What the hell was it about cliffs that made them such ideal brooding places, anyway?

By Mezou's count, this was the fourth or fifth time he'd ended up on one of the ledges above Homeland, lost in thought as the impossible city glistened below. Again and again, he came here, searching for answers, trying to sort out his feelings, trying to understand the yawning cracks opening up in his soul.

In hindsight, it was only a matter of time until he wasn't alone there anymore.

Tsu didn't say anything as she came up beside Mezou; he barely even acknowledged her presence as he stared out over the city, feet dangling uselessly off the edge of the cliff.

She sat down beside him, and folded her hand over his. Almost without thinking, he clutched it, though he still refused to even look at her.

They sat there in silence for what felt like eternity, tension ebbing away-though never quite leaving. Despite it all, despite the open wounds festering between them, despite the ghosts of dead and lost friends hovering over their shoulders, they were as they always were-each others' rocks, their safe harbors, their one real thing in a world of shadows and smoke.

At last, Mezou spoke, his voice a deep rumble as always, but still so achingly soft as he whispered, "Why didn't you tell me?"

Tsu looked down at the city below them, still ablaze with lights that twinkled in the pitch black abyss.

"Because I was scared," she admitted quietly. "You've always been so protective of Mina. I always saw it as a good thing, but when it came to her loving a hero, I…"

She trailed off, shaking her head. Visibly gathering herself, she continued, "I wanted to give us time. Time to let her be happy, to let me figure out how to tell you, to let things settle down before I dropped something else you'd feel responsible for in your lap. I should have told you. I'm sorry."

Mezou looked at her with wide eyes, almost fearful. "You were scared of me?" he asked, pained even by the thought.

Tsu shook her head, something approaching a scoff escaping her lips. "Of you? Never," she replied-she had known him too long for that, seen him in every imaginable state, been witness to the most private moments of his heart too many times to ever believe he could even think of hurting her. And yet… "For you? Always."

Mezou sighed. He knew that well enough-he saw it every time he came home bearing new scars, new wounds, clothes soaked in blood and lips sealed tightly. Tsu had never been able to stop worrying for him; that, more than anything, was a sign of how much she loved him.

"It's okay," he said softly. "I forgive you."

Tsu looked up, seemingly more than a little surprised. "You do?" she asked.
Mezou nodded. "You weren't wrong about how I would have reacted," he admitted. "And…I'm not stupid. I know my flaws as well as you do-and being so protective of Mina is definitely one of them."

Tsu didn't have the heart to correct Mezou's tense when he referred to Mina. The raw spike of agony that filled her heart at the mistake stole her ability to speak for a moment, anyway.

"I just wish I could have told you, instead of…what happened," she said.

Mezou hung his head. "You and me both," he agreed.

After that, they both just sort of…fell quiet. They basked in quiet mourning, feeling the weight of a lost friend-a presence that whispered at their shoulder, fresh and raw.

Finally, the silence broke.

"What are we gonna do?" Mezou asked, sounding so lost that Tsu had put her arms around his massive shoulders before she even realized what she was doing.

"I don't know," she replied; the admission hurt, but it was a necessary hurt, the kind you winced through but never flinched from. "But sitting here feeling sorry for ourselves isn't an option."

Mezou nodded slowly. "We have to pick a side," he agreed. "We can't forgive Fumi-but he's still right, and he's still the only one who gives a damn about changing things. We can't possibly sit this out. But…"

Tsu had known Mezou since they were ten years old. She knew him better than anyone else alive-once she might have hesitated to say that, put Mina and Fumi before her…but, well, Mina was gone. And Fumi was…bad, and getting worse. Every day that passed, he seemed to lose himself more, piece by piece.

Tsu was scared of what might be left when there was nothing of Fumi remaining.

It was easy for her to finish Mezou's thought.

"Either way, we lose something," she said. "Either way, we betray someone. Damned if we do, damned if we don't."

Mezou snorted. "Story of our fucking lives," he grunted. "God, I hate this world sometimes."

Tsu raised an eyebrow. "No, you don't," she said mildly. "A man who hated the world wouldn't do the things you do."

Mezou glared at her halfheartedly, before his head sank back into his hands. "Sometimes, I think it's unfair that you apparently know me better than I do," he grumbled.

"Someone has to," Tsu teased. "You can't just grumble and growl your way through life."
Mezou's expression wasn't quite a smile, but it was the closest he could have produced, under the circumstances. It faded quickly, but the memory lingered, and that was enough to lighten Tsu's heart, just a bit.

"Whatever we do," he told her. "We do it together. No matter what."

Tsu nodded. "Always," she whispered.

Mezou sighed, and squeezed her hand tighter. In a whisper of his own, he said, "For Mina."

In Homeland itself, the fervor of the last two days had not weakened. If anything, it had intensified, people openly celebrating in the streets, welcoming a steady stream of newcomers-for once the Depths had learned that Atlas had fallen, thousands had flocked to join the man who had brought him down.

As for that man…he hadn't shown himself much since his victory, but that was understandable. There were plans to be made, after all.

Fumikage sighed deeply as he stepped into the war room, trying to clear his head. He failed.

