With an unceremonious plop, Chisaki landed on his back. The image of the Ninth's blond, spiky hair faded from his central vision, replaced by his HQ wreck-room's red-tinged lights.
They were usually neon yellow.
Chisaki surged to his feet with a roar, searching for the traitor. He found him appraising Johnny—the little imp that just tore Chisaki's goal from him. Seeing it, something lit in his brain. Rushing over to Johnny, Chisaki tried to force the little beast to use his quirk again—but in his enthusiasm, tripped. Nemoto's slumped, bloody form caught his heel, and Chisaki found himself picking himself off the floor.
Rage flushed him a pretty crimson—so deep and potent that his knuckles were a new tinge of pink. The small differences, however, gave him pause.
Chisaki had long forgotten the pain that went with having all his limbs ripped from his form, but the shame would remain for his remaining days. Seeing his new hand and ankles, a new kind of discomfort murmured in his gut. It pressed painfully against the swell of Overhaul, fighting for room in his stomach. His rage put aside for the moment, his eyes settled on his extremities.
The pink color of his knuckles were slightly different on each hand. Though Overhaul made near-perfect duplicates, the quirk, and Chisaki himself, would always remember the state of what he disassembled. His hands were virtually identical to an outsider, but Chisaki saw the differences. His feet were virtually the same length, but Chisaki felt how his stride changed.
It was as though he wore stilts. He walked like a man whose legs were two inches longer than his own, now, despite no difference in height. His balance was totally shot.
Like a falcon, his eyes narrowed in on the length of his new fingernails. The nails on his right were perfect pictures of grooming. Each was rounded, bore no whites, and was sanded to a shine. On his left, thin, quarter-millimeter whites squared off matt and rugged nails.
With a tap, his hand burst into light, and he felt it unravel. It wasn't a painful process. His nerves went along with his bones and flesh, briefly turning to photons as he guided them into their new shape. When the light faded, his left nails matched his right.
Looking at them still disturbed his gut, but at least they looked the same.
Rising to his feet, he allowed the full situation to settle on his shoulders. Nemoto lay still in a pool of his own blood at Chisaki's feet. Across the room, more bodies littered the floor. Setsuno also rested in a pool, but his was normal water. His blue lips and still chest shone with a liberal amount of moisture. Yu was a litany of burns, bruises, and cracked crystals. Mimic was a convulsing, half-conscious chibi. Overdosing, if Chisaki's guess was accurate.
Sashimi leaned against the nearest door frame, watching Chisaki's every move. A small desire to rip him limb from limb and eviscerate his remains crossed his mind, but he ignored it.
None of his forty grunts made it home. Sakaki too, alongside Katsukame, Hekiji, and his Nomus were all dead.
Chronostasis was dead. Pins and needles prickled his fingertips.
It was a hero school. Casualties hadn't even crossed his mind.
Kurono was dead.
A scorching, barbed stake rent his heart in two, pain and heat blooming like fiery cherry blossoms in spring. Overhaul snarled in his stomach, screaming and clashing with the dysmorphia eating at his intestinal tract.
He reached out with his right hand, clawing at the air. Chisaki was so close. So, so damn close to making this trainwreck worth it. Nine had been right on Sashimi's heels, mere feet out of Chisaki's reach…
His fingers closed on nothing. Johnny spirited him back to base mere milliseconds from victory. Kurono's sacrifice almost wasn't in vain.
Chisaki turned back to where Sashimi stood, waiting for him. That blossoming rage burned ever-so-slightly hotter when he noticed Sashimi's total lack of gauze. Besides Johnny, he was the only one so bold as to pollute Chisaki's air. Tearing an armor plate from his lower back, he transmuted it and threw the glowing disc in Sashimi's ugly direction. It landed in his outstretched hand as an airtight surgical mask, which he dutifully slipped on.
From there, Chisaki went around and reassembled his team's remains. He started first with Nemoto, who shot awake with a snap after the light died away. Nemoto tried to tear his mask off, perhaps on instinct, but Chisaki placed a firm hand on his mask's beak. Chisaki memorized the state of his face before Overhaul fixed him, and he couldn't help but feel disappointed.
A crushed eye, shattered nose bridge, and cracked cheekbone did not beget a quality interrogation—especially when Nemoto was the interrogator. He'd even lost a few teeth. Chisaki thought it appropriate to leave those alone, and only heal the one molar which had lodged in his throat. The rest remained at the USJ, and he would still thank Chisaki. A fitting punishment, in Chisaki's opinion.
