Something was wrong with Inko Midoriya's baby. Of course, on a fundamental level, she understood this was always the case. The weight on his shoulders went beyond heavy, reaching near-divine levels of gigantism that she often couldn't her head around. It was her personal policy, then, to at least wrap her arms around him when her head failed.
Up until recent weeks, her boy was handling himself well. He got into his dream school, he was developing a healthy social life, and he was becoming a young man. Inko knew better than anyone that people could fall on hard times, but… Her baby was a shell of himself.
Inko hadn't heard much from him since the incident at U.A. The invasion of the USJ was a nightmare come to life, and her baby was front and center. He'd experienced too much, too fast, and the toll was obvious. After the hospital released him, he'd remained quiet, citing his terribly aching throat. Of course, she knew this was true to an extent, but she'd checked and triple checked Recovery Girl's final notes on his condition. She healed him to absolute completion. Yet, he remained quiet.
Neither had she seen him often. He woke up later for school, and she left before him. Rarely did he return home before sunset, which was normal for some days, but he was never out of the house this consistently. When he would come home, it would often be after dinner, and he would simply slip into bed. Nighteye must be turning her boy into a ninja, she decided, because she would only notice his presence when he initiated.
On the occasion, after days of no contact, he'd ambush her. They weren't common, but after a few days where she'd only see hints of him, he'd bulldoze her with a hug.
They would be quick, intense affairs that only lasted seconds. He would squeeze her till she nearly popped and then fade into thin air. It was the only affection she'd see from him, and it concerned her greatly. There was something wrong with her baby.
He never used to wake up late. Izuku always rose early—mostly, in her opinion, so he could spend extra time with Setsuna. He always stayed out late, doing this or that—but he never used to just… disappear, like this. It was unaccountable. Before, she at least had an idea of who he was with. Now, she could only assume—only hope—it was Nighteye.
The bruises that ringed his little neck and colored his pale cheeks implied otherwise, but she couldn't stomach that. He'd come home with worse from Nighteye, after all… Just, she'd thought, maybe, that he'd be more gentle after the USJ. As tough as Izuku was, he was a little kid. Even if he had big feelings and bigger thoughts and even bigger responsibilities, his brain still wasn't all there. His ability to process trauma wasn't better than other's—it just showed up less. One more for the preexisting pile. So, seeing him droop the way he did… It meant that the USJ's impact was far darker than she'd hoped.
It left her heart aching a bit, but more than that, it left her confused. In all of this, Izuku had support. Herself and the Fujimakis, Todorokis, and Tokages could never truly be enough, of course, but they should've made a positive dent.
Izuku still visited the Fujimakis, so at least there she felt comforted—but that left the remaining question. Where was Setsuna? She wouldn't answer her texts. Where were Endeavor and Shoto? Heavens, where were Setsuna's parents?
Inko was not a drinker, but she could appreciate wine. What she did this afternoon, however, could not be called "appreciating." The cork came off with a pop and smelt of old, crushed grapes. Pouring herself a glass, she enjoyed the cold weight in her hand. A few comforting sips relaxed her.
Then, with an unceremonious sniff, she downed the rest and half-filled her glass again. She did this twice more before slowing—it quenched her thirst, but the ache in her chest remained. Inko filled her glass to the top and took long, slow sips.
What was wrong with her little boy?
She only indulged herself thanks to his absence. Inko remained on guard at all times, in case he caught her feeling down. No matter how bad she felt, she knew it was worse for him, and she wanted to support him. The fact that she never knew what he was doing, however, left her on edge. Since she never knew whether he was around or not, she couldn't be sure whether she could relax.
Today, however, was the straw to break the camel's back. She could not maintain her composure for weeks on end, and since U.A. only just let out, she shouldn't expect Izuku for another five or six hours.
Rising from the couch, she brought her drink to the computer's chair. Sinking into the soft cushions, she kicked the floor and let herself spin in lazy circles. She marveled at how such a cold drink could warm her gut and relax her shoulders. Ease crept down her bones, and it was heaven.
