Shadowing Whirlwind was a stressful experience. It was only by a miracle Kyouka didn't lose her lunch. His winds were wild—alive in their own way, and never let her sit still for long. When they weren't carrying her places, they spun her. When she wasn't spinning, she was rising and falling to an inaudible rhythm.
Each gust had its own personality. Some were sharp, some chipper, some soft and warm. Some smelled of mud and sulfur, others brimstone and citrus. Whirlwind commanded thousands, creating a substantial spectrum. If Kyouka closed her eyes, she could imagine wandering through his quirk's storm, greeting and getting to know each gust for a thousand years.
Her eyes traced the outline of Whirlwind's shoulders. He seemed a bit shy of eighty. Seventy-five years. It only took him seventy-five years to become this storm's master.
Whirlwind took her across the USJ, flying high and fast. A small, constant pressure on her shoulder staunched her bleeding. Once she voided her lungs of lingering water and Whirlwind confirmed she was otherwise well, they left. The man did not bother to sweep the area for Setsuno. His sights set on the far more important target.
They arrived in the Plaza faster than she expected. At the speeds they flew, she would've expected her skin to peel off her face—but all she felt was a small pressure.
Her feet did not touch the ground, but Whirlwind's did. She kicked and swung her good arm like a fool, but she remained stationary—borderline trapped. Before she could voice a complaint, the old man spared her a single glance.
"Have some faith."
Her kicks slowed to a stop.
He returned his attention to the Plaza, and she decided not to question him. An artificial calm overcame her, born on the memory of new headphones and deep bass. Her emotions cooled over, even as her heart rate spiked and she noticed the Plaza floor. Blood was everywhere, splattered like a paint bomb went off. It mixed with mud, giving the surroundings a purplish-brown pattern. The pristine, beige brick from before was unrecognizable.
Kyouka's eyes slid over the gore, barely registering it. She did not allow herself to linger—at least, until she saw the body. At first, she didn't recognize them—blue hair, male build, somewhat tall—but then her mind's eye returned to 1A's great escape. This man was the same one to leap from the USJ's opening, freefalling some thirty feet. The one to crumble the concrete face with a touch.
He was missing an arm. His chest rose and fell with weak pumps, timed with the occasional drip of blood from his stump. Above him, bent over and breathing like an overheated dog, was Overhaul.
Perhaps it was the artificial calm that kept her lunch inside—or maybe it was shock. Still, despite her growing unease, one question ballooned in her mind.
"Who is this?" Whirlwind asked, his voice an octave deeper than when he spoke to her. Overhaul jerked, straightening his posture and stepping away from the downed man.
"Scum." Overhaul said, his voice dripping with a venom she'd only heard echos of previously. When he'd arrived and cursed the quirk that brought him here, his tongue was foul. Now, it was downright acidic, right alongside the worst Ashido could produce. "But my scum. Fly, you old vulture, and I'll leave with my prize."
Kyouka's eyes returned to the scum Overhaul spoke of. His bleeding slowed, but it wasn't in death. Her hair rustled as one of Whirlwind's gusts left his side to staunch the man's bleeding.
"Young bird," Whirlwind rumbled, eyeing the body. "Your name suits you. I leave him a moment longer, and your prize would be for the scavengers. Where is Eraserhead? This man is not one of ours, and Eraser would not leave the care of his students in his hands. He is far too green."
"I put him down just like this bastard at my feet. With him gone, there's nothing here that can stop me. Stand down."
The wind playing with the fringe of her bangs settled. Her clothes ceased rustling, though she remained aloft. Sucking in a breath was a chore, like trying to drink a firm milkshake. Existing around Whirlwind was like swimming in molasses.
"You killed Eraserhead?"
"So it seems."
Kyouka floated down. Her socks met the ground.
"Then you are a threat of immense magnitude."
The half-dead man lifted off the ground and slid away from Overhaul's feet. He settled at Kyouka's. Immediately, she bent down to check his pulse. She found a weak one amidst cold, sandpaper-like skin. Checking his right shoulder, she felt the bundle of thick wind keeping the blood loss at bay. Her stomach undertook a third challenge when she noticed the bloodied bone peaking out of his ravished upper arm.
Glancing up at Whirlwind, she frowned. Though he had thousands of winds at his disposal, if he were to somehow falter…
She glanced at her own shoulder. They would both be in bad shape.
Before her stomach twisted out of place, she cooled her anxiety. Have some faith, she reminded herself. Reading under the warm sun.
"You'll die if you fight me, old man. You're two generations out of your prime." Overhaul said, snapping his fingers. A bright spark jumped from his fingers and up his arm, spreading through his body. The light passed as fast as it came, and with it, Overhaul stood straighter.
"You started as Yakuza, no? Aren't you five generations out?" Whirlwind replied, his cape not waving an inch. He cracked his neck. Not even a hair fell out of place.
