Nighteye's own visage stared back up at him. The Hero License bent under his fingers, creating a slight arch as he studied the way light refracted off the card. Not one week ago, he'd swiped this card through U.A.'s colosseum entrance, granting Izuku access to the test that would break him.
In many ways, this was his most precious item. It was the one item that he held onto every day that he hadn't lost, unlike his glasses. He put great care into it, keeping it in a titanium smart wallet with a dedicated panel. Keeping his card safe had been a habit of his since his school days, when he needed his school ID to enter U.A.'s gates. The single time he'd lost it had been a nightmare—entering school took almost triple the time without the card, and they'd neglected to replace it until the second semester of his first year. Of course, in the end, Sasami had revealed he'd accidentally left it in her purse the following year.
Now, however, he didn't need his school ID. Pressing the license into the card reader, U.A.'s gates swung open for him like he'd never left. It'd been quite some time since he'd stepped foot onto the core campus; hero had always been eventful, and now owning his own Agency required a ridiculous amount of diligence. His twentieth anniversary had slipped past him without his notice, and the twenty-fifth was still a couple of years out.
The campus atmosphere embraced him like an old friend as he stepped through, nostalgia thick in the air. Very few students were fluttering about; and only third years at that. Most were probably languishing around home, enjoying their break. What remained were the go-getters, the hard workers, and for them, he gave each and every one an acknowledging glance as he passed.
Several gave him surprised looks—plenty of non-U.A. heroes wandered campus in its off season, but Nighteye knew himself to be of a higher profile. Musutafu had a good set of heroes, but few stood shoulder to shoulder with himself in the public's eye.
He weathered their curious stares with the power of sharp focus. His thoughts lingered on sensation, more than logic. The way his feet cushioned against his shoe's padding captured his attention, as did the breeze tickling his ankles and the rough paper texture pressed against his fingertips. Nighteye held Nedzu's purple envelope close to his chest, torn open and analyzed like cipher code.
When Setsuna had shoved the letter into his chest, he knew. Perhaps it was racist to say he could smell the rat's scent on the envelope, but he could. The little principle had a dignified cologne preference that he'd stayed loyal too in the years since Nighteye's graduation. It wasn't the man's scent that had tipped him off, however.
It was just such a Nedzu thing to do that he couldn't imagine it being from anyone else.
Memories trudged past his inner eyelids as he speed-walked to U.A.'s office building, muscle memory guiding him through all the turns.
He'd taken this path a thousand times, yet now it all felt so different. Many of his classmates were gone—most were lost in the line of duty, but one was lost before they had a chance to be—and his height was entirely wrong. Once, he'd scoffed at the thought of being his teachers' ages, but here he was, in their shoes, teaching his own student. Nighteye had never been much of a young soul, but even he saw the folly of his youth.
Perhaps he'd been an Icarus, the day he'd graduated highschool. He'd had eyes for no one but All Might, and pushed everything—and everyone—aside to reach him. Foresight, he'd thought, would've been a perfect compliment for the perfect hero. He himself could never truly combat the world's darkness, but he could do a damn good job of helping, he'd thought.
And to Icarus's credit, he had been. Perhaps it would be too self-indulgent to call himself a mastermind, but he'd been the brain behind brawn. All Might—bless his soul—neither had the temperament nor the focus for technical work. It'd been himself and Foresight that had guided the hero. Without him, All Might would've been fighting All for One blindfolded, thwarting his plans only on his luckiest days.
Yet it had all fallen apart. Foresight… broke. Just for a split second—a single day, the one day where it had never mattered more. All Might would have slain All for One at the cost of a grievous injury, but he would've lived. He would have lived. And Nighteye, the morning he'd made that prediction, had chosen to step aside.
The victory had never been a guarantee. All Might, going into his confrontation, had put on his best smile. His grin that morning had been wider than Nighteye'd ever seen it, but it hadn't fooled him. There was a fear infused into it—a mortal one, shared by Nighteye and Gran and Chiyo. They all knew he had a fair shot in a duel, but there had always been that chance…
So when Nighteye had foreseen the man's victory, he'd stepped aside. There was a fear in his gut that any additional aid he might've given All Might would've tipped the balance of karma, and that he'd be the cause of the man's downfall. So he'd stepped aside, and put his whole trust into Foresight.
