Slinking towards the darkest of corners, Fossa cataloged his (few, bad) options. He could play dead. There were several piles of bodies in the courtyard. He might be able to escape by pretending to be a corpse, but a smart commander would check for that. He could try to slip back into the prison proper and hide, but there was a good chance the PLF would burn the building. He could try to climb the fence and make a break for it, but that was asking to be sniped. He could keep his head down and hope to dear god that the PLF didn't notice him.
His dark corner had other occupants. "I don't care what you make me look like," a woman whispered desperately, "I need to not look like me."
"I can't undo it right if I don't have a picture--"
"Make me look like a guy, like you, anything. Anything, please. There's no time, please."
The Face Fixer nodded in grim understanding and raised his hands. The woman's features morphed, bones becoming thicker, nose hooked, lips plump. In an instant she was unrecognizable. Another woman approached, sidling up to the man and whispering something. The Face Fixer gave her the same treatment, randomizing her features like a slot machine.
Izuku approached as casually as he could. "Hey," he whispered. "Oh. It's you," the Face Fixer hissed.
"You remember me?" They had only met for a few minutes when Izuku got his disguise before the Hassaikai raid.
"Super-recognizer, but that's not important. Hell, get over here. They'll kill you--here. I, uh... you know I can't change you back--" and the temporary version had far too many caveats to risk here.
"I don't care," Izuku shook his head. "Thank you."
"Yeah, here." Fingers brushed his face lightly and he felt his bones and cartilage shift, pins and needles spreading through his head. That must be a side effect of the permanent version of the disguise quirk. Fossa hadn't felt anything like that the first time when his features had been temporarily modified.
"Thank you, it's really good of you to do this," Izuku said rapidly, already merging into the crowd like a raindrop returning to the ocean.
"Yeah. Good luck." "You, too."
The Face Fixer had worked for anyone who would pay, and Fossa had not got the sense that he was a particularly honorable man. He didn't seem the sort to risk the ire of murderous PLF lieutenants to give what would likely be life saving disguises for free, but maybe... maybe you didn't have to be an outstanding citizen to want to help people not be brutally murdered.
As Izuku glanced back, he noticed another man receiving a feature randomization. What were their stories? The others who had just given up their faces, becoming unrecognizable even to themselves in a bid to live another day? Were they also heroes or police officers who had fallen afoul of the HPSC? Were they villains who had crossed PLF members or belonged to rival organizations? There were probably some of both.
As Izuku glanced back one last time, he watched a woman he knew to be one of the prison guards-- her uniform discarded in favor of a borrowed pair of scrubs--surrender all physical proof of her identity, thank her savior, and vanish into the crowd.
A prison guard. Rather than yelling, attracting attention and getting the woman killed in revenge, the Face Fixer freely offered her a chance to live. Just an average unscrupulous pseudo-villain doing a noble thing that brave heroes might hesitate to do.
"If I survive this I owe the Face Fixer at least ten times his normal fee," Izuku whispered to himself.
The PLF sorted through their catch immediately. It was more efficient than herding everyone onto buses to check over later. Soldiers organized the courtyard efficiently, setting up several lines complete with crowd control barriers.
"Alright," roared a young woman with green skin and antlers who was probably a major given that rank insignia. Were they using actual army ranks with enlisted soldiers, noncomissioned officers and commissioned officers with a clear, permanent hierarchy (as the original MLA had) or were they just making the rules up as they went along? "If you don't have anywhere to go but still want to get out of here, line five on the far right is for you! If you have a family or profession you need to return to and want to get out of here and home, lines three and four are for you! We'll get ya' home, even if you don't really have one." The crowd cheered. "But if you're ready to join the
cause, ready to get back at the people who locked you up, the recruiters are in lines one and two!" another cheer, this one louder. Izuku fought back a shudder.
"We'll be setting up bonfires, getting you food and blankets. Don't rush the lines, everyone! We'll be here until you're all sorted." Much of the attacking force had left by then, off to other objectives perhaps, but there were still plenty of PLF soldiers sauntering through the crowd, eyes roving like searchlights.
