The room was dark; dim lighting, zero windows, and black paint made sure that it was as covert as possible. Each wall was thick enough to withstand a bomb, be it from the outside or within. Neither sound nor poisonous gas could slip through the airtight door. It'd cost the Commission thousands, if not millions of dollars to cobble together. It wasn't the only one of its kind either. A network of tight, fortified tunnels connected this room to a hundred others across the Tokyo area

The lengths the Commission went to for security would continue to astound him until he died. Once, they'd been lax, lazy paper pushers with little more power than DMV. But now? Now the Commission had straightened their posture, tightened their grip, and situated themselves in the forefront of the hero society's underworld. It'd taken less than a month after All Might's death for the government to take control. Pulling its sword from the stone, it reclaimed its rightful power from the media in a modern coup d'é·tat. Now, its only rival in hero politics was U.A. Nedzu was the only major principle yet to bend the knee to their authority. Enji scoffed, thinking to himself. The Commission were fools if they thought that rat would ever kneel; if they wanted his good favor, they shouldn't have experimented on him.

Now, after two years of almost-total control, the Commission's literal underground network was finally complete. The Catacombs were their finest creation thus far: vast, secretive bunkers where the top officials of Japan could gather. It was a true political move. Any heads of state, top heroes, or wealthy businessmen could come here, granted they passed Commission inspection. It was the perfect peace offering. The bigwigs got a new toy, and the Commission remained unscrutinized for increasing their authority.

Endeavor kept his eyes shut as the thick bolts of the reinforced doors slid open. His breathing was calm, his fire under control. The clarity of his meditation told him all he needed, never requiring him to look at the newcomers.

Dull, soft footfalls accompanied the sound of luxurious pant legs rubbing together. Nighteye may have designed his suit for villain apprehension, but the materials were as expensive as it comes. Silk scratched against silk as his inner thighs rubbed together; a byproduct of the man's tight gait.

Light, careless footfalls followed suit. Enji winced as the sneakers squeaked against the waxed floor, still wet from the overworld's rain. A steady drip trailed behind, Hawk's wings unfurled and air drying. There was a certain odor in the air, like the bathwater of a filthy gaggle of ducks. His unkempt appearance lent credit to the notion that he didn't belong, but that wasn't up to Enji. The kid was barely out of high school, but he'd been the Commission's dog for a lot longer than his career suggested.

He couldn't hear the steps of the next arrival, but he couldn't help but listen to the way his denim rustled against itself. It was a shame Best Jeanist couldn't manipulate any finer threads; jeans left him underdressed among the suited men around them. Perhaps, however, he felt comfort in Hawks, who was no doubt in aviators and sweats. Jeanist was never the least dressed in the room, with that brat running around.

Jeanist wasn't the last to arrive, but he was the last to arrive that Enji cared for. Four suits followed behind, each lacking even the most juvenile hero's grace. Clunky, uneven steps accompanied the sharp crinkle and snap of new leather shoes; the tell tale sign of a bureaucrat.

Cracking open an eye, he didn't bother surveying the room. He gave each hero, minus Hawks, a slight nod. He didn't even look at the suits.

"Nighteye. Report. Any new movement?"

Mirai Sasaki nodded, flipping around a laptop for the rest of the table to see. All four suits leaned in for a better look, while Best Jeanist's head only tilted a smidge. Hawks didn't even glance at it.

Nighteye and Endeavor had been working together on occasion ever since their joint training exercise. They were not friends. They could not be friends, nor would they be in the near future. The one training session had been enough for Enji to know exactly how the man operated, and he didn't need seconds. Nighteye had not been back to his home since.

The closest he'd come was to pick up or drop off Izuku. Mirai was sharp, observant; smarter than he looked, and that was saying something. He knew where he wasn't welcome.

That, however, didn't stop either of them from working together. Nighteye was indispensable, a genius that outstripped even himself. While Enji had never cared much for All Might, he could certainly understand how the man had been so dominant before his fall. With men like Nighteye backing you, how could you not succeed?

