The smell wasn't the worst part.
Things happened so fast that Uraraka barely even understood what was happening until it was over. Black sludge enveloped her, pooling from every nook and cranny her body had to offer. There was no escaping it. The sludge came from under her gauntlets. Then from her ankles and boots—then from her armpits and lower jaw and between her legs. It came from her ear and under her bandages, and it hurt. It came from nowhere, with no warning, and she had no way of fighting back.
She screamed, but that alone wasn't enough to save her. Likewise, Jirou and Hitoshi screamed as the black sludge grew from them as well. Uraraka held no small envy for hero costumes—hers was far, far too tight—but in this moment, she only had pity for them. Their loose clothes, their layers, it all worked against them. The sludge grew from the shadows of their clothes, between layers, and consumed them all the faster for it.
In a blink, her friends' cries cut short, and they disappeared. Once the sludge consumed every inch of their skin, it collapsed inwards. The sludge didn't shrink, in a sense—it condensed, compressing the people-sized conglomerates to marbles. Then, they vanished into thin air.
Perhaps she fought harder, or maybe her shameful costume finally provided her some sort of benefit. Regardless, her sludge took far, far longer. It made the whole thing worse—not only did she struggle for longer, the sludge forced her to watch as her friends disappeared herself. The last thing she saw, hovering just on the USJ's precipice, was Ibara clutching Yui and Reiko. Her mouth was forming an awful cry of alarm. If her one good eardrum wasn't full, she might've heard the shrillest scream of her life.
The girls in Ibara's arms weren't consumed, and neither was Ibara. It seemed the sludge only targeted those within the dome. Uraraka was almost glad they were safe, if not for the giant stone face forming around the frozen cavity the girls resided in.
Then, her peripherals went dark, and she choked.
The smell wasn't the worst part, but it was still intolerable. It reminded her of manure, something she thought she'd finally left behind in the big city. Uraraka wasn't lucky enough for it to only be comparable to cow waste, however. Ethanol, old oil, feces, and rigor mortis. These were simple, terrible smells—but the sludge that invaded her nostrils and shoved itself in her mouth were both none of these and all.
Two things were vital to Uraraka's morning routine. Firstly, a good breakfast. It didn't have to be healthy, or even particularly tasteful—but she was a girl who needed something nice to start her day. Be it a banana, fruity cereal, or waffles with a little syrup—she liked to spoil herself. At least when she could afford it.
Secondly, she needed to brush her teeth. Even on the nightmarish, disastrous, cataclysmic days where she didn't get her morning treat, she brushed her teeth. Plaque gave her vertigo, and she was particularly sensitive to that disgusting phenomenon.
Sludge forcing itself into her mouth was the most nauseating outcome possible.
The taste wasn't the worst part either, however.
Her sense of time warped while the sludge devoured her. It might've been seconds, it might've been instantaneous, it might've been several, long-suffering minutes. In the end, however, no matter how much she wanted it, she didn't die there. No, the worst part was that when she opened her eyes and the slime evaporated into thin air, it didn't take the taste with it. The corpse-decay, the feces, the ethanol, the crude oil—it stayed with her.
She retched the moment she got to her knees, of course, but the acid in her stomach wasn't nearly powerful enough to erase the taste. Uraraka hated it—the vertigo. It haunted her whole life, thanks to her quirk-induced sensitivity. Even when she didn't exercise her powers, she was prone to crippling nausea—especially during her cycle. Now, after abusing her powers and tasting the worst thing on the planet, it was a thousand times worse.
So, when she managed to stand, she briefly wondered if she was the strongest person on the planet. She blinked, and the motion wasn't synchronized. First, her left eye closed, then her right. It wasn't an even movement, either—it was her right eye that opened up first afterwards.
It was also her right eye that saw him first.
He was a plague doctor—or perhaps a scarecrow. Maybe a wax sculpture gone wrong. Every accessory on his body was a silky black—from his bowler hat to his bird mask and his big, wide shoes. The man was a beanpole, if his ankles and shoulder-width weren't wrong. Hell, her own hips were probably twice his own. Uraraka wasn't a very muscular, sturdy girl—but she wasn't nearly so skinny. This man looked like he didn't eat real food—like his breakfasts included celery and oxygen.
Uraraka wasn't a fighter. She wasn't well-practiced, she wasn't talented, and she wasn't disciplined—but this man was so emaciated that for a brief, delusional moment, she thought she might have a chance against him.
