The new apartment is pretty much the same as the old one. There's maybe a little more mold in the bathroom, a few extra cracks in the ceiling, and a little less counter space in the kitchenette. Overall, Izuku has stayed in worse, so he's not too bothered by any of those features.
"The last tenant left their pillow behind," Izuku announces as he flops onto the bare mattress of the western style bed that came with the apartment. He kicks the old pillow off the bed, making a face when it flips to show a brownish stain. The smell of cigarette smoke filters from the air vent above them as the heater kicks on with a groan.
"Cozy, isn't it?" Stendhal jokes, and his jacket and utility vest hit the ground with a dull thud. The stack of blankets in his arms are dropped on Izuku's face, who lets out a muffled screech of laughter.
Together they make the bed and clean up any of the mess left behind by whoever was living there before them. It doesn't take very long, which is the best part about renting tiny studio apartments for their temporary ones. The sun is still shining through the dingy curtains by the time they're done.
"Do you want to go with me to get groceries?" Izuku asks, trying not to sound too eager. It's nice to have someone else in the apartment with him. Though he'll never tell Stendhal, he can admit to himself at least that things get kind of lonely when he's gone.
Stendhal doesn't answer. Instead, he stares at his hands, slowly flexing his fingers like he usually does when they're hurting. The expression on his face is weird though, like he doesn't recognize them. Izuku waits, looking occasionally at his own hands and trying to figure out what Stendhal is thinking about. He figures that his mentor must be more tired than he's letting on, because this isn't the first time he's done something weird since he came back. It's like he leaves his body behind for a moment, mind carried off on some unseen path that Izuku can't hope to follow him on.
Eventually he seems to blink his way back to the present. By now, Izuku has already put away all his meager belongings and is in the kitchen searching for something that could pass as edible. He can't read the strange expression on his mentor's face, but Izuku tries for a shaky smile anyway.
"Do you want to take a nap while I make something for dinner?"
"No. I need to get back to work."
"Are you sure? Can't you just stay until the weekend?"
He knows he's whining, voice pitched high with a note of desperation. Truthfully, Izuku isn't even sure what day it is. His phone tells him the time but not the date, and for some reason it's never really occurred to him to ask anyone he sees on the street what day it is. He's gone so long without a clue he just hasn't seen a point in bothering someone with the question. Maybe next time he sees Kazuho, she can tell him?
(Or maybe not. It's not like it will matter once things go back to normal and he's only allowed out when Stendhal is with him again.)
"Yeah. This job is a pain, so the sooner I get it done the better."
"If you hate it so much why don't you just say no? We can just leave."
Stendhal laughs, and between one blink and the next he is standing in front of Izuku, so close he can feel the heat radiating off the man's body. Izuku doesn't startle – he's used to Stendhal's crazy speed – but he is a little surprised he used it in the apartment just to get halfway across the small room. He usually only uses that particular skill during training or in real fights.
"This job is paying for the roof over your head and the food in your belly," he says with a teasing smile, one hand ruffling Izuku's hair and the other poking him in the stomach, just a little too hard. "I have to finish it."
A yawning chasm feels like it has opened and Izuku is just one step away from being swallowed by guilt. Stendhal has been working nonstop for what he's pretty sure is months. Judging by the sharpness of his cheekbones and the bags beneath his eyes, Izuku is sure his mentor has also been missing out on meals and sleep. All for him.
Izuku forces a smile and promises himself that he will do everything he can to make sure that Stendhal doesn't have to worry about him. He'll follow all the rules and do what he's told and make sure that the apartment is clean and the streets are safe. That will give his mentor more time to focus on getting his job done! As soon as he's done they can go back home to their two-person apartment, and they can patrol together, and go to the store together, and it won't be just him anymore.
He does his best not to cry when Stendhal leaves that night and he is once again left alone. Izuku turns the tv on and tries to ignore the little voice in the back of his head that reminds him to feel bad for being sad that the man who stole him is gone again. The threat to his mom's safety is enough reason to stay, no matter how lonely it is.
.
Blood coats his tongue, vile in its rot. It has sat for too long, sealed into its little glass vial while Hachisuka wastes his time. It has begun to congeal, bits of it drying along the sides and flaking off as he tips his head back, fluttering down to find a home upon his lips.