So, while Endeavor had taken in Izuku to teach him the basics of propelling, Nighteye had taken it upon himself to investigate Endeavor's most mysterious case: Where did the Yakuza go?

It was common knowledge that modern hero society had beaten the Yakuza senseless. It was a simple question of nature; what happens to coyotes when their competitors are wolves, sometimes tigers? What happens when the prey stops being shrews and starts being ox and elk?

From overpopulation to endangered species over five hundred years. Some might say they had a good run, but the coyotes wouldn't. They claw, tear, and scream for every next breath. They'd been fighting against the river of extinction for decades since All Might hit the stage, and they'd been drowning.

So, when suddenly the biggest, baddest hunter died and the most wild, feral tiger evaporated into thin air, all the coyote's enemies winced. The rapids of endangerment, which had been dashing coyotes against the rocks for years, had ceased to churn. They could swim now, free and conditioned for war.

So when they sank under the waves and never came up for air, worry seeped into everyone's bones. They became stressed; afraid. Some thought they drowned, others migrated. All kept looking over their shoulders at night.

With a swipe of his dominant hand, Enji cast the tiny screen to the large television across from their table, giving his aging eyes some relief. He wasn't about to stand up and crawl over the table to see those tiny-ass letters. Enji had dignity, unlike the suits.

"I've been outsourcing the scouting to agencies across the city. Though they don't know what they're looking for exactly, I've still gained a wealth of tips that I've since personally verified. See, by looking over at this left chart…" Nighteye began, swiping to a new page filled with graphs instead of letters.

It was ingenious, to say the least. What'd taken Endeavor almost a year to find, Nighteye had barely taken a month to match, and then another to exceed.

Small-time gangs had exploded into popularity once the Symbol of Peace disappeared; they tore through the streets assaulting, murdering, and stealing like rabid dogs. They'd raged for months, destroying infrastructure and ruining lives. They were just as big a threat as the small-time villains; each a young shark hungry for blood in the water.

Then, one day, about a year back, they'd slowed down. Some, civilians for the most part, speculated that they'd had their fun. That they got bored and went home. This idea only made sense to people who didn't understand the crisis, yet it spread like wildfire. It was a ridiculous notion; that these power-hungry, gluttonous youths and old heads just got bored one day. If that was the case, then the gangs wouldn't have disappeared, they'd have dissolved. Reassembled. Gone solo. They wouldn't have evaporated.

Even some of the boldest new-age gangs disappeared. Nighteye himself had an encounter with one; Izuku had saved a family while the hero had fought off their leader. The Lightning Thieves had been a major thorn in everyone's side for months, yet one day, they slipped away without a trace.

It was Nighteye's task to discover where they went without alerting anyone of what he was doing. To give away their attention would be to doom the mission from the start. By Nighteye's graven expression, Enji suspected success. Nighteye continued to go over his findings before pausing. The suits waited on the edge of their seats, air stuck in their lungs.

"...It seems the disappearance of the Yakuza and the small timers are correlated, in short. I think the Yakuza are devouring these gangs into themselves. They're acquiring grunts, the golds among the roughs, and amassing a modern mafia network. And something big is coming." Nighteye said, his glasses reflecting bright despite the cold darkness of their facility. Oh, Enji realized, smelling the smoke on his upper lip. He's burning.

Best Jeanist leaned into the table, his fingers interlaced so one could see how his thumbs wriggled in anxiety. Enji didn't need to see to know the man's tell; his poker face was terrible. There was a reason he wore a collar up to his eyes.

"That's a serious statement, Mirai. What kind of "Big" are we talking about?" He asked, his voice crisp and direct. His stoicism was a front, he'd learned. Enji's shin could feel the vibrations of the man's nervous leg through the table. If Sir Nighteye, the man who organized every raid All Might ever faced was worried about something "Big," then most heroes would have to throw out their dictionaries. Big wouldn't cover it; nuclear might be a better term.