"The Yakuza have never been stronger than under me. Our might is weightier than any of our progenitors, Yakuza or otherwise."
"Perhaps," Whirlwind said, before taking a step to the side. Kyouka's eyes shot open—without his massive frame blocking the way, she could see that there was a second body. This one wore a silver cloak, stained crimson around the heart, and its chest did not rise. It lay crumpled a few feet behind and to the side of Overhaul. Overhaul stood between the body and Whirlwind, and stepped in tune with Whirlwind, maintaining that wall. It was not enough.
"But your might is not heavier than the atmosphere."
It was like a bomb went off—or like a meteor crashed into earth. An invisible force, larger than a duplex, crushed the Plaza. Overhaul screamed and vanished from view, falling into the deep crater of Whirlwind's creation. Kyouka stumbled to her feet and wobbled forward, peering over the now-ledge. Some four meters down, Overhaul lay spread-eagle out next to the silver-adorned corpse. Even if she wanted to, she couldn't have gotten closer. The air was so thick above the crater that she wondered if there was an invisible steel wall erected between them.
Beside her, Whirlwind had both hands out, fingers curled and nails straining against the fabric of the world. She felt a little light headed, standing next to him. A small breeze was brushing the back of her head as more and more oxygen pooled into the crater, creating more and more pressure. Cracks began to form around Overhaul, and Kyouka just barely heard the sounds of a groan.
She wasn't much of a mythology nerd, but she couldn't help but imagine Atlas at her side, massaging his shoulders. He had dropped the very sky onto Overhaul.
"You head the underworld, little crow," Whirlwind said, a new edge to his voice. "But can you bear the weight of the heavens?"
She didn't think Overhaul could hear him. With all the wind surrounding them, he might as well have been whispering. Regardless, he didn't seem to care.
He didn't spare her a glance. Instead, a gust pushed her away from the crater's border and towards the injured man.
"Get him to treatment, Cadet. All of mine know first-aid, and they should be here any moment." He said, just loud enough for her to hear. Nodding to herself, she stepped toward the body and contemplated how she'd do such a thing—but before she even got half-way there, the world brightened.
Spinning around, she just barely caught the sight of a brilliant-white beacon erupting from the crater's center. A scream slipped through the wind, but it wasn't Whirlwind's, nor one of his more willful gusts. It was deep and baritone and muffled—Overhaul's, layered with another's.
A monster leapt from the crater and punched Whirlwind. The old man went flying, and Kyouka's ears popped. All the pressurized air above the crater rushed outward, sending waves of vertigo through her as she squeezed her eyes closed.
It was only thanks to her enhanced hearing that she knew she was about to die. The same monster that attacked Whirlwind rushed towards her, a double-layered roar echoing through the Plaza. Opening her eyes, she saw its form in detail for half a second before a wind blast threw it some fifty feet away.
A hand crept up to her face. She blinked, and the monster's visage remained around her central vision, imprinted like a sunspot. Black streaks ran across Overhaul's face, fuzing his mask and jaw just as a second pair of arms fuzed to his ribcage. Rippling, raw muscles bulged in his shoulders.
The same roar—louder, more pained, further away—echoed around the Plaza. A flash of brown and gray appeared before her, revealing a recovered Whirlwind with no visible damage. The only hint of disturbance was one previously slicked-back hair hung down to his mid-cheek.
"Go!" He said, and she listened. Wind gathered around the injured man's legs, lifting him with her help like a stretcher. She managed to carry him away, her mind set on the Ruins Zone.
Sounds of a terrible war echoed around the Plaza like a battle of thunder-deities. Though she tried to put them out of her mind, Whirlwind and Overhaul's voices were far too powerful to ignore—especially with her enhanced hearing.
"You're defending a murderer, old man! That crippled, sad thing is nothing more than a spiteful killer. Look at me. Look at me, Whirlwind! Look what he's made me become!"
She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to forget the way Overhaul's mask looked welded onto his face.
"Don't shirk the consequences, newbie! I've seen dozens of children like you come and go—but I've never seen one so desperate in my long life. All you are is all you choose to be, and you've chosen monstrosity. So I will put you down, monster!"
Have some faith, Kyouka reminded herself. Though Whirlwind's power kept her wound from debilitating her, it couldn't stop the pain. It burned with her efforts, and she almost dropped the injured man more than once.
Staring at him, however, she felt her heart reach out to him. If she was in pain, she loathed to imagine his own ache. He was like Midoriya now, if not his mirror reflection. The sheer pain he must be feeling must've been magnitudes beyond her understanding.
When she stumbled into the Ruins Zone, she almost cried in relief. Though the sounds of war still echoed in her sensitive ears, the occasional building blocked out the sheer volume. Her ankle almost twisted on a stray rock, but she was grateful. Without the constant pressure of battle on her ears, she could relax a little.
With that relaxation, however, came the flood of feelings adrenaline washed from her mind.
