Chisaki flicked his rapier, only registering the splatter of spare blood as background noise. Likewise, he was only just aware of his surroundings, but only to a point.

He knew the walls around them were melting. Hekiji and Iceman's battle was still going strong, and Kurono was still watching everything, waiting for his moment. Likewise, Chisaki sensed another presence nearby. It wasn't one of his own, but by this… boy's indifference, he couldn't be certain it was one of his, either.

None of that mattered, however, to his overall thought process.

"Come on," Tomura Shigaraki said, planting his knuckles on his hip. "Don't tell me you don't."

If Chisaki was honest, he was beyond surprised. He'd come here on the premise of Eraserhead and the Ninth—and yet, the third piece of the puzzle was here, too.

He shrugged off his filthy brown cloak, letting it hit the ground. With a small kick, he got it out of his way. Chisaki was hyper aware of the veins on the back of his hand. They bulged with his full grip.

Behind Tomura, the third most important piece was bleeding out. The plan was to maim Eraserhead and then turn him into a nomu, but now that Tomura was here…

"He'll bleed out if you don't let me heal him." Chisaki said at last. His voice sounded odd. With a spare hand, he readjusted his mask.

"What a shame," Tomura said, not even bothering to look behind himself. "You know, I used to be his fan a few years ago. Pretty sure I was the only one. I remember when he entered a judo tournament under a fake name and won—and a few years after that, he was a part of a public raid. He didn't showboat, of course, but you should know how he is."

"He saved the day, then, yes. Either way, I wouldn't call you his only fan, since I stand before you. Did you know that early in his career, barely graduated, he participated in a secret raid? It was on one of your master's properties. He even—"

"—Arrested one of the middle-weight officers. Yes, that's where my interest began."

"And you're still going to let him bleed out?"

Tomura shifted his weight from left to right.

"Never said I was still a fan. Either way, it's better you don't get your way, so I say let him die."

Eraserhead wheezed something, but it was too full of air to be intelligible.

Finger by finger, Chisaki eased his grip on his rapier. If he stayed calm, he could still turn this around. What he stood to gain by winning this war of words was incalculable.

He thought back to when Twice returned to his care, brutalized and guilt-ridden but alive. Nana Shimura's grandson stood before him. The blood of One for All. An apprentice of All for One. Tomura looked… somewhat like Twice's descriptions.

Instead of soft angles and a somber atmosphere, this young man exuded sharp angles. If Chisaki needed to draw him, he'd grip his pencil with all five fingers. His glare was a dagger's point, his gait open, honest, and threatening. While Twice's descriptions shared the height, build, and skin condition, they omitted much. Chisaki considered scolding Twice. He wouldn't be able to pick this boy out of a lineup. However… None of those anomalies mattered now that he was here.

This was the most special person in the world, and the only thing between them, Redestro, was gone. Iceman was the obvious key—a high ranking officer in the Meta Liberation Army didn't just blow cover for no reason.

You didn't send your Queen piece straight into the opponent. It simply wasn't done. Redestro wasn't the one in control here—Iceman was simply damage control. An extra Rook. Just in case.

It was an insight into their professional relationship, and Chisaki couldn't help but feel a little satisfied. He felt like a surgeon with a scalpel, digging around in MLA's guts. Perhaps Redestro wasn't as big a threat as he imagined, if this was the extent of his control over his pieces.

Chisaki almost flinched when Overhaul growled in his soul, its gluttony invading Chisaki's chest. Slowly, his senses sharpened, his fingertips buzzing with pins and needles.

Eraserhead's eyes closed.

He didn't bother to hide the upward tilt of his cheeks. The mask was ever-so useful.

While he didn't sheathe the rapier, he did let its point drop. Pushing the ends of his boots outward a little, he tried to present himself as softer than he was.

Perhaps the combat armor he'd worn under his cloak made that pointless, but it couldn't hurt.

"Let me be frank, Tomura," Chisaki began, scrutinizing every detail on Tomura's face. He seemed uninterested at first, to Chisaki's disappointment—but there was something else. When he said the boy's name, a frown ghosted his lips. "What do you think an appropriate payment would be?"