"National terrorism, I'm afraid. Perhaps, collectively, I'd imagine they'd amount to the threat of a triumvirate of Supervillains. If handled to their utmost efficiency, we could be seeing another High-End, or a Death's Dance. A Doom Squad, or a Villain League, perhaps. Yakuza may be small fries, and small timers smaller still, but what if there were a hundred under one banner instead fifty? Scratch that, a thousand. Imagine ten thousand loose cannons all organized under one banner, maybe two?"

The air felt a little heavier after Nighteye's speech. Nervous beads of sweat trickled down the back of a suit's head. Another had his head in his hands. Hawks was staring at the ceiling, his nails scratching against the scruff on his chin. Jeanist balled his fists.

One suit stood up, his neck bulging with an angry vein, his cheeks flushed with sudden vigor.

"Bullshit. There isn't a single individual capable of making half as many druggies listen to him, let alone grabbing them by the balls. You're trying to scare us, Mirai, and you must be fucked in the head if you think you'll get out of here scot-free for it. You—" The only calm suit cut him off, yanking him back into his seat. It was a good thing, too, because Endeavor almost found it necessary to interrupt him.

"It doesn't matter if he's right or wrong," Endeavor said. Enji took a backseat in the conversation, letting his persona take the reins. "Even if Nighteye's idea is wrong, of which I'm not sold either way, we must prepare for the worst possible outcome anyways."

Nighteye nodded with his assessment. Endeavor wasn't done speaking, however.

"None of this, however, is to leave the room until we have proof. The Commission can not," Endeavor paused, making sure to look at all five of their agents in the eyes, "under any circumstances jump the gun. Nighteye's theory is… good, logical, and terrifying. It does not, however, have a backbone of evidence. I wholeheartedly believe that the Yakuza have assimilated the small gangs into themselves, but before we begin pointing fingers at a singular, mastermind boogeyman, we need something concrete. Nighteye, at your discretion, continue your research. Commission Dogs, put your ears to the ground."

With that, the meeting was over. Even in the Commission's most secure facility, he held the most power. His payment as the Number One Hero was well earned, in his opinion. He could only begin to imagine how short his temper would be if he was not delivered the respect he'd earned in the Fallout of All Might.

The echo of his stride bounced around the entire hall, his steps never failing to produce dull thunder against the concrete floors. Perhaps relaxing a bit after such a meeting would be warranted. His blood pressure would appreciate it, surely. Yet he couldn't allow himself to calm, to flicker. Nighteye's theory was a nightmare scenario, and it had gripped him tight.

His days were long, worn out, and his energy stretched thin. Villains, he could deal with. Not a problem. Supervillains? Perhaps if they were generous enough to avoid working together, he'd avoid burnout for another decade or so. If every gang got under one roof at once, white flags and peace treaties out? Enji couldn't imagine surviving it, let alone avoiding burnout.

So much unwanted turmoil filled Enji's head that he didn't even register the obnoxious echo of boots behind him. It took every ounce of willpower he had to not eviscerate the poor fool who tapped him on the shoulder, but it took an even steeper toll to not do it anyways when he realized it was Nighteye.

The man wasn't huffing or puffing, but the telltale flush of his cheeks told him the man had been chasing after him. Enji steeled himself. It didn't matter that this was obviously business, what with the man holding a confidential-sealed envelope for him. It pissed him off—physically hurt him, to see the man outside of a sterile meeting room. Nighteye's aura just did that to him. Perhaps a few years ago, when he was still chasing shadows, he'd let that aura define him. Not anymore.

"Good thing I caught you. You walked out before I was able to hand out the copies." Nighteye said, shoving the envelope into his hands. Enji—Endeavor scowled, thumbing the seal just as Nighteye turned away.

"What are the copies of?" I already have the data on my personal drive." Endeavor said. Nighteye paused, turning only so he could make out the man's purple glowing eye.