The woman he is hunting screams as her legs freeze beneath her and she crashes face first to the ground. She doesn't bother to beg for her life, but soft sobs fill the air around them. Her black hair spills around her shoulders and covers the pale concrete beneath her like ink. Her foot is twisted at a strange angle but she can make no move to fix it.
He stalks forward and the gravel crunches beneath his heavy boots, drawing her attention. His blade sings as he draws it from the sheath strung across his back, fingers tightening around the hilt. Her wet eyes are massive behind the fall of dark hair, and strands dance with each shallow breath she takes. The file he has on her says she has two daughters. They live with their grandparents now, because their mother abandoned them. He doesn't remember her name, but he does know that much.
Another scream rips from her throat as his steel toed boot meets her ribs. The kick sends her body halfway across the alley, limbs sprawled haphazardly and the skin of her face rubbed raw from the concrete. She whimpers and fat tears roll down her cheeks. She does not say a word, but her purple eyes communicate every thought with a frightening clarity. For one horrible moment he finds himself frozen, horror coursing through his veins, roaring in his ears, breath caught in his lungs, and the crushing knowledge that he is going to die. Right here. Right now. Nothing he can do to escape. Can't run, can't breathe, can't think—
Right. Minor tele-empathy quirk. How could he have forgotten? His own oversight disgusts him.
He kicks her again, just enough to roll her over and get her eyes off of him. He has no interest in feeling anything other than satisfaction when he kills her. The world he is trying to create has no space for someone like her – a junkie who abandons her children and steals and lies all for the sake of her next fix.
He drives the blade through the meat of her leg just to hear her scream. He knows he should make it quick, knows the sounds of her fear and anguish are certain to draw heroes even in this derelict area of the city, but he just can't seem to help himself. In the deep violet of twilight, her blood is as black as her hair and he smiles as his tongue flicks out to dance along his blade. A shudder rolls through him and the taste lingers long after he has swallowed, clinging to the backs of his teeth and the tip of his tongue, chasing away the lingering rot of the vial and lifting the fog in his mind for one brief second. The woman's sobs have quieted to whimpers, the hopelessness of the situation finally crushing what little was left of her spirit. He thinks he hears names, mixed somewhere with her incoherent apologies.
"Say goodbye," he tells her, sword lifted high. It will not be instant, but it will be quicker than she deserves and he can leave her face intact for the sake of her family; at least this way, there will be some sense of closure. Her children will be able to look upon her peaceful face before they lower her into the ground. This is the only kindness he will allow her.
He drives his sword down through her body with enough force that the blade scrapes against the concrete below. Her final scream is gurgled and warped by the sudden puncture in her lungs. He twists the blade, and as she struggles to breathe around a mouthful of blood he hears a small voice say, "Stendhal?"
He stiffens, breath catching in his chest. For one horrible second he is convinced that Izuku has somehow stumbled upon the scene. He knows, objectively, that the kid has already figured out what goes on when he is on a job, but the thought of Izuku actually seeing it is enough to make him feel sick. He's not ready for that yet.
He turns, sees the shadowed form of limp All-Might bunny ears on a hoodie, the slight figure crouched beneath the darkened streetlight a short ways from the mouth of the alley. The woman at his feet gurgles some more and he twists the sword again to shut her up. He takes a deep breath, steeling himself for the coming confrontation. Maybe it isn't all bad.
Maybe it is time he introduces Izuku to the realities of this world they live in. No matter how much he had once strove to shelter him, to keep him pure and keep his hands free of blood, it is an ugly truth that heroes must sometimes get their hands dirty to keep innocent people safe. Izuku is still young, can still be counted amongst the innocents, but the time is drawing near for them to move on to the next step of their training. Moving the timeline up may be for the best.
No matter how Izuku reacts, they will deal with it. He swallows around the strange tightness of his throat and straightens to his full height, preparing himself for what is to come. As he does so, the figure stands as well and he feels the tension in his chest release in a rush of giddy relief.
It is not Izuku.
"What are you doing?" The Crawler asks, taking a wary step closer. The streetlight finally flickers to life as darkness overtakes the city, showing the young man's confused expression as he squints through the heavy shadows to try to make sense of the scene before him. "Is someone hurt? Do you need help?"