There were perhaps a dozen people inside the large room, sitting around an equally large and imposing table covered in maps. Ibara was there, her face as unguarded as it ever got; she made no secret of her white-faced apprehension. Kuroiro and Kamakiri, by contrast, had their usual poker faces on as they sat on either side of the only unoccupied seat at the table. As for the other seats…

They were filled by some of the hardest, strongest, cleverest, most dangerous mutants to ever walk the Depths. Former warlords, mostly; while Fumikage had wiped out most of the autocratic, iron-fisted tyrants who'd ruled whatever scraps of the lower tunnels they could claim over the years, a few had been moved by his message-or just his strength. They had joined his cause, instead of being annihilated. The half-dozen of them in this room were seasoned killers all; worse, they were the smart ones. That was why Fumikage had happily included them in his inner circle-and also why he was more wary of them than perhaps anyone else.

Most of the other seats were filled with highly respected citizens of Homeland or those chosen by various groups who had sworn allegiance to Fumikage to represent them. All of them except for one, of course-the seat filled with the massive, blue-furred bulk of Chojuro Kon.

Even as the others rose respectfully from their seats-an honor Fumikage had never demanded nor even asked for, not that that ever stopped them-Kon went a step further, standing to his full, enormous height and crossing the room to greet Fumikage, not with extended claws, but with an outstretched hand.

"Well, well," he said in a rumbling but-surprisingly-genuinely kind voice. "If it isn't the man of the hour."

Fumikage pretended he hadn't noticed Kamakiri tense in his seat as he returned Kon's handshake, not even flinching under the sort of crushing force that would have annihilated a weaker man's bones with ease.

"Chimera," he said evenly. "I assume you got my message, then."

Kon nodded, an amused look on his face. "Course I did," he snorted. "Can't say I understand why you want a man who nearly killed you in your highest council, but I know better than to argue with it."

Kon's words made Fumikage remember that fight. Flame and shadow, gleeful laughter, the hushed murmur of armies-

Blinding green light. Crackling thunder. Golden eyes, begging and pleading. His heart-his soul-tearing itself apart.

Fumikage shoved the thoughts away with as much force as he could muster. Now was not the time to show weakness-not in front of the most dangerous mutants in the entire Depths.

Aside from him, of course.

Fumikage smiled bitterly. "That's the reason I won, you know," he told Kon. "Because you didn't understand. Because you don't understand why I fought you."

Kon didn't demand an explanation, though his eyebrow crept up into a bemused expression. Instead, he said, "I think I was wrong about you, you know."

Fumikage blinked. "Excuse me?" he replied.

Kon raised a hand, gesturing back out the now-closed door-towards the clean, bright city beneath the earth that lay beyond.

"During our duel, I called you a destroyer," Kon explained. "Like Shigaraki, or Stain. But that was before I saw Homeland. This place-it's something special, boy. You-you're like me. You're a builder."

Fumikage did not appreciate that comparison in the slightest, even if the look in Kon's eye-not quite the worshipful awe he'd had back after Atlas's fall, but something closer to genuine, hard-earned respect-made him feel slightly better about how loyal Kon would truly prove to be. He remarked acidly, "We're nothing alike. I don't build on a foundation of the blood of my own people."

The expression on Kon's face reminded Fumikage of how Dark Shadow got sometimes-endlessly patient, amused in some distant, cold way, like a parent reacting to a child's ludicrous, nonsensical declaration. He held his silence for a long moment-long enough for Fumikage to think of Mina, and realize that, on top of everything else he was, he was a hypocrite.

"Sure you don't," Kon chuckled, deep in his chest.

Fumikage scowled, and brushed past Kon, making his way to his own seat. He settled into place at the head of the table, in the largest and most ornate chair. It wasn't quite a throne-but that was only because he had rejected every attempt to give him one. Even the polished wood of the chair he sat in-a rarity in the Depths, which had no trees and few ways to import anything as luxurious and useless as fine wood-was a compromise between him and those who seemed determined to put him on the highest pedestal possible.

Then again, Fumikage's refusal to sit above his commanders hadn't stopped the Outcasts from nearly worshiping him; if anything, it made it worse. They whispered of his humility, of his commitment to the belief that everyone was equal, that no man should stand above another-and by doing so, raised him above themselves anyway.

Everything he did became myth. Every attempt to be seen as human, as fallible, only enhanced his legend. People took whatever he did as gospel, as something greater. Their expectations grew and grew, their loyalty growing alongside it.

Sooner or later, it would crush him.

His commanders sat down around him, waiting expectantly. For a moment, Fumikage wanted to laugh. Here he was, a twenty-four-year-old street rat with men and women twice his age hanging on his every word. Madness. Sheer, absolute madness.

He forced himself out of his dark thoughts and took a deep breath.

"My friends," he said, every word filled with deadly purpose, "This is an unprecedented time for our people. For the first time ever, we are united. No more petty squabbles, no more gang warfare, no more blood feuds. Finally, we have a chance for real change. We have a chance to force the Underground to admit we exist, to demand that they treat us as equals. We have a chance to strike back."

No one spoke. A dozen of the greatest men and women in the Depths stood stock-still, waiting for him to reach his point. To be sure, there were many reactions on their faces-Ibara was apprehensive, Kamakiri eager, Kon unreadable and glittering in a way that made Fumikage feel like he was being dissected-but nobody seemed to have anything to add.
Fumikage continued, "I'm sure I don't need to bring up why we have this opportunity-but still, it's worth acknowledging. As far as we know, Atlas is dead."

