When the black sludge deposited him on the wet ground, Izuku didn't move. Of course, he tried, but he was unsuccessful. Even as the nauseating smell faded and the skin-crawling sensation evaporated, he didn't move. Despite his body's sluggish behavior, however, his mind was another story.

Images flickered behind his closed eyes—that stranger who tried to save him, the invasive sludge, the monsters almost devouring his peers. So many events happened so quickly that he struggled to keep track.

First of all, that man… he was the same boy Izuku helped outside of Setsuna's store all those years ago. He was nearly unrecognizable, but that didn't matter. One for All remembered him, and went off like a bomb in his presence. In the heat of the moment, Izuku thought it was because of the life-and-death battle. But, as his savior swooped in and destroyed the Nomus, the sensation didn't fade.

It was vibrance, Izuku decided, as he finally sat up. One for All felt vibrant, more alive, when that man was around. He'd give anything for a sit-down with each other. Hell, even his other arm was up for grabs.

With a small exertion, Izuku flexed Danger Sense. His senses rolled out around him, expanding in every direction. He frowned. Unlike before, when his whole class was in constant danger, Izuku's internal map was basically blank. None of his classmates were close, and he wasn't willing to push Danger Sense much harder right now. The dull throb of overuse hung over him like a dark cloud.

His previous analogy was sound, he learned. Utilizing Danger Sense in quick micro-bursts was the most efficient use long-term, lest he risk overloading his brain. Unfortunately… His last battle proved that simple efficiency was not universal. Izuku, no doubt, would've died a dozen times over if he had released Danger Sense for even a blink. That alone—not his bleeding throat, numb shoulder, or aching muscles—was what almost killed him.

The only reason he held out as long as he did was because they began to slow with him. Maybe their regeneration took stamina, or amino acids bound them like the rest of biology, but their attacks became slow, and their reactions sluggish.

Ultimately, his inability to kill the creatures was what would've killed him in the end, if not for the stranger. Another reason to have a discussion with the man. Izuku wanted to thank him. He wished he would've gotten the guy's name.

He felt no immediate danger in his vicinity, but there wasn't nothing. A small, quiet blip in his brain had him scrambling to his feet. His eyes narrowed in on his surroundings, scrutinizing every shadow.

The first thing he noticed was that he was still in the dome. Blue—Izuku decided on a codename—was right. If he was still inside the dome, then his friends were also probably still inside the dome.

Izuku didn't quite know how to feel about that. On one hand, it meant their safety was still salvageable. On the other hand… it meant they were still in great danger. He tried to take a deep breath, but his dry throat choked.

The second thing he noticed was that, while he wasn't in the Ruins Zone anymore, he might as well have been. He was in another half-destroyed mock-city, but this time, the area had a gimmick. Rising to his feet, Izuku had to bend one knee to keep level. Less than a city, this area was more like a mountain-side town, and the incline was steep. Each building, having an otherwise cute village-style, was consumed and crushed by mud. A landslide destroyed the whole area, leaving only crooked chimneys and rooftops on the surface.

Izuku found himself in the dead middle between the lowest point, the Plaza, and the highest, the outer USJ wall.

The third thing he noticed was his last remaining Blackwhip was little more than half a foot long. With shaking fingers, he reached up and tugged it, as if he could pull more out of himself. It did not work.

The fourth thing he noticed, when he glanced at the highest point of the mud-mountain, was a dark silhouette.

The fifth thing he noticed was the sudden blood rush in his shoulder as his last Blackwhip faded into vapor.

"Kid!" Five said, appearing in his peripheral vision. Izuku almost hadn't noticed his appearance. If Five looked bad before, he looked awful now. He wasn't opaque, anymore—he was barely even transparent. Only the faintest impression of color revealed he was even floating there. "Kid, you've got to get out of here."

At the apex of the hill, the silhouette leaped into the air. He did not come back down. Instead, he glided down the slope on a cloud of rapid, tiny explosions.

Izuku's heart dropped into his stomach. Another wave of Danger Sense continued to reveal little, but he knew. He'd seen this man before—he'd nearly come to blows once already. This was not your normal thug, hellbent on violence—this man was smarter.

"Kid, can you hear me? I said run!" Five said, the urgency in his voice spilling out with crystal clarity. Izuku, pulling his head out of his backside, listened. Without thinking, he tried to take a step back—and slipped in the mud. He couldn't scream. His throat was too destroyed.