"Payment?"

"Why yes, payment. This is a transaction, no? I'm here to haggle for Eraserhead and the Ninth. You're the person standing between me and them, so I need to barter with you, no?"

"I really don't know what you're going on about."

"It's simple, really. Is it money you're after? I have that in spades. People don't interest me, but what about women? I have women. How much for either of them? And while we're at it, what would you price yourself?"

"I've never put a price on my own head. That's generally been other people's job."

"What if I offer you a place among my people? When we begin our great cleanse, you'll be safe—and with my resources, I can give you your old life back. All of the Demon King's luxuries could be yours again, if you just step aside."

Tomura's weight continued to shift from side to side. His expression didn't change, but Chisaki was sure he was interested.

"I've read his journal, you know. I know how much he cared for you, and he'd want his wealth in your pockets. While I can't quite offer my fortune on the basis of sentimentality, I can surely offer you the benefits."

Overhaul snarled in his chest—like a bee swarm all popping their stingers in unison. It latched onto the small smile growing on Tomura's face. He drank it like a chalice of victory, savoring the flavor. He could smell it in the air.

"Or…" Chisaki said, lowering his voice to a hush. "If you want to remove that volatile curse lacing your hands… we could prove you the cure. Free of charge—you could be our first patient."

A light gleamed in Tomura's eyes, his smile growing broader as his imagination grew. Yes, Chisaki coaxed in silence, think of it. A world where your hands didn't destroy whatever they touched… A world where you could live in peace and luxury. All you'd have to do is submit yourself to my side.

In the corner of Chisaki's eye, he spotted a large movement. The iceberg imprisoning Katsukame was missing a quarter of its original mass, the rest having melted into a growing pool around it. Though he was consumed entirely up to his wrists, he'd yet to suffocate.

A crack rang through the air as, at last, a chunk broke off the iceberg's peak. It fell down with an earth-shaking crash, echoed by a cry of victory.

"Haha! Freedom!" Katsukame said, pausing to drink in buckets of oxygen. "Boss, I'm still good!"

Chisaki did not spare the brute a second glance. He lowered his rapier tip a little lower, and took a slow step. He offered Tomura his ungloved hand, his own eyes on the pale calluses of Tomura's.

"Don't mind him," Chisaki said, seeing Tomura's eyes flick sideways. "He's drunk on power. Annoying, too. Join me, and I'll save you, I'll save Eraserhead, and I'll save the world."

Tomura's hand twitched. It bent a little at the elbow, but he still seemed hesitant to shake hands. Chisaki remained motionless, maintaining his composure. Eraserhead could die for all he cared—it'd only take a touch to fix him, after all—but he'd rather him not. No matter how amazing Overhaul was, there were still repercussions to reassembling a dead brain. Something always got lost in translation.

The motion was slow, but his aim was true. Tomura's hand rose to his ribs, and as it came down to meet Chisaki's, Chisaki enjoyed the sweet taste.

Victory never tasted so good.

Tomura's right hand wasn't the one to meet his, however. He switched so fast that Chisaki could barely track the movement. Before Chisaki could retract his hand, Tomura's gloved left snapped out and slapped it aside. All Chisaki knew next was his chin snapping sideways and a nauseating breath of unfiltered air.

He would've fallen if Tomura hadn't clung to his arm, holding him upright as he struck him again. The pain was sharp, fresh, and far too intimate. Chisaki took one more strike to his face before he managed to block a fourth and kick Tomura away.

Chisaki didn't stop to assess his damage. He didn't search for another attack, or even consider why he was attacked in the first place. His lips locked closed, his lungs unwilling to bear another millisecond of unclean air. Falling to his knees, he searched for his mask with little success. The punches rattled him, and the unclean air sent tremors through his extremities. An awful itch jumped up his fingers as they brushed the bare ground, but he bit back his disgust.

