A deep breath. A dribble of heat. A drowned-out splash of crimson. Shouta's knuckle bled freely, but he didn't take the time to marvel at the sensation. He'd bled before.

There was a low buzz somewhere, but he couldn't source it. His eyes screamed at him, withered and dry—but he held them open regardless. Darkness was beginning to creep into his peripherals, and his central vision was long since warped. He tried to take a step forward, but a heavy bicep snagged his ankle. With a small, precise kick, the arm went slack.

Click. A deep breath. The woman placed her thumb on the revolver's hammer and pulled it down. Shouta could see the bullet inside the barrel, but only once every few heartbeats. Her aim shook with her shoulders. He'd barely brushed her other arm, but it was crooked. Perhaps that was enough to make a normal person shake.

Or, maybe it was the field of bodies all around them. She shouldn't be afraid, he thought, stepping over a slowly-moving torso. They were only sleeping.

There was nothing special about this woman. In fact, amongst the eight-odd women amongst this group of ruffians, she was identical to two others. No mutations morphed her appearance, no scars degraded her, no tattoos distinguished her. In fact, when his eyes settled on her, they struggled to stay. Erasure suppressed nothing on this boring woman. The only interest he had in her was for the pistol in her hand.

"Surrender?" He asked, for the forty-third time. Even though they ignored him, he continued to ask the question for each person he encountered—even when they came at him swinging. Of the thirty nine goons he'd subdued, he'd offered a surrender forty times.

He stepped over a woman sprawled on her back. Drool slowly pooled out of her bruised mouth. If he took the time to check, he'd see a total lack of front teeth. Shouta asked that one to surrender twice.

Shouta asked Overhaul to surrender twice, but it seemed to fall on deaf ears. That made forty two. And now, the last of them made forty three.

So, he stopped, a good two arm-lengths away from the pistol, having beat thirty-nine of her peers. She wasn't the first to try a firearm. It didn't quite make sense that she seemed so confident. Then again, her buddies didn't seem so rational under his boots and fists.

Her shaking hand twitched. The bullet shone bronze within. He couldn't see her trigger-finger with any real clarity, but after doing this for so long, Shouta didn't need to. This quirkless woman didn't scare him. His eyelids lowered.

"W-what are you doing?" She asked. He said nothing, and continued to listen to the dull clicks her pistol made when her hands shook. The trigger was loose—as was the chamber. Only one of those facts was important, however. Her shaking only escalated. "Answer me! W-w-w-what a-are you d-doing?"

"Waiting for your surrender." He said. The shaking stopped.

"Fuck you!"

His instincts told him to dodge. His discipline told him to kick.

The iron tip of his boot slammed into the revolver's barrel just before the shot went off. He opened his eyes to see the pistol fly into the air, out of her hands. The woman, likewise, watched its trajectory, but lacked his patience. She tried to catch the pistol before he could—but she was short. Shouta was rather tall.

He could reach up higher than she could—hell, she even jumped, but her hands only came up to his mid-forearm. The moment the handle met his palm, he took advantage of her proximity. Shouta's knee knocked the wind out of her, and a follow-up elbow put her down. A second later, he popped open the chamber and let the bullets drop. Another second afterwards, and the gun was partially disassembled.

He pocketed the chamber. In his opposite pocket, he had another gun's safety, and a third's hammer. What he couldn't pocket was thrown as far as he could—just like all the other firearms. If any thug woke up and wanted to take the coward's way, they'd have to solve a puzzle without the pieces.

Dull clapping broke through the buzz in his ears. His eyes, refreshed at last, turned to the source. They crossed over the landscape, birthing a litany of mixed feelings in his chest. A building crushed Katsukame, the monster-man who seemed to absorb Thirteen's powers. Hard to say if that one was alive.

In the distance, towards the exit, his kids might be dead. Whatever happened in the Ruins Zone, Darkshadow did inconclusive, but devastating damage. He took no time to grieve, however—he could only hope Midoriya did his best. Shouta knew the weight of responsibility—and it brought him no pleasure to put it on the boy's shoulders. Midoriya was the most experienced, however. If anyone could get them through this nightmare, it was him.

His eyes settled on the cloaked man, Overhaul, just as his palms ceased to meet. Overhaul walked towards him, breaking the line of his officers. He stepped over body after body, never once acknowledging their fall.

Shouta adjusted his posture. One of his legs felt like lead, and his knuckles bled freely—but neither condition made him weak. His shoulders set square, and his weight distributed down the middle. Erasure smothered Overhaul's power, alongside his officers behind him—but Shouta couldn't relax. With this man's aura, he doubted his top officials were too reliant on their quirks. Especially, he noted, because they came here with countermeasures to his quirk. Knowledge was a stronger power than quirks—and these people had an unknown amount.

"It's a spectacle to watch you work, my friend." Overhaul said. Shouta blinked. When calm, his voice sounded rather young—like one of his rare graduates. He couldn't have been older than his mid twenties.

"I'm not your friend."

"Not yet you aren't, no, but I like you. Such is friendship."

"Such is delusion."

"Bah!" Overhaul said, waving a hand under his mask. "As if you haven't deluded yourself into serving this society. Seeing you, a promised one, building upon the enemy's strength… It is the height of folly."

Shouta slid his non-leaded leg backwards by half a foot-length. He settled more weight there as he glanced past Overhaul. Amongst his officers, three were out of the picture. The masked-man who attacked him on-sight was among the gangster's bodies. Katsukame was beneath the building's rubble. Mimic was long-gone, melted into the floor.

That was his only concern, villain-wise. It was impossible to say how his kids would fare against Overhaul's bio-weapons, but it was doubtless Mimic joining the fray wasn't helpful. Then again, that wasn't the most concerning event going on behind his back.

