Shigaraki was in town. Izuho had caught sight of him talking with Dr. Kyudai on level D--which was the less official but more commonly used name for the fourth basement--the two nefarious schemers arguing animatedly about... whatever nightmare device was under construction down there. "It will be ready soon," the doctor assured the PLF's grand commander.
"Not soon enough," Shigaraki growled, tapping four fingers along a rickety railing. "I want him here."
"As do I," the doctor nodded sadly, "things could have gone better, but it's going to work, my friend. Soon."
Shigaraki growled, pacing around the apparatus like a stalking predator.
Should Fossa try to warn the Chain that the PLF was getting another portal device ready? As the weeks passed, the construction began to resemble the one responsible for the Battle of UA, the air in the foundation level becoming foul, thick with scents of burning-hot metal and ozone even as industrial fans whirred to clear whatever noxious gasses the cursed machine was emitting as it entered component testing phases.
Hopefully the roof would collapse on the metal abomination when Fossa set the upper labs on fire. If not, well, perhaps the spy could surreptitiously damage one of the huge pipes that supplied it with cooling water. Lakes of water pouring onto the construction floor and the machine overheating at the same time... that would be pretty effective sabotage. There were some vulnerable hydraulic lines, too. Hydraulic fluid was brilliantly flammable, with hydraulic accidents having caused numerous fatal industrial fires over the years. It would be tricky to pull any of this off, though, because Shigaraki's Krypteia goons had started guarding D level on a permanent basis, ever watchful even when their leader wasn't present.
So, should he try to warn the Chain about this? There didn't seem to be a reason to. The Chain had to know the PLF would likely try the portal move again given its initial success. Nedzu would
have implemented contingencies.
Traffic in the basement levels picked up significantly, command increasing the number of guards on patrol accordingly as more and more scientists and contractors began bustling through the hallways at all hours of the day and night, many of them headed for D level but plenty drifting into the other labs.
Some subconscious anxiety inherited from Influx through Switcher suggested that advising the Chain that the PLF was likely working on chemical weapons, airborne neurotoxins specifically, was probably more important than passing on a likely redundant portal warning.
Fossa couldn't think of an excuse to lose his trusty softball on the same roof again so soon after the last time, though. The dead drop where he could leave the information was inaccessible for now. Well, hopefully Nedzu was clever enough to anticipate this PLF plot, too. It would probably be difficult to scale up production of these kinds of chemical weapons in any case. Everything just kept getting scarcer. The more steps required to manufacture something, the harder the shortages hit.
Izuku had never seen a snow globe shattered in a confined space in any of Switcher or Kuma's memories. He ran that experiment himself. A large, potted fern was imprisoned in a small globe and placed in a tiny metal tube which had once contained some--egregiously expensive--chocolate cookies. Oh for the days when cocoa wasn't worth its weight in gold. Izuku, alone in their room for the time being, climbed up the bunk, perching on the edge of Arashiro's bed, and dropped the enclosed globe.
A clatter of shattering glass, a flash of light, and the plant in question materialized at full size on top of the cookie jar , which promptly toppled over, spilling a small amount of dirt across the once neatly-swept floor. "Materialized in the nearest space large enough to accommodate it," Izuku mused, collecting the shattered glass from the bottom of the cookie jar and effortlessly globing the plant once more. The power was completely instinctual now; he barely needed to focus on the emotions at all, knowing exactly how to think "mine" in just the right way.
"And if I put the lid on?"
He sealed the tube and dropped the cookie jar again. Huh... no light? Or had he just not seen it? Izuku removed the lid--and suddenly found himself with a lap full of plant. "Huh. It remained miniature and in suspended animation until there was enough room directly accessible I guess?"
It would be best to confirm all of this with an animal rather than rely on this one, poor fern as a test subject, but his only option on that front would be to try to befriend--and then viciously betray--one of the Citadel's handful of stray cats... or try to catch a squirrel or even a rat. There weren't a lot of animals around, not counting insects which would be useless for this experiment.
