Chapter Twenty-Six : I Have a Shotgun
When classes started up again, the good news just kept coming. First, Clay learned just how big a bullet he'd dodged by skipping an internship with Best Jeanist. Kirishima made a valiant attempt to pry details out of Bakugo during homeroom, only for Bakugo to oscillate between flying into violent rages and sitting sullenly like a beaten dog. The pièce de résistance? His once untamed, spiky hair was now tamed into something that resembled a Mormon missionary's.
"Glad I couldn't make it, Bakugo," Clay quipped from his seat, leaning back with Skipper sprawled comfortably on his chest.
"Shut it…" Bakugo growled, his arms locked in a defensive cross as he practically radiated self-protective frustration.
Meanwhile, Tsuyu, who began recounting her internship. She had been tight-lipped about it during dinner at her family's house, but now, she shared tales of battling squid-pirate-drug smugglers on the waters. Clay listened, enthralled by every word. There was a quiet bravery in the way she described the events—not boasting, just matter-of-fact—and he couldn't help but admire her more for it. There was something about it that made their relationship feel more solid, like they would be an unstoppable team.
Mina was grumbling about how her internship had been uneventful, lamenting the lack of action with dramatic flair. Meanwhile, Jiro recounted a tense hostage rescue she'd been part of, her calm demeanor making the tale even more impressive. Ochaco, on the other hand, was practically glowing as she spoke about the hero she'd interned with, acting as though he was the pinnacle of male perfection.
Mt. Lady had apparently spent her time knocking the love for women out of Mineta, which was undeniably a good thing.
As for Midoriya, Iida, and Shoto, the trio seemed to have forged a bond over something unspoken, though the murmurs of their encounter with the Hero Killer were hard to ignore. Officially, the story went that Endeavor had been the one to take him down, but Clay knew better. Midnight had casually dropped Iida's name during her chewing-out session on his last day of the internship, all but confirming there was more to the story.
Overall, things at U.A. felt a little different—but better. The internships had left their mark, shaping everyone in ways that were subtle yet undeniable.
Kaminari was rambling on about the Hero Killer—who, for some reason, had chosen to go by the name Stain. Clay didn't bother stepping in when Midoriya started whining about it; he figured it wasn't worth the effort.
Meanwhile, Iida was in full lecture mode, diving into the morality of killing with all the intensity of a motivational speaker. As if on cue, he cracked the whip to restore order, herding everyone to their seats as if they were cattle.
"Derreks-san! Get your feet off the desk!" he barked, his voice sharp and commanding.
"Yes, boss," Clay drawled with a dry chuckle, lifting Skipper back to his shoulder as he obediently swung his feet off the desk. But the moment Iida turned his head, Clay smirked and casually propped his boots right back up, earning an amused chitter from Skipper.
Something about recent events had shifted Clay's confidence. It showed not just in his demeanor but in the way he carried himself—today, for instance, he'd paired his uniform with his well-worn cowboy boots, the pant legs draped over them like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Aizawa appeared in the room like a phantom, his entrance so silent it made a few students jolt in their seats. He didn't say much of note—just a reminder for everyone to reflect on the lessons they'd learned during their internships.
Don't grip razor blade bats, Clay mused wryly. Took me a whole week to figure that one out.
Far more interesting, however, was the neat stack of envelopes Aizawa carried. Without fanfare, he began placing them on the desks of various students, seemingly at random. One of the envelopes landed on Clay's desk.
"If you've received an envelope," Aizawa said, his tone as dry as ever, "report to the support department after class. Your gadget requests have been approved."
Yes! Clay thought, a grin creeping across his face as he resisted the urge to fist-pump.
Aizawa's voice cut through his thoughts. "I suggest you spend the rest of the day practicing with them. Your equipment is only as good as your skill with it."
As soon as class ended, Clay snatched the envelope from his desk, eager to see something he had wanted ever since he took the thought of being a hero seriously. Skipper hopped onto his shoulder, chittering with equal anticipation as they joined the line of students heading to the support building.
"Looks like someone's excited," Kaminari teased, catching sight of Clay's grin.
"You know it," Clay replied, patting the envelope against his palm. "This is gonna be like Christmas morning, but better."
"Knowing Hatsume, it's probably going to explode," Jiro muttered, though her smirk betrayed her amusement.
"Oh no, she had nothing to do with it… mostly," Clay said, walking alongside a group of students clutching their own envelopes. "It's something from home. Japanese law made it a real pain to get it back."
"Did you ask for a gun?" Mina asked, barely able to contain her excitement as she practically bounced on her heels, clutching the envelope that presumably held approval for the custom leg warmers she'd been squawking about for months.
