Yoru scratched and scrubbed and prayed to any spirits who'd listen, but his palms continued to itch. It started as a slight tickle, first going unnoticed, after his last match. His vision returning pleased him, but he hadn't realized the trade he'd made. The inconsequential tingle snowballed fast, growing hotter and more irritable every second until finally climaxing here and now. A platoon of fire ants marched under his palms, sparking a flame his fingernails alone couldn't quench.
As another spasm of irritation took him, Yoru gave up. With no more choices, he abandoned his dignity for his last option: biting his hand. Bent over and hiding from view, he gnawed at his palm like a dog, and though it was brief, it worked.
He cringed as he rolled his tongue over his teeth, but the results spoke for the method. For a brief, glorious moment, the fugue cleared, the itchiness receded, and he was at peace. Harmony.
It didn't last long. The itchiness didn't return in full, but soon, he was once again squeezing his fists, trying and failing to ride out the pain. He decided it was manageable—more manageable—than before, but still. Yoru never uncurled from his ball. His shoes, he learned, were a darker brown than they'd been. Soot, dust, and dirt must've soiled them when he got distracted.
He tried to wipe away the grime, but his hands didn't make it halfway before reminding him why he shouldn't. So, unable to clean himself and unable to bear his uncleanliness, Yoru forced himself upright and tried to watch the match. A single glance told him it wasn't the "Loser's Bracket", otherwise known as the General Education's commercial-covered pity party. Neither of the fighters were people he knew from his classes, so that meant they were competition. Who they were and what they could do were irrelevant, however.
Regardless of the match's outcome, he wouldn't be fighting them. The left side of the tournament was a stacked mess, full of the school's absolute best, while the right side was tragically unfair. Ultimately, whoever won the ongoing match was destined to fight Katsuki Bakugo.
A shudder went down his spine as he recalled his singular personal experience with the boy. Wrapped in vines and on the cusp of defeat, Bakugo'd stormed the living fortress and conquered it. Alone. With ease. The casual display of dominance had been so absurd that for a moment, he'd froze, even as the vines keeping him captive turned to ash.
Yoru turned over his itching palms, studying his knuckles. He'd have to fight him eventually, too.
As his mind returned back to the second round, however, he felt something change. That itch, that dry burn, quieted. His hands relaxed, the irritation fading, until all that remained of the pain was a memory—and heartburn.
Terrible anger suddenly took him as the crowd exploded—something remarkable might've happened on the stage, he didn't care—and he stood up. With several thousand people jumping to their feet with him, he hardly looked out of place as he began pushing towards the aisle. While they celebrated or something, he fought his way down the stairs and into the nearest exit.
Even as the crowd's cries faded to background noise behind him, their energy stayed with him. Feeling his heart rate continue rising, he began picking up more and more speed. Eyes peeled, his stiff walk turned into a half-jog, before breaking into a full-blown sprint. He tore down the hall, taking every staircase and turn until sweat streamed down his face in rivers. The untempered heat in his chest grew hotter every second, yet he found no luck.
At least, not until he paused, and calmed himself. A deep breath scored his heart, raking the inner linings of his ribs with fire, but it focused his mind and returned him to a state of control.
Only then did he notice the dark glimmer, just barely peeking around the corner of another hall. Had it not been for the hall's claustrophobic space, he would've used a Cinco to launch himself there. He sprinted towards it so fast he couldn't even withdraw the crumpled-up bills in his pocket before he arrived.
Feeding the machine, he scanned its glass face for his heart's desire and practically broke off each corresponding digit on the number pad. When the machine's gluttony was sated, so was Yoru's. The cold water bottle crashed against the fountain's landing pad, echoing down the empty hall like thunder. Quicker than lightning, Yoru snatched the bottle and pressed it against his chest.
Cold, sweet bliss.
He stood there for a moment, letting the chilled drink counteract his burning chest. His anger seeped away, tailed by the heat built in his chest, until all that remained was a room-temperature water bottle and a wet stain on his shirt.
Teaming up with Izuku Midoriya was his worst nightmare—and he'd immediately proved all of Yoru's doubts true. Yoru'd given him a single job, and the welp had almost—almost!—succeeded. Almost. Yet the Tokage girl nearly ruined everything.
Now, as he recognized the faint voice of Present Mic announcing the next match, he knew his time was coming. Sure, Katsuki Bakugo might've gotten the advantage on Yoru and 1A's Vice President, but that'd been because she'd been busy keeping him constrained. Midoriya was home free, with no excuses. U.A. hadn't stopped replaying the scene, even deep into the Third Event.