Next, he tapped Setsuno's forehead. His silhouette remained radiant a tad longer than Nemoto's, on the account reviving someone from death taking longer than fixing mere optical nerves and facial structure. Eventually, of course, Setsuno's glow faded and Chisaki permitted him to lift his mask and spill the liquid from his lungs. When Chisaki deemed it enough, he snapped the mask back in place with a touch. Setsuno stared at him with glazed eyes, but his sentience remained, so Chisaki moved on, satisfied.
Yu was easier. He didn't even bother healing the man's bruises. All he did was correct the charring that littered his feet and ribs. Yu gave him a sluggish thumbs up, and Chisaki moved on.
He touched Mimic. Mimic glowed nearly as long as Setsuno did. It took all of Chisaki's concentration to rebalance the chemicals flooding his brain and cardiovascular system. Trigger was always a pain to correct, but Overhaul grew faster every day. Once Mimic's chibi form ceased its convulsions, Chisaki made sure to kick him full-force in the ribs. The little, dense man rolled over a good three times, a low groan filling the room.
Chisaki didn't say anything. Mimic didn't complain. He knew he'd failed to isolate the invasion. At least he kept his teeth.
At last, Chisaki turned to Sashimi, considering him. The scarred man met Chisaki's gaze head on, arrogance and self-assurance mixing with non-existent pinched eyebrows and frustration.
Images of his every atom scattered across the earth crossed his mind. Hurting the man for his insolence would be easy. Destroying him wouldn't take much. Every heinous thought to ever cross a man's mind crossed Chisaki's, bar sexually torturing him… at least, with his own hands.
It was Sashimi's quick action alone that ruined Overhaul's plans and wasted the lives of his compatriots. Though Sashimi was a field agent, not a regular officer, Chisaki wondered if he cared for the loss of life. When Chisaki spoke, his voice spilled out into the room like helium, elevating the pressure and choking the people scattered at his feet.
"Do you have anything to say for yourself, Rin Sashimi?"
Sashimi stared in Chisaki's eyes as slowly, one by one, Chisaki's officers rose to their feet. His eyes darted to Johnny. Chisaki flexed his new hand, prepared for flight—but Sashimi didn't so much as walk away. He lifted Johnny by the scruff, offering him to Chisaki.
"We'll get them next time, sir. In the meantime, Johnny needs medical attention."
Chisaki considered his words. Stepping forward, he plucked the little nomu from Sashimi's hands. In a flash of light, Johnny's tonsillitis faded, his health good as new. Stepping back, he tossed the little beast in Yu's direction. Sashimi no longer had an escape.
"What if there isn't a next time, Sashimi?" Chisaki asked, his voice pressing against his own ears with barely-concealed venom. "Look around us. Many of my officers are dead, and in vain, thanks to you."
"Forgive me, but I believed you were too occupied in the moment. The whole of U.A.'s fighting force was there. Even if you snagged that ra—er, the Ninth, there was no escaping. I simply chose what I thought would allow us the best chance of future success. Really, it's a miracle I was able to snag this much of our fighting force."
Sashimi paused, sucking in a breath everyone could hear. His rudimentary mask stifled him, and did little to filter his oxygen. Sweat trickled down his purplish maroon face, though Chisaki failed to decipher if it was from nerves or sheer heat. He glanced at Chisaki's men, his eyes settling on each before returning to Chisaki.
"Each one of them failed. Mimic failed to keep 1A in and U.A. out. Nemoto doesn't look like a successful interrogator. Yu, our tank, was crippled and scarred. Setsuno was dead. A little kid got the best of him—murdered by a hero. The fact that I got Johnny to grab them at all was luck."
Chisaki's lips formed the question without ever once needing to think. It was simply a natural reaction to bullshit.
"And you didn't fail? Why shouldn't I execute you for insubordination? At least these meat bags didn't ruin everything we worked for."
Sashimi adjusted the lining of his mask. Inhaling a deep breath, he leveled Chisaki with a dead, fish-like expression.
"I realized your assumptions were based on bad information. One for All wasn't hiding away in Nedzu's 1A, he's in 1Z. It was a war of information, and Nedzu's been playing everyone. If that fundamental information for our operation was wrong, there's no telling what else we could be incorrect over. So, I offer the only certainty I can: it was the blond flying on explosions that holds our key. He was the one to destroy the Zero Pointer. And, now that we know he's in 1Z, we know that all we have to do is wait."
Chisaki considered him. The prickle in his fingertips faded, and his rage relaxed. It by no means dispersed, but the waters calmed.
"And wait for what?"
"For the U.A. Sports Festival's aftermath. That's when 1Z will go public. And public means vulnerable."
Chisaki stepped forward. His fingers twitched, Overhaul urging him forward—but he did not reach for Sashimi. Rage simmering, he stepped past Sashimi and turned the doorknob behind him.
