thing, but you suppose you could just be biased. Aniki doesn't quite snort with amusement, but the little noise he makes isn't entirely derisive either. You'll count it as a win.

"You should be dead," he tells you, as close as he ever gets to expressing genuine concern. You grin at him, because you're not sure how else to tuck away the chill that shudders down your spine. Smiling tricks away the fear.

"Yeah, I thought so too. I wasn't expecting anyone to actually pull a trigger, you know?" You waggle your fingers in the general area of your sidearm. Actually touching the weapon... leaves a bad taste in your mouth. "I had my hands up and everything. Figured I could get away after they arrested me."

"My police sources were quite convinced that someone died today. At the hands of the person you're masquerading as, in fact," Aniki prods. Your smile turns impish.

"You even sought out the face of my would-be killer? How sweet of you." You sober up when Aniki makes an impatient noise. "I don't know what happened," you confess. "Ironworks surrendered. He didn't make a single threatening move, and I didn't even try to trade with anyone. They shot him anyways."

"Police brutality against those labelled villains has been getting worse lately," Aniki offers—smoothly, consolingly, like it isn't in response to the rise in villain activity that he's directly responsible for orchestrating. "What happened after that?"

"I got lucky; they didn't shoot me in the head or anything, so I had enough time to swap out with the one who'd shot me."

Aniki shakes his head. "Why the one who killed you specifically? If my guards weren't hiding like cowards, they would've stopped you long before you got close enough to speak to me."

"Well." You think for a second; you're not actually sure why. It was sort of a spur-of-the-moment-before-you-bled-out decision. "It seemed appropriate, I suppose. She was going to take my life; I took hers back. My Quirk's good for that."

"She killed you, so you took her face?" Aniki sounds vaguely amused. You wonder how angry he really is, under all the layers of pretense.

"Of course! She killed me, I killed her. Eye for an eye, y'know?" You won't keep this body for long—can't afford to really, when you don't know enough about it's owner to pull it off. But the mentality that led to you taking it still appeals.

"Hmm."

"My Quirk is fine, since I know that's what you're worried about." You frown a little, because you're not sure what happened there either. It's like your Quirk followed you somehow, even though you'd been certain you'd left it in the dead body of the the up-and-coming villain. "I still have it; it didn't die when the body did."

"...I see. We'll look more into your Quirk later. What about the task I set you on?"

"Oh, no, that's a bust. Ironworks is dead, remember? I just got the Red Crowbars to accept him as a viable leader, too," you groan. Nearly three years of infiltrating, wrecked in the space of a single gunshot. You're going to spend your entire time in this body sulking. "Sorry, Aniki. I know you were on some kind of schedule, but I don't think I can get that gang to join you without a fight anymore."

Aniki makes a thoughtful noise. You can practically hear the plans being readjusted in his head, plots and ploys clicking like abacus beads under Aniki's calculations. "An irritating setback. How disappointing, sister," he rumbles at last.

You hold back a snort by the very tips of your fingernails. If Aniki were actually disappointed anything worth a damn, he certainly wouldn't be saying as much out loud—he'd be shoving another, bloody and particularly unpleasant favor in your face.

You fall silent for a moment. You're not like your brothers, really. Conflict isn't fulfilling, or enjoyable, or whatever it is your siblings got out of butting heads so often. You're fine with violence, thoroughly desensitized to it—but seeking it out just isn't in you. You don't want a side or a cause or whatever it is that drives people to fight; you just want to live and enjoy yourself doing so.

"I think it would be best if I stayed away from overt villainy in the future, Aniki," you say, only a little bit for the sake of changing the subject. Your oldest brother pauses to regard you steadily.

"Are you sure?"

You nod. "I know you think I'd be good at it, but it doesn't suit me."

A beat. "...Very well then," he ultimately concedes. He stares at you unblinkingly for a moment longer before turning away, effectively ending the conversation. "I will manage these things without you in the future."