She didn't know who to talk to, and it was maddening. If the Fujimakis failed him, she didn't know who else to turn to. Her boy had touched many hearts, but few touched his. Rarely did he bond with anyone, and rarer still did he bond with someone who could handle his huge feelings constructively. In that, she would always appreciate Nighteye.
Still, of the people who'd managed such a feat, not hearing from anyone but him was worrying.
As her mind wandered, her chair began to slow. When she stopped spinning, she came face to face with her computer—and the framed photograph slightly behind and above it. Not brave enough to stand, wine-drunk and dizzy, she scooted forward and pointed at it. The picture popped off the wall and floated into her hand, gentle but wobbly. Her quirk always got a little awkward when she was drunk. Like it was embarrassed.
Wiping the dusty frame with the edge of her blouse, she sank back in her chair, cradling the image.
It was her Izuku, a good few years younger, with his Physical Therapist and Prosthetist. Inko herself took the photo after Izuku managed to stand comfortably for the first time. The Utsushimis were never their closest friends, and she hadn't heard from them in a couple years, but she remembered them fondly. Izuku went back to get his prosthesis adjusted at the year's turn, but that'd been a private thing between them. Inko herself hadn't visited the office in ages.
Feeling a little nostalgic and a little drunk, she wondered if, of all people, Camie's mother might be able to offer her some advice. She had, after all, got her boy back on his feet. Though it was obvious Izuku was going through tough times now, nothing could possibly be worse than what the Utsushimis pulled him from, right?
With a strong will and an embarrassing stumble, she managed to replace the photo on the wall. That was the issue with her quirk—even though she could retrieve items conveniently, she still had to put them back manually. Not like a true telekinetic. Perhaps, if her genes had been stronger, Izuku would've gotten her quirk, and none of this would've happened…
Once she was confident the photo wouldn't fall off the wall, she sat back down and got comfortable. Persevering through several drunk typos, she searched up Izuku's old physician. Maybe she could get her number.
She didn't even finish typing before she was standing, her chair knocked over, with her hands covering her mouth.
"Oh my god…"
The dizziness returned, but it wasn't from spinning. Tears, hot and piping, welled up and spilled over her cheeks. Trembling fingers made the brave venture from her lips back to her keyboard, where they fumbled over the caps. She made two more typos before she finished her search.
She didn't have the courage to select the articles. Their titles were far too daunting—ranging from the flowery "The Disease of Terror has Tragically Infected the Healers," to the more spartan "Children's Hospital Devastated by Terrorists." Instead, she clicked images.
Total devastation. The old office was gone, little more than rubble. White sheets covered bodies. Though she didn't want it, she couldn't help how her eyes gravitate to each image's caption. They were grisly things, each written with different levels of empathy and apathy. Throughout them all, however, one thing kept popping up:
A physical therapist was missing, even after recovering all the bodies. Gone, like some yokai spirited her away or she melted into the shadows. Gone, like the explosion atomized her. Gone, like kidnapped. A shameful, ugly hope filled her chest as she wondered, naively, if it could've been any other child's physician.
It only took one more search, but that search took her ten minutes to make. When she finally mustered the courage, her hope fled her. Falling to her knees, she sprawled on the ground and began to sob.
Ms. Utsushimi was gone.
She didn't know how much time passed before her tears dried. When they did, her cheeks ached and the living room was a good degree darker. For a moment, she didn't even know why she stopped—but then she noticed the small, stiff weight on her shoulder.
Izuku stood over her, his rounded eyes contrasted by his hard frown. It was his hand–small and far too rough for a boy his age—and it was like the world felt right again.
She didn't quite know what to say to her boy. It was obvious that he, too, was upset, but it felt wrong to cry when it was him who lost so much. Inko was his mother, his rock. This position felt wrong.
When she managed to stand—after a good few seconds of struggle—she enveloped him in a hug. Perhaps it took him by surprise, since he'd initiated all their hugs recently, but he did not reject her, as she worried.
Over his shoulder, through blurry eyes, she spotted the clock.
"You're home early, Izu…"
He stiffened a little. It occurred to her he might've been reading what she left open on the computer, but it didn't matter. Izuku needed a hug as much as her, she figured. Her boy didn't say anything at first, but when he finally did, it sent her into another fit of tears.