Yoru hadn't paid the seductress much thought. Her quirk seemed versatile, if not powerful, but from that instance with Midoriya, she seemed more like a trickster than a powerhouse. Now, she stood between him and moving on.
A flash of pain shot through his chest, right where his heart was. Like a spark of electricity, or a flame's ashen flake. It was a hot little prick, and if not for the water, it might've sparked another inferno.
He was stronger than her, Yoru decided. Stronger than Katsuki Bakugo. Stronger than Tenya Iida and Izuku Midoriya. It was obvious to him that U.A. favorited them, thinking them his betters. The water fended off another swell of burning passion, keeping him grounded, keeping him cool. Yoru'd already knocked Iida off his podium. Next…
Closing his eyes, he imagined himself void of organs, muscle, and bones. He was just blood, circulating normally, no adrenaline, no hormones, just peaceful flow. Flashes of his opponent's faces came and went, each one disturbing the flow—but the blood ultimately swept their faces away, leaving behind only tranquil motion.
The burning itch in his heart faded, and with new eyes, he took in his surroundings.
But for the long hallway, he was alone. The crowds were far off, his rivals were away, and the school, despite everything, felt empty. He was alone, with a wet spot on his shirt.
He took a long sip of his drink.
Turning about-face, he began walking back the way he came. When he approached the turn leading to the Stadium's seats, he simply kept walking. Yoru shuffled down several flights of stairs until he found the ground floor. He made careful note of the path as he took it, in case of an emergency. Last time, he hadn't known the layout well, and he'd stumbled around in his blindness. If not for the mysterious helping hand, he'd have gotten lost entirely. If he was going to risk going blind again, he refused to leave himself vulnerable. Without the mysterious helper, he would've been a sitting duck.
Eventually, he found himself in somewhat familiar territory—the side entrance to the Stage. It was the mirror opposite one he'd used in his first match, but in function, they were identical. Watching the ongoing match from the side entrances was a different experience from the Stadium. While the Stadium afforded luxuries like a better perspective, the side entrances were more intimate. From here, he could practically smell the fighter's sweat, and could definitely hear their heavy, pained breaths.
This pair was different from before; now, he knew them, at least in passing. Both were 1B students, but between them, he knew the shorter better. Kageno was the inferior student, often taking remedials in the rooms next to Yoru's courses.
What that said of his own classes, he tried to ignore. Of course, however, he could not. That was the whole reason he was fighting here today.
As the Loser's Bracket fight dragged on, Yoru found himself closing his eyes again, imagining his blood flowing seamlessly once more. It was the only way to calm down, he'd learned, once he got like this. With his nerves on edge and his fate in his hands, it only took a single hiccup to disturb him.
That was unacceptable. He worked to smooth out every bump, every irregularity, every obstacle. Yoru imagined his blood as a racing circuit, with professional drivers taking their practiced turns with masterful fluidity. There were no flaws in their approach, no cowardice in their velocity, nothing holding them back. They were speed, technique, and opportunity incarnate.
They were him. He was them.
They would not crash and burn. Neither would he.
"And with that, Misha Kageno goes down! Another great match from 1B's bladesmith, Kamakiri. Someone get Kageno a bandaid!"
A team of medics scooped Kageno's unconscious body into a stretcher and took him back through the far exit, opposite Yoru. Pleased at his uninterrupted solitude, Yoru almost grinned—before the match's winner turned his way. After drinking in the crowd's applause, Kamakiri leapt off the Stage and joined Yoru, a fat smile on his lizard-like face.
"Gosh, I'm so hyped!" Kamakiri said, before noticing Yoru. Lighting up, he held out a hand as he passed. "Good luck, man! Hope your fight is fun!"
He gave the boy a nod, but didn't bother with the high-five. It was a good win, but his opponent hadn't been much more than 1B's dregs. Nothing worth celebrating over.
Turning, Yoru didn't bother waiting for his name to be called, and left Kamakiri behind. The second he broke into the Stadium's line of sight, Present Mic's audio clicked on, the haste obvious with a tiny crackle.
"Hey, wait a—" Present Mic said, stuttering as Yoru speed-walked into the limelight. Yoru knew he was pushing his luck, but he shook off any doubts. Hands in his pockets and chest pushed-out, Yoru projected as much confidence as he could muster. When Present Mic realized Yoru had no intention of cowing, he cleared his voice. "A-and l-let me reintroduce the hope of the public, the General Course's strongest, the very same boy who nearly brought the whole event down! Welcome the Stage-Breaker himself!"
