Happy Monday! Please note that this chapter contains more violence than usual for this story, so if that bothers you proceed with caution.
On another note, this fic has fanart! I cried whenever I thought about it for three days. Please look at it and cry with me, and give the artist lots of love.
post/643918451258408960/another-izuku-and-stain-fanfic-yup-another (just remove the space between . and com!)
If you ever create any art for this fic, please feel free to share it with me so that I can cry more. And with that, please enjoy the chapter!
Chizome has been spending his nights in the spectator stands, watching the fights below. He's attended each match for the last week, scoping out the area while getting a feel for what kind of security they have, as well as trying to determine which of the fighters are here willingly and which aren't.
There's a kid somewhere in the mix: Tanaka Minato. Barely eighteen and picked up off the street as he was walking home from his part time job. His mother had gotten out of the vigilante game more than a decade ago, but she still has people who owe her favors and friends in low places. Her past injuries make it dangerous for her to try to undertake the search on her own, and her three youngest children still need her at home, so she had given him a call. Her request is simple; bring Minato home safe. He's been told that if that isn't possible, then he is to retrieve her son's body and wipe the ones responsible for his death off the map.
At this point, even if he does manage to get the kid out alive, Chizome is still planning on razing the place to the ground on his way out. He's seen more than enough to justify it and he knows that this is the kind of thing that heroes can't get near thanks to a lot of red tape. It pisses him off, but it's fine. That's what people like him are here for, right?
The woman next to him howls with glee as a teen with purple skin gets sucker punched, chain link rattling as he hits the cage surrounding the arena. Chizome's face twists with disgust beneath his mask as the woman jostles against him, bare shoulder brushing against his own. The man on his opposite side is doing the same.
He hates them both.
Despite the muggy heat of the crowded stands, he slips his leather jacket over his shoulders to escape the feeling of their sweaty skin. The boy in the ring spits black blood before rushing his opponent, knocking her off her feet. He's smiling, and even from this distance Chizome can see that he's missing a front tooth, the hole leaking black like an oil spill. The woman's ram-like horns are caught in the wire surrounding the arena and she snarls in fury, thrashing like a wild animal and kicking out whenever the boy gets within striking distance until she is able to pull herself free.
Chizome loves a good fight as much as the next person, but he finds himself increasingly disgusted by these displays. There is no greater good to be served here. These people are not fighting for honor or to protect others. They are beating the shit out of each other for nothing more than the amusement of the crowd, and when there aren't enough willing participants the people in charge find someone and force them to take part.
He looks forward to tearing this rotting shithole to the ground.
.
Once, when he was still brand new to helping Stendhal with his hero work, Stendhal had told him that it is important to know your limits. Always push yourself, but try not to take on more than you can handle unless there is no other choice. After all, if you're dead then you can't help anyone. Having the ability to follow through and finish the job when saving someone is just as important as jumping in when you see someone who needs help.
Izuku had listened intently at the time, nodding his head and taking notes. It's easy to follow those rules when he's out patrolling with Stendhal. After all, the man prefers to handle the really violent things by himself while Izuku waits on the root to watch and learn, jotting down notes and coming up with more efficient ways to handle certain types of quirks, or else he shimmies down the fire escape once the criminal is engaged to help escort the victim away from danger. He's happy to help in those ways; Stendhal can handle the bad guys while Izuku helps scared people feel safer.
When Izuku is out on a grocery run, he happens upon the scene of a mugging. He sees a man pinned up against a wall, face bloodied and trembling with fear, and all his restraint and good sense fling themselves right out the window.
Stendhal's not here to step in, which means it is up to him to help now. There's a split second of hesitation while he tugs his mask into place, but it is there and gone in the blink of an eye. He shouts, rushes forward, and immediately starts swinging. The mugger never knows what hits him.
He drops the victim and takes off almost immediately, spooked by the unexpected flurry of hits and kicks. Izuku knows that a lot of petty criminals commit misdeeds out of desperation, and because of that a lot will give up at the first hint of hero interference. He would have been in trouble if the guy had decided to fight back, but heroes need to step in to help when they see bad stuff happening! He took a risk, and he knows that he is lucky that the mugger was just looking for an easy target and didn't decide a wallet was worth more than anyone's life.
Izuku pushes the what-if's aside and offers the whimpering victim a kind smile, hoping he can see it in his eyes since the actual smile is hidden by his mask, and offers a hand to help him stand. He walks with the bloodied man until the police station is in sight, then he leaves without a word.
Groceries forgotten, he heads back to the apartment. He can't stop smiling the whole walk back.
.