Overhaul killed her teacher. Or ripped his arm off. Or both, probably. Her lips pursed as her eyes took in the injured man's stub. Nausea gripped her guts and battled for dominance. Its opponents were not easily cowed, however. Grief and fear were worthy adversaries to the end, and their battle was nearly as climactic as Whirlwind and Overhaul's.
What would happen now? If U.A. wasn't safe, and Mr. Aizawa was gone… would this be the place for her? Without her safety, without a teacher… could this ever be a place for her? Shiketsu wasn't an option for her, so if U.A. was out of the picture… was she even a hero student, anymore?
Her questions came to a screeching halt as something screamed in the Plaza, and the gale holding the injured man dispersed. Likewise, his shoulder exploded into a gorey mess as the wind holding in his blood fell apart. With it, the ache in her shoulder tripled. She couldn't help but drop the man, but she wasn't so self-absorbed as to let his skull crack against the stones. Kyouka managed to catch his head, but fell in the process.
A shock of pain tore through her shoulder, and a warm trickle dripped down her chest. Her own blood fell to the ground, mixing and enlarging a growing pool around the man's shoulder.
She tried to grab his shoulders and haul him up, but she didn't have the strength. Even with her uninjured arm, she couldn't lift him—and now that she freely bled, even that well of power dwindled. So, she did all she could do.
Kyouka cradled the man's head in her lap and pressed her earjacks against his ribs.
Ba… dumpt.
…
Ba…
…
Ba… …dumpt.
It took a good few seconds of struggling, but she managed to shrug off her jacket. It was an awkward, painful ordeal she undertook with only a functional arm, but once she finished, she pressed the faux-leather against the man's injury. Kyouka doubted it would do much, but…
If this man lost a single heartbeat that he could've had thanks to her negligence, she would never forgive herself.
Ba… … dumpt.
The sound of Whirlwind's battle faded as her attention settled more and more on this man's chest. His weak, inconsistent heartbeats grew less and less common. Her jacket soaked through in a matter of seconds, but she kept up the pressure. She couldn't just let him die.
She hadn't been able to help her friends, to help Mr. Aizawa… but she would help this man.
Kyouka shivered, her now exposed skin growing colder with her blood loss.
Maybe it was the hollow quality of her skull, or the wooden, numb sensation in her chest—but when gravel crunched behind her, she didn't react.
"Oh, you poor thing," a familiar voice said, ripping her dull thoughts free of their fugue. Twisting as far as she could with the man in her lap, her jaw nearly hit the floor.
Aizawa took another step toward her, wiping something from his lower lip. He took three bouncing steps toward her and crouched down. His hand brushed the area around her wound, each finger a study in grace.
It took her a moment to find her voice.
"Y-you're… alive?"
He gave her a soft smile, and she almost cried. Something ugly squirmed in her chest, something embarrassing.
"Chisaki could never take me out, I've got you kids to protect. Why is—Who… is that in your… lap?"
In a jolt, she remembered the man in her lap. Focusing on her ears, she managed to find his heartbeat once again—but only just barely. It was little more than a whisper.
"I… I don't know. He's…"
She didn't dare remove her jacket, but by shifting aside one sleeve, it was obvious what the man lacked. Aizawa sucked in a breath as he noticed the blood. He didn't say anything for a moment—one which dragged on as Kyouka waited for another heartbeat to come. It did, eventually, but only after a good few seconds.
At long last, Aizawa wrenched his gaze from the pool of blood. With quick, deft fingers, he reached for her jacket's sleeves. Finding both ends, he wrapped them around the injured man's neck in a sort of bandage-sling, then pushed her away. Kyouka stumbled back, confused, as Aizawa lifted the injured man into his arms bridal-style. Tilting his head forward, he took a deep, slow inhale.
Something squirmed in her chest again, but it wasn't embarrassment.
Almost as if just remembering she was there, Aizawa's eyes shot open and met hers.
"You should go. Your nearest buddy is southeast. Keep that…" Aizawa paused, wetting his upper lip with his tongue. "...Scratch covered."
Kyouka glanced down at her pink t-shirt, counting the holes. Even if she tore it apart and made it a makeshift bandage, it was too nicked and thin to staunch anything. Hissing in pain, she pressed her bare palm against her wound. Looking up, she checked for Aizawa's confirmation that she was doing it right, but she was alone.
Aizawa, and the injured man with him, were gone.
Before she could even process that, a second, much heavier pair of footsteps crunched the gravel beside her.
"Jirou? Jirou!"
Spinning to face this new, somewhat familiar voice, her mind slammed to a halt.
Thirteen, her fishbowl helmet cracked, held a limp Aizawa in her arms. Wrapped around his stomach were a dozen loops of gauze, pristine except for the single crimson stain over his navel.