Far too late, his fingers snagged the heavy apparatus. Overhaul's ravenous anxiety became his own as the power jumped to his palms. His mask evaporated into thin air.

Particle by particle, chunk by chunk, the mask reformed on his face. It was good as new, free of damage—but his brain remembered the damage, even if his mask did not.

Tomura's fist crumpled the hard steel like a tin can. Overhaul remembered the state it was disassembled in, and it growled in dissatisfaction. The pins and needles in his hand grew to spears and polearms, each sharpened to an atomic edge.

Chisaki was hyper aware of the mud on his shins and dirt on his palms. Unlike with his mask, however, he didn't clean them with Overhaul. Instead, he let the filth fester, growing more prominent in his mind as his anger began to skyrocket. Rising to his feet, Chisaki felt his heart beat like a burning furnace. His fist squeezed the rapier hard enough that the metal-oak handle creaked.

"I take it," Chisaki began, his jaw moving with artificial grace, "that my offer was unsatisfactory."

Tomura stared at him, flexing his bare fingers and rolling his wrist. His hand looked no worse for wear, despite having crushed pure steel.

"The only offer I'll be taking is your life." He said, as if this was a casual meet-up between friends. His tone was odd—not apathetic, but not passionate. Factual.

Seeing his one ungloved hand curl into a fist, Chisaki briefly considered how close he'd been to dying. Only four of his five fingers, his knuckles, touched his bare cheek. Then, Chisaki came to an even more startling conclusion.

Chisaki, for that brief second after the attack, was nearly defenseless. If Tomura really wanted his life, it would've been his for the taking. Instead, he chose to hit him with a simple punch.

He stared into Tomura's simple, factual expression. Self-assured. Slowly, he felt his own features neutralize, sliding into familiar, controlled grooves.

There was no crack in Tomura's expression. There wasn't a slip up, a weakness, or any faltering in his gait—but Chisaki knew better than anyone how to pull such a face apart. They were a mirror, and Chisaki was well aware of his own flaws.

"I haven't the faintest on why you want my life so badly. Perhaps you're jealous that your master's glory has fallen into my lap? Foolish boy. I would've offered you the world, but you bit the hand that could've fed you." Chisaki said, keeping a tight lid on the fury in his gut. Each second that passed while he was still covered in dirt was another he'd spend tonight scrubbing his skin raw. Instead of letting that frustration roam free, he channeled it behind his teeth, letting the weight build on his tongue.

Tomura didn't react verbally. Instead, his clenched fist fell by his side. His shoulders, previously pointed away, turned inwards. Feet shoulder-width apart, Tomura neither stepped forward or back.

Chisaki felt the weight on his tongue increase, but he didn't bare his fangs. He couldn't help the corrosive venom that spilled from his lips, however.

"I had no idea you were so lovesick for old luxuries. Are you truly so offended by my organization? Should I have just let the Demon King's resources rot away? Would that have satiated you?"

Tomura's clenched fists eased, his fingers falling loose beside his thighs. With his gloved hand, he reached up to scratch his neck. A burning heat pressed against Chisaki's ribs.

"If you're truly here to kill me, you should've done so!" He continued, the pressure behind his lips forcing his mouth open once again. It was vindicating, raising his voice. A good exercise in letting off steam. He oh-so-rarely encountered such arrogance that he needed to speak above a whisper. "You've let your barbarism win your hand. Your bloodlust has failed you, you damn prince of nothing!"

Tomura's head tilted to the side ever-so-slightly. Something in his eyes flickered, like the gleam snuffed out for a second.

"Was it the punches that killed your composure, or were you always this pathetic?" He asked, his voice flat and to the point.

Chisaki saw red, but he wasn't the one to move.

With a roar, Katsukame lunged forward, breaking away from the remaining ice.

"Don't talk about the boss like that!" He said, bringing both fists overhead to swing down on Tomura.

"No!" A voice screamed, double-layered. Though the sound came from his own throat, the second layer came from behind him. A wave of freezing air frosted his skin as Iceman flew past. Ice rushed from his hands, growing and lengthening into a spear-point aimed at Katsukame.