Izuku hit the ground with a hard wheeze. He was a ball of flailing limbs as he tried to find any hold—but it was just slick, sliding mud. His descent was wild and uncontrolled. The only thing that stopped him from sliding all the way into the Plaza was a chimney that knocked the breath out of him.

His skull bounced off the brick. Stars twinkled overhead. Izuku would've found them pretty, if it wasn't for his vision clearing up and those twinkling stars becoming the explosions holding the man aloft. He tried to stand back up, but his legs felt like hollow twigs, and he fell back down.

Opposite his chimney, the aerial explosions slowed. With a casual grace, the man drifted down to the ground, landing on both feet with hardly a bent knee. One loose bandage fluttered around his neck like a scarf, mingling with his long crimson hair.

Izuku forced himself to his feet, even if it meant leaning his whole weight against the chimney. His breathing was painful, but he forced the raggedness to heel. Showing even more weakness in front of this predator could spell his death. He didn't need Danger Sense to know that.

"I didn't get your name last time, little hero." The man said, tilting his head. The whites of his eyes were darker than the bandages wrapping him from chin to forehead. He held out a hand, though it was for show. The gap between them was too wide for them to shake. "I'm usually called Sashimi."

Blood pounded in his ears. Izuku parted his lips, but only a harsh, near-silent wheeze escaped him. Gritting his teeth, he stood straighter and pushed off the chimney, standing by his own power.

"...M-Midoriya." He offered, after a thick silence.

Sashimi snorted. There was no humor behind it.

"Wonderful. Say, Midoriya, you tired? You're not looking so good." Sashimi said, his voice like nails in his ears. Each word was a blow to his face, a cheap shot to his ribs.

"I-I'm…" Izuku began, pausing as he felt his throat itch. He could stutter, he could be slow, but he wouldn't choke in front of the enemy. Swallowing down all the saliva in his mouth, he set his lips in a firm frown. "I'm wonderful."

Sashimi considered him in silence. Five did not.

"Kid, you're the furthest thing from wonderful. You're bordering on quirk exhaustion, your vocal cords are ripped to shreds, and Blackwhip is done. Danger Sense is teetering on dangerous territory. Your physical limits for Smokescreen are long behind us. If you can't get a grip right now, then you can't count on Blackwhip for help. You—"

"Do you know why we're here, Midoriya?" Sashimi interrupted, speaking over Five. For a brief second, he was almost glad for the distraction. "Do you have theories? Or maybe you've been too busy to theorize…"

Sashimi trailed off, but his eyes were still sharp on Izuku's. He wanted an answer—but Izuku had nothing. If he was honest, he didn't even care anymore. The damage was done, and his job was simple. Help as many people survive as possible.

He shook his head, and Sashimi sighed. His outstretched hand fell to his belt, where he pocketed both hands.

"Shame. Real shame. It's a funny story, if you're interested in listening… but I can see your eyes clouding over from here, kid. So I'll have to cut to the chase. Lucky for you, it's a part of the overall narrative, so be grateful. Us—Overhaul's officers—are looking for the kid who blew up the Zero Pointer."

Izuku's breathing slowed to a stop. He didn't blink. If he closed his eyes for even a millisecond, he was afraid of what he'd see in the darkness.

Sashimi leaned forward, his eyes narrowing.

"...Do you happen to know who could've possibly pulled that off? It'd be a huge help if you let us know. For both of us. Once we get that kid and Overhaul gets Eraserhead, we can leave. Hell, if you can tell me right now, we can call this whole thing off."

"H-how…" Izuku began, struggling to get the words out through the fire in his chest. "How do you know about that?"

Sashimi leaned back. Izuku could've sworn the man smiled, but when he spoke, he was monotone and serious.

"Oh, come on. Your little rat principal flaunted it on international television. Even came right out and said it was your class, not that Z thing. Really, he should've expected something like this."

Izuku's chest was a furnace, growing hotter by the second. A trickle of cool sweat swam down his neck.

"I-if you knew who d-did it… you'd just l-leave?"

Sashimi barked out another humorless laugh.

