Chapter Twenty-One: Burning Buildings, Fire and Acid
"I just don't get it…" Lucy muttered, staring at the footage on her screen. It showed Tsuyu and the American U.A. student walking side by side, their easy rhythm and occasional exchanges enough to make her frown. She rewound the clip, watching it again, as if the answer might reveal itself.
Part of her knew the reason—people find out they like each other, and sometimes they go on dates. Simple enough. But something about it still didn't sit right with her. "Of all the women in the class, the novelty of being American alone would mean he had a choice… But why her?"
"Ha ha ha…"
"No, Chuckles, this is relevant," Lucy snapped, turning briefly toward her companion. "Tsuyu's away with that seal guy. If we did something to the American, that'd get her attention."
"Heh…"
Lucy glanced over her shoulder, watching Chuckles meticulously superglue yet another row of razor blades onto his already brutal-looking baseball bat. His movements were methodical, almost absentminded, as if he was paying half-attention to her words.
"I'm not jealous," Lucy added, her tone sharpening. "Why would you say I'm jealous?"
Her eyes narrowed as Chuckles tilted his head ever so slightly, his silence somehow speaking volumes. Lucy turned back to her screen with a huff, hitting play again.
Lucy watched the clip for the fifth time, her fingers drumming against the edge of her desk. Her electric-blue hair fell into her eyes, but she didn't bother brushing it back. The footage looped again, showing Clay holding Tsuyu's bag, their quiet conversation punctuated by occasional, natural laughter. The way he adjusted his hat before glancing at her—a small, unremarkable moment—made Lucy's frown deepen.
"It doesn't make sense," she muttered again, more to herself than to Chuckles. "She's not flashy, she's not loud… She doesn't stand out." Her gaze lingered on Tsuyu's calm, even demeanor. "He's all charisma and noise, and she's… whatever this is."
Chuckles let out another low, disjointed laugh.
Lucy finally turned, her eyes narrowing. "What, you think it's funny? You think I'm overthinking this?"
Chuckles shrugged, his jester-like outfit creaking faintly with the motion. His gloved fingers slid another razor blade into place on the bat, his head tilted just enough to give the impression of a raised eyebrow—even though his featureless white mask betrayed no expression.
Lucy scoffed, spinning her chair to fully face him. "Look, I'm not jealous, okay? This isn't about that." Her voice pitched slightly higher than she intended, and the sharp edge only made Chuckles' eerie chuckle grow louder.
"It's strategy," Lucy pressed, her tone defensive. "If I hit him, I hit her. He's got people watching him already—the chair thing proved that. And if she's distracted because I've got him, then I've got a shot at keeping her off her game."
Chuckles set the bat down, its brutal construction glinting faintly in the light of the monitors. He tilted his head again, letting out a quiet, breathy, "Hmmm."
Lucy folded her arms, leaning back in her chair. "I don't care about him, alright? It's her. She's the focus." She jabbed a finger at the frozen screen, now paused on an image of Tsuyu looking up at Clay, her expression as unreadable as ever. "You don't get to be that calm all the time. People like that are hiding something."
Chuckles picked up the bat, testing its weight. His silence this time felt like agreement, though Lucy didn't need the validation.
"I'll figure her out," she muttered, spinning back toward the monitors. "And when I do, she won't see me coming."
"Ha… ha ha…"
"Yeah, yeah, laugh it up," Lucy grumbled. She rewound the footage again, her fingers still drumming against the desk. This time, though, her frown began to shift into a faint, calculating smirk. "Looks like he's still in town… Why don't we make his internship a little more interesting?
By day two, Clay had already fallen into a steady rhythm. His Quirk seemed to evolve out of necessity, adapting to the challenges Thirteen threw his way. Every time she set up a burning building scenario, Clay would find a quiet spot, pull his hat over his face, and let his rats do the initial work. He was able to see through their eyes if he could keep focused.
The rodents scurried through the simulated infernos, mapping the area and locating the mannequins posed as survivors. But mannequins couldn't move on their own, so once the building was fully mapped, Clay had to step in. That's when he reached for a gift from the support department—a simple red bandanna, modified just enough to make all the difference.
The bandanna had two key features: a hidden microphone for communication and a thin filter sewn into the fabric to make the smoke more bearable. With it secured over his nose and mouth, Clay would charge into the building, relying on the map in his head to navigate the chaos.