Or, at least, it wouldn't have been, if his left peripheral didn't almost go blind. His shadow, a small blue thing, turned nearly black as a star appeared on the horizon. Shouta didn't lose his sightline of the Crow's leader, but he did turn—enough to see a brilliant light beam pierce and dissipate the rampaging Darkshadow. It was a little too big to be Aoyama's. With a small nudge, a thread of his capture-tape blocked out the blinding source.

Overhaul simply raised a palm to block his eyes.

Shouta didn't allow himself to hope. He did, however, send a small thank-you in the star's direction. Whoever that was, he'd be sure to let them off easy for a long while. A small warmth wormed its way into his chest, seeing the sight.

With Darkshadow gone, the biggest threat to his kids was within kicking distance, and they were nearly home-free. His attention returned to Overhaul. Beside him, a body moaned.

He was torn. Of course, seeing these men and their goons, he could build upon Nedzu's Crow portfolio. It was clear now, to Shouta, that the Yakuza merging theory was true. Each gangster moaned with a personal hitch—and screamed at him with an individual twang. Their dialects were all different—and he knew how gangs worked. They looked the same, they acted the same, they talked the same. These guys—they were a melting pot. Probably taken in from different parts of Japan.

On the other hand, while his kids' only threat was within his kicking distance—Shouta was in Overhaul's. He couldn't waste brain power on deduction. His eyes jumped down to Overhaul's hands—gloved, with each finger curled outwards like a claw. Contact-activated quirk. Probably devastating, if all these buff men behind him stayed loyal.

His only saving grace was Anan, whose substantial footsteps met his ears like a cavalry's drum. He spared her a glance. A crack wormed through her helmet, revealing a sliver of her pale cheek. Blood seeped through her suit's shoulder—but her gloves remained intact, and she was on her feet. It was more than he could've hoped for.

"Folly? That's a joke, right? You are the fools who decided to assault U.A. on their own grounds." Thirteen said beside him. Her voice still came out warped, but the effect of her helmet was lessened by the crack. Overhaul didn't even glance at her.

"Don't speak to me, pest. Promised ones are talking."

His capture tape drifted a little too far to the left. Twitching his head to the right, he brought it back within active-reach.

"Promised ones?" Shouta asked. If he kept the guy talking long enough, the kids could get out—and call for backup. Hell, with Darkshadow throwing such a tantrum, that might not have even been necessary. Now, it was just a stalling game.

Overhaul looked at him like he was stupid.

"Yes? Haven't you noticed your gift? The Anti-Quirk? There are more of us, but ours are the greatest."

Thirteen's helmet caught a new light as it tilted towards him.

"I'm not following," she said. "You catch any of that?"

He didn't shake his head or nod. Overhaul seemed charmed by him, for some odd reason—he didn't want to ruin it. Shouta could use this.

"And your gift?" Shouta asked, eyeing the man's palms. Overhaul's eyebrows, darkened under his cloak's hood, jumped up.

"My gift?" He asked, glancing at his hands as well. Bingo. "I had no intention of getting my hands dirty today, but if you of all people want a demonstration…"

He looked at Shouta with a steady, expectant gaze. For a moment, Shouta didn't understand—and then Overhaul snapped the rim of his glove.

"Are you a moron?" Shouta asked. "Or did you just take me for one? So long as I'm standing, whatever power you're holding will never see the light again."

"Hey! Don't fuckin' disrespect the boss like that!" A large officer, Yu, said. Yu stepped forward, pulling a cuff to his elbow. He didn't get far, however—a robed man stepped between him and Shouta.

"Pace yourself, Yu." He said. Yu didn't listen. Instead, he pushed the man aside and took another step forward, rolling up his sleeves. The man only managed a single more step before freezing. Overhaul began looking his way.

Yu returned to his place in line.

Shouta took his chance to assess Overhaul more freely. The more he scrutinized, however, the more he began to come up empty. His posture was solid, his gait confident, and his weak points guarded by the unknown. There were little bumps along his cloak's spine that could've been monstrous bundles of muscle or iron-clad armor plates—either or, Shouta didn't appreciate it.

"A shame, really," Overhaul said, looking back at Shouta. "It could've been fun. Showing you my gift isn't a prerequisite for our proceedings though, correct?"

"The intrinsic opposite." Shouta said.

"Works for me. So!" Overhaul said, clapping once. "I want you. Together, we could fix the world. Join me?"

Shouta opened his jaw. Not quite to laugh or retort. He simply intended to say something, but that was before the words translated in his brain. Was he…?

The Crow's leader, this young, stone-faced man, stared straight into Shouta's eyes. There was no irony caged within. His request was an honest one.

"...Fix the world? The only thing wrong in the world is you. You… attacked my kids and expected my cooperation? Forget what I asked earlier. I'm positive you're mentally deficient."

Overhaul shifted his weight to his left foot, then his right. A vein bulged in his forehead. Otherwise, he was the epitome of serenity. When he spoke, there was a newfound edge—but his youth still shone through.

"Perhaps you're uninformed. Your cause is doomed. You've collected dozens of individuals with record-breaking infections. Your eyes can alleviate the symptom, but can't give them the cure. My gift is that cure—but it is incomplete. A lock without the whole key. Join me—work with me, and with my other gifted… friend… and we can cure society of its disease."

Shouta's eyes began to swim again—but hearing this man's words kept his discipline sharp. They burned in his ears, searing trenches through his eardrums and into his skull. His brain felt electric—nearly as hot as his fists. Boiling blood soaked between his fingers as his hands clenched and unclenched. They were red all the way to the palm, barring three white crescents in the ball of his thumb.