"It's the first step towards proof, or so I've seen. Also, take the long way home today. The bus. I'm going to be stuck in commission hell, so I won't be able to help." He said, before power walking away, off to creep someone else out. Enji didn't get the chance to ask what the hell that meant before Nighteye disappeared.

Peaking over his shoulder, just to check for spies, Enji took a peek inside the envelope.

Inside was a series of photos. Torn clothing, backstreet alleys, and some poor civilian's bare chest, clearly deceased. All of them held a similar symbol, though no two were perfectly alike. An emblem, graffiti, and a murder-signature. Gang symbols; territory markers, more often than not.

Each portrayed a singular icon: A large crow's skull with a sword sunk into the beak, Sword-in-the-Stone style.

[x]

The reflection in the mirror was dirty, dark splotches obscuring his eczema scars. Greasy black hair fell over his scalp like a mop, hiding his eyes from the world. He scratched at the corner of his lips, idle. No pain. The mask covered everything below the eyes, both keeping his fingers away and keeping the dead skin within. The dry flakes of his face didn't get on his work anymore; Tenko couldn't care less, but Health and Safety could.

Squeezing the Windex bottle on the filthy gas station mirror, Tenko began rubbing those mystery marks away, careful to keep his mind blank. To question the dark splotch's origins was to send himself hurling into the nearest trash can. Within a minute, they faded away, cleaned into oblivion.

It revealed to Tenko an odd picture. Young Mr. Shimura wore a dark apron to work, always careful to never let the bathroom's filth infect him. An open-brimmed hat pinned his dark bangs against his forehead, and his cotton surgical mask kept the secrets of his skin condition close at hand. A black long sleeve, jeans cuffed around the ankles, and some brown sneakers that used to be white sat under the uniform. His appearance screamed college dropout, but that was fine with him. It made for good camouflage.

He kept his personal examination brief; looking too long in the mirror always made his stomach turn over on itself.

He walked back out to the register, finding it empty. His cashier must've quit again; probably skipping town as Tenko was cleaning. Tenko couldn't blame him. The gas station was a shithole store in a shithole part of town, not everyone could take the heat. The prefecture had gained a bad reputation after… after the Fallout, what with the public gang wars and whatnot. What little business around had died. Now, all that remained were the groceries and the gas stations.

One might think that landing one of those jobs and keeping it was like a battle of King of the Hill, but it wasn't. No, Tenko had just chosen a store at random to apply to, and they accepted him on the spot. No one wanted to work, the former manager had said. Tenko didn't believe it until that very manager quit on the same day his training was complete. Even that bastard didn't want to work around here. Too dangerous, he said. Too little pay.

That had been Tenko's first lesson in relativity. "Dangerous" areas meant little to dangerous men, and "too little" pay meant nothing to someone with zero income. When you couldn't live off disability or unemployment, shithole jobs like these were diamonds in the rough. Not legally existing had made disappearing easy, sure, but made reintegrating much, much harder.

His cashier had been young and foolish, thinking he could get by without being anything special. Tenko was almost glad the kid fucked off, lost to the wind like sand in a dust bowl. He wouldn't have made it much longer anyways.

Still, it blew chunks regardless, being short an employee. Scratch that—short of any employees. All that remained were himself and the ancient owner who lived upstairs and couldn't come back down unless his electric stair-lift had enough juice for a round trip. A worthless old windbag he may be, but he paid Tenko's wages, so there wasn't much to complain about. Well, of course there was, but this young manager didn't have the time.

Sighing, Tenko undid the bag of his apron, tossing it to a corner alongside his hat. He left the cotton mask on the counter while he flicked the neon "OPEN" sign off. Grabbing some Marlboros off a stock shelf, he made his way to the curve for a smoke. He didn't bother keeping his feet on the sidewalk, letting them sprawl out on the road. Traffic wasn't common in these parts. Made a guy wonder why on earth there was a pump out here anyways. A car did actually pass, some lazy wannabe gangbangers swerving between lanes like it was their first booze cruise, but none even came close to him or his store.