That, at last, earned a reaction. Kon scoffed, "As far as we know? The bastard fell into the Chasm, half-dead and barely conscious. Nobody can come back from that."
He was right, of course. But Fumikage hadn't gotten where he was by simply taking things for granted. As far as he was concerned, until he had Atlas's body in front of him, he couldn't be sure. And if he wasn't sure, he would never succeed.

He didn't respond to Kon beyond a simple nod, before resuming. "With him out of the picture, our biggest threat is suddenly gone. Hell, when they find out he's dead-assuming they don't already know-the abovegrounders are likely to panic. It's possible we could get them to agree to our demands without any fighting."

The reactions to that were interesting; they ranged from relieved sighs to cautious nods to dissatisfied growls.

And finally, the rustling of wings as one of the members of the council rose to their feet, groaning as they gave an exaggerated stretch.

"This all sounds great, Boss," the man said, blood-red feathers shimmering in the candlelight. "Just one question, if you don't mind."

Fumikage narrowed his eyes as murmurs slipped around the table. "Keigo," he acknowledged in an even voice, very intentionally avoiding gritting his teeth. "I'm all ears,"

Keigo Takami, warlord, red-winged mutant, and general thorn in Fumikage's side, grinned in his usual off-kilter way as he asked, "What exactly are our demands, anyway?"

Fumikage raised an eyebrow. Keigo had been a warlord-but unlike more or less every other tyrant, he'd joined the Outcasts willingly. Four years ago, he'd simply…walked up to their gates, asked what all the ruckus was about, then…offered to join. The offer had been accepted, after a lot of suspicious conversations.

The other warlords and former gansters at the table, having only submitted after ferocious battles, considered him bizarre and slightly pathetic-an image Fumikage suspected Keigo intentionally cultivated. Or maybe he was just weird and more than a little crazy-it wasn't like he didn't have good company in that regard.

Needless to say, Fumikage didn't trust the winged man in the fucking slightest. Most of the warlords, even the clever ones, were predictable-they were after personal power, glory, and crude pleasures. They were easily kept in line. Keigo, though…Fumikage had no clue what the fuck he wanted, or why he'd been so eager to give up his own power. That made him dangerous.

"That," he responded, meeting Keigo's eyes, "Is one of the items we are here to discuss."

Keigo raised an eyebrow, crossing his arms as he asked, "So you're saying…you don't have anything?"

More murmurs, some thoughtful, others dark. Fumikage wondered again what about Keigo put him on edge like this. Something about the smarmy bastard's grin and the bizarre goggles he wore on his head made him itch.

Or was that Dark Shadow talking? It was getting harder to tell, sometimes.

Fumikage took a deep breath to collect himself, then forced himself to respond patiently. "Oh, I have plenty of ideas," he said. "No more harassment of any mutant seen in the Underground proper, for one, not to mention an end to housing discrimation, surface access, legal protections, and so on. I was asking if you had any to contribute yourself. I'd quite like to hear them."

Keigo didn't seem satisfied. "If you've already got your list, why didn't you give it to us already?" he asked. "It's not like any of us are in a position to disagree with it."

Fumikage's fist tightened at that. "Because," he growled, "I'm trying to set up something here that isn't just me dominating the conversation because I'm the biggest and strongest killer in the room, Keigo. I don't want to just give you all orders and demand they be carried out."

The look of confusion Fumikage got from several of the former warlords were almost enough to make him doubt the advice Craton and Faultline had given him, all those years ago, when they told him that he would need to end the doctrine of might-makes-right to have any shot of actually changing anything in the Depths. Oh, to be sure, he knew it was necessary-that idea had produced the Chimera, the warlords, the gangs, and everything else that had made his childhood and the lives of so many others a living hell-but he just didn't know if it was possible. Could these former killers ever learn a better way, or was he doomed to fail?

Well, he'd force them to learn. He'd beat it into them, if necessary. And if using force to make people stop using force made him a hypocrite, well…he already was a hypocrite. He couldn't get any worse.

Keigo's response was simply to smirk. "Well said, sir," he said, giving a mocking bow. "Spoken as the true idealist and noble leader you are."

Fumikage resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "Are you done, Keigo?" he asked. "Or do you have something of value to add?"

"Apologies," the winged man replied. "I won't question your wisdom again, Great Leader."

The obvious exaggeration in Keigo's voice only increased Fumikage's suspicion. What the hell was he doing?

Forcing himself to stop worrying about it, he decided, "Let's continue, then. Leaving aside the discussion of how and what we will demand, there is a second issue we must discuss: the question of whether or not to go to war."

That sent a wave of confused looks and murmurs around the room far larger and louder than any before it.

After a moment's hesitation, one of the warlords-not Keigo, thankfully, but a woman with hardened, calcified protrusions all along her arms and neck-spoke up. "Forgive us, sir," she said awkwardly, "but we were under the impression that…well, that you had already decided that yourself."

Fumikage hesitated, then sighed. "And you assumed you were being asked to plan and lead our assault on the Underground," he finished dryly.