"You think the kids are diseased?" Shouta asked, his throat feeling as dry as his eyes.

"Everyone is. Quirks are an invasive, genetic disease, and only the gifted can cure them." Overhaul said, like he was reading off a textbook. Like he was stating a well-known fact. Like he was moral.

"You… you think they're diseased, and send your freaks to kill them? How is that curing anything?" Thirteen asked, her true voice edging through the helmet's warping. It was as horrified and confused as Shouta felt. Overhaul, this time, glared at her.

"I told you to be silent, woman!" He said, the vein in his forehead twitching. Shouta was beginning to feel his heartbeat in his tongue. His cheeks itched. "...Amputation is the most effective treatment for benign tumors. My Proto-Nomus will simply cut out the weakest links, and we will collect the remaining malignants. With your help and their sacrifice, I—we—can perfect the cure."

Pins and needles burned in his tongue.

Shouta's heartbeat expanded—encompassing his whole mouth. It spread, then, to his ears and temples and jaw. He flushed to his scalp. New trenches formed in his palm—those white crescents were now pouring sources of crimson waterfalls. Drip, drip.

Overhaul leveled him with his steady gaze—but it was different. Sharper—less youthful, and more mature. His hand, still gloved, reached down to his waist. On one hip, an ornate sword—a rapier, he noticed—hung. He didn't reach for it.

From his other hip, he pulled a gun. It wasn't a fast motion—he didn't try to get the jump on them. What Overhaul did was a choreography, a presentation of the device. He didn't point it at Shouta—instead, he held it sideways, to show its profile.

It wasn't a conventional device. Instead of a revolver, like his men used, it had a wide, short barrel. There was no visible chamber—instead, there was a translucent slot where a single bullet sat. It was copper-colored—but what consumed his whole attention was the tip. A needle stuck out its front, shorter than his pinky nail. At a glance, it was no more dangerous than a normal gun—but his instincts told him otherwise.

His strong leg slid back as his fists rose to his chin. Overhaul checked his footwork once, but his true attention actually settled behind Shouta's head. Whatever he was looking at, it only lasted an instant before their eyes met again.

"My best creation yet. It can emulate the effect of your gift for a short while—but five minutes is still longer than you can maintain eye contact, no? Sure, its single target… but with you and your student, the cure for quirkology would unfold for us, gift-wrapped. We could save the world."

A single, shuddering breath. The implications seemed so far-fetched… but this man, showing his cards, coming to this place… that alone was too far-fetched to imagine. Yet here they were. His brain latched onto the specific verbiage—Shouta and his "student?" What about the rest? What about his "malignants?"

He supposed it didn't matter.

"No student of mine would ever help you—and I stand by them." Shouta said, making his decision. Whatever horror this man was concocting—he wanted nothing to do with it. His vision lost color around the edges. One eye was begging to close—but he held it open all the same. Instincts, long-worn, hard-earned, begged him to keep them open even harder.

Overhaul maintained eye contact for a second. It was hell. He continued for another. Correction. This was hell. That previous second wasn't even purgatory.

Correction. The third was the worst yet. Still, he held on, with bleeding palms, agonized eyes, and a dead leg. Overhaul continued to stare at him—but when Shouta didn't break, he sighed. With a shrug, he lowered the gun's barrel to the floor.

"Well," he said, glancing aside. "I suppose your consent wasn't mandatory anyways."

Overhaul took a step to the side—but Thirteen didn't allow him to continue.

"Halt!" She said, raising her hand in the man's direction. He paused, but didn't appear to look at her—Shouta couldn't really make out his distinct expression, now. It didn't help that his hood shaded his eyes.

"Are you speaking to me, woman?"

"Not just you," Thirteen said, before pointing her other hand towards Overhaul's officers. "But all of you! We've defeated your grunts, and the only man here worth my attention is entombed by a student. Surrender yourselves, or I'll be forced to use lethal force."

Shouta slid deeper into his stance—to the chagrin of his leading leg. Like police officers, they would be evaluated for any casualties. Unlike the police, however, the Commission did not coddle heroes who committed homicide. The laws began to fog over, then, mixing and congealing into an ugly legal monster—but it was no worse than the guilt. As things stood, however—with no backup in sight, it may be their only remaining option—and there was no hero more lethal than Thirteen. They could only hope no student was around to see it.

"Entombed, eh?" Overhaul said, a hitch in his voice. He said it like it was funny—but he didn't laugh. He turned to his men. "Entombed?"

Only one man met Overhaul's gaze. He shook his head. The Crow's leader sighed. His gun-hand steadied, though the pistol still faced down.

Overhaul spun towards his unconscious giant and jutted his chin out. The hood hiding his features fell back to reveal a short mess of brown hair. His chest swelled with air as he raised a leg. With one powerful stomp, he let it all loose.

"Kat! Su! Kame! Are! You! Dead!?" Overhaul asked, his voice ringing out with far more force than Shouta would've thought possible. Without the rampaging Darkshadow, his cry became the dominant sound, bouncing across the cracked dome.

For a moment, nothing happened.

"Don't cling on to false hope, you Crow-Frea—"

A large stone, perhaps the corner of an office, broke off from the summit of Katsukame's mountain. It cracked against another, larger stone, and then two pieces tumbled downwards, breaking and crumbling further until half a dozen stones hit the ground. Then another stone from the top shifted, tipped over, and followed suit.

Like buried at a beach, a massive arm erupted from the concrete pile—then a leg, and another arm.