One by one, he carried the mannequins out, sometimes two at a time, his movements quick but deliberate. The simulated flames flickered and roared around him, but he focused on the task at hand, knowing that precision and speed were the key to making it out unscathed.
"Ready, Derreks?" Thirteen's voice came through the comm in his bandanna, calm and measured as always.
"Yes, ma'am," he replied, pulling the bandanna snugly over his face. He could feel the filter doing its job, letting him breathe easier despite the simulated smoke that curled and rolled through the air like a living thing. "Just tell me where you need me."
"Focus on the second floor. There's a cluster of victims near the east wall, but the main staircase is blocked. You'll need to find another route."
"Got it." He gave a sharp whistle, signaling to the rats perched on his shoulders. They scurried down his arms and disappeared into the smoky void ahead, their small shapes vanishing as quickly as they'd appeared.
Clay stepped into the building, his boots crunching on the scorched floorboards. Through the haze, he could feel his Quirk's level-up working—the faint mental map his rats provided began to fill in with detail. He couldn't "see" the collapsed staircase, the narrow crawlspace near the far wall, and the precarious beams that threatened to give way if he wasn't careful, but he just knew it was there. To see more, he would have had to go into a trance to look at it through his rat's eyes. There would be cases where this was needed, but for now, knowing the basic layout was more than enough.
He moved with purpose, weaving through the smoke and debris, his hands steady as he pushed aside obstacles. The first mannequin was trapped beneath a fallen beam, its lifeless eyes staring up at him. Clay crouched, gripping the beam and straining against its weight. The muscles in his arms burned, but he managed to shift it just enough to free the dummy.
"First one's out," he said into the comm, hoisting the mannequin over his shoulder. He retraced his steps, the mental map guiding him back to the exit with precision. Outside, he set the mannequin down and immediately turned back toward the building.
"You're making good time, Derreks," Thirteen said, her voice steady. "But remember, this isn't just about speed. Keep your wits about you."
"Yes, ma'am," Clay replied, already moving toward the crawlspace his rats had discovered. He dropped to his hands and knees, the smoke pressing in around him as he squeezed through the narrow opening.
The second floor was even worse than the first—simulated flames licked at the walls, and the heat was almost oppressive. His rats were still ahead of him, their small bodies darting between obstacles, marking the safest paths.
The cluster of mannequins Thirteen had mentioned came into view, three of them positioned near the east wall. One was half-buried under debris, while the others sat slumped against the charred remains of a desk.
Clay worked quickly, freeing the first mannequin and securing it over his shoulder before turning to the others. His movements were efficient, his focus unshaken despite the chaos around him.
"You've got about two minutes before this section collapses," Thirteen's voice warned through the comm. "Prioritize getting them out."
Clay nodded, even though she couldn't see him. He grabbed the second mannequin, slinging it over his other shoulder, and began moving toward the nearest exit.
The simulated flames roared louder, the heat intensifying as he navigated the precarious beams and collapsing walls. His mental map updated in real-time, thanks to his rats, allowing him to adjust his path on the fly.
He made it out just as the second floor gave way behind him, the sound of crashing debris echoing through the air. Setting the mannequins down next to the first, Clay exhaled deeply, his breath steady despite the exertion.
"Three down," he said, pulling the bandanna down from his face. "How'd I do?"
"Impressive," Thirteen replied, her tone carrying a hint of approval. "You've got a knack for this, Derreks. Efficient, resourceful, and adaptable. But don't get complacent. The next drill will be harder."
Clay smirked, adjusting his hat. "Wouldn't expect anythin' less, ma'am."
As he glanced back at the simulated inferno, his rats scurried back to him, their tiny forms covered in soot. He gave them a quick scratch behind the ears, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "Good work, boys. Let's see if we can't beat our time next round."
Thirteen's voice came through the comm again, calm but with a touch of encouragement. "You're bored, aren't you?"
"Yes, ma'am," Clay admitted with a small shrug. "It was fun the first few times." As he spoke, he carefully brushed a bit of soot off Skipper's back, the little rat chittering softly in response.
"I wasn't plannin' on sayin' anything," he added, glancing up with a faint smirk. "It looked like you were havin' fun."
Thirteen chuckled softly through the comm, her tone light but deliberate. "You're perceptive, Derreks. I am having fun—seeing how far I can push you. It's not every day a student handles these scenarios so efficiently."