Nods all around-even from Kuroiro and Kamakiri, both of whom were looking surprised at Fumikage's words.

Fumikage shook his head, and rose from his seat. Slowly, deliberately, he began to stalk his way around the table, his looming presence making even the bravest men and women shrink into their seats.

"One of these days, I'll manage to get it into your heads that I am not like you," he growled. "I am not a tyrant. I do not rule with fear. I do not make decisions for everyone by myself, because I'm not a fucking god. I especially don't make decisions this important alone-because if we make the wrong choice here, we will be destroyed."

The warlord who had spoken before looked confused. "Atlas is dead, and the rest of the heroes are nothing but arrogant abovegrounders!" she protested.

Fumikage raised an eyebrow. "Arrogant abovegrounders who have more men and resources than we can even imagine," he growled, low and deep. "And even if only a few of them can compare to Atlas, we're fucked."

"You beat Atlas!" she pointed out.

Fumikage nodded. "I did," he agreed, preparing to tell a hard truth, one he'd known since the first punch Atlas had landed in that fight. "But I beat him because he was cocky, stupid, and overconfident. He came in expecting to destroy me effortlessly, like he has to every single person who has ever challenged him-and I made sure he didn't get a chance to recover from making that mistake. I did not beat him because he wasn't as strong as we thought he was-because he was. Every inch. Maybe stronger. But that's not the problem here."

Fumikage paused, turning to survey the room. Friends and allies and foes alike waited solemnly, waiting like children at an elder's knee.

God, he wished he were anywhere else. But he was the only fucking person who could do this.

"If we move on the Underground," he said, "we are no longer a minor local problem for the Musutafu police to deal with. We become Enemy Number One for the whole fucking country. They will bring an army of heroes down on us, and it'll make the incursions look like fucking street parties. Remember what happened to Tomura Shigaraki?"

To her credit, the warlord was no coward-even faced with an angry Fumikage, darkness swirling beneath his long jacket, she simply met his eyes, and said, "He killed thousands of heroes, caused chaos across the entire country!"

"And then he died," Fumikage snapped, "and his League died with him. Everyone who followed him is either dead or in prison now-everyone. And that's nothing compared to what they'll do to us if we lose. The abovegrounders destroy what they fear. And there is nothing they fear more than us."

The ringing silence that followed was punctured only by Fumikage slamming his hands onto the table, leaning forwards over maps and plans.

"So," he said heavily. "Give me a reason to take that risk-not just with the Outcasts, but with all of Homeland. With every life in the Depths. And it better be a damn good reason."

Once more, there was silence, heavy and tense.

And then, once again, Keigo spoke.

"That ship has sailed already, Tokoyami," he said. "You've already started that war, remember? You killed Atlas. You think the heroes will take that lying down?"

Fumikage swallowed heavily. "I expect that, faced with the risk of widespread destruction, they might be reasoned with," he replied.

Keigo snorted. "Don't be naive," he snapped. "The stung bull only gets angrier, and as terrible as Atlas was, he was not the thing keeping us down. It's the whole damn structure-all the heroes, all their masters. You only pricked them-but did so in the single worst way possible. They'll come for you, and they'll never stop coming for you. The man who killed their Symbol cannot be allowed to live."

Fumikage's mouth was dry. He tried to think of something-but couldn't, because Keigo was right, and he knew it. Damn him.

Then, Ibara spoke up. She asked, "Surely you're exaggerating. Would they condemn so many people to die because of that?"

Keigo raised an eyebrow, wings rustling as he raised an arm to point at Fumikage. "If someone killed him," he asked mildly, "What would we be doing right now?"

Ibara went pale. Beside her, Kamakiri's eyes darkened even further. They didn't need to speak the answer aloud-everyone in that room knew.

A moment later, Ibara found her voice again. "So…that's it, then?" she asked, scathing and sad and hollow all at once. "The cycle continues? They hurt us because we hurt them, so we hurt them back? We bury more people?"

Keigo looked at her with an unreadable expression, but he was not the one who spoke.

Chojuro Kon was.

"You gotta defend yourself, kid," he rumbled. "It doesn't matter who started it, at the end of the day. All that matters now is that there's a bunch of fuckers who want us all dead, and we don't want to die. Empathy can only take you so far before it becomes hesitation-and that's what gets you killed."

Fumikage nodded grimly as Ibara fell silent. "Chimera," he asked. "What's your suggestion?"

Kon raised an eyebrow. "My suggestion?" he repeated dryly. "I don't think that matters. It's like Keigo said-this war's already gonna happen. You're right, we don't want to fight all of Japan…but we don't get a say in that anymore."

Fumikage shook his head. "I know that," he replied. "I was asking what your suggestion is for how we should fight."

Kon blinked. Then, slowly, a grin of understanding spread across his features. "Ah," he realized. "Smart of ya. I'm the only one here with experience fighting heroes on that sorta scale, ain't I?"

Fumikage nodded. Kon had made his name in the incursion wars, when heroes had tried to burn the mutants out of the Depths to make them part of the Underground proper-if anyone was capable of preparing them to fight off another assault, it would be him.