And the following afternoon, he'd learned the truth. He'd never been Icarus; no, he'd been Daedalus, and the one who flew too close to the sun was Toshinori.
When he twisted the knob open to Nedzu's personal office, he understood he'd interrupted something. Opening the door revealed Vlad King and Ectoplasm mid-handshake, Nedzu standing on his desk so as to pat them on the shoulder. Vlad's head whipped to meet Nighteye's, but Ectoplasm seemed nonplussed by his intrusion. Between them, the fuzzball principal's rounded ears perked up as he spotted Nighteye.
"Ah! The 3:00 meeting! Ectoplasm, I'm sure we're done here?" Nedzu asked, looking at the stoic phantom.
"Indeed. It's understandable, Sekijiro, and entirely excusable. Drinks?"
The Blood Hero glanced between Ectoplasm and Nighteye, wary at both of their appearances, but nodded.
"God yes. It'd be good to get one in before schedules are finalized, eh?"
"Bon voyage! Be sure to take tomorrow off! You're both expected on campus for the standard exams, and I want you both at 100%." Nedzu said, waving them off as the two hero-teachers slipped past him. Vlad didn't look him in the eyes, but Ectoplasm gave him an affirming nod on his way out.
Nighteye worked his jaw as he hovered in the threshold, watching as the two heroes made their way around the corner and out of sight. Besides himself, the hall was now empty. Nedzu had taken a seat on the edge of his desk, his little legs swinging carefree. He sighed.
Stepping into the office, he closed the door behind him—making sure to emphasize the clicking lock to the principal.
"Why—" Nighteye began, before Nedzu leapt to his feet and raised a paw.
"Wait a moment longer, Mirai. Thin walls."
It took a considerable amount of self control to not bite out a retort. There was not a single place on the whole of campus more secure than this room. He could only watch with sealed lips as Nedzu hopped into his chair. A small huff of laughter escaped him as he landed.
Nedzu was mocking him.
The small principal fiddled with a few things on his desk for a second—papers, bobbles, pens, whatnots and knicknacks—before clearing his throat.
"We should be good. Welcome back to school, Mirai. Care to take any remedial classes?" Nedzu asked, his voice honey and milk. Already, Nighteye could feel the migraine forming.
"You sabotaged my student."
"Ah!" Nedzu said, sitting up straighter in his seat. "Then here is your first lesson, Plato! Let me ask you this: who impacted Aristotle more, yourself or Socrates?"
Nighteye could almost feel the vein throb in his forehead. Games, after all this time?
"This anecdote is senseless. You—"
"Incorrect! As the teacher of Plato, would Socrates not have impacted Aristotle the most? So, in a sense, I am more his teacher than you. Not to mention you are one of many Platos, while I am the only Socrates. Yourself? Mine. Endeavor? Mine. Gran Torino? Mine. Sasami Fujimaki? Mine—for a time, at least. A—"
Nighteye's fist cracked against the principal's mahogany desk, the rat's purple envelope crumpled in his fist. Nedzu fell quiet, but it wasn't in shock or surprise. No, his silence was a performance, as if he took stage directions from a script only he could see.
"Why!? Nedzu, I thank you for all your work, but speak plain! How do you know these things! Why did you send out Shouta Aizawa to crush Izuku?" Nighteye said, his breath heavy with his shoulders. A flush burned his cheeks, but he never tore his eyes away from the man-rat. It unnerved him the way he could make out his own face in the black sheen of the principal's eyes.
Without making so much as a squeak, the mammal reached under his desk and heaved a cardboard box onto its surface.
"See for yourself. His sits surprisingly close to the front—for being in the middle of the alphabet, there were quite a few more candidates cataloged after him than before."
Nighteye glanced between the mammal and the box, his instincts cautious, but he pulled it towards him.
"Take a seat, if you will—"
Nighteye tore the top off, revealing what appeared to be the innards of a filing cabinet. He plucked a single file from the back half and flipped it open, all the while glancing between the beige paper and white fur.