"As a matter of fact, I did, Mina," Clay said with a smirk, enjoying the stunned look that flashed across her face.
"Really?" Jiro asked, raising an eyebrow as she glanced over at him.
"He's American. Ribbit," Tsuyu chimed in from Clay's side, her calm tone laced with just a hint of dry humor. She wasn't carrying an envelope, but her presence was steady as ever. "What did you expect?"
The line at the support department was a mix of chaos and anticipation. Students clutched their envelopes, buzzing with excitement as they speculated about what upgrades and gadgets awaited them. Hatsume's voice could already be heard from somewhere inside, her enthusiastic shouts adding to the general clamor.
Clay leaned casually against the wall, his envelope tucked under one arm, as Skipper perched on his shoulder. His calm demeanor only seemed to fuel the curiosity of the group around him.
"Okay, but for real," Kaminari said, sidling up to Clay with a grin. "You actually asked for a gun? Like, what kind? A six-shooter? A shotgun? Some crazy sci-fi thing with laser sights?"
Clay chuckled, shaking his head. "Y'all're gettin' ahead of yourselves," he said, his voice low and easy. "Ain't nothin' out of a Western movie, I'll tell you that much."
"So it's modern?" Mina asked, leaning in with wide eyes. "Like... tactical? Does it have attachments? A grappling hook? Oh! Is it a flamethrower?"
Jiro groaned, crossing her arms as she gave Clay a side-eye. "He's not gonna tell you. He's too chill about it to give anything away."
"But why a gun?" Kirishima asked, stepping into the conversation with a curious frown. "I mean, isn't that kind of... not hero-y?"
"It's not about takin' folks down," Clay said, his tone quieter now, more reflective. "This one's special to me. Family heirloom, you could say. It ain't somethin' I plan to use all the time—it's just... somethin' that feels right to have with me."
The vague answer left the group with more questions than answers, but there was something in Clay's tone that made them hesitate to push further.
"You're being all mysterious about it," Kaminari teased, though his grin softened. "Now I wanna see it even more."
Tsuyu, standing beside Clay, glanced up at him with her usual composed expression. "He'll show it when he's ready, ribbit," she said simply, her tone making it clear she wasn't about to spill the beans.
"So, you know what it is?" Jiro asked, trying to sound casual but failing to hide her curiosity.
"Ribbit," Tsuyu replied, nodding her head slowly, her wide eyes steady on Jiro.
Clay smirked, his voice easy. "Y'all are thinkin' way too hard about it."
The support department was abuzz with energy as students filtered through, each presented with their new or upgraded gear. Clay waited near the back of the room, his anticipation tempered by the memories tied to the item he was about to receive.
When his turn came, Hatsume Mei herself emerged, her goggles perched atop her head, and a wide, satisfied grin spread across her face. She was clutching a sleek bandoleer adorned with sturdy leather loops, each holding polished shotgun shells, their brass ends glinting under the fluorescent lights. A modest case rested at her feet, along with a wide silver one that was clearly designed to hold her special shells.
"Alright, cowboy," Hatsume said, practically vibrating with excitement. "I outdid myself on this one. These shells? Custom-designed for you. We're talking incendiary, beanbags, rubber buckshot, electric shock—you name it. All compact, efficient, and very, very boom-worthy."
Clay accepted the bandoleer with a nod, his fingers brushing over the shells. "This is... mighty fine work, Hatsume. Thank ya kindly."
Hatsume beamed before bending down to pick up the case. With a theatrical flourish, she set it on the table in front of him and popped the latches. Inside, nestled in a bed of foam, was the shotgun.
The weapon was a thing of understated beauty. Its walnut stock bore the marks of years of use, the wood polished to a soft sheen that spoke of both care and service. The barrel, a matte black with faint signs of wear, carried an inscription near the chamber: "Property of Deercrown County Sheriff's Office." The pump action had been meticulously restored, its grooves deep and comfortable in the grip. The shotgun's classic design was timeless—functional, reliable, and imbued with a weight of history that Clay could feel just by looking at it. There was the unmistakable stain of blood on the stock.
Clay's breath caught in his throat as he stared at the weapon. His father's service shotgun. The one he'd carried during his years as sheriff, the one he'd fallen with in the line of duty. Seeing it now, pristine yet filled with stories, brought a flood of emotions that he wasn't prepared for.
"Thought you'd like it," Hatsume said, her voice softer now, sensing the shift in his demeanor. "Had to pull some strings to get it here, the government absolutely threw a fit, but it was worth it. That thing's got history."
Clay nodded, his voice thick as he murmured, "Yeah... yeah, it does. Thank you."
The room felt too loud, too crowded. Clutching the case, Clay muttered a quick excuse and slipped out into the hallway, his boots echoing faintly against the tiled floor. He found a quiet corner near one of the back entrances, away from the bustle, and knelt, setting the case on the floor.