"I just… missed you. Sorry for not being home. Been training. For the Sports Festival."
There was something wrong in his tone, something alien and not Izuku Midoriya—but she didn't mind. Not in the moment. They could always talk it out later, eventually.
Even if she couldn't get ahold of the Tokages, and Izuku didn't eat dinner with the Todorokis, and the Fujimakis couldn't get through to him, or even if Ms. Utsushimi was gone… it could be alright, with time. She would be there for him, even when he felt alone. It always was.
[x]
Sasami pinched and plucked her stocking under the table. Perhaps she should've been more gentle to the sensitive garment, but at this moment, she couldn't help it. She was in a somewhat modest dress, made a bit more fashionable by a thigh slit. It was there her fingers remained, pulling at and adjusting an uncomfortable garter. Though it went against her normal philosophy, today, she employed a large black eyepatch.
The restaurant was a dull thing, a little upscale, and entirely too open for her tastes. Typically, she preferred tight nooks in corner booths, but this place employed no such conventionalities. Thankfully, she'd surveyed the place online before accepting her father's invitation. Going in whilst knowing that privacy was an afterthought saved her a heap of stares.
Of course, an eyepatch on a beautiful woman was quite the spectacle regardless, but she could handle leering. Being perceived as mysterious and exotic weren't her secret desires, but modern man's perversion was a welcome tool in her arsenal. It was, at least, in her opinion, better to be appraised than judged. Such was why she also touched up her lower cheek, where her grisly scar peaked from beneath her eyepatch.
She was not ashamed of herself—but she knew that the open disgust most people gave her would disrupt her digestion. Then again, this meeting wasn't for the sake of a meal. Her and her father both had microwave dinners to spare.
It didn't take her long to grow bored playing with her stocking. Though early, she was still annoyed that her father hadn't arrived yet. So, despite her lady-like upbringing, she planted both elbows on the table and scrolled her phone like a commoner.
Naturally, her phone opened up on grades. She wrinkled her nose at the sight, and swiped them away within seconds. There would be more than enough of that soon.
She scrolled through her social medias until even that grew boring. Sighing, she leaned into her chair and let her head fall backwards. Instead of seeing the restaurant's entrance, however, she came face-to-face with an\upside-down chest.
"Nemmy?" Sasami asked, jerking upright and spinning in her seat. The whiplash only stung for a second before she found herself standing, half-hugging her cousin. Pulling away, she gave her a solid glance.
She was dressed, to Sasami's mild surprise, like a librarian. Nothing could hold back the cannons on her chest, and typically, she made no effort to try—but today, Nemuri Kayama was incognito. Her alternate persona, Midnight, was a sexually liberated woman who made a great deal of it—but this version of her seemed almost shy in comparison. An off-white button-up gave her a modest appearance, especially with her silky, braided hair. A baby blue pencil skirt barely gave her knees room to move, but it matched her low, bulky heels. Two glass ovals hugged her nose, giving her a mousy disposition. The dab of highlighter on her nose tip accentuated that impression.
Sasami almost felt self conscious. With a thigh slit and an unapologetically visible garter… Somehow, she, the professor, came dressed more provocatively than the R-Rated Heroine.
"What are you doing here?" Sasami asked, meeting Nemuri's eyes. They were a few inches above her own.
"Hm? Your father didn't tell you?" Nemuri asked, pushing her glasses up. "He invited me for a meal."
Sasami blinked, but before she could say anything, a dull tinkle rang through the restaurant. Over Nemuri's shoulder, Sasami's short father hobbled through the entrance.
It hadn't been long since she'd seen him, but he looked more troubled than before—as though a great weight clung to his every bone and tendon. When he spotted them, however, his eyes lit up, and she felt a momentary thrill of childish affection for the graying man. She met him halfway, bringing him into a slightly tighter hug than with Nemuri. Likewise, the taller woman gave the man a small hug.
They shared small talk for the better part of a couple minutes, settling in and ordering food. All three of them made good money, but the old timer insisted on treating them. Sasami protested, but Nemuri vehemently thanked him. Without a partner to tag team him, his aged wisdom prevailed. Not that it was a truly titanic loss on her end. Still, she raised an eyebrow at her cousin.