Yoru Sashimi. Failure. Zero Asset.
Nighteye picked out another.
Inasa Yoarashi. Success. Asset: Muscle.
Another.
Neito Monoma. Success. Asset: Flexibility.
Another.
Momo Yaoyorozu. Success. Asset: Versatility.
Another—and this one rang with the familiarity of Izuku's own admissions.
Katsuki Bakugo. Success. Asset: Instincts.
"These are…" Nighteye whispered, his eyes bouncing all across the paper. Each file had several pages to it, but something stood out.
"...The results of the 1Z exam." Nedzu finished, a smile in his voice.
"But… they're dated from a month ago? The test was a few days ago. This doesn't make any sense."
"Come on, Plato. Use that human brain of yours."
Nighteye blinked.
He jerked forward, tossing aside Katsuki Bakugo's file as he tore through the M section. Finding Izuku's, he ripped the file free in a frenzy, his eyes drinking in the front page.
Izuku Midoriya. Success. Asset: One for All.
The file slipped between his fingers, exploding into a paper mess on the ground. He fell into a chair, his brow pinched between his fingers. Neither bothered to pick up the files.
"They were… predictions, you see," Nedzu offered, standing up in his office chair. "It wasn't rigged, but there was an… expectation of who was going to be allowed in. Such comes with the risk of 1Z's nature."
The rat hopped down onto the bare ground and continued his monologue out of sight. There was a faint rustling of clothing.
"I couldn't exactly elaborate on the nature of 1Z to the public—the commission's office was hard enough. Imagine a hundred million citizens criticizing you for a move that's been overdue for years. So, of course, I had all participants researched. Studied. Calculated. And that's the file. Who could I honestly allow to roam the streets but the best? Of course, the Legacy Heroes are guaranteed, but there aren't enough of them in the correct age-range to fill a couch, let alone a classroom."
When Nedzu stepped out from the desk's edge, he wore a blazer. Now, he had a three-piece suit on, rather than just the vest and dress shirt. He hopped up into the adjacent guest chair to Nighteye, rather than his own.
"Inasa was a guarantee. Shoto was perfect. Ms. Yaoyorozu might as well be. Katsuki Bakugo's a diamond in the rough—and don't get me started on young Ms. Tokage. Simply exquisite work, with that one. Even if Sekijiro had been trying his hardest, it would've been close. In my mind, they'd already passed, and the test had just been a formality. And that brings me to the golden boy. Little Midoriya. The Ninth."
Nighteye almost threw up.
"...How?"
"Plato… Plato, Plato, Plato… You know I jest about the remedial classes, of course, but perhaps you'd truly benefit. All Might was my student. Chiyo is a confidant. And I have a brain, of course. Something you humans always seem to forget. And—as much as those scientists at the commission tried to rectify this—both eyes. Once I deciphered the history of One for All, it wouldn't have taken a genius to realize it was little Midoriya who carried Toshinori's torch."
"I… don't understand. If you knew what he was, who he was, then why? Why would you single him out and crush him? And why is he marked as a success anyways?"
"Because little Midoriya is the wildcard. Every other student we've accepted into 1Z joined on the premise of their merit—on a guarantee of consistency. And as much as that wildcard excites me, it's exactly that. A wildcard. Let's face the facts, Nighteye," Nedzu said, turning his beady eyes upwards. "He's an amputee with inconceivable latent ability. And as much as I have faith in your ability to teach, I can't risk someone like that in the field without at least running them through my own gauntlet. You want me to speak plainly? Then open your ears. The Ninth shall be the champion of tomorrow, and 1Z shall be their entourage. But that is for tomorrow, as today is as fickle as any I've ever lived. Little Midoriya is powerful, yes, but from what my research has shown me, he's not nearly as powerful as he should be. There are deficiencies beyond the arm that must, at the very least, be noted and calculated before allowing him to aid his peers in the real world. A single flux of his could spell death, after all."
"..."
