Fourteen Years Earlier

The Depths were burning.

It had started, as most follies do, with good intentions from ignorant men. They had thought that the Depths would welcome them, that they cried out for the benefits of civilization, that the lowly mutants of these slums would not complain if law and order were brought to their pitiful settlements. They would make this into a proper place, one where heroes kept people safe from the monsters in the night. Besides, surely good, abovegrounder citizens residents would be happy to pay to live in the Depths…once the riffraff were cleaned out, of course.

Perhaps those intentions weren't so good after all, come to think of it.

And so the heroes had surged through the tunnels, appearing before frightened crowds, in their gaudy suits and mysterious masks, watching the people through those ignorant abovegrounder eyes. They walked arrogantly, as if expecting the people of the Depths to fall to their knees in gratitude for being saved. Never mind the hostile, hateful eyes that followed them on their new patrol routes. The Depths must be tamed. The Depths must be controlled.

But then, the monsters fought back.

The gangs started it. The eternally-feuding crime lords of the deep, seeing a threat to the profitable anarchy they had so carefully cultivated, made a pact. The warlords who ruled the lower tunnels, knowing they were next if the heroes succeeded, joined in. An uneasy, unholy alliance was made-so long as heroes walked the Depths, their blood would be the only blood spilled. And so it was.

Nobody knew who had started the fires. Nobody cared to find out. As the heroes found themselves under attack by a tide of the people they'd come to save, as blood ran in the streets and the Depths tore itself apart, it began to burn. The Depths were made of wood and cloth and plastic; its heartbeat was the gasoline-powered generators which gave light to the dark caves and damp tunnels. It had no chance. The people who would have put the fires out couldn't-they were fighting, or the fighting stopped them from reaching the places where they were needed. Or maybe the combatants, tearing each other apart across a chaotic, ever-changing battlefield, let the fires burn on purpose.

Whatever the cause, whatever the reason, it didn't matter in the end. The fires burned, spreading faster than anyone could run. They surged down twisting, labyrinthine streets, filled the air with smoke, sucked oxygen from the air, surrounded the fighting-and why would the fighting stop, now or ever-in a veil of heat and ash.

From a ledge far above the cavern floor, high enough to be out of the flames but low enough to avoid the choking smoke, two boys watched their world burn down. They were littered with small burns and scrapes, their faces jet black with soot-not that that was any different from usual for one of them. They had climbed here with frantic energy, part of a small group of refugees that had taken shelter on this ledge, and in the deep, narrow cave behind them. They could only hope this place would be safe enough.

Gently, Mezou asked, "They aren't going to stop, are they?"

Beside him, his best friend shook his head, eyes harsh and glinting. "I don't think so," Fumikage replied. "They're still fighting. The world is burning, and they're still fighting."

Slowly, cautiously, a dark, angular head poked out from Fumikage's torso. "Is it over?' Dark Shadow asked, timid. "Th-the light?"

Fumikage and Mezou glanced at each other, before Fumikage patted his quirk on the head and said, "We're away from it right now, yeah. You can come out if you want to."

Sighing with relief, the dark monster fully appeared, slinking around Fumikage, winding an umbilical cord of shadow around the boy several times. Dark Shadow came to a halt in the air, floating over Fumikage's shoulder as they stared down at the inferno beneath them.

The hushed silence continued for a few minutes, before Mezou said, "I don't get it. What's the point of fighting over this place? It's not worth anything."

Fumikage snorted. "No, we're not worth anything," he corrected bitterly. "The heroes want the cavern here-they just want us gone. The gangs don't want to go. They're done being pushed around by the heroes."

Fumikage sounded envious, even admiring, as he spoke of the gangs; it made Mezou shift uncomfortably, recalling how many times they had been bullied and abused by the Claws or the Ten Kings or the Tunnel Rats. "Fumi," he said, "don't tell me you like what they're doing."

Fumikage sighed, "Of course I don't. They're doing this for themselves, not for us. They're almost as bad as the heroes-picking on us because we're weaker and we can't protect ourselves. I hope they all kill each other."

They both knew it was a foolish hope, but to two scared, hurting children who were watching the end of their world, it was a comfort blanket, a twisted faith to cling to.

Dark Shadow pulled closer, looming over Fumikage like an ominous ghost. "You could be strong enough to protect yourself," he said in his hissing, inhuman voice. "You could be strong enough to protect everyone."

Mezou tensed, and Fumikage huffed, crossing his arms and refusing to meet Dark Shadow's eye. "Yeah, but then I'd kill everyone I cared about instead of protecting them," he retorted. "I know what happens if I let you loose, Dark Shadow. And it'll never happen."

Dark Shadow made a strange noise that sounded like a tut, as if he were a parent watching his child declare that they would not be going to bed. He didn't speak again, though, so Fumikage and Mezou turned back to the firestorm in front of them.

As they watched, a figure appeared, rising from somewhere beneath the flames. Clad in sleek, silvery armor, jets of green-blue energy shooting from their hands and feet, the profile was unmistakably heroic; it was too bright, too pure, to be anything from below the earth. They rose like a rocket, shining like a shooting star over the dark hell the Depths had become. It was a stirring sight, a hero in all their glory, holding nothing back as they fought for what was right. Mezou and Fumikage's eyes narrowed in hatred. "Hypocrite," they thought to themselves.