The greenette accepted a gray blanket from a cheerful young man with an ill-fitting cap and took a seat in the habitable zone near one of the fires, grateful for the chance to let his hair dry. He kept his head down even as those around him chattered excitedly.
"You gonna' join up?"
"Hell yeah! Did you see who was leading that line?" "No?"
"It's Stain. He's one of them now! Of course I'm joining!" Stain was joining the PLF? Really? Fossa turned in time to catch sight of the Hero Killer disappearing into the tall, white tent that served as the recruiter's den. Stain, a lone wolf, becoming a part of the army was... unexpected and very bad.
"I'm not much of a fighter and I'm so tired..."
"Go home, then. You've got kids waiting for you, don't ya'?"
"Yeah. I haven't seen them in... I've lost track. What if they hate me? I don't know what they were told by the police or the HPSC--"
"You tell your family the truth. They'll believe now. They have to."
The truth? The truth was that the HPSC was rotten still, even after their "reforms" but the PLF was, far, far worse. How many people had they killed and for what? Izuku himself had killed three people now, not because he wanted to but because the PLF didn't give him a choice if he wanted to live. That wasn't fair any more than it was fair of the PLF to murder so many others.
"What about you, kid?"
Wait. Were they talking to him? "Huh?" Izuku looked up to find a black haired man and yellow haired woman gazing at him expectantly.
"Gosh, you look half starved. Here. They gave us food, some bread if you like." The greenette accepted the roll hesitantly. He had no reason to refuse.
"You gonna' head home?" the woman asked.
Was he? What was liable to happen to him if he did? Hard to say... he might be accepted back into the heroics class, if he managed to make it back to friendly territory and that was a big if because the PLF was certainly keeping an eye on everyone who wanted to leave. There was also an opportunity here... one that an undercover hero would be foolish to pass up. Fossa wouldn't do much good as a student bound to UA, not compared to the impact he could make as a double agent in the enemy ranks.
"Nobody's looking for me," Izuku replied after a time. "There's no home to go to."
Both of his nameless conversation partners frowned sympathetically, the fire's dancing light giving their expressions a sinister tint. "What were you in for?" the blonde asked.
The greenette shrugged. "Suspected sympathy with the MLA," he answered honestly.
The man raised his eyebrows. "So, are you going to join up? They're called the PLF now, by the way."
"Huh..." Was he going to join up? "Yeah. Yeah I think I am, if they'll take me." The strangers beamed at him.
"Quite the little patriot. Looks like there's room in line one, soon as you've finished your food," the man said, and of all things, ruffled the greenette's still soggy hair.
It was weird to be... mother henned by these people. They were fools at best, sending a child off to war with smiles on their faces, bigoted monsters at worst, and yet they were being nice to him.
"Gosh, you're hair is soaked," the man hissed darkly.
"Don't ask," Izuku muttered. Let them read into that whatever they would, be it "I like to wash my hair in the sink late at night because they didn't let us shower often enough" or "I was tortured and it involved water."
"Sorry, kid." Apparently they'd read the "torture" option.
An hour later, Izuku found himself seated at a folding table filling out a form explaining his intent to enlist in the PLF. He tried not to cringe beneath The Reader's watchful eye. The man reminded him of an evil Tsukauchi, complete with similar lie detecting quirk and trench coat.
"Is Mihara Izuho your full, legal name?" the Reader asked him as Fossa handed in his paperwork and followed The Reader into a brightly lit, private section of the tent for an interview.
"It's the only legal name I can still use. Though, for all I know I've been disowned by now," and he really might have been. What had they told his mother about the Gunga Mountain Raid? What did she think he had done? Killing two people and failing to save two others was bad enough, how might his story have been further twisted? Fossa sighed.
The lie detector nodded, registering the technical truth. During the Green Mountain Lounge mission, Mihara Izuho had been a name Fossa could legally use complete with documentation and a driving license. It was not a burned cover, not that Fossa knew of anyway, so it should still be a valid identity and it was definitely the only legal name that Fossa could use if he didn't want to get shot. The soldiers hadn't been killing people in the yard--there were dead people outside, yes, but they'd been there since before the prison break proper began--but the PLF had marched a number of people away into the night and likely shot--or vaporized or disintegrated--them once they were out of sight and out of mind.