Then, he drew a pistol from the shadow of his cloak. It was odd looking, with a silver finish and short barrel—but it was still a pistol. Her eyes gravitated towards it, even as her feet brought her a few unconscious steps back. The task nearly sent her stumbling on her backside. By the grace of something beyond her, she stood her ground. At least, she remained upright until the man's shiny goggles set their sights on her and he raised his pistol. That was the exact moment a rock decided to wedge itself between her heel and the ground. Instantly, her ankle rolled, and she fell.
The back of her head knocked against something hard, splitting her vision in two. Her vision, warped and hazy and doubled, saw the semi-defined silhouettes of the skinny man above her a moment later. The pistol in his hand couldn't have been more than a few feet away, but its barrel looked like it was miles away. It almost comforted her—no way his accuracy could've managed such a distance.
His voice came out warped—like through a broken speaker. There was some static, but it was more an issue of tone and pitch. It was hollow, too—missing an element of depth that she'd never realized every man had until this moment.
"Who is the strongest brat in your class?"
It was that moment that her vertigo peaked, and her bleeding eardrum cried in pain. His voice hit her ears lopsided—though she could hear absolutely nothing in her left ear, she still felt his words in it, somehow. It was like a drillbit digging into her skull. She screamed—but between breaths, words slipped from her tongue, unbidden.
"I-I d-don't—"
Something cool pressed against her forehead—cylindrical.
"I'm looking for the strongest student in 1A. Who is the strongest kid you know?"
"I-I… S-someone in 1A!"
Tears streamed down her face. There was something in the man's voice—not compelling, but compulsory. Much like the black sludge, it slipped into her ears, violating them and drawing out her disgust. She couldn't help but answer, she couldn't help but scream. His voice wasn't hypnotic—it was torture.
Her eyes focused, and she realized the man's odd pistol was pressed against her forehead. Tears welled up in her eyes as the man's finger ghosted over the trigger. Some of the intensity in his shoulders faded, and he pulled the pistol away.
"How are you doing that? Resisting?" He asked—and something was different. His voice, his alien tone, was new. More human. It was almost… excited. Even then, however, it was like he brought his full strength down upon her ear with a pickaxe. It burned with a fierce, piercing ferocity she'd never experienced.
"I d-don't know!" She moaned, clutching her ears.
The man's pistol fell to his waist.
"Fascinating." He said, before the tip of his mask tilted ever-so-slightly. It's point aligned with her bandages. When he spoke next, he sounded… disappointed. "Oh. Nevermind. Something must've ruptured your ear canal. You're giving half answers. Was it one of the prototypes, or what?"
"N-no…" She said. Her vertigo was fading, replaced by immense agony—but pain wouldn't stop her from standing. It wasn't quite yet crippling, and she'd gladly trade her nausea for any other ache. With great effort, she managed to prop herself up by her elbows.
He crouched, placing his elbows on his knees as he leaned forward. His glossy black goggles gleamed as he studied her. She managed to sit up and cover herself with a forearm. The man's gaze was nearly as invasive as his voice. Her vertigo was returning, but in a different form. Uraraka really, really, hated her skin tight suit.
His pistol's barrel bounced up and down as he moved it to some inaudible rhythm. He seemed focused on her, considering something. Likewise, her own focus started on him, rather than their location—but now that the thought crossed her mind, she spared her surroundings a second glance.
Looking to the left, she didn't quite understand what she was seeing. The entire Ruins Zone spread out under her, alongside the fire area, the lake area, the rain area, and the landslide area. Like the Ruins Zone, much of the ground was loose, cracked stone—but unlike that zone, there were grass patches here. In the end, however, it was their sheer elevation that told her the truth. They were at the highest peak of the Mountain Zone, and her trip earlier nearly threw her off the cliff.
Why? She asked herself. Why had that sludge brought her here?
"You're kinda pathetic," the man said, interrupting her thoughts. "How did you survive the prototypes? It doesn't make any sense. They were supposed to kill all the weak ones… yet you're here. Don't tell me you used the strong ones as human shields?"
His words nearly sent her sprawling backwards, weeping from the pain in her skull. Each word was a hammer blow. Viridian hair flickered past her mind's eye just as her mouth opened. Without her command, her mouth began to speak, to reveal the situation.
"We worked t-together… h-he… s-s-saved—"
With all the strength she could muster, she bit her tongue. She tasted copper. This man had a confession quirk, and was interrogating her. Uraraka swallowed down precious oxygen.