A long drag of his cig made him start reconsidering his life choices, and a second had him trying to remind himself why homelessness hadn't worked out. There was a swirling ball of stress between his shoulder blades thinking about running the shop by himself. Minimum wage had never felt so soul-sucking. He'd have to let the old man know, then comb his fingers through the streets till they snagged on some fresh meat. Training some wannabe-yakuza brat into register work had never been fun in the past and wouldn't be fun in the future. They were prone to theft, and every dollar they stole was some coins out of his pocket.

Not that he blamed them; shit, he didn't even pay for the fucking Marlboros in his damn hand. What the owner didn't know didn't hurt him. Ah, fuck, Tenko remembered. He didn't check the register. Bumfuck kid probably made away with today's earnings. It hadn't been much, but it'd been decent. Fine. Definitely would've been a few dollars in his pocket.

His skin itched at the thought, that ball of stress in his chest unfurling and blooming into something more dangerous, self-destructive. His pinky burned where the knife had cut the tip-off. Tenko felt that ugly person, the one who wasn't Shimura but still started with Shi, rear in the back of his crusty head.

Fucking brat didn't just steal out of a random register, he stole out of Tenko's. Basically pick-pocketed him. His hand, the one with all five digits, twitched.

Careful to keep at least one finger hovering as he grabbed the Marlboros box, sliding out a second cigarette. His hands worked at a furious pace to light it without destroying either the cig or the lighter. One deep, final drag ate away at a quarter of the fresh cig, calming him. The burning feeling in his uninjured hand dissipated, and the Shi-but-not-mura settled back down, leaving him breathless. Actually, that might've been the cig when he thought about it.

Slow to his feet, Tenko dragged himself back to the shop, pissed that he'd almost let himself slip. The Marlboros lay forgotten on the roadside; maybe some kid with pisspoor luck could get a free addiction. Tenko couldn't care less. Turning the corner to his shop left him stumbling, however, shocked.

A behemoth of a bus; an inner city greyhound was parked right outside his station, half a dozen people wandering the property. He was slow to approach, intent on reading their vibe before introducing himself. You could never trust people who traveled in groups, at least in this area.

Slipping past the blindspots of the greyhound, he snuck around, crouching below all the windows. Wrapping around to the back, he took a peak in, head counting. Six people were outside, either smoking against the bus or peering inside the gas station window. One man, wearing a bus driver's uniform, was fiddling with a pump; a bad one, one that hadn't worked since before Tenko had even got the job. Inside was double; twelve additional passengers were either lounging, sleeping, or just fucking around on their phones.

Tenko couldn't tell if they were civvies or gang, but the two men pressing their faces against the glass he had just fucking cleaned this morning wore matching jackets. There was no telling if they were a part of the same group as the bus goers. For all Tenko knew, they'd just wandered to the store at the same time. Who was he kidding? He didn't get that much business. Each had some sort of symbol on their wrist sleeves, but they were too far to make out. Putting them down as suspicious, he gave the inside another look.

Most of them wore suits, but there were a couple of windbags. A single mom, too. Seemed very… normal.

Another passenger, a huge fucker built like an ox, stood up from within. Tenko didn't stick around any longer, ducking back around to the other side of the bus. His bad hand gripped at his good wrist, freezing the tiny shakes that had started boiling up again. He grit his teeth; today wasn't a good day for company.

He leaned into the bus, feeling how the massive greyhound shifted and wobbled with the steps of the mountainous man. The sliding doors opened, boots grinding against the asphalt. A very faint beeping noise tickled his ear, though Tenko couldn't place it.

"What's the hold-up, driver? Can't you see we're busy?" A voice said, pure gravel and stone. Tenko's spine shivered at the voice, his heart in his ears. Despite being on the opposite side of the bus than the man, he could picture him perfectly.