"Ha! Good one. Ah… no." He said, before turning. Swiveling in place, he showed Izuku his whole, unguarded back as he looked at the Plaza. Izuku's eyes widened as he followed his line of sight. A massive crystalline structure consumed most of the Plaza—not unlike Shoto's Heavenly Piercing Spear. The only difference, Izuku saw, was that this was more of a shield rather than a spear. It cut the Plaza into pieces, dividing everyone and isolating fights. Each branch revolved around one central cone, where Izuku thought he saw two figures duking it out. Beside it all, there was a lone iceberg containing Katsukame.

"Boss hates quirks, you know? Finds 'em repulsive. Genetic deformities, he says. He thinks if we can get our hands on Eraserhead's quirk and…" Sashimi glanced at him over his shoulder. "...the kid who destroyed that Zero Pointer, he can get rid of 'em."

Izuku's chest was on fire—and only in that moment did he remember that he hadn't taken a breath in over a minute. He gulped down an ice-cold breath, but every cubic milliliter felt like poison.

They were here… for him?

He couldn't tell if it was the slick mud beneath his feet, his own sense of nausea, or the world itself spinning on its head. Regardless, he lost his balance, his shoulder blades bumping into the chimney. Sashimi hadn't seen him fall—he turned back for the spectacle in the Plaza. After a small silence, he glanced over his shoulder.

"Personally speaking, I rather like my quirk. It resonates with who I am; or, hell, maybe who I am resonates with it. I wouldn't wanna part with it, and Overhaul won't make me. Us guys in his inner circle are safe from the incoming purge—not that we necessarily intend to hurt anybody. I can't say the same for society at large, however. Have you seen the cruelty those in power possess? Nowadays with quirks this rampant, the power disparity is ruined. No man is created equal, anymore, and we won't stand for it. We'll just… wipe the slate clean. Bring order back to the world. You can make this a painless process, if you just tell me which kid to nab."

There was no power on earth which could have forced Izuku's tongue. He froze, stuck in the heat of Sashimi's stare. His brain was on fire, like his lungs, but he knew it wasn't starving for oxygen.

Staring at this bandaged man, bleeding and pained and barely on his feet, Izuku felt tiny. Sashimi wasn't a massive man—Izuku just felt a hundred pounds lighter. He blinked, and suddenly Sashimi's crimson hair became crimson pupils, and spiky blonde hair framed his round eyes.

His memory from before he was nine was hazy—but he'd never forget that day. The following afternoon after his physician declared him quirkless, he admitted such to Katsuki Bakugo. That day… it'd been a nightmare.

Katsuki tormented him till nightfall—then from the following sunrise to the following sunset. He was relentless in his taunting. He spared no shred of sympathy for his plight. The bullying lasted years, waxing and waning with the seasons, culminating when he was eight.

Then, the following year, it all came to a screeching halt. Izuku acquiring One for All left him no time for old wounds. His plate was far too full with new worries to care about the old ones—but he'd never forget.

Those years of feeling lesser. Those years of being lesser. Of missing a part of himself he could see in everyone else. Those years of longing to be more—of hating himself, even if he didn't have a name for the feeling.

Izuku Midoriya loved quirks. They were cool, they were fun, they were art—and they were a core part of someone's identity. Hell, Izuku wasn't even born with his, and his world revolved around it.

No man is created equal, anymore. The words echoed in his ears as his hand reached across his chest and hugged his ribs. He couldn't believe himself.

For the briefest, scantest moment, Izuku considered surrendering. If this man was honest, then so long as they captured him, then they had no further business with his peers. Aizawa was another story, but he was an adult man, capable of defending himself. Somewhere in this dome, his friends were still in danger, and it was his job to see them out alive.

If that meant using himself as a sacrificial pawn, then so be it. Sashimi convinced him… but then he kept talking. Erasing quirks? Fixing the power disparity? Bringing back equality among men?

The idea alone was laughable. If the whole situation wasn't so horrifying, he might've considered a giggle. Sashimi might as well have pulled his rhetoric from a dumpster. Even if he and everyone he knew lost their quirks, he wouldn't be their equal.

A tremor ran down Izuku's leg as he pushed himself back onto his feet. Sashimi watched him without moving.

"Kid, what's the escape plan? We're kind've in a pinch here. There's not a snowball's chance in hell that you can fight him, and turning tail only means showing yourself to Overhaul." Five said, looking around. His shoulders slumped. "I'm out of energy. I can't maintain any more Blackwhips for you."

