Viral Latency Chapter 10: Meetings With A Monster, a Prototype + My Hero Academia/僕のヒーローアカデミア Crossover fanfic

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Art for this chapter is on AO3/SB once again.

MUCH THANKS TO 7ime1ock THE ABSOLUTE GOAT, they put their tears and pain into this.

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Chapter Ten: Meetings With A Monster/Hearing Out The Horror

PRESENT DAY

"Thank you all for arriving here on such short notice. We'll begin by—"

"Saying we have a fucking crisis." A man dressed in a crumpled collar shirt, sleeves rolled up, leans back in his chair while flicking a lighter. It sparks once, twice, before a cigarette is lit. His black hair and brown eyes are messy and cold respectively in the sterile white light of the meeting room. His breathing is stressed as he huffs tobacco. "Our party's fucked if the media finds out before next election."

"I understand, Minister of Defense." The interrupted man says, bald face cast in a severe look by his narrowed eyes. "We are indeed facing a…massive crisis." His gaze flicks to the other people in the room. Important officials, military officers, Heroes. Each with their own take on the mess and each brimming with what they believe is the biggest problem. "Let us all be on the same page. Tell me your concerns."

The words flood in. Some offer different perspectives.

"Think of the public. They're going to be scared. It's one thing to lose so many people in a flashy villain fight, another to lose them quietly like this."

"The public ain't gonna believe a word. Heroes don't just disappear. Not famous ones."

"Precisely." A third voice speaks up. "These heroes have mass followings, endorsements from corporations, big public reputations…all it'll take is one leak and we're going to have a media firestorm."

Some people…are merely scared.

"We're facing a crisis not seen in decades!"

"Which fucking party appointed the current head of the Yuki Onna?"

"Maybe we ought to start looking at third years in Hero Schools. Start a recruitment drive. Who knows how many potential recruits lie in those on the cusp of graduation? I've said it before, we should start young!"

The storm of emotions in the meeting room is the only chill to be felt. There are no windows. As time goes on, the body heat of angry and fearful people affects the area. Several have wiped the sweat off their foreheads. A haze fills the air—the Minister of Defense no longer the only one to smoke stressfully. The flurry of papers shuffling and voices interrupting each other creates a very particular beat, something fast-paced and irritating to the ears, and the atmosphere takes a turn for the worse.

The man who started the meeting has to take it in hand.

"Let us agree that the operation was a total wash," he says, his bald forehead now beaded with moisture. "The government has duplicates of the equipment and information recovered or is on favorable terms with the nations that do. The priceless artifacts and documents such as the cryogenic tubes behind the vault door are completely destroyed."

"You don't think the Matagi took the good fucking shit for themselves, do you?" The comment by the Minister of Defense sounds like a threat. The forty-year old looks closer to fifty as he scowls. He leans forward, crushing his second cigarette in an ash table, before saying: "Because if they have, Riku, I'm willing to say they stole military secrets and property."

Silence.

"You speak in haste, Minato. The Matagi would have sold anything worth having. Besides—they haven't stolen our captive," says Riku. He forces a chuckle, and soon, others join the chairman for the meeting. It's a brief moment of unity, where the men and women present cover up the near-breaking of a societal norm followed for decades.

One last laugh joins after several heartbeats. The Minister of Defense no longer leans over the table. His brown eyes show a brief shrewdness. "Yes. It's merely the stress, honorable chairman. But thank you for bringing the man up, codenamed Raijin."

Named for the thundergod of Japanese myth, Raijin was forced to stop his spree of destruction, to bring only rain and bounty to Japan forever.

Another cigarette is pulled out and lit with a smooth motion. Leaning back against his chair, smoke puffing up, Minato says, "What the fuck is he?"

So goes the rest of the meeting. There are, over the span of hours, only several statements worth noting.

"Tengu and Gashadokuro are running security on his transport to that prison. The subject regenerated into a full human when moved from a small container to a larger one. Clearly, Raijin has some healing properties."

"Raijin fought our forces while in a suboptimal state and triumphed over nearly everyone. Contingencies must be made for a fight at his full strength."

"Every inch of the facility that had those growths has been incinerated and sterilized. Perhaps…Raijin is related to that, if I may put forth my speculation?"