It's such a familiar gesture that you feel a lump build in your throat, cold and fond.

This is how love goes in your family: a sibling wants things you don't understand, and you accept that with a shrug and a nod. A sibling does things you don't agree with, and you shoulder the burden of those actions' consequences unflinchingly.

(You weren't there, that final time nii-san and Aniki fought. But you know without asking that neither of them hesitated.)

Your body is that of Natsumi Tooru, 29, mother of one and happily married. Her eyes are green, and her hair dyed an ugly blue, and her thighs too fat, and her voice too harsh, but you think you might actually like the heels and the motherhood. Her Quirk lets her direct attention to and from herself as she pleases, and it's the only reason why she hasn't been publicly identified and persecuted for having a Quirk at all.

She used to work as a very successful small-time drug dealer, but got out nearly five years ago. Today, you don her face and her voice, and lead her four-year-old son out of the house and to the residence of her old boss.

"But where are we going, mama?" Little Hibiki asks. He's been squinting at you suspiciously ever since you talked to him with Natsumi's smoker-rasp voice. He's a perceptive little brat; you like it.

"Not much farther," you soothe. "We're going to meet someone very important to mama, okay? So you need to be on your best behavior."

"...but who?"

"You'll see. Promise me you'll be good?"

"'kay." The boy sticks his pinky out at you, and after a moment of blank incomprehension you crouch down to hook your digit around his. He frowns at you -you've done something wrong again- and softly chants a promise as he wiggles your combined hands up and down.

Cute.

"Aniki!" You call as you push open the door. Your brother turns on his heel sharply, because this is a private space and his lackeys know better than to barge in. "Look who I brought to meet you!"

You can see the "How dare- who are- Tooru?" rise and die on his lips, but to the boy with you it probably looks like Aniki's gaping. Like a fish. The kid giggles, and you fight the bizarre urge to high-five the little tyke.

When Aniki's words finally come, they are flat and annoyed. "I was wondering why you'd barricaded yourself in your room. Brother, what are you doing."

"No, no, it's sister like this, Aniki." You gesture expansively at your pretty face, the obvious curve of your hips, the swell of your breasts under one of Natsumi's blouses. "And I brought you your son."

Both of them whip their heads around to stare at you, then each other.

"Why would you even-"

"But mama, daddy's-"

"Yes, yes, I know who your daddy is," you tell the kid, pulling him a little closer by your interlocked fingers. Aniki is glaring holes into your borrowed face; it's amusing. "But before your mama met your daddy, see, she really liked someone else. That man over there. So mama had a baby with him, and that baby was you. But before you were born, mama decided that maybe she didn't really like that man as much as she thought she did, so she ran away and found your daddy and they all lived happily ever after."

You don't think children that age are able to pick up on sarcasm, but the boy still shifts uncertainly. His fingers clench and unclench convulsively around yours.

"But now you're four," you continue, when neither of them seem like they're about to interrupt. "And both your mama and father are very special people, so we think you might be a special boy too. Your father is going to check if you are, okay? I promise it won't hurt."

"But-" You hook the squirming boy up by his armpits and hold him out to Aniki with an expectant look. "Mama!"

Aniki stares back stoically. Natsuki's arms tremble slightly with the strain—she's rather let herself go, living as a housewife, and her body lacks the strength to make a staring contest out of this. "Go on, Aniki. This is why you had a kid at all, isn't it?"

"What are you doing?" He prods, not acknowledging the wriggly little human you're offering him. You scowl.

"I'm just doing you a favor. I know you've been looking for him." Pause. You take a small breath. "...You've been really busy lately too," you finish in a murmur, eyes cold and sad.

Busy—so busy you haven't seen him in weeks, haven't had a conversation in longer. Lately—ever since nii-san...

Well. Suffice to say, Aniki has been avoiding you.