Well, he could catch a grasshopper and put it on the fern, although that would be testing a rather different question, or he could try to ask Kuma, but he hadn't dreamed much lately, probably as a result of the mounting anxiety as the day of his long awaited sabotage approached.
He might just have to risk it and assume a human would react in the same way as a plant.
The TWRR played it down as always, but the PLF suffered a massive defeat that week, losing access to an enormous petrochemical refinery. In fact, it looked like the Chain had taken control of the facility more or less intact, meaning those resources were all with the enemy now. How wonderful. Hats off to whoever was responsible.
Meanwhile, the real liberators (as opposed to the Liberators) of Hosu dug in their heels and faced down a PLF siege.
"I think I'll go to the midnight show of Stormsurge once I get off duty tomorrow," Izuho mused. "You want to come? You're also on the four to midnight shift, right?"
"Yeah. I've seen that movie before, though. It's not very good," Arashiro grimaced. "You can go it you want. I will be enjoying getting to sleep at a decent time for once."
"I just feel like getting out," Izuho shrugged. "I don't care if it's any good."
"Well, you do what you want with your money I guess? Are you sure you want to see that one? And at midnight?"
"Yeah. I've heard it's so bad it's good. I like that sometimes, you know?" "Well, in that case you might enjoy it." She did not sound convinced.
Stormsurge, a sorry excuse for an action thriller with dialogue so cringe-worthy it was physically painful at times, was perfect for two reasons: Izuku had seen it before, so if anyone asked him what happened he had an answer, and it was notoriously terrible, on par with Plan Nine from Outer Space. He didn't want Arashiro, or anyone else from their squad, tagging along to see him slip out of the theater as soon as the movie started. That would ruin his alibi.
His shift ended. Izuho left as normal, service weapon still slung over his shoulder, and made his way directly to the theater, purchasing the necessary ticket and some popcorn. One of the stranger parts of Citadel life was that even when off duty and not required to be in uniform, PLF soldiers were required to keep their service weapons on them. Everywhere you looked, gun barrels bristled. As a Citadel night guard, Izuho had one of the scariest guns in the city (well, unless you started counting rocket launchers) but it never elicited any questions.
On the off chance he survived the war, reintegrating himself to civilian life was going to be a chore. Maybe he shouldn't bother. Maybe Izuku should just join Isomorph or some other paramilitary mercenary organization. Chances were he'd fit in there in ways he wouldn't fit in anywhere else anymore.
These were thoughts for later; they were not going to help him survive the night.
The theater was not completely deserted; bad movie or not, this was still entertainment in a place where the vast majority of people were not allowed to have personal computers or phones, and it seemed a fair number of couples had decided this would be a prime place for a long make-out session.
Izuku took a seat on a cushioned bench in the back, rapidly finished his popcorn--it was pretty good stuff; somebody here knew how to properly apply butter flavor--and slipped out of the theater. Anybody who happened to see him leave with the empty tub would presume he was headed to get a refill, and he did in fact buy one before leaving through a side exit and abandoning the food to the scavenger animals.
Fossa made his way to the Citadel, hair obscured by a cheap, floppy hat which also cast his face in deep shadow. The streets were far from deserted--plenty to do at all hours of the day and night during the war. The saboteur moved through quiet side streets, slouching and walking in a way that ate up the ground but appeared unhurried, a neat little skill. In a matter of minutes he had returned to the Citadel.
He did not have a decent excuse if someone questioned his presence; he was supposed to be off duty now. There was no reason for him to be back in the building. He would say, if pressed, that he'd dropped his keys and had come back hoping he might find them. However, that was not an excuse anyone was likely to buy. To get away with this, he had to be seen by nobody, or noticed by nobody anyway. The hat was too suspicious and would have to be abandoned now. If anyone saw him, hopefully they would not realize he should have left almost an hour ago.
Fossa flicked the switch on the camera looper in his pocket as he approached the edge of the building's exterior surveillance presence, setting the system to loop the last thirty seconds of footage continuously. The gadget was supposedly smart enough to only loop cameras in Fossa's direct vicinity--how exactly it knew where he was he hadn't the slightest idea and didn't much care--but the less he had to depend on it the better so he had best hurry.