Fossa's deflection not only registered as truth but also gained him some sympathy. "Why were you being held in Angband?" Angband was the facility's nickname, much catchier than the official "Warehouse 129-8."
"I was involved in a fight a while ago. A bunch of people died, including a hero student. The HPSC decided I must be PLF, or a sympathizer."
The Reader's eyebrows rose. "And you are a sympathizer?"
"The MLA are personal heroes of mine." The PLF could go die in a hole but Destro and Kuma and Switcher were Fossa's friends.
"Are you willing to pledge your loyalty, in life and in death, to Shigaraki, Re-Destro, and the leadership of the PLF?"
Crap. Okay, how to get around this one? "I don't think I could honestly pledge my loyalty to people; they can die or be brainwashed, but I can pledge my loyalty to the ideals of Destro and the MLA," which had nothing to do with the PLF, but nobody else seemed to know that, "in life and in death, and swear to uphold and follow the orders of the people who embody those ideals to the absolute best of my ability... I..." Was that going to be good enough?
The Reader, fortunately a bleeding-heart idealist, nodded and looked very satisfied with that wishy- washy answer. "Honestly, that's probably a better pledge, anyway, but you need to state clearly for this one, can you and will you follow your commander's orders?"
"Yes." That was easy. He'd been following orders for a long time.
"Just a few more questions. Your meta ability is like Mr. Compress's, you say, but 'not as good?'"
"It's not really useful in a fight, and I have trouble getting it to work on people," Izuku admitted, "but I'm a pretty good hand-to-hand fighter and I know how to use knives and guns, so I can definitely be of some use."
The recruiter's eyebrows shot up. "How did you come by those skills?"
"It's common in some parts of America to know how to shoot. I had friends there," a very long
time ago, from a certain point of view.
"Ah, I see. Well, Mihara, I'm certain we can find a place for you in our ranks. Go out the back exit," he gestured to a flap in the tent, "and take a seat on the green bus. It will be leaving shortly for a training facility," The Reader handed him some additional paperwork and an identification card which had printed as they spoke.
"Thank you."
"Welcome to the PLF, Mihara."
Welcome to being a spy without a handler, surrounded by vicious extremists on all sides. This was going to suck. It had seemed like such a good idea thirty minutes ago...
The greenette passed a dozen exhausted men, women, and teenagers, all wearing the same blue scrubs as he. The double agent took a seat near the middle of the bus, slumping in exhaustion. He rested his eyes and tried to rid himself of some stress before inspecting his paperwork.
The picture on his identification card was unrecognizable. His nose was longer, thinner, and curved elfishly. His ears were smaller and set back further, his cheekbones higher and thinner, and his jaw pointier. It gave him a decidedly delicate appearance, like a porcelain tea cup. He'd never thought much about whether or not he was "handsome." He certainly wasn't "handsome" anymore, but he might be "pretty." In fact, his new face was rather reminiscent of a few male models he'd seen in magazines.
Mihara Izuho. Pretty boy PLF soldier. "I guess this is me now."
He had nothing. He had these scrubs and shoes that belonged to the HPSC. He had this blanket that
belonged to the PLF, these papers that belonged to the PLF, a name that Nighteye had set up for him... literally nothing else. Not a thing. Nothing and nobody.
No one would even know to look for him. He would be set up in an incredibly useful position, but how was he ever going to pass information to his allies without a handler? Well... not all spies did that. Some spies worked alone, destroying vehicles, assassinating officers or hanging out in factories making sure that the most incompetent workers got promoted to foreman and requiring all the paperwork in triplicate. Fossa could be that kind of spy, or perhaps he would find a way to pass information along in time. That would be a problem for after basic training–or whatever passed for it in the PLF--a question for after he found out what job he would be assigned.
