"Destro this is a bowling alley."
"Thanks, Tripswitch, I can see that."
Izuku peered out the window of their minivan, taking in the neon lights in the window and the "Tuesday Night Two for One Special!" sign fluttering from the roof's overhang. "This dosen't necessarily look like the headquarters of a murderous cult."
"Yes, thanks to you, too, Switcher," Chris told Izuku dryly. "Weasel, did you fake an intelligence report as a way of saying we all need to take a break tonight?"
Bit Weasel shook her head violently. "I would never , you know that! I would just tell you if I thought that, and then drag you out of the building maybe. This is the address my contact sent me. They could have been messing with me, I guess, or they could have been confused..."
Destro blew out a breath. "Well... Should we still check it out?"
"Tuesday is their two for one special," Izuku noted.
Chris considered this, then shrugged. "Alright. Let's buy them out for the night. Why not? Go tell the other cars. Make sure everyone secures weapons they can't carry completely concealed and no armor or insignias should be visible on anyone, got it?"
"Got it," chorused the generals and the three other soldiers that had rode with them.
It drizzled halfheartedly as the majority of the MLA high command and thirty of their best soldiers
made their way across the sparsely populated parking lot. "How long do you think it will take someone to recognize us and call the police?" Kuma mused.
"No idea," Chris replied. "When you see us on television we look like something out of a comic book and right now we look like normal people. If this bowling alley is a front for a murderous anti-meta human cult, someone will certainly recognize us and start something."
"And if it's not, the Clark Kent disguise effect may make us invisible," Weasel giggled.
The bored alley attendant snapped his magazine closed and blinked in shock as thirty-four people filed in, shaking off the rain. "Uh..."
Kuma stepped forward and explained, "we were having a party downtown but the place canceled on us ten minutes before we were supposed to start. Can we buy your lanes for the night?" Only two of the lanes were already in use; there was plenty of room.
"Uh... yeah, sure! Lucille!" he shouted for the other employee on duty.
"It's going to be weird fighting in bowling shoes if somebody actually shows up to attack us," Kuma pointed out as she fastened her new footwear's velcro straps.
"Rafael," Arch said, the assassin pointing at Izuku menacingly, a bowling ball held in one hand. "Tonight I will finally find a sport where I can beat you."
"You wish," Izuku grinned in reply.
"Yeah, you two go play with Chris," Kuma waved them off. "I'm going to grab Weasel. I don't want to get caught up in your weird grudge match."
Groups of three to five assembled with some electing only to watch. Arch, Destro, and Izuku took a lane in the center of the room with Tripswitch, Bit Weasel and two colonels on their left and a group of four sergeants on their right.
"Hah! You split the pins," Arch jeered over the sugary disco music. "You can't possibly get a spare out of that."
Izuku raised an eyebrow and ten seconds later both pins went down. "How?" Arch threw up his hands in exasperation then snarled in reply to Izuku's grin.
"Could you two calm down a bit? I see why Kuma didn't want to play with you," their leader complained. Destro was not great at this game, but was far too collected to care about such petty competition.
"You just wait. I can still turn it around," Arch grumbled. Pins clattered to the ground. "Hah! Strike!"
"It's a good thing some people are actually paying attention to potential dangers and not the score cards," Chris muttered, taking his turn and then stepping back to watch Izuku and Arch perpetually one-up each other.
"We're going to tie," Izuku realized as the last round of the game began. "No way..."
"I will defeat you," Arch promised again. "No ties this time."
Izuku expected Chris to chime in at this point, likely with something bitingly sarcastic, but he
didn't. "Hey, Chris?" Izuku called as he realized their leader had vanished from sight. "He didn't go to buy fries or something did he? We shouldn't really be eating here given that we don't know if we can trust the people running this place..." No, Destro wasn't buying fries; he wasn't in the building.
"I didn't see him leave," said Arch, suddenly deadly serious.
"Weasel?" Izuku called, the game next door halting as the soldiers spotted his anxiety and quickly realized what was amiss.
"Where's Chris?" the telepath asked. "Did anyone see him leave?" Heads shook.