Fossa scanned himself in at a side entrance, moved rapidly and nearly silently across the polished floors, entered the north-east stairwell and listened carefully for approaching boots--there was someone right above him--Fossa closed the door carefully, not allowing the lock to so much as click, then sprinted for a statue that was supposed to be Destro but looked far more like his supposed descendant. There was no other cover forthcoming. The spy crouched down, hiding himself behind the statue's hulking pedestal, clinging close to obtain the best concealment. Fossa hated this damn statue, every chiseled, bronze feature. He hated its plaque, too, some monologue Saint Destro had said while high as a kite in prison, every mad word twisted into vile dogma the PLF used as gospel. Well, horrible as the statue was at least it was large enough to conceal the spy.
The door opened, clanging closed with a crash. Boots tapped across the floor, approaching from the left. Fossa held his breath and slunk backwards, circling the statue on all fours as the guard moved through the room so that the pedestal remained between him and discovery.
The tap of boots faded, their owner turning a corner. Fossa allowed himself to breathe again. He got to his feet, returned to the stairwell and scanned himself in. This time it was blessedly empty. Fossa began his ascent, heart beating in his throat as he took the stairs three at a time. The sooner
he was out of this confined place the better. There were no options--
The third floor door opened and Fossa slowed instantly to a casual walk even as his heart skipped a beat. A private carrying a huge stack of folders headed down without giving Fossa a glance. To her, he was just another familiar guard patrolling as usual, blending in nearly seamlessly. Thank the heavens. That was too close.
He took the stairs four at a time now, leaping up the stairs like a jungle predator lunging between distant tree branches.
Fossa scanned himself onto the roof and approached the fume hood vents. Pipes about as wide as his head, each ended with a fine grate protected from rain or snow by a conical hat.
He'd spent the last few weeks mapping out the network of the pipes as best he could, by dropping objects through the grates and listening to the echoes as they fell, by carefully sketching the building's layout, by learning which part of the roof corresponded to which laboratory down below. However, without actually seeing the building schematics, there was no way to be sure which vent led where nor which vents were straight-shots down and which twisted and turned several times before arriving in a lab.
Fossa had selected the tenth vent in the line as the most promising candidate. This should lead straight down to laboratory B-16, the lab of the Drs. Mura. They had not been working late the last week, leaving by eight most days. The place should be completely deserted at this time of night. Whether Fossa would be able to get into other laboratories on the sub-basement floor from B-16 or whether he would have to confine his theft and sabotage to a single location was unclear. It didn't matter. Screwing over the Muras was worth the risk, especially given the flattering things he'd heard Re-Destro saying about them and their collaboration with Dr. Kyudai. Disgusting human garbage too noxious for a discerning dumpster, the lot of them.
Fossa pulled on a pair of latex cleaning gloves, whipped out a Philip's head and began removing the hefty screws that kept the weather proofing in place before prying the grate off his chosen vent.
He gazed down into a yawning black abyss. Somewhere in the distance he could hear the gentle vibration of a fan, but there didn't seem to be any chemical fumes venting at the moment. It was like staring down a python's throat. And he was about to jump in.
There were a few ways in which this could kill him if it went poorly enough, or worse, strand him in the Citadel's duct work until the next time they overhauled the system... If the place were bombed, flattened to the ground, he might not be found for... who knew? Kuma's quirk didn't have a time limit that Izuku knew of. Glass took a long time to decay. If the fall weren't as long as he thought or were cushioned somehow and the globe didn't break on impact, didn't throw him free into the nearest space large enough to accommodate him and thus out of the vent system...
Izuku could back out. Fossa could try to blank the cameras and kill or capture a scientist in the basement to get past the biometric scanners for the labs. He might get away with it long enough to do some damage, but he would certainly have to opportunistically kill at least one person, probably more, and the chances of him keeping his cover intact were minimal now that the basement levels had become so busy. He'd have to make a break for the Chain lines afterward or... Izuku could leave himself in suspended animation in the dead drop location--no. That was crazy, even crazier than jumping down the vents. He was going through with this this. He'd already made up his mind several times and he wasn't having this argument with himself again.