"Aren't you making the big bucks at U.A.? And don't tell me those figurine sales are going to waste…" Sasami said, eyeing the woman's socks. She too wore stockings, something reminiscent in her hero attire—an outright perversion of the career, in many people's books.
Nemuri challenged her glance with rosy cheeks and averted eyes.
"Ah… My donations don't really let me live lavishly."
Her father chortled.
"Only Naomito's daughter could put charity above a nice meal. Well, worry nought, darling, for it's on me. Get comfortable."
Nemuri gave Sasami's father a soft smile and nodded.
"He would appreciate it. Thank you."
"He would demand it, you mean. Anything and everything for the princess, eh? Little bugger never gives me a break, even now."
They fell into awkward silence after that. Or, rather, it was more awkward for her than them. The pair seemed happy as could be, and chatted as though Naomito was not, in fact, buried. Ignoring that her father was a born and raised male, would they fail the bechdel test for speaking of a dead man? Or did it not count?
She supposed it was a meaningless question, spurred on by thoughts of little Midoriya. He'd thrown a similar question her way after a particularly difficult literary lecture. Sasami never had an eye for the arts, but she'd given him her best advice. Perhaps she should've let his mind run its course, but she didn't like being left in the dark, either.
Thinking of Midoriya, however, set off a little lightbulb in her brain.
It took her an embarrassingly long time to figure out why she was here. From the moment Nemuri arrived, her impression of a friendly family meal dispersed. She loved Nemuri, but her appearance didn't make sense. Once it clicked, though, it clicked.
Whilst Nemuri and her father joked and reminisced, Sasami took a sip of water. Letting the refreshment slide down her throat, she planted the glass against the table. The impact was like a judge's gavel. Both her companions quieted.
"What's wrong with him, and why are we here?" She asked, leveling her father with an impatient stare. The silver bushes he called eyebrows jumped up a little, but he didn't seem truly surprised—only a little startled. His eyes slid over to Nemuri, a knowing smile gracing his papery lips.
"And nothing gets past this princess, eh? Yin and yang. Adorable." He said, his voice an odd amalgamation of admission, guilt, and affection. Nemuri squirmed while Sasami scowled.
"Uhm, Sami?" Nemuri asked, glancing between Sasami and her father. "What, er, are we talking about?"
It was her father who answered. When he spoke, his face remained apologetic, but his voice lowered an octave, turning if not harsh, sharp.
"Well, Nemuri, are you aware of your oddball? Perhaps a hiccup on your teaching schedule?"
Nemuri's eyes jumped between them, searching for the answer in them. Finding nothing, her chin fell, and she gave the wooden table a hard stare. After a few seconds, she nodded.
"...Midoriya, right? Why… is he your concern? How—Oh."
Slowly, her eyes turned to Sasami, and she nodded. Nemuri's lips parted, her jaw falling a little loose.
"That—that thing? His dual enrollment. That's…"
"Thanks to me. He's been my personal apprentice for years, Nemmy. He's your half-hearted Hero Art History student, right?"
She nodded, her eyes wide. Sasami thought she saw a spark of understanding cross her eyes, but her expression remained pinched and concerned.
"Then you… er, know what happened to him? Shouta has gotten pretty close, but the kid's like a machine. Just works and learns and keeps to himself. What… uh, how did…"
As Nemuri's brain caught up to her, her questions slid to a quiet halt. She glanced at Sasami's father. He didn't even wait for the question.
"I just so happen to be the young man's therapist of five years."
"You're kidding?"
"Afraid not. He's needed every session of it—and now, more than ever. I hoped you could help peel back the curtain."
Before their conversation continued, a waitress brought out their food. A plate of grilled, golden brown fish slid below her and her father. A large bowl of leafy salad settled before Nemuri. Despite the heavy discussion, Sasami didn't waste a moment. Knife and fork in hand, she began cutting bite sizes away, dipping them in a bright orange sauce, and eating. Her father was a bit pickier, but he too began eating. He waited until he swallowed his first piece before speaking again.