"Fine," Chisaki whispered. "So it may be. But if you step out of line twice, nothing on this earth will save you."
Swinging the door open, Chisaki headed for the nearest staircase. He needed to go consult the journal.
Because something didn't add up.
[x]
Geten spotted Himiko on the basis of pure luck. She—he, right now, slinked through the shadows with unnatural grace, like she was born there. Their current form made it even easier—black outfit and lengthy black hair made them nearly indistinguishable from obsidian shadows. Only the crimson glare of Tomura's armor gave them away.
Biting his tongue, he focused his full attention on catching up. Hekiji had been so close—so, so damn close—but Whirlwind arriving threw everything off. He'd meant to drag out his battle for as long as Tomura needed, but everything happened so fast after Overhaul dropped the second shoe.
Jin was a traitor. From the very start.
And all that hate in Geten's—and more importantly, Tomura's—guts went to waste.
Ice spread under Geten's boot, turning the ground slick. Slicing his arms through the air, Geten bent low and launched himself forward with four powerful kicks. Flickers of Himiko's backside appeared every few moments, glinting dull in the ruinous city's collapsed buildings. Geten could've gone faster, but he would've had to leave a trail behind—and that'd be foolhardy.
Their priority was escape, after all.
Geten narrowed the gap between himself and Himiko in a few seconds, but they didn't slow for him. Though he was ice-skating nearly twice as fast as any unaided human could run, Himiko maintained a lead of at least ten meters at all times—even while burdened. A quirk of her vampiric biology gave her immense, surprising strength. Even while holding the wounded Tomura, she was faster than some speed-types.
Right as Geten was about to close in, however, the gaping hole in the USJ wall burst into life. Heroes—U.A.'s finest—flooded the ruined city. He recognized them all by sight, and immediately understood one thing: that could not be a two-way street.
Himiko's confident strides stuttered for all of one second, seeing them, but it was enough. Geten caught up and tackled her, alongside Tomura, into the nearest building.
They didn't scream, but Himiko did try shanking him for a split second before they realized who he was. An ice-covered hand clutching his ribs was the only thing keeping his life in his chest.
When they recognized him, their hand shot to their mouth.
"Sorry!" They said, and Geten suppressed the squirming discomfort the gesture birthed in his gut. Shouta Aizawa was not a well-groomed man, and seeing him act like a schoolgirl felt uncanny. With his un-frozen hand, he plucked the dagger protruding from his iced-knuckles and handed it over.
He shuffled over to inspect Tomura, but before he could, shouting caught his ear.
"What in tarnation is ice doin' out here?" A voice said, half-muzzled and forcibly american. Geten froze. His eyes slid over to Himiko, who likewise stood like a statue, and then to Tomura, who simply laid there, pale and free-bleeding.
Slowly, so as to be near-silent, a spear crystalized into his hand.
Footsteps approached the door, and Geten's grip tightened. Himiko slid into a fighter's stance—but it was for naught.
"Todoroki's with Whirlwind! Must've come this way. C'mon!" Another, louder voice said. Snipe's footsteps paused, but he only lingered for a moment before trotting away. Geten let out a breath, and transmuted his spear into chilling vapor.
With a touch, a bulk of ice formed around Tomura's shoulder. Immediately, Tomura's lax eyelids pinched, the cold shock probably uncomfortable—but it would keep him alive a little longer. Geten took a moment to take a deep breath.
Tomura was stronger than the both of them. He could most certainly take both him and Himiko on in a brawl. Yet, he got cocky, and thus crippled.
A sharp globule of saliva scored his throat like a razor. His one official order—keep Tomura safe—was a bust. Now, his unofficial order—bring Tomura home—was in jeopardy too.
"He's lost too much blood. I…" Himiko said, the words rolling off her tongue with a twisted sigh.
On a normal day, Tomura was a pale bastard. Today? He was as white as a ghost.
"We can't bring him to a non-Meta hospital… and we have no outposts here…" Geten said, a pit forming in his stomach. "I don't think he'll make it without immediate help."
Himiko shifted their weight from foot to foot. One of their pant legs was beginning to drip, her quirk's time limit coming up. Aizawa's skin was their best shot at making it through U.A.'s official security channels, but that was going out the window. They'd have to make a dramatic exit…
But where would they go?
"Truly, this is a conundrum."
Geten turned to Himiko, words of annoyance half-forming on his lips. Those were perhaps the least helpful words imaginable—but when he looked at the shapeshifting school-girl, he noticed the stupid, surprised look in her eyes.
The pit in his stomach twinged, and he realized it wasn't stress.