Yoru ascended the staircase in two bounds, taking three steps at a time. He popped up beside a surprised Midnight fumbling for her own microphone, and watched her click it on.
"Hello, Sashimi!" She said, her special "announcer's tone" a tad off. He'd caught them by surprise.
Good.
"It's good to see you're alright, after your intense last match. Do you have anything you'd like to say for this one?" She asked, turning the microphone his way. Without a word, he shook his head. He thought he saw the tiniest scowl pinch her eyebrows before she turned for the crowd, smile broad and fake as anything. "Well, you heard him folks—or I guess you didn't! Seems our Sashimi is a little eager, eh? Let's just hope he doesn't nuke our stage again—you won't, right?"
He shook his head again. Her eyes lingered on him, studying his answer, before nodding. It wasn't a lie… per say. Yoru had no intention of utilizing the same power as before. The last time was a statement—a proof of his strength.
It wasn't something he would need against Tokage. She was skilled, sure, but a Siete would be a waste on her. He needed to save it for a stronger opponent. Using it against someone who leaned on her genetics and trickery would be absurd. At most, he'd need a single decent shot—something to disturb her peace. He'd be surprised if he even needed a Quatro—in the second event, she hadn't been her team's powerhouse. Whirlwind's son and Bakugo were clearly her betters, and one was already out of the tournament. In terms of competition, the gold was practically in his hands. Especially considering how early he'd come out—surely it'd throw a wrench in her groove.
He would get his revenge for stealing their King's Flag, and move up all in one round. Best of all, he could stick it to his sludgeball of a teammate. Midoriya wouldn't be able to step between Yoru and Tokage in a sanctioned match.
Checking out the crowd, he sought out the sludgeball himself, but couldn't quite spot him. He went for a second glance, but before Yoru found him, Midnight's voice called him back.
"And after a short delay, none other than 1Z's spokeswoman has arrived!" She said, spinning to the opposite side of the Stage. Yoru followed her, but found himself confused—no one was there. Even after squinting, he didn't see her. He thought back to the invisible girl, suddenly panicking—had he messed up somewhere? Had he somehow accidentally mixed up who his opponents were?
Soon, however, he understood. She wasn't invisible, and he wasn't stupid. Midnight's neck craned upwards as she waved his opponent on, and haloed by a half-clouded sun, Setsuna Tokage descended upon the ring.
Tokage floated off the ground by a half-meter, her expression porcelaine. The crowd gushed at her entrance, but it was like their affections slid around her. Every once of her focus rested on Yoru. She didn't even acknowledge Midnight, despite the tall woman's enthusiastic introduction.
"If anyone remembers, Tokage's last match ended in a Sports Festival first. Typically, cannibalism is frowned upon, but her grace made up for it! Honestly, the way she consumed her opponent was a little scary—but that's no surprise," Midnight continued, lowering her hand. "Despite her humble claims, Setsuna Tokage, her quirk, and her ambitions are all one and the same—freakish, but admirable! I hope you don't mind me saying, darlin'."
Tokage made no acknowledgement of their announcer. If Yoru was honest, it was a little disheartening. Tokage's focus seemed as sharp as any blade's edge, despite his best efforts. She still appeared as dignified and controlled as her last match.
No matter, Yoru thought. Stretching his fingers, he shook out his hands and began preparing. Even if he hadn't caught her off guard, it wouldn't change the outcome.
Still, the tiny flame that scratched at his ribs grew a degree warmer.
His whole life, he'd known a simple truth: while his quirk was powerful, its crippling drawbacks stunted his potential. He'd never be his grandfather, who could channel a city's power grid through his body, or his grandmother, whose touch alone could boil ponds. Yoru would never be his father, who could light up a room just by standing in it, or his mother, whose gaze alone could melt coin-wide tunnels in tungsten.
And he would never be his father's brother, who violated his family's good name for kicks.
Yoru's father never supported his dreams. "Sashimis aren't heroes," he'd said. It drove him mad, as a child—but now, after seeing what happened to 1A, he understood what his father meant.
Knowing was worse than not. It drove him beyond simple irritation, now, lighting a fire under him. His father was a coward, scared of his brother's fall and his son's failure. Yoru's father wasn't the only coward that enraged him, however. After all, he was a student at U.A., the most wretched school in Japan.
He could feel it, even now. They saw Yoru as a ticking time bomb—a failure in the making. The longer they held him back from real training, the longer they held off his "destiny." His uncle's sin smothered him, hid his true worth behind a shield of skepticism. U.A. hated him so much that they'd rather a cripple train for active duty than him. It was the only explanation, after all he'd done.