Clay ran a hand through his beard, his smirk widening. "Well, I'm glad someone's enjoyin' it. Maybe next time, toss in a twist or two. Y'know, keep me on my toes."
Then, a boon—or perhaps something more ominous.
Thirteen was saying something over the communicator, her calm voice advising patience, when a sudden, shrill alarm cut through the air in the background. The sound was sharp, piercing, and unmistakable.
Clay froze as the communicator went silent, leaving only the faint hiss of static. He turned his head toward the observation booth, spotting Thirteen standing there unharmed, her gaze fixed elsewhere. If she was fine, then the alarm could only mean one thing: an emergency nearby.
"Alright, boys," Clay muttered under his breath, beginning to despawn the rats with practiced ease. "Rest up—we might be havin' some fun today."
Thirteen's voice returned after a moment, calm but now carrying an edge of urgency. "Derreks, wrap it up and meet me at the outside. There's been a reported incident downtown—a potential chemical spill with civilians trapped."
Clay's smirk vanished, his expression shifting to something sharper, more focused. He carefully returned Skipper to his pocket, brushing the soot from his hands before adjusting his hat. "Yes, ma'am. On my way."
The faint static of the communicator cut out as Clay broke into a brisk jog toward the exit. The simulation area seemed eerily quiet now, the weight of real danger pressing down with each step. As he reached the door, Thirteen was already moving with purpose, her gloved hands deftly typing on a tablet she was holding despite the bulkiness of the gloves. The usual calm in her posture was tempered with urgency.
"Chemical spill?" Clay asked, stepping in beside her.
Thirteen glanced at him, her visor reflecting the streams of data on the screen. "That's the report, though details are still coming in. Civilians are trapped in a manufacturing facility. Gas is leaking, and the local heroes are requesting specialized support."
Clay nodded, already adjusting his bandanna. "And by specialized, they mean you?"
"Precisely," Thirteen replied, her voice steady. "And you as well, I'm bringing you along. This will be nothing like training, Derreks. You'll follow my lead—no heroics unless I say so. Understood?"
"Yes ma'am," Clay said, smirking when he saw Skipper making a little salute on his shoulder.
Clay had never seen Thirteen's vehicle before, but the moment it came into view, he couldn't imagine her driving anything else. The vehicle was a curious hybrid between a jeep and a Humvee, with sleek angles and a lightweight frame that wouldn't look out of place on the surface of the moon. It was practical, unassuming, and undeniably Thirteen.
He climbed into the passenger seat with the practiced ease of someone accustomed to stepping into high-clearance trucks. Normally, it wouldn't have crossed his mind as noteworthy, but a vivid memory surfaced: that one time he'd watched Jiro struggle to climb into a truck during a training exercise, her frustration mounting with every failed attempt.
A faint smirk tugged at his lips as he settled into his seat, the thought lingering just long enough to add a touch of humor to the moment.
Thirteen slid into the driver's seat with a fluidity that seemed almost rehearsed. The vehicle's interior was as practical as its exterior—minimalist and efficient, every button and screen exactly where it needed to be. A small heads-up display flickered to life on the windshield as Thirteen tapped a few controls on the console.
"This vehicle isn't just for show," she remarked, her tone casual but focused. "It's equipped to handle just about anything—chemical spills included."
Clay adjusted his hat, glancing around the interior with mild curiosity. "Guess that means it's got some tricks up its sleeve?"
"Several," Thirteen replied, a faint note of pride in her voice. "But for now, it's just getting us to the site quickly and safely. Buckle up."
Skipper chittered softly from Clay's shoulder as he pulled the seatbelt across his chest, clicking it into place. "Hear that, Skip? We're ridin' in style today." The little rat squeaked in response, giving another tiny salute that earned a quiet chuckle from Clay.
The vehicle hummed to life, its engine purring with a smooth efficiency that belied its rugged design. Thank God for Japanese cars, he thought to himself. As they pulled onto the main road, Thirteen's calm voice filled the space between them.
"The manufacturing facility is approximately 7.4 kilometers from here. Local heroes have established a perimeter, but the situation is still developing. Initial reports suggest a ruptured storage tank releasing a corrosive gas. Civilians are trapped in several areas, and visibility inside the facility is severely compromised."
Clay's smirk faded as the weight of the situation settled over him. "Sounds like we've got our work cut out for us. You got a game plan?"