Broad, but tall, built like a warrior from his toes to his fiery red hair. Tree-trunk thick forearms crossed over one another as his foot ground the loose concrete in impatience. Ready to explode at any moment. Flame itself.

He peaked around the greyhound, watching as the fraud—the Number One Hero, snatched the pump out of the simple driver's hands, locking it back in place while pointing at the "Do Not Use" sign covering the card slot. Endeavor seemed agitated; more so than his mean ass usually was on television. A far cry from before the Fallout, however. If the hero before him was a mean dog now, then calling the former Number Two Hero a grizzly would be appropriate.

Though his persona—because that was what Endeavor was, fake—had mellowed, the raw aggression seemed to still linger in his bones. Thoughts of the countless hero politic lectures made his ribs squeeze his chest, the corpse in the doctor's bed haunting the back of his eyelids. Endeavor was built like a tank, sure, but he'd never measure up to that vegetable, let alone Sensei at his peak.

His heart squeezed as the man turned on a dime, zeroing in on Tenko. Fuck. As casual as possible, Tenko walked out from behind the bus, dangly the store's keys in front of him.

"Yo. Out of gas?" He asked, looking between Endeavor and the driver. Positioning himself so that the two men were between him and the store allowed Tenko the luxury of watching the more suspicious pair. Taking his eyes off Endeavor was an absolute no-no. Like maintaining eye contact with a predator, turning tail could trigger their deadly pounce. The driver sighed, nodding.

"Yes, yes, I'm terribly embarrassed, but I forgot to fill up this morning. Do you run this store? Are the other pumps in order?" He asked. Tenko nodded, his eyes never leaving Endeavor. His instincts told him to make himself as small as possible; he was in the presence of a big-timer. It was something Master had taught him to avoid at all cost, yet here he was. Had Tenko not abandoned that life, he'd be halfway across the country, free by the virtue of his misty caretaker.

Kurogiri wouldn't save him, though. So, no matter how much the other guy tugged and twisted his insides, Tenko would play to his sensibilities and remain cordial. It didn't matter how badly his face itched, how his skin was screaming at him with so much urgency that his head was beginning to hurt. Here, he was just an oddball 9-5er. Not the prince of crime.

Each movement was careful, calculated to maximize his survival. He walked back to the store, never turning his back to the hero nor the thugs hovering outside his store.

Slipping past the men, he reopened the store, keeping track of how their eyes followed him wherever he went. He activated the pump for the driver, who flashed him a thumbs up from across the lot. Endeavor hadn't moved from next to him, a thousand-yard stare fixed on his face. He was watching him, Tenko realized. Like a hunter, or a clingy girlfriend.

Something cold and round cut his thoughts to a halt; a 9mm, he realized, was jammed into the base of his spine. Whipping his head around, he saw one of the men slipping a ski mask over his face, crouched so they passengers couldn't see him through the window. The other man, now also wearing a mask, began fiddling with the register, seemingly unsure how to open it. He was being robbed—at gunpoint.

Tenko Shimura couldn't help himself. He chortled.

"The fuck are ya giggling at, queer?" The first thug said, the 9mm digging deeper into his back; enough to tickle. Tenko couldn't help the way tears pricked at the corners of his eyes, his quiet giggling morphing into a hefty laugh. Robbers! In his fucking store? Today of all days?

"Your joke—you know, the gun thing. Robbers; what do they call these again..? A stickup?" Tenko said, wiping away the tears. The man holding him captive stiffened before wrapping a hand around his throat, pulling him down to a crouch. Dragging the tip of the pistol to the back of his skull, he pulled Tenko close.

"There's nothing funny about it, you fuck. You keep smacking your lips, you're gonna fucking die. Understand? Now, Chav, open up the fucking register, and let's bounce." The man muttered, poking Tenko with the gun again. Really, it was almost cute. Thug #2, now identified as Chav, shook his head.

"I don't fucking get this thing. How the fuck do you keep money in here?" Chav said. Tenko tried, honestly, truly tried, but he couldn't hold back his snort.