"Oh thank goodness you're alright, sweetheart…" Thirteen said, wheezing as she stomped up to her. Kyouka looked between the hero and her teacher, her mind running a mile a minute. "I found him bandaged and alone, so I thought someone must've hidden him away before Overhaul caught them… but thank goodness it wasn't you."
Thirteen stretched Aizawa out onto the ground, her bulky shoulders shaking with effort. Kyouka only watched, her tongue drier than month-old meat. She tried to wet her throat, but it was like she was choking on a sponge. Her mind went blank, her emotions spilling out with the tears building in her eyes. No good memories could staunch the swell of confusion and nausea and sheer grief in her chest.
"W-what… h-h-how… who is this?" She asked, unable to stop how wet her cheeks grew.
Thirteen stiffened, the crack in her helmet tilting toward her. Though Kyouka couldn't see her whole face, she recognized her beauty for what it was.
She'd always respected Thirteen, but she hadn't known what she looked like. Now knowing that she wasn't just competent and dangerous, she was also beautiful, was like a wake-up call to her system. Her tears paused, her confusion ebbed, and she looked back the way her Aizawa came. No hint of him ever being there revealed itself. It was like he'd sank into the very shadows.
"He… Someone was just with me, who looked exactly like Aizawa…"
Before Thirteen could say anything, Aizawa coughed. With his current condition, it was no more powerful than a kitten's sneeze, but both women leaned over him with immediate concern. Kyouka filed away the impossible interaction for later, and instead focused on the wounded man below her. Like with the first man, she slipped his head into her lap, and focused on Aizawa's face as his eyes fluttered and he worked his jaw.
His lips made shapes she couldn't recognize, but Thirteen made a small gasp.
"Someone took your blood? Like… drank it?"
Kyouka did a double take at Thirteen's interpretation, but before she could elaborate, a blast of wind kicked up dust all throughout the Ruins Zone—
—and the whole USJ along with it.
[x]
With his left hand, he depressurized the air below Overhaul, and with his right, he increased the pressure above him. The effect was immediate. Sheer pressure slammed Overhaul into the ground with enough force to crack it—and when Yamato released his control, the exact opposite happened. The high-pressure air converged on the lowest-pressure spot.
Which just so happened to be the center of Overhaul's chest. All of the USJ's atmosphere crashed into his spine at once, and blood spilled. His chest cleaved in two, the tear unclean and uneven. Without lungs, no scream came, and Yamato only had the destruction of flesh to listen to. It was not a song he enjoyed.
The force flung his destroyed body straight into the sky, his ragdoll an ugly mess of gore and flailing limbs. Tracking Overhaul's flight, Yamato paused, feeling a wave of nostalgia hit him. He'd done the same thing to a similar young woman a few decades ago after she took an orphanage hostage. Really, he hadn't even lifted a finger after depressurizing the air—all it took was letting the world's natural forces do what they naturally did.
Instead of landing in a pile of undercooked spaghetti, however, Overhaul's flight did not mimic that young woman's. At his ascension's apex, the man thrashed in a dying rage, and his entire body flashed in a brilliant beacon of light.
His decade of military service was the only thing that kept him from rolling his eyes. Wind built up around Yamato's ears, his gusts whispering their complaints. Overhaul was a cliche to them, these days.
When the light faded, Overhaul's second pair of arms disappeared and his bulging deltoids shrunk. With a laugh, twin fleshy wings sprouted from his shoulders. In one great flap, Overhaul remained airborne.
The winds hovering around his shoulders nearly laughed. Palm-out, he lowered his right hand and made a fist. With no air to lift himself up, Overhaul fell with a surprised scream, and he met the ground at meteoric speed.
Overhaul flashed into a bright beacon right as Yamato floated over, his mangled form melting back into his hulking, monstrous silhouette. When the light died, Yamato crossed his arms and waited. Overhaul struggled to his feet, nearly slipping on a pile of ash and dust. His beak-like apparatus groaned with the effort of filtering all the kicked-up dust.
It felt amazing to cut loose like this. He hadn't fought anyone so durable in decades.
In the corner of his vision, he watched an adjacent battle develop. An ice-quirk wielder, presumably some inborn Himura, battled one of Overhaul's men. Theirs was a similar exchange to Overhaul and Yamato's—total, explicit domination. His and the inbred dog's opponents were under their heels.
Looking down on the man, Yamato let loose a question plaguing his mind since Aizawa's Cadet left with Overhaul's victim.
"Why are you still fighting? It seems this operation was a massive failure on your end. I've killed you… roughly four times. Seems to me you've only managed to kill one person."
"Two of my targets are beyond me, but that's fine! I can lower myself to grunt work from time to time, as well. So long as I stand, my men will have time to find the final target."
"Stand?" Yamato asked, before chopping his wrist across his chest palm-up.
A blade of wind slashed across Overhaul's knees, bisecting them with atomic precision. He fell like a puppet with cut strings, but he did not scream.