Likewise, Chisaki snapped out of his offense and touched the ground, a pillar of stone racing Iceman's spear. He couldn't allow Katsukame's ignorant tantrum to ruin this golden opportunity.

He may have been Chisaki's best nomu, but his worth was nothing compared to Tomura's. Chisaki aimed for the throat.

Neither of them made it in time.

Katsukame's fists slammed full-force into Tomura, knocking up a wall of loose sand and dust. Chisaki abandoned his stone pillar to cover his eyes as the dust spread past him. Iceman also stopped, perching over a frail icicle as he stared into the brown cloud.

"Katsukame! You fool!" Chisaki yelled, feeling that rage loosen his tongue again. "That's All for One's…"

The dust cleared, fading to a thin beige in the air. Chisaki took a step forward, shielding his eyes—only for a second dust wave to hit. This one wasn't brown, however—this was ashen gray, uneven, and smelt of rot.

At the center of impact, Katsukame's dark silhouette stumbled. He wheezed out a pained grunt, fell, and sunk into the ground. His form, hazy through the dust, grew misshapen. His arms melded into his shoulder, his head into the ground.

Irate, Chisaki swiped at the air, willing Overhaul to clear it all away, but nothing happened. Biting back a curse, Chisaki plunged forward into the fray.

Before Chisaki could make it ten steps closer to Katsukame's lumpy, slumped form, he found himself face to face with Tomura. Not a hair on his head was misplaced. Ashen dust caked the bottoms of his boots.

Chisaki raised his rapier to chest-level, keeping Tomura at a distance.

Tomura didn't seem to care, however. He walked into the rapier's unmoving point, allowing its tip to poke into his right pectoral. Reaching up, he wrapped his fingers around the blade's edge. With a squeeze, he let go.

His hand came away crimson. Chisaki's rapier didn't come away at all. Its razor-sharp point cracked and fell to dust. He released the handle before the decay crept up his own arm, too. It didn't make a sound as it hit the pavement.

He didn't need to check to know it was gone.

Tomura's face was ugly, Chisaki noted. Though his general features were conventional, even handsome, there was no saving the decrepit state of his skin. It was worse around his eyes, he realized. His bangs hid most of the damage, but at this proximity, nothing could truly hide it.

Dry flakes clung around the deep gouges around his eyes. Each eczema scar spoke of a passionate, anguished history.

Each disgusted him.

"Boss!" Iceman said, his voice coming from above the dust cloud, unseen. "You alright?"

Tomura's eyes didn't leave Chisaki's for a moment.

"Iceman." Tomura said, his voice tight and strained. With no reply, Tomura raised his voice, letting his feelings echo around the pavilion. "Iceman!"

"Yes, Boss?" Iceman's voice replied, a mixture of relief and caution.

"Forget what I said about Hekiji. Kill him yourself. I'll be too busy to pay him any mind."

Chisaki kept careful track of Tomura's hand. Like his own, Tomura's touch was lethal—but unlike him, he needed direct, full-fingered contact—and he was missing a pinkie. His strength was half of what it should be.

He put Katsukame out of his mind. He put Eraserhead out of his mind. He put the Ninth out of his mind. He put his buzzing communicator out of his mind.

When Tomura's hand snapped outward, Chisaki was ready.

[x]

"While I take my kid to Overhaul, I want you to kill yours," Sashimi said to his odd communicator. The words snaked through Izuku's ear canal, biting the sensitive organ with frostbitten fangs. His skull felt dunked in an ice bucket, his eyes frozen in their sockets.

"W-what?" Izuku asked, his tongue feeling stiff in his mouth. "B-but you said—!"

Sashimi glanced down at him, his eyes sunken deep into the depths of his bandages.

"I lied."

Each inch Izuku moved, he felt like a bird breaking out of its egg. With One for All gone, he felt frosted bone-deep. Every movement came with a crack, a snap, a shudder. Each break was more painful than the ache in his bones, than the sting in his gut. Still, he pushed himself to a kneel.