Stendhal pulls his blade from the woman's body with a squelch that makes The Crawler flinch. The sound she makes is so soft, so breathless and weak, that he knows from years of experience that she'll be lucky to last even five minutes more. No one will get here in time to save her, even if this young almost-hero manages to call someone for help.
"It's taken care of," Stendhal tells the other man, cleaning his blade and sliding it into one of the sheaths across his back. "Go home before you get yourself hurt."
Apparently, the threat does not register, because The Crawler just steps closer as he tries to make out the woman's shape through the gloom. It is apparent when he finally processes the situation. His confused expression smoothes out, narrowed eyes going wide and the crease in his brow smoothing as his jaw drops. His dark eyes dart between Stendhal and his victim, but there is no sign of fear, no hint that he has realized that it is Stendhal who has killed her. He rushes forward, ignorant of the way that Stendhal tenses and grips his knife, and kneels by the woman's side. Blood, still warm, soaks into the knees of his pants.
"When is the ambulance coming?" he demands, kneeling before Stendhal like a martyr before the executioner's blade. His hands shake as he presses them tight against the open wound.
The woman doesn't stir besides the barest flutter behind her eyelids. Stendhal takes a step back, sinking further into dark shadows.
"She's as good as dead. Just leave it be."
"We can't just let her die! Did you," The Crawler pauses as he tries to gather himself, takes several shaky breaths, blinks back tears, and tries again."—did you at least see who did it?"
Stendhal pauses, head tilted as he considers the young man before him, trying so desperately to save someone who doesn't deserve it and is so desperate to see the good in people that he doesn't realize the killer is standing mere feet away with blood still wet on his hands. Though they look nothing alike, he is reminded of the first time he saw Izuku, eyes hard with determination despite the tears that streaked his cheeks as he did everything he could to protect a girl he didn't know. There is that same pure resolve in this young man, the desire to do good and the capacity to cause damage all wrapped up in one fragile soul. It makes him wonder how the man may benefit from a proper teacher and it makes him want to make The Crawler wake up to reality.
He smiles, tongue lolling out to wet his cracked lips, and steps closer instead of disappearing into the night like he had intended. The Crawler gasps as he grabs him by the collar and hoists him up, slamming him against the wall.
"Hey! What do you think you're doing?!"
"I did it," Stendhal rasps, and watches hungrily as dark eyes go wide with shock and a slowly dawning horror.
"What?" The Crawler whispers, voice cracking on the single syllable. His hands are streaked with blood as they rise to rest on Stendhals' fists, pushing feebly at their grip, still too shocked to put up more of a fight.
"She was scum," Stendhal says, watching the emotions play out across The Crawler's face. "She sullied this world, squandered every chance for happiness over drugs and petty theft. Those like her, criminals and vagrants, stains on society…." He trails off, ignoring the way The Crawler struggles against his hold, the way his blunt nails are trying to claw through the leather of Stendhal's gloves.
"What are you talking about?" The Crawler squeaks out, and his voice snaps him back. Sighing, he loosens his grip just enough to let the other man breathe. He can almost taste the fear as it radiates off him.
"You strive to do good. You are unpolished and unpracticed, but I can see potential within you. I can guide you, teach you, and together we stand a better chance of eradicating the filth of this world."
The Crawler goes very still. The whites of his eyes shine wetly from the shadows of his face. His lips tremble as he mouths the words to himself, trying to wrap his head around the path that Stendhal is illuminating as it stretches out in front of him. Somehow, his gaze finds Stendhal's own despite the mirrored mask that hides his face.
"What the fuck are you talking about?"
He's angry now. The fear and confusion are gone, and in their place rises a ferocity that sets Stendhal's heart racing and his teeth bared in a smile that could be mistaken for a snarl. Any hint of doubt has been erased; this kid has the potential for true heroism.
The Crawler pushes with more force, hood falling back to fully reveal his young face. Both of his hands are braced on Stendhal's chest, body tense and ready for a fight. He will spring into action the first chance he gets, but that won't do. Not before Stendhal is ready to let him go, and not until he gets to say his piece and force the words into The Crawler's head like a drill through a skull.