His quirk attacked her ears, perverting them into his will. Thinking of Darkshadow made her want to cry, but for one millisecond, she almost thanked him. Half answers, the man said—she couldn't help but give answers to his questions. But… if only one of her ears could fall under his control…
"He?" He asked, pausing his rhythmic pistol-bouncing. "Who is he? What can he do?"
God, she wished Hitoshi was here. He'd be the perfect counter to this man's ability. As things were, however, more words were building in the back of her throat, and she wasn't able to hold them back. So, she let half the truth loose, and just chose which half to share—even if they made her heart squeeze and her cheeks flush a deep crimson.
"H-he's… a guy… who makes me… nervous."
The man's pistol-handle creaked as he squeezed it. How strong was he?
Better yet, why did he want Midoriya?
"Ew. What is his name?"
Unbidden, the syllables formed her tongue. Such a direct question nearly tore her whole plan in half. Still, her vertigo was nearly gone, now, replaced by equal pain. If it was just pain, she could manage. Leaning forward, she caught herself on her palms and shifted into a kneel. The man did nothing to stop her.
The heat in her cheeks went nuclear red.
"His name…" She whispered, looking straight into the man's goggles. "...is Cutie… Patootie…"
"Goddamnit." The man muttered, his beak pointing aside as he sighed. With shaking knees, Uraraka managed to rise to her feet. He stayed crouched as he looked back at her. "What's the name on his birth certificate?"
The words came faster, this time. Easier with the man's frustration.
"Don't know. Haven't seen it."
"Goddamnit! What's he look like?"
"Cute."
"What color is his hair?"
"Pleasant."
"Distinct facial features?"
"Japanese."
"Quirk?"
"...Cool."
"...How big is he?"
"A huggable size."
"..." The man said nothing as his shoulders slumped. His gaze fell to the floor, where he tilted his pistol over itself, studying it. He huffed and began a shrug, but froze half-way through. Slowly, he looked back up.
"Of course I'd get the girlfriend… But I doubt you'd be defending the guy so hard if he wasn't the strongest in class. No one ever resists me unless they're impaired or obsessed with something."
"...I'm not his girlfriend."
"That doesn't count out either of those options, you know…" He said, before rising to his full height. Even considering his slouched posture, he towered over her. From a distance, he looked tiny—he was so skinny that she'd nearly thought his height impossible. Somehow, he was even skinnier than she thought.
In an odd sign of trust, he pulled his cloak aside and made a show of holstering his gun. Once it was snug in its leather pouch, the man returned his gaze to her.
"Here's what's going to happen, kid. I'm Nemoto. Since I somehow got stuck with the only person I can't interrogate in this whole dome, that leaves us two options. Either we both make some concessions and part ways happier than we are now, or we move onto the… next step."
Uraraka blinked, and that was her greatest mistake. Faster than she thought possible, Nemoto quick-drew his pistol and fired. It wasn't like the movies, where the pistols were quiet, dim things—or like Snipe's pistol, which was a borderline hand-cannon. This was somewhere in the middle, louder than a silenced gun and softer than a rifle.
The oddest part, however, as she crumpled forward and landed on her elbows, was the general lack of pain. A bullet in her stomach, she supposed, should've hurt more.
Curled over herself, she let her head hang—and that was how she saw the bullet sticking out of her gut, dripping a foul blue. She was under the impression that her blood was red, so this prompted an immediate situational dissection. With a shaking hand, she reached down and pulled the bullet out—and the inch-long needle with it.
She didn't bother giving it an inspection. Tossing the little dart aside, she glanced up—only for her chin to immediately meet the man's massive, disproportionate boot.
No noise of complaint escaped her lips as she tumbled aside, landing on her back. Opening her eyes, she was rather confused—there was little difference between the USJ's roof and the back of her eyelids. After a moment, the dark blotches faded, and she realized it was her, rather than the USJ.
Did his kick hurt? It was hard to tell. Pins and needles burned her finger tips. It was the only pain in her body. The world was numb to her, and she to it. She felt as though she was floating through an endless void despite being intimately aware of the ground beneath her.
For a moment, fear surged through her. Sound grew quiet all around her. Instead of the ground grinding beneath her, it was like shifting over a silk comforter. The little wind died to nothing. Her clothes ceased rustling with every breath. There was no whistling between her front teeth as she breathed.
Did he kick her in the other ear, finishing what Darkshadow started?
Then, Nemoto's silhouette peered over her view of the roof. He crouched over her, his feet on either side of her head. His pistol bounced to an unheard rhythm.