"You see, the foundation of my concerns are rather simple. If you were curious, Nemuri, he wasn't born that way. His arm was taken in a villain attack. That much, I can share—but that is all. His confidentiality is of most importance—so important, that he doesn't even tell me everything. Some things he keeps to his chest, and I accept that, as a part of his career path—but this is something different. Young Izuku's been too quiet recently—all thanks to U.A., I'm afraid."
"Well, of course," Nemuri said, adjusting her glasses. "I… I suppose I shouldn't share this, but if you're his therapist…"
She coughed into her fist.
"Midoriya was a central figure in the terrorist attack on U.A. last month. Nedzu scouted him as a leading figure in the class, and he proved it. He nearly worked himself to death—and was almost outright killed—by and against multiple villains. Several of his encounters seemed to have ended in casualties. When we finally got to him, he was almost a casualty himself. I… well, he was always quiet, but it's clear that he's taken it pretty terribly. Very few of my students took it well, obviously… but he's one of three who haven't truly bounced back, in my opinion."
Something ugly squirmed in Sasami's gut. She hadn't known the little guy was in the thick of it. Thinking about him fighting alone was hard—but imagining him fighting to the death was harder. They were kindred spirits, in her opinion. Neither were equipped for struggles like that.
Her scar burned.
Her father didn't seem shocked, despite the bombshell Nemuri just dropped. He simply stroked his chin and nodded.
"Well, that is quite serious… but please, backtrack just one moment. Did you say that… Nedzu scouted him as a leader?"
Nemuri looked green. She shook her head.
"Not technically? That's an impression. Nedzu and Midoriya have an odd relationship. I think, oh heavens…" She said, before trailing off. Nemuri seemed lost in thought and quite uncomfortable. The woman hadn't touched her salad. Sasami's own fish was nearly gone. When she finally spoke again, it was softer, but steadier. "Nedzu has plans, and let me preface that this is a personal theory, but I think his plans revolve around Midoriya. After school renewed, he offered him a higher tier position in the hero course—but Midoriya turned it down. I… I don't like thinking about those implications."
Sasami sat up a little straighter. She shared a look with her father.
"Why not?" She asked.
"C'mon, Sami," Nemuri said, looking deep into the heart of her salad. "You should know the kid isn't alright. Putting him up with the 1Z kids might not be a good idea. And Nedzu's offer being rejected in the first place? Geez…"
Sasami drummed her fingers against the table, her nails clicking with every tap. Each tap generated a new thought in her mind, but every other tap generated a counter argument.
"Would that be malicious, hun?" Her father asked, his voice easy, despite the heavy question. His professionalism astounded her—he didn't show a single uncomfortable tick. Nemuri opened and closed her jaw. Ultimately, she couldn't offer a firm yes or no. She just shrugged and hugged her arms close.
"I… Well, Nedzu built heroes up from nothing in the past. Sometimes from less than nothing, even if he had to brute force it. He's whimsical but precise, and I doubt he would hurt anyone on purpose, I think."
Sasami's tapping slowed to a stop. Without it, the silences their table shared grew a fair bit more oppressive. Her traitorous mind brought her back to the place she preferred skirting around, in matters regarding U.A.
Nighteye. Her scar burned a smidge warmer. He would know, but he wasn't available at the moment—probably busy training the very object of their discussion.
"Sure," Sasami said at length, drawing on her experiences with the rat. "Nedzu probably wouldn't go out of his way to hurt a student. But what about accidentally? Has he said anything recently that's rubbed you the wrong way, by total accident?"
It was as though her words flipped a switch in her cousin's brain. Her eyes—lidded and downcast, brightened like a gas fire. Her shoulders remained inward, but her face went alight—showing a peak of the heroine beneath. That confidence momentarily leaked through, and anyone with eyes could tell. Just as the light reached an apex of enlightenment, however, they flared with finale and quieted.
"H-he… He made a public expo for the new class… despite knowing the risk. For him, it's all about image—but he'd never take the tragedy at the USJ and turn it into something to be proud of. He just wouldn't. I—I objected, but in the end, I trusted his judgment… Oh god, when he tried to promote Midoriya… Thank the heavens he refused…"
Slowly, so as to not startle the poor woman, Sasami slid her hand over hers.