Izuku flexed his gut, urging One for All to sprout a Blackwhip out of his shoulder. A small black nub emerged from his suit's shoulder, but that was all. After a moment, he released it, and it faded into vapor.

Izuku took a deep breath. It was like swallowing razor wire.

Izuku activated Danger Sense, allowing his surroundings to wash his subconscious with their threats. In the Plaza behind him, there was great danger—but also great pain. A dull, throbbing ache echoed everything Danger Sense picked up. His strainer was full.

Izuku turned his hand over, eyeing the groove between his knuckles. There was a small tremor shaking most of his fingertips. His other arm itched somewhere down the mid forearm.

He had no plan, no escape, no power to throw around. Izuku was well and truly backed into a corner—but no matter how he bruised or ached, Sashimi couldn't take his will from him. Even tired, he had to remember what he told Sero. You chose strength for yourself.

Sashimi was still staring at him, waiting for an answer. Izuku was ready to give it to him.

"I'm… sorry," Izuku began, slowly sliding into his best quirkless stance. "But I can't tell you anything. I can't allow you to take anyone."

Sashimi didn't react for a split second. Instead, he maintained his heavy stare, scrutinizing every inch of him. Izuku met his gaze head-on, staring at him through his raised fingers.

Then he laughed. Izuku froze, hearing the genuine mirth in his tone. For as much as this man laughed, Izuku never once heard an ounce of sincerity—but now, all at once, it was like the floodgates opened. He let loose his chuckle like he'd saved every ounce of previous joy for this one moment. The man nearly bent over himself, laughing.

Izuku bit his lip and slid further into his stance, his senses on high alert. The space behind his eyes throbbed as Danger Sense centered on the laughing man. There was danger, and it was growing—but it was a shark swimming in murky shallows. He could see the fin above the surface, but not the viscous teeth and powerful frame below.

If he had another hand, he might've been able to reach for his belt. There, he might've been able to draw a weapon or capture tools—but with just the one, he needed to defend himself first and foremost. He felt the weight of his left-most pocket on his backside, the knowledge like a beacon in his brain.

Sashimi's laughter dried slowly, before finally he straightened and met Izuku's eyes once again.

"Shame… real shame." He said, taking the loose end of his bandages and wiping his eyes with it. The man was off guard, blind, and Izuku remembered how he'd almost caught him off guard in the Plaza. If he'd just taken him down then, Izuku wouldn't have had to face him now—but luck blessed him again. The opportunity showed itself once more.

With all the strength in his legs, Izuku lunged forward. His knuckles whistled in the air as he swung for the man's chin—but he simply wasn't fast enough.

Sashimi dropped the bandage and pointed a left-handed finger-gun at Izuku's chest. Remembering his power, Izuku spun aside. The air between his finger and Izuku's chest ruptured, vibrating so suddenly that it turned white-hot. It clipped him in the side, but the remains of his suit took most of the damage.

Landing in a crouch, Izuku burst into a wide-swinging sprint. Sashimi's right hand was still firmly in his pocket, hidden by his long jacket. His legs churned under him, burning with exhaustion as he closed their gap. For whatever reason, Sashimi seemed hesitant to fire his finger-gun again. That knowledge fueled him, knowing he'd found an open window.

At the last second before getting in range, Izuku snapped his front leg out. It caught on the top layer of mud and slipped. Izuku let himself slide the final few feet, his whole momentum carrying him forward. He stayed crouched, keeping his mud-surfing low and fast before springing up at the last second.

As his fist rocketed into Sashimi's gut, however, a new thought occurred to him. Despite Izuku's blatant feint, sprint, and attack, Sashimi hadn't bothered to dodge.

Sashimi wheezed as Izuku's fist squeezed the air out of his lungs, but it wasn't like Izuku's dry heaves. It was far closer to his mirthless laughs. No humor. Barely a human reaction.

Though Izuku's blow bent him over, he did not fall. Instead, leaning over Izuku's shoulder, Sashimi grabbed Izuku's arm with his left hand. It was that moment he withdrew his hand from his jacket's shadow and Izuku caught a silver gleam in the darkness.

"It's a funny story, really," Sashimi said as he pressed the cold steel against Izuku's stomach. "But I'm afraid I won't tell it to someone lying through their teeth."