Thirteen's grip on the wheel was steady, her visor reflecting the glow of the dashboard. "Our first objective is containment—identifying the source of the leak and preventing it from spreading further. Once the area is stabilized, we'll focus on extracting civilians. Your Quirk will be crucial for scouting areas we can't access safely."
Clay nodded, his hand briefly brushing the brim of his hat as he processed her words. "And the gas? What's it doin' to anyone caught in it?"
"Highly corrosive," Thirteen replied without hesitation. "It causes severe respiratory distress and can damage skin and tissue on contact. That's why we're here. My Quirk is uniquely suited to controlling environmental hazards like this, and your ability to gather intel from inside the danger zone will be invaluable."
Clay's jaw tightened as he considered the implications. "So, we're dealin' with time and visibility. Got it." He glanced at Skipper, who twitched his whiskers nervously. "Think you're up for this, buddy?"
Skipper squeaked softly, his tiny claws gripping Clay's shoulder a little tighter.
Thirteen's voice softened just a fraction, her calm demeanor unwavering. "This will be unlike anything you've trained for, Derreks. Stay focused. Follow my lead. And remember—precision over speed. We can't afford mistakes."
"Yes, ma'am," Clay said, the faint edge of determination creeping into his voice.
As the vehicle sped through the city streets, the tension between them was palpable, though neither seemed inclined to break it with unnecessary chatter. Instead, they focused on the task ahead, the urgency of the situation propelling them forward.
The faint wail of sirens grew louder as they neared the facility, the distant glow of flashing lights cutting through the night. Clay could already see the outline of the manufacturing plant—an imposing structure with towering smokestacks and rows of storage tanks. A plume of faint, sickly-green gas hung in the air, illuminated by the harsh beams of floodlights.
Thirteen slowed the vehicle as they approached the perimeter, rolling down her window to speak with a local hero clad in a bright yellow hazmat suit. "Report?" she asked, her voice sharp and professional.
The hero gestured toward the facility, his tone urgent. "The leak's originating from Tank Four. The pressure's too high to cap it manually, and the containment measures are failing. We've got at least eight civilians still inside—last seen in the east wing, but visibility is near zero." Clay wasn't sure if the hazmat suit was his costume or if he was wearing it over his costume. In a way, he looked like a yellow version of Thirteen.
Thirteen nodded, her visor glinting in the harsh light. "Understood. We'll move in immediately. Keep the perimeter secure and be ready to provide medical assistance."
She turned to Clay, her tone firm but measured. "Ready?"
Clay adjusted his bandanna, pulling it securely over his nose and mouth. "Yes Ma'am."
The air carried a sour, acrid scent, and as Clay's boots crunched forward, he noticed the grass beneath him had taken on a brittle, lifeless quality. Tugging his mask a little tighter over his face, he stayed close behind Thirteen, careful not to stray too far from her steady presence.
Ahead of him, Thirteen raised an arm. The small, thimble-like caps on her gloves popped off with a faint hiss, and the tainted air began funneling into her gloves. The sound was subtle but constant, a quiet reassurance that the hazard was being handled.
"Which one's the east wing?" Clay asked the hazmat hero walking alongside them.
The man pointed to a three-story building in the distance, its blue roof standing out starkly against the muted landscape. At first glance, the building looked unharmed, but upon closer inspection, acid burns marred its sides, leaving jagged scars on the structure.
"That one," the hazmat hero replied. "We probably shouldn't get much closer than this," he said, stopping when they were about forty or fifty feet from the building.
"Send your rats in," Thirteen said, her calm voice steady as she moved forward, now drawing the air in with both hands. "I'll work on clearing things up."
"Yes, ma'am," Clay said, nodding before turning to find a nearby tree. He lowered himself to the base of the trunk, the rough bark pressing against his back as he settled into position. He tipped his hat over his eyes, looking like he was just about to take a nap.
With a quiet exhale, he rolled up his woodland camouflage sleeves, and a cascade of rats erupted from them, flowing out with practiced precision. The swarm scattered across the ground, moving toward the building with purpose, their tiny forms slipping into cracks and crevices as they began their search. Some crawled through the holes caused by the acid, some through broken windows, and a few through air vents.
"Are your rats okay?" Thirteen asked, her tone calm but tinged with genuine concern, though her focus remained on clearing the tainted air.
"They're feelin' it," Clay admitted, his voice steady despite the occasional wince. Every instance of singed fur or the faint sensation of burning skin echoed back to him, a sharp reminder of the risks they were taking.