"Nemuri, are you saying he tried to use Midoriya's efforts as public leverage? Because that's what it sounds like." Sasami said, trying to ease the girl as her breaths became more shallow. This wasn't the first time Nemuri almost panicked in front of her, and she knew what she needed.
Instead of responding to her touch with gentle recognition, however, Nemuri snatched her hand back and stood. As though in a panic, she blushed a violent crimson and leaned over the table. She kissed Sasami's father on the cheek and mumbled something incoherent.
Then she was gone—out the door and loosening the top buttons of her dress shirt. She left with all the restaurant's attention on her, but Sasami doubted it was that attention that caused her flushed panic.
Her father didn't react by any normal measure. Instead, he nodded, caught a waitress's eye, and requested a to-go box. Sasami felt numb, but the longer they sat in silence, the more her mind began to race.
Sasami had a terrible feeling for the upcoming Sports Festival, but she didn't know why. Or, rather, she didn't know the what. She knew the why.
She just cared about her student. If only he'd quit when she'd asked him too—then he never would've gotten in over his own head. They were kindred spirits. He wasn't built to handle this kind of thing, and she knew it. Though she'd tried to put U.A. behind her… it seemed she'd never truly get too far from it.
Nighteye. She needed to call Nighteye.
[x]
Tap. The screen on his far left flipped, and the scene changed. With some static and buffering, his AI managed to locate, chop and play the next correct scene—an impressive feat, in his opinion. From the thousands of hours of footage, it searched and grabbed what he wanted. He didn't lift a paw.
Nine walked down the hall, alone, trailing behind 1A's bulk. Tap. The next scene, like the first, was automatically retrieved from the data bank and processed for his conveinance. The Ninth, training in hidden corners of Ground Beta, far from 1A. Tap. All Might's successor, eating with Shouta instead of 1A.
Nedzu frowned. Every week since the USJ, Nine had gone to his psychological assessment and passed with flying colors. Yet, he'd never appeared more antisocial. He trained in solitude, commuted alone, and might as well share his meals with a brick wall. Shouta, in Nedzu's experience, was a poor dining partner.
It didn't make sense. The Ninth met and exceeded all of his expectations in the USJ. Before that nightmare went down, Nedzu's opinion of the Ninth was rather poor. Afterwards, however, when Nedzu got all the statements he wanted and saw the boy's lesser classmates safe, that faded. He was a hero, and Nedzu tried to prop him up as one during his big speech—but the brat didn't bite.
They had a deal—Nine wins the Sports Festival, Nine gets what he wants. It was a deal heavily in Nedzu's favor, but he did the unthinkable. Nedzu let it go—he gave the boy a chance to boycott all Nedzu's plans.
And the brat didn't bite. The original deal, for whatever reason, was still in place.
He should've been pleased. After all, a motivated wielder of One for All meant an impassioned, motivating performance in U.A.'s greatest showcase. The three greatest Sports Festivals in Nedzu's lifetime were each won by Yagi Toshinori, after all. The following years of All Might's victories were a boom of new, talented students—not the least of which included Endeavor himself.
And yet, Nedzu was the opposite of pleased. Heavens forbid it all, he was actually a little concerned. And miffed. More miffed, really. Though he proved his character in the USJ, Nedzu had a weird, alien niggling at the back of his mind. Tap.
Nedzu did not squint, but he did approximate the expression as the next screen slid into place.
It was Nine, using the whips of Five—or, rather, trying to. Whereas he made quality use of them during the entrance exam, here, it was like he'd lost his finesse. The whips swung around him in wild gestures, both unpredictable and uncontrolled. He was in Ground Beta, with Shouta Aizawa's supervision—though the man was only barely noticeable in the dark shade of a nearby building.
Nine summoned another whip and tried wrangling them to heel, but it did nothing. It only joined the flailing mess. Nedzu leaned forward in interest, studying the way the tentacles seemed to move independently, before two maroon glares from the darkness quieted their movements and dispersed them.
