Aizawa's eyes were narrow slits as he followed the employee down the hall, to the offices. There was a tension running through his shoulders and down his spine, and he carried himself with readiness. Mentally he was taking inventory of the weapons on his person. Caltrops. Boot dagger. He didn't have his capture tape on, having removed it when he left campus, and that was a disadvantage but not the end of the world.
The employee had told him that the manager needed to see him when he'd come in to pick up his dry cleaning, and the unusual request had him on edge.
The manager was an older man behind a desk, and he rose to his feet as Aizawa entered. The bow he offered gave Aizawa time to clear the small office. Eyes going from the corner and swooping around, before circling to peek through the hinge corner of the door to ensure no one was behind it.
"Eraser Head, I am Imai Danno. I'd like to thank you for your years-long patronage to our small shop," the man said when he straightened his back. "Your business here is most valued."
"What can I do for you?" Aizawa asked, lips pursed tight.
Imai gave a nod, as though realizing to cut through the bullshit, and laid Aizawa's Hero outfit out on the desk.
"I am afraid, and ashamed, that damage came to your clothing during the cleaning process," Imai explained. His finger pointed, drawing attention to a hole on the back of the shirt.
"That's it?" Aizawa said as he blinked in surprise. "It isn't an issue. I appreciate you telling me."
"No, that is not all." Imai glanced around him before reaching in his desk and pulling out a box of teabags, and handed it over. The box was light, and there was the rattle of a solitary object inside. It sounded small.
"What's this?" he asked before he flipped the lid open.
He picked the tiny object inside up, pinched between his thumb and forefinger.
"I was hoping you could tell me," Imai admitted, his voice dropping a notch. "It was attached to your top. It was noticed by an employee after the cleaning process was already complete; it caused the fabric to tear. I saved it to give to you in case it is of value."
Squinting, Aizawa examined it with scrutiny. The matte black housing was cracked, and he saw small wires and circuits inside it connecting to a chip. He knew it instantly; it was a model of tracking device they had discussed in class recently in conjunction with stealth Hero work. It was a new tech model and out of budget for all but the most prominent Hero agencies, such as All Might's, Endeavor's, and Hawks.
Someone was tracking him.
Someone capable was tracking him.
Aizawa closed his fist around the chip, controlling the features of his face carefully.
"I appreciate it. It was from a training exercise, nothing to be concerned of. I must have forgotten to remove it. Don't worry about the top, it's my fault."
Imai offered a passioned plea to remedy the situation of the damaged garment regardless, but Aizawa waved it off. His mind was rolling backward, stepping back through the dunes of time.
When had he dropped off this top? Yesterday, Tuesday. The drop off had had the tops he wore on Friday and Monday. It would have been planted on one of those days. What had he done those days after work? He pushed further into the sand, felt the coarse grit in the lines of his palms.
On Friday he'd gone directly home to shower and change for the weekend. On Monday he'd picked up the previous dry cleaning order, gone to the grocery store—
And the restaurant. He'd gone to the restaurant — an unplanned stop. He'd gotten the request to meet while he'd been in the grocery store, and had opted to change in the restaurant bathroom while he waited for the other party to arrive.
The realization that he may have worn a chip to the restaurant where he did business was disconcerting.
But something about the chip wasn't sitting right, and it wasn't until he had left the dry cleaners and was driving home that he realized what the discrepancy was.
Pro Hero Majestic was the highest ranking Hero who investigated Yakuza cases. Perhaps this was because of what happened with the girls from his class? Plausible. But the chip was out of budget for an agency his size.
He supposed the device could have been provided by one of the larger agencies, but tech like this…It didn't seem likely. Could it be another Yakuza syndicate? Maybe, but doubtful.
Maybe that new man he'd met with at the restaurant had planted it, and Aizawa grimaced as he drove at the possibility. The blonde Scandinavian businessman, Saito Ren, had raised all types of red flags, although Aizawa couldn't place why just yet. He would need to be investigated further before they shook hands, so to speak.
Saito Ren came to the forefront of his mind as the most plausible culprit, and stayed there. It seemed they were equally cautious of one another.
After he got home, Aizawa patted down the clothes he had on, and checking his satchel as well before changing into gym pants and a long sleeve. He went back outside to his car with a tool bag, oil pan, cleaning supplies, and rags. Popped the trunk and got the jack out to lift it, then laid on his back to get beneath his sedan, pulling his tool bag and the pan under with him. Just a man working on his car.
He looked it over carefully, bracing a small flashlight between his teeth, for anything that should raise a red flag. After, he wiped down the inside of his car and washed the inside of the windows, checking in the small crevices as he went along. He found nothing.
What to do. What to do. When his car was back on four wheels, he sat on the ground beside it, hands folded together and staring off as the sun set behind the buildings, just thinking. Wondering how concerned or threatened he should be. Wondering what changes he needed to make.
A bicyclist going down the sidewalk across the street, on the far side of his apartment's lot, gave a curse, swerving around a bum whose legs stuck out across the sidewalk. Oversized aviator sunglasses and a navy ball cap, wearing an oversized, shapeless black jacket. Sitting in the litterings of cans and spent cigarette butts. Head leaned back against the wall, stoned out of their mind and hazy from the cant of their neck. Aizawa dropped his gaze, turning his head away, then looked from his peripheral instead.
He'd seen them earlier. Outside Ito Yokado when he'd stopped for a pack of cigarettes.
He stayed there on the ground patiently, surrounded by his toolbox and the rags from cleaning his car, as though waiting them out. When, after half an hour, they still hadn't budged he finally got to his feet, collected his things, and went inside his apartment.
Locked the door behind him.
Took a seat at the front window with his recon binoculars and peeled back a narrow corner of the curtain, watching.
Another hour passed before the bum roused from their supposed stupor, pushing themselves up from the ground with one hand.
He saw it all at once.
A flicker of color on their nails as they pushed themselves up. The careful manicure; lavender nail polish. The gape of the jacket as they got to their feet, and the plain t-shirt underneath. A glimpse of a woman's figure. A peek of the shape of their jaw as the collar moved; the profile of their face.
Aizawa lowered the binoculars from his eyes, and he felt his heart hammering in his chest, unwilling to return to its normal metronome's pace. Heat at the back of his neck, down his chest, and under his arms as fear — fear — and anger and disbelief settled onto him, uncomfortable, unwelcome, and warm.
Yaoyorozu Momo.
It was Yaoyorozu fucking Momo.