His presence was like a poison in her numb world. Seeing him so close, her heart burned like crazy. Though sensation was lost on her, she could almost see her chest shaking with the effort of keeping her beating heart within her ribs. Maybe it was fear, or indignation, but seeing this emaciated skeleton so close was driving her up a wall.
With every ounce of her remaining strength, she reached up and brushed his pant leg. If he was so confident to get this close, surely he didn't know about her quirk. With just one touch, she won. And yet…
…Nothing happened.
His plague mask tilted as he studied her, nonplussed by her touch.
"Tell me everything I want to know and I'll leave you be. I'll call 'Rona and have him zip me back to Boss—and you can climb down this cliff once your quirk comes back. I'd rather not kill a girl like you if I don't have to." Nemoto said.
Her mouth dried out. When she spoke, it came with a coughing tilt she wasn't proud of.
"M-my quirk? Come back? When… h-how?"
Nemoto sighed. He reached down and tapped her between the eyes with his pistol. It was all she could do to let him.
"The Boss calls 'em quirk erasers, but it's a little presumptuous. Once we get our hands on a few key targets, we'll be able to make these babies permanent. But… as things stand… you've got five minutes. Really, you're helpless—and I think you're getting a damn good deal. You walk away with your life, my name, and maybe your dignity, if you play nice. So, please, make your concessions, and we won't have to move onto the next step. Though… with your behavior, I'm betting the boyfriend is the target. I'm placing my faith in your self preservation, you know. Don't fail me."
It was too much. Her chin fell to the side, and she retched onto Nemoto's large boot. Her world shifted with the effort, the axis of her center of balance doing flips. The blood pounding in her fingertips escalated to painful proportions.
Her quirk… it was like Mr. Aizawa wouldn't take his eyes off her. Vertigo didn't destroy her, like it did before, but her balance was shot. Without her quirk, something felt fundamentally broken in her body—more so than by quirk exhaustion, her equilibrium was gone. She'd always thought it was her quirk that attacked her sense of balance, but now, without it…
She realized her quirk was what constituted her center of balance. Uraraka tried to stand, she really, really did—but she got no further than her knees before she tasted dirt again. Behind her, Nemoto tsked.
"Ouch." He said, and she felt his eyes on her back as she struggled to sit up and face him. He hadn't moved from his crouch, but he had shaken his boot clean. "I see you're adjusting, but I'd like to move this along. We officers only have one quirk-erasing bullet each, you see, and we're about to hit the four minute mark. Hmm… Let's say if I don't get what I want by the time your quirk comes back, I'll murder you? Does that sound fair?"
Viridian hair, extraordinary kindness, incomparable competence. Midoriya flickered by her mind's eye again as Nemoto's threat settled deep in her gut.
Yes, she had a crush—but that wasn't a valid excuse for her sworn silence. Would she have revealed his identity if she hadn't liked him a little? Even then, she thought not. This man—this skeleton—was little more than a sociopathic abuser. Nothing good would come from agreeing with him—let alone when her friend's life might've been on the line. She didn't know why Midoriya was his target, but that didn't matter.
If it was just pain, Uraraka could resist it. If it was just nausea, she could make do. If it was both…
It didn't matter. There was no excuse to throw anyone under the bus. Not to these monsters. Not to this bastard.
"What are the strengths and weaknesses of your boy? What are the capabilities of his quirk? How could I identify him in a crowd?" Nemoto asked, his voice bulldozing her ears and sending fresh waves of pain through her skull. So she could feel pain again. Fantastic.
"W-we actually s-share a weakness…" Uraraka began, the words coming out before she could stop them. Nemoto leaned forward, interested. The dull fear in her gut shifted, hardening into something sharper, angrier. This man… he wanted honesty? She would give him that.
"We're compelled… to defy the odds…"
Pain, sharp, new—refreshing—exploded across her jaw as Nemoto struck her cheek. She collapsed onto her side, breathing heavily, but her eyes were steady and saw no stars.
Slowly, very, very slowly, she managed to sit back up. It was as difficult as anything she'd ever done. By all rights, she should've remained slumped, dead to the world. Yet, memories of Midoriya's competence, composure, and dedication burned in the back of her throat.
She looked Nemoto in the eyes, even as his fists balled and his shoulders shook. He struck her again, but this time, she managed to not fall.
