Awareness comes back to Shouta in bits and pieces.
The first thing that comes back is the pain, throbbing dully behind his eyes and only becoming worse when he risks opening them to take stock of his surroundings. He doesn't dare try to get up yet.
He can still almost see the afterimages of... whatever the fuck just happened to him, flickering behind his eyelids.
Like ghosts.
It's all a little fuzzy, to be honest.
Something wet and warm trickles sluggishly down his temple, and the heavy scent of blood clogs his nose to the point where he can nearly taste it. With a shaking hand, Shouta brushes his fingertips through the slippery mess until he finds the source, wincing at the fresh spike of pain that washes over him.
Fuck.
The red painting his hand when he pulls it back to inspect confirms his fears.
Blood, he's bleeding. His hair and skin is slick with it, though he can feel that it's started to coagulate already. It'll probably be fully scabbed over soon.
Well, at least it's not a broken nose this time.
Shouta grits his teeth as he pushes himself up onto his knees, even just that small amount of movement leaving him breathless.
...How long has he been unconscious?
His pupils instinctively constrict into cat-like slits, allowing him to adjust to the surrounding darkness.
He's... in an alleyway.
The concrete underneath him is damp, and it leaches an aching chill all the way down to his bones. He can hear what sounds like nighttime traffic filtering in from the street. Something drips rhythmically nearby.
Other than that, the alley is quiet.
Too quiet.
Shivering against the cold and pain, Shouta forces himself to get up, having to lean heavily against the rough brick wall beside him when he stumbles.
He wipes the blood from his face using his sleeve, if only so it wouldn't drip into his eyes.
There's a light mist hanging in the air. Not quite rain yet, but his clothing is thoroughly soaked. This weather is really not doing him any favors, and falling ill wasn't an option. Sickness meant weakness, and weakness in this life meant death—meant leaving his students without a teacher.
Shouta glances around the alley through half-lidded eyes, and pulls his damp capture scarf closer in a bid for warmth.
He's alone.
...Where are his students?
The thought sends an immediate jolt of panic through him, and it's all Shouta can do to just keep control of his breathing.
His students, his kids. If he woke up alone and in a completely different location—it can't be nearby, he doesn't hear any fighting—then it's probable that they did too, right?
He has to find them, make sure they're safe, that they aren't—
Shouta squeezes his eyes shut tight, teeth grinding together as he tries to get ahold of himself.
No. His students are strong. They can take care of themselves for the time being. They've trained for this exact kind of situation—where they all found themselves separated in hostile territory.
As much as he hates it, Shouta needs to focus on himself for now. He can find his kids... later. After he's figured out where he is.
The sounds of traffic he could still hear were a good first bet.
It's been a long time since Shouta's seen a working car, most of them left abandoned, destroyed, or ransacked for scrap.
Keeping a hand on the wall, Shouta slowly shuffles his way along the alley and towards the noise, unable to shake the feeling that it may be a trick. It's only second nature for him to be suspicious, to stick to the shadows, eyes narrowed and ready to bolt at the drop of a hat.
A few different theories are already swirling around in his foggy mind, mostly over what sort of quirk he's fallen victim to.
At this point his best guess was a teleportation quirk of some kind. The attack could have been an ambush, so their attackers choosing to split them up in order to pick him and his students off one-by-one was a definite possibility.
Cold dread pools in his gut at the mere thought of that.
Had they been chased right into a trap?
Though, it's also possible—albeit much less so—that this was all simply an accident.
Perhaps the wayward quirk wasn't meant to send them away. The enemy could very well be just as confused about where they've disappeared to as Shouta is.
A new thought stops him dead in his tracks.
What if his students had been left behind without him?
Shouta's nails shift into claws just at the thought, a growl sitting heavy in his throat.
He'll tears those bastards apart before he lets them hurt his kids.
...No. He can't let his emotions control him. He just has to keep his guard up, remain cautious. They've already been separated, he can't change that, and now was the time to deal with the repercussions.
Shouta goes over what he remembers of the attack again, latching onto the pain-tinged memory.
He'd seen all of them get hit with the quirk, not just himself. It's only logical to assume that they've all been scattered. And while not exactly... ideal, that was still a better scenario than only Shouta being sent away. Better than his kids being left at the mercy of their attackers.
There's too many 'what ifs', and fixating on them won't do him any good.
For now, Shouta will just have to operate on the assumption that his students have all been scattered along with him, and that they may be close by.
If he's lucky, which he won't hold his breath on.
He continues moving forward once more at as even of a pace as he can manage, expression purposefully neutral.
Thanks to the late hour, there doesn't seem to be very many people out and about. It allowed Shouta to skulk unseen from alley to alley, having to scale the occasional fence or dodge the handful of people he does run into. No one notices him.
That's... confusing, though. It makes no sense. Why were those people walking around in the open like that? Do they have a death wish?
The first signs of dawn were beginning to appear, painting the sky in shades of purple and orange.