Grim faces abound. No matter the window-dressing used, the only salvation for the night lay in the ultra-secure cell meant for the strong and versatile villains. They cannot afford to kill him; too much blood and dreams have been spent to not extract their own pound of flesh. And there were many oddities in the facility that needed answering.

So it concludes that there is only one reliable witness and testimony: a metahuman who should not exist, especially with such a complex and versatile 'Quirk'.

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Said metahuman is thinking, grudgingly, that his cell is well-suited for him.

Mercer sees the glow of energy chains, hears the crackle and pop of electricity, feels layers of heavy metal binding him, smells stagnant air mixed with chemicals, and tastes the opposite of sweet freedom. He can shift himself, barely. There's a ringing in his mind from the beating he took. It makes forming an escape plan difficult.

The cell is also fortified with barbed mesh wire. Similar to the sort seen atop prison walls, but to his eyes, the edges are smaller than a mouse's iris. Past that, the heavy bars in city-jails and drunk tanks are present—yet encased in technology right out of science fiction. Like the energy chains restricting his body, the bars are encased in a bright energy field. It's an absurd setup. It makes the scientists in him giddy and eager to write outlandish theories. Mercer can't help but think of who else this cell is meant to hold.

Not anyone weak, obviously. Impossible to miss, a plethora of turrets point at him from eight directions, each with barrels the width of a clenched fist.

Mercer has zero ideas and no way out. There's no door. All the fortifications ultimately protrude from a shadowy blackness that hides nothing but thick walls. And no ventilation. Part of his subtle shifts makes the oxygen in the cell more breathable.

If only his senses hadn't been fucked up during his removal from Blackwatch's facility. But it's not like he could have spared the biomass to create something greater than a human's eyes and ears—Mercer laughs sharply at the idea of them standing by while he desecrates their dead by absorbing corpses. A simple mobile cage covered up was all it took to blind him then. All he had felt was an ozone crackle and pop. And so he was in his glory: a chunk of flesh slowly turning itself back into a man. Something small, something mortal—a thinness he hadn't felt since the nuclear catastrophe he averted. Weaker than a child. Hell, one could have thrown him across a room.

Can still. Maybe a burly highschooler. Now, all he has to defend himself is his wits.

A haze slowly starts to emerge, blurry and indistinct. Like a mirage, a form came to life. Mercer can smell nothing. He feels a headache coming. For all intents and purposes, the shadowy figure in front of him only exists in his eyes.

A clipboard is materialized. "Fifty-nine dead." The figure blooms into life. So too does a leather chair. Suddenly, one of the many dead soldiers Mercer killed is sitting across from him, hands atop the chair's back, itself turned around so the person's legs are planted around the rear. Nothing is said for a moment.

"Nice trick," Mercer says in Japanese.

The features shift, from one man to another, and Mercer settles back as it becomes clear that this is some sort of power play. The illusionist takes their time going through all the dead killed in the facility. If they expect some sudden outpouring of guilt, they don't give away their disappointment. Mercer doesn't need to see his victims in another's face—they already exist inside him.

"Eight crippled for life." The voice comes across as one of those heavily modulated witnesses in TV shows. This time, Mercer feels a bit of sympathy. He sees a plethora of injuries: quadriplegic, brain-damage, blindness, near-complete paralyzation.

"You should treat them well—veterans can get neglected," is all Mercer says.

"Fourteen widows, twenty-five newly made orphans." Their voice overlaps and reverberates around the room, sounding like every stern teacher or professor Alex ever had. The illusionist shifts back into their initial form of a human shadow. They wish to protect the civilian's identities, Mercer guesses. Perhaps it's about time he gives a display of strength?

Mercer digs deep into the newly deceased. The illusion itself malfunctions like a glitch when Alex shifts into the first soldier, turrets following his moves as flesh and clothing ripple. By the tenth, the illusionist has enough.

"Nice trick," they say. "It's time we talk properly."

A faceless soldier appears, looking like every Mercer has killed and none. The uniforms and features are picture-like when he focuses, yet fade away into a myriad of shapes in the corner of his eyes. "I'm not going to sugarcoat it friend," they say, looking intently into his eyes. A reverberation echoes with dozens of voices around the room: "You're in a whole heap of trouble."

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The outside of the room hides a second government agent. This one is a highly-regarded psychologist with an exceptional empath Quirk. She's frowning as she views the proceedings. There's only one entity inside the cell—the illusionist too far away to pollute the readings—so why are the emotions so confusing?