A moment before panic would have set them to tearing the building apart, Destro reappeared out of thin air, reeking of ozone and iron. "It's fine now," was the first thing their leader said as thirty sets of eyes fixed upon him, "and completely unrelated to this place. Go back to your games." Nobody moved. "No, seriously, back to your games." He made shooing motions.
Destro's ruby-orange hair had escaped its pony-tail and become a disordered mess that dribbled dust and ashes onto the floor. He wasn't sporting visible injuries beyond some budding bruises, but exhaustion was clear in his every movement and the tears in his clothes were indicative of a vicious fight.
"What the hell happened?" Bit Weasel demanded, not at all interested in returning to her game. Izuku and his fellow generals crowded around Destro.
"You would never believe me," Chris said. "Lots of weird things happen to us all the time I know but this was a whole new level. I think I just killed the Soulstealer's creepiest minion..."
"Did some meta just... teleport you to have a fight?" Arch demanded. "How? What are the limitations to the ability?"
"It's not going to happen again," Destro replied firmly, because that was what Arch really meant to ask about. The spy master didn't necessarily care what had happened so much as he cared how repeat events could be thwarted. "It wasn't a conventional meta ability," Destro continued. "And it can't happen again, we made sure of it. I'll... tell you all about it later."
If there were actually a problem Destro would not keep it from them. He wasn't one to dance around issues or withhold bad news. Arch and Izuku exchanged nervous glances before reluctantly continuing their (much subdued) grudge match.
Chris threw himself down on a bench with a long sigh. "Play the next game without me... ugh... does anyone have a hairbrush? And I left my ball there, damn it!"
Izuku hadn't visited such a vivid memory in weeks. It was a nice break from his bleak reality, but a bitter sweet one. Normally he would rush for a journal and note down details he didn't want to forget. Now he didn't have a journal and wouldn't have dared write in it if he did. He knew for a fact that the MPs frequently searched possessions, much as they denied doing so. He couldn't be caught with anything out of the ordinary.
Izuho shed his blankets and padded out into the pre-dawn black. It would do him good to have a reputation for sleeping poorly and restlessly wandering in the night. There was no rule against it, so long as one didn't leave camp, and he was hardly the only night wanderer. His absence would
surely be noticed by one of the three other residents of their tent, and if he didn't want to be immediately suspect when Fossa eventually caused something to go wrong in the night, Izuho's absence needed to be "the norm."
The spy made his way towards the command trailers, aimlessly wandering as if trying to clear his mind from a nightmare.
"Hey Mihara," Camie yawned as she passed him.
"Heading into work already?" Izuho asked, eyebrows raised although it was probably too dark for her to see so the gesture was likely pointless.
"Oh yeah. Lots of stuff to work through today... you'll see," he could hear the malevolent grin, even if he couldn't quite make it out in the gloom.
Hosu did not deserve this. After everything that happened last year with the nomu attacks, this city was due for some some slack.
Too bad the war didn't care.
It was a miserable day, rain falling in sheets, actual thunder rumbling in the distance, a fine mist rising from the ground like a swamp fog.
Izuho had a poncho, but it was the cheap kind, courtesy of the constant supply chain snags and material shortages. The steadily worsening problem assailed both sides but struck the PLF hardest as few reputable organizations or countries were willing to do business with them. It was support equipment, weapons and electronics that were the hardest to come by, of course, but even decent rain gear was scarce and hence Izuho's poncho, though waterproof, was light, blowing about and allowing splashes to soak him.
Maybe he should just take the cursed thing off; it wasn't doing much good and it made running awkward. He was doing a lot of that, dodging down side streets and leaping across treacherously slick rooftops to avoid PLF and Chain alike. So far, nobody had noticed him, the miserable rain at least aiding with camouflage.
Izuho had separated himself from his squad within minutes of entering the city. Two dozen Chain forces had attacked the group on the way to their target and Fossa had managed to make several of the Chain venomously angry with an insult and a dirty trick. He proceeded to lead them on a wild goose chase down several alleyways before jumping onto a fire escape and leaping to a neighboring building then into a dumpster.
Izuho conveniently lost his walkie-talkie in that dumpster, neatly explaining away his radio silence.
He was now unaccounted for in a combat zone for reasons unlikely to arouse suspicion. He could do all kinds of damage like this.