It takes laughably little effort to slam The Crawler back, head cracking against the rough concrete of the building. His yelp of surprise turns quickly into a low groan, pain apparent by the way his eyes squeeze shut and his brow creases. The smell of blood reaches Stendhal's nose and he breathes deeply, loosening his grip enough to allow The Crawler to slide down the wall as his legs give out beneath him.
Stendhal revels in the streak of blood left on the wall where his head had hit it, in the way The Crawler is a little cross eyed when he forces himself to open his eyes and tries to find Stendhal's gaze once again. He tries bracing himself, lurching unsteadily as he reaches forward, searching for four points of contact with the ground. It could be a trick of the scarce light, but it looks like his shaking fingertips emit the faintest hint of a glow. Stendhal has read Izuku's notes on this vigilante before, so he knows better than to let him activate his quirk. He drags a finger through the young man's bloodied hair, ignoring the way he flinches at the touch, and pops it in his mouth.
The response is immediate. With a gasp, The Crawler's body goes limp. His face meets the ground with a smack and a groan before Stendhal hauls him back up. He is limp as a rag doll, but his face is still delightfully expressive and full of terror. Stendhal gives him a little shake.
The blood has stopped its sluggish pumping from the woman and is beginning to cool, sticky and thick beneath his boots.
"The world is crawling with criminals. Any hero worth their salt is overwhelmed while the freeloaders and fakes profit off the hard work of others. People like you and I, we operate outside the poisonous influence of hero society. We do the things we do because we feel compelled to help, not because we crave fame or fortune. I see potential in you. Don't waste it. You need guidance, and I can offer that."
The Crawler swallows, adam's apple bobbing. A line of sweat crawls its way down the side of his face and his chest heaves with every panicked breath. His eyes dart towards the roof as a voice rises somewhere in the distance, barely audible over the muted roar of sirens a few blocks away. It calls again, and Stendhal sees the spark of recognition in those frightened brown eyes. Though he is paralyzed, Stendhal knows the signs that someone is going to start screaming for help.
"Friend of yours?" Stendhal cuts in pleasantly, gloved hand covering The Crawler's mouth before he can make a commotion. He is leaning in closer, just to make sure there's no chance his whispered words can be overheard by The Crawler's ally. "If she finds us, it will be just her against me. Think about that before you open your mouth again."
"You'd better not be getting into trouble!" she calls, just loud enough to make out the words. She's getting closer and her voice is filled with exasperation but not worry. Not yet. The Crawler doesn't answer, but his terrified expression speaks volumes.
The girl sounds like she is somewhere above them. Just a few buildings over, if his guess is right. It's probably Pop Step, the wannabe idol that has been seen tagging along with The Crawler. Most likely a child herself, but he feels something like hatred curdle in his gut at the thought of her. Her voice echoes eerily in his ears, too bright and young to fit into a place so soaked through with blood. It reminds him of Hachisuka and for a moment he wonders what it would feel like to sink his blade into this newcomer's throat, to slice through her vocal cords and watch that single eye go wide.
"Don't hurt her," The Crawler pleads, voice soft but clear and strong.
Stendhal looks down and scowls when he realizes that he has removed his hand from the other man's mouth in favor of drawing his gunong. The blade catches the flickering light of the street lamp, mocking him with its shine. He hesitates, brain stuttering as it tries to catch up to his reality, then sighs and tucks it back into his waistband.
"I won't do anything to your friend," he mutters through gritted teeth, trying to ignore the creeping unease he feels at the realization that his day off hadn't been enough to clear his head. Maybe it really is a fever, then. He'll need more than a single night's rest, if that's the case. It's a problem to be addressed at another time.
The girl is drawing closer, so he lets go of The Crawler's hoodie and lets him collapse to the ground, face only inches away from the dark pool of blood. He has more to say, but if Pop Step makes an appearance he doesn't trust himself not to be tempted to follow through on his blood soaked thoughts. He doesn't enjoy hurting children, but...well, Hachisuka has been enough of a thorn in his side, maybe it's beginning to dig into his subconscious. He'll take a break when this is over. A long one.