"B-but… I thought… your boss wanted the strong ones…?" Izuku said, gritting his teeth through the discomfort. "Well, your people h-have them! It took all the damn bio-weapons you had, but you got your hands on U.A.'s best! And y-you're just going to… throw them away?"

Sashimi snorted, but it wasn't an expression of amusement.

"That one was a bit of a misnomer, really. It's not like the nomus could take complex orders. "Kill the weak, take the strong" is just a simplification for their sake. While I'm sure the Boss wants more quirk-singularity genome examples, he only really needs one target…"

With agonizing patience, Sashimi descended to a crouch. Now eye to eye, it was easier than ever to note the nothingness behind his eyes. Izuku hadn't the faintest idea where that honest chuckle came from. At this proximity, Izuku was able to notice something odd. On the rare occasion this man blinked, his eyelids were an irregular tinge of red.

"...The boy with the power of a god in his stomach."

He maintained eye contact with Izuku for another second before standing. Putting a few steps between them, Izuku watched in confusion as he grabbed some mud. In silence, he raised both hands into the air—one holding mud, one holding thing—and spoke.

"I've always been fascinated with explosions, you see." Sashimi said. Following his words, he snapped the fingers on his empty hand. Izuku winced as the air cracked, the force ringing his ears. The empty hand fell to his hip.

"I don't…" Izuku began, but Sashimi's sudden glare glued his tongue to his teeth.

Sashimi stretched his mud-filled palm to the sky. When his elbow locked and his shoulder couldn't stretch any further, Sashimi's bandages crinkled around his eyes. He was smiling at his hand.

A moment later, the mud exploded into an earthen fury, spraying the debris far. The force sent sharp daggers of pain through his skull, the air pressure ferocious against his sensitive ears. The power stirred up loose dust and mud in a wide circle around them. When Sashimi lowered his hand, it was empty.

Before he could say anything, Izuku couldn't help the words that spilled out.

"A contact-based explosion? The strength seems dependent on the material touched… Is it density-reliant? Perhaps your quirk converts carbon to raw kinetic energy? That's… that's remarkable! I've never seen a quirk like this… in person…"

Sashimi stared at him. The words slowed to a stop. When he spoke, his words came out… different. Softer.

"On the money." He whispered. Looking away, he reached down and tapped the floor. A moment after he retracted his finger, a similar explosion occurred. "I can delay the blast at the cost of power. The boss thinks I can't break apart anything denser than steel, but tungsten is child's play for me. I let him think that."

Despite himself, Izuku couldn't help but lean forward a little.

"Fascinating…" he whispered, staring at the blackened ring of now-dried mud. It was an incredible ability, but the performance itself was unsettling. Why would he make a demonstration? Still, he couldn't help but ask. "If you have such an amazing ability, why aren't you working with the government? Or even big companies? W-why… Why work for a monster who kills kids? Why are you showing me this? …Why wouldn't you tell your boss?"

"Because I'm a liar."

Izuku's questions dried up with the simple reply. His spirit didn't compute the words, though his brain wasn't surprised. The man had already admitted to lying.

His knee was beginning to hurt where it held him upright. He longed to fall, but Sashimi's statement kept him glued in place.

Izuku traced the outline of Sashimi's trench coat as he turned, showing his back to Izuku. With slow, deliberate movements, his fingers found the loose end of his bandages. Unease grew to challenge the chill in his gut. He couldn't say which would come out on top.

"I'm not going to bring you to Overhaul, Nine." Sashimi said, before taking the loose bandage and undoing a loop around his neck. "I love explosions, you see… I was a shoe-in for U.A., when I was young—but hero work never called to me. Heroes have to be careful. Their… precision is their most important skill. Precision… it's cute, but not for me."

His brain raced a mile a minute, struggling to take it all in. Each thought pulled his mind in a different direction, each demanded more attention than the other. He was a mess.

Sashimi undid another loop, and then another, talking all the while.