"Haaah!" Katsukame said, roaring as he forced himself to sit up straight. The resulting rain of concrete nearly crushed Shouta—but with one opened cap, Thirteen sucked in the stone-shrapnel and devoured it.

"I don't understand." She said, recapping a finger. "A whole building crushed him. His ribs should be paste!"

With two car-sized palms, Katsukame tore the last of the building from his legs.

"If he died from that little, I wouldn't have brought him along." Overhaul said, before raising his pistol. Shouta could see the copper flickering within. "He's my only Nomu to make it past the prototype-stage after all. Made him with my own two hands—not like those blubbering hand-me-downs. A real valuable dude with a killer immune system. He can suck the stamina right out of a man at a good three meter distance—and god forbid if you grapple him, he'll take everything you're worth. Lucky for you, Anan Kurose, that you've just got so much compressed vitality in your hands. I bet you didn't even notice."

"You mean—!?" Thirteen said, her voice cracking as she turned to the monster. Shouta kept his narrowing vision on Overhaul for as long as he could—but his limit was close. He was like an ice pane over a boiling lake. All it'd take was an ant walking over him.

"Your own gluttonous power, put to muscular form. You're not the only one I'm interested in testing him on… but your test is done. My hypothesis was true. Katsukame." Overhaul said, pausing to glance at the mountainous man. "Kill her. Capture Eraserhead. Don't worry—he's losing steam by the nanosecond."

"Yes sir!" The man said, before standing to his feet. With each lumbering step, the ground shook—and with each earthquake, Shouta's eyelids fell a little lower. Katsukame didn't beeline it for them—instead, he swung wide, to the exact opposite of Overhaul, where Shouta couldn't see him.

Like a bull seeing red, Katsukame stomped the floor twice, dragging his foot through the concrete and stone. Then he exploded forward, barreling towards them like a freight train.

The darkness encroaching his eyes left him only a small, coin-sized cone of vision—but his mind was as clear as day. He had a choice to make.

If Katsukame could absorb Thirteen's nearly infinite vitality, then there was nothing she could do to truly stop him—not unless Shouta erased Katsukame's quirk. Then, she could devour the man whole if need be.

Problem being, absorbing him would take time—and Shouta was out of it.

"Eraserhead!" Thirteen screamed, turning to him in the last seconds before the collision. He imagined her face—her real face. A pretty, young woman with a big smile and bigger heart. She'd been his junior when he was a student. They'd never talked much, then or now, but there was always stout respect between them. Now, his bodily limits were going to be their end.

He turned from Overhaul, and managed to erase Katsukame's quirk. For one second. Shouta could only pray it would be enough. Thirteen's finger caps popped—all of them. Shouta side-stepped behind her, hoping to avoid the lethal tug her full power had—but it was for nothing.

His ears rung, but not from the suction-induced popping from Thirteen's Blackhole. A gunshot ran in the air—louder than a regular pistol, but quieter than a rifle. He blinked, and his vision returned to him—but something was wrong. Perhaps they were still dry and warped, because Thirteen's finger caps were all open, but there was nothing. No wind maelstrom, no suction, no incoming debris—just stagnant, stale air around motionless finger caps.

There was something wrong with Thirteen's helmet. The primary crack was wider than before, and along the edges was a newfound network of spider-web cracks.

"Hhhh…" Thirteen said, moaning through a breath. A moment later, she collapsed into him. He only got a split second glance, but a pool of crimson was building within the cracked helm. Below Thirteen's jaw was a single copper gleam.

Glancing behind him, he saw Overhaul—warped, distorted, wrong—lower his gun. He couldn't take any time to analyze the situation. All he knew was that Thirteen's quirk disappeared

"Weak little heroes! Haha!" Katsukame roared, right as he leapt into the air. It was phenomenal, Shouta thought, seeing such a large man jump so high. Like seeing an elephant doing a gymnast routine. Was this what the dinosaurs felt in the Yucatan Peninsula? Katsukame spun forward, clasping his fists together and as he created a vortex of devastation in the air.

He wouldn't kill me, Shouta thought—but he would kill Thirteen, if he got the chance. Letting her fall to the ground, he stepped over her, spreading his arms wide. It was impossible to say if he was protecting a dead woman or not—but it was out of his hands, now. With another blink, his eyes refreshed—and he saw Katsukame's panic unfold.

"Hey? Move!" He cried as he came flying down. Likewise, across the Plaza, Overhaul stepped forward, stumbling forward as he reached out.

"Move you fool! Don't waste your gift on this woman!" He said, tossing his pistol aside. Shouta didn't pay him enough mind to look—though perhaps he should've. Overhaul fumbled with something for a second before the ground screamed. The earth beneath him shifted, under some mysterious power—but it wasn't in time. Katsukame's intertwined, wreckless fists swallowed his world whole.

And stayed there.

Like the cacophony of a thousand falcon cries, a rush of freezing wind blew the goggles off his face. He stumbled back—but Katsukame's fists remained where they were in the air. A massive iceberg swallowed the giant man up to his wrists, skull and all. It was a massive structure, dividing him and Thirteen from the rest of Overhaul's group.

Shouta looked around, trying to source this miracle—and his eyes settled on a figure at the iceberg's peak. Their back was to Shouta, hiding their face, but he could see well enough. A blue coat hugged a rather thin, short frame. The hood was up, with white fur rimming the inner lining. His mind spun over itself as he considered any reasonable source for this phenomenon, but came up short. There were no ice heroes in Musutafu with this kind of firepower—and certainly none on U.A.'s emergency call. Really, the only person with this kind of ability was 1Z's little celebrity…

…Shoto Todoroki. Shouta looked around for the rest of 1Z, for Hawks and Whirlwind—but found no one. All he saw, in his brief glance, was the strange appearance of the Ruin Zone's exit. There wasn't a spec of it out of place, despite the building thrown through it.