With the light, more and more people show up, and more cars. Actual working cars! And a train, he thinks. Somewhere in the distance.
It feels like hours of fruitless searching later that Shouta allows himself a moment of rest, his whole body aching in protest. The sunlight is still soft though, so he knows it hasn't been that long. Black spots dance in his vision.
He can't stay still for too long, he needs to keep moving.
The cars are really throwing him off.
It takes longer than he'd like to regain his bearings, and Shouta feels like he may just vibrate right out of his skin despite the siren call of sleep singing his name.
This new alley eventually opens into a well lit street, and the sight of it sets his teeth on edge. An odd sense of familiarity overcomes him.
'I've been here before,' Shouta realizes with startling clarity.
He looks around the otherwise nondescript street, frowning in confusion. Somehow, despite not recognizing anything within sight, he's utterly convinced that something about this street is important. Vitally important.
But... why?
Shouta gets distracted again by a different sensation, this one much less difficult to decipher.
His stomach gurgles in discomfort.
Ah, that's right. He hasn't had anything to eat since... yesterday morning? Just a small amount of stale rice and water. It wasn't much, of course it wasn't, but having eight starving teenagers to feed meant sacrifices had to be made at times.
They needed the food more than him.
It's not like he can just go down to the store and buy more food. Shouta doesn't have any money, though it's not like money had any value anymore. And it was too dangerous to waltz into the last-standing stores for groceries. Anything worth taking had already been stolen back in the beginning of the nightmare, and anything that remained was either spoiled or was being hoarded by whichever group decided to take over the building.
Resources were getting harder and harder to come by, considering Japan was isolated from the rest of the world by miles of ocean.
No, a store was not a viable option anymore. But that didn't leave very many alternatives.
His stomach grumbles again, more insistent.
Shouta already knows what he has to do, and he sighs. He'd given up on his pride a long time ago, but stooping to such levels still leaves a bad taste in his mouth. Literally.
Heaving another sigh, he ignores his growing nausea and the prickling sense of familiarity to amble back into the alley he'd just left.
Maybe if he's lucky there'll be something in this trash can worth eating.
He pries the lid off, careful not to make too much noise, then begins the arduous task of finding something decently edible within the mess of smells.
The rancid smell of garbage burns his eyes and nose, and it's all he can do to keeping digging and not get sick—not that there's anything in his aching stomach left to bring up. Shouta buries his nose in his capture weapon.
After what feels like forever, he manages to scrounge up a half-squished takeout box with some stirfry still inside. It's cold.
One dubious sniff later to make sure it wasn't rotten, and Shouta is gratefully digging in.
It's not great, but it's food, and whatever sauce was used to cook the meat is savory. He's too relieved over finding something edible to really think about why someone would throw this perfectly good food away.
Shouta's almost finished with it when a loud gasp startles him.
His head snaps towards the sound, but all Shouta can make out is a silhouette of someone standing in the entrance of the alley.
The little light shining behind them makes Shouta's eyes dilate, most likely reflecting the light back and making him look like some sort of cryptid raccoon. Shouta recoils with a hiss.
"I, wh—Shou?" The person asks, incredulous, and the sound causes Shouta's breath to hitch because he knows that voice.
The mostly empty box drops from his hands, and he can already feel himself starting to hyperventilate as he retreats back into the shadows. Away, away from his voice.
"Wait-!"
Shouta does not wait, only scrambles faster to get away from the—ghost, imposter, fake—threat, but he's not fast enough. He's followed and warm hands reach out to grab his face... gently?
It's like a switch gets flipped, the way Shouta just falls totally still and how his breath stutters to a stop. Watching with wide eyes as Hizashi—Hizashi, his husband who's supposed to be dead—inspects his bruised and battered face with furrowed brows.
"How'd you get so hurt already... I just saw you before leaving the apartment," he hears Hizashi tut. "What are you even doing out here, Shou?"
A thumb brushes over the scar on Shouta's right cheek, just below his eye.
When was the last time someone held him so... so gently?
Shouta wants nothing more than to collapse into his husband's arms and just rest. He's tired, and hurt, and Hizashi is right here and so warm.
It's Hizashi, brushing away the dried smear of blood from Shouta's temple.
But... there's no way this is real, right?
Because Hizashi is dead. Shouta saw it happen with his own eyes—saw the life drain from those vivid green eyes he so loved. Turned dull and empty. And now, now he is being tormented by them.
The two wedding bands that hang from a chain around his neck feel hot like an iron brand, reminding him of the truth.
This isn't Hizashi.
Panic flares bright in his chest, and Shouta lashes out with a clawed hand that just barely clips the blonde man's arm. The gentle hands retreat from his face, and with it the warmth they'd brought.
"Oh, shit—"
Shouta snarls.
Hiza—the man gasps, both hands flying up in a show of surrender while he takes a staggered step back.
"Woah—calm down, Shouta, it's just me!" he says, but Shouta isn't listening.