Kon's massive fingers drummed into the tabletop like hammers for several long, agonizing minutes before he spoke again. When he did, it was backed by the sort of steel you could only gain from long, painful experience-years and years of blood, hard-won wisdom writ in the scars on his skin.

"Way I see it, we've got two options," he finally decided. "Defensive, and offensive. We could wait for the heroes to come to us, set up ambushes and booby-trap every fucking inch of the tunnels we know about, and force them to wade through their own blood for every godforsaken street and stalactite. But that comes with a hell of a cost."

Fumikage grimaced. "What cost?" he asked.

Kon sighed. "Everything," he said simply. "That sort of fighting would burn the Depths to the ground, and be just as bloody for us as it would be for the heroes. And if they're determined enough, and if there's enough of them…they could burn down the whole city and still have enough left over to declare victory over the rubble."

Fumikage closed his eyes, and he was ten years old again, watching his world turn to choking ash and suffocating smoke and searing flame, a worthless street rat caught in the crossfire between two groups of hated monsters-the gangs and the heroes. He couldn't do that. Not again.

"And what's option two?" he heard himself ask.

Kon's steak-knife teeth flashed, just for a second. "We play offense," he said. "Take advantage of the chaos of Atlas's power vacuum, and strike immediately. Try to overrun the Underground and stop them organizing and launching a counterattack. Make ourselves as unappealing a target as possible, in the hope that some coward in a suit calls it all off and caves before they realize we're bluffing."

Fumikage tensed. "Would that work?" he asked.

Kon considered for a moment. "I have no goddamn idea," he admitted, meeting Fumikage's eyes. "But it could. And I don't think anything else will."

Fumikage nodded, taking a look around the room. He was met with steady, resigned expressions. Every single person in this room knew what was at stake. They knew it would never survive if the heroes came for them in force. They knew that the chips were down, and they only had one chance left-to risk everything to live another day.

Such was life in the Depths.

"A vote, then," Fumikage said. "All in favor?"

Every hand went up. Even Keigo's, even Ibara's. Whether that was because they agreed or because they knew he agreed, Fumikage didn't know, but he had no time to worry about it.

"Alright then," he said when the hands went down again. "Continue drafting a list of demands that we think they'd be willing to agree to. Kuroiro, I have a job for you; talk to me outside, please. But before that…"

His gaze shifted to the red-winged warlord who had practically called him a child in front of the whole war council. Darkness crept up his cheeks and covered his eyes.

"Keigo," he said perfectly evenly. "We need to talk."

Less than a minute later, Keigo (shockingly unintimidated, considering the circumstances) was standing next to Fumikage, well above the city on a ledge outside the war council room.

Fumikage took a deep breath. Privately wondering if he was wasting his time, he growled, "Explain yourself, Keigo."

The man raised an eyebrow and stretched his wings lazily, the feathers rustling as he moved. Innocently, he asked, "What do you mean, boss?"

"You challenged me," Fumikage said curtly. "In front of half of the most feared men and women in the Underground, including the Chimera himself. You all but called me a little boy."

Keigo shrugged. It was a little less playful now. "You are," he replied absentmindedly. "I was one of the youngest in that room outside of your little posse, and I'm nearly a decade older than you."

Fumikage snorted. "If age meant a damn thing, then I wouldn't have personally beaten every single one of those bastards half to death," he shot back.

Keigo's grin sharpened. It wasn't really a smile at all, anymore. It was something more sinister, more grim.

"Spoken like a boy," he said, a misleading softness to his voice. "I'm not talking about strength-you've got that in spades. But wisdom? That, you haven't learned yet."

Fumikage clenched his fist. Glancing down at it, he realized it wasn't a fist-it was claws. Dark Shadow crept down his arm, turning fingers into razor-sharp talons.

That was happening more and more, now-Shadow seeping through without Fumikage commanding it. He tried to pretend it didn't terrify the shit out of him.

"You call it wisdom; I call it the bitterness of old, greedy fools," he hissed. "I want no part of that."

Keigo lowered his gaze, wings folding in as he looked Fumikage right in the eye. Fumikage met the stare easily. For all that Keigo continually put him on edge, for all the danger that lurked under the strange, slightly foppish man's facade, he didn't scare Fumikage.

This wasn't a meeting of equals-far from it.

"There's some truth to that," Keigo admitted with a sigh, before his expression hardened again. "But at the same time…tell me, Boss. What's your dream of what happens, after?"

Fumikage blinked. "After?" he repeated questioningly.

"After we win," Keigo elaborated. "After the fighting's over-if it comes to that, of course. When your goals are achieved, when the laws and prejudices that trap us down here are gone. What does that world look like to you?"

Fumikage…hesitated. He struggled to find the words to meet that question. All the ones he could think of felt…inadequate. Incomplete, somehow.

He turned to look out at Homeland. A place he'd built. A refuge-but what happened to a refuge when the danger passed?

"I…don't think I'm arrogant enough to presume that my vision of the future is the one we should follow," he said cautiously.

Keigo scoffed. "Pardon my French, Boss…but that's horseshit," he said.

Fumikage's gaze narrowed. "Excuse me?" he asked.