"It's fingerprint only—here," Tenko said, reaching over to press his thumb against the scanner. It popped open with a click; Tenko couldn't see inside from his vantage, but he could see the way Chav's eyes narrowed, veins bulging and reddening. Yup; the kid totally robbed him blind.

"Chav, what the fuck is up? Grab the fucking money already." The first guy said, loosening his grip on Tenko's throat. Where the man's hand no longer touched him, the skin burned. He had to fight to keep a smile down, to not laugh. His lips were chapped enough as is, smiling would just end up cracking them. Chav shook his head.

"No dice, boss, the bitch is empty," Chav said, slapping the register closed. It gave Tenko a glimpse of his inner wrist; an embroidery of a crow or something. The Boss, as Tenko now thought, tightened his grip on him again, almost pulling him to the floor.

"What the fuck? Where's the fucking money, dude?" Boss hissed.

"Beats me. Ask En—" Tenko started, only to be pistol-whipped by Boss. Decent force, but not quirk enhanced. Tenko didn't even flinch; in fact, the guy in his gut preened, wanting him to lean into the hit. His good hand twitched again, in rhythm with the dull waves of itch.

"Listen, fucker…" Boss began, before pausing, composing himself. He could see how the man's composure was shaken, but small timers like this usually weren't so well put together. Tenko was surprised they hadn't bounced yet. Register busts were Crime 101: If it ain't quick, if it ain't easy, get the fuck out. Petty crime had never interested the other guy, but everyone had to start somewhere. This wasn't the first time he'd ever been in a quick cash grab, though it was certainly his first time on this side of the law. His lips twitched into a frown; it was a shame these ugly fuckhead gangbangers were the ones taking his first time. It could've at least been a villain.

Though, the dark part of him whispered, a villain wouldn't have seen as much mercy as these fools had today.

The thugs repositioned in silence, as if having practiced this maneuver a dozen times. Boss put him in a headlock before passing the gun to Chav, freeing himself up for more delicate work. They dragged him to the back, far from the view of the greyhound. Tenko kept his hand in his pocket all the while, careful to never let their roughhousing bother him. Chav shoved his elbow into his throat, putting the pistol to his temple all the while. Tenko was curious, where had he gotten the gun? The last time he was underground, the black market had exploded. The gun trade must've resumed. Boss cracked his knuckles.

"Listen, bastard. You're going to take us out back to wherever you keep the safe, you're going to open it up, and we're going to leave here with our pockets full. If you don't comply, you die. Comprende?" Boss said, sticking his hand in his hoodie pocket. Tenko stayed silent, juggling with his options.

"What if, and hear me out, I don't give a damn about my life? What if my life is nothing in comparison to maintaining my precious boss's stash?" Tenko said. Even he could hear the laugh on his lips. Chav pistol-whipped him again. Blood dripped down his cheek—not from the hit, from where his smile-scab opened.

The Boss, however, didn't seem to react, only pulling his hand out of his pocket, an odd cylinder in his grip. A button sat at the top, red as a ruby, a dull glow emanating off its center.

"Then everyone on the greyhound dies. Surely, all of their lives aren't worth wasting our time. Any reasonable person would understand, don't you think?" Boss said, his finger ghosting over the activation switch.

The beeping noise from earlier, Tenko realized. A bomb was on the greyhound, outside of a gas station. Deja vu fluttered through him, reminding him of his childhood. Of playing Grand Theft Auto Ten Remastered, and what happened when you crashed into gas stations.

His face soured, the humor drained out of the situation. He'd let these crooks have their fun; because really, not only was Endeavor right out-fucking-side, not only was Tenko-Fucking-Shimura the manager, but they were too late. They were trying to rob a dry store. They were playing second fiddle to a fucking brat, and these bozos had brought a fucking bomb. Real, in-the-flesh terrorists. A bomb. The Number One Hero outside. Him inside.