The risk of this method of ingress was worth it. He wasn't going to stand around for one more day while the reigning psychopaths in this den of vipers tortured people in ways that made Overhaul's
worst sins look tame in comparison.
Taking no chances with his identity, the spy obscured his face and hair with an improvised balaclava--it had once been an oversized sock. The disguise wasn't full proof, but it would have to do. The hat he'd worn on the way over would blow off the first time he broke into a run. Izuku pulled on a pair of work gloves to protect him from the glass shards he was about to remove from an envelope, took a seat directly on the mouth of the exposed vent, breathed deeply, gathered himself up, and threw himself head-first through a dizzying mirror.
Gray and black and a distant, star-speckled sky tumbling about like colors in a blender, a rainbow of steel and night--bouncing and jarring but no sensation of it, only the visuals, like a computer game simulating a ride on a rollercoaster--blades of a shadowy fan approaching at lightning speed- -Izuku spun head first through a thousand mirrors and backwards through a lake and then he found himself crouched on gray, linoleum floor, dizzy and elated and ready to wreak havoc--with a very confused, bleach-blonde lab tech blinking at him, the man's mouth opening and closing like a cod's.
"What are you--" the man began to shout. Fossa punched him in the throat, took the enemy to the ground, grabbed the head just so and twisted.
The tech stilled, having died nearly instantly as the spy brutally broke his neck. The man didn't have a name tag on his lab coat, for better or worse.
Amidst the bubbly high in his veins, it was hard for Izuku to feel any impact at all from what he had just done, and really, even if he weren't high, shouldn't he be used to it by now? It wasn't as if this guy didn't have it coming... but who was he? This lab should be deserted. Only the Muras worked in lab B -16. Well, whatever-- no, he needed to figure out what was going on. He had to force himself to think straight through the haze. Just rolling along happy-go-lucky would get him killed.
Come on. Get it together. Just because things were going about as well as he could possibly have hoped in his wildest dreams was no reason to let his brain label this inconsistency as minor and ignore it. Why was there somebody here? Had he miscalculated--
Yes. Because this was clearly not laboratory B-16. B-16 was a fairly large lab, but not as large as this. This must be C-4, the largest lab in the whole building. It took up a quarter of C level. Fire- resistant chemical storage lockers lined the shortest wall, an uninterrupted mass of gray metal and hazard diamonds. Fume hoods were interspersed with more specialized equipment, some of which he recognized from inherited knowledge or UA support facilities, some of which he couldn't begin to place. He had no idea what that big box was, but that was a GCMS, that was an IR spectrometer, and that huge piece of metal and ceramic hunched in the corner was a full fledged NMR spectrometer, all be it the magnet probably wasn't very powerful. There were two laser tables in the room, too, one prominently labeled "Danger: Class 3 Nd:YAG" by a shockingly haphazard sign given that Neodymium YAG lasers were one of the leading causes of serious accidents in photonics labs. A number of gene sequencers and refrigerators obscured most of the right wall beyond the laser tables.
Turning his gaze towards the ceiling, Fossa grimaced at the shiny copper of the sprinkler system. He didn't really know how to disable that as each individual section would burst open when sufficient heat melted its seals. It couldn't be disabled by any kind of electronic switch. Maybe there would be an override somewhere to let him drain the system? Probably not, though, at least not in this lab. Well, if he started a large enough conflagration even a deluge of water might not be able to stop it.
There were two doors out of this laboratory, one with a prominent "EXIT" sign indicating it led to the hallway. The other... hard to say.
Fossa swiped the dead tech's credentials and scanned himself into the neighboring room, opening the door a crack.