Nighteye pulled off his glasses, not saying anything as he cleaned them with the hem of his suit. The principal's words… they sat heavy upon his shoulders. Nothing the rat said was technically incorrect; nor was it arguable. While it was disconcerting to know that the rat had discovered their secret with such little apparent ease, there was also a comfort in having such a powerful person "supporting" them. If he even was.
Placing his glasses back on his face, he turned to Nedzu. That was beyond the issue. This man—this rat, had circumvented Nighteye's own plans at the expense of his student; regardless of the decision's merit or not.
"You're as hard to grasp as ever, principal. Your intelligence is staggering, and at times I find myself forgetting what I am talking to. As much as you shy away from human labels, you, at times, could pass as a man. Yet now I am reminded of your few faults; such as your empathy. Perhaps it slipped your mind, but what you've done goes beyond placing Izuku in the most optimal class. No, what you've done is drive a dagger straight into his ego."
Nedzu flinched, the far-away look in his eyes rushing to the front. He pulled his snout away from the ceiling, a questioning look on his inhuman face. Nighteye sighed, standing to his feet.
"He's a teenager, sir. I thought you might've come to understand them better in the decades since you taught me, but I suppose some things never change. Izuku's been through far, far more than a normal teen—and while that might indicate to you an increased resistance to such mild trifles, that is not the reality. Children like him are just as, if not more sensitive to negative stimuli. I've known him since he lost his arm, and even now I couldn't tell you how he'll bounce back from this—or even if he will. You may see a young hero whose muscles are ready to be molded into perfection, but you forget the insides are just as malleable by negligence as the outside is by diligence."
Perhaps there was a realization in his eyes, perhaps it was just a glint of light.
"...I see. So this is your angle."
Nighteye scoffed, bending down to pick up the front page of Izuku's file.
"Would I be here for anything else? I have no power to contest what you do when running your school, but I will always object to the mistreatment of my student—and any others. I will be telling him of your involvement, and I expect us three to have a long conversation before the end of this."
Nedzu's little rat eyebrows scrunched together as he nodded.
"Of course. I'll have his file digitized and transferred to you by tonight. Feel free to read it more in-depth with him. Perhaps it may aid him in the standard exam this weekend."
Nighteye couldn't hold back the bitter chortle that came surging from his chest.
"Oh, thank you. But I doubt anything you could do to "help" him could change what he's going to do to your robots."
With that said, he turned around and twisted the doorknob, pulling it slightly ajar before Nedzu cleared his throat.
"Of that, I have no doubt. Deliver my well-wishes please—oh, and tell him good luck. I'll be pleased to see him in my office."
When Nighteye stepped out into the hall, he found himself face-to-face with Shouta Aizawa. He ppeared more caterpillar than man at this moment, with a sleeping bag hugging his frame like a dreaming lover. The coffee scent wafted through the space between them, thickest close to its source.
Neither man said anything; but there was a moment between them that he couldn't deny. Solid eye contact kept them chained together for several seconds until, at last, Nighteye moved.
Aizawa met his hand in the middle, and their shake was firm.
"Do what you must, but be prepared for your expectations to be shattered." Nighteye said.
"The kid broke my jaw, Nighteye. I already know what kind of monster you've been cooking up; it's just a shame that he's been swept up into Nedzu's little game."
From within the still-open door to the principal's office, the rat's voice came echoing out.
"I can still hear you!"
[x]
…Eight months ago.
Sleep was hard to come by, Tenko had learned. Like all valuable things in his life, it was rare, and the universe wanted to keep it that way. Even as the old bag upstairs had died and he'd taken over the gas station, life was still hard. Responsibility drained his strength, yet it also held sleep over him like a carrot on a stick. "Do this," his conscience might ask, and he'd be able to sleep. "Do that," his conscience might order, and he'd have time for a nap.
For the first time in his life, he'd made something for himself. The money was shit, sure, but he had a roof over his head, food, and a reason to wake up in the morning.
It was good enough for him. He didn't quite have time to game anymore, and many similar luxuries escaped him, but it was fine. Tenko kept busy with his stock, his profits, and keeping his store clean. Sure, he was no prince anymore, but he was independent. A fair trade.