If Keigo seemed nervous about the dangerous edge Fumikage's voice was taking on, he didn't show it. He met Fumikage's gaze, and said, "A man who's done the things you've done has to be arrogant. You have to believe that you know the solutions to the problems we face, to think that you can lead us there. You have to be arrogant to believe that you can face down the Chimera and win-to believe that you can take on fucking Atlas himself. You're arrogant, Boss-and you fucking should be. You're about the only man I've ever met who I actually think can change this rotten fucking world. So, answer the question-what's your perfect world, if we win?"

Fumikage went tense as Keigo's words sank in. Instead of engaging with them, though, he decided to take the escape route Keigo had offered him.

With a sigh, he said, "If I had to say…a world where we're recognized as equals. Not as lessers, or freaks, or…even as special. I want mutant quirks to be treated the same as everyone else."

Keigo nodded, though he still wasn't satisfied. "What about the Depths?" he asked. "Should we stay separate? Leave for greener pastures? Let non-mutants live here?"

Fumikage frowned. "I…guess I want Homeland to be a refuge for anyone who needs it," he mused. "Mutant or not…quirked or not. That would be nice. A place where the lines we draw don't matter-a place where we're people, not monsters or kings…or even heroes."

Keigo nodded, murmuring in understanding. "I see," he said.

Then, he tore Fumikage's heart out.

"If that's really what you want," he asked, "Then why'd you kill that pink girl who tried to save Atlas? What did you say her name was, again? Mina?"

Fumikage whirled to face Keigo, darkness sweeping over his torso and arms in a single motion.

"Your service means I have given you a lot of leeway, Keigo," he hissed, his voice ice cold as he utterly erased all distance between them. "But say her name one more time, and I will tear you limb from limb."

Keigo smiled, sharp and playful in the way that a cat toying with a mouse might smile. "Ah, is that a part of your dream?" he asked. "Being able to silence anyone who says something you don't like? That doesn't sound very free to me."

Fumikage snarled-but didn't speak. Every word out of Keigo's mouth was like a dagger-because he was right, damn him.

Keigo's grin didn't falter as Fumikage took a deep breath, shadows fading ever so slightly from his body. "Like I was saying…Mina was willing to die for Atlas," he continued. "And he for her. That sure seems like the kind of thing that'd fit perfectly in this dream-world of yours, eh? A mutant and the world's greatest hero, that madly in love? As equals?"

Fumikage's talon-fists clenched tighter. "Get to the point," he growled ominously. "Quickly."

Keigo nodded; perhaps he was more shaken than he looked. "You're either lying to yourself, or you're lying to me," he said. "I don't know which one it is, but my money's on the first. You cannot doubt yourself, going into a war like the one that's just begun. You called that council for advice, yeah?"

Fumikage nodded slowly.

Keigo sighed. "Well, I ain't of much use in planning a war," he told Fumikage, "But I can give you this advice: figure out what you really want, what your real goal is, and do it fast. If you hesitate, if you lash out without a plan of what you're going to do and why you're doing it, you'll doom us all."

Fumikage took a deep breath. Then another. The shadows slowly retreated.

"You're a bold man, Keigo," he said, voice somewhere between impressed and scathing.

Keigo chuckled. "I try my best, boss," he replied. "Try not to get killed, alright?"

With that, Keigo spread his wings wide, and flung himself into the air, swiftly slipping away to coast over Homeland on the still, heavy air-without being dismissed, of course.

Fumikage watched Keigo retreat into the distance, and let himself sag, tension slowly draining away-but not fully, of course. Never fully. He was the tension, it felt like-the eternal feeling of being trapped in a too-small space, straining at invisible chains, eternally on the edge of breaking free, but never quite managing it.

Was that how Dark Shadow felt, whenever Fumikage held him back? No wonder he was always so angry.

"You can come out now, Kuroiro," he said.

A patch of dark rock a few feet away rippled, and the man Fumikage had met in the ruins of a burning town of cultists simply appeared, emerging from the earth fully formed.

Fumikage hadn't been sure that Kuroiro had been eavesdropping, but it had seemed a safe bet-and the minor look of surprise on his face was more emotion than he almost ever showed. It never hurt to seem more knowing than you really were-another lesson from those long-vanished legends he'd encountered all those years ago.

"Dark One," Kuroiro said, nodding respectfully to Fumikage.
"What did you think of what Keigo said?" Fumikage asked.

Kuroiro hesitated for a moment, as if he wasn't sure he was allowed to speak. A moment later, though, he said, "I think he is a fool, Dark One."

Fumikage snorted. "Oh, beyond a doubt, he is," he agreed. "But we're all fools, here. If anything, Keigo is less of a fool than most of us."

Kuroiro blinked. "He insulted you, Dark One," he said, as if that was all that was needed to condemn Keigo. For Kuroiro, it probably was.

Fumikage shook his head. "He educated me," he corrected. "And I needed it."

Kuroiro didn't respond for a long moment. "So I shouldn't kill him?" he asked.

Fumikage held his gaze, raising an eyebrow as Kuroiro gave him the kind of flawless poker face only someone with skin the color of gleaming midnight oil could make. That was how he knew Kuroiro was joking-a deduction borne out by the tiniest twinkle in the man's eye a moment later.

Fumikage allowed himself to smile-a small one, yes, but God did he need to smile. He needed something that wasn't the darkness, the loose, hollow brokenness that threatened to overwhelm him these days. A distraction from the accusing golden eyes that haunted his every waking moment.