A moment later, another figure became visible through the smoke and the gloom. Leathery wings flapped in heated, rushing air, immense and heavy. He burst through the smoke, revealing himself to be a man with dark purple skin, eight feet tall, wearing nothing but a pair of sturdy trousers, exposing every bulging muscle, showing off thick, leathery skin. Horns rose from his head, three of them, like the spikes of a dark king's crown. His colossal hands ended in talons instead of fingernails. From across the cavern, the two boys watched as the mutant folded his wings and dove, headed straight for the hero, who replied in kind, making the jets beneath his feet triple in size as they propelled him forwards.

They were too far away to hear, but Mezou and Fumikage could clearly picture the grunting, heaving struggle the two combatants quickly became locked in. Flames roared and energy crackled and talons scraped, the hero and the mutant battling above a burning city. It was impossible, it was deadly…and it couldn't last forever.

At last, the hero ripped himself free with a cry, aimed a palm towards the mutant, and speared his torso with a jet of plasma that crackled as it tore through flesh and bone like tissue paper.

But that wasn't the end of it. The wound was mortal-it had to be-and yet the mutant kept coming. In one last desperate act, he charged forwards with a heavy beat of those batlike wings, catching the hero off guard-he must have thought it was over. And a second later, it was, as the mutant's talons slid through the hero's armor like a hot knife through butter, impaling him through the chest. Whatever manic strength the mutant had had in that moment was gone just as quickly as it had appeared, and the two slumped at the same time. The hero's jets faded away, and the mutant's wings stopped beating. Still locked together, they fell into the roaring flames below, and vanished from sight.

Mezou and Fumikage were silent for a long, hollow moment, lost in silent, stunned thoughts. Then, numbly, Mezou spoke. "They're going to destroy each other," he said softly. "Over a dark, dirty hole in the ground."

Fumikage scowled. "And we're the ones who are going to die for it," he added. "Those fires…they'll consume everything. And they don't care."

"Why should they care?" Mezou asked, bitter. "We're a bunch of mutant gutter trash. We can't stop them."

Fumikage hung his head, as if mourning for the Depths. He stayed there so long, Mezou thought he had fallen asleep. And then, he raised his head again.

"Not forever," he swore, anger and hope and ferocious determination mixing together in his voice. "Not forever. One day, we will be strong enough to change things. We'll get rid of the gangs, and fight off the heroes, and force people to help each other. We'll fix this place. We'll find a way."

Mezou raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. Fumikage was good at this-good at making him believe in impossible dreams. He'd done it when they met-as a starving bully and a starving boy who could show kindness to anyone, give hope to anyone. And now he was doing it again.

Fumikage turned to him, fires raging all around, and Mezou saw the fear beneath the hope. He was scared-but he would do it anyway. Mezou envied him then, more than anything.

"Will you help me? Will…will you be there?" Fumikage asked.

Mezou grinned. He couldn't help it. He nodded, and promised, "Always, Fumi."

He never got to make good on that promise.

Now

Mezou sprinted down a street, breathing hard, a cloth mask dragged over the lower half of his face to shield himself from the smoke.

The Depths were burning. Red-orange flames leaped from building to building down packed, poorly constructed streets, roaring so loudly it drowned out the screams of the residents as they tried to flee. In the distance, the sounds of a war could be heard; the cries of men and women, the rumbles of shattering rock, the unearthly screeches of not-quite-humans tearing each other apart.

It was the Outcasts. It had to be. This was close to the headquarters of the Tunnel Rats, the smuggling kings of the whole Underground. And after the Claws had been wiped off the face of the earth in a single night, there was no way the Rats hadn't prepared for the Outcasts to come for them. This would not be a small, brief raid. This was full-blown war; the number of people battling in the distance made that clear.

Mezou had been ten the last time the Depths had gone to war. That had been the last hero incursion-a time when these dingy caverns and narrow, dim tunnels had run red with blood, as heroes and mutants battled in the streets. He and Fumi had watched the clashes, like the old stories of dueling gods, with the wide, terrified eyes of children, helpless to stop it, too weak to even protect themselves. He didn't know how Mina had survived the war, or the flames that had torn through most of the Depths-a whole lot of street children hadn't.

But this time, Mezou was not weak, and he wouldn't run. So even as every other person in sight ran away from the roaring center of the flames, where the Ten Kings were desperately resisting the might of the Outcasts, Mezou ran towards the battle. He knew innocent people would get caught in the crossfire. He'd let enough people get hurt for a lifetime.

No more.

Heavy footsteps beside him alerted Mezou to the fact that he wasn't alone. Turning his head, he spotted the hulking form of Kugo, who was panting heavily as he sprinted along next to Mezou.

Looking thoroughly unimpressed, Kugo shouted at him, "This is a terrible idea! Why the fuck are you running towards the fire?"

Mezou scowled, putting his head down instead of responding. He didn't have time to explain. All he had time to do was shout back, "Then leave! I know you don't do well in the heat!"

That was an understatement; Mezou could see the steam rising lightly off of Kugo's skin, and the way it was starting to desiccate in the unbearable heat. The fires were turning into a giant oven, baking them all to a crisp.

"It's not as bad as it was back then," Mezou thought. "But only because it hasn't been able to spread as far yet. If it does…"

Then the Outcasts and the Tunnel Rats would be fighting over a tomb.

Kugo shook his head, grimacing. His jaw was clenched. "No," he said in his rough, guttural voice. "I ain't running, not from this. But you're a damn fool for starting it."

Mezou snorted. "Then let's be fools together," he offered. Kugo grinned.

"Sounds good to me," he agreed.