A suited official near her notices. "Anything wrong, ma'am?"

"It's…like he's giving off every emotion at once. Literally everything. It's going absolutely haywire and off the charts according to my Quirk." The psychologist takes the implicit offer to treat the official as a rubber duck. Someone to bounce ideas off of. "You know, I've dealt with a variety of patients. Some things are universal. Regardless of the mutation or Quirk, every human has about two dozen distinct emotions or combinations."

The suit nods and hums appropriately. "Interesting."

"Yeah. And every second, at best, you can only 'feel' two to three. People have varying intensities, like feeling relief and anxiety in equal measure after avoiding an accident, but that can easily slide into rage and fear. I've seen it in myself. See it in you. People switch between many different emotions, but not all at once. There's always a delay, no matter how slow or fast. But here…"

"What exactly are you seeing, ma'am?"

A deep breath then: "Like I said, everything. Every emotion flaring with no break, at the highest levels I've ever seen. He's an impossibility. It's like there are thousands of different minds in him, experiencing the sun total of the human condition at once, intensified." The psychologist fidgets with her collared shirt. A bead of sweat falls down her brow.

In another room, one with many screens, murmurs break out. These individuals analyze the interrogation through cameras. The psychologist's words spark a micro-discussion. The sentiment is equivalent to doctors querying about a mental asylum: Raijin shows complete control currently and surrendered willingly, but had acted monstrously before. Was he prone to psychotic breaks?

Several steps forward brings peace and quiet. All Might gently nudges aside a man and speaks into a communicator. "Try to provoke a reaction, any at all." A hand clenches—but eager to make a fist or clasp arms is anyone's guess.

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A period of silence. Mercer's fist tightening is noticeable when one can hear bones cracking and shifting. The faceless soldier still looks like no one, still looks like everyone—even an echo of Captain Cross for a heartbreaking moment.

You're in a whole heap of trouble. "Story of my fucking life," Mercer says. "Always on the wrong end of some bad guys. Woke up with armed men over me. What was I supposed to think? It was self-defense." It's a battle for the narrative here, for the framing of events, and though he surrendered to these people, Alex will try to give himself as much leverage as possible.

"Killing was your only option? Your tentacle Quirk seemed pretty versatile when you tore through all those men." The interrogator displays pictures from helmet cams, stills capturing Alex's murder in motion. "Torn apart and seemingly absorbed, some with no traces but their blood to mark their last remains."

What the hell is a Quirk? Alex thinks fast. He notes the emphasis. A quick deflection to give him more time: "Grew up American. 'Stand Your Ground' is how things are done. But we're in Japan. A different culture. And yet…if there's a villain attacking you, you expect me to believe you'd hold back?"

The illusionist pauses, before giving a small smile. Mercer gets the feeling he just stepped into a trap.

"That's an old attitude," the faceless soldier says. A hand mimes a clock ticking backwards. "You know, that dialect of Japanese you're using is also pretty outdated. Only place I've heard it from are the oldest movies still around."

"Date." Mercer isn't asking.

"April 17th, 2317."

Alex feels his insides squirm in agitation.

"Irritation colored his emotions, for a moment." The psychologist's voice comes from the speakers. The group analyzing the data has been split in two: half focus on Raijin's personality, while the other deal with the implications of what they learned.

Sumida Haruzo does both. A tall and bespoke man, he furiously writes notes. Cross-referencing dialects and language uses with time periods is first on the agenda later. Sumida is also a fastidious man at heart, serving as the symbol of the long arm of the law in many interrogations, notorious for his inevitability among even more stubborn prisoners.

His pair of sharp glasses glint in the artificial light. They're pushed up. "Break off from that line of questioning," he says to the communicator. "Let Raijin remain in control." To the handful around him: "We've got enough information to cross-reference the dialect with audio samples." What's left unsaid is that others will be doing that busy work, not him.

Sumida then taps his knuckles against a table, grabbing everyone's attention. His calm demeanor hides a desire to show off what he's deduced. "Despite his older dialect, he spoke perfectly, like a native. However, the subject definitely looks and acts like a Westerner. Raijin also appeared unaware of the differences in dialect between him and the illusionist—like he was speaking or translating on autopilot. Thus, something is afoot. What is it? Well, we must find out. I'll be directing the interrogator as we continue."