There was another person in the building with them.
An ice spear was in his hand before he finished his abrupt turn. Himiko was even faster.
Their knife whistled through the air before either of them truly recognized what they saw. It hit its mark, but there was no customary thud, nor consequential gasp. The knife simply flew into the blackness and disappeared.
A moment later, a dark, swirling storm of vapor formed on the ceiling. From the depths of that small, black typhoon, the knife fell and embedded itself in the floor.
On the opposite side of their room, a man stood. His appearance was identical to the dark clouds on the ceiling. Collar up, he was little more than vapor and smoke.
His only characterizing features were his prim bartender's uniform and a golden bracelet adoring his left wrist. In that same hand, he held a small radio, and this is from where the voice came.
"My little Tomura doesn't have much time, does he? Nor do you two, if you have any hope of smuggling him out."
The smoke-man set the little radio on a dry-rotted table and stepped toward Geten. His ice spear stabbed forward without delay, its crystalline point mere inches from his gaseous jugular. He stopped.
"You take a step closer and I liquify you," Geten said.
The radio chuckled.
"Don't mind Kurogiri, Geten Himura. He has a background in field-surgeries and my good friend personally taught him advanced practical medicines. Really, he's quite the medic."
"Thank you, sir." Kurogiri said, nodding towards the radio. He spoke with a somber, clipped cadence. Each word had a static, white-noise element behind it that bothered Geten's ears.
Geten glanced at Tomura, then back to Kurogiri. He retracted his spear by millimeters.
"What will you do?"
Reaching behind his back, Kurogiri retrieved a small box. Popping it open, he revealed alcohol wipes, twine, scissors, and a surgical needle.
"Clean, cut, and sew him up."
More ice flowed from Geten's hand. It crawled up his spear, thickening and enlarging the blade. The tip pressed and disappeared into Kurogiri's throat. Kurogiri's golden eyes simply blinked back at him.
"How do you know my full name?"
"The same way I know Shouta Aizawa isn't actually here, and the way I know the dying boy is Tomura Shigaraki." The radio said.
Himiko worked their jaw, their fingers groping the air. No matter where they reached, however, her knife was out of reach. It remained embedded in the ground, now between Kurogiri's feet.
"How are you breaking through Overhaul's scramblers?" Himiko asked, their fingers curling into fists.
"My equipment is similar to Overhaul's. Now, will you let my friend help Tomura, or will you let him die?"
Geten chewed on his tongue for all of one second before huffing and letting his spear melt. Immediately, Kurogiri knelt by Tomura and spread out his supplies.
"Melt that thing on his shoulder," Kurogiri muttered, and Geten did so. Himself and Himiko watched the gaseous man work in tense silence. The radio crackled some twenty seconds later, after Kurogiri mumbled something inaudible.
"Well? How is he?"
"Unwell, Master. His heart stopped some seven seconds ago. Eight, now."
"What?" Getens said, taking a half-step forward. "Why wouldn't you mention that?"
He tried to shove Kurogiri off his charge, but the crackling radio froze him.
"Do not touch my friend, Geten Himura, less you wish to lose my favor."
The pit in his stomach expanded by a magnitude, a shiver running up his spine. It took a moment, but Geten wrestled his self control back. Though against his better judgment, he returned to Himiko's side.
"Thank you," the radio crackled. It paused for a moment, before a more somber inflection followed. "He won't make it at this rate."
Himiko shifted. One of their cheeks drooped, a puddle of skin-colored puddy forming between their feet. Aizawa was disappearing.
"Make it? He's already dead!" They said, and a bit of their true femininity shone through.
Kurogiri shook his smokey skull.
"No, his heart has stopped. Death only occurs when the brain doesn't have the oxygen to continue functioning—so he'll be dead in about three minutes." He said.
They all fell into silence for another few seconds. The only sounds were the nauseating pricks of Kurogiri's needle piercing Tomura's shoulder, and Himiko's skin dripping off.
Geten shrugged off his jacket as her clothes began to melt too, and handed it to her. She took it in silence. Once she buttoned up her front, the rest of her quirk plopped down around her ankles. Reaching up, she pulled off what remained of Aizawa's face.
After the longest thirty seconds of Geten's life, Kurogiri took the scissors and cut the stitch. With that done, he packed away his tools and wipes. He did not meet Geten's eyes, and returned to the radio's side.
"There's nothing more I can do. The rest is up to you, good sir." Kurogiri said, gesturing in Geten's direction. A cold presence crept up Geten's guts—colder than his quirk.
Jin was a traitor from the beginning.
This mission was a waste.
Tomura was little more than a corpse.