The two sprinted deeper into the inferno; ahead, over the fires and the screams, the sounds of fighting slowly grew louder. Occasionally, figures were visible in the smoke, or through the twisted, burning streets of what had once been one of the most built-up parts of the Depths.

At last, they came to a crossroads. Screams could be heard down each road; cries for help, prayers for deliverance. What they were praying to, Mezou didn't know; it wasn't like anybody ever listened.

Turning to Kugo, he gestured down one of the paths. "You head that way, I'll go the other," he said. "Get the innocents to safety."

Kugo met his eye. "I ain't a hero," he growled. "Why do I care about innocents?"

Mezou stared back, not flinching, not even hesitating. "You're not," he agreed. "Neither am I. But it doesn't matter. Right now, we're here, and we're needed. That's more than the heroes can say. Now, go!"

The older man held his gaze for a long, dangerous moment, and Mezou braced himself-for what, he wasn't sure. But thankfully, Kugo turned at last. Hesitating for one last moment, he muttered, "You're something else, kid."

Then he was gone, racing down the street, a black shape in dark smoke. Mezou barely paused to watch him leave before he was doing the same.

The screaming was coming from quite a ways away, though, and Mezou found himself having to wind through streets that were confusing before they began to burn, often blocked or altered by collapsing structures. At last, though, he was getting close; the screams were starting to get louder. At least, he hoped that was because he was getting close.

As Mezou made his way down the burning street, though, he spotted a glint of silver on a rooftop ahead of him. He came to a halt as a tall, slender figure suddenly appeared, staring down at him from beneath a ragged black cloak.

"Stop right there," the man told him, seemingly unbothered by the glowing embers that filled the too-hot air all around them, or the roaring fire-wind that set the ends of his cloak billowing. He jumped from the low rooftop as the building began to groan ominously, smoke and flame billowing from rough-carved windows. Soon, he was standing just a few feet from Mezou.

Mezou's eyes narrowed at the strange figure. The man's voice had an odd quality to it-something between a buzz and a lisp, as though he was speaking with something in his mouth-or with a mouth not meant for human speech.

"I'm sorry, who the hell are you?" Mezou demanded bluntly. He didn't have time for this. The world around him was fire and smoke-and all he could hear was the screams. So many, so loud…and all this man was doing was standing there.

The man threw back his hood, revealing bladelike tusks and eyes that glimmered with danger. His stance remained casual-deceptively so. He replied, "My name is Kamakiri, but that's not important. I can't let you go this way-you'd be getting too close to our operation, and we don't want anybody interfering."

"Fuck your operation," Mezou snapped. "You're not going to stop me. People are in danger over there, and I'm going to help."

"I can't let you do that," Kamakiri said, sounding genuinely regretful-not that he seemed moved in the slightest by the screams echoing around them.

"You don't get a say," Mezou told him brusquely, stepping forwards. He was well over a foot taller than Kamakiri-whoever the hell he was-and it would be simple to just push past the man.

A foot-long blade, curved into a crescent shape, sprang from Kamakiri's elbow without warning, blocking Mezou. He barely flinched, though he did stop advancing. The ghost of a smirk threatened to appear on Kamakiri's face.

Suddenly, Mezou realized why the man's appearance sounded so familiar. Blood running cold for a moment, he said, "Hang on, I know who you are. The Outcast who attacked Kugo and took over the Neo-Stainists' compound."

Kamakiri smiled, ever so slightly. It was not a pretty sight. "Guilty as charged," he admitted. "And I know who you are. The vigilante who had the Claws in such a frenzy…before we destroyed them."

Mezou's eyes narrowed. He growled, "Do not call me that."

Kamakiri was unfazed. "It's the truth," he replied, shrugging even as his eyes glowed with dislike. "Tell me, why do you want to be a hero so badly? They don't care about what you're doing. You're still trash in their eyes-just like the rest of us."

"I don't want to be a hero," Mezou spat, looking down at the smaller man; Kamakiri didn't even reach his chin. He went to push him aside. "And I don't have time for this."

Kamakiri sidestepped, easily keeping pace with Mezou, still blocking his path forwards. The screams were coming from the other side of the burning building behind him; Mezou was so close. "Then why do you skulk around like a rat?" he demanded. "Why do you act like they do? You have a reputation, you know-a man like you, with your talents? You could be a king."

Mezou knew that well enough. It was what was expected-those with power, with strength, ruled. But ruling wasn't what his promise to Fumi had been; even now, he followed it, because Fumi never got the chance to.

Dismissively, scathingly, he said, "This world has enough kings already."

"But why do you help?" Kamakiri pressed. It was odd; he genuinely seemed curious. He wanted to know. Why?

Growing more frustrated by the second, Mezou recalled an old promise, old words someone better than him had told him once. "Because someone has to," he growled, deep and serious. "Somebody has to care. And if the heroes won't, then I will."

Fumi's words, spoken what felt like a lifetime ago, seemed to shock Kamakiri. His icy, emotionless attitude cracked, and his body twitched a little. When he met Mezou's gaze again, it was with an odd, nearly respectful look in his eyes. Respectful, and hungry.

"It…seems I owe you an apology," Kamakiri said cautiously, though he still refused to let Mezou pass. "You'd get along well with my boss, you know."

Mezou scowled. The screaming was getting more frantic, more desperate; in his mind, they became Fumi's screams, begging for help that never came. Calling for him. "I don't want your apology, and I don't care about your boss," he spat. "Get the fuck out of my way."