Something tingled in his left bicep. His instinct was to shake out the sensation, but to show weakness during his display of power was as foolish as anything. Overhaul seemed too prideful to scream, but even a warlord like himself could not suppress his groan.
"Five. Who is your final target?"
Overhaul snarled at him and used his quirk to fuse his legs back together. When that light faded, Yamato noted how some of his muscle mass diverted to his legs. Smart. Well, he couldn't say this young thug didn't learn from his mistakes. Unfortunately, he doubted this man had many more chances to make those mistakes.
"Like I'd tell an old man my business! You'll just have to figure that out after your headcount comes up short."
Yamato narrowed his eyes. He reached out his left hand, intending to squeeze the information out of the impudent child's throat. It was somewhat good that Aizawa's Cadet wasn't here to see him do this. However, instead of his fingers curling into a claw-grip, they remained soft and limp. The space beneath his fingernails felt somewhat hollow, and moments later, pins and needles prickled his palm.
Overhaul stared at his left hand with trepidation, even as he lowered it back to his side. With his other hand, he reached up to his ear and tapped on the communicator. Ignoring a growing pain in his armpit, he tried to contact his Cadets. Instead of their voices, however, all he heard was the crackle of static.
Returning his gaze to Overhaul, he lowered himself closer to the ground.
"Where is your scrambler? How or who is doing this?"
Overhaul did not move for a moment, as if transfixed by the question. His young eyes—so full of malice and energy—flicked down and up Yamato's form. They settled a little lower than his feet, on an odd-looking earthen scar.
"You'll never find it. The man holding it can only be reached with a jackhammer."
Yamato didn't even give him a second. As soon as the word "jackhammer" left Overhaul's lips, he barked out a clipped chortle. Though he didn't find it funny, the tactic left Overhaul squirming, and as such it was worth it—even though the effort sent a stabbing pain through his lung.
He crossed his arms again, putting comforting pressure on his chest.
"So it's—" Yamato paused, swallowing as another stab of pain pierced his chest. "—The cement-man hiding in the walls."
Overhaul's eyes narrowed.
"Of course. You'd have to tear down the whole facility to suss him out."
Yamato remembered a time some ten, maybe fifteen minutes ago when Cadet Setsuna noticed a discrepancy with the USJ building's exterior. He sent Hawks to let the main office know and left with his kids in a hurry. He'd left behind Cadets Monoma and Yoarashi to care for the injured 1A students outside—but before he left, a girl stopped him. She had long, vine-like hair, and if his memory served well, bore the name Shiozaki Ibara. Through all the happy tears and scared kids, she alone stepped up to warn him.
She'd told him of three mysterious men and the living wall of USJ. When Yamato arrived, however, there was no living wall and no men. He took his cadets through a gap with no issue, but before they moved on, the entire structure shifted.
The wall melted like wax behind them, and the gap closed. Like a waking, furious rubberhose dragon, a face formed. It had cartoonish features and exaggerations—almost like sculpted by a child. Yamoto left behind Cadet Todorok to handle it. In fact, when he looked left, that battle still raged. Giant stone hands grew from the wall to swat his cadet, but with little success.
Walls of ice blocked the stone punches and pillars of flame kept cartoonishly sharp teeth at bay. When the half-liquid cement hands swung too far in any direction, Cadet Todoroki froze them in place, then cut them with ice blades. Already, massive piles of liquid cement were drying around their battlefield.
Overhaul's gaze followed his own, and his eyes shot wide open. Theirs was a fierce fight, but not intense. His cadet could handle him.
That meant that he'd identified three of the four unknowns. Yamato saw with his own two eyes the mangled, foreign body under Overhaul, and commanded Aizawa's Cadet to retrieve him. Even now, he could see the Inbred's battle, though it was growing quiet and further away by the moment. Of course, all his kids saw the cement-man. That left the third stranger Cadet Ibara saw.
Unknowns were dangerous in all situations. Unknown variables, unknown people—be them noble or vile—and unknown pains forcing his teeth to clench—they were all dangerous. He would need to keep his eyes sharp for any strange, unseen men.
Something tickled the back of his calves. With his still-nimble hand, he reached behind himself and took a handful of his cape, stopping its occasional flaps. Gusts pressed against the long, bullet-proof fabric. He tried to quiet them, but the action only half-worked. The gusts slowed, but no matter what he did, his cape didn't stop fluttering entirely. When he released his cape, his hand came away shaking.
Was this…?
A familiar gale snaked under his chin and coiled around his ear. It vibrated something short in his ear before leaping back into the slipstream, joining the collective that hovered behind him.
Folding both hands over his chest, he decided to keep them there.
"Are you really the general of these troops, little bird?" Yamato asked, after their silence dragged.
Overhaul glowered at him. With the black streaks of semi-organic carbon carving his face into a maze-like grid, the expression carried a unique weight. With his vicious beak-mask and bulging muscles, he was hardly a small bird—but Yamato couldn't help it. He simply looked…
Silly.