"Hey, bastards,." Todoroki said, looking down at Overhaul and his men. "You're going to pay."

Then, the man turned around—and Shouta realized the truth. This wasn't Shoto Todoroki. This was someone else entirely. His face was entirely obscured—but his instincts told him all he needed.

"Oh, Eraserhead." The blue-coated man said, sparing him a glance. "Hi, I guess. Care to occupy Overhaul while I get some business done?

"You!" Overhaul said. Shouta looked at the man with refreshed vision, and noticed he was missing a glove. He tried to erase Overhaul's quirk, but with the ice between them, his suppressing gaze was too warped to do anything. Instead, he looked down, and found Thirteen stirring.

"M-my q-quirk-k…" She moaned, reaching her hand to her neck. In one motion, he slid his fingers under her helmet's rim and ripped it off. Anan gasped, reaching to stop him—but there was no consequence. Whatever Overhaul's gun did, it erased any risk. The helmet was only a third tier stopgap for her power, after all—and the first one was still in place. "S-stop-p.."

"It's okay, Anan. Can you move?" He whispered. She shifted, winced, and nodded. With careful, deft fingers, Shouta retrieved the bullet-like dart in her neck and wrapped her up. It was scary work, thanks to the proximity to her primary vein, but it missed it by a hair. Still, without her quirk and her unorthodox suit, she was useless on the field.

His eyes hovered where Overhaul tossed his pistol aside. One shot, eh? He said it lasted for five minutes, and he didn't appear to carry any more guns on him—though that couldn't be said for his officers. Shouta would have to watch out—but Anan wouldn't. Handing her back her helm, he stood.

"Catch up to the kids. Stay safe. You have five minutes." He said, looking back to Overhaul.

"W-what? I can't do that! You stayed for me, so I'll—"

"We're not kids anymore, Anan. You have a duty to share what we've learned. Don't spoil this opportunity. Whatever happens to me, U.A. has to know who did it."

"But—"

"Hey, can you guys hurry it up?" The mysterious man said, taping his foot. Shouta gave the younger woman a small shove. She stumbled, but didn't resist. Anan took a single, hesitant step away—and then another. At last, she broke out into an awkward, clunky jog.

"I think not!" Overhaul said, tearing Shouta's attention back to the ice. The bird-masked man closed the distance from the ice in a blink. His bare fingers extended faster than Shouta could track. Was he always this fast? "The infected shouldn't interfere with the doctors of the world!"

The second he touched the iceberg, it exploded outwards. It wasn't the blue man's power—it was Overhaul's. Tendrils of half-melted ice rushed past Shouta's head, intent on crushing Thirteen—but his speed was his downfall. In his haste, he used the ice hiding him to attack.

Instantly, Shouta burst into a sprint, renewing his line of sight with the Crow's leader. Around them, chunks of ice and water fell like puppets with cut strings. Whatever Overhaul's quirk was, it was oppressive—but that didn't matter. Overhaul's eyes shot open—bloodshot, angular, and sharp—as Shouta closed the distance and pulled a bowie knife from his boot. He meant to end it in one overhead strike—but before his knife could meet vulnerable flesh, a metallic scream pierces his ears.

Overhaul's ornate rapier was in his hands, grinding their hilts together as their strength clashed. Shouta tried to kick—but his leg was lame. The masked man beat him to it, shifting the weight of their clash aside and using the momentum to carry a roundhouse into Shouta's shoulder. Instead of taking the brunt of that attack, however, he let his bad leg win. Falling, he ducked under the first swing and brought his knife upwards, slicing into Overhaul's mask for a second before meeting the hard beneath. Armor. Leaping backwards, he used a handspring to create extra distance.

"For claiming to be a doctor, you're rather shit at following the hippocratic oath." Shouta said, taking a second to taunt the man. It gave him a second to breathe. Overhaul's gaze tightened, but instead of taking the bait, just slid into a swordsman's stance. It was a simple, archaic thing—but somewhat efficient, at a glance. He wasn't a swordsman, but he knew the ropes.

"You're right," he said, leveling the rapier's tip at eye level. "I'm more of a revolutionary. You can't keep your eyes open forever, Eraserhead. Sooner or later, I'll make you blink. Consider these your last moments before you become one of my Nomus. I have high hopes for you… friend."

As they squared off, another wall of ice burst into existence, surrounding them in a cone. There were no entrances, no exits—only the stranger atop it all, mist rising from his shadowed face.

"You're trapped," he said, looking down on Overhaul. Then, with another raised hand, a third wall burst from the cone, dividing Overhaul's officers on either side. Most managed to dodge to the right—but the one robed man got an arm caught on the left side. It was the same one who'd conjured the golden barrier. In an instance, he made another, blocking a flurry of icicles thrown at him. Through the cerulean ice, it glowed green.

The ice-man leapt down to ground level, and got close to the greenish-golden barrier.

"Hello, Hekiji." He said, and his voice sent a chill down Shouta's spine. "I've been looking for you."

Before Shouta could make any sense of their dynamic, however, Overhaul whipped his rapier aside, drawing his attention—but also the attention of his men.

"I will secure the blessed one!" He said, speaking over the groaning ice colosseum. "Sashimi! Kurono! Collect your dues!"

Without delay, the silver-cloaked man and the bandaged man lunged forward, scooping up the miniscule Proto-Nomu. The bandaged man grabbed it first, then passed it to Kurono. Shouta's ears rang with the mens' names, a piercing pain ricocheting through his skull—but he didn't have time to consider it. A silver whistle swung past, inches from his goggle-less eyes, before he managed to back step.