More than anything, he was proud to say he hadn't killed anyone in years. Though that deep pit in his gut remained, it was docile and hibernating—which gave him hope. If it had shrunk this much in this little time, perhaps, one day, he'd be free of it all.
No Kurogiris to nag him, no Doctor to belittle him, and little to no eczema. Just him, his store, and his independence. It was… great.
Except the sleep.
It was half past two in the morning, and he'd memorized the popcorn pattern on his ceiling. The back of his head was a swamp where it met his pillow, wet and hot. The heat was insufferable, but he didn't move; he'd committed himself to falling asleep now, or he'd kill himself. More often than not, that self-promise worked, but not tonight.
He groaned, wishing he could shoot himself.
Sitting up, he slipped off his bed and stretched. He might've been sleeping in a deceased old man's room, but he'd made it his own. Posters covered the floral wallpaper of every variety; games, movies, even animes that he hadn't seen. Much of the furniture was traditional; low, built to kneel at, but Tenko was tall and couldn't be fucked. He walked around the room, his fingers trailing against a nightstand, a dresser, and a waist-height table. Tenko might not have acquired them legally, but he hadn't killed for them, and that counted for something in his book.
He did odd jobs around the room; straightening a poster, opening the window, dusting the dresser, re-making his bed. His hope was the sheer boredom would put him to sleep—and low and behold, it somewhat worked. A yawn—a god-damned yawn—escaped his chapped lips. Tenko didn't dash back to his bed, for fear of jerking himself back awake, but it was a near thing.
Slipping under the covers, he almost cried—his pillow was cool, and felt great against his face. He snuggled into his pillow, content. It was like his responsibilities washed off him, his bones feeling lighter as he felt his mind turned dull.
It'd been an odd turn, to find himself unable to sleep. Even when he was still homeless, he could pass out on command. He'd been fine when the old bat was still alive, too. Sleep had never been an enemy of his, until…
Until Endeavor came into his store, and a man died. Yet… yet it hadn't been the murder. Of course, he wasn't quite happy about the events, but he hadn't been himself in the moment. It hadn't been his hand that gripped the man's neck, turning it to ash. It hadn't been him who turned on Boss, killing him with ease. It'd been the other guy—and Tenko took no responsibility for that.
It'd been around then that something in the air had shifted, like oxygen had begun to taste a little heavier. Like his hair hung a little flatter, his lids a little lower. Like breathing was a chore, and blinking was a commitment.
Not long after that bridge exploded across the town, Tenko's insomnia reared its inexplicable head, and the rest was history.
Tenko resisted the urge to roll over, silencing his thoughts. The thing about knowing you have insomnia was that you couldn't sleep until you forgot. He twisted, laying his cheek on his pillow so that he might see the ornaments on his wall. Many of them were classical Kaiju posters; Godzilla held a prominent spot in his heart and wall. Gidorah stood proudly beside him, Rodan and Radon occupying the opposite space.
Between Rodan and Radon, however, something caught a sliver of moonlight, reflecting off his wall and into his eyes. Squinting, he shifted, trying to get a better look, and—oh.
A crow sigil, befit with a small sword stabbed through its beak. It hung off the wall with scotch tape, half-destroyed. Tiny, jagged holes ripped through it; some like tears, others like punctures.
At the peak of his boredom, he liked to throw his knife at the little emblem. Those tears came from before he mastered the use of his off hand; who would've guessed missing a pinky could throw off your aim so much. Nowadays, the crow was barely recognizable—too many bullseyes had turned it to a mush of string.
He made to reach out to it; just to ghost it, to feel the fabric under his fingers. Before he could move his arm halfway there, however, his palm fell to the bed. Like the strings cut on a puppet, he tried to retract his arm, but nothing—and when he tried to sit up, he found his spine being just as rebellious.
Nothing listened to him; his muscles were as dead to the world as stone. Even his eyes felt like lead, heavy and useless. His gaze focused on the crow's sigil as his eyelids lowered, his muscles no longer having the strength to hold them open.
There was a gap in his chest where his panic should've been. His blood didn't throb, his heart didn't race, his adrenaline didn't rise. No mortal fear gripped him, even as he felt himself dying.