A quick glance is enough to tell him that his target is dead, but he presses his fingers to her throat anyways, searching for even the weakest hint of a pulse. It isn't hard to ignore the soft crying just inches from his ear. He nods when he finds no signs of life and wipes his hands on the coarse material of his pants, already dreaming of showering the filth from his body. He stands and steps deeper into the darkness of the alley, going over the route back to his hovel of a shelter, glad that night has at last fully fallen.
When he casts one last glance towards The Crawler, he expects to see anger in his gaze. It's only to be expected when a betrayal like this shakes up one's world view. The expression of absolute heartbreak that greets him instead is a shock. For one brief second, staring into those sad brown eyes, he almost feels remorseful for the situation they have found themselves in.
It doesn't last long. He straightens himself, standing tall and resolute. All amatuer heroes have to learn the truth of their profession at some point – vigilantes are no exception to that rule. If anything, this man will be faced with darker and more fucked up situations than most heroes ever are. Vigilantes often walk the same dark path as underground heroes, and unlike daylight heroes, they often find themselves soaked through with the blood of criminals and the innocent alike. It's amazing that The Crawler has managed to keep his innocence this long, but it was never going to last. One day, every human must face the reality of their world.
"Think about it," he tells The Crawler.
(He prays that Izuku won't look at him with that same heartbroken expression when the day comes for him to learn this same lesson.)
.
The lights flicker and buzz, threatening to give out on them at any moment. The young man they're speaking with doesn't seem to notice, too busy with jotting down his own shaky notes as they interview him. After nearly three hours his little black notepad is nearly full. What little Shouta can see of the writing is nearly illegible. This is the guy's first brush with being an informant and it's obvious he's nervous.
He is pouring sweat and his forked tongue keeps flickering out to wet his nearly nonexistent lips. Shouta doesn't blame him for his nerves, but the incessant bouncing of his leg and grinding of his teeth has passed the point of annoying and is rapidly approaching infuriating. His fingers are white-knuckling his own pen and he's torn several holes in his paper.
Fat Gum is, blessedly, one of the more observant people he's worked with.
"I think it's time for a break," he announces easily, massive form rising from his too-small chair with a groan.
Their informant watches him stand with wide eyes, watches the way his yellow clad frame fills the small room, and swallows nervously. He nods, eyes darting towards Shouta before he turns his attention back to Fat Gum. He looks a little paler than before. The scars that crisscross his features stand out angrily against his skin.
"Right," he whispers, sounding like he's only just remembered that he's a criminal who's been spilling his guts to pro heroes this whole time. He swallows a few times, throat clicking. "I think I need some more coffee."
Fat Gum bellows a laugh and claps the young man on the back, always too friendly, and says something about accompanying him to find snacks in the cafeteria. The man has a tremor in his hands, something about nerve damage after one too many hits to the head in the illegal cage fights he's now reporting on. He fumbles with the door handle a second too long before he manages to get it open and nearly trips his way out of the room in his rush to get out of the cramped space. Shouta doesn't move from his seat, watching them go with bloodshot eyes. Fat Gum winks at him over his shoulder before he disappears into the hallway, babbling cheerily to their informant the whole time.
The second the latch clicks, Shouta allows himself to slump in his chair, head hanging so low it nearly touches the table. Squeezing his eyes shut doesn't stop the way they are burning, but it does help to ease his migraine, if only a little. He takes a few deep breaths, ignoring the bodies that fight their way to the forefront of his mind to dance behind his eyelids, and forces his shoulders to relax from their place around his ears.
It's been over a month since he first came on the scene of the charred remains of an entire warehouse full of people and weeks since they found the first of many bodies killed with no signs of a struggle. It took too long for the cases to be linked together, and they still don't know why. Far too long to figure out that it was one man behind the slayings, and there's still no explanation as to why he's doing it, though it is obvious the slaying aren't random. If anything, they're assassinations, but he can't figure out why the victims are being targeted.
He takes another deep breath, shuddering at the way it catches in his lungs. The smell of death lingers in his nostrils no matter how many smelling salts Nemuri pushes on him. It is repulsive.