Danger Sense screamed in his ears, echoed by a headache of equal magnitude. He tried to wrench himself free, but Sashimi's grip on Izuku was as steel as his pistol. With one last complaint, Danger Sense lit up like a light.

The gunshot rang through the air, and Danger Sense went silent. Sashimi released him and Izuku stumbled back, feeling a warm trickle down his stomach—but also a suspicious lack of debilitating pain. Running shaky fingers down his chest, he found a small metal casing sticking out of his gut. Though he could pull it free, his shaking fingers couldn't hold it.

The tranq bullet, needle and all, slipped from his fingers. It fell to the mud with a near-silent squelch. Was the ceiling painted black, or was that his vision going dark?

He wished Five would say something, but he didn't. Izuku prodded deep within his mind, but there was no response. Banjo was gone, and Izuku was totally alone in his head for the first time in years.

Likewise, the infinite churn of One for All dried up in his stomach. The warmth that filled his bones and flushed his skin grew colder by the second. A shiver ran down his spine.

Izuku dropped to his knees as he clutched his stomach.

"W-what… did you… do?" He asked, staring at the reddish brown mud. A moment later, it turned a dark magenta as Sashimi's shadow blocked out the overhead light.

"Well, I suppose you could say I got the last laugh. With you and Eraserhead as guinea pigs, I'm sure Overhaul can turn these temporary quirk suppressors into permanent serums." Sashimi said, a soft lilt to his voice. Izuku couldn't defend himself as Sashimi raised a boot and kicked him in the shoulder, knocking his back into the mud. He placed the same boot on Izuku's elbow, effectively trapping him. "Don't bother fighting back, little cripple."

Izuku stared at him. His insides felt cold.

One for All was gone? Or… sleeping. Suppressed. Not gone, just… out of reach for the moment.

…One for All, for all intents and purposes, was gone.

Izuku felt very small.

Sashimi reached into his pocket and pulled out a small palm-sized box. He recognized it as a walkie-talkie, but hadn't the faintest clue how it'd work with the jammer. Then again, it wasn't a totally normal device, he thought, staring at its antenna. It had a thin steel curve that gave it an abnormal silhouette. Pinching two buttons on either side together, a thin crackle berated Izuku's ears.

"I've got the target," Sashimi said, before looking down. His shadowed eyes met Izuku's.

Some unintelligible static came through, but Sashimi nodded as if he understood.

"Ah, good. Did Sakaki say anything? I didn't hear him… ah well, I don't really care. While I take my kid to Overhaul, I want you guys to kill yours."

[x]

Overhaul was a demon, Shouta decided. Less of a man and more of a fable—a kind of existence he only saw in poorly drawn graphic novels.

Metal screaming against metal tore his idle thoughts asunder. Shouta diverted Overhaul's rapier aside and stepped in Overhaul's guard, his eyes on the demon's neck. He tried to jam his fingers into his throat, but with his stabbed delt, the motion was too sluggish. Overhaul backstepped and wacked his wrist with the flat side of his blade.

Before Shouta could take advantage, or even recover, Overhaul was back on the offensive. The tip of his golden sword twinkled like an array of stars, the avenues of his assault as varied and wide as Shouta'd ever seen. His technique was mediocre, but Overhaul was fast—faster than he should've been.

From their frequent clashes, Shouta deduced his age. At first, he'd assumed he was in his early twenties, but his movements were too practiced, too sharp—and far too potent. Though he was skinny, Overhaul wielded abnormal physical strength and stamina. He was easily in his later twenties, despite his youthful face—and Shouta was beginning to suspect he was physically enhanced by some unseen mechanism. Even with Erasure's constant attention, Overhaul's movements were a blur.

So, he was older than he expected, but he didn't regret what he called the man. Perhaps the "youth" in youthful bastard was less literal than he assumed—but he was still young. Barely an infant, by Shouta's standards. Hell, he was less mature than even his most dim-witted kids, and it wasn't close.

His desire to eliminate quirks was a fool's errand. He had no concept of power dynamics outside of brutish threats and strength hierarchies. Not an ounce of respect flowed through his blood. Overhaul demanded everything he wanted—and when he didn't get it, he took it by force.