"Hey kid. I'm still alive. How was your day?"
"Hi! My day was good! I went out to get groceries."
"Good. Did you run into any trouble?"
"Nah. The lady at the store asked why I wasn't at school but I just told her I'm homeschooled. She didn't seem suspicious or anything."
Stendhal sighs, breath crackling through the phone line and making Izuku itch. He sounds exhausted and Izuku can't help but feel a little bad for worrying him. Maybe he shouldn't have said anything?
"Don't go back to that store for a few days. It's better not to draw any attention."
"Yeah, I know, don't worry! I'm being careful."
"Okay. Good."
"Oh hey, did we ever buy a first aid kit for the apartment? I can't find it anywhere!"
"It's under the sink where it always is."
A pause, and Izuku can practically hear the cogs spinning in his mentor's tired mind. Stendhal heaves a great sigh and Izuku winces, imagining the pinched expression on the man's face.
"Why?"
"It's nothing! I just burned myself a little when I was cooking."
"Be more careful, please. If you burn the building down we won't get the deposit back."
"You paid a deposit? Even though we're only here for a month? That seems silly."
A soft, throaty chuckle, like he's trying not to be heard.
"It sucks, but that's just the way the world works, kid. Maybe someday somebody can do something to change it. You like to take action, so maybe that someone will be you."
Now it's Izuku's turn to laugh. The sound echoes off the walls of the empty apartment. He tries not to feel too lonely.
"We'll be way too busy saving people to fix house renting problems!"
"You're probably right. Maybe in our next lives. After all, there are all different kinds of heroes, right?"
"Yeah!"
There's the sounds of muffled voices in the background, and Stendhal mutters an annoyed sounding curse beneath his breath. Izuku frowns, worried and wondering where he is.
"Okay kid, I've got to get going. Do you need anything from me?"
"Nope, I have it all handled. I'm doing really good!"
"Glad to hear it. Stay safe, kid. I'll talk to you in a few days."
"You stay safe too!"
"I will."
The line goes dead. Izuku lowers the phone from his ear and lays back on the mattress, watching the shadows on the ceiling stretch long and dark as the day passes him by.
.
Izuku comes home covered in welts and bruises three days in a row. He patches himself up in the empty apartment, smiling and humming softly to fill the silence. Despite his injuries, he hasn't lost yet. He doesn't go looking for trouble, but it seems that he just has a knack for stumbling upon people in danger! If he sees someone who needs help, there's no way he can turn his back on them.
Besides, it's daytime and he's not actually patrolling, so he isn't even technically breaking any rules! He thinks about the faces of the people he's helped, and about the desperation shining so plainly in the eyes of the criminals he's stood up to. The minor injuries are definitely worth it and he's happy with what he's been able to do for the victims, but something is still bothering him.
Izuku spends the next two days feverishly researching and scoping out local charities before making his way to the library. He prints out the names and contact information for several local organizations that offer various kinds of aid to those who need it, making sure that none of them will turn away people with criminal backgrounds or have a history of quirk discrimination. He looks it over once again to double check that all the information is correct, then prints another 25 pages of the same thing. He tucks them safely away into his backpack to hand out to the people he finds with bloody knuckles and knives in their hands, the ones with sad eyes and hungry faces.
He wants to help everyone, not just the most obvious victims. He just knows that that's what a hero is supposed to do!
.
Tanaka Minato is dead.
He hears whispers of a drug overdose, downers and uppers and whatever the fuck else they used to control him mixing in the kid's system and ultimately causing a painful end. After just a little snooping, Chizome finds his body cooling in the basement of the building next to a bloodied form, who Chizome barely recognizes as the woman who lost the last match. He carries the boy's body out to the back alley and hides it beneath the mountains of trash bags, then pulls out his burner to send the boy's mother a quick text explaining the situation.
He shuts the phone off, double checks to make sure the kid's not going anywhere, and strolls back inside. The guards know him by now even if they've never seen his face. They nod as he passes by and he returns the gesture. As soon as their bored eyes have strayed away, focusing once more on the empty hallway as they wait for something to do, he draws his knives.
One blade sinks into the back of the shorter one's head and he goes down like a bag of rocks. The second guard turns with his mouth half open and an annoyed expression that quickly gives way to fear as he realizes what has happened. Stendhal is upon him before he has a chance to shout, blade sinking deep into his chest. He twists the knife and the guard lets out a gurgling noise, pain overtaking the fear before he passes into oblivion. His purple eyes are already glazing over by the time Stendhal steps back to clean his blade.
Red eyes survey the bloody scene and Stendhal's lips curl into a scowl. Neither man even bothered to put up a fight. It's pathetic.