Nedzu allowed the video to play on a moment longer, watching as Nine's shoulders slumped. Before the recording could continue any longer, however, a knock on his door interrupted him. Pausing it, he leaned aside so as to peer at the newcomer between monitors. It was the man himself
Tapping a button on the underside of his desk, the monitors folded in on themselves and slipped into their stations with quiet mechanical hisses. Overlapping his paws, Nedzu put a pin in Nine's regression and gave his whole attention to Shouta.
"Yes?" Nedzu offered, having not received a greeting or any of Shouta's typical cut-to-the-chase starters. "Is there something you need?"
Shouta said nothing as he approached Nedzu's desk and sat in one of the guest chairs. While they did meet eyes, it was only for a brief moment. Otherwise, Shouta spent his time pondering the wall over Nedzu's shoulder. Only moments before Nedzu's patience would've ebbed did Shouta speak.
"Will you be honest with me, principal?"
Nedzu did and did not miss his claws. In this instance, he did not—for they would have reflexively stretched. He rather liked maintaining a poker face.
"Why would I lie?" He replied, knowing that it was a weasel's answer, not a rat-bear-dog's.
"You wouldn't. Rather, you would withhold the truth. So, Principal Nedzu, will you tell me the truth? About Midoriya?"
Nedzu hated the way the sensitive muscles in his paws flexed on instinct. His claws wished to pop, but there was nothing to pop, and his paws ached with that knowledge. It was a distraction he could ill–afford.
"...What truth could I possibly offer? Rather, I should be asking you that, to be honest. The private lessons, the antisocial behavior, the lunches… I'm sure you know him far better than I, despite your efforts. Why haven't you reported it?"
"They are not private lessons. All our sessions together were during class-sanctioned hours. 1A is well aware, and does not feel left out. I give them all their due attention."
"And Midoriya is just due more attention than them, then?"
Shouta did not say anything for a few moments, but Nedzu did not dare think he won the war—just perhaps the battle. He was wrong.
"Last month brought out titanic revelations in everyone, principal. Midoriya has always been an oddball, and his revelations reflect that. He and I have expectations for the other, and I wish to meet them—and for him to meet mine."
Very carefully, Nedzu calmed his instincts. Instead of popping his claws, he unfolded his paws and began tracing circles on his desk.
"I think you misunderstood. Your near-private lessons with the boy do not concern me—in fact, I support them in full. Such is why I haven't flagged you, despite you not notifying me. My main concern is why you've failed to mention this."
He tapped a second button under his desk, and one of the monitor pockets slid open. Most of his array remained hidden, but the primary screen slid into view. With a paw, he spun it towards Shouta. Pressing a third button replayed the video—of Nine's uncontrollable power. He watched the video's reflection in Shouta's eyes.
"Midoriya had this under control before the USJ. As principal and a party who cares, why would you fail to mention one of my students has regressed?"
"Because I've been working to fix it. In addition to our private sessions, another reason for our recent cooperation is in part due to his quirk's nature. I can't make heads or tails of it, and he refuses to truly elaborate further than the basics. The thing about that, however, is that most of my understanding comes from you. Not him. So, will you be honest, lay it out for me, and allow me to help Midoriya? Because it's obvious you're letting off less than you know."
Nedzu did not say anything for a moment, digesting Shouta's request. Instead, he tapped the first button again and sent the monitor away. Standing, he leapt to the floor and walked around his desk, paws clasped behind his back. Shouta, seeing this, continued.
"I have never understood your fixation of Midoriya, sir, but anyone with eyes can see it. My memory of your first directive is crystal: Put Midoriya down. At the time, I simply followed the orders, trusting in you, but Midoriya is no longer a mere candidate. He is a student. One of mine. And I am asking politely for you to cease the secrecy and simply let me help him. Please stop treating him as though he's special, sir. That is what he needs least."
Nedzu paced the outline of the room, not once looking at Shouta. His words came from a foreign place—a place Nedzu never knew Shouta capable of approaching. It was disconcerting—but more than that, concerning. Shouta did not attach himself to students. It was not what Nedzu molded him into.
When Nedzu stopped, he found himself staring at his own door, his back straight and his hind legs spaced shoulder-width apart.