Huge, glass tanks of bubbling fluid lurked in a dark corner. Brightly lit cells with transparent doors reinforced by metal and concrete filled the rest of the room. Half of the tanks and a third of the cells were occupied. Nomus in progress hung motionless in the dark green, viscous sludge of the tanks. In the cages, former humans paced, screamed, battered at the bars, and in the case of the only one who still looked entirely quirkless standard and had been granted the privilege of clothes, swore like sailors.
He was grateful for the bubbly post-globe high. It dulled the cut of the atrocities as it dulled the cut of taking a life. Even as it muffled the clarity of his thoughts, it kept him from being overwhelmed, turned everything into a nightmare too vague to be impactful.
"Oh, do be quiet," Dr. Tanigawa, a young man with fluffy, white feathers rather than hair, griped at the swearing nomu. Tanigawa began to scribble on a clipboard. This man was no soldier, but his quirk was powerful; Izuho had seen him use it to navigate a crowded hallway once. Tanigawa was a phase shifter, something like Lemillion but seemingly with fewer abilities and, correspondingly, fewer vulnerabilities.
Fossa slipped into the room and let the door close softly behind him, drawing his trusty knife as he did so. "Hey, Hasegawa," Tanigawa said with a hum, mistaking his doom for the dead lab tech, "what do you think of--" the doctor cut off with a gurgle as Fossa grabbed his shoulder, yanked him down and slashed across his throat with enough force to all but take the man's head off. Blood spattered in a long arc. Tanigawa fell to the ground. The Reaper met him half way.
The human-seeming nomu whooped, clapping her hands as if she'd just witnessed a world class opera. "Very good!" she yelled. "I like you!"
Now here was an idea... "If I let you out, what will you do?" asked Fossa as he used Tanigawa's shirt to clean the blood from his knife. He'd only got a few drops on his own shirt. Now that was skill.
"Let me out. I'll wreak havoc," she hissed, shaking out her long, chocolate hair. "Kill them until someone will tell me my name." Her name?
That sounded promising, though. Fossa nodded to her. "Hang tight."
"They took my name," she hissed as Fossa took stock of the room. "I'll make them pay... with malice aforethought... make them... I was a lawyer... I know I was a lawyer... They didn't like... didn't like it... don't remember..."
Burning equipment, stealing documents... he'd never considered letting loose angry nomu on the facility. Well, given that the fire suppression system was better designed than he had expected, siccing nomus on everyone might be a good alternative to arson, presuming that he trusted this shadow of a lost woman and her less coherent cohort not to immediately turn on him upon release. Nomus were programmed to be obedient to the PLF... or, rather, the successful nomus were so programmed. And this room was clearly full of failures if the broken, feral creatures he saw in the other cells were any indication.
Izuku shuddered despite himself. That poor woman... Not knowing who you were... having your
identity ripped from you, everything in limbo... he knew all too well what that was like. You were more than your memories, of course. Izuku was not Switcher, and neither was Fossa for all that he acted a lot like the general sometimes. Neither were either of them Kuma. They shared a bit of their souls, perhaps, Fossa more than Izuku, with the old guard of the MLA but they were their own people. This poor nomu, they'd ripped her identity from her, even her name, and never given her the chance to look for the pieces and assemble a new self. Yes, she deserved revenge. She could not have justice, for it was nearly impossible to see a course of events in which she left here alive, recovered what was taken from her and bore witness against her tormentors. No justice, there was never justice, but revenge... that Fossa could promise her, her blood repaid in blood.
The saboteur paced to the last cage, wincing at the failed, twisted experiments that snarled at him or skittishly hid themselves in the furthest corners of their barren prisons like abused animals unable to comprehend why their handlers beat them.
The last cell in the row was very odd, so brightly lit Fossa had to squint against the blinding white. What was the point of having so many flood lights? This was just plain light pollution. A bedraggled mass of black feathers and twisted talons hissed from the least brightly lit corner, beady eyes glittering, old burn scars arching across its body in horrible, red stripes. It scratched its talons against the floor, fluffed out its vestigial wings in a threat display and snarled.
No... no it couldn't be.
Not even the full force of his snow globe high could save him from the horror of the revelation. "Tokoyami," he breathed.