Nothing but 'yes, sir' comes from the crowd. No one objects, eyes down and already focusing on the task at hand.

"You've been under a while, haven't you?" the illusionist says.

"Suppose so," Mercer says, ignoring the prod for the last date he remembered. "If the older movies have survived, surely history has."

"Oh, some of this and that."

That doesn't give him much to work with. Uncertainty colors the true value of his knowledge and thus, bargaining power. Not eating the minds of the 24th century soldiers had been a smart move at the time, to not lose himself in a barrage of memories, but the lack of intel was biting him in the ass now. Mercer thinks it's clear the illusionist won't give anything without receiving something first. "Do the words Blackwatch, Redlight, or Blacklight mean anything to anyone?" There's a grim smile on Alex's face.

There's a pause for a minute. The illusionist grows puppet-like with stiff limbs and an unnatural stillness. Their concentration must be split elsewhere; that, or Mercer's mind is beginning to adapt to the intrusion. Finally: "No, I can't say I have. Must not have been that important." There's a wry smirk on the faceless soldier's face, opposite of the words, conveying they know it's something valuable indeed.

"Of course they covered it up." Mercer confirms it. "What about the Manhattan outbreak?"

"Which one? There was the influenza outbreak fifty years ago-"

"No. The one in the twenty-first century. I'll even give you the exact year—2009."

Another pause. Another minute. The illusion is less stable now. Frayed edges and mismatched colors make the faceless soldier appear out of a corrupted video, indescribable yet intent in their gaze. Hands open up to show emptiness: "Records are sparse."

Alex raises an eyebrow; casually leans back.

"Describe your Quirk." Bluntness from his opposite.

Another deflection from Mercer: "Is that what they call it these days?"

The illusionist says after a beat, "You've been asleep for a very, very long time. Missed some important developments, no doubt. We know more about Quirks and metahumans than in the past." Mercer understands he just gave away information, again. Yet he gained something. Experiments and science are still done to people like him. The faceless soldier stops talking before Alex wishes. "But…do you know what you'll learn if you don't cooperate?" Hands emphasize nothing.

The research is tantalizing. He'd love to know how they—the punch and fire guys in particular—were so strong. And if he needed to fight more of them in the future. "We obviously had a bad first impression."

"I agree. The dead and crippled would call it something else, though. Walk me through what happened, let me understand." There's a sympathetic yet intense look on the interrogator's face.

"Your men shot first." Mercer lays down his casus belli.

"You tore a man in half first, if I understand correctly." They lean forwards with a raised eyebrow.

"Let's not go through this song and dance again. I wasn't in a stable state of mind."

There's a hum of consideration. "Temporary insanity?"

…Mercer nods. He feels more secure in his position. It seems like his captors were genuinely scrutinizing him. They want Alex to justify himself. Alex thinks they want to tell themselves that he's not a ruthless killing machine—for what purpose, he doesn't know yet. But he can guess.

Science. Money. Power.

"Are you still unstable?" the illusionist says. For a single heartbeat, they vanish.

"I had extenuating circumstances." Mercer notes that the individual begins flickering in and out of vision, like a glitched NPC in a video game, and tells his brain to halt adaptation. He wants to continue talking. He feels like he's getting somewhere—not like he could get anywhere else without words. The faceless soldier returns to the stability present in an 80's film.

"To be frank…we're all trying to find a mutually beneficial solution. One that helps us all. My name is Yamamura Sadako, and I am here to find that solution." A belated introduction, but a good indicator of the changing nature of their conversation. "You mentioned New York City. Is that where you're from?"

Mercer thinks: You could say I'm idiopathic. I'm from nowhere and everywhere. I'm Patient Zero and the last victim. Back then, it was just one of my many haunts.

Mercer considers deflecting again. Bad habit. His origin can be obscured with flowery language taken out of context. But…he is displaced centuries ahead in time. Everyone and everything he had ever known is ashes or dust. The last threat to humanity is him, and the realistically small-chance of a prodigious mad scientist. Dana and Ragland are surely dead, New York altered beyond belief. He is adrift and alone.

No purpose. An uncomfortable listlessness overtakes him. He always had a goal or crisis to face. Never before has the yawning void of uncertainty ahead look so daunting.

But even for his mid-life crisis, he isn't here to get fleeced. He has to gauge what they want, what they want to learn, and what they already know.