"Tell me the truth, goddamnit! Nothing about you is special, hussy. You of all people won't resist my power—all my life, only morons, loonies, and the deaf have ever resisted my power. Do you know what that's like? When your own mother can't help but admit her disappointment in you? When I have to listen to every perverted, disgusting secret anyone has? Do you know what it's like to only be able to trust baked vegetables? You of all people won't be the first normal person to resist me. I fucking refuse."
He struck her again, and again. Nemoto tossed his pistol aside to better lay his hands on her. His questions never stopped, coming between blows to her face and chest. His anger never quenched, only rising at her every infuriating answer.
If it was pain, she could handle it. If it was for the sake of her friend.
She just didn't know for how long.
[x]
At the same time, Kyouka opened her eyes, knelt, and threw up.
The sludge's stench clung to her clothes, even after she tried wiping it away. It burned her nostrils horribly, but it was better than it had been moments ago, when the sludge shoved itself in her mouth and choked her.
It evaporated the moment her feet touched the ground again, but she couldn't help but shudder. There was no telling when it would come back.
As such, after allowing herself a brief micro-tantrum, she got to work. If she was on a time crunch, she wouldn't waste it.
She connected her ear-jack to her radio's aux port and began fiddling with the frequency. It was an odd exercise. At a young age, she learned she could use her ear-jacks to change radio stations. Unfortunately, it took her years before she learned to switch between the stations to what she wanted. In the beginning, it was a hail-mary.
Her parents loved her ability, but they weren't quite in love with how she changed the radio from their favorite station on a near-daily basis. They were rock-heads, and wouldn't listen to much else. Likewise, she had a taste for the finer drums herself—but that might not have come off when she was small.
The family stereo, when she was nearby, would often switch to pop-channels, then immediately pivot into jazz—and from there, it'd settle on the pre-quirk classics channel. Of course, the moment it changed from modern rock, she'd panic and try to fix it—but she was small. She hadn't memorized the stations like her mom had, nor was she as genre-literate as her father. And, of course, she was too short to reach the channel-changing knob.
Kyouka was eleven when they realized her emotions affected the radio frequency. Hope turned the dial higher, to pop channels. Then, panicking from changing the channel, the frequency would plummet to saxophone solos and trumpet quartets. Finally, guilt would level them out to pre-quirk classics.
There was a certain finesse to changing emotions on a dime. The easiest way, she figured, were memories. She dove into them, letting the memory's impression infuse her chest with a variety of feelings. From there, she could adjust with sheer will, and voila, she could change the radio with her ears alone.
So, once her radio was in her hands, she thought back to the puppy her mom recently adopted. She allowed her chest to expand with faux-happiness, and immediately saw the digitized radio-numbers spin upwards, skyrocketing. Shifting a headphone over her ear, she pressed a hand against it. Kyouka hoped that she might be able to catch the U.A.'s staff frequency, even if just a whisper.
Despite her efforts, she only received a buzz in return. The frequency was erratic here and even worse than it'd been towards the exit.
Still, she pushed through, and though it broke her heart, imagined her puppy's corpse. Instantly, the stations plummeted, and though white-static still filled her ears, it slowed, thinning out. Biting her lip, she began to let her anxiety run wild.
Her mind walked memory lane—and it didn't have to go far. She remembered the lead infusing her legs as the building came tumbling down, as that awful beast tried murdering her, as the rubble crushed Ibara and Reiko. The tense, thick moments before the intruder's arrival. Midoriya's abrupt scream. Almost escaping. Getting so, so close, only for an unavoidable foe to drag her kicking and screaming back.
The frequency rose, and despite her dwindling faith, she heard a click. Static quelled, giving to quiet, if bumpy audio.
"Hello?" Someone asked, and she nearly melted into a pool of tears on the spot. How? When? Was there a glitch in the jammer? Had Darkshadow's rampage broken something?
She did not, in fact, melt into a pool of tears. If her emotions wavered, the frequency would change. So, she steeled herself, and spoke as quickly as she could.
"Help! Villains are attacking the USJ and we're out of manpower! We need heroes, now!" Kyouka said, almost bumbling over her words with her urgency. Her lips were almost kissing her microphone, and she made a mental note to apologize later if she was too loud—but all at once, her stomach dropped.
There was no response. The frequency was dead. It didn't return to static, however, nor had she accidentally changed the channel. No, there was no response whatsoever—no static, no voice, no radio waves at all.
The weight in her hand wasn't there. Her radio was gone, and her earlobes hung loose and unused by her shoulders.
"Damn," a new voice said from behind her. The surprise almost gave her a heart attack as she spun around. "Almost got it, didn't ya? Real shame, real shame..."