"Hmm." Aniki looks begrudgingly contrite, and delicately takes the child off your hands. Hibiki looks far too small to be making as much noise as he is, especially in comparison to the girth of Aniki's arms. After a quick examination, your brother scowls, and you know the child has no Quirk even before Aniki says as much.

"Useless," he pronounces. Hibiki is tossed aside carelessly, and hits the ground still fighting to get away. He scrambles up and hides behind your legs, grabbing at your pants.

"Congratulations, kiddo. You're perfectly normal," You tell the boy, smiling, and he shrinks down even further under your attention.

"I'll call someone to take care of that," Aniki mutters, disappointment black in his voice. That is the child still cowering by your feet. You wrinkle your nose at them both.

"There's no need to kill him just because he's not what you wanted," you pout. Your pouts feel more natural on a woman's face than a man's, but Aniki is just as unaffected as always. Hibiki starts to cry.

"M-mama-"

"He's seen too much, and there's no point in keeping him."

"Nonsense. He's a kid, he'll forget this in a month, and who'd believe him if he didn't?"

"You're- you're not mama." You look down. The child is looking wildly between the two adults, shaking like he expects one of them to tackle him to the ground and kill him right there. "You're not- you- mama's- who are you?!" He shrieks. His voice breaks.

...He's still clinging onto your pants.

You sigh. Ignoring the way he flinches away, you stoop down and swiftly gather Hibiki into a firm hug. He claws at you with tiny toddler-nails at first, but settles somewhat when you run a gentle hand through his hair.

"I'll take care of him," you tell Aniki, making it perfectly clear that you don't mean take care of the way Aniki means it. He frowns at you—at your hand, which is rubbing small circles into the small of Hibiki's trembling back.

"That's unwise."

"Is it? Is it really? Because I'm not like you, Aniki. I can't survive by out-punching every serious threat; I can't make a living on that knife's edge forever. Settling down, being someone normal now and again—I don't think that's a bad way to live."

"You would be content with that?" Aniki scoffs, a strange twist to his lips.

"Naturally."

He doesn't understand. That's okay. You've never expected understanding from your stubborn, ambitious brother. From either of them, really. Whatever their disagreements, nii-san and Aniki were both very similar people at their core: clever and goal-oriented and considerate (if uncomprehending) in the face of their youngest sibling's willingness to not accomplish something with his efforts.

"I won't apologize," Aniki says out of the blue, which means you've probably got that look on your face—the one you've been getting whenever you think too hard about nii-san.

"I know you won't." You pull the callousness learned from years at Aniki's side around you like an infant's swaddling blanket, and you shrug. The apathy weighs heavy on your shoulders. "I've already said I won't do anything about it, Aniki, so you don't need to keep... not-apologizing. After all, I... There's no need to avenge a man already dead."

Aniki's face is cold, cold, cold. Good. That's how Aniki should be.

(Not guilty, because people are only guilty when they've done something wrong. And maybe you didn't like it -maybe you hated it- but you've long known where your brothers' natures would lead them.)

"So I'll just take little Hibiki here home, shall I," you mutter. The boy paws weakly at your top, but at least he's not squirming anymore—too worn out, you'd guess. "And I'll be Natsumi for a while. And you can dig out my body and fetch my old Quirk. Objections?"

"...We wouldn't be siblings anymore," he grumbles at last, and.

He says it like it's a throwaway line, like it's the one last token argument he has. You're not convinced the words are quite that shallow, quite that low on Aniki's internal priority list.

You won't hug or punch him in front of an audience, no matter how young. But your voice is perhaps a touch too soft when you say, "Of course we would. You'll always be Aniki to me. Changing bodies and blood doesn't stop us from being family."

Aniki lets you walk out with his son.

You head back to Natsumi's home—your home, you suppose. Hibiki's slumped against you, worn out, a comfortable (if awkward) weight in your hold. "Mama?" he slurs into your shoulder.