Yoru was a strong person. He was a good person. He could win fights, he could endure punishment, and when people were in danger, he tried to help.
That bird-brained mutant from the First Event flickered past his mind's eye, and his knees lowered further. Yoru nearly sacrificed the first round to try and help that guy. Couldn't they see he wasn't a villain, that he wasn't out to hurt people for hurting people's sake?
The Tokage girl lowered herself until her sneakers dragged across the floor, but she still never dropped. She moved like an old balloon, too shriveled to fly, but too sentimental to kiss the sky goodbye just yet.
His chest felt like a furnace, seeing it..
"Combatants! Are we ready? Sashimi?" Midnight asked, holding the microphone out for him. He hoped his annoyance showed on his face. Gesturing to his bent knees, he gave the woman a flat look.
"I'm ready to move on, yes," he said, not looking in Tokage's direction. He savored the way Midnight's eyes flickered between them, uncertainty shining through her thick eyelash extensions. If a seasoned pro was uncertain, then…
"To the infirmary?" Tokage asked, tilting her head to the side. Her voice came as a cold shock, surprising Yoru. It was the first thing she'd said, and it stung more than he cared to admit.
"Excuse me?" Sashimi asked, giving the green-haired girl his full attention. "Do you think—"
"That you'll be leaving the field in a stretcher?" Setsuna interjected, before tilting her head the other way, as if inspecting a casual oddity—like an old piece of gum, stuck under a school desk. "I don't think that, no. I'll be more gentle than that, if you'll let me."
Her casual disgust stumped him. He opened his mouth, but before he could speak, Midnight held the microphone out in front of her.
"Wow, Tokage! That's a serious departure from your earlier statements. Can I take that as your acceptance?"
For the first time, Tokage graced Midnight with a look. Her frown lightened, the corners of her mouth turning up until she almost smiled. With a nod, she accepted.
"It's more than that."
Sashimi scrubbed his palms against his thighs, hoping against hope that the sudden flare-up was an anomaly. A bead of sweat rolled down his neck, matching the growing flame in his chest.
A torrent of hot air escaped his lungs as he exhaled. Releasing all the built-up pressure at once popped his ears, and with it, the crowd's excited rumblings took on a new element: hunger.
"Screw this," Yoru muttered, allocating his energy to his palms. As the heat grew, the itch faded, overwhelmed. "And screw…
"Let this match…" Midnight began, before taking several steps back. With her chop, Yoru clapped his wrists together and let loose. "...Begin!"
"You! Tres!"
Red-white light tore through the air between them, swallowing Tokage whole as it sent Yoru backwards. His sneakers squealed as he caught himself. Before brightness even faded, he began running back in, charging a Dos in each hand.
"Dos! Dos!" Yoru said, running past where he last saw the girl. He didn't bother aiming; he just let them loose. His eyes left nothing unscrutinized—with her ability to split and fly, she could be anywhere—everywhere. If that was the case, then there was only one reasonable solution:
Hit everything.
"Dos! Uno! Uno! U—" Yoru continued, feeding off the feminine scream echoing his attacks. He launched his Unos in cones rather than precise bullets. They'd do less damage, but—
His thoughts cut short as something hard clamped on his shoulder, nearly tearing him off his feet. He tried pulling away, but it felt like an industrial clamp. Immediately, he began charging a Tres; if it was some rogue piece of U.A.'s equipment, he was in his full right to obliterate it. Yoru wouldn't allow anything to interfere in this match.
Then, the industrial clamp spun him around, and he came face-to-face with Tokage.
"Hey, you almost hit Midnight," she said, before folding Yoru around her fist.
Pain exploded from his shoulder as he hit the ground. He bounced twice, catching his elbow and knee as they scraped against rough concrete. As he stopped rolling, he almost took a relieved breath. He was a mere arm's length from the edge, after all—
All his instincts went nuclear, and Yoru rolled over. Tokage's fist cracked the concrete where his head had been a second prior. Scrambling to his feet, he put as much distance between them as possible—but even in his frenzy, he still saw how when she retrieved her fist, it was fine as ever. Shattering concrete hadn't even bled her knuckles.
She didn't react to his ugly retreat, and instead grabbed a handful of pulverized rubble. Tokage even had the audacity to roll her neck.
Yoru's eyes never left her fist, his mind both running wild and not at all.
"What… the fuck?"
Her neck cracked loud enough to echo all the way across the Stage. He couldn't bear to meet her eyes as she raised them to his.