Kamakiri sighed regretfully, hanging his head for a moment. "No," he said sadly. "Sorry. I have a promise to keep."

Mezou felt the rage boil over. He would not let this bastard stop him. He had a promise to keep, too. "Alright then," he said, rolling his neck lazily and splaying his arms out. "Don't say I didn't warn you."

Then, he struck, arms already multiplying. His fist careened towards Kamakiri's face.

The shorter man moved so quickly he was a blur. He leaped backwards, avoiding Mezou's punch, then crouched low, lips curving into a brutal, eager half-grin.

"The feeling is mutual," he replied as crescent-moon blades sprang from his forearms. He blurred again, leaping forwards as the flames burned higher all around them.

Mezou hissed as he attacked. Kugo hadn't been lying; Kamakiri was fast. Too fast to see. But that was fine-he figured he knew exactly what Kamakiri was aiming for. A moment later, he was proven right when a swipe separated three of his hands from their arms, then two more on the next one. It hurt, but not as bad as losing a limb should have-he'd figured out years ago that that the limbs he grew weren't perfect copies of the ones he actually had, but instead had far fewer nerve endings dedicated to registering pain. It felt more like getting a toenail clipped a little too close to the root than losing a limb. Besides, he'd long since become tolerant to shockingly large amounts of pain.

Mezou grinned as Kamakiri lopped off hands left and right, trying to get in closer to Mezou. He had far more hands than Kamakiri could hope to slice through already, thanks to his ever-growing forest of limbs. It didn't matter how quickly Kamakiri could strike-he could never move faster than Mezou's quirk.

Kamakiri slipped under another punch, striking upwards at the limb and severing it. Two more burst from the cut-off stump, swiping for him again. Mezou continued to close the distance, arms moving in every direction, cutting Kamakiri off, hemming him in. The man was lightning-quick, yes, but his blades couldn't reach Mezou's body with all the arms in the way. He took a punch to the side, and another hand grabbed at his wrist. A blade erupted from beneath the gripping hand, slicing through it and freeing Kamakiri to leap into the air, bringing both arm-blades down in an overhand slice aimed right for Mezou's head. He never even got close, as Mezou's arms wrapped around him, barely registering the limbs that Kamakiri's blade impaled in his thrashing.

Unceremoniously, Mezou slammed Kamakiri into the ground, making the man shout in pain, then did it again for good measure. Throwing him aside, towards a burning building, he immediately turned to leave. There was no point wasting time with this bastard; as satisfying as it was to beat the shit out of him, there were still people who needed his help.

He hadn't even made it to the other side of the street before Kamakiri rose and crossed the open space in the blink of an eye. Mezou grunted as Kamakiri avoided his mess of limbs and buried both his blades deep into Mezou's chest.

Raising an eyebrow as he mentally took stock-undamaged heart, good, multiple ruptured organs, fine, two collapsed lungs, nothing to worry about-Mezou said conversationally, "You're not my target, buddy, and neither is your stupid army. This isn't worth it."

Breathing hard, Kamakiri spat, "If…you want to get past me…you're gonna need to… kill me."

Mezou rolled his eyes. "If you want to die so badly, that can be arranged," he replied coldly. Wrapping a hand around Kamakiri's throat and two more around his chest, he easily lifted the smaller man off the ground, yanking the blades from Mezou's body with little fanfare. A little blood stained his shirt, but the wounds were already closing.

Mezou aimed his next punch right for Kamakiri's nose, feeling it fracture under his knuckles; the man's tusks cut his hand a little, but Mezou didn't even feel it. He struck again, feeling Kamakiri thrashing in the grip of dozens of arms far stronger than him.

Mezou didn't relish this. Part of him hated it. But he wasn't exactly bothered by it too much, either. Kamakiri had had his chances-and Mezou got the feeling that, if their positions had been reversed, Kamakiri wouldn't have hesitated either. Still…Mezou wondered if Atlas had been just as casual about killing Shigaraki. He wasn't sure whether he wanted to know the answer.

Mezou's thoughts were rudely interrupted a moment later, sadly, when Kamakiri suddenly screamed. Blades erupted from what felt like every inch of his body, until he resembled a forest of razor blades more than a human being. He twisted in Mezou's suddenly slack grip, cutting and slicing and ripping everything he could reach to shreds.

Mezou hissed as the pain struck him. Losing a few limbs here and there was fine, but as Kamakiri cut his way free and landed on his feet, blood coursing down his face, Mezou realized that just about all his arms had been severed. They littered the ground, blood steaming on the hot stone.

Shit. He could regrow them-he already was-but that hurt. It also meant that he needed a new strategy.

Kamakiri retracted most of his blades-it was probably pretty hard to move like that-though he kept two on each arm, sweeping back from his elbow and wrist. His face was a mess of blood, and he had a look in his eyes that didn't look quite sane.

"I'm not going to die here," he swore, looking straight at Mezou. "Not now. Not yet. Not to you."

"The feeling is mutual," Mezou replied tauntingly as his six normal arms continued to regrow. They were nearly done, but he was starting to get tired; his regeneration wasn't infinite when he had to repair such vital damage so quickly. The more he pushed it, the more exhausting it got. He had to end this fight quickly.

Kamakiri evidently came to the same conclusion. Sighing in resignation, he reached into his pocket.

"I hate to do this," he said softly. "But I'd rather win than fight fair."