"And what if he is, Shouta? What if Midoriya is special?"
Shouta said nothing. Nedzu continued, his mind spinning faster and faster.
"What if he was special enough to stake billions on? What if the future depended on him? What if he is the next—"
"Stop it, principal."
"—All Might? Or what if he isn't? What if he's different and better? What would it take, do you think, to elevate him so? You can't teach genius, you mold it with circumstance. The USJ was terrible, but if anything, it proved his greatness. All we have to do is help him take the next step, to motivate him, and he will be great. I saw it myself—it's in his eyes, that fire. It's lurking in his tongue and heart and spirit. Midoriya could be—"
"Nedzu!" Shouta said, cutting him off. "If he's—"
"Forget the boy, Shouta! Think! Think beyond the face, the person. Even with your limited scope of his abilities, think of what he means to U.A. Can you earnestly compare him to anyone?"
"Of course I can! I know him! He's quieter now, just like Uraraka and Tokoyami, or have their issues escaped your notice in Midoriya's shadow? He eats alone like I did. He pulls—pulled—people together like Hizashi. He uplifted people like Nemuri. He had big ideas like Oboro! Now he's not. It's your treatment that's holding him back from healing."
"He will heal!" Nedzu said, spinning on Shouta with a snarl. "But don't think it'll be thanks to soft hands. He needs firm guidance to reach his potential, and nothing less! I prove that. When he's in a rut, I need to know! Can you even fathom the calculations I've had to make? How many plans I've made and abandoned thanks to this? And finally, at last, my plans are in firm placement—and you think I should just stop? Just hand over the reins? This is the most delicate situation in U.A.'s long history, Shouta, and if you think a lackadaisical approach will be enough, then I don't know where all your wisdom went…"
For a moment, all Nedzu heard was his bristled fur brushing against his collar. Each breath came like a wave, his expanding chest scratching at his little human clothes. Then, another sound—Shouta rising to his full height. His eyes blazed—but not from his quirk. Calming his breath, Nedzu let his own annoyance simmer. He coughed into his paw. Easy breaths. Take control. Shouta respected stoicism, not tantrums.
"No, Shouta, I will not give up a student's personal information. You may file a request with his mother if it comes to it, but I will not offer it freely." Nedzu said, feeling his fur smooth out.
Shouta took five long strides towards and past him without a word. Grabbing the doorknob, he twisted, and Nedzu thought he might just leave at that—but he did not. Looking over his shoulder, Nedzu suppressed an uncomfortable instinct to step back.
"If Midoriya is as special as you say, then he doesn't need special treatment to remain so. He's just a boy, Nedzu, with too much on his shoulders to handle the hoops you've put him through. I dread to think about whatever your "firm plans" are. If you will not help him, so be it, but know that every moment you continue this, you are hurting whatever you think "the Ninth," is. Good day."
With that, Shouta slipped out and closed the door behind him. It was not a violent exit, but Nedzu still fell to his hindside as though the door slammed shut.
He remained shellshocked for all of four seconds before Shouta's words truly registered in his head. Scrambling to his feet, he rushed back to his desk and started tearing apart his files, scrolling his databases, and stopping just short of tearing his fur out. He jumped from All Might's file to the Ninth's to Shouta's—but none of them mentioned Eraserhead knowing anything about One for All.
The thought left him queasy—but also confused. If he'd kept that to himself, why did he ask Nedzu about it in the first place?
[x]
AN: It's hard to say these things for any certainty, as many things about this project jump out at me at random, but I think chapter 69 rocked. Definitely not my favorite chapter, but it was within the top ten, maybe top five. Excited to see if I can finish out this arc strong.
review!~
EDIT: LOL IM SORRY I FORGOT TO UPLOAD THIS ON FRIDAY LOL. HOLY CRAP THIS ONE'S COMING LATE
EDIT 2: WHILE THIS IS AN OUTLIER OF AN ISSUE, I DID JUST START A COLLEGE CLASS, SO THIS MAY OR MAY NOT HAPPEN AGAIN A FEW MORE TIMES BEFORE THE END. IM SORRY.