"I'm not your mom, dude, and I have no interest in lecturing you—but unfortunately you forced my hand. Really. Water was under the bridge. I only have eyes for one trouble maker, but you're forcing my hand," Tokage said, before cracking her neck on the other side. The sound hit him half as hard as her punch nearly did. "You almost hit Midnight."
Yoru blinked. That's all he did. It wasn't even a slow blink—high on adrenaline, he probably even blinked quicker than normal. Yet one moment, she was there, he blinked, and then she was a green-blue smear.
Her shoe slowed a centimeter from his ear, and in that moment, Yoru realized she only did that to not snap his neck. Still, as he slipped his forearm between his face and her kick, the power sent him flying. Pain bloomed down his wrist, but before he could determine the damage, his instincts screamed again.
Diving into a roll, he used a half-charged Uno to give him more space—and lucky he did, as a spray of concrete-shrapnel clattered against the ground he'd been standing on. Most pieces shattered on impact, but a handful left cracks where they bounced off. One sharp piece even embedded itself into the stone.
"She's a—" Yoru dodged to the side as another few stones flew his way, "—a professional! You don't need to worry about her!"
"Tell that to them!" Tokage said, before plunging her hand into the floor again, grabbing another handful of stones. Yoru grit his teeth as she chucked them like a retired pitcher. Her casual dominance forced him on the backfoot, running from the stone's bulk and using Unos to blast away the ones that got too close.
Had this been a few months prior, his vision would've already deteriorated. Already, he could feel it lean sluggish, could feel some moments disappearing, but outlines were still crisp and colors were prominent. It wasn't crippling, but Tokage's diligence was a stark reminder of his time limit. If pushed, he would not win a contest of endurance.
Something in his chest spasmed, like a bonfire suddenly flooded with gasoline.
"Cuatro!" Yoru cried, letting loose a blast big enough to vaporize the stones following him. His hands barely cooled off before he crammed more and more energy into them, launching a second attack. "...Cuatro! …Tres!"
The muscles in his arms seized up, curling into his chest like burnt parchment. He leaned into them, ducking low as he sprinted towards where he'd last seen Tokage. It was like running with tears in his eyes; he could hardly see. When a flash of brown appeared, he barely threw himself aside to avoid the kick's full force—but he couldn't dodge the headbutt coming from the dead-opposite direction he'd dodged into.
This time, he was sure something cracked in his forearm as he landed on it, yet his body refused to react. Power, unfiltered, overbearing, surged through his every vein. Only out of sheer spite did he find his footing, but it wasn't for long. Tokage flashed in front of him, thin fractures dividing her joints, before reacquainting him with her fist. She hadn't flown there; hadn't sprinted. His eyes must've lost themselves, must've forgotten to work for a second. It was like she teleported to him.
"You," she said, before kicking him from behind.
"Almost," she continued, punching him from another direction. With each word, another of her limbs crashed against him, their direction wild and origin unpredictable.
"Hit."
Yoru braced himself for another devastating blow, but none came. Instead, cold, sharp fingernails dug into his neck and lifted him clean off his feet.
He blinked, but her face remained slightly out of focus. Still, despite the cataracts, despite the blur, despite the pain and everything else that should've made seeing her impossible, Yoru realized Tokage was ugly.
Thin, pale skin barely hung over empty cheeks. Her eyes sank into her skull, their accompanying bags a pronounced purple. Her lips seemed thin, perpetually pressed together and most certainly dry. There was a slight crease between her eyebrows, like she'd spent a few years reading in the dark. He hated to admit it, but her power was far beyond his expectations, and her grace with it. Anyone in the crowd could see it—but they couldn't see what he could see.
She was a mess
And it pissed him off.
"Midnigh—"
"Seis!"
Her dark eyes shot open, his attack revealing their shining, viridian quality before tearing her away. The power surging through him struck his nerves like an anvil. He seized as if tased, and collapsed into a ball.
The world fell away, but his mind remained sharp. Each ear rang with his attack's full force, turning the crowd's rumbling to a dull whine. His eye muscles forced themselves closed, his arms and knees bent and his chest pressed against his thighs in a way that stretched his back painfully. Still, the rage, the lucidity never warped or faded. Moving even an inch felt like setting his skin on fire, but he pushed through. After all, his chest had burned the whole time.
Struggling to his feet, he screamed internally until his eyelids remembered who the boss was. They cracked open to a world of whites and gray-smears, but even blind, he could see what he'd done.