Opening it again, he let his fingers trace the familiar wood grain of the stock. The memories came rushing back: his father teaching him to respect firearms, the stories of courage and service, and the day he'd learned his dad wasn't coming home. When will he come back, ma?
Clay's grip tightened as tears welled in his eyes. He wasn't sure how long he sat there, the shotgun resting on his knees, the weight of it both comforting and overwhelming. It was like he was there with him. Nobody would have guessed that both of his kids would be lawmen.
"Ribbit."
Clay looked up to see Tsuyu standing nearby, her expression calm but filled with quiet understanding. Skipper had perched himself on her shoulder, his tiny nose twitching as he looked between the two of them.
"Mind some company?" she asked softly, stepping closer.
Clay shook his head, a faint, crooked smile forming through his tears. "Not at all."
Tsuyu knelt beside him, her wide eyes steady on his face. "It's okay to feel this way, Clay," she said simply. "It's important to remember. Ribbit."
He nodded, his voice rough as he said, "This was his. My dad's. It's been so long since I... held anythin' of his. Never thought I'd be the one to get it."
Tsuyu placed a gentle hand on his arm, her touch grounding him. Skipper hopped from her shoulder to Clay's, perching there like a tiny sentinel.
"You're honoring him by keeping it," Tsuyu said quietly. "And by carrying what he stood for. Ribbit."
Clay let out a shaky breath, the knot in his chest loosening just enough. "Thanks, Tsu. That means... a lot."
They sat there in comfortable silence for a while, the shotgun resting between them, a bridge between past and present. Clay had spent some time talking about his father with Tsuyu on their way back from her parents' home.
The night before, on the train back to U.A., the rhythm of the rails had made it easy for Clay to open up. Sitting across from Tsuyu, with Skipper curled up in his hat beside him, Clay had told her the story of how his father had fallen.
"My dad, Sheriff Adam Derreks, he was... well, he was everything you'd want in a lawman," Clay had started, his voice steady but soft, his green eyes gazing out the train window. "He knew everyone in Deercrown County by name. Always said it made the job easier when folks felt like they could trust you."
Tsuyu had listened quietly, her wide eyes reflecting the passing lights of the city.
"One night, there was a call. Local booze store was gettin' robbed. Nothin' unusual in a place like Deercrown—happened a few times a year, usually ended with someone cryin' and makin' amends." Clay's lips quirked into a small, bitter smile. "But this time... it wasn't a local kid actin' out. It was a guy passin' through, desperate and armed."
Tsuyu's calm demeanor hadn't shifted, but her soft "Ribbit" let him know she was still with him, listening.
"My dad went in to talk the guy down, just like he always did. He was good at that, y'know? Gettin' folks to see sense. But this guy... he wasn't in the mood to talk. He panicked." Clay's voice caught for a moment, his hands resting on his knees as if grounding himself. "Pulled the trigger before my dad could even say more than a few words. Hit him right in the chest."
The silence between them had been heavy, filled only by the soft hum of the train.
"Thing is, my dad still managed to radio for help, even while he was bleedin' out," Clay had continued, his voice quieter now. "Saved the store clerk's life. Guy got caught in the native reservation next to us. The tribal cops of all people caught him, but... well, it didn't matter much by then. I was in school when I found out. Ma picked me up early and…"
Tsuyu had reached across the table, her hand resting lightly on his arm. "I'm sorry, Clay," she'd said softly, her voice steady. "He sounds like he was a great man. Ribbit."
"He was," Clay had said, his voice rough but resolute. "And I'll be gettin' the gun he had when he got shot… If the Japanese government decides to play ball."
Sitting now with Tsuyu in the quiet hallway of the support department, Clay felt the weight of that story settle again in his chest. He glanced at her, grateful for her presence.
"You already heard all this," he said, his voice tinged with quiet amusement as he glanced at the shotgun resting in its case. "Don't know why I'm ramblin' about it again."
Tsuyu's hand stayed on his arm, her touch grounding him as much now as it had on the train. "Because it's important, ribbit," she said simply. "And because he'd be proud of you."
Clay exhaled, a long, slow breath that felt like it carried some of the weight away with it. "I hope so," he murmured.
Skipper let out a soft squeak, leaning forward as if to inspect the shotgun, his little nose twitching.
Tsuyu tilted her head slightly, her calm gaze steady on Clay. "He would," she repeated, her voice quiet but sure.
"C'mon," Clay muttered, wiping his face with his sleeve in an attempt to clear out the evidence of there being any more tears. "Let's try this thing out," he said, gazing to the case of different colored shells arranged neatly by his feet.