Overhaul jabbed at him again, going for his gut. Shouta parried the attempt, but Overhaul predicted the movement and readjusted for his armpit. Unwilling to sacrifice such a vital spot, but unable to dodge, Shouta leaned into the maneuver, letting the sword barry itself in his deltoid. He held the man hostage there, taking advantage of his successful attack to lock him in place. The pain made his aim slightly off—but a spartan kick didn't need precision.

He flew out of Shouta's guard, ripping the rapier free in the process. Shouta minimized the damage, but it was still devastating to his left arm. He couldn't raise it above his shoulder—but that was fine. His knife's handle squeezed in the familiar pocket of his right hand. Eraserhead was ambidextrous.

Out of the corner of his eyes, however, something happened. All at once, the terrible smell from before hit his nose.

"Wait, where are you going!?" Shouta screamed, turning towards the group—but the ice was too thick to allow Erasure to penetrate. All he earned for the diversion was a sharp pain, where Overhaul's rapier cut from jaw to cheekbone. One by one, Overhaul's men disappeared.

First, the sludge swallowed Yu, and he was gone. Then a blond man with a side part dissolved. Then a man with a bowler hat, the man with shoulder-fur, and finally, Sashimi, the bandaged man with a mane of crimson hair. All that remained was the iced-Katsukame, the cloaked Kurono, the first officer, and the man with the golden barrier.

And Overhaul, whose eyes, for a brief moment, creased around the edges.

"Where did they go?" Shouta asked, holding his bowie low while he ran towards Overhaul. Despite having a smaller weapon, their handling speed was nearly identical to one another's. Overhaul diverted two slashes and a stab before their hilts met again—and Shouta came face to face with the Crow's leader.

This man, this young bastard, conquered the underworld. This young bastard attacked his school, sicked his bio-weapons on Shouta's kids, and he was smiling. It infuriated him, bringing new strength to his tired limbs. This time, Shouta forced the hilts aside and took a hard-knuckled swing at Overhaul's face.

Cartilage met hard steel, but it wasn't secure. The mask slid crooked on Overhaul's face, leaving an awkward, almost silly expression. The recoil hadn't hurt, but a knuckle-shaped splatter of crimson soaked into the mask as Shouta backstepped. Overhaul did not follow.

He stood stock-still, his breath more pronounced and ragged than before. His hands, previously so assured and steady, shook like autumn leaves in a storm. The bare hand stopped short, but the gloved hand landed on the mask's tip. With a single push, he corrected the mask's angle. Overhaul's shoulders shook. Something slipped through his mask, but Shouta couldn't hear—but he didn't need to. With a stark fury, Overhaul's eyes burned holes into Shouta's.

"To find the Ninth, and to fucking dissect him."

[x]

"Hhh… Hhh…" Shiozaki mumbled, trying her best to not choke. Her lungs were little more than dust-filled bags at this point, but she needed every ounce of oxygen she could manage. A life depended on it. If she choked for even one moment, she was positive her strength would fail her.

Between her legs, Reiko lay still, a gash in her forehead. Her elbows, buried on either side of Reiko's face, screamed in pain. The shattered stone dug into her skin—but that pain was nothing compared to her legs. Each knee pressed into the ground on either side of Reiko's hips, bleeding freely and bearing almost all the weight above.

The darkness was all-encompassing. For a moment, she thought she'd died, and gone to the very place she'd avoided all her life—but Reiko was below her. She wouldn't be there. The strength of life and compassion kept her going, giving her the power to shield Reiko with her body. Even when a car-sized boulder hovered above them. All that separated them from death were her tired vines.

Below her, Reiko stirred. Blood flowed down the side of her head, soaking her hair.

"W-w-what's going on…" She asked, glancing around. Her pearl-white skin was the only thing Shiozaki could see in the darkness.

"Hhh… Shh…" Shiozaki said. It was all she could manage. Reiko inched aside, blinking fast. Something sparked in her eyes as she twitched.

"W-wait… where's Jirou? Kaminari? Where is everyone?"

Shiozaki could only groan. She had no clue. She never did. She was useless like that.

If it took everything she ever had, ever earned, ever built, however—she would not be useless here. If there was anything under heaven she was good for, this was it.

She glimpsed it, in the moment before everything went to hell. The boulder, falling. The Nomu, attacking. Both were lethal threats—and she had to make a choice. She had to abandon someone. Perhaps she was going to hell, because the choice hadn't been hard.

Reiko was closer, after all. If she was going to hell, however, she accepted that. It was God's Plan, then, for her to make that choice—and by God, if that was her job in this world, she'd fulfill it to her best ability. Reiko would not be seeing the gates today—not under her watch.

One of her vines snapped, and their precarious position shifted. Boulder ground against boulder, and dust stirred within their little pocket.

With grit teeth, she grew another vine to replace the old one. She was a miserable leader. Shiozaki proved that. But she would not be miserable here. Not now.

"Hhh… Rgh…"

She hoped someone could translate her eloquence into last words. She hoped Reiko would understand. She hoped she'd write them on her grave—and maybe it was selfish, but she hoped Reiko would pray for her, even after abandoning Jirou and Kaminari.

Something wet slid down her cheek and mixed with Reiko's bloodied forehead. Their faces couldn't have been more than a few inches apart.

Reiko's warm hand reached up to her cheek, shaky and unstable. It wiped away the moisture. Something wet slid down her opposite cheek.

"Are you hurt?" Reiko asked, staring into her eyes. Her expression was soft—gentle, in a way her ongoing agony disabled her from being. An impossible expression given the situation. In the fall, she'd lost her mask—and she looked almost angelic in the darkness. Shiozaki, by contrast, was the epitome of ugly.