The only thing he could feel was an odd sense of Deja Vu, but he couldn't place it…
Unable to breathe, move, or even feel, he felt his eyes close all the way, his heart slowing to a stop. Darkness squirmed in his peripherals, growing bolder in his vision. It crept over everything until all he could see was black, and then he was dead.
…
With a start, he burst from under the covers, looking around with wild urgency. Supercharged with sudden energy, he raced around the room, looking for some quirked intruder. Was there a burglar with a paralyzing quirk? A murderer with a sleep-inducing scent? He flexed his good hand, holding out in front of him like a knight brandishing a sword.
His gut flipped, the Shi-but-not-mura stirring.
He slammed on the breaks, trying to calm himself. Licking a finger, he raised it in the air—no breeze. His eyes dragged over to the open window, and his ears rang in discomfort. No city noises. The hum of electricity, the low rumble of cars, even the occasional gunshot had gone silent.
When he bent his head out the window, he froze.
The rough city-scape he'd grown used to vanished. Void stretched from his windowsill into the bare infinity, Japan a forgotten memory. No street lights, no fluorescent signs, no distant windows shined from the rooms of skyscrapers across town. Not even a single star twinkled—polluted as the night sky was. There was no key-shaped, discernible split between the sky and the earth; no horizon, no life.
He waved a hand in front of his face—and now that he thought about it, he was rather sluggish, wasn't he? Like he was walking around in an aquarium of molasses. And, now that he was looking at his hand—since when had his pinkie regrown? A touch to his lips also felt wrong; his skin was smooth and buttery instead of chapped and scarred.
"What… what is this?" He whispered, his hoarse vocal chords playing like a masterfully crafted woodwind. Soft, unscarred hands wrapped around his neck in surprise, hearing his silk voice. "Am I dead? Is this the… afterlife?"
It was the only explanation. He'd had a stroke and died, and his hell was this room, his body fresh and ripe for defilement.
A chuckle startled him out of his reverie, deep and baritone and oh-so-god-damn-familiar.
"Don't worry, my son. 'Tis just a dream."
He turned, slow as the sun in the sky. Standing at the threshold of his room was a large man, his face obscured in a dark mist. His feet pointed outwards from the heel, his arms relaxed by his flank. A nice italian suit gripped his impressive frame like a second skin, hiding none of the strength in his shoulders.
Tenko's mouth dried into a desert, all moisture gone. His lips formed shapes, but not words—for what words could he say, seeing this man?
A million men might've called him the boogeyman, someone from their nightmares come to life. Others might not have such a poetic touch—they might call him a tyrant, a dictator, or just plain evil. As for Tenko, he had the misfortune to call this man his Master.
He swallowed sand, the nothingness of his saliva grinding against his throat like shards of glass.
"No. This must be the afterlife—you're dead. He's dead."
Another chuckle, though this one ground against his spirit like a cheese grater.
"So you say, yet you haven't visited in so long. How are you to know my business?" All for One said, the dark fog tilting alongside his face. He moved, after that, yet he did not walk. The room itself shifted, twisting and warping so that he had a place to sit—a pinch of his wall, pulled out like an unnatural futon. Tenko suffered the warping of the room with gritted teeth.
"There's no business to know. You fucked off and died, stealing everything I lived for in the process. I hope whatever illusionist is conjuring your sick apparition goes and fucks himself."
It felt good to talk back to the bastard. Tenko had spent too long licking his boots as the other guy. All for One only leaned back, the wall leaning with him. He thread his fingers together as his right leg crossed his left. Other than the shifts in his posture, he was stone—his chest didn't expand with breath, his foot didn't bounce in impatience, his clothes didn't crinkle with his whims. It was like watching a robot only move in a pre-programmed manner, never once breaking code.
"You could've just taken my empire and ran with it. I taught you well enough to run it—and Kurogiri has a good head on his shoulders. He could've guided you where I could not've; yet you leave your inheritance to the little bird. Even my prized pet sits in his cage, obedient in his grief."