Mercer decides to at the very least, share his name and origin. It is a step somewhere, after all.

"Yes. Alex Mercer".

"Excuse me?"

"My name. Alex Mercer."

He gets a relieved smile in return.

Sadako says while manifesting a report: "Glad you've introduced yourself to me. Now we can get down to proper business. First and foremost—your feats. How? No Quirk factors present from the scraps of DNA we've tested. Our forensic team carbon dated the bodies found in the airlock and the equipment to the early twenty-first century, long before the rise of Quirks."

Shock. Acceptance. They could guess Mercer's age the whole time. So why had the interrogator…of course, his captors wouldn't rely on a single data point.

Mercer leans back, affects a calm mask, and fires back with a question. "Define first: what exactly is a quirk?"

"A unique, superhuman ability genetically passed down from generation to generation. As you see, I can create illusions from a distance." The faceless soldier warps into a variety of forms, colors, and even creates extra props, before reverting back. It's a demonstration for children. It's something completely beyond Alex Mercer.

Alex's thoughts race. There's no way he can even conceive to create that biologically. He almost wants to call it magic. But there must be something in common with genetics—if there wasn't, he wouldn't have been able to adapt to it earlier. Yet…"How exactly can human bodies today afford such energy draining mutations? Evolution isn't that fast."

Argued Mercer, ironically the poster boy for accelerated evolution in seconds.

Sadako shrugs. "Not a scientist. If we manage to have a mutually beneficial arrangement, you'll get access to one. I'm sure with your extraordinary individuality, that'll be no issue. However, I must ask, even if you are from the past, we need to know more about you. I have your name, but so many records have been lost to the chaos."

"Born 1979, July 16th. Childhood wasn't pleasant. Had a sister once. Became a scientist. Got entangled in a conspiracy." Mercer keeps his answers short and to the point—no point in spilling history that was of no use to anyone.

Sadako's smile fades into a chuckle. "Said enough for the biography, huh?" A rueful tone. "Going to have to give your ghost writers more than that."

There's a frustrating back and forth. The more Sadako probes, the shorter Mercer's answers become. Acting candidly…is difficult for him.

Sadako finally hits him with the obvious question: "Why does that facility exist? Are you tied to the growths and the enormous creature seen there?"

Give me more first, Mercer thinks. He'll answer fully. Then Alex wonders why he's even bothering.

Why is he stalling?

How much can telling the truth really harm his prospects? His position? What does he even want? Need?

He doesn't need to protect his country, or keep any secrets. Why would he? His America declassified old operations all the time. And this is ancient history. And it isn't like the original Alex was especially patriotic either. No statute of limitations or successor governments will surely care by this point.

It is obvious too how much his captors want him and his skills. They won't just throw him out.

Hopefully. At least, not before he can stand up to the strongest in this world.

…He's still thinking too much about fighting, about conflicts and power—it's coloring his every interaction.

He realizes what it is. The knee jerk deflection. The unwillingness to spill secrets. It's the fear handed down from the original Alex Mercer. It is the all too human fear that revealing too much might make him vulnerable.

Alex straightens up. He stiffens his back and holds his head up high.

He's almost resigned, but comforted by the knowledge at least the catastrophes in the future weren't Blackwatch caused. He made a difference, and maybe it was all worth it. Should he accept whatever happens, happens? Even if his violence is to be punished?

Where is he without Blackwatch to fight? Where is he without Ragland or Dana?

What does he want from life? To create? To destroy?

Whatever it is, it's certainly not under anyone's thumb. He'd struggle for independence. Thousands of lives showed him how those who sought to be above—who sought to rise by punching down—just kept taking. Taking, until there's nothing but a ground-down soul to throw away when convenient.

He is better than that. Stronger than that. He isn't simply human, he's far more.

"I'll be frank...the U.S government did inhumane, vile things. I've mentioned the 2009 Manhattan outbreak. Tell me, does anyone today know what happened?"

"I'll ask, but I'm going to assume records are, again, sparse," Sadako says with an interested gleam in their eyes.

"Won't be surprised."

And indeed they are none. So Mercer explains what the United States did to Hope, Idaho, and to many other places.

It goes as well as expected.

No one likes to hear what a foreign government sanctioned on their own soil.