The arena was another smoking heap, a cone of destruction spreading from where he stood. He couldn't see Setsuna's body, nor could he see the rubble that might've hid it—but he knew she must've been down. He'd caught her point-blank, after all. Staggering forward, he got to the Stage's center and spun around.
"I…" He began, feeling each breath in his throat like molten lava, "don't know where you… hah… get off…"
Uncurling his spine felt like straightening a hot iron bar with his bare hands, and straightening his arms felt no better. Yet, with feet shoulder-width apart, he stared down where the destruction was most pronounced. His breathing was even harder to correct, but as the words spilled out, so too did his annoyance.
"You… piss me off…" Yoru said, ignoring how his inhales felt like little shockwaves throughout his body. "You look like shit… you're creepy as shit… and you didn't even try against your own teammate! That chick was in 1Z, and you didn't try half the shit on her that you did me!"
Each little shockwave crashed against his insides like a boiling wave. Each impact left a bigger impression, and soon, he knew he'd have nothing left but the wreck of a tsunami's wrath.
"You're too cocky for your own good! You think just because I'm in a lesser class that you're better? You think you deserve your seat, even when you're off seducing losers and groping chicks? I've worked a thousand times harder than you, yet U.A. thinks you're a star, and U.A. thinks I'm a ticking bomb!"
The tsunami crashed, and his body seized up with power—yet he didn't let his physiology snuff out his psychology. Instead of destroying his hearth, it swallowed it, devouring the fire within until he was brimming with something new, something fluid, and something more raw and powerful.
Energy crackled down his arm—raw pain, like an open nerve exposed to sandpaper. Yet the pain was an afterthought. More, he commanded. More! It enveloped his form, spilling from his eyes and down his cheeks. Energy—pure, erratic energy—continued down his chest and limbs until he wore a suit of angry red electricity.
In the center of his vision, a black dot appeared. In a world of nothingness, of blurred whites and grays, it stood out as something specific—something particular and notable. Tokage. She floated opposite him, in the devastation's heart.
"Well guess what!?" Yoru asked, feeling the electricity leap off his body to singe the ground. This was new—something he'd never felt before. He felt less like himself and more like the energy he channeled. More anger than man.
"...What?" Setsuna asked, her voice growing with the black dot, shapeless dot.
Yoru thought of his father, his mother, his grandparents—he thought of his defeat in the Colosseum, and the shameful months inside General Education. He thought of his piece of shit uncle, and wondered what happened to him. He thought of Izuku Midoriya, and how his every mention made Yoru's annoyance flare.
His muscles didn't feel supercharged, his bones didn't feel alight with energy. His whole body, from head to toe, felt like living energy. The sparks jumping off him were the powers he couldn't contain, an aura of warning to any and all. A suit of red lightning. This was something unique to him, something no one else had. Not even the cripple could take this from him.
The black dot grew larger still, until Setsuna Tokage couldn't have been more than a few arm lengths away.
"I think… heh…" Yoru began, but couldn't contain a small giggle. His smile broke, and cool air made his teeth feel like they were oscillating—almost like pins and needles. He breathed in. No shockwaves, no molten lava. His heart thrummed with power.
"Come on. Spit it out," Tokage replied, her voice sounding far off. He felt separated from the world, like he'd reached a new understanding. Nirvana. Tokage was far, the crowds were farther, and Present Mic's irritating dialogue seemed a trillion miles off.
Opening his arms, Yoru laughed. Power flowed from him, building upon his existing lightning coat until it bulged out in a bubble.
"I didn't want to waste this, but I just don't know anymore! I sure hope it was worth it!"
Clapping his wrists together, Sashimi aimed at the black dot and let everything flow.
"Nueve!"
The explosion he unleashed clapped like thunder, and turned the Stage's center as bright as the sun.
Yet Tokage's black, formless silhouette…
Remained.
[x]
Setsuna turned over her hand, watching as the last blister faded. It was a novel experience; it once took her weeks to regrow her foot, and she'd operated with the same understanding of her quirk since. Limbs took a month. Cuts took days. Bruises hours. Yet, Sashimi certainly inflicted a second degree burn, but her skin had already forgotten him.
It'd caught her surprise, so she'd barely dodged the brunt of it—but she'd underestimated his powers. The attack nearly melted her clothes to her skin, yet only a minute later, the lingering redness was pink at most. Sure, it hurt then, and it hurt now, but the pain was an afterthought. She was whole.
Her first assumption was her training. Perhaps, in training her telekinetic strength, she'd also augmented her healing factor. It wasn't an unreasonable guess, she supposed, but it also didn't feel… right. Something about her understanding was incomplete.