He adjusted his position at the base of the tree, narrowing his eyes as the mental map from his rats began to take shape. "Okay, I see the problem. Looks like the entrance to the chemical plant's under some sort of lockdown…" His brows furrowed. "I see a few guys trying to bust down a window with a fire extinguisher. That's some strong glass..."
Thirteen glanced toward the plant, her visor reflecting the sickly glow of the gas. Her voice remained calm, but there was a steely edge to it. "Focus on mapping out the interior and locating the civilians. I'll handle the entrance," she said, marching forward towards the building with the hazmat hero close behind her.
Clay nodded, his eyes squeezed shut beneath the brim of his hat as he concentrated. The rats moved with precision, their small bodies weaving through tight spaces and around obstacles. "Most of the east wing's clear, but there's a big group huddled in a break room. I can smell the gas gettin' to 'em—it's thinner there, but not by much."
"If the lockdown's automated, the security override will be in the control room. Can your rats get there?" she asked, her voice crackling through the communicator.
Clay's expression hardened as he shifted his focus. "Already sent a couple on their way. They're gonna have to climb through some tight spots, but they'll make it." He adjusted his bandanna, leaning his head back against the tree. "Gas is worse near the west side, where that tank ruptured. No signs of life there—just fumes and acid burns."
"Good," Thirteen replied, her tone clipped. "Focus on guiding the group in the break room. We'll need to move quickly once the doors are open."
Clay grunted in acknowledgment, his mind tethered to the rats as they scurried deeper into the facility. The feedback came in bursts—sharp, fragmented impressions of heat, metallic tangs, and faint vibrations from the machinery still running inside. His jaw tightened as one of his scouts encountered a puddle of corrosive liquid, the sharp sting echoing back to him before the connection was severed.
"Lost one," he muttered, his tone flat but tinged with frustration and annoyance. "He'll be upset with me next time I spawn him."
"Focus, Derreks," Thirteen said, her voice a touch sharper than usual, the urgency of the situation bleeding into her tone.
"Yes, ma'am," Clay muttered, his expression tightening as he switched between the views of his rats. His focus sharpened when one squad rounded a corner, revealing three figures—a woman and two men—each wearing emergency gas masks strapped tightly to their faces.
"Found three," he said, his voice steady but low. "I'll be leading them out now."
Clay sent a quick mental command, and the rats immediately formed an arrow, their small bodies shifting into a cohesive line pointing toward the safest path he could identify. The squad began moving deliberately, guiding the trio toward the exit with swift, coordinated precision.
"Good work. Keep them moving steadily. We can't afford to have anyone panicking or lagging behind."
"Don't need to tell me twice," Clay muttered, his voice carrying the faintest edge as he adjusted his focus.
Through his connection with the rats, he could feel the civilians' hesitation, their movements awkward and clumsy in the dim, gas-filled corridors. One of the men stumbled, his foot catching on a pipe jutting from the ground. The rats paused, their tiny heads swiveling as if checking to ensure the group was still together.
"C'mon now," Clay murmured under his breath, his fingers flexing against the bark of the tree he leaned on. "One foot in front of the other, partner. Ain't that hard."
The man regained his footing, aided by the woman, and the group pressed on. The rats adjusted their formation, creating a tighter arrow to account for the lagging pace.
"Thirteen," Clay called, his tone cautious but firm, "there's still some pockets of gas between them and the exit. They've got masks, but I don't think those filters are gonna last much longer."
Thirteen's response was immediate. "I'll stabilize the area near the exit. Keep them moving. How's the break room group?"
Clay shifted his focus, his mind jumping to the map in his head as another squad of rats zeroed in on the larger group of civilians. "Break room group's holdin' steady, but they're cramped, and the air's getting thinner. Some of 'em are startin' to panic."
Thirteen's tone remained calm, but the pace of her steps quickened as she moved toward the plant. "I'll need you inside once the first group is clear. Your rats can map the path, but I'll need you to coordinate directly with the civilians."
"Copy that," Clay replied, the tension in his voice subdued but present.
Boys, do somethin' to calm 'em down. They're suckin' in too much air, Clay directed mentally, his tone firm yet gentle as the command spread through his connection with the rats.
The rats responded immediately, their movements purposeful as they adjusted their approach. One of the more curious scouts, a gray-furred rat with a particularly long tail by the name of Snake, hopped onto the edge of a chair and wiggled its nose, drawing attention away from the mounting tension. Another darted across the floor in an almost playful zigzag, eliciting a startled but distracted laugh from a guy that looked fresh out of high school clutching a makeshift cloth over their mouth.