"What the hell do you think I can do here?" Geten asked, with more bite than he intended. He failed his mission. His ward was on death's door. Overhaul and Hekiji still walked the earth. Jin was a traitor from the beginning.
If the Underworld's Prince could do nothing against Overhaul, then there really would be a war.
"Stand aside," the radio crackled.
Geten tore his gaze from Tomura's body to settle on the little device.
"What?"
"Stand aside, Geten. That is what you can do. Allow me to take him, and I will heal him."
His back went rigid, his spine straight. The rejection already formed on his lips before he even thought of it—but before he could speak, Himiko stepped forward.
"Tomura is Redestro's. He's not ours to give," She said.
The radio let out a grim chuckle.
"I'm not saying he isn't. Neither am I asking you to betray your master. I do not wish to poach Tomura at the moment, I only wish to see him live. Kurogiri?"
Kurogiri raised a hand, and a new cloud formed at his side. It was the width of two people and three head-heights taller than Geten.
"I have an unparalleled doctor in my service. He shall bring Tomura back to health, and then he shall be returned to Redestro's doorstep."
Himiko's shoulders shrunk, and she glanced back at Geten. He too wished there was someone of higher authority to defer to, but there simply was not. Himiko was too fresh a recruit to make the decision. Seniority fell to his hands—but something in this radio-man's voice even put that to question. There was a certain static to the device that betrayed no real age to the voice.
"And if we refuse?" Geten asked, though he understood the answer halfway through asking it.
"Then Tomura will die a preventable death, unripe and a poor imitation of who he could've been. Already, he is mostly gone—but step aside, and I will protect him. He will be returned to you, I swear it. Just give him the chance."
Tomura was dying, Chisaki still lived, and Jin was a traitor. He failed his mission.
Though he was the senior soldier here, he felt like a child under this mysterious voice's gravitas. He took a step back, and motioned for Himiko to follow. She slipped behind his flank, watching the portal over his shoulder.
"Thank you," the radio crackled, before the connection cut.
Nothing happened for a second, and Geten wondered if he'd hallucinated the whole conversation—but then the pit in his stomach closed over, filled.
A heavy loafer met the ruined floor boards. Italian leather made two resounding thuds as the man—no, the giant—stepped through.
He was taller than any man ought to be, sporting a brought, muscular frame to fill him out. His hands appeared soft, though meaty, and a single modest silver band wrapped his middle finger. Shoulders down, he appeared like the world's most well-dressed linebacker.
An unnatural unease spread through his stomach, filling the pit in his gut like a poisoned aquarium. He was full to bursting with this unknowable ache—but it was clear at a glance that he was not the most affected.
Himiko's face was melting again—but, rather than it being her quirk running out, it was her true features. Sweat rolled down her forehead like someone dumped a pint over her scalp. She bore her fangs like a predator, her gums showing. What truly caught Geten's attention, however, was the way she grabbed onto his shirt. Each finger was a razor-sharp talon in his side.
Each finger conveyed a level of instinctual fear Geten doubted he could ever understand. Still, he reached out, blindly patting her down till he felt her wrist. Though he knew his hands were cold, he still slipped his fingers through hers and eased them off his side. He tried to convey comfort, but he wasn't confident he communicated it well.
Especially since, despite his freezing skin, his own sweat poured over her fingers.
The titanic, luxuriously-dressed man gave them a curt nod—or at least, the approximation of one. His hulking, gothic respirator covered him neck-up, obscuring his human features and projecting a mechanical demon's instead. A pipe curling under his "chin" released a steam-pressured sigh, and a second tube whistled as it sucked in precious oxygen. Each was a loud, medically-barbaric process. Seeing it, he felt concerned for Tomura's future—but that concern faded almost as fast as it came.
He wasted no time. As soon as he acknowledged Geten, he took two lengthy strides and knelt by Tomura. Scooping him into his thick, bulging arms, he whispered something. The noise released from his helmet as something electronic, inhuman—but unbelievably, Tomura stirred to the noise. It wasn't much—just a pinched eyebrow—but it was more than he'd done in the time Geten saw him.
Then, the titanic man pointed at Geten and Himiko.
"You will forget this encounter. In three days' time, you will wake up in Meta HQ, and you will find Tomura with you. Redestro will ask you what took so long, and you will tell him you spent your time finding an Underworld Medic outside of Chisaki's influence. He will then forward the necessary cash towards this bank account."
Numbers appeared in his head. A bank account.
He turned then, and marched back through the portal. Kurogiri stepped through after him. The portal began to shrink, but before it closed, the large man's voice whispered one last thing.
"Oh, and good working with you, Geten. Thanks for saving the little one's teacher. He'll be needing it. I'll tell your little cousin you said hello."