"I pretty much saved Japan. You're welcome by the way, a lot of good people died for the sake of all of you to exist." Mercer's leaning back as far as his restraints will let him. He's nonchalant. He's fudged some details. Certain revelations are better left unspoken and unheard of, if Mercer wants to live as freely as he can. The government may put him in a petri dish forever—though forever sounds closer to centuries of imprisonment when one is, effectively, immortal.

That's another detail Alex omitted.

Sadako's face is unstable. The illusion grows erratic on its own accord. Mercer takes it to mean the illusionist behind the faceless soldier mask is pale.

"Fuck."

"Yeah."

"Give us a moment, please."

"The people upstairs aren't taking it well?"

Sadako laughs sharply. "Not at all." Then there's a conspiratorial look. "Between you and me, that's good for you."

"I'll be expecting big sales from my biography."

Sadako laughs earnestly.

There's a time of chatting and learning about the modern world, and a longer time of comfortable silence, the end of which has Mercer confident that there were some serious talks happening with lawyers and officials.

"I'm pleased to inform you of the following," Sadako says. The faceless soldier sweeps away illusionary newspaper articles into nothingness. "The government will offer you leniency and terms on a conditional basis. How would you like to save some more people, even all of humanity? With your powers…"

Alex stops him with a shake of his head. He has a different career in mind than hero-ing. "My greatest strengths aren't my abilities, they're up here." Alex crudely gestures towards his head for emphasis, turrets still following his every move. He shows off. "I've gotten my PhD and doctorates in genetics, biology, virology, and more with extensive practical lab work. I am also extensively learned in interdisciplinary fields such as astrophysics, chemistry, geology, computer science, and programming." He chuckles in false modesty. "A refresher may be needed to stay on top of advances."

One more detail omitted: how everything but genetics and biology is derived from the many scientists and unlucky passersby he had consumed during and after the outbreak.

"...How do you know so much? An intelligence modification from the virus?"

"You can say that again. I practically devoured it all." This time, Mercer's lack of modern-day knowledge, from not consuming memories in his fight, lets him utter such words unchallenged. It fits within established parameters. They know he devoured bodies but remained ignorant of the knowledge those poor people contained. His actions would have surely been different otherwise.

Sadako takes Mercer's enigmatic smile as dark humor. They laugh politely. With an eager tone, they say, "Is this how you learned Japanese?"

"Yeah. Guess I speak old-fashioned now." A wry grin.

"You must have so much old world knowledge. You could use it for the good of all people. But, we can't forget what happened. We must push forward, make amends."

Mercer almost rolls his eyes. He isn't a martyr, and he definitely isn't looking to sacrifice himself.

He lost his taste after the nuclear blast and the desperate last stand against the Amalgamation Abomination. Alex wants to live.

The interrogator continues, unknowing of Mercer's thoughts. "There will be stipulations of course. Rules to follow, a probationary period, and, obviously, updating you on laws such as Quirk usage."

"Not a Quirk."

"Regardless of if it's a Quirk or not, virtually every legal system will treat it as one for obvious reasons."

"Fair enough." It's not like Alex has a pressing need to crawl up skyscrapers or glide over cities.

"Good. Now it's time for paperwork." Sadako leans back. "And there shall be a time of trouble, such as never was since there was a nation even to that same time."

Mercer blinks. That came from the Bible. "Religious?"

"Just like doomsday books."

Predictably, it takes a while. Cover stories are made, formalized legal agreements are hashed by government lawyers sworn to secrecy, terms and conditions fly fast and furious—the process makes Mercer a citizen and much more.

"What about America?" Sadako says at one point.

"What about it?" Mercer says back. America holds nothing but ghosts for him. "Rather make a fresh start here."

And as he does so, he shoots for the moon. He asks for everything.

A fully functional lab with assistants personally vetted. A sizable grant probably worth as much as the entire facility and the salaries of everyone inside. A refusal to engage in weapon development. No government mandates on what to do or projects to research.

Mercer doesn't win every point, but he takes whatever he can get. The negotiations bring up old memories of hustling with his sister. They're bittersweet.

The one thing he gets without issue is a full secret pardon—with strings and stipulations attached.

"No one can know the truth of these events," Sadako says.

"Obviously."

"You'll have bodyguards. Non-negotiable during the probationary period. Monthly check-ins later."