With one arm down, Shouta had to deflect most of Overhaul's attack one-handed. Shouta was almost thankful the man was using the light-handled rapier, rather than a heavier katana or heaven forbid an arming sword. With his immense strength, deflecting the paper-thin sword was hard enough. His arm burned from the inside out, his strength only maintained by stubborn willpower. Desperation kept his body strong, just as it kept his eyes open.

Overhaul was like a demon, he decided. He was stronger and faster than his frame implied, with an embarrassing amount of stamina to spare. Shouta came into this battle exhausted, but after a few minutes of hard fighting, Overhaul hadn't even seemed to break a sweat yet. It was terrifying.

Knocking aside another stab, Shouta jumped backwards, creating space. Overhaul didn't collapse on him, and he took a thankful breath. The man was a demon, Shouta decided. With his deteriorating vision, Overhaul's visage warped and wavered like he didn't exist on the same plane as him. What his body felt and what his eyes saw grew further and further apart by the second.

He moreso heard Overhaul flicking the blood off his rapier than he saw him do it. The tiny splatter of blood was the obvious indicator, but the sound of fabric running against smooth metal sealed the deal. Overhaul pinched his brown cloak around his golden sword's base and pulled it through, cleaning the weapon as Shouta stood frozen.

"I can afford to wait, you know." Overhaul said, his voice different once again. At first he spoke with youthful petulance, then monotonous boredom, and now poisonous sarcasm. "You only grow weaker, and now that you've sent your only ally away, it's simply a game of… watching you struggle. Eventually, Katsukame will thaw, and it will be over. Take as much time as you need. You will be mine in the end regardless."

Shouta's knife handle creaked as he squeezed the wood. Raising his knife, he spared it a moment of attention—and bit back a curse. Despite the golden appearance of Overhaul's rapier, it was clear it was just aesthetic. The weapon was the furthest thing from soft gold.

The dark steel on his own blade sported several bright silver knicks. Not scratches—these were gouges, cut from Overhaul's own sword. His edge, likewise, was chipped and uneven where their blades met.

It didn't take good vision to know Overhaul's blade was in perfect condition.

Dully, he was aware that Thirteen's quirk would be coming back to her soon. The thought did him no good, however—she was far from here, and he was alone.

Except… for the ice-wielding stranger. He was hesitant to call him an ally, but he wasn't exactly an enemy. It was clear he wasn't a Japanese hero, but being in Shouta's position, he was hesitant to dismiss him over it. Shouta needed as much help as he could get.

Over Overhaul's shoulder, Shouta could just barely make out the battle outside the ice colosseum. Hekiji broke out of his ice prison with a burst of yellow energy and engaged the ice-fighter like Shouta did Overhaul. Their battle, though furious, was of little consequence to Shouta's attention. In the heat of his fight, he hadn't spared them a second thought. Now disengaged, however, he could spare them a second.

It seemed Hekiji, the officer wearing traditional yukata, had the power of unbreakable barriers. He had little in the way of offense, but when on guard, his defense was nearly impenetrable. No matter what the ice-fighter threw at him, be it ice-spears or ice-walls, nothing could get past the golden wall. Shouta wished he could help, but the distortion in the ice walls meant his Erasure didn't take hold.

The ice colosseum was beginning to melt around them, its waters mixing with the loose dirt at their feet. The mud wasn't thick enough to slip on, but it would be with time.

"Tik tok, Eraserhead. I can see how dry your eyes are from here. You'll blink any moment."

"Bite me," Shouta said, returning his attention to the man pulling the strings.

"I have subordinates for that." Overhaul retorted, before pausing. He glanced at the field of bodies just outside the ice prison walls. "Well, I had subordinates for that. They were gross anyway. No loss there."

"I can see that," Shouta said, never letting his eyes wander from Overhaul's, even as the color seeped out of his peripheral vision. "But it's odd. There were quite a few quirkless people in there—yet by all accounts you seem rather fond of their lot. Color me surprised."

Overhaul scoffed, the sound coming out muffled through his bird mask.

"I have no love for the quirkless, Eraser. Especially not for those longing for infection. Did you know that there are nearly as many quirkless people in back water gangs as there are mutants? They're all scum, and the few tolerable ones are so pathetic I can't stand them. They're only with me because they dream of power. They disgust me."

Truly, Shouta thought, flipping the grip on his knife and holding the point out from his chest, this man was pathetic.

"You're not above them, Overhaul. I couldn't pick you out of their lineup even with your exact profile."