Her teeth were bared, and in all the chaos, dust and gravel found themselves in her mouth. Copper was all over her tongue, so she knew her lips and teeth were stained red. Her dimples were showing, too—and her eyebrows were knit in an awful pinch. Being inches from such a serene existence as Reiko's made her all the more aware—

She was inches from Reiko. This was a two way street, she realized. Reiko was seeing all the ugliness Shiozaki had to offer in one moment.

Overhead, her vines protested their duty, cracking and groaning with their weight. She wheezed as a thunderstrike of pain struck her scalp and ran down her spine—but she didn't allow her breath to falter.

Who fucking cared? Maybe Shiozaki was a worthless leader. Maybe she was scum who abandoned her friends. Maybe she was ugly. Maybe it was all true—but she couldn't let herself falter.

Her breaths turned quirk and shallow as her biceps twitched. She wasn't strong, either—but right now, she was the only thing keeping Reiko alive. Shiozaki dragged her elbow down, grinding her forearm against the concrete. It was an agonizing process—skin tore with every inch—but she didn't stop.

"Hhh… Argh!" Shiozaki groaned, substituting her screams with muffled obscenities. At last, she managed to put her palm flat on the ground and push. It didn't do much, lifting-wise, but even an inch was a dramatic improvement.

There was a large, oval stone overhead, held aloft by her vines and another large stone beside them. Between the overhead stone and the stone adjacent to her, a number of pebbles broke away and fell, revealing a thin beam of outside light. It struck her in the eyes, nearly shocking her into a hiccup—but the sudden exposure to light changed her. A surge of energy flooded her veins—and not just from her natural photosynthesis.

With this golden light breaking through, she was confident they were alive. That Reiko was alive. Her remaining doubts vanished with the darkness. She truly was responsible for Reiko now—it wasn't just in her head.

This time, when she drove her forearm into the ground and lifted herself higher, she indulged herself. A scream ripped from her throat, ugly spittle covering Reiko's wide-eyed gaze, as she pushed the overhead boulder a little higher. More pebbles broke off, and more light shone through.

Her knees, previously her sole debility, now hurt no more or less than her arms—but unlike her arms, her legs were powerful. A deep breath, another scream. It began with her right leg. She leaned to the left, pulling away from Reiko ever-so-slightly, and lifted her leg. The process wasn't painful—but it did put inordinate stress on her left leg.

It quivered, threatening to give—but then Reiko's soft hand curled around her calf. She steadied herself, and managed to plant her right foot back on the ground. Shifting back, she attempted to replicate the motion on the opposite side. Before she could, however, the sound of tearing fabric announced itself. Her dress, pinched under the boulder, tore.

"Oh… Iba…" Reiko whispered.

A heavy breath.

"I… Hhh… I-I won't… Iwon'tletyoudown…" She said, speaking more with her breath than her voice. Reiko's eyes squeezed closed for a second and she nodded.

Shiozaki, likewise, closed her eyes. She had no idea what Reiko did whilst her eyes were closed—but Shiozaki prayed. Her prayers went outward, to the light, to where she knew she was being judged.

She faltered. It was a near thing—her foot went crooked, her knee shook, the stone under her palm shifted. Only one thing saved her progress—a quick readjustment, and a wordless cry of effort.

Her dress ripped more as she leaned to the right, placing her weight on Reiko's other flank. Freeing her leg, she planted her foot down.

A heavy breath.

Shiozaki was worthless as a child of god, as a friend, as a leader—but she would not be worthless here. With every ounce of strength, she put her faith into her muscles, her quirk, and her training.

Her legs screamed with her as she pushed. They were molten, burning like every inch of progress was a mile of hell. Her hands were near-useless rags of crimson-stained flesh, but they did their part in pushing her up. The crack of light grew wider—first two inches became three, and three became four.

She locked her knees out, and placed her palms above, pushing up instead of down. The crack grew some foot and a half wide. Sunlight beamed down on her. It was enough.

"T-there! Get out!" She said, looking down at Reiko. The girl was large-chested, but she could squeeze through, if she went now.

Her friend didn't move, however. She looked back up at her, confused.

"What about you?"

The question almost made her resolve crumble right then and there, entombing them for good. With what little strength she could spare, she shook her head.

"Forget about it! They need you out there more than me!"

Her eyebrows—pretty, thin little things—furrowed. She half-sat up, carefully disentangling their legs.

"What? You're our Vice—"

"Stop wasting my Goddamn time, Rei! C-can't you see this i-is h-heavy!?" Shiozaki said, silently apologizing. Not for taking the Lord's name, but for yelling at Reiko.

Reiko rose to her feet, staring at Shiozaki. Her eyes conveyed a million things—confusion, anxiety, betrayal, and fear were obvious. Less obvious was the warmth deep within—and that hurt more than anything. Shiozaki looked away, to the less-bright sunlight.

She took a deep breath, smelling the area. Now, with the crack, there were more smells than the stagnant air of before. A small breeze blew through the crack, bringing the smell of grass—and a familiar, heart wrenching lavender.

Then, something blotted out the sunlight. The silhouette of Reiko—her soft, oval-shaped hair consumed all the light in their little prison. Lavender-shampooed hair burned her nostrils—overpowering anything she'd ever smelled. Reiko leaned forward and pecked her on the lips.

Shiozaki could only stare as Reiko then turned around and squeezed out of the crack.

Instantly, her strength waned. Whatever empowered her to hold this boulder up for so long depleted. The boulder came crashing down, turning the half a meter gap into a hair's breadth of light.