He could incapacitate or assassinate PLF operatives. He could save Chain combatants. He could claim credit for other people's kills in order to boost his reputation and gain advantageous positions in future confrontations. He could give away enemy positions or otherwise attempt to leak information.
There were all kinds of things he could do. What should he do, though... that was a harder question to answer.
Fossa moved through the city like a ghost following the cracks of gunfire and hisses of emitter quirks.
In the center of a four lane intersection, the Chain and the PLF battled for dominion over one pathetic street. There was nothing of note on this street, just some grocery stores and an arcade, certainly nothing that couldn't be built just as easily two blocks away, but here in the pouring rain dozens of people bled and died in soaked, shivering heaps.
The PLF advanced, ready to overrun the Chain position. Native was leading what remained of the opposing forces, although the Chain uniform made him look like a different person entirely.
Native was a good man. He'd been helpful to Iida. He cared about stopping small time crooks from ruining the livelihoods of everyday people.
The PLF were not allowed to kill him.
Clambering up a sturdy trellis and through a third story window, Fossa shot twice, striking one PLF soldier in the leg. This was the very far limit of the range on his old pistol, so even that was impressive.
The sudden attack from behind, from an area the PLF likely believed they decisively held, sent them buzzing in all directions like bees. Fossa caught the PLF officer in the hip with his fifth shot and she went down. The PLF ran for cover and the Chain pounced like a pack of opportunistic wolves.
Fossa slipped away through the deserted apartment building from which he had taken potshots as Native and his remaining allies overran the PLF, taking names and prisoners and killing those who refused to surrender.
A strange, sick satisfaction twisted in his gut. He had done something truly useful for his alliance. He had been the deciding factor in this skirmish, saving people he cared for... and dooming those he didn't care for. He hadn't personally killed anyone, though. He'd just weighted the dice.
The dead lying prone in a pointless intersection would probably argue that the distinction meant nothing.
Fossa kept ahead of the advancing PLF lines, watching the outnumbered Chain retreat further and further into the north of the city. They were not even trying to win anymore, merely hoping to hold out for evacuations to complete.
Izuku found himself lying flat on the roof of a warehouse, watching countless vehicles, civilian and otherwise, pouring down the last safe road out of city. Native and his squad--who had neither the need nor ability to move undetected by both alliances--had beaten the spy there and taken up guard positions around a loading zone where a few hundred civilians huddled, waiting for their turn to fill an extra seat in a fleeing vehicle.
A familiar hint of elegant, deadly movement caught his attention and Fossa's eyes locked with his teacher's. Perched like a bird of prey about to strike at mice, Eraserhead crouched on the edge of the warehouse across the street. Only two lanes and the pounding rain separated them.
Fossa and Eraserhead stared at each other, neither moving a centimeter. The lethal quirk eraser, though bedraggled, carried with him an aura of awe and terror, as if he were less a human and more
a vengeful legend. Even through the blurring storm, Fossa could make out the remorseless, calculating hatred in Aizawa's expression as clearly as if they stood a meter apart in broad daylight. There was no doubt in the student's mind that his old teacher would kill him in a heartbeat if Aizawa thought it necessary.
The spy had to force himself not to turn and flee. Running was the exact opposite of what he should do. Fossa raised his hands as if to surrender.
Izuku knew things that would allow him to convince his teacher of his identity in a matter of seconds. He could be reintegrated into the Chain forces, could have an actual handler who could explain to him how to make a real difference rather than simply perpetrating random acts of chaos, he could--
Eraserhead lunged from the building, careening down into the street like a cannonball as dozens upon dozens of copies of Twice poured out of a neighboring building, all of them armed and angry and screaming "liberation!" and "surrender or die!"
Native's squad and a handful of others joined Aizawa, fighting with no holds barred. Fossa, for what it was worth, shot clones to death until he ran out of bullets, grimacing as the copies melted into disgusting slime and mixed with the pouring rain. No mater how many were destroyed, more were always on the way.
Civilians and soldiers continued to evacuate at lightning speed.
When all that remained was the rear guard, a huge, armored truck brought up the tail of the convoy. Eraserhead and the final few defenders jumped onto the hulking vehicle, grabbing hold of ladders, rails, and what were probably defensive weapon systems as the truck roared out of the city. The Twice copies ambled about in the street, clearly unsure of whether they should attempt to pursue the Chain.