The thought made her stomach twist against itself, but before the discomfort consumed her, she banished it. She'd ask him later, she reminded herself. Once she'd completed her goal.
Then again, maybe it wasn't her training, or some mystery factor at all. Maybe it was just time. Years had passed since she'd lost her foot, and her powers, even ignoring her diligent practice, had grown. Maybe they'd continue to grow. Who could guess?
The answer immediately stung, but she controlled herself. Rising to her full height, she floated out of the rubble's cover, surveying the damage. Sashimi's attack didn't just burn her—it burned everything. Deducing the kind of energy he used took some effort—from the attack alone, it could be plasma based, fire based, electricity based, or anything else immaterial—yet it only took one look at Sashimi himself to sleuth out the truth.
Electric sparks poured out of Sashimi, red-hot and irregular. He was staring at something she couldn't see, a few feet to her left, with bleeding eyes and a cheshire grin. Midnight spoke into her microphone, relaying the events with a forced smile. Even off the Stage and far from the action, it was clear something was wrong.
Sashimi giggled to himself, and the sparks coating him flared. They grew thicker and more numerous, their flickering ambitions magnifying until large arcs of energy whipped the ground around him. His hair reflected the light a shade darker than normal, nearly matching the stream of life flowing from his tear ducts.
It was like looking at a living bomb.
She turned away and sought out Izuku, where she knew he'd been watching her from. It wasn't from the stands, but rather the tunnels beneath the seats where combatants lined up. Though his match with Shoto was still an entire round away, it was as physically close as they could get. Despite being such a douche the last couple months, she welcomed him. Setsuna liked to think she understood him, too, but even that was a hard call these days.
He met her eyes, though she felt nothing in them. They barely saw her, just the same as Sashimi barely looked at her shadow.
Truly, Setsuna hadn't meant to hurt Sashimi. Though everyone pretended otherwise, she was a simple girl, and couldn't manage the amount of rage both boys brought out in her. So, between them, she chose to focus her passions on Izuku—the boy she loved, rather than the one she loathed. She would keep that loathing distant.
Still, while Yoru Sashimi was a somewhat handsome, average looking boy, his features gave away his blood. It was his deformed uncle that'd tortured Izuku in that dome, and she knew—she knew!—that it was wrong to judge him for it. But she didn't care.
So, she promised herself not to get mad at him. She promised herself to not care about him at all, to let it go—but the boy's disregard for Midnight was as enraging as Izuku's withdrawal was disconcerting.
Unable to reel herself back in, she'd beaten him black and blue, and in doing so let loose a sliver of the hurt clogging her insides. The catharsis was nice, but…
It felt bad, and it felt bad that it felt bad.
Sashimi's giggle morphed into a bitter laugh. She wanted to keep a wall between them, to ignore her better judgment—she wanted to hate him and hate him quietly.
Setsuna barely heard him over the crackling electricity, so she drifted closer—but not too close. The electricity coming off him was wild and uncontrolled, and the bigger ones looked like whips of pure fire.
"...They think I'm a ticking time bomb," Sashimi said, his voice holding an awful scratchiness to it. "Well guess what!?"
She drifted a little closer, squinting as he began glowing brighter. In the back of her mind, she knew it was needlessly dangerous—this was what Izuku might call a "Quirk Meltdown," but something drew her in regardless. He was staring at something ahead of him, heedless of her approach.
"I think…" He continued, after a moment. One of the lightning arcs spasmed, seizing up and ballooning. She couldn't find the words to describe it—it was as if he was stuffing raw electrical power within raw electrical power. Like a nuclear sausage.
Like a bomb.
She floated even closer. Her ears popped, and with a start, suddenly realized Midnight was sprinting towards them, ripping open her suit. Midnight screamed something—at her, Setsuna thought. It might've been "Run!"
The concrete below them was warping, coming to life to encircle Sashimi—yet he didn't seem to notice. She should've left then, but that damnable whisper in the back of her mind made her stay.
"Come on, spit it out!" She cried, and she was distantly aware that she promised to not care. She promised to keep her hate a quiet thing—yet here she was, crying it out. It wasn't fair, not to him, not to her…
Not to either of them. But that was it, wasn't it?
It wasn't fair.
Sashimi's body disappeared underneath a swell of light, and half of his reply went with it.
"—I just don't know anymore! I hope it was worth it!"
Midnight pink gas consumed them, flowing out with her cry. Cementoss's walls rose around them by the hundred. She swore for a brief, infantesimal second, that Izuku screamed.