That smile vanished a moment later when he reached into one of his coat pockets, drawing out three small packages-envelopes, really.

"I have something I need you to do, Kuroiro," he said somberly.

Kuroiro nodded. "Anything, Dark One," he said.

Fumikage handed the packages over to Kuroiro, who accepted them solemnly. He slipped them into his pockets, seemingly uninterested in their contents.

"I want you to take one of those to each of the three major news networks in Musutafu," Fumikage said. "They all contain the same message-tell them to put it on the air, unedited, and without any attempt to block it. Threaten them however you see fit-but avoid hurting anyone unless absolutely necessary."

Kuroiro nodded. "The council was a facade, then?" he asked curiously. "You planned to declare war on the Underground regardless of the decision we made."

Fumikage shook his head. "This…isn't a declaration of war," he responded. He hoped, at least. "It's more of an…ultimatum. A final attempt to make it clear just what a war would cost them-and us."

"You think they'll accept?" Kuroiro asked.

Fumikage sighed. "I hope to God they do," he admitted. "I hope that reason wins out over blind hate, that they don't just dismiss us as another League of madmen. But…I know better. Still, I…I have to try."

At that point, Kuroiro showed more familiarity than Fumikage had ever expected-he put a hand on Fumikage's shoulder.

"That's all we can do," he murmured. "Try."

Fumikage looked up at him, and Kuroiro met his eyes. There were words there that couldn't be said, emotions that couldn't be named. Fumikage understood it perfectly nonetheless.

He felt as if he were a boulder, teetering precariously on the edge of a cliff. About to pass the point of no return. Or perhaps he was already past it, and rolling downhill towards his own destruction, his fate already out of his hands.

"This world will change," he said, so quietly it was more of an intense whisper. "I'll make it change."

Kuroiro nodded again. "You pulled me from the darkness and gave me a purpose," he whispered. "You can count on me, Dark One."

Fumikage heaved a long-suffering sigh. "One of these days, I'll get you to stop calling me that," he said.

Kuroiro held his gaze, his face perfectly blank as it always was. At least, until the tiniest twitch of his lip broke the facade, suggesting a smile without being one, in a strict sense of the word. That was still more expression than Fumikage had ever seen from Kuroiro.

"Never," Kuroiro said.

Fumikage didn't say anything else. He simply stepped back, and Kuroiro vanished. He didn't even seem to move; he was simply there one moment and gone the next, melding into the stone as easily as another man might stroll up a path.

Fumikage shook his head. Kuroiro's quirk truly was a marvel-a means of transportation as well as combat. Kuroiro didn't even seem to realize how strong he truly was, especially down here-hadn't realized the power of a man who could be anywhere, become anything, and appear without warning whenever he felt like it.

Then again, did any of them know how powerful they really were? They had strength, yes, but it was strength built up from the endless struggle to survive that they faced. They'd never been able to stretch their wings, to really test their limits-the world had always limited them, obstructed them.

In the end, it was just another yoke to throw off-the mutants would see just how powerful they were, Fumikage swore. Even if he was growing increasingly scared of finding his own limits-or discovering that the price for reaching them might destroy him.

In the end, he spent barely a few minutes alone before he finally turned away. He had others to speak to-and apologies to make.

Fumikage's wandering feet took him back towards the council room, but he found his target before he ever reached it.

Ibara stood outside the door with her hands behind her back, her hair still tightly bound, looking out over the city below. Even the soft sound of Fumikage's feet on the cold stone behind her didn't draw her out of her reverie. The only indication that she'd noticed his presence was a sort of half-turn towards him, and a small sound of humming acknowledgement.

"Fumikage," she said at last, in a quiet, soft voice. Not weak-never weak-but…tired, perhaps. Passionless.

Fumikage stepped up to stand beside her. For a long moment, he tried to find the words that could let him explain, could give him the ability to repair the breach he feared he'd opened in the council.

He had so few friends left. The thought of losing one…nearly broke him.

"I'm…sorry," he said at last.

Ibara turned towards him, a curious look on his face. "For what?" she asked, something in her voice suggesting amusement, of all things.

"For what the council decided," Fumikage replied. "I know it isn't what you wanted."

Ibara snorted. "I'm not a little girl, Fumikage," she said. "My feelings aren't hurt. I was outvoted, pure and simple."

"Still," Fumikage replied. "You don't want more bloodshed. I understand that. I…want you to know how much I wish this could go differently."

Ibara met his eyes for a long, frozen moment. Softly, she asked, "Do you really believe that?"

Fumikage blinked. "What do you mean?" he asked eventually.

Ibara snorted. "Any of it," she said, waving a hand expansively. "That things could've ever turned out differently. That you wanted them to turn out differently. Or…or that I want peace."

Fumikage…didn't know how to answer that. There were too many questions he'd asked himself, only to never find an answer. Too many things that scared him too much to truly explore.

Ibara sighed. Something like a smile played across her face as she turned away from the city, and towards him. Her bun bobbed with the movement, tightly bound vines seething as they were contained.

"You're a smart man, Fumikage Tokoyami," she said. "Perhaps the smartest I've ever known. But it seems my feelings still elude you. As much as I argued against it, as much as I pleaded…deep down, I want this war."