Then Geten's world went dark.
[x]
On his third and final attempt, Izuku's shaking thumb finally found the nurse's call button. He'd missed by a hair on his first attempt, and he barely even found the panel on his second. Luck was on his side for number three, however, and he tried to not dwell on it.
It didn't take long for a rush of faces to shuffle past—nurses of all shapes and sizes evaluated him. They checked his pulse, shined a light in his eyes, and shoved a tube down his throat. He took it all in silence.
Izuku only briefly met with Recovery Girl. He wished he hadn't wasted her time. She looked like she hadn't slept in over 24 hours—and she truly might've not. Her pitstop by his room only lasted a few minutes, but he wished she just kept going to the next student. There was nothing she could do for him, thanks to his quirk exhaustion, physical exhaustion, and mental exhaustion. There was no energy in his body to convert into vigor.
She said she would return in a day or so, and to sit tight. Even the minute she wasted checking on him was a minute another student would have received treatment. With Recovery Girl gone, many nurses followed. Only a handful lingered to finish his check-up before they, too, left.
As the last of the nurses announced their departure, however, he stopped them. It was a girl—a female emitter, he suspected—with a curling tattoo peeking out from crooked scrubs. She gave him a confused look as he waved her over.
Though his larynx was still too damaged to speak, and he didn't have the facilities for proper sign language, Izuku still did his best to communicate his desires. With shaking, hard-to-control fingers, he pinched his pointer and middle finger against his thumb and scribbled some invisible script into the air.
"You want a pen and paper?"
Izuku nodded.
When she left, she did not return with such in haste. Hours later, however, when his mother came bursting through his hospital room door, Nighteye and Gran Torino on her heels, the tall man held a pencil and a yellow pad.
His mother shed an elephant's worth of tears on his silky hospital shirt, and he did not touch the pencil and paper. Nighteye and Gran Torino gave him a proud monologue in a hushed hospital-tone. Inko Midoriya was permitted to stay at her leisure, but a few hours later, duty—and U.A.'s medical curfew—called. A nurse came by to request Nighteye and Gran Torino's absence, and they made to leave.
Before Gran Torino could get far, however, Izuku gurgled something that tasted like iron. The old man stopped, and Izuku used his moment to scratch some symbols into his paper. They were awkward—barely more than chicken scratch, thanks to his abused dexterity, but the old man just put on his readers and gave the paper an honest attempt anyway.
Nighteye peeked over his shoulders, and his purple irises widened a solid fraction. Without asking, he reached over and touched Izuku's shoulder. His eyes flashed a brilliant violet for all of a half-quarter second before a frown creased his cheeks.
He crouched down by Izuku's side and spoke so as only himself and his mother could hear.
"Are you sure? This will hurt her terribly, you know."
What went unsaid was how it would hurt him terribly as well.
Izuku scratched more childish runes on his notepad. Tearing off the front page, he shoved it in Nighteye's arms, released his pad and pencil, and fell into his thick hospital pillow.
Things couldn't continue like this.
His chest ached—and not just because of the broken ribs.
Gran Torino took off his readers. He met Izuku's eyes, nodded one solemn nod, and saw himself out. Nighteye followed a few minutes later, after a second nurse came by and gave him a stern look. Before he left however, he gave Izuku the information he needed.
Izuku didn't remember anything after passing out beside Whirlwind, but he'd been asleep for about twenty eight hours.
Whirlwind survived, though he was still in critical condition. His future, according to Nighteye, was less like a choppy film and more like a smudged commercial. It was unclear if he'd return to duty in any real capacity.
No one died from their injuries, but Kirishima and Hitoshi's stab-wounds brought them close. They were on the mend, but the real issues were the students with broader injuries. Over half the class had at least one broken bone, and half of those had two or more. Many students were lucky to get away with just a few scars. Uraraka, it seemed, would be deaf in one ear for life—and Hitoshi's neck was a permanent ravage of scratches. For the most part, however, everyone would be alright.
1A survived, and 1Z won. It was more than he dared hope, in the moment. Their only casualty was Setsuna, who was the last to wake up from her own injuries. Nighteye shared that information last. With it said, a weight pressed against his ribs—his pencil and paper, a hundred pounds heavier.
He gave Izuku one last solid nod and allowed a nurse to escort him out. At the threshold, he called over his shoulder.
"Good work, Izuku. Your friends are safe thanks to your sacrifices. Take as long a break as you want. We'll—"Nighteye paused, his words catching in his throat. He adjusted his tie. "I'll be there when you need me."
Nighteye slipped out the door. Izuku fell asleep not long after, but his mother stayed the whole time, and remained in her visitor's chair when he awoke.