Her feet tried to put distance between this man and herself, but her backside bumped into something round. Feeling behind her, she realized it was a steering wheel—and in her peripheral vision, she noticed a semi-circle panel of blinking lights.
She hadn't given any thought to her surroundings when the sludge evaporated. All along, she'd assumed she'd wound up in some sunny zone, free from the Ruins where she nearly died—but that was only half right. Yes, it was brighter here, and yes, there was no rubble to trouble her—but here, she was stranded.
Somehow, she'd arrived in the middle of a lake, in a yacht's cockpit. The lake zone revolved around them slowly as the ship drifted in circles.
The man was leaning a heavy elbow against the cockpit's threshold, not looking at her. In his hand, he tossed her radio up and down. His eyes tracked it and nothing else.
He was a tall man, with angular limbs and lanky proportions. Kyouka would have mistaken him for any office worker, if not for the off-putting vomit color of his shirt and his black crow mask. Despite his well-groomed blond hair, his eyes were red-rimmed with purple bags.
"G-give that back." Kyouka said, wrapping her fingers around the steering wheel. She squeezed, channeling her anxiety into her grip.
He stopped tossing the radio.
"No."
He continued tossing the radio.
"You see," he continued, as he paused to inspect the device. "It's such a thing. Of all the officers, I'm the one paired with you. Lucky, am I right?"
Kyouka said nothing, but this man didn't seem to mind.
"I'm Setsuno, capeesh? It doesn't really benefit me to tell you… but it's funny. It's not like you can radio out my name to the world, ya know?"
Setsuno reached out and flicked his wrist. Cold air shocked her ear as her headphones appeared in his hand. She checked to make sure her eyes weren't playing tricks on her. They weren't. He'd stolen her headphones right off her head, all without taking a step closer to her.
With a casual toss, he flung her headphones off the boat's starboard side.
"I doubt you kiddies have your phones, since you wouldn't be nearly as useful with your little radio. Still… Do you? Have your phone, I mean. 'Cause if you do, and you don't tell me…"
With one bony hand, he squeezed her radio. It sparked once, then crumpled like an aluminum can. It went the way of her headphones.
"Then this interrogation is going to turn ugly."
[x]
Shinso's ability to breath didn't grow much after the slime evaporated off him. The second the crap jumped off his tongue, he tried to drink in sweet, fresh oxygen—but he could not. Smoke choked his lungs, filling his nostrils with sulfur and brimstone.
Sweat trickled down his face as he dragged himself to his feet. The first thing he did, once he got his bearings, was assess the area. Of course, the first thing he noticed was the raging conflagration all around him. Flames of every hue burned, searing his vision with sunspots. The smoke choked him, but it wasn't debilitating—yet.
One thing he realized was that despite the wild nature of fire, these flames were rather… stagnant. They did not grow, they did not spread, they did not consume. For a millisecond, he almost wondered if they were illusions—but the suffocating heat corrected him quickly enough.
He felt around his person. His clothes were still in place, but his microphone came undone in the fall. Shinso found it hanging down his collar like a loose earbud. It was too hot for the adhesive to reapply, he thought, so he tucked it into his collar.
Through the smoke, he caught a glance of the wider USJ. He scowled. Shinso was almost on the exact opposite end of the exit, and he'd have to swing wide to get back. There was no way he could take the straight shot, given all those villains clustered around his teacher.
What would Aizawa even say, if he saw Shinso walk in from the opposite direction he'd run from? Would he be mad? Was it upsetting enough to have him expelled?
Looking at the Plaza, the mountain area was on his immediate left. On his immediate right was the lake area. He had a two-pronged choice, then: Climb the mountain or swim.
He stomped out a small ember next to his boot. Sweat dripped down his long bangs and darkened the dry dirt. The ground only retained the moisture for a breath before the sheer heat dried it out once again.
Oh yeah. He wanted to swim.
Shinso shook out the sand from his boots, turned, and began the march towards the Lake Zone. He could almost taste the cold delight of lake water.
He hoped it wasn't contaminated—or forbid it all, salt water.
Braving the street, he sprinted between burning buildings, only stopping when he could find clean places to breathe. The best place he found for oxygen were intersections—and luckily for him, he only needed to cross a few. The zone as a whole was smaller than the Ruins Zone—probably because the zone was a literal fire hazard. Or, the gas to maintain the flames was expensive.