He's only been at this job a handful of years, but some days he wonders if it's really worth it to keep pushing on. The burnout is real and intense and certain to put him in an early grave. The thought of quitting is a flight of fancy, of course. There's no stopping now, not when he knows he's helping (even if it is in ways he'll probably never see) but there are mornings that he lies awake and wonders what his life would be like if he walked away from the hero business. There are nights where he considers not forcing himself to get out of bed for his patrol, and it gets more and more tempting as time goes by.
The realization that his hands are shaking hits him. He stares down at them with narrowed eyes, wishing he could just will the tremors away. After several fruitless seconds, he admits defeat and pushes himself to his feet. The lack of sleep turns the room dark as the blood rushes to his head and he has to stand frozen to keep from wobbling in full view of the cameras he knows are recording everything that goes on in the interview room.
When his vision clears, he glances towards the clock on the wall and decides he should have just enough time to refill his coffee mug and finish off one cigarette. The way this week is going makes him feel like he deserves to chainsmoke for the next twelve months, but he promised Hizashi he would try to quit and he intends to keep his word.
The halls are empty and his footsteps echo as he winds his way through the building. The guard at the back entrance asks for his ID, explaining sheepishly that it's a requirement even for heroes. Shouta hadn't asked. He wordlessly slides his card through the slot in the plexiglass and lets his eyes wander towards the large window inside the guard's booth. There is another guard outside, accompanying three people in pale blue uniforms. All four of them are smoking. His eyes twitch as the craving eats at him, curling around his insides like a snake. He wills the door to open faster. The sooner they're done here the sooner he can go home, feed the cat, and get a few hours of sleep in before his shift tonight. The seconds tick by as the guard types furiously and runs Shouta's ID again.
"Sorry about the wait," the guard says, following his line of sight and smiling apologetically. "The system has to run a check before I can open the doors, but it keeps crashing on me. I think it needs a system reboot."
"Seems like a lot of security for a rehab facility," he comments idly, just for a distraction.
"Most of the people here have criminal connections," the guard says distractedly, eyes back on his computer screen. His brow is creased as he scans whatever the screen is displaying. "They all come here voluntarily and can leave anytime they want, so the security is just for their own safety."
Shouta hums, still watching the small group gathered outside. The guard accompanying the residents is obviously taking this time as a break considering how her eyes have yet to lift from her phone screen. The cigarette in her hand is burning slowly to ash. Two of the facility residents are facing each other, standing just a little bit too close as they talk, soft smiles brightening their features. He's pretty sure that's probably against some rule or another, but that's none of his business. He's mostly concerned with the way the clock keeps ticking onwards, whittling away at his already short break. At this rate, he won't have time for coffee after all.
The third resident seems distracted, cigarette dangling from her lips and eyes trained on something just outside of Shouta's line of sight. He watches as her eyes squint and then widen, recognition flickering across her features. He tenses, hand rising to grip the edge of his capture weapon in preparation for something to go wrong, but the woman's blue lips pull into a grin. She is relaxed as she lifts a hand to wave and opens her mouth to call what he assumes is a greeting. He can't hear her voice through the soundproofed walls but the woman doesn't seem worried. He watches the guard accompanying them outside look up and rolls her eyes before returning her attention to her phone. Shouta lets himself relax.
"Sorry about the wait. There was a computer error so I did end up having to reboot the system, but it's just about done," the guard behind the desk assures. He tries to make small talk while Shouta does his best to tune him out. If by some miracle he had the extra energy and was in the right mood for socializing, he certainly wouldn't waste it on small talk. (He does not, in fact, ever have either the mood or the energy for socializing of any kind.)
He pulls out his phone, intending to waste time on cat pictures, when a flash of color catches his eye. He looks up, zeroing in on the splashes of yellow and brown among pale blue. A man dressed in drab, oversized clothes is speaking with the guard. He looks uncomfortable, shuffling from side to side as his eyes constantly scan his surroundings while the guard tries in vain to hold his attention. He looks like he's just started coming down from a high and is already jonesing for another hit.
It is the boy in the oversized yellow hoodie that holds Shouta's attention, though. The kid is small, made smaller by the way the tattered sleeves fall to cover his hands. He has a hat on, not quite hiding the dark green strands that curl at the nape of his neck. His eyes curve up with a smile that is mostly hidden beneath a medical mask. Though he has only met him once, briefly in the darkness of night, Shouta recognizes him immediately as the rooftop kid who had tried to give him a homemade flier on community resources. Seeing him here is like the answer to a question he hadn't realized was gnawing at the corners of his mind.