Fumikage turned to look at her, really look at her. Ibara met his gaze, and he saw something in her eyes that chilled him to the bone. Not because he didn't recognize it-but because he did.

It was rage. Righteous, all-consuming, addictive rage. The kind Fumikage felt in his chest, beating like a second heart. The kind Kamakiri and Kuroiro had become avatars of, shining from their eyes and leaking out with every movement.

The kind that Atlas had worn in his eyes and in the lightning on his skin when he'd landed like a falling star on the empty plain before the Chasm.

"I'm ready for it, Fumikage," Ibara whispered. "I've been ready for it since the first day my mother walked in with black eyes and bruised skin from one of her goddamned clients. Since the first time someone used "whore's daughter" against me like a weapon. Since the first time I watched a fucking teenaged boy bleed out crying for his mother because he got stabbed in a fight over an empty goddamned street corner, all the while knowing that he could have lived, if we had even one real fucking hospital down here. I know people think I'm the sweet-tempered, saintly healer-but I'm not. I've never been. I heal because I am angry. Because if nobody else will stand up and try to fix this, then I fucking will."

Ibara took a breath, and fixed Fumikage with a gaze that pierced right through him, burned away all his fears and worries and discomfort with the awe in her eyes.

"You, Fumikage Tokoyami, are the only person I've ever seen who's ever tried to actually fix the world," she told him. "The only one who doesn't just…accept that the world is cruel and awful, who stands up and says "this is wrong," and destroys anyone who tries to say otherwise. And then you…you pick them up again, and show them how to be kind, how to heal, how to build. That anger-and that desire to heal-is why I'll fight with you. Sometimes, you have to cauterize a wound before you can treat it."

Ibara fell silent, sucking air into her lungs as the rage slipped a little further out of reach, and Fumikage realized that he could scarcely breathe. There was something entrancing about Ibara at that moment-she seemed to glow, eyes burning with fury. The simple cross she wore around her neck gleamed, shimmering in the distant lights of Homeland, the first place she'd ever had the chance to heal, to repair some tiny piece of the world, however she could.

Then, she looked at him, her eyes suddenly uncertain. "I want to hurt them," she whispered. "For what they did to us. For what my mother went through, for what I went through. For every single person their hate and cruelty and evil killed. I…I want them to burn. Does...does that make me a monster, Fumikage?"

Fumikage met her gaze evenly, secretly grateful for the first question in weeks that he was sure he knew the answer to. "No more than I am," he answered. "No more than Kamakiri, or Kuroiro. No more than anyone who has ever been mistreated or abused or hurt for no reason. What you want is justice, Ibara. We are not monsters. We are our people's last, best hope of evening the score."

Ibara hesitated. "An eye for an eye makes the whole world blind, Tokoyami," she said in a warning tone.

Fumikage nodded. He hadn't even noticed how his hands fell onto Ibara's shoulders, or how she leaned into the contact, drawing strength from each other in the wordless way only people who share the same damaged souls could, but he'd done it all the same. "I know," he answered, voice soft and pained and ringing even through it all. "And the thought of hurting them the way we've been hurt-of causing the same pain we've felt-scares me. It really does. But they have to pay. Not with their lives, or their homes, if I can avoid it. But they must give us what we are owed."

Ibara nodded, slowly opening her eyes. They burned with a light so fierce and fiery it stole Fumikage's breath away.

"You're right," she told him as she reached upwards, towards the tightly-bound bun she wore her hair in, vines wound over and over themselves to keep them out of the way-to limit her, to make her seem unthreatening, to keep her contained. Her lip curled, disdain dripping into disgust, becoming anger, deepening to rage, the bottomless rage of generations, distilled into a toxin that ran in their blood-all of them, every single one. "God above, you're right. This has to end. And if it ends in blood...so be it."

Expertly, her fingers pulled the bun loose.

The transformation was instant; vines poured outwards, flowing down her back in long, writhing sheets, like muscles being stretched freely for the first time in many years. Ibara sighed with joy as her scalp was relaxed; a weight seemed to vanish from her shoulders as she became what she should have been all along.

Something terrifying. Vines splaying out in all directions like tentacles, clawing at the air, running down her back and winding around her arms and torso, curling between her fingers like a lover's caress. It magnified her, made her human features shrink away and blur, overwhelmed by the sheer force of her presence. It turned her from the quiet healer of the Depths into an avenging angel-or perhaps something from an older mythos, one that brought to mind words like Hydra and Medusa. A woman so powerful, so full of righteous fury, the ground trembled and mere mortals were too terrified to gaze upon her.

Fumikage met her eyes, and smiled. This was the Ibara he knew-the equal of Kamakiri and Kuroiro and himself. The fourth lieutenant of the Outcasts, every bit as much of a force of nature as her comrades, no matter how she tried to hide it.

And now she was free-the deadly little half-grin on her face was proof of that. It was the smile of a woman going to war, and leaving all her regrets behind in a little cloth tent that smelled of antiseptic and blood.

"No more," she vowed. "No more. They will pay for what they've done."

Fumikage nodded, a wide-eyed smile drifting to his lips.

"They will," he agreed. "One way or another, things will change."