Alex can't quite escape that. He'd rather have an ankle bracelet, but everyone knows his strength. Still, he isn't exactly a people's person.

"You'll also have regular audits."

His eyes twitch.

"We spoke briefly earlier about your 'dietary requirements'. Are they flexible?"

Mercer says, "I'd appreciate a government funded food stipend. And a place nearby with large livestock. I doubt I'll be injured or wounded enough for it to be needed, but it's better to be on the safe side."

Sadako nods. "Deal."

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Sumida says, "Interesting."

Some members have a more irrational response: worried looks are shared. "What kind of Quirk, or whatever bio-weapon he is, needs people to possibly eat?" Disgust is visible on the speaker's face.

Surprisingly, it is Endeavour that responds. His steady silence is broken when he says: "Quirk science and psychology is still a young, underdeveloped field. We still don't know if his 'Quirk' requirements are purely physical or psychological. Many of the criminals I've had to take in over the years were negatively affected by it."

Suitably chastened, the disgusted speaker nods. Suitably disinterested, Endeavour ignores All-Might's approving look.

A much older woman in the front acknowledges what is going through all of their minds. "Maybe human consumption is a one off thing or maybe it's a requirement. But the wealth of knowledge and utility he represents makes him an asset we cannot afford to alienate. Not until we recoup our investment.

"I will acknowledge there's a limit to how much we can cover up. If anything happens in the future with his needs—just in case, you understand—send me a file of all Tartarus inmates for review. Start with the least Lindahl-Linnaeus ratings but highest crime sheet."

"You'll get it in the morning," Sumida says before anyone else, and that's that. A hand carefully wipes clean the lenses of his glasses. His face looks more honest without them. A pile of after action reports lie on a nearby desk. "We must ask him more. This tragedy started with miscommunication and error. It cannot continue any longer. We must ask him again about the full extent of his abilities, and if possible his true origins." Then the glasses come on, hiding the flash of empathy with a shining reflection of sterile light.

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Sadako cocks their head to the side. Images of several technological developments disappear. "I think it's high time we confront the…" a discomforted pause ensues. "Unfortunate elephant in the room.

"Dr. Mercer, we find ourselves at a critical juncture. In our society and others around the world, there exist a myriad of Quirks and their effect on the mind or others. Some require therapy, others medication. But as a last resort for the most unstable and powerful, detainment.

"We have gone over eyewitness reports and the after action reports. The bottom half of the squad leader Asa was never found. And more troubling, during the ensuing conflict, reports say you 'absorbed' soldiers. Whether they were in pieces or wholly taken. We must have complete clarity."

"I'm sure by now you're aware of my regenerative abilities, correct? That energy and mass must come from somewhere, and organic tissue is the fastest and most effective option in high violence situations." Alex gives the faceless soldier something. That illusion makes it more uncomfortable to say partial-truths than it normally is. It's the topic, Alex thinks, and what he did to innocent men in all honesty. But he has complete control of his body—there's no twitch, tell, or modulation of his voice at that moment. "Rarely do I ever get injured enough to have to resort to people. Any animal tends to be sufficient. Rats, cats, dogs, the occasional pigeon or rare cow. I won't be going on a serial killing eating spree." Mercer mocks that possibility with a derisive sneering tone. "Do you understand now why I wanted a place nearby with livestock?"

"I see. A young energetic supercentenarian such as yourself needs plenty of energy." Sadako's dry wit gets a chuckle out of Mercer.

With that matter settled, they once more iron out responsibilities, expectations, benefits, housing, and a story to the public. Everyone's accounts would be straight and airtight.

"The last thing we need to go over are your twenty-four seven watchers." Sadako bites their lip. "You agreed to them. Let me tell you who they are. Endeavor and All Might—the individuals who subdued you—will alternate watch. We'll publically excuse it as anti-kidnapping measures. Think of them less as a threat and more of a probationary officer. Once we can establish a consistent, mutually beneficial relationship, you'll no longer have them. It's non negotiable, but think of them as the best equipped guides. Will this cause…problems?"

Merecer shrugs. "Fine by me." He doesn't care too much. There's no plans for wide-scale destruction or disruption. He has a new, fresh start. Maybe now he can start paying back the tab to the dead haunting him.

Sadako puts their hands out. And despite it being fake, the future feels warm and inviting. He may have been gripping an imaginary hand, but he grasped his future securely.