The other guy—the bad guy, deep in his stomach, strained against his prison, sending a maddening itch across his torso. His hand was shaking. It must've been some kind of joke, leading up to some sort of punchline. Perhaps, if he let this play out, he might even find it funny, but Tenko had no intention of risking a mile for an inch. His skin rippled under his long sleeves, his anger spiking as his blood began to rush in his head.

Perhaps, no matter how much you wished, the dead never stayed so.

[x]

"Help!" A voice screamed, echoing across the lot. Enji jolted, pushing off from where he leaned against the bus. Another scream, begging for help, had him sprinting across the lot straight into the store. Busting the door down with a shoulder tackle, Enji let Endeavor roar, Hellfire dancing across his civilian clothes.

His eyes danced across the scene, registering everything in an instant. Two people were in the store, one of the fidgety men from earlier, as well as the scarred storekeeper. Perhaps a rookie hero would be confused at the position, but not Endeavor. His title as the Number One wasn't honorary, after all.

The storekeeper held a gun, holding it aggressively over the unconscious body of the prior man. Despite the compromising situation, Endeavor wasn't thick in the head. Signs of struggle surrounded them, of a wrestling match for the weapon that would decide the end of the conflict. It appeared the shopkeeper won.

The prone man wearing a ski mask didn't help his case that much, anyways. Without a thought, Endeavor wrapped a flame of whip around the gun, pulling it out of the man's hands. In the man's shock, he held on a bit too long, stumbling forward. Tripping over a random pile of sand, the man was sent to the floor, where both the gun and an odd cylinder skidded to his feet. With a thoughtless step, he stopped the rolling cylinder under his boot.

"Careful! That dude came in here with that detonator, saying the greyhound was rigged! I think he was trying to bluff me, but don't risk it!" The man—teenager, perhaps—cried. Enji flinched, taking a step back in order to not accidentally press anything. Snatching the device, he rushed back outside to inspect the greyhound, astounded to realize that yes, there was definitely some sort of beeping in the undercarriage.

"Everyone get off the bus, hurry!" He roared, whipping out his phone to call a bomb squad. Flicking his eyes around, he looked for the man with the matching jacket to the unconscious aggressor, but couldn't find anything.

He pinned the would-be terrorist to the ground, placing him under lawful arrest. With a few swipes and a single phone call, he locked down the street. The second man could not escape.

Especially since, if their jackets were truly a part of a pair, he was also wearing Nighteye's Yakuza Crow.

[x]

Tenko rolled over on his futon, clutching his stomach. The other guy had been yelling all afternoon after being let out, putting him out of commission for the rest of the day. For every violent thought he'd ever had, tonight alone might've doubled the total count. The other guy's claws were sharp, and he was tearing into his stomach like a tiger in a cat carrier.

The only thing that relaxed him was the tiny strip of fabric he'd ripped from Boss before he'd decayed. It was just the tip of his sleeve, the emblem of the crow that'd stolen his attention amidst his brief imprisonment.

When he focused on nothing but the slim fabric, everything just seemed to… fall away. It was a gang symbol, for sure, but not one he was familiar with. It didn't matter, either way. It gave him something to think about, something to take his mind off himself.

Someone to blame, when it came down to it.

[x]

AN: Yo, we hit 500 followers. Thanks. This chapter took a while because I've dedicated myself to writing in chunks, and I uploaded the last chapter in haste when I realized sixteen was flopping because of a site-wide glitch. It basically wasted two chapters that I could've spread out to ease the break. Regardless, I put my whole authorussy into the past (future?) three chapters. 20 still needs to be touched up, but I think it'll be another banger when it's done done. Also, to the blokes complaining about the slow pacing, are you happy? If you didn't catch it, we've jumped like eight-ten months in the future. I'm not quite sure how we'll get to the school arc yet, but after 20, it won't be too too long.

Next two chapters are big on Izuku

Review! I need at least fifteen more in the next two chapters so I can beat my record on Talent Unrivaled.