You hesitate, because you aren't, not really. But... you are now. So you fit a smile onto your face and hum a, "Yes, Hibiki?"

He stirs against you, alarm smothered by exhaustion. "You're not mama," he protests.

"In a sense. But I am now."

The boy -your son from now on, you suppose- has a stubbornly mulish look on his face. You couldn't see the resemblance to Aniki before, but you're definitely picking up hints of it now. "But you're not."

"I am, kiddo. It's either this or I leave you with Aniki," you huff. The kid starts to cry again, which was not what you intended at all. You have no idea how to talk to kids, clearly.

"Aww, come on, kid, don't cry." You bounce him up and down a little, like you've seen parents do to fussy children. It doesn't work. "Listen, I knew your mama a while ago, back when she dated Aniki. You wanna hear some stories?"

"I wan' mama," he sniffles. At this rate, the wet spot on your blouse is going to be permanent. That'd be a shame; it's a pretty little bit of cloth.

"Sorry, kid." You're not, not really, because Natsumi was honestly a nasty piece of work—Aniki wouldn't have been able to stand her otherwise. But your pity is genuine. "I'm the best you're gonna get."

You test the keys in Natsumi's -your- purse, until you find the one that unlocks the front door. You close it firmly behind you, and deadbolt it for good measure before you set Hibiki down.

The boy skitters back, looking between you and the door you're standing in front of, before he turns tail and runs. You follow him sedately into his room, and sit on the floor next to the bed he's hiding under. If he's still crying, it's too quietly for you to hear.

You peek under the bed. He's dragged a blanket down there with him; probably a toy or two too, though it's hard to tell with the cloth in the way. The bundle of child flinches when you speak. "Kiddo, we need to talk about this," you sigh.

You don't expect a response, but the wet, "go away" doesn't exactly surprise you.

"Kid, I'm serious. You can't let anyone know about what happened today, or that you don't think I'm your mama. Especially Nakijima—your daddy, I mean."

Hibiki sticks his head out from under the blanket, you think. At least, his voice is a lot clearer when he demands, "What're you gonna do if I don't?"

You quirk a humorless smile. You hadn't even gotten to the threatening part yet. "Well, I'm probably going to bring you back to Aniki, at least."

Hibiki makes a sound that might be either a wail or a harsh hiccup.

You continue blithely, "And then, even if Aniki doesn't kill you, you're never going to see your dad again. Do you understand?"

You wait, but the child doesn't make a coherent response. You tug him out gently, curl your limbs around him in a cage just a little too firm to be entirely comforting, and let the boy cry himself out on your shoulder. When he finally quiets, you ask again, "Do you understand, Hibiki?"

"Y-yes."

"Yes, who?"

"I-I don't-"

"Who am I, Hibiki?"

"...Mama. Yes, m-mama."

"Good boy. Now we're going to practice that, and you're going to be in a lot of trouble if you can't say it without the tears by the time daddy comes home."

You don't think it will be a real issue; he's the son of Aniki, after all.

(Your first murder -in person, that is, instead of through Aniki or as a bystander- is that of Nakijima Renka, 36, husband to Natsumi Tooru—husband to you. Your second is Natsumi Tooru.

Both happened because your son, for the life of him, could not keep a secret.

Aniki is kind enough to adopt, at least on paper, his five-year-old son. He keeps an eye on you until your new body is old enough to take care of itself. He's also, blessedly, mature enough not to say I told you so even if he radiates the sentiment in your general direction.

None of this stops you from living out a life as Nakijima Hibiki, Japanese literature professor and occasional world-trekker, and thoroughly enjoying it.)

Your name is-

Your name is...

Your...

-name...

...is...

A/N: Ok. That's it, that's the story. Thank you all for reading!

"San" is, as I understand it, literally "three" in Japanese. The third person to hold One for All, San. *jazz hands*

(Oh my god, I feel like I just killed a kid. Like I killed a lot of kids, actually. I'm a terrible person.)