"Good boys," Clay muttered, his lips twitching into a faint smirk. Through his connection, he could sense the civilians' attention shifting, their panic giving way to cautious curiosity as the rats continued their impromptu performance.
"Go ahead and—" Thirteen's voice cut off abruptly, followed by the distant boom of an explosion. From his position, Clay tipped his hat up slightly, catching sight of the plume of smoke rising from the building.
"Boss, you okay?" he asked, his voice steady despite the flicker of concern.
"Yes, we're fine," Thirteen responded a few moments later, though her tone carried a hint of strain. "The explosion blocked our path back. We're almost at the breakroom, but I need you to find us another route."
"No problem," Clay replied, already sending another wave of rats toward the building. The swarm scattered purposefully, searching for alternatives. He adjusted his position, pressing the heel of his palm against his temple as a familiar mental fog began creeping in.
"I don't mean to alarm you," he added dryly, "but I'm startin' to get stupid…"
Thirteen's voice came through the comm again, this time softer but with a thread of concern. "How bad, Derreks? Do you need to stop?"
Clay shook his head, leaning heavily against the nearest wall as the fog pressed harder. "Ain't nothin' I can't handle, ma'am. Just feels like I've been drinkin' cough syrup straight out the… uh… bottle." His voice held a tinge of humor, but it was strained at the edges.
Through the mental haze, the feedback from his rats trickled in—fragmented impressions of pathways, blocked corridors, and faint drafts hinting at possible exits. One route stood out—a narrow service tunnel running parallel to the facility's main structure.
"Gotcha," Clay muttered to himself. "Service tunnel, uh… east side... Looks clear." He straightened up, tugging at his bandanna and giving his temple a firm rub. "Thirteen, you're headin' for a maintenance tunnel. East side, uh, three doors down from where you are now."
Thirteen's acknowledgment crackled through the comm, her tone crisp and focused. "Understood. Can you hold your position, or do you need to regroup?"
"I should be fine for a while…" Clay said, though his voice carried a slight slur that betrayed his mental strain. He managed a chuckle, adding, "Much longer, though, and you'll need to spoon-feed me dinner tonight."
Thirteen didn't respond immediately, but her brief silence spoke volumes. Finally, her voice came through, tinged with what might have been amusement—or concern. "I'll keep that in mind. Focus, Derreks. We're almost out."
Clay leaned more heavily against the wall, blinking rapidly to clear his head as his rats fed him updates. The service tunnel appeared intact, but the building itself wasn't faring as well. The fire, which had been confined to a few areas earlier, now licked hungrily at the walls, spreading through the structure like a living thing.
"Thirteen," Clay called, his voice steadier now. "Fire's spreadin' fast. You're gonna wanna hustle... That tunnel might not hold much longer."
"Understood," she replied briskly. "We're moving."
Clay closed his eyes, focusing on the rats still inside. Their movements were frantic, their small bodies darting through thickening smoke and rising heat. He could feel their discomfort as his mental map grew fuzzier, the toll of the Quirk gnawing at the edges of his consciousness. He could feel drool escaping his lips. Every time he muttered an update, his voice was father and farther away from intelligible.
"Take a… uh… left here… Window…" Clay muttered.
"Got it, we're almost there."
Clay's head lolled to the side, his body heavy with exhaustion. Skipper, ever vigilant, kept him awake with sharp, periodic nips that jolted him just enough to stay conscious.
Through lidded eyes, Clay caught sight of movement—a window shattered, glass scattering as several figures climbed through. He blinked, forcing his focus to sharpen despite the mental haze.
"Alright…" he breathed, his voice barely more than a rasp. With a thought, he allowed the rats to despawn, their small forms retreating back into nothingness as he leaned back against the tree, trying to steady himself.
Thirteen's voice cut through the comm, sharper now but laced with concern. "Derreks, you're done. Rest. We've got them."
Clay exhaled heavily, tipping his hat back to let the cool night air hit his sweat-soaked face. His chest heaved as he blinked up at the stars that poked through the gaps in the smoke-filled sky. Skipper chittered urgently from his shoulder, tugging at his sleeve as if trying to ground him.