"Help!" Reiko screamed, as soon as she got to her feet. A hand came up to her head, holding the gash, but she didn't stop screaming. "Help us! The Vice needs help!"

Shiozaki's vision swam, and the last she saw of Reiko was her waving. The crack sealed shut as Shiozaki sagged.

"—elp! Is that you, Sat—?"

Her eyes closed as she lost her footing. She landed full-force on her knees, but she didn't cry out. The boulder squeezed her against the ground, but didn't quite crush her—not quite yet.

Shiozaki's mind began to drift, the pain leaving with her urgency. So long as Reiko was out, it was fine.

She could meet up with Kirishima, and the two of them could get the class to safety. Hell, Midoriya would be showing up any moment, she thought—and once he was there, the class was basically home free.

Why? Why did that boy vote for her? She'd never been a friend to him—she wasn't mean to him, of course, but she'd never offered his due respect.

She regretted that now—but it didn't give her any insight. What did they see in her?

Well, it didn't matter, now, she thought. Overhead, the boulder groaned, the last of her strength failing. It squeezed the air out of her first, stealing her breath—and with it, her serenity.

She tried to inhale—but her lungs had no room. Panic set in, her blood slamming through her temples. Shiozaki squirmed, trying to find the space to breathe—but the structure only shifted more. A rock fell, bouncing off the back of her head. Flinching, she tried to wriggle a hand behind her neck—and got stuck halfway.

All at once, the boulder shifted, and a building pressure on her calf snapped. The break was slow, and she felt every inch of her fibula breaking—but she couldn't scream. She couldn't sob.

She couldn't do anything by herself.

…

…She didn't want to die down here…

…

She licked her lips. They didn't taste much different. Maybe more like lavender than before.

…

She wouldn't mind trying it again.

…

…Just why? Had she done something wrong in life? Was she sinning without notice? How did she hurt so many people that this demise was warranted? What kind of Lord would permit this? Who pointed at her and said "Yes, this is your fate," and moved on with their day?

…

…She didn't want to die down here. She didn't deserve it. She'd tried her Goddamn best, Goddamnit—she'd taken a leadership role without wanting it, she'd done her best, worked through the pain, and even saved her best friend—and now the world wanted her to die for it. Was it because she gave up?

Her heart clenched in her chest. Pressure built behind her eyes. She didn't want to die down here. With her one free elbow, she pushed against the ground. Shiozaki pushed more, and more, and again and again. The boulder above shuddered, but didn't budge—but that didn't stop her. More and more, she pushed, until her chest had enough space for a breath.

She drank in the oxygen, heedless of the thick layer of dust. Her heart soared with gluttony as she took another breath, and then another.

Shiozaki remembered the battle before this disaster—the hellhounds versus her friends, with Reiko guiding them in her place. She could only imagine the stress she went through, in that moment, taking on Shiozaki's duties. In the moment, she'd been ecstatic. She'd been a burden the whole time, and having someone capable in her place made her so, so happy—so relieved, that she hadn't even considered the consequences.

Reiko must've been as scared as she'd been before she pawned off her responsibility.

If she just had one more chance, she'd never repeat that mistake. Never.

…

…Please…

…

The world shuddered, grinding against her broken leg—and she sighed. Didn't scream. Didn't sob. It ached worse than anything, but… She was growing tired. Shiozaki closed her eyes, despite it not making much difference either way. The darkness didn't change but for the little lightshow behind her eyelids.

Then, the pressure on her broken leg lifted—the action nearly hurt as much as the initial breaking itself, but not quite. Instead, the dancing purple motes behind her eyelids earned an orange afterglow. The little rock shards surrounding her moved, and her stuck arm shimmied free.

At last, the thing her vines grasped was pulled free, leaving them to collapse around her, free.

She opened her eyes.

Several dozen little rocks hovered in the air, forsaken by gravity. Reiko's hands guided them away. Beside her, two figures left her rather confused—like perhaps this was a dream, or she had finally passed on. She should've known she didn't have the strength to move that boulder again.

What brought her back to reality was the earth shaking. In one great heave, Midoriya and Satou pushed the boulder aside, finally releasing her. Once it fell, Satou and Midoriya stepped back and Uraraka took their place. Reiko set the other rocks aside and joined Uraraka as reached down to her.

"You alright, Iba?" Reiko asked, looking at her leg. Shiozaki squinted, struggling to see her well—the sun haloed her hair, turning it a brilliant silver. Beside her, Uraraka was a far warmer existence. The sun shone golden along her bangs. She reached out and tapped her on the shoulder.

Instantly, her weight disappeared, as did many of her aches and pains. With careful fingers, Reiko guided her to her feet. Shiozaki felt an odd tug in her gut as she floated forward—Reiko's quirk, she thought.

Tears flowed down her cheeks as she floated into Reiko's waiting arms. She squeezed the girl tight, before looking around.

Jirou and Kaminari were fine—as was everyone else. Even Sero and Kirishima were here—though he seemed worse for wear. Everyone's attention hovered between herself and Midoriya—but Midoriya's settled onto hers.

"What's next, Vice?"

[x]

AN: Really, I think some of the first half of the chapter showcases some of my best prose... but I really liked the second half. In other news, I'm very, very tired, and I don't know if the things I'm feeling about this story are intrinsically related to the other issues in my life. We'll see-but I'm not abandoning this story on a cliffhanger. I promise. Also, despite never playing a single zelda game, I've devoured over seven longfics on TOTK and BOTW this week alone. I have not left my bed for anything except writing this story and running errands. Well, I also helped my uncle with some stuff... but I took plenty of breaks to read more botw fanfics.

Review!~