He shuddered, imagining the gas prices. Even if the zone was smaller than the Ruins Zone, it was still bigger than two baseball fields put together, and 80% was on artificial-fire. His mother would've whooped him if he let the gas stove run for even ten minutes longer than necessary.
Taking two deep breaths, he savored the delicious oxygen. The final stretch had a far thicker flame, with even blacker smoke, but he would be fine. Shinso was quick on his feet, and so long as he kept the smoke out of his eyes and nose, he'd remain uninhibited.
So, despite the wall of heat and the dark smoke, Shinso plunged forward, intent on his own escape—and rammed chest-first into something hard. Before he even had a chance to reassess, five sharp objects grabbed him by the neck and tossed him backwards. He landed on one shoulder, hard, gasping for breath. Smoke stung his eyes and soiled his nostrils, scrambling his senses.
The first thing he did see, however, was a spark. Sitting back up, his shoulder felt light. One of his shoulder-speakers fell, cracked down the middle, and spilled its wire-guts onto the pavement.
Struggling to his feet, he felt around his neck, still confused. His hand came away wet and crimson, and left his neck stinging. Dirty, sooty hands felt around his neck, exasperating the pain long before he could really understand his issue.
Five skin-deep scratches bled freely down his neck. Four started under his right ear, flowing out in crescents that ended on his adam's apple. The fifth was on the opposite side, a little higher, and dragged down to meet the four in the middle.
"...W-what on e-earth…" Shinso asked himself, his voice thin and breathless. Each syllable irritated the scratches, but they were still skin deep. Not debilitating—just very painful. It was like he ripped his head free from a noose of thorns.
Two deep thuds interrupted his confusion, shaking loose bits of sand and concrete. From the smoke, a dark silhouette formed. It was tall, brought, and almost human—if not for the series of sharp protrusions dotting his shoulders and legs. Compared to the charcoal gray smoke, this shadow was near pitch black—and it only grew darker as more thuds grew closer.
Shinso knew he should run. A monster attack, here, would be the end of him. They didn't listen to his commands, he couldn't fight them, and he had no backup. If he ever cared about his life, he would do himself a favor and turn tail.
He didn't run, however. His legs turned to lead just as his throat burned and his shoulders shook. Something deep within him pinned him in place. Something primal.
The silhouette grew larger as the thuds—steps, he realized—slowed.
Something akin to shoulder guards hugged the giant's shoulders, and a spiked helm protected his head. Frayed spikes lined his thighs like tassels, and his shoes were heavy and pointed at the toe. It brought his mind back to his childhood, when mechazoids were his whole world.
The figure stepped through the smoke. His skin—if that's what it was—glew turquoise. It bulged around his muscles in sharp, crystalline edges. He wasn't nearly enough to be a mechazoid, but his silhouette did not lie. This was a tank—a green, crystalline tank—and he was looking right at Shinso. Not an inch of human skin was visible.
His crystal body dragged the smoke out with him, giving his form an indescribable shape beyond the basics of his armored skin.
"W-who are you?" Shinso asked, looking at the behemoth of a man. Brainwash jumped from his chest, settling around the man's ears in a pensive cloud. His crystal chin twitched and pointed to Shinso. Each crystal lining his neck grinding against one another like glass against glass. The screech only registered in his ears as dull. This was it.
If the man spoke, Shinso would be safe. If he didn't…
He waited with bated breath, his ears full of blood and anxiety and war. The crystal man stepped forward, separating himself from the smokey trails, and moved.
An explosion of crystal-darts shimmered behind the man as he blitzed forward. He seized Shinso by the throat. Brainwash faded, its effective timeframe met and conquered. When the crystal man spoke, not an ounce of Shinso's influence affected him.
"I'm Yu, and I'm looking for the strongest student."
[x]
"Fuck." Tomura said, spitting Johnny's foul taste out of his mouth. "I'm gonna rip that bugger apart."
He rose to his full height a moment later, a picture of serenity. At least, until a thick dollop of water landed squarely on his nose. Then another on his shoulder. Then one for his scalp.
His hand followed a calm arc, starting at his hip and ending at the full extension of his shoulder. With infinite care, he placed all five digits against the nearest tree. It cracked in half, groaning as it began to lean. A shadow covered his world as the tree's trunk grew closer, its fatal fall pointed directly at Tomura.
He made no effort to move as the tree fell dead onto his face. There was no pain as it crushed him—or rather, as it tried to. It burst into weightless, thin ashes the moment it met his nose. The gray remains fluttered around him, sliding off his body suit with the rain.