"Of course. They are unquestionably obedient and live to serve me. Each would gladly give their lives for my cause. Their bodies, if need be."
Some of the edge in his voice faded. Overhaul's clawed hand ghosted over his corded, unnatural forearm. Yamato wondered if the silver cloaked man—the one Overhaul wore like organic armor—was more than just a subordinate. He wondered how he died.
Crimson blood and powdery blue-and-black hair crossed his mind.
"Scum, then." Yamato muttered. Overhaul was not privy to his thoughts, however, and his reaction to Yamato's utterance was as physical as any. He stumbled back, his eyes widening for a fraction before narrowing. With his glare in full cooperation with his modified face, he became the picture of hate.
"Damn you! You'd never understand!" He said, his voice echoed by the roar of his absorbed companion. Reaching down, the ground—and the ash littering its surface, exploded into bright light. The sheer brightness was greater than anything Yamato saw until then, and caution sent him flying very, very high into the sky. Pain surged through his ribs, but he ignored it for the sake of retaining his life. From the radiant ground below emerged a monster on a totally new scale.
New organic mass surrounded Overhaul like a twin-limbed mecha. Between each muscle was the border of living, shining stone. The new Overhaul, nearly the size of an apartment building, soared into the sky like a nuclear-powered rocket ship. His shoulders hit the ceiling, cracking the USJ's dome even more. When he moved, he took much of the ceiling with him.
A fist the size of a garbage truck screamed towards Yamato's face. He avoided it by displacing a great deal of air, sending him flying to Overhaul's blindspot. Willing a building-sized blade of wind between his hands, he tried to slice straight through the organic mecha—but Overhaul wasn't just powerful—his new form was fast.
The most demonic back-hand of Yamato's career slammed into his shoulder. His old bones only stayed intact by the eight feet of cushioned air pressure—and even then, just barely. Yamato went flying, tumbling through the air as he tried to stabilize his flight—but for whatever reason, his control was slipping. It took him a second longer than it should've to stop his flight.
He blinked, trying to regain his barings. His vision hadn't abandoned him in age, but a concussion might be enough to give him readers for his remaining days.
When Yamato came to, he found himself some ten meters above a ferocious battle in the muddy Landslide Zone. Looking down, he spotted Cadet Bakugo exchanging explosion for explosion with an ugly ginger man. Before he could call out to them, however, Overhaul caught up. He leapt across the USJ in some forty meter jumps, nearly flying. On his second leap, he was back in range to destroy Yamato.
Before any more blows could rattle his skeleton, Yamato made his counter attack. Smaller, but significant, wind blades fired over his shoulders by the dozen, slicing into Overhaul's flesh-and-stone mecha—but it wasn't enough. The cuts weren't going as deep as they should've.
The only sign Yamato saw that Overhaul even noticed them were the flickers of light indicating Overhaul healing them over as Yamato inflicted them. Reaching both hands out on either side of Yamato, Overhaul tried to crush him with a clap. As fast as he could, he created a vacuum below his feet and let his body be pulled towards it. The method was just quick enough to avoid the blow—but his ears weren't so lucky. Overhaul's clap was louder than thunder, and left his old ears squirming uncomfortably on his skull's flanks.
It was only a brief moment later that Whirlwind realized his winds hadn't caught him. The ground hurtled towards him faster than Whirlwind prepared for. He was about to expend a great galeforce to survive his fall, but when he reached for his personal atmosphere, it wasn't there. No scream left his lips as he fell, but fear surged through him all the same.
A sudden weight crashed into his side mere seconds before impact.
Blinking, his old eyes took a second longer than normal to recognize his savior.
"What the fuck are you doing? Get a grip, old fart!" Cadet Bakugo said, screaming over the sound of the explosions propelling them back into the sky. It was an awkward ascension, given Whirlwind was nearly twice the boy's height, but he commended the relative success of the save. "Go!"
With that said, he threw Yamato back into the sky with a heavy explosion. Like an arrow, Yamato soared through the air, forming a vortex of twisting oxygen above his head. Slamming his hands into his thighs, a second burst of speed brought him speeding even faster towards Overhaul's falling core. Like a torpedo, he spun face-first at Overhaul's chest, then through it.
The oxygen vortex tore through Overhaul's core like a hot knife through butter. When Yamato came out on the other side, Overhaul—the man—came with him. Or at least, most of him did. His legs and natural right arm might've been left behind in the flesh mecha—something which began falling with tremendous inertia.
"No! Screw you! Fuck outta 'ere!" A voice screamed—but it wasn't his own. Cadet Bakugo screamed something else, but Yamato wasn't listening. His everything—his mind and body and spirit—they all focused on one objective: choking slamming this tri-amputated punk into pure concrete with all the force of a four-story fall.