He backs up until his back collides with the brick wall behind him, teeth bared and eyes wild as he frantically searches for an escape route. How could he have been so foolish to have allowed this man get so close to him? He'd needed to climb a fence to get into this alley in the first place, and the only other exit was towards the street, currently blocked by—
Sunlight glints off golden hair, causing Shouta to zero in on the movement. The Present Mic look-a-like pauses in where he'd been trying to creep closer, those familiar eyes wide with concern behind iconic shades.
"C'mon, baby... you know me. How 'bout we get outta this gross alley and get you to Recovery Girl, yeah?" His voice is soft, so unlike the normally loud and boisterous man the public assumed him to be. It makes Shouta's chest ache.
As though he's approaching an injured animal, Hiz—he keeps his movements slow and deliberate. And he keeps murmuring these nonsense placations, what should be a comforting smile plastered on his stolen face.
The sight alone makes Shouta feel nauseous.
"Shut up."
Shouta's growl makes the man flinch, looking downright hurt at the two simple words. And Shouta has to shove down the pang of guilt that expression causes him, which isn't at all fair when this imposter is the one hurting him.
He forces more words out even as they mix with the still present growl rumbling in his throat. "You're not Mic, so just drop the fucking act already," he says.
For some reason though, that only seems to confuse the other man. He tilts his head like a sad puppy as he asks, "What're you talking abou—"
"Was that the plan all along?" Shouta interrupts. "—Split us up then pretend to be someone else to gain our trust?" He practically spits the words out, trembling with barely suppressed rage and grief.
How dare they use his husband against him like this?
"...Well?!"
Something finally seems to click in the other man's eyes. Something like... recognition?
It makes Shouta tense up all the more, and he starts trying to inch away again without drawing the other's attention. He looks distracted enough, maybe Shouta could...
"Even storm clouds..." says the man.
"...Have their silver lining," Shouta mumbles back without even thinking. He's still moving away before the meaning of those words slams down on him, and it's as if everything just stops.
A long forgotten memory surfaces from the fog of his mind. A secret phrase, just for them.
Reassurance.
A way to say, 'It's me. I'm not an enemy, you're safe.'
Shouta damn near whimpers at the implications, staring wide-eyed at, at...
"See? See, I'm real," the man—Hizashi? Says. "It's me, Shou—"
"No, no nO NO!" Shouta's voice cracks. "Hizashi is dead, he's DEAD—" His breath is coming out in harsh pants, emotions whirling chaotically in his chest. It hurts.
Traitorous tears slip down his cheeks and to the concrete below. "...You're dead," Shouta whispers hoarsely.
Not-Hizashi doesn't say anything, mouth agape as he just stares at Shouta with a look of something like horror, though it's tinged with equal parts confusion and concern.
Then Shouta does what he should have done from the start, turning on his heel to flee deeper into the darkness of the alleyway. He hears Hizashi yell something, but can't make out the words over the whooshing in his ears.
He keeps running.
Footsteps echo off the brick walls behind him as Shouta scrambles like a cat over the rickety wooden fence that blocks his way.
In his haste to escape, he forgets to avoid the handful of bent nail sticking out of the splintering wood, and he feels the sharp points catch on his jumpsuit. He decides to cut his losses when he hears the footsteps growing closer though, a muffled tearing alerting him to the fabric ripping when he breaks free.
Someone calls his name, calls for him to slow down, wait up!
But Shouta doesn't allow himself to listen, his own footsteps comparatively silent and easy to miss.
He keeps running long after the sounds of pursuit have faded into silence. Even as the cold, jagged metal and plastic of his prosthetic leg digs into the tender scar tissue of his stump, and his panicked breathing has morphed into ragged, pained wheezing.
Shouta runs until he physically cannot keep going, his body giving out from under him as he collapses to his hands and knees on the rough pavement.
He's not sure how long he stays like that, taking deep, gulping breaths of air with wide eyes and trembling hands. By the time his thoughts have stopped buzzing like a swarm of pissed off hornets, the sun's risen high enough to illuminate the sky is soft shades of blue.
It's finally morning.
Fatigue creeps up on him as his heartrate slows down to normal.
Fighting a yawn, Shouta pushes himself to the side with a grunt so he's slumped against the nearest wall instead of out in the open. Luckily for him, this new alley he's wound up in seems to be free of any onlookers.
Oh, what he wouldn't give for a nice hot cup of coffee right about now.
Decidedly not thinking about what just happened and who he just saw, Shouta stops fighting it and lets himself yawn, his jaw letting out a satisfying pop.
He'll be of no use to anyone with how tired he is, and daytime means a higher chance of being noticed. He can afford to take a quick nap, surely? Just a little one.
And it wouldn't make sense to draw attention to himself since he's lost his pursuer.
Laying low for a little while would be logical.
Shouta shuffles around, until his body is mostly hidden from sight between the wall and a large dumpster. He bundles into his scarf to ignore the ever present smell of rotting garbage, and allows his tired eyes to fall shut.
Yes, one small nap couldn't hurt...