It was over. Hosu belonged to the PLF. And Fossa had lost his chance to reintegrate with his allies. Adding to that the growing physical misery from hours in soaked clothing and this was shaping up to make Izuku's list of top twenty worst days of his life. Well, maybe not twenty. Top fifty, though.
Fossa made his way across three buildings, wandering without a purpose, before stumbling upon four dead soldiers, three Chain and one PLF, who had shot and stabbed each other to pieces on the rooftop garden of a little apartment building.
What sense was there in this? Who cared about this stupid garden? All the plants were crushed now, anyway, the few that had been alive to begin with.
It was every bit as pointless as poor Hawks and Tokoyami. All of it was just that pointless.
At least Hosu was still standing. Perhaps both the Chain and PLF had realized leveling cities wasn't going to win them the war, that wholesale destruction would only win the enemy more ground support and soldiers.
Three dead Chain. One dead PLF. It was horrible for Izuku but it was perfect for Fossa who had been hoping to find something like this. There was a risk in taking credit for these kills; perhaps someone had already reported this skirmish, but given that the bulk of the PLF--minus Twice clones--was still ten blocks away, probably not.
Fossa threw the PLF soldier into a neighboring street where two others already lay dead and,
giving into exhaustion, collapsed in the lee beneath an air conditioning unit and came up with the exact story of how he had killed these Chain fighters.
It would be a credit to him. With a few more successes, maybe he could get a promotion and become a squad leader. No, that was wishful thinking. Everyone ranked sergeant and above had a powerful combat quirk of some kind. The further up the hierarchy you went, the scarier the quirks became.
It was too bad. Fossa could have caused a lot of chaos as a squad leader. Maybe they'd at least give him a gun with better range, though.
A flying scout from Twice's division found Fossa two hours later. It took him a further hour to make it back to his own squad by which point the sun had set.
Sone had commandeered the entire floor of a trashed student dormitory for their use. It didn't have windows anymore, but they'd dealt with that by nailing thick towels and blankets over the holes, dousing any stray light and keeping them safer from rain and lingering snipers.
"I was really worried about you," Arashiro, clearly not sure if she should try to hug him or not, said as Izuho finally staggered into their dorm.
"You know me. I can take care of myself. I'm sorry I got separated and worried you, though. Are you alright?"
"Yeah, everybody's fine, mostly anyway... a few people are still with the medics--"
Sone, arms crossed, interrupted, "well, normally I'd read you the riot act about running off like that without an order to do so, Mihara, but it probably worked out better for everyone in the end and since you're none the worse for the wear," she opened her arms and shrugged with an almost- there smile before disappearing into the hallway. Huh. That was out of character. Was she just happy about the victory? Probably.
The commandeered dorm, unlike the majority of ransacked Hosu, still had electricity and Nishida, grinning like mad, walked into the room with a whole entertainment system in hand, Wakiya trailing behind him with a stack of DVDs. "Alright, what do we want to watch tonight?"
"The sergeant said this was okay?" Izuho raised an eyebrow.
Sone reappeared a moment later to reply, "it is perfectly fine as long as the volume is kept low. I asked the captain," she grinned happily, expression bereft of every trace of her usual malice. "We deserve it after that miserable day, all of us do. A number of other squads are doing the same."
Nishida and Wakiya wrestled cables into submission for a good ten minutes while others, the few who had the mental capacity to care about the genre, argued over which movie to watch. They eventually settled on a cyberpunk thriller featuring sapient trains.
The squad dragged beds close to the set so that everyone could hear in comfort despite the low volume. Arashiro and Izuho sprawled out next to each other, munching on (technically looted) granola bars because nobody could stop them.
This was such a nice bed. Izuho had quickly accustomed himself to a flat cot or sleeping bag in a tent, and now he had a bed again, at least for tonight. It was so fluffy, and after the miserable cold he wanted to hide under the covers and never show his head to the world again. He was also really tempted to jump up and down on the springy mattress, but that would probably make everyone worry for his mental health and he didn't have time for that.
"What happened? After you left?" Arashiro asked as the movie's first action scene began.