He shoves both bodies into the nearest utility closet but doesn't bother trying to clean the blood from the floor or walls. It's a waste of time since it's already beginning to sink into the porous concrete, and he doubts anyone will notice a few more dark stains in the already filthy hall. He turns and stalks back to the spectator stands, pulling his jacket closed to hide the blood that has found its home on his black shirt.
He finds a break in the writhing mass of screeching bodies and disappears into the crowd, scanning slowly through the building as he confirms the locations of his targets. His eyes lock onto the box seats, high above the crowds, where he knows the mastermind behind this whole mess sits during matches. Between glances he counts four people. His target sits towards the front, leaning eagerly forward to watch the bloody show. Three bodyguards stand at the ready, which is one more than usual.
The first guard has some kind of fire quirk if the flames circling his body are any indicator, and the second has a mutation type quirk that appears to give him four arms and a few additional eyes. The third figure stands further back, cloaked in shadows. He can't tell from this distance what kind of abilities they have, so he will just have to take them out first to avoid any unforeseen issues. It's a pain, but nothing he hasn't dealt with before.
He sinks deeper into the crowd, slipping between bodies until he reaches the back wall. He slinks along it, finds the door and the staircase he knows leads to the box seats above. The leaders aren't stupid enough to leave the door unlocked, but they are hubristic enough to leave it unguarded. It takes little effort to jostle the lock until it pops open, and he can't help but think that this is far too easy. Whether it is a trap or simply arrogance, he has never been one to shy away from a job, so he makes his way up the stairs.
There is a hallway at the top lined with half a dozen velvet drapes blocking off the individual boxes. He approaches, silent and careful, a knife resting comfortably in each hand. The steady beating of his heart does not falter.
From behind the first curtain, he hears someone say, "I swear I heard something! If it's that piece of shit Naori again—"
The person does not get to finish their threat. The curtain parts and they find a knife in their throat, and flame begins to lick up the heavy black velvet with the last sputtering ember of the flame user's quirk. He hears a shout of alarm from the box.
Stendhal curses as he dives forward. One of the two remaining bodyguards leaps to intercept him, clawed hands swiping just millimeters away from his face as he tries to attack. The palm of his hand grazes Stendhal's shoulder and the guard spits curses as the hidden razor in Stendhal's shoulder guards slices through delicate flesh, leaving a smear of blood resting atop the leather of his jacket. Stendhal grins as he dips his fingertips into the blood and raises them to his lips.
The guard collapses to the ground and Stendhal does not hesitate to drive his sword through the man's back, striking the heart with well practiced accuracy. He turns towards the remaining guard, who stands just to the side of Watanabe Aia, the ringleader of this whole operation. The woman is shouting for help, but the roar of the crowd drowns her out. His grin widens at the thought that her own creation will be her undoing.
The guard does not move as he draws his wakizashi. The slide of metal on metal rings through the air, cutting through Watanabe's cries. The last guard is grinning at him now, sharp teeth on display, and he allows himself a split second to look her over. He is surprised to find that this final guard is nothing but a child, brown hair shorn short and ragged, still dressed in her school uniform.
"I'm not in the business of killing children, but I will if I have to," he warns, and her smile only widens.
"Save me!" Watanabe orders, clinging to the girl. She shakes the woman off, happy expression never faltering and eyes never straying from Stendhal. She has somehow managed to find his gaze and hold it despite the mask that hides his features.
"I'm only here to observe," she dismisses, waving a hand carelessly as she shakes the sobbing woman off of her and steps back. "I love a good show."
He eyes her dubiously as he steps forward. She settles into Watanabe's gaudy, throne-like seat, one leg thrown carelessly over the armrest. Her single visible eye sparkles as she watches. Watanabe is trying to scramble over the tall glass panel that blocks her box off from the rest of the arena.
He grabs a handful of the back of her shirt and throws her to the ground. She yelps as her head bounces off the hard floor, curling up on herself as she yells at him to stop. Though her ability to charm the weak willed has helped her in her climb to the top, her quirk is useless in this situation. She doesn't make another noise as he drives his blade through her throat.
Though he has no need for it, he wipes a splatter of blood from his mask and brings it to his lips. His grin breaks from ear to ear as the taste fills his mouth. It tastes like vengeance.
"So what are you gonna do now?" the girl asks in a cheerful singsong tone. Her cheer feels out of place.
"Kill as many of these sick fucks as I can and then burn this place to the ground," he tells her honestly. Her eye lights up and she claps her hands together in excitement.