Though his mother appeared ragged, with her sunken eyes and papery, stressed skin, her ability to hold their one-sided conversation was commendable.
She took his mind off Setsuna throughout the early morning. Her stories took them places far from U.A., far from the hospital ward. Izuku found himself waist-deep in the midst of her office gossip when a shadow blocked out the fluorescent hall light.
Or, rather, two people, one shadow. Uraraka hung off Toru's side like she was her personal cane. When his mother noticed how Uraraka limped into the room, she immediately shot to her feet and gave her the primary visiting chair. Uraraka tried to refuse, but Toru guided the brunette into the chair at Ms. Midoriya's behest regardless. Leaning over his bedside, his mother kissed him and slipped a cold glass rectangle into his hands. It was his phone.
"If you have company, I'll make myself scarce. Maybe I'll go home and take a shower. Call me if you need me, please."
She closed the door behind her with a gentle click, and they were alone.
Retrieving his pencil and paper, he began writing.
How are you holding up? Izuku wrote, before turning the pad towards the girls.
"My ear is dead," Uraraka said, after taking a moment to read. Her voice reminded him of a lost puppy, but her eyes held his with genuine warmth regardless. "School's closed for a week. I'll be going through preliminary trials for a hearing aid. My quirk's back, too…"
Something in her voice broke as she curled her fingers around his hospital's bed frame.
He quickly scrawled out a response. After his last nap, his calligraphy somewhat returned to him.
They took yours too? That's awful, Izuku wrote.
He then saw Toru squirm in place, and he quickly amended his note.
How are you feeling, T?
Though he could not see her, he could put two and two together. The way her collar pinched and the way four soft imprints formed on Uraraka's forearm was enough.
"I'm better, now that I know everyone's alright. What you did for us was incredible, Midoriya. Thank you."
"Yes," Uraraka echoed, mumbling through her upper lip. "You were."
Izuku coughed, and the pain struck his throat like a thousand molten razor blades. It was his best attempt at a laugh. He looked into the swirling, reflective mass in his gut, and not an ounce of pride looked back.
On a factual level, he knew they were right. He saved several people's lives—people he called friends. On a spiritual level, however, Sashimi's face remained imprinted in his every moment. That shame stayed with him, infecting even his most selfless acts. He wondered if that shame would stay with him for the rest of his life.
He wondered if it would ever feel good to be a hero.
"Nemoto tortured me," Uraraka whispered, bringing Izuku from the brink of someplace dark. He gave her a second, alarmed look—and found his eyes settling on her hands. "Without my hearing, and especially without my quirk, my body basically imploded. My equilibrium was gone, and I was defenseless. He… beat me senseless, all the while asking me the same question. They were looking for you, Midoriya. When… When he said they captured you, I just… I couldn't believe it. I didn't."
Izuku stared at her, wide-eyed. Toru did the same, to his best understanding. Her soft grip turned a little more firm on Uraraka's soft arm. His attention stayed on her hands, however. They were unshapely and littered with brand-new crimson patches. It looked like her knuckles belonged to a seasoned fighter—not a soft-hearted girl barely out of middle school. She, like him, had performed unspeakable violence. His stomach crawled.
It took a moment for Izuku to remember himself. With slow, deliberate pencil strokes, he asked his question.
Did you tell him?
Uraraka, upon reading his note, went dead-eyed. The warmth and tired kindness fled her eyes, draining from her face alongside the cheer in her lips. They tugged downwards. All that remained of her usual expression were her rosy cheeks.
With a mechanical, crane-like movement, she lifted her hand and rested it against the inside of his elbow. Her hand was piping hot. The intimate contact sent a shiver down his spine. She hadn't left that violence behind in the USJ. It stayed with her, and he saw it here.
"No, Midoriya, I did not."
Izuku didn't know how to say all he wanted to within the confines of a single page. In the end, he just scrawled out a short reply.
Thank you.
A small warmth returned to her expression, and the tips of her fingers trailed down to his palm. Goosebumps rolled across his shoulders. She seemed to study him. Without a care for Toru's silent attention, she slipped her fingers through his and squeezed. The compassion he felt race up his arm was nauseating. Uraraka had warm, inviting hands. Izuku gave her a squeeze, and hoped the rough cut of his calloused fingers didn't disgust her.
After a moment, she blinked, pulled her hand away, and gave him an honest, small smile.
"I hope you figure it out. I'll see you in class, for however much longer you'll stay."
She stood, and Toru made to go with her—but Uraraka shot that down with a glance. She stumbled out of the room with proud shoulders and a straight spine. Izuku watched turn the corner, and she disappeared. It was beginning to feel like people just came and went at their leisure. Beyond his mom and Nighteye, no one ever wanted to stay for long.