"...Machia?" Tenko whispered, feeling a stone drop in his stomach. The mist shifted—a nod. Tenko scratched the perfect skin of his cheek. "...I don't think so. This illusion is crap if it thinks that fucking monster is following anyone elses' order than Master's. Especially mine. Get the fuck out of my head already—and my house, while you're at it."
All for One hummed, his stoic fingers breaking their vow as they began to fidget. One hand's fingers bounced against his opposite knuckles in a rhythm, the soft rustling of skin tickling Tenko's ears.
"I'm sure I taught you better manners than this, Tomura. In any case—"
"Do not call me that!"
"—It's a shame. My pet will only bow their head to the strongest, most ruthless spirit. The little bird may be ruthless, and he may be strong, but he'll never have what makes you special, my sweet little prince. Come back, my son, and take your place by my side. Leave this tiny hovel behind. Castles await us."
Had it not been a dream, Tenko's teeth would've cracked from how tight his jaw clenched. Despite having the perfect body in this dream, the most instinctual part of his eczema still shined. His chest, his hands, his neck and his face flushed, and with that came a bone-deep itch that would make a normal man cry.
His hands shook—his fingertips shifted between flaring and curling. On many levels, all he wanted was to attack this apparition of his Master and decay it, but that wasn't born out of the rage. No, the rage was festering from another layer, one far deeper than his skin-deep instincts.
His gut was a cauldron of boiling oil, and within it nestled the infantile memory of hate itself—Tomura Shigaraki. The rage was born on the wafted air of the pot, rising into his heart as hot air does. Deep in his core, his rage came from a simple truth.
The offer was appealing.
Even admitting it put his body at war, his ribs and organs grinding against each other in anger. This man, his Master, All for One, had ruined him. He'd taken him from the streets, poured vengeful fantasies straight into his skull, and then killed his life-long goal on a whim. He'd raised him like a son, and gored Tomura's dreams right at the precipice of his sixteenth birthday.
It'd been the ultimate betrayal; and now this illusionist was using it to push his buttons and string him along. He couldn't help how that dark pit in his stomach hummed in delight, fantasies flowing forth. Gigantomachia at his beck and call, of continental teleportation, of living to kill.
It took a long, steady breath to bring Tomura to heel. The hate in his gut still ran rampant, but Tenko took the time to compartmentalize it, to lock it away and forget the key.
"I've got no more skin in the game, you psycho. All Might's dead—and with him, my fucks to give. Anyone who knows shit about Master should know all that, so why the fuck are you still here?"
The apparition of his master was a statue, staring through him with all the personality of a security camera. A second passed in silence, and then two and five before the illusion moved.
All for One's ghost stood up, slowly clapping. Tenko balled his fists, forcing himself not to move, even as he sent a death glare towards the man.
"Beautiful. Remarkable, even. I thought civilian life would've softened you, but you're still my little Shiggy deep down, aren't you? Spite drips off you like a waterfall."
Tenko closed his eyes—if he kept looking at this bastard, he might explode.
"Why. Are. You. Here?" He ground out.
"Well, Tenko Shimura, I have two reasons. Which would you like first; the good or the bad?"
He was trembling. Honest to god trembling; like a shaken soda can, or a model volcano right before vinegar is met with baking soda.
"The good?" He whispered.
"Ah, well that one's easy. I just wanted to check on you."
Breathe in… breathe out.
"And?"
"Less easy. The little bird has been cutting off loose ends, and he hasn't forgotten the murder of his grunt. I suggest you wake up soon and defend yourself—because they're coming."
Tenko's eyes shot open—and he stumbled backwards, his shoulders hitting the wall. All for One's ghost was standing millimeters from him, even as his voice had sounded as far away as the kitchen.
"W-what?" He asked, his mind scrambled in surprise. All for One just sighed.
"Oops. Took too long. Brace for impact, my son. I'll see you on the otherside."
And with that, his room shattered into a thousand glass shards, and his world became one of fire and agony.
[x]
Jin took a swig of his water, loving the way the ice-cold liquid cured his dried out throat. He was quick to replace his bottle at his hip, however—they couldn't afford to waste too much time, after all. Soon, he was back to shuffling through the rubble, doing his best to ignore the still-burning embers.