"I love being in the heat of it, you see? Other men prefer to dip and cover, but I love the way it rattles my bones. My bombs do little to damage me, you see. I am a mortal man, of course, so the kinetic energy affects me all the same, but my health is none the worse for it…"

His bandage was long now, loosened and waving free up to his ears. Izuku didn't know why he scrutinized the man's neck with such intensity, but he couldn't help it. It wasn't One for All compelling him, for once. It was something inside his own chest. Something a little ugly.

Sashimi's bare neck was pale below his hairline, but as more skin met fresh air, Izuku's gut sank. The same red tinge from his eyelids hugged below his earlobes. The fringes were pink and a little uneven. His imagination raced as he tried picturing the man's face, but no preparation could've saved him.

"You could say I was like any other young man, fresh in the workforce. Thought I was invincible, got a little too proud of my money… the works. My grandfather's deconstruction company was a great cover to let loose, you see? There was nothing more euphoric than blowing buildings sky high, than breaking shit with my own two hands. I never thought… Well, as silly as it sounds… It never occurred to me that it could all blow up in my face. …That what I loved could spit on me."

When the last of Sashimi's bandages fell away, he simply stood still, holding them. His back was still to Izuku, but now, he could see all of his scalp. It was a little easier to age him, seeing his hair—there was some youthful luster, but it wasn't as thick as he thought. Sashimi must've been in his early thirties… but that wasn't what drew his attention. What drew Izuku's eye were the deformities around his eartips.

Like his neck, the tips of his ears were pinkish-red and misshapen—but to a far worse extent. They weren't exactly burned, but he couldn't rule it out.

Sashimi let his hands fall, the bandages spilling to the ground. The pristine whiteness faded to dirty brown as muck and mud stained them—but not all stains seemed new. There was an old filth among the inner wrappings he hadn't seen on the outside.

"This wasn't the first time I wore those bandages." Sashimi said, answering his silent question.

"Bossman makes all his guys wear filters around him. He can't stand to breathe the same air as us. At first, I didn't care. I worked in the furthest department from home base—I was a mobile force, you see, doing his untraceable bidding all across Japan. I tore down apartments, banks, hospitals… hell, I even blew a bridge to high hell once… and all it took to get away was a little makeup and surgical masks. I hadn't needed to wear those bird things since I never really saw him… but then I caught wind of this… invasion. I couldn't pass it up, you see, once I found out who would be there… So I grabbed my old wraps and binded up for one last job. It felt appropriate."

That was the moment Sashimi deigned to turn and reveal the unfiltered truth. Izuku couldn't help the hand that rose to his jaw, feeling where the pink scar cornered his face.

People considered his teacher, Ms. Fujimaki, a hard sight. People considered his friend, Shoto uncomfortable to look at. Hell, he wasn't exactly easy on the eyes, either…

This man's face was ravished from ear to ear, from chin to brow. Purplish brown gouges matched crimson, callous abrasions that streaked from his left temple to right jaw. A hard, bumpy line encircled his face, separating the discoloration from the otherwise fair skin. It began at his left temple, stretching across his forehead and catching the tip of his ear. The path curved down his cheek, following the curve of his jaw. Circling under what remained of his lower lip, it cut through his cheek to meet his temple.

Each prominent feature was damaged. His nose bridge remained straight, but the left nostril was replaced by a hole flush against his skin. Not an ounce of hair grew from the discolored skin. Tattered eyelids blinked slowly. The skin above his upper left lip was small and taut, pulling his lip open a little. Tigerstripe-ridges carved his face at a diagonal.

Though the discolored patch was the worst part, the damage wasn't limited to his face. Skin-colored scar tissue littered his adam's apple, dipping further than Izuku could see. He figured much of his chest was covered in similar marks.

His heart went out to the man. That was his first impression. The second impression he had, to his shame, was fear. He was grotesque in a way that was unnatural. It was clear he experienced something truly devastating, and the fear of the same thing happening to him jumped into his brain unwarranted.

Sashimi chortled, but the expression took on a whole new meaning. He could see the act brought him pain, now. The man raised his hands and cracked them.