Before Mezou could ask what he meant, Kamakiri withdrew a dark object from his pocket. He stared at it with distaste for a second, before calling to Mezou, "Catch."

Then, he threw the object at the ground. Mezou became very confused, especially when it bounced, the roughly spheroid object moving towards his face at extremely high speed. Acting entirely on instinct, his newly-repaired arm rose to catch the object before it struck him in the face. His fingers closed around…

A rubber ball? Mezou stared at it curiously; it was just a normal black rubber ball, smooth and featureless.

"What the hell?" he thought, bringing it a little closer to examine it. What was Kamakiri trying to pull?

Suddenly, Kamakiri shouted, "KUROIRO!"

And then Mezou got kicked in the face. He reeled in shock as the ball erupted, a dark figure suddenly exploding into being right in front of him, expertly swinging its leg to catch Mezou in the jaw with a heavy-booted foot. Mezou felt something sharp carve a trail down the side of his face, too. He stumbled backwards, seeing stars.

When he managed to open his eyes, he saw that Kamakiri was no longer alone. Another man stood next to him, wearing all black. It matched his skin, which was the color of ink, glossy and smooth. His eyes and mouth were like pools of silver floating in tar, his hair a close-cropped garnish of grey on his head. He was glaring-not at Mezou, but at Kamakiri.

"I do not appreciate being a grenade," he remarked. "It is a gross waste of my abilities."

As Mezou staggered to his feet, groaning, Kamakiri scowled at the new arrival. "I don't care, Kuroiro," he snapped. "The boss told you to be my backup. Now, back me up."

The man-Kuroiro-sighed. "Very well," he said. "Far be it from me to argue against the will of one so blessed by the Dark Ones."

Mezou blinked. Was Kuroiro crazy, or just pretending to be? He'd seen enough of both down here to make it hard to tell. He did know one thing, though-the people who pretended were much more dangerous.

Kamakiri nearly shouted, "Just do it, you weird bastard!"

"Your insults against me are unworthy of your position," Kuroiro intoned. "If not for your devotion to the chosen of the deep, I would strike you down here and now."

Before Kamakiri could reply, Mezou decided to break up the love fest. He charged, rearing back to smash both of the people standing in his way into the ground.

Kamakiri looked up just in time, leaping back with a snarl as Mezou's fist whistled by him. Kuroiro, though, just… vanished. One second he was there, the next he had disappeared, leaving only the strange impression of downwards motion for the barest fraction of a moment.

Mezou would have wondered about that, but Kamakiri charged him, forcing him to focus on that first. He hadn't grown an overwhelming armada of limbs this time; a two-on-one fight made staying stationary much more dangerous than remaining mobile. He kept his hands up and kept them moving as Kamakiri whirled and swept with his blades. He was quick, but now that Mezou was used to it, he could keep up; he avoided the blades with practiced, balanced movements, slowly giving ground across the street, ignoring the heat of the burning buildings around them.

Then, just as Mezou sidestepped a particularly frustrated stroke from Kamakiri, there was motion behind him. He didn't have time to react before something sharp slammed into his back. Not anywhere damaging, but still, nobody ever appreciated being stabbed. Grunting, he reached back with an arm that struck quicker than a snake, wrapping around Kuroiro's throat just as he withdrew whatever knife-Mezou was pretty sure it was a knife, he'd been stabbed enough to recognize the difference-he'd stuck him with. Kuroiro yelped as Mezou yanked him forwards over his head and threw him at Kamakiri.

Instead of dodging or getting hit like Mezou expected, though, Kamakiri reacted by grabbing his cloak and pulling it in front of him. As he fell onto Kamakiri, Kuroiro reached out, fingers hitting the cloak before the rest of him. As Mezou watched, he abruptly vanished, body moving as though being sucked into the cloak. The cloak began to move without wind, as if it were alive, whipping back around the other side of Kamakiri and up over his shoulder. Then, Kuroiro reappeared out of the cloak, grinning as he shot forwards as if propelled out of a cannon.

Leaping backwards too late, Mezou hissed as Kuroiro's long knife-almost more like a short sword-cut him across the chest, followed by Kamakiri slashing past him and leaving a shallow gash on his side. He'd barely been able to see Kuroiro's knife, since it wasn't gleaming in the flickering light of the fires like Kamakiri's blades were.

He whirled, but Kuroiro had vanished again, and Kamakiri was already on the attack. Mezou sidestepped a thrust, then counterattacked, hitting Kamakiri hard enough to make him stagger back. Before Mezou could follow up, though, Kuroiro popped out of nowhere once more, his long knife carving a path across Mezou's back. He growled, the wound only making him angrier. He went to swing at Kuroiro, who smirked-a smirk that turned to surprise and confusion, then got hidden by Mezou's fist hitting him right in the face.

While Kuroiro went flying, landing heavily a few feet away, Mezou tried to make sense of what had happened. Why hadn't he vanished again?

Then he realized. Just as Mezou had counterattacked, a nearby burning building had finally collapsed-he could still hear the aftershocks now. The fireball briefly created by the shattering roof had illuminated the entire street with harsh orange light at the moment Kuroiro had tried to vanish. His quirk-whatever it was-was weak to light.

Kamakiri attacked again, slicing through the webbing between Mezou's arms. Mezou caught the next swipe with his forearm, ignoring the deep bite into his flesh. As Kamakiri faltered, his momentum suddenly lost to an unexpected hit, Mezou reached in and grabbed him by the throat.