As soon as the tree was no more, the thick drops became a far thinner sprinkle. Though it was more frequent, the drops were so small that he didn't register them. Such was a necessity for his mental health.
Tomura took a breath and made note of his surroundings. If the other trees and ground foliage was anything to go by, he was in an artificial jungle. Of course, Johnny could teleport anyone nearly anywhere he wanted, and it was entirely possible Tomura was halfway across the planet—but he doubted that. The overhead sprinklers didn't exactly paint a picture of authenticity.
Closing his eyes, he took a breath. He imagined the air sucked down his throat into the fatal maw of his lung's bronchioles. There, they ripped the particles to shreds, absorbed the remaining oxygen, and expelled the rest in the following huff. When he opened his eyes, he was the picture of serenity once again. Thoughts of viridian boys or brown-cloaked birds were in the very back of his mind.
When his eyes settled on the real world, they traced the outline of the poor, poor fool assigned to his murder.
The fool's silhouette hung from a tree branch far above.
He was an ugly bastard, and Tomura couldn't even see his face. His chest was bare, but for a beige ring of fur circling his shoulders. A skinny pair of shorts covered his junk, thank god, and that was about it. Otherwise, his only accessory was his group-mandated mask.
"Hehe…" The man giggled, dropping down from the three he hung from. He landed gracelessly, but somehow unharmed. His fall must've been fifteen feet. "I'm S-s-sakaki…"
He hiccupped. Half standing from his fall, he reached around his back pocket and retrieved a flask. Popping open its cap, he smell of... hard liquor, he decided, assaulted his nose. Tipping the flask back, Sakaki swallowed a mouthful before replacing it on his side.
"H-hey…" Sakaki slurred, tilting his head this-way and that. "You d-don't… look much l-like a student, eh…?"
Tomura was a picture of serenity. The corners of his lips crept to the limits of his jaw. Cold air brushed his molars. Sakaki didn't even blink—not that Tomura could see his eyes.
"I got held back a year. Gym credits."
Sakaki hiccuped, glanced at his flask, and shrugged.
"Totally… I never passed P.E. either, you know..? Or… well… a-any class, for that matter…"
He couldn't seem to help himself, Tomura noticed. Sakaki took another swig of his drink. A happy sigh escaped his lips.
Then, out of nowhere, a horrible nausea crept through Tomura's gut. Sakaki giggled, and the sensation twisted, invading his intestines and turning his organs against him. Each screamed out in discomfort, crying out for mercy—but Tomura didn't so much as blink. He raised an eyebrow. The world around him began to warp, elongating and scrunching around the edges.
Was this the limits of Sakaki's quirk?
"W-where—" Sakaki began, pausing to hiccup. "C-could… I find the strongisht one? The… real beast…? Boss… Boss's orders, ya know?"
"You mean Green? The one who fought off all your artificial nomus?"
Sakaki barked out a laugh as he perked up.
"Yes! Boss wants the special one, the really, really strong one! You'll tell me where he is?"
Tomura's smile didn't waver.
Even as he blitzed forward faster than Sakaki could react, he was smiling. Seizing Sakaki by the neck, he lifted the man and slammed him into the jungle floor. Cracks spread from his neck, stealing the scream from his throat, but not the surprise—and fear—from his eyes.
"Look straight up in fifty to sixty years." Tomura said, feeling a small trickle of blood roll down his chin. His smile split his lip again. "He'll be in the dead opposite place you'll be."
A moment later, Sakaki's tense body went limp, then crumbled inwards and fell apart. Tomura's tummy ache faded.
Tomura wiped his hands clean from Sakaki's dust. Really, after All for One's invasive sensory deprivators, nausea was the least effective attack on his nervous system.
A silver glimmer caught his eye before he walked away. Scooping Sakaki's flask from the ground, he unscrewed the cap and took a whiff. Tomura didn't have a clue what he drank—but it burned going down, and he felt it in his toes a minute later.
Tossing the now-empty flask aside, he pushed through the foliage, following the sounds of war as a battle raged in the Plaza. Geten's ice made a lot of noise, and he doubted the Overhaul battle had moved far from his subordinate. That only left two questions on his mind: First, where was Himiko? He hadn't asked for her to join his team, 'Destro assigned her to him personally. Second…
Where did Johnny take Green?
[x]
AN: at this point, i've been awake for twenty three and a half hours. i can't think of an authors note
sorry for pacing. am having fun. peace
review!~