"Man," his crewmate said beside him, panting through the heat. "Why would those Crow bastards blow up a random store? Weren't they targeting hospitals like, a month ago?"
Jin paused, kicking over a half-burned cash register. Beneath it, he found the blackened remains of a cigarette box; half open, half empty. Picking up the box, he snatched an untouched cig and held it over a still-licking flame.
"The Crows are vengeful," Jin said, taking a drag. "Best not to question. 'Destro chose us for our efficiency, eh? Let's not disappoint."
Off in the distance, the sound of sirens grew louder, reminding them of their limited time. While their assignment was technically legal, once official paramedics and heroes showed up, they became legal obstructions, fit to be detained if necessary. Flicking the cig back into the rubble, Jin bent back over to clear away more rubble.
It was sweltering, hard work, but it was theirs, and he was proud of it. Sure, they were just odd-jobs, but they came from Re-Destro himself—it was like being the hand-chosen guard of the emperor. Even if your only job was washing his hand towels, you treated it like a priest baptizing a baby.
"Boss?" Another voice called across the wreckage, "I think you need to see this!"
Jin thought back to his briefing with Re-Destro, and his cryptic, sage-like command. He'd looked unwell, at the time. Deep, purple eyebags hung off him, but even still, there was an undeniable brightness around him.
"Tomorrow, Bubaigawara, the Crow is going to hit a small gas station. I want you to go there and grab him." Rikiya had asked, and Jin Bubaigawa had nodded. He didn't care that the statement, for all intents and purposes, didn't make a damn lick of sense. It didn't matter how odd the request was, nor how random, nor how dangerous. If the man who'd given him a home gave the order, he'd lay down his life anyday. Today, however, did not seem to be that day.
"May I ask who they are, sir?" Jin had asked.
Rikiya-Re-Destro shook his head.
"You'll know when you find them." He had said.
Jin walked over to his partner; a crustacean mutant, fit with a glorious set of claws on his shoulders. The rest of the man's spindly limbs were pointing frantically at a heavy slab of collapsed stone. In each claw lay a single rock, torn from the slab to lighten the load.
Jin gave the man one serious glance before closing his eyes. Using his power had always been a taboo, in one form or another. His folks had all but banned it—and the government was even more harsh than them. It was another point in Re-Destro's favor; at least the Meta Society would never turn their back on his power, not while their leader lived.
In the end, he didn't even squirm; he may be using his quirk in public, but Re-Destro had given him all the permission he needed.
The crustacean Doubled, then tripled. Jin was careful to keep an eye on which was which—he didn't want to have a mix-up with the fake, after all. He stepped back, watching the mutants combine their strength to lift the concrete slab. What it revealed, however, wasn't pretty.
Beneath that slab was a boy—perhaps a man—though he was more so a pile of crushed bones and muscle. A dark burn marred one of his cheeks, giving him an almost deceased appearance; hell, the guy looked like he would rather be dead. Still, life rose and fell in his chest, and blood still trickled out of his wounds. To top it off, his hand gripped a little fabric strip stained in blood. Dead men didn't have much to hold on to.
Jin didn't recognize him, but seeing the boy sent a shiver down his spine, like he should've. It didn't take him very long to realize that everyone was staring at him, awaiting orders. The faraway sirens had grown piercing in his ears, and he had a decision to make. Leave the boy, or take him and pray he was the target.
It was an easy choice—the kid would die without help, and Jin had a soft spot for the young.
"Grab the kid, and let's bounce! We'll treat him at home base!"
[x]
AN: The past few chapters have been exhausting. Simply exhausting. I'm hoping for some inspiration to strike me soon; I'm in desperate need of it. I'm currently trying to begin the next chapter in Izuku's story, and wow, it is not coming to me easily. For whatever reason, there's just a difficulty there. Once I can get past this chapter, it won't be difficult to get the next three or so out, but then it'll be back to the hard stuff.
So this is the end of the 1Z exam arc. Could've gone better for all involved, I think, but it'll be worth it in the end.
Pray for me, and I'll see you next week.
Review!
P.S.: Happy holidays.