"I'm sorry if this ends up hurting my nephew's reputation. He has nothing to do with this. Consider this an act of… independent vengeance. I hereby release myself from Kai Chisaki's service. I thank him for saving me, but my debt is repaid. Overhaul's here to dissect you, Ninth Wielder of One for All… but I'm here to beat you to death. With my own two hands, you see."

Izuku's mind was a white blank, devoid of any higher brain function. What came out of his mouth was less a question and more an echo.

"Independant vengeance…?" Izuku asked, his knee shaking with the effort of holding himself upright.

Sashimi brought his knuckles up to guard his face. Ever-so-slightly, he pulled them apart, allowing Izuku a slim view of his face.

"As it turns out, I'm only immune to my own explosions. For the next four minutes, the power you used to destroy my face and the Musutafu Forest Park is gone. For the next four minutes, I'll extract the same pain from you I've endured at your hand."

Izuku opened his mouth, but nothing slipped past his teeth. Not an ounce of air, not a word. In the back of his mind, he was aware that he stopped kneeling.

His eyes settled on the disfigured man, drinking in every detail with renewed fervor. Only countless hours of conditioning stopped him from glancing at his own stub. Countless hours of conditioning could not, however, stop his hand from ghosting over the amputation.

The Musutafu Forest Park… A short way from Aldera, and even closer to his elementary…

It still hadn't recovered from his tantrum. Izuku hadn't been back in years, but he often passed it—usually staring at his sneakers. Sometimes, however, he couldn't help it. He'd stare into the tree line—or what remained of it. There were some healthy saplings thriving with the cleared underbrush… but none of the mature oak remained around ground zero.

There'd been no official victims, besides him. As far as he knew, the closest person was old man Torino. He'd been safely behind him, having evacuated everyone else. The guilt festering in Izuku's gut had always been for his stupidity. His concern was for the reckless destruction of public land, not for getting anyone hurt.

Maybe he should've been concerned. Not getting anyone hurt… it always felt a little too good to be true… But he never dared to question it. Begging the question would manifest an answer he didn't like.

And now, at long last, that sleeping giant was awake. Izuku's stomach opened into a bottomless pit. His will, his fire, it all fled him.

And yet, when Izuku regained his bearings, he found himself on both feet, his fist raised to his chin.

He shouldn't be standing. Seeing this man, feeling his hurt, he should be on his stomach, begging for forgiveness.

He had no doubt in his guilt.

He took this man's face, and now this man took his quirk.

He was justified, and yet Izuku still raised his fist to fight, to resist.

If Izuku let himself lose, then he'd condemn his classmates to their deaths. To roll over and submit would be the same thing as allowing them to die, without a whisper of protest.

Sashimi's eyebrows did not raise. Izuku took that ability from him. Instead, his eyes gleamed.

"You know, when I engaged you before, I didn't think you were arrogant. I've felt your power first hand, so I knew no bark could ever compare to your bite… but I take that back. You're… delusional. Truly. It was a jest before, but now you're ruined. Barely conscious. And you still think you can fight me?" Sashimi asked.

Izuku heard the unsaid questions with crystal clarity.

Are you seriously going to fight me after what you've already done?

Aren't you a hero?

The answer to both, to Izuku's growing shame, was yes.

What went unsaid were the questions on his own tongue.

How did he know about One for All? How did he know Izuku possessed it?

They remained unanswered, even as Izuku spoke with a wooden, abused voice. In a roundabout way, he was grateful for being placed here, for having lost to Aizawa. At least he had experience without his quirk.

"I've made my bed…" Izuku began, his friends' faces flickering past his mind's eye. "Now, I have to lie in it."

[x]

AN: Unless next week proves too tumultuous, I'll finish the last USJ chapter. That gives about a month and a half of usj left. Sorry for the short chapters, but if I want to get this story to a nice stopping point, I've got to WRITE, ya know? And my stamina has dropped, and my time will be dropping soon too.

Thanks for reading

review~!