"I got away from the pursuers. Got lost a bit. Ended up with three Chain on a rooftop. We fought. I won. I'll have to give Sone that full report later I guess..."
"Three of them?" Arashiro asked him as space-pirate train robbers began shooting in the background. Why couldn't they have chosen something fluffy to watch? Hadn't they all seen enough violence that day?
"Yeah, three of them," Izuho whispered hoarsely. Just three. And how many PLF had died in the fight with Native's squad? How many Chain had died in the fight with Izuho's own squad after Fossa took off on his own? At what point did death stop being a tragedy and start being a statistic? He'd had so much trouble comprehending Tokoyami or Dark Shadow's death, the horror of the end of someone so complex and beautiful. How many deaths had he borne some degree of witness to in Hosu that day? Were those people not all equally complex? How could he possibly comprehend so much loss when he could barely comprehend the loss of one single person?
"That's... are you alright? I mean..." Arashiro shifted uncomfortably, holding a pillow to her chest as if frightened someone might steal it away from her.
Huh. She wasn't congratulating him. Why did she have to keep doing this? Why did Arashiro insist on being a decent person with complex emotions and empathy? "Kind of hate myself," Izuho shrugged. "Keep wondering if they had family, but I don't feel as much as I think I should. I guess I'm too mad at the Chain or something." That should sound convincing enough.
"I killed someone today, too," Arashiro admitted. "And it was my first, the first that was just mine alone, and I feel... I didn't have a choice and still--how can you be fine?"
"This wasn't my first," Izuho grimaced, trying not to feel sorry for his friend, not to feel the need to comfort her, because, again, she should feel bad.
"Oh... I... when? We haven't seen that much action... was it before back when..."
"Yeah, before the PLF," Izuho replied. He'd never said it outright when volunteering the tale of his arrest by the HPSC and incarceration in Angband. He had only implied that he had killed a hero, and apparently Arashiro hadn't read between the lines of the tale he told. "Like I said before, I don't want to talk about it. I didn't mean for it to happen, not really."
"I get you. Just... let me know if you do need to talk, alright?"
"I will. And you, too. I can always listen." She smiled thinly, turning her attention back to the television.
Arashiro continued to be a massive problem. Izuku really liked her. Izuho, of course, liked everyone. That was his job, as the mask of a PLF soldier, but Izuku should despise as many people as possible. He wasn't doing a good job on that front, especially with Arashiro who was nice in a very different way than any of the other nice people Fossa had met in the PLF. She legitimately wanted to improve the world and if she thought the PLF was doing something that clearly went against that goal she would certainly say so.
Fossa was a traitor to Arashiro and Izuku didn't like that. He couldn't afford to be conflicted like this, but he also couldn't stand the thought of treating her--and those like her--the same as people like Sone and Misaki, that entitled-jerk MP. That kind of wholesale labeling--the way they made monsters out of the Chain, the quirkless, or anyone who disagreed with them--was, after all, one of
the things that made the PLF "evil" in Izuku's mind, and he didn't use that term lightly.
Izuku wanted good things for Arashiro. Perhaps that would be a guiding light, something that would help him find his way through the war and keep sight of his morals. Perhaps it would be his doom, as Hawks flew like a moth to Dabi's flame, as Influx chased Epona to an early grave.
It didn't always feel real, his insane life. On the television, captured forever by the camera, imaginary people danced through beautiful fantasies and soul-chilling tragedies. Izuku felt like a character on a screen now, even when he wasn't literally playing a role, even when he wasn't calling himself "Izuho."
After all, he was just another side story in the history books. Another forgotten, twisted, morally gray mess trying to make a net positive contribution in a situation from which no good could come. It would make a pretty story, a good movie perhaps, or maybe not given that he'd not yet managed to make any significant impact.
Fossa was useless trapped in this little squad. He hadn't managed to do anything today other than make himself look good and tilt the tables ever so slightly in favor of Native and Eraserhead.
He needed to get out of here. He needed to get reassigned to somewhere he could do real damage. A guard at Shigaraki's Citadel, a company clerk like Camie, even a mechanic behind the lines would have more leeway to cause damage.
Now how to make that happen... He should talk to Camie more, become her friend. She had way more power than most people knew. She could probably get him reassigned if she really wanted to.