While Kamakiri struggled, Kuroiro finally staggered to his feet. The way he was rubbing at his face suggested he had a killer bruise…not that it seemed to show up on him. The inky-skinned man growled, "You will pay for that, vigilante."

Mezou scoffed, barely paying attention to the razor-sharp blade that erupted from the front of Kamakiri's throat, piercing his hand.

"Worse men than you have told me that," he replied. "It never seems to stick."

Kuroiro snarled, charging forwards again. Mezou shifted, ready to defend; maybe he could use Kamakiri to block, the man was still trying to free himself. He never got the chance.

Kuroiro didn't disappear into the ground again like Mezou was expecting him to; neither did he run. Instead, he blurred for a moment, then vanished-leaving only the long knife he carried, floating in the air in defiance of gravity. Mezou barely had time to register how weird that was before the weapon-which he realized had been painted entirely black, from the blade to the hilt-was shooting at him, flipping end-over-end.

It was almost too fast to dodge; Mezou barely managed to throw himself out of the way, throwing Kamakiri aside, where he slammed into the ground with a loud, painful-sounding crash. As soon as he realized he'd missed, Kuroiro instantly left the knife, landing on his feet with it in his hand in the sort of comfortable, smooth motion that must have been practiced a thousand times. He thrust it towards Mezou again, who grabbed Kuroiro by the wrist, halting the blade's progress. Kuroiro yanked it back immediately rather than get grabbed, but Mezou's fist was already rocketing outwards, headed for Kuroiro's face.
Spotting it, Kuroiro grinned, then disappeared again. Mezou halted the punch, thrown off as the knife remained floating. He went to grab it, but before he could, Kuroiro reappeared out of the knife- holding it in his other hand. It was jarring; he'd seemingly moved three feet to the left, using his quirk to dodge and transfer his weapon in one smooth motion.

Mezou gritted his teeth. Both Kamakiri and Kuroiro were good. The cuts they were slowly scoring on him, though shallow and not dangerous by themselves, weren't closing very fast anymore. He was getting tired.

And then, a second later, Kuroiro ducked under Mezou's guard and rammed his knife into the flesh of Mezou's shoulder, making him hiss in pain. He went to pull it out, but then Kuroiro reached out with his free hand, aiming for Mezou's shirt-

His black shirt.

The second Kuroiro's fingertips touched the fabric, he disappeared, and Mezou began to choke. His shirt suddenly developed a mind of its own, twisting and compressing and strangling. It felt like it was shrinking, but maliciously; his whole chest was being crushed, especially his lungs and diaphragm. Kuroiro was trying to squeeze him to death, and it was working. Mezou thrashed helplessly, trying to grab for the shirt's collar-which had suddenly wrapped itself around his windpipe tightly enough to completely cut off his airway-but unable to, thanks to the sleeves of his shirt, all six of them, suddenly becoming harder to move in than handcuffs.

Things only got worse from there. As Mezou fought desperately to breathe, he realized Kamakiri had also recovered. The tusked man stalked closer, blood still streaming down his face from his nose, watching Mezou choke with savage delight in his eyes. Mezou recognized the look instantly-it was the thrill of a battle to the death, taking over Kamakiri's consciousness until all he was, all he cared about, was the fight. Mezou was familiar enough with the feeling to know that Kamakiri could have died that second, and he would have done so with a smile on his face. It wasn't malicious, or hateful, or even angry. It simply was.

The Outcast's lip curled as he watched Mezou struggling. "Impressive," Kamakiri rasped, looking more than a little worse for wear. "Not many can take Kuroiro in an even fight, vigilante, and even fewer can take me. You took on both of us, alone. Only the boss has ever done that."

Mezou growled, and Kamakiri sighed. He moved faster than Mezou could track, blades flashing, and Mezou crumpled to the ground, pain flooding his fading senses. The backs of his legs, from his ankles to his knees, flared with agony; his tendons had been cut. Not as bad for Mezou as for others-they would regenerate, and fairly quickly-but when he was choking to death…

"What a waste," Kamakiri said quietly, some of the berserker rage fading from his eyes. He aligned his blade with Mezou's throat. "You're a good man, vigilante. We could have made a place for you among our best."

Mezou wanted to scoff at the idea, but was rapidly losing the energy to do much of anything. Even as Kamakiri prepared to end it, Mezou doubted it was even necessary. His struggles were getting weaker, his eyelids heavier. He was so close…he couldn't even hear the screams anymore…

Wait.

He couldn't hear the screams anymore.

He'd failed.

Mezou wasn't a good man. He knew it. He didn't help people because of his own beliefs-he did it because once, a long time ago, he'd known a boy with dark feathers and serious eyes who believed the world could be better, and left Mezou with only a promise to remember him by. It was Fumikage who should have been here, doing this, and Mezou would have given anything to make it so. But he wasn't here; there were no good men to do the things they should have done. So it fell to him, an angry, broken man with no place in the world above, to make sure Fumikage Tokoyami had a legacy. If he couldn't be here to fulfill their promise, then Mezou would.

He thought of Tsu, too, but her face didn't calm him like it usually did. It fueled him, made him angrier, made him strong enough to break anything in his way on the path back to her. She knew he always came back-now it was time to prove it.

Rage, boiling-hot and volcanic, filled Mezou. He could feel it leaking from his eyes, hotter and brighter than the fires burning the Depths to ash. Kamakiri's blade began to fall, and Mezou knew that he wasn't done yet. Not by a long shot.