"Oh! That's way more fun than this silly battle royale stuff. Tell you what! I'll help you out, but after that's all done, there's a couple jobs I want to hire you for!"
"Absolutely not. Go home, kid."
Her wide grin immediately morphs into a childish pout. She crosses her arms and the leg thrown over the armrest kicks out wildly as she grumbles to herself, seemingly uncaring of the way the hem of her skirt flips up. The black velvet curtain is still burning, and the cheap wood of the hastily constructed box seat is beginning to glow red with the heat. The girl seems unconcerned by the imminent fire.
"Well, I think I'll help you anyways! You'll change your mind when you see what I can do."
"I don't care what you do. Just don't get in my way."
"Okeydokey!" she sings, watching as he backs out of the room. Her single eye never blinks and her sharp teeth flash in the light of the growing fire. It's unnerving.
It's quick work to clear the other five box seats of their occupants. Not a single one of them is prepared for an attack, and only two of them have quirks that might have been able help them in a fight. It's ironic that these men and women with no knowledge of how to fight or protect themselves are the ones behind this operation.
He pauses in the last box to clean his sword and plan the best way to thin the crowds below him once and for all. The people watching these spectacles are just as much at fault as the ones who ran the whole thing. While the heat from the fire licks at his back, he considers the best way to take out as many of them as possible and still get out alive. As he takes a step towards the front of the box, he catches movement from the corner of his eye.
The high school girl sits atop the clear glass divider of Watanabe's box seat, looking vaguely like she's hovering in the air above the writhing masses below. She leans precariously far out and waves wildly at him. He rolls his eyes and vaults over the side of his own box, landing in the midst of the crowd and crushing someone beneath his weight. He ignores her screams of agony, as does the rest of the crowd.
No one notices as he draws his blade and begins to slip through the crowd, leaking murderous intent.
Before he can get too far he feels a tingle down his back, a sixth sense that years of vigilante and mercenary work have helped to hone. He looks up to see small insects circling above him, their abdomens swollen and...glowing? Turning, his gaze seeks out the girl as she floats high above the rest, smoke and flames billowing all around her. Seeming to sense his gaze, she gives another little wave before holding a finger to her lips in a shushing motion.
The insects swoop lower, gentle glow turning suddenly blinding. There are exclamations of confusion and worry. Someone yells, "Fire!" just as the carnage truly begins.
The explosions, though small, are devastating in such a tightly packed space. Stendhal can't say he's not impressed by the sheer amount of death that the kid's quirk results in. He switches out the knife in each hand for his swords as the people rush past him, none of them realizing yet that the exits have been locked. The insects swarm them as they scream and thrash, desperate and terrified but still believing they may survive if they can only reach the doors.
They're dead wrong, of course.
Chizome takes care of the stragglers and the ones that have the quirks necessary to survive the initial blasts. He stands in the red soaked hellscape and basks in the glow of the fire, head thrown back and smile splitting his face in two. Blood drips from the point of his sword and the tips of his fingers. High above him, the girl is laughing. The desire to join her bubbles up in his chest, still giddy from the adrenaline and the bloodlust. He is not proud of the feeling but cannot deny that in this moment it feels as if this feeling is all that he lives for.
"Wanna hear me out now?" the girl calls down to him. He considers her for a moment more, iron dancing on his tongue and heart pounding in his chest.
"Make it quick," he says, and her sharp toothed grin flashes in the firelight.
.
Chizome's phone chimes with a notification. He wipes blood on a dry patch of his pant leg before he digs his main burner out of his liquid-proofed pocket. A quick glance at the screen tells him that Izuku sent him a picture message.
He drops Tanaka Minato's body immediately, worried that his kid might need something. The crunch the boy makes when he hits the ground doesn't bother him. He's sure the boy's mom won't notice the damage, considering it's already hard to tell where one injury ends and the next one begins after weeks of being forced to fight for his life.
Chizome opens the message and breathes a sigh of relief when a picture of a bowl of purple batter greets him.
Trying to make a roll cake! Wish me luck. :)
good luck
let me know how it turns out
It's going to be dilishis!
Wait. Delishus?
delicious
Yes! Delicious! Thanks! :)
NP
I g2g
Ok. Be safe! I'll send you a pic when it's done.
looking forward to it kid. have fun
I will! Bye!
He smiles as he tucks the phone away again. He thinks about how nice it is to have a reminder that there are still good things in life as he bends to pick up Tanaka's body again.
I hope you enjoyed! I'm not totally confident in this chapter, but decided to stop dallying around and just post it already. Constructive criticism is always welcome here! Please review to let me know what you thought. :)
Stay safe and healthy out there, dear friends!