Overhaul's eyes stared into his own as they fell, pure hate and pain radiating from his pupils like demonic lava pits. They never closed, not even when they were mere meters from impact.
Before they hit, however, Cadet Bakugo screamed one last thing, and pain surged straight in Yamato's heart. Heat and fire and electricity and a viscous, barbed spear tore through his chest. Unforgiving and unrelenting, the pain stole the strength from his fingers and palms and knees. His power went with it.
The winds that protected him, propelled their fall, and kept Overhaul frozen solid went loose as Whirlwind went into cardiac arrest. Just as that pain smote his chest like a flaming sword, a golden light burned through his retinas—but it wasn't Overhaul's brilliant white light.
A golden barrier erected around Overhaul, separating them and sending Whirlwind off-course while Overhaul remained airborne. Yamato did not have the time to question where the Himura went, and why his opponent was here, free. Overhaul floated down gently, while for the second time that day, Yamato found himself hurtling down in an uncontrolled descent. The only difference being, Bakugo's alarmed scream came from half-way up the Landslide Zone.
He would not catch Yamato in time.
Time seemed to slow, though Yamato didn't know if that was thanks to the pain deep in his ribs or the mortal peril he faced. He decided on the heart attack—mortal peril was a foe he faced everyday.
The ground came up to meet him, and Yamato resigned himself to an instant death. Falling face first in his age wouldn't just result in a broken neck—it would result in a cracked smashed and scattered brain.
There was no sound. He only just barely saw the hint of gray and purple and red and green. It was an ugly, inconsistent blur, really—the stroke of a dirty brush over a brown canvas. The blur moved without inhuman speed—it was sluggish, really. Not the least of which was due to the girl slung over his shoulder. Carrying her alone must've exhausted him.
The dirty blur dived head-first below Yamato's point of impact. He landed on his back, cushioning the girl's fall with himself before shoving her away. She rolled over, unconscious, and his lips parted in a silent, unheard scream.
A moment later, Yamato's world turned viridian green. The boy exploded into a green cloud, and its rapid expansion pressed against Yamato's descent with enough force to slow him. When Yamato hit the ground, he landed half-on-top the boy and with all the inertia of a feather. It was all he could do to roll off the boy, and then he was limp.
His heart was like a purring engine—rapid and weightless and quiet. Each breath was a struggle—a battle for lakefront property, but the depths were no deeper than his ankles. Shallow, unsatisfactory pumps of oxygen filtered through his system. Worst yet, the green smoke that saved him also blinded him.
Beside him, the boy who saved him coughed up a veritable puddle of blood. Raising a trembling forearm deprived of all reasonable strength, the boy let the limb flop to his side. With its motion, the whole cloud flew away, revealing the world in full clarity.
If Yamato wasn't dying, he might've congratulated such a feat. The boy did not get up again—though he did shuffle a little closer to the girl's body. Cadet Setsuna, a quiet part of his mind offered.
This was Izuku Midoriya, the same part of his mind noted. The one cheated out of his Z spot.
Yamato spent the next few moments musing on how this situation would've turned out if Nedzu never snubbed him.
With all his strength, Yamato sat up, and witnessed something awful.
Overhaul's golden bubble popped, spilling him onto the floor with careful grace. He was a bloody ragdoll—even more shredded than when Yamato nearly tore him in half. Behind him was the bruised, disheveled form of another man—the robed individual who fought the Himura.
This newcomer came with reverent trepidation, kneeling over Overhaul's torso with the care of a wetnurse.
"Overhaul, sir… you'll be alright…"
Reaching behind his belt, he withdrew a… monster. It was an ugly little thing and he placed it beside Overhaul's head while he worked. Placing his hand over Overhaul's face, three small barriers erected over the nubs of his destroyed limbs. Immediately, they filled with blood like fishbowls, but they did not spill. Yamato watched as Overhaul's remaining fingers clawed into the mud, tearing deep grooves. Hives grew out, spreading up his palm and into the shadows of his wrist.
"Don't worry, sir, I-I'll get Johnny to bring us home… We can try again another day…"
Yamato tried to speak, to warn the man above Overhaul, but he was too late.
Right as the robed man reached over to grab what Yamato presumed to be "Johnny," Overhaul moved. His hand snapped up and snagged the man's elbow.
"S-sir?"
Overhaul's hand began to glow.
"W-wait, hol—Sir? Sir, please, no! Please, stop! No—"
His request went ignored. In a bright flash, the robed man turned into photons, fell against Overhaul's prone form, and melted into him.
The golden-crimson fish bowls of blood shattered with the robed man's death, and three new, lean limbs replaced his amputations. Overhaul sat up, tore his mask off, and wretched. Yamato saw his face for all of one half-second before the bird mask snapped back into place.
When he stood, he did so staring at Yamato and Midoriya with the fury of a thousand suns.