Sashimi released his accumulated energy all at once, evaporating the first dozen concrete walls set before him, narrowly missing Setsuna—but it kept going. It took another dozen, then another, and fourth all before a half-second passed. In that split second, she realized Midnight's sedative wouldn't weaken him before his attack took out Cementoss's walls and then the thousand spectators beyond.
He was a self-absorbed, arrogant shit head, but even if she hated him, she couldn't separate it from her worry, and her worry from her pity. She knew more than most how shittily Nedzu could treat his young talent.
Without a thought for her next match, her own interests, or her well being, she plunged her arm into Yoru's writhing, electrical shield, and chopped his nape.
Like a snuffed out candle, he fell to the ground, smoking and unconscious.
Midnight reached them a half-second later, unleashing another wave of her sleep-inducing quirk. For a moment, Setsuna considered taking in a deep sniff, if only to alleviate the agony, but decided against it.
Flying into the sky, Setsuna from above watched as U.A. collectively sighed with relief, and pronounced her the winner. A drone came by her a moment later, zeroing in on the arm she cradled against her breast.
It was shredded and smoking—barely meat on bone. Yoru's aura nearly burned the whole limb off, but she could already feel her tendons knitting back together, her muscles healing. Two stretchers tried taking them to the clinic, but only one left with a passenger in tow. They sped off past Izuku, who'd stepped onto the grass to let them through.
She went to him, ignoring the shouts from two additional two medics begging for her attention.
Setsuna hovered a few meters off the ground, offering him the limb. He blinked slowly, as if just waking up from a deep sleep, but she could see when the switch flipped. His shoulders straightened, his eyes opened, and he started rubbing his thumb against the crook of his forefinger. Tiny tells, but she knew them.
"I'm healing," Setsuna said, spreading her burnt fingers slightly. He was pale—at her injury or proximity, she couldn't guess. Probably both. She didn't cow, however—he'd done the same for her, earlier, to show that his head injury was alright. It'd been cruel to leave him wondering when he hadn't left her to it
He rolled his empty shoulder. From up high, he looked deceptively thin, nearly frail, despite how solid his build actually was.
A promise, she reminded herself. A promise to piece him back together when he broke. In a way, she hated her healing factor—he deserved it far more. He needed it more. But, giving these things away was impossible, and so she'd made her promise. It'd only been fair, after all.
"You shouldn't have done that," Izuku whispered, after looking over her arm for several seconds. "But it's interesting how quick your powers work these days. I'd wager it has to do with how your hormones have changed in the last few years—maybe you should get tested for… for… nevermind."
He turned away, and the brief comfort of his voice evaporated. The pain returned to the forefront. Turning, she tried flying away before he noticed—but a sudden snag on her ankle kept her anchored.
Izuku wasn't looking at her, but his hand wrapped around her ankle like she was a balloon. Under his breath, she just barely heard his concern bleed through.
"Hurry to Recovery Girl—the burns might be worse than normal. If… Sashimi's… power damaged the nerves, you might… want to amputate again. Be safe and get as much rest as you ca—"
She shook off his grip and lowered herself down to his level. With her injured hand, she grabbed his chin and pulled him close, ignoring the sting.
"There is no wound on planet earth that will save you from me, dude. You could even rip me to pieces."
He froze at her touch, and when their eyes made contact, he gulped. She split along her joints, emphasizing her point. Each individual piece vanished as she commanded them towards where he'd recommended: Recovery Girl. Once it was just her burnt fingers and head, she let him go. Izuku never moved an inch.
"That is, assuming Shoto doesn't put you down first. You owe him a fight, and if you can't even make due on that promise, then I don't want to hear from you again."
A total lie. A bluff. One promise she didn't intend to keep—but the words, even said in hyperbole, still meant what they meant. They left her mouth heavy and landed in his ears heavier. He straightened his spine in some futile attempt at proper presentation. With his pale face and skinny-looking frame, he looked like a wreck.
She turned away, sending off her fingertips and cranium after the rest of her body.
"Don't do it," she whispered to herself. He needed to find the strength himself. She was already doing so much.
But, all her efforts in fulfilling her promises weren't for the sake of her integrity. Everything she did for him, she did for them—a partnership she valued above nearly all else. A partnership she craved, and one she missed. So, she banished the pain wracking her body, the pain burning her arm, and the pain pinching her heart.
In other words, she couldn't help herself.
She slipped away a moment later, the taste of his cheek on her lips.
"Goodluck."
[x]
AN: current obsession: selina kyle
review!~