"I'm fine, buddy," Clay murmured, his words slurred but gentle. He raised a shaky hand to scratch behind Skipper's ears, the action more for the rat's reassurance than his own.
The sound of footsteps drew his attention, and through the haze of exhaustion, he saw Thirteen approaching. Her usual composed demeanor was intact, though her visor reflected the chaos of the still-burning facility behind her. She crouched in front of him, her gloved hands hovering just shy of his shoulders.
"Derreks, can you stand?" she asked, her voice calm but firm.
Clay nodded sluggishly, his smirk faint and crooked. "Just need… a minute. Or ten."
Thirteen's visor tilted as she studied him, her gloved hand carefully pressing against his shoulder to steady him as he shifted his weight forward. "You did well. Better than expected, honestly."
Clay mumbled something incoherent, his voice lost in the haze of exhaustion as a pair of men in hazmat suits helped him to his feet. His legs felt like jelly, but he managed to steady himself, leaning heavily against one of the men.
"Pizza…" he groaned, the single word slurred but carrying all the weight of a desperate craving.
Thirteen let out a soft chuckle, though her focus remained on Clay as he swayed slightly, leaning on the hazmat-suited responder. "I'll get you pizza, Derreks," she said, her tone light but firm. "First, let's get you back to the vehicle."
Clay nodded, though his response was more of a groggy grunt. Skipper, perched on his shoulder, let out an insistent squeak, his tiny paws tugging at the brim of Clay's hat as if to keep him alert.
"Alright, alright," Clay muttered, waving a hand weakly. "I'm goin'. Don't gotta babysit me, Skip."
Thirteen led the way, her strides purposeful as she navigated the debris-littered grounds. Clay stumbled after her, his boots dragging slightly on the pavement. The bright lights of news cameras became visible as they neared the parking area, their glare cutting through the smoke-filled night like searchlights.
Clay groaned, tugging his hat down to shield his eyes. "Great… papp… paperiz… paparazzi," he muttered.
"Stay close," Thirteen said, her voice low as the first reporters began to close in.
"Thirteen! Was the rescue a success?"
"Can you comment on the condition of the civilians?"
"Who's the cowboy? Is he one of your interns?"
Clay sighed, tugging his bandanna down to his neck. His exhaustion dulled his usual caution, and before Thirteen could intercept, one particularly bold reporter stepped directly into their path, shoving a microphone toward him.
"Excuse me, sir—what's your name? Were you part of the rescue effort?"
Clay blinked, his exhaustion-addled mind struggling to piece together a coherent response. "Uh… Rat Catcher…" he mumbled.
Skipper sprang into action, leaping from Clay's shoulder to the reporter's arm, chittering angrily. The man yelped, jerking back as the little rat stood his ground, his tiny body bristling with indignation.
"Skipper!" Thirteen barked, her tone sharp. The rat hesitated, then scurried back to Clay's shoulder, still chittering softly in protest.
The reporter regrouped quickly, his microphone back in position. "Rat Catcher, is it true your Quirk involves controlling rats? How does that work in a hazardous environment like this?"
Clay, still half-aware and leaning heavily on Thirteen for support, gave a lopsided grin. "Rats're tougher than you think… kinda like Tsu…" His voice trailed off, and a faint blush crept across his cheeks.
The reporter latched onto the slip immediately. "Tsu? Are you referring to Tsuyu Asui, the hero student known as Froppy? Is there a connection between you two?"
Clay's eyes widened as the realization hit, but his mind was too foggy to recover smoothly. "Uh… yeah, I guess I have a froggy girlfriend…"
Thirteen groaned softly, almost in tune with Skipper's exasperated squeak, stepping forward to shield Clay from further questions. "That's enough," she said firmly, her calm but authoritative tone cutting through the chaos. "He's exhausted, and this interview is over."
She guided Clay past the reporters, who continued to shout questions even as they moved toward the vehicle. Clay leaned closer to Thirteen, muttering, "Did I… just say somethin' stupid?"
"Extremely," Thirteen replied dryly, though there was a faint note of amusement in her voice. "We'll deal with it later. For now, get in the car."
Skipper squeaked as if to echo her sentiment, his tiny head swiveling toward the reporters one last time before Clay climbed into the passenger seat.
"Well," Clay drawled as the door closed behind him, "guess I'll be hearin' about that tomorrow…"
Thirteen let out a soft sigh, sliding into the driver's seat. "Probably," she agreed, starting the vehicle. "But at least you're consistent."