The gap between them, a good four meters, shrank in half a second. Overhaul's rapier screamed against his knife's edge, his swing's full force reverberating up his arm and into his shoulder. Shouta's boots dug into the ground, digging trenches where he was pushed back.

"Don't compare me to those animals…" Overhaul said, his voice dripping with boiling venom. "You know we're both more than them!"

Shouta didn't have the arm strength to fend off the struggle for long. Side stepping, he let Overhaul's weight carry him forward and past Shouta, where Overhaul's shoulder met Shouta's spinning roundhouse. The attack hit was solid, but Overhaul barely reacted. A small grunt later, and Overhaul came back with a fury.

Jerking his head to the side, Shouta just barely avoided another slice on his face. A good chunk of his dark locks flew into the air, separated from his scalp. He more so felt the wind than saw the strike, but that was enough information. Such an attack would necessitate a wide stance, and Shouta knew how to dismantle those miscalculations.

Hooking his ankle, he pulled Overhaul's heel out from under him. As he fell, Shouta lunged forward, bringing his knife down on Overhaul's cloaked chest. His eyes, barely even functional anymore, narrowed in on an uneven wrinkle on his coat's breast pocket. Body armor, he realized, and below it, a weakness.

With all his strength, he plunged the knife into the falling man's weak spot.

Instantly, he knew he'd made an error.

The moment his blade met the soft crevice in Overhaul's cloak, it snapped at the base. With just the handle, Shouta Aizawa could only watch as Overhaul landed on his knee and rolled aside. The filthy, muddy ground coated his back before he landed on crouched legs and sprang upwards, running Shouta through with his golden rapier.

The gilded hilt pressed ice-cold against his navel. Both of Overhaul's hands wrapped the blade's handle, nearly touching his stomach. Shouta was dimly aware of the rapier's freezing tip protruding somewhere out between his lower ribs.

Overhaul maintained his kneel, his glare a foot below Shouta's face. He could feel the heat rising from his burning eyes.

"We're… I'm better than them, Eraser… And I'll make you better than them, too."

Overhaul was a demon, Shouta decided. A poltergeist of every childish impulse humanity ever shit out.

The ice-cold blade in his gut infected him, turning his guts cold first before expanding through the rest of his body. A moment later, Overhaul withdrew his blade. Shouta was staring at Overhaul as he dropped his sword and threw off his cloak.

Every ounce of warmth in his body spilled out on the muddy ground below him. He was on his back, and his vision had lost all color.

"You… you got me filthy, Eraser, but I'll forgive you. I'll even allow you to release your blessing. Don't worry about dying, I'll keep you… salvageable. Just close your eyes… and think of your kids."

Startling green flashed behind his eyes. He'd almost forgotten what color looked like. It kept his eyes open a second longer than should've been possible. His eyebrows formed natural trenches at Overhaul. He dedicated every ounce of himself to glaring at the man. Around them, the ice colosseum was melting, a shadow of its former structure. The memory of Midoriya's pained grunts drowned out the ice-fighter's battle.

He remembered the last colosseum he'd been in, and how he'd mistreated Midoriya on Nedzu's orders. Shouta tore him asunder, picking apart every flaw in his fighting—and here Shouta was, bleeding out after losing a quirkless duel. Perhaps he'd earned this hypocrisy.

Overhaul's words echoed in his head—of dissecting who he thought might've been Midoriya. He felt cold.

His eyelids lowered on their own accord. Shouta was a man constituted by unending regret—but here, with life abandoning him, only one stood out. He wished he could've made Midoriya into a fighter worth having a rematch with.

Shouta's eyes closed, and he made peace with his fate.

No fate came for him, however. The sound of shattered ice filled his ears like a thousand bird-cries. With refreshed vision, he cracked open an eye to see a young man standing over him.

He wore black head to toe, with dark-silver armor plates covering his vitals. The back of his head was a shaggy mop of bluish white hair, and at his side, his ungloved hand twitched.

"Hey, motherfucker." The mysterious man said, his voice scratchy and hollow and so full of youth that Shouta wondered if one of his students had gained a foul mouth. "You recognize me?"

[x]

AN: chapters are gonna be shorter for the foreseeable future, so this arc might drag a few weeks longer than intended. there's still a decent chunk ahead regardless. hope you enjoyed

~review!