His eyes stay trained on the boy, tracing what little he can make out, searching for signs of injury or maltreatment. His mask has slipped a little with how much he's talking and how animatedly he moves, and there's the barest hint of a mark on his cheek. From this distance, it's impossible to tell if it's a bruise or just a shadow. There's not much to be gleaned from the unblemished skin of his neck or the tips of his fingers, and the fact bothers him.
As though sensing his gaze, the boy suddenly turns towards the window, squinting to see through the glass. His eyes find Shouta's and his whole demeanor lights up, the curve of his smile showing over his partially abandoned mask. Shouta wonders if the kid thinks he's here because of the list he had forced into his hands the night they met. He lowers his head a little, burying his face into the capture weapon looped around his neck. If the lack of a response bothers the kid, he doesn't show it; just gives another wave and turns back to whatever conversation he was having with the woman.
"What's with the kid?" Shouta asks the guard, who turns to survey the gathering outside. Judging by the reaction of the guard and the residents, the sunny spot amongst them isn't a stranger.
"That's Yudai," the guard says with a snort, turning back around to look at Shouta. "Nice kid, real shy though. I've never talked to him but I think he's doing some sort of community outreach project for school or something? Probably half the residents are here because of him, but he won't say a word to any of us guards. The only people he bothers with are the ones he brought here himself."
Shouta feels his eyebrow twitch. The guard doesn't seem to notice.
"Is that so."
"Yeah! But hey, if you're curious you can go ask him yourself system's back up!"
And just like that, the door is opening wide and Shouta is shuffling outside without a backwards glance. The sky is grey and the chill of winter bites into his skin. The kid definitely wasn't wearing a heavy enough coat for the season and he frowns as the thought crosses his mind.
The man in brown is being escorted inside by two employees in dark grey coats. The residents in their pale blue uniforms watch, cigarettes forgotten. There is no sign of yellow left in the barren courtyard.
Shouta makes a beeline towards the woman Yudai had been speaking with. She watches his approach with a curious expression, blue lips pursed and skin shining faintly in the watery grey sunlight. He doesn't have much time before he has to be back to complete their interview with the CI, but he knows this Yudai situation is going to eat at him if he doesn't get some answers.
"Got a light?" he asks, and the woman smiles and pulls a zippo out of her pocket.
"You can keep it," she tells him. Her voice is deep and husky as it curls from her lips, and her breath creates swirls of mist in the frigid air. She flashes sharp canines when she smiles. "It's a loaner from the guard, so I don't need it."
He nods his thanks as he cups a hand around the flickering flame and lights up before tucking the lighter away in his pocket. The minutes pass in comfortable silence as he takes his first drag of the day, enjoying the way it quiets his mind and stops the trembling in his limbs. He sighs with heady relief, smoke curling from his mouth and nose, and shudders.
Hizashi is right, he thinks with a grimace. He's getting too dependent on these things and he needs to stop. Maybe this will finally be his last one.
"I'm Aia, by the way," his companion says. He levels a steady gaze on her and doesn't return the introduction, but it doesn't seem to faze her. She takes a long drag from her own cigarette and continues, smoke pouring from her mouth as she speaks. "You here for one of the group sessions? They're real nice. My brother comes in every week for our family session, and I've gotta admit it's helping a lot. It's the only time he's willingly seen me in the last decade, so that's a bonus!"
Great. She's one of those oversharer types. He's been in the business long enough to know that these types are the best for getting information from, no matter how exhausting conversations with them can get. He shakes his head in response to her question and she raises one thick brow in something akin to disbelief. She looks him up and down with a critical eye before pinching the blue material of her uniform and huffing out a humorless laugh.
"Well, you're obviously not here to stay. Unless you're in the process of checking yourself in? It's okay if you are; we've all been there. It's hard at first, but worth it. This is the first time I've been clean in a decade."