That swirling mass in his gut twisted. No one could stay for long. His fingers gripped his pencil and paper, his common sense forgotten as he began to jot down his complaint—before a familiar—and totally foreign—sensation ghosted his cheek.
He stared at Toru, his notepad forgotten. A cool wetness faded a few strained seconds later as Toru returned to her seat. She gave him an apologetic look.
"I just wanted to do that at least once," she said, scratching the side of her neck. "And now seemed like the best chance. I thought you were amazing, in that place, and it showed me who you really were. The way you see me, the way you defended me… Lord, this is embarrassing… but I need to get it out."
Izuku let her.
"I guess you impressed me. I liked that—being seen—and I thought you were my only chance, I guess. It helped that you're, like, wonderful, and a bunch'a other things… but the USJ brought out things in everyone, and I realized I wasn't special. You… treat everyone with such severity and respect. Even when you falter, you try your best when other people are involved. I thought I'd been special, before, but now I just see how… good you are. To everyone. And especially to her."
His face was a furnace, but he quickly jotted down a single question mark.
She took a moment to breathe and glance out the window.
"They pulled you and Setsuna out on the same gurney. They couldn't pry you apart until Midnight coaxed you off of her. Besides the… besides all of your injuries, it was kinda cute. So I concede. I think Uraraka just did, too—but I'm a little more self indulgent."
I didn't know there was a— Izuku wrote, before scratching out the next word. He finished off his note with "competition."
Toru laughed, and it was a sweet thing that made him blush. The moment passed quickly, however, and the pit in his gut was growing. It was—it was unimaginable, in his mind, the things she admitted to him—but also sad. He… he didn't return any of those feelings, of course, but a small part of him—an ironic part—was almost offended. For him, and for her. Her inability to peer into his inner thoughts was a tragedy, in his opinion.
They fell into companionable conversation, and the time began to tick by faster and faster. Though a storm gurgled in his gut, he put on a pleasant face and nodded along. She unloaded her experience on him, and he took it in stride. Her admission of her cowardice didn't even register on his shame-radar. He told her the truth: she was there when it mattered most.
That made her beam at him—and though he couldn't see the contour of her smile, he could picture it. Messy lime hair, soft features, wide eyes. It wasn't hard to imagine. He certainly felt bad, asking her what he did. Especially after she "conceded."
All the while she told him her version of USJ, he was writing. Some of it he showed her, most of it he did not. When he had a page's worth of writing, his heart poured out, he tore it from the pad with an unceremonious tug.
Conversely, he folded it with the care of a new mother, pinching the creases to perfection. Toru's rambling story slowed to a halt as he handed it to her.
Written on the top was a single, three letter word.
Set.
He wished he could see her expression, but he didn't need to. She took the note from him with equal care, as though receiving a newborn. That was how he knew she understood his seriousness.
Please, Izuku wrote.
She stared at him for a moment standing and leaving without another word.
He felt as though his child just left for war.
Slowly, the pencil and pad slid from his lap, forgotten by his side. Opening his phone, he muted all notifications that weren't from his mother, Nighteye, or U.A. He even blocked Endeavor.
His thumb hovered over Setsunasaurus. He made to press it once, missed by a hair, and tried a second time. This second attempt was an astronomical failure, and he could only thank his years of training for how fast he shut off his phone. Thankfully, that call did not go through.
It was on the third attempt that he finally managed to delete her contact. The subsequent emotions were the worst he felt in his entire life.
He sat with them for the whole day—and for the weeks to come.
Anything for her safety.
[x]
AN: This is officially one year straight of consistent friday uploads. Crazy. That comes with some good news and some bad news. Obviously, bad news, Izuku is getting kicked in the teeth again. Good news, this upcoming arc will end on a high note. Bad news, I intend to take a break from this story once I close out the Sports Festival so I can focus on expanding my craft and starting my first novel. Good news, I don't intend to end it off without some well-earned fluff. Bad news, that's gonna leave some plot threads hanging for until I come back. Good news, I love you all, between compliments, absolutely ridiculous criticisms, and undeniably true complaints on my story. I'm just glad to have made something readable, even if some of it hasn't been up to the quality I wanted (ie, USJ pacing, 1Z's bait and twist, and the Endeavor storyline)
Unironically I think Toru might have become my best character unfortunately. I liked her arc a lot, even if it was amidst bloated chapters. This story has taught me a lot about winging it as we go, and how to take that formless shape and make something constructive on the fly. I hope the final arc can be as good as I hope.
review!~