Suddenly having nothing was a very interesting experience. In theory all of his physical belongings at UA were still there. Maybe. It depended on what they thought had happened to him. Perhaps his belongings lay where he had left them, gathering dust. Perhaps they had been searched thoroughly. Perhaps they had been boxed up and sent to storage or even given to his mother.
His belongings might as well not exist, though, since UA was a world away. He had this top bunk (for now). He had this camouflage gray uniform set. He had temporary possession of an empty footlocker. He had an identification card, a serial number and a bit of paperwork. That was it . He had no money, no personal effects, no journals for quirk analysis, no pencil to write in his nonexistent journals. He didn't even have his face anymore. He didn't even have his name anymore. Midoriya Izuku and Fossa were titles he dared not claim, not here in a snake pit where showing the tiniest hint of his true nature would mean his death. Midoriya Izuku and Fossa were not his anymore and Mihara Izuho was a bold-faced lie.
In some ways it was liberating. He had no petty material possessions to fret over. Philosophers had long lauded this as a great achievement, but so far it was overrated. Here he was, lost, as if drifting unmoored through an endless fog bank on an empty sea, and if he had his way he would have brought some pictures, books, trinkets and other reminders of home along for the journey.
What he really longed for was friendly company, but barring that he craved material reflections of that company as well as something to remind him that he was him, not just another nameless, penniless PLF fanatic.
What if he fit the role too well? What if he forgot whose side he was meant to play for?
An angry shout and jeers broke his spiraling thoughts.
In the common space near the end of the makeshift bunkhouse, one lucky card player had just won the pot. They were betting something although it couldn't be money... nobody here had much of that. Actually, it might be really small coins, but one yen hardly counted as money.
If the gamers would stop, or at least quiet down, maybe Izuku could get some sleep before the PLF's "basic training" began tomorrow. The greenette sighed, playing with his twin braids. This particular hairstyle downplayed the waves and annihilated any stray curls, erasing yet another subtle reminder of Izuku.
"Here," the twenty year old woman who took the bunk below him--yeah, coed bunkhouse until they got some logistical problems worked out or until everyone got used to it and stopped
commenting--Arashiro Haruka, passed him a worn newspaper. "You look like you could use something to read."
Huh. That was thoughtful. Did Izuho really look that gloomy? What did gloom look like on his new face? Maybe he just had a naturally gloomy resting expression now... "Thanks."
It was The West River Review, a paper from Shoowaysha Publishing. That company belonged to the PLF general Curious, so TWRR was the PLF's official news and propaganda outlet. That didn't necessarily mean the whole paper would be outright lies, just the majority of it.
Advertisements... old international news with a fascist slant... some creepy politician supports Shigaraki... bad opinion pieces, worse opinion pieces... "Secret Prison, Angband, Raided! Hundreds Join the PLF Cause." Huh. The place was made out to be a death camp which... it wasn't. Izuku had seen actual death camps--second hand, but still--and what the HPSC had done was vile and illegal but calling it a "death camp" was an unspeakable insult to the countless people who had been murdered in real death camps.
The newspaper editor deserved to be... no, he couldn't let himself start thinking like that, making random angry threats against people he didn't know. That wasn't the kind of person he wanted to be, same as the kind of person who shot people dead wasn't the kind of person he'd wanted to be... and that was working out great but he had to try to keep some kind of moral standard or he was just as bad as the PLF. In the interest of maintaining moral standards, the editor of this segment did not deserve to be smacked with a clue-by-four and thrown of a bridge, the editor of this newspaper deserved to never have their WiFi connect ever again. No more internet for them. Ever. There. A nice, fitting, non-violent punishment.
"Dozens of Cities Liberated by PLF! Chain Forces in Retreat!" Chain, huh? That seemed to be what the PLF had started calling the established, democratically elected Japanese government and its associates. The boundaries between police officers, heroes, and military had disappeared in the "Chain" in response to the war ramping up, with chaos as the predictable result. "The Chain forces are rife with infighting. False heroes are unwilling to take orders from military officers and police chiefs they view as beneath them. Efforts of the HPSC to unify defense efforts under a central command are too little, too late. In contrast, the PLF has always had a unified central command and all of our loyal soldiers know how to follow orders. The PLF may well win the war without ever having to really fight."