"You kill my men…" Overhaul said, taking a shaking step forward on his new legs. A second voice echoed behind his own. Each word he spoke lessened the effect, however.
"You take my targets…" With each step came another sentence, and with every additional sentence came the venom of a thousand cobras.
"You humiliate me…" The second layer of voice wasn't there anymore. Now, all that remained was Overhaul.
"You ruin… everything…"
Overhaul's fingers—new and old—shook as his body shuddered. Yamato's breath caught in his throat, stuck below his larynx like wedged there. Each of Overhaul's steps brought him closer to Midoriya.
Midoriya did not rise to defend himself. Yamato was aware of Cadet Bakugo flying down the Landslide Zone, but only now did he hear what the boy was actually saying.
"Stop right there ya bastard!"
Turning only as far as he needed—even a quarter inch felt like jumping into electric wire—Yamato finally saw what the man spoke of.
The ugly ginger was also running down the mountain, likewise propelled by the occasional explosion. Cadet Bakugo flung explosion after explosion after his tail, but met nothing but his shadow.
"Chisaki!" The man screamed, finally reaching the Landslide Zone's very bottom. Overhaul's attention snapped sideways—and the motion nearly took him off his feet. His new legs were still unstable. With a wild, flailing pointer-finger, the ugly ginger pointed at the boy giving him chase. "It's him! The one you're looking for!"
Midoriya stirred, but it no longer mattered. Overhaul's eyes left Midoriya and Yamato altogether, and his shaky legs began trudging towards the ugly ginger.
"Finally! Good damn work, Sashimi!" He replied, his voice echoing around the Plaza. Turning, he pointed towards Yamato and his half-conscious wards. "Finish them off while I grab him!"
Yamato didn't have a clue what they wanted with Cadet Bakugo, but he didn't care. He rose to his feet, standing as straight as his body allowed. Each withered and atrophied muscle in his body strained against the electric pains arcing through his ribs.
Sashimi flew straight past Overhaul, his sights set on Yamato and Midoriya the same way Overhaul's set on Cadet Bakugo. Yamato took a step forward, remembering his most severe face. It didn't stop Sashimi's approach.
Before the man reached them, however, multiple things happened in unison. Cadets Yaoyorozu and Iida stumbled into the Plaza from the Mountain Zone, Cadet Ochako half-conscious between them. Likewise, Cadets Kendo and Honenuki appeared with a fully unconscious and bandaged Cadet Shinso. With them, Cadet Todoroki arrived, carrying a tiny, unconscious bundle in his arms. When he stepped foot onto the Plaza, he dropped the tiny body and kicked it away. Likewise, the other two groups brought in their apprehended villains.
That wasn't what surprised him, however. Of course his Cadets would be successful. What surprised him was the sudden influx of U.A. staff. Snipe appeared first, followed by Present Mic and Vlad King and Powerloader—all on Todoroki's heels.
"Stop in the name of the law!" Snipe called out, the barrel of his hand-cannon pointed straight at Sashimi. Sashimi did not stop.
He ran fully towards Midoriya and Yamato. Before Snipe fired, Yamato tried to conjure a whirlwind—but the effort only sent agonizing pain through his chest, and he fell to his knees.
Snipe fired a shot, burying itself in Sashimi's shoulder—but he didn't stop running. He tanked one more shot before reaching them.
Yamato lunged over Midoriya, in order to block some kind of attack—but none came.
Sashimi kept running. He slipped past Midoriya, Setsuna, and Yamato altogether to slide-tackle into Johnny. He managed to avoid a third shot, and scrambled to his feet. Raising the ugly little monster high, he gave Yamato—no, Yamato thought, the Midoriya below him—a severe glance.
"I'll be back."
And with that, a putrid smell of ozone and feces and rotten vegetables assaulted his and everyone else's nose. Black sludge engulfed his form. When Snipe shot him again, the bullet simply passed through the sludge, and he was gone. Yamato heard Present Mic lean over and vomit.
"Wait! What are you doing, you damn fool? I'm so damn close—" Overhaul screamed, just as the sludge consumed him as well. All around the Plaza, Crow officers disappeared in gelatinous globs of sludge—even the unconscious and captured ones.
Snipe tried firing again, and Present Mic tried shouting at a pool of gelatin, but it did nothing.
The Crow escaped with their lives.
Yamato rolled off Midoriya, sucked in a half-breath, and closed his eyes. He couldn't tell if it was a tornado that spun around him or the very world, but his spiral into unconsciousness was as visceral as any he'd experienced before.
He entered the void with a frown.
[x]
an: finally, lol
1: i really wanted to make the whole building crash down, since dark shadow and overhaul were basically kaijus bent on fuckin shit up, but meh. it didn't really work 2: don't come at me for ignoring criticism when 90% of it comes from guest accounts I can't hold a dialogue with 3: i'm happy to finally be done with MY USJ. 4:
hope you enjoyed
review!~