Somehow, with manic strength summoned from a place of pure adrenaline, Mezou reached upwards with flagging, numb fingers. They found the collar of his shirt. He ripped.

The black cloth shredded like spider silk under his fingers, falling to pieces as Mezou tore it free with one hand. Without hesitating, he flung it behind him, into a burning building. He heard Kuroiro start screaming, but didn't even flinch.

With his other hand, Mezou caught Kamakiri's falling blade. His fingers clenched tight on the point where metal met flesh, squeezing down on Kamakiri's wrist with so much strength behind it that he heard Kamakiri's whole arm creak from the force of being stopped so abruptly. The blade came to a screeching halt inches from Mezou's neck.

Kamakiri's eyes went wide, desperation fueling his own push as he tried to break Mezou's grip, only to find it strong as iron. Slowly, his whole body trembling from effort, muscles and tendons only barely restored screaming in pain, Mezou rose. He was beyond exhaustion, beyond pain, beyond the limits of his body by so much he wasn't human anymore. He was something else. Something more.

He grinned as his feet found solid ground, staring down at Kamakiri, who was stunned speechless. He tried to swing his other blade, but Mezou caught that one too, trapping Kamakiri's arms completely. He squeezed tightly, until he felt the bones in both of Kamakiri's wrists starting to groan ominously.

Kamakiri stared at him like he was a god. An angry god. "What the hell are you?" he demanded, helplessly struggling in Mezou's grip. Blades shredded Mezou's hands, erupting from every inch of skin on Kamakiri's hands. Mezou didn't even feel it. Something cracked under Mezou's fists, and Kamakiri stumbled back, away from Mezou, his hands twisted and spasming, his wrists broken.

From somewhere close, Mezou heard footsteps. Heavy footsteps, running fast, moving this way. The roar of the fires was louder, and so was the fighting. Everything felt so close. He hadn't come this far to fail now.

He grinned, knowing his own expression was probably just as manic as Kamakiri's had been. He heard the footsteps stop, and another noise start-a low hum, just on the edge of being audible, a noise that vibrated through the ground and through Mezou's body, setting his teeth on edge and warned him of danger.

He raised his head, met the horrified Kamakiri's gaze, and smiled. He simply replied, "A monster."

Then, the building he'd thrown Kuroiro into exploded.

Burning debris showered the street, the entire front of the wooden structure crumpling like a piece of paper and shattering in an instant, reduced to toothpicks from the other side, by a wave of sound that felt more like an earthquake than a noise.

The building's disappearance revealed a narrow, rounded hole that had been blasted through three or four tightly-packed structures, all of them on fire, from the next major street over. Flames, already resurgent, licked at the edges of the path, curling and flickering in the smoky air.

The fire wasn't what made Kamakiri's expression shift from shock to terror, though. No, that honor was reserved for the figure standing on the other side. Hulking and inhuman, with sharp teeth and red eyes and hands that could crush skulls like oranges, the flames and smoke made them look like a demon from hell.

It wasn't, of course. It was a seven-foot-tall, several-hundred-pound, very angry orca-human hybrid, charging straight for Kamakiri.

"YOU!" Kugo bellowed as he surged through the hole he'd blasted with his sonic emissions. Kamakiri, stunned and hurting from that sonic blast already, had no chance to dodge; Kugo ran over and through the smaller man, barreling into him hard enough to send the Outcast flying. Mezou heard the crunch sound he made when he crashed through another building, and smiled.

They weren't done, though. A sudden noise came from further down the street, and both Mezou and Kugo whirled to find none other than Kuroiro hauling himself to his feet. Angry-looking burns littered his body, as did odd, zigzagging cuts that looked more like the skin had torn than anything else; maybe Mezou ripping his still-occupied shirt to pieces had done that. His eyes were full of hate.

"You…you will die," he spat. "F-for what you've don-"

His rant was abruptly cut off by a small, green-haired woman landing on him. Powerful legs slammed into his head and back, promptly squishing him against the ground and knocking him out.

"A tempting offer," Tsu said dryly, "But we'll pass, thanks."

Mezou slumped a little, as worried by Tsu's presence as he was comforted by it. He wracked his exhausted, pain-filled brain for something to say, but found nothing.

Tsu looked up at him, and a thousand unsaid words flitted across her face, so quickly that Mezou knew he was the only one who saw them. She was worried, and upset with him, and angry at the men he'd fought, but most of all, she was just relieved he was okay…or mostly okay, at least.

Tsu made a point of looking him up and down, then said mildly, "Babe, as much as I enjoy it when you're shirtless, it feels a little inappropriate right now, don't you think?"

Raising an eyebrow, Mezou glanced down at his bare chest, making his wife snicker. When he looked back up, he replied, "Sorry. I got a little bit distracted."

Tsu snorted. "Probably. By the way, you will be paying for doing something this stupid later," she informed him. When Mezou looked incredulous, she simply gestured at the burning neighborhood around them, making him deflate and nod reluctantly.

A moment later, Kugo came over to them, dangling a rather limp Kamakiri from one hand. "Now this makes all of this worth it," he chuckled darkly, gesturing to his prize. "Some good old-fashioned payback."

Tsu rolled her eyes, while Mezou said nothing. Kamakiri, somehow, was still conscious, and looked none too pleased about his treatment. He didn't say anything, though, not even when Kugo dropped him on the ground unceremoniously.

Another thought struck Mezou. He began, "Those people-"

Tsu laid a hand on his arm. "They're safe, Mezou," she told him. "Kugo and I got as many people out as we could."