As someone currently joining the PLF and reading old news stories about dozens of battles that had taken place while he was incarcerated, it was apparent that the PLF's claim to know what they were doing was pure fantasy. Many of these "liberated" cities had been "liberated" by splinter groups with no real relationship to the PLF, just random, angry and opportunistic citizens getting together and taking over the city as a big mob.
The PLF didn't know what to do about these uncontrolled groups and several of them had made such a mess, killed so many civilians and caused so much damage, that the city of Melidaa had been all but leveled and completely abandoned. Now the real PLF was trying to clean up the mess and repair the damage to its reputation caused by those splinter groups' scorched earth policies. They needed popular support if they were really going to take over the country. Killing everyone who didn't fanatically agree with them wasn't an option, especially when they were trying to present themselves as holding the moral high ground over the oppressive "Chain."
The PLF had learned this already and busily worked to impose an iron hand over its territory, forcing everyone who said they were "PLF" to join up and get a serial number and a commanding officer so they could be controlled.
Fossa read the rest of the paper for the sake of something to do and for the sake of appearances. It was also good practice. He had to learn never to grimace at PLF propaganda.
Everything would be so much easier to deal with if he could shove all of these pages into the bin in his brain labeled, "bigoted, fascist garbage to ignore." It would be so much easier if none of the PLF opinion writers ever had points. Yeah. The PLF were terrible but the other side were doing plenty of really bad things, too. There was some kid who had allegedly been killed by a hero for spray painting the PLF logo on a building in Musutafu. The opinion write covering the incident-- which Izuku was inclined to think had happened more or less as reported--was eloquent, relatively unbiased, and justifiably outraged. Why couldn't the (relatively) good guys act like they were the good guys? Why couldn't there be no misguided or ignorant idealists folded into the PLF, no noble eagles mixed in with the corpse-eating vultures?
So complicated. No simple answers. No right answers, either.
Izuku, too, had killed for "the good guys." He'd tried so hard not to and then there just hadn't seemed to be another way out. That didn't make it right; it might excuse Izuku to some extent but it didn't make Hawks and Dabi's deaths any less wrong. This hero in Musutafu, he could have been the same, doing his best and backed into a corner where the only option seemed to be a villain's move.
Then again, if Izuku loathed himself for what he'd done regardless of why it had been necessary, shouldn't he loathe the killer of this graffiti artist regardless of necessity? It was only fair.
"Everything sucks. I just want to go home," he mumbled, dropping the newspaper so that it fell over his face like a burial shroud.
Arashiro arose like a ghoul from a swamp and took the newspaper away, cocking her head and blinking bright, silvery eyes at him. "Why don't you go home, then? You're a volunteer; you can still back out I think."
"It's not there anymore." "Home?"
"Yes."
"Oh. I'm sorry."
"Yeah, me, too," because home wasn't a place, not really. Home was a state of mind, a state of the world, a time and an experience. UA the high school was his home, not UA the military encampment. Japan at peace was his home, not Japan at war. He could leave this mad spy job, sneak back across the lines (alive if he were very lucky) and reunite with his classmates, mentors and mother... but it wouldn't matter because he still wouldn't be home. He couldn't go home, not until the war was over, and maybe not even then depending on who won.
The PLF were not liable to be civilized victors. If they were the victors... and it seemed unthinkable and yet very possible... Izuku would have to leave the country, likely for good. He would never see his home again.
The PLF better not win then. A lone operative was not usually as effective as a handled agent. A lone operative could still make a tremendous impact if actions were chosen very, very carefully. He'd get mediocre scores in basic training. He didn't want to stand out too much, but he also wanted to be accepted and assigned a decent position. After basic, he'd play the part of a loyal
soldier. From time to time, he'd find a way to make critical mistakes and foment infighting.
He'd be careful not to make friends here, not to get attached to anyone he would need to betray. That would be a great way to end up like Hawks and die a miserable, pointless death without even the comfort of knowing that he'd died for one side or the other.