Shouta isn't in the mood to examine why people keep assuming he's here to stay so he simply rolls his eyes and shakes his head again. Aia frowns, obviously waiting for an explanation while her sharp eyes roam his frame, cataloguing and searching for clues. Her mouth opens to launch into another round of questioning, but he cuts her off before she can speak.
"What's the story with the kid?" he asks instead. The woman's mouth shuts with a clack of teeth and she stares at him, apparently surprised by his lack of social graces, before her eyes narrow suspiciously.
"Why are you asking?"
"Professional curiosity," he answers with a shrug, ignoring the way her eyes light up with realization. "I met him a while back while he was dangling off the side of a building in the dead of night and he treated me like an old friend. I'm concerned the next stranger he runs into on an isolated rooftop might not be as cordial as me."
He can tell she's worried about the same thing by the way she winces at his words. She rakes a hand through her short blue hair and sighs. A few silent seconds pass as she considers what to say.
"I don't think it's his real name," she begins slowly, "but he introduced himself to me as Yudai. He's a good kid, but stubborn as hell. Real cagey, too. I'd bet my bed here that he's hiding something big. Keeps saying he's fine and doesn't need any help, but before he convinced me to come here I'd see him out on the streets at all hours of the day and night. A lot of the time he had bruises. I don't think he's taking care of himself like he should be."
The cigarette is slowly burning down to a nub in his hand. He takes another drag, then grits his teeth and runs his free hand through his hair, wishing he had a tie to pull it up and out of the way with. This shouldn't be his problem. He's busy enough as it is with patrols and Trigger cases and now the massive amounts of murders he's had shoved into his lap.
"What about parents?" he asks, hoping he could just make a call to child protective services and let them handle it. Those hopes are dashed almost immediately when she shakes her head.
"I never asked, but there's another man he's helped out – Okada, I think? – who said he mentioned living alone a few times."
"What a dumbass," Shouta grumbles. "Why is he telling strangers his living situation? Does he want to get killed?"
Aia barks out a laugh, eyes twinkling despite the dark topic of conversation.
"I'll let you know if I ever manage to get a straight answer from him on that."
He doesn't have time for this. He really, really doesn't. People are dying, are being brutally murdered, and he has to devote his attention to finding the person responsible and getting them off the street. Some lonely kid with either a hero complex or a death wish is a problem for the police to handle. He should just walk away from Aia and forget Yudai and the whole headache it is going to cause if he stands here one second longer.
He, of course, makes the mistake of lingering and allowing himself to consider the situation. As Shouta thinks about the boy's wide smile and earnest desire to help, coupled with the image of him alone and bruised on a lonely rooftop somewhere in the nastiest part of the city, he realizes with a sinking feeling that a spot's just opened on his calendar to make Yudai his problem.
"Great," he mutters. He'll find the kid, figure out what's going on, and then hand the case over to the police. It will be easy and he won't have to devote too much time to it. It can just be a side project, just something to help ease his mind. It'll be easy (he lies to himself) now that he knows what "Yudai" is up to.
The phone in his pocket begins to buzz. He sighs when he sees Fat Gum's real name lighting up the screen. He ignores the call but crushes the cigarette butt beneath his boot. If he hurries, he can probably still grab some coffee to take back to the interview room with him.
"Thanks. I'll look into it," he tells Aia, and without waiting for any sort of reply he turns on his heel and marches back towards the building. There's a murderer to stop, so Yudai will just have to wait.
Happy almost Monday! I'm so sorry for the wait everyone, which is why I'm posting a little early! I had wrist surgery that made it painful to write, then I was renovating a house, then I moved five hours away from home, got engaged, got some bad news about my childhood dog, now I'm building a fence, plus work is an absolute killer of my time and motivation and sanity. It has just been...a lot. There have been tears. So I just want to say that I really appreciate each and every person who has read, bookmarked, or left a review on this story. Some days, it felt like those were the only things keeping me going lol.
A special shoutout to my wonderful beta, TheFoxyPirateFox. He is a lifesaver and helped me out so much on this chapter!
I'm sorry this is short and not too exciting. I can't promise the next chapter will be any better or come any faster, but know that I am trying!
In other news, this story now has a discord! If ff dot net kills my attempt at a link, let me know.
discord . gg / JpRaDr4Ayp