Mezou felt himself sigh in relief, slumping as a weight disappeared from his shoulders. That was why the screaming had ended-they'd been saved.

Kugo nodded. "We've got you, kid," he rumbled. "As stupid as it was, they're all safe now. I suppose it worked out."

Mezou smiled. "Thank you," he murmured, swaying a little from exhaustion. Instantly, Tsu was there, supporting him.

"You're not alone, you know," she said. "You don't have to do everything yourself."

Mezou snorted, but he knew she was right. He was really bad about that. Almost as bad as Mina, insisting that she always had to be self-sufficient, that she always had to be alone to be safe. Well, that was a problem for another day. At least Mezou could rest easy now.

Or at least, until there was an ominous rumble from further down the street. Instantly, all three of them were on guard, staring down the smoky road.

"Don't like that," Kugo grumbled. The sounds of fighting were still echoing through the streets, but this…this sounded closer.

Kamakiri chuckled darkly as the rumbling grew closer, closer…then faded. Mezou turned to him, still shaky. He was exhausted, spent. He demanded, "What's so funny?"

Kamakiri grinned through the blood and ash that coated his face. In the distance, something was lurking in the smoke; a shape appeared, the figure of a single man, walking through the streets of a burning city, wearing a cloak and a hood that hid his face.

Kamakiri said, "What? Did you think you were the only one who could call in backup?"

Kugo, Tsu, and Mezou tensed, eyes locked on the figure. Whoever it was, they didn't look particularly bothered by the smoke, or the fire. They kept coming, the end of their cloak flapping in the heat-fueled windstorms spreading fire all across the Depths.

Mezou stepped forwards, preparing to meet him…but staggered, wobbling as exhaustion caught up with him. Kugo and Tsu glanced at each other. A decision was reached instantly. "I'll handle this one," Kugo growled, stepping forwards. Mezou nodded gratefully, letting Tsu take his arm.

Kugo charged the figure, crossing the distance between them in seconds; Mezou watched him go. Kugo was one of the most powerful fighters Mezou knew; or had been, anyway, before a certain green-haired hero blew everyone he'd ever known clear out of the water. Immense strength, incredible durability, and the ability to destroy just about anything with that sonic attack. There was a reason that Mezou had been shocked to learn that Kamakiri beat him-though now that he'd fought Kamakiri himself, he found it plenty believable. Kamakiri was fast, and more than strong enough to be a threat to just about anybody. The fact that he apparently wasn't the one in charge of the Outcasts was…worrying.

Kugo reached the cloaked figure in a blur of speed and power, his massive frame twisting as he reared back for a punch. It descended faster than the naked eye could see, strong enough to shatter bones, too close to dodge-

The Outcast didn't dodge. They caught the punch.

Mezou's eyes went wide as, out of nowhere, Kugo found himself wrestling with someone who appeared to be just as strong; the figure's arms were suddenly surrounded in dark, sharp-edged shadow, making them even bigger than Kugo's. Kugo tried to punch with his other arm, but the Outcast caught that, too. For a second, they pushed, each trying to overcome the other. Then, growling, Kugo leaned his head back, then slammed it forwards, making the very air shake as waves of force erupted from his head. The Outcast winced and recoiled a little, but withstood it, slowly but surely pushing Kugo back, beating him in a battle of raw strength. Mezou had never seen anyone do that before.

The sonic attack failed to hurt Kugo's opponent, but it did do one thing: bit by bit, it blew back the Outcast's hood, until it suddenly fell away, revealing-

Tsu gasped, mouth moving but unable to form words. Kugo's eyes went wide. Kamakiri's lips curled upwards into a relieved smile, as if a prayer for salvation had been answered.

Mezou crumpled to his knees.

It shouldn't have been possible. He was dead. He had to be dead. Six years, Mezou had known it-had tried to believe anything else, had tried to lie to himself, had failed.

But the dark feathers and yellow beak, even wreathed by the congealed shadows that he should have recognized from the start, were unmistakable.

It was Fumikage.

With a grunt, Fumikage shoved Kugo back, making him stumble, eyes wide as he came up against the sheer strength in Fumikage's surprisingly slim frame. It was a mistake, and the only opening Fumikage needed. A hand larger than Tsu's whole body slammed into the orca-man, then another. Kugo was tottering, reeling. Fumikage hit him a third time. He didn't need a fourth; Kugo went flying, landing with a grunt on the hard stone nearby.

Fumikage strolled out of Mezou's memories, out of the grave, with the nonchalance of a man merely taking a walk. He came to a halt in front of them, a strange look on his face. He looked as if he wasn't sure whether to smile, or cry, or hang his head in shame.

Mezou was still on his knees. He couldn't move. For a second, he wondered if this could be Toga, like how Mina had said she'd turned into him-but no. One look into Fumikage's eyes, visible now as Dark Shadow receded, dispelled that. Nobody else had that fire in them. Nobody else could sear Mezou's soul with a gaze the way Fumikage was doing right now.

Mezou wanted to rage. He wanted to scream, or cry, or laugh, or hit something. But he could only feel numb, empty.

Fumi was alive. He was alive.

He was the leader of the Outcasts.

Fumikage seemed to be struggling with something similar, but at last, he inclined his head in a nod. It wasn't enough, not for six years, not for anything. But it nearly broke Mezou.

In a voice that seemed far too formal, and yet broken, Fumikage said, "Hello, Mezou. It's been a long time, hasn't it?"