Chapter Text
Shoto coughed on pond water, plant life squishing under his shoes, hands digging into sand and duck poop. He crawled onto land and turned over and flopped. His clothes felt heavy and were hanging on him, and his eyelashes were sticking together. Heaving to catch his breath after the failed villain chase, he rubbed his eyes and blinked to get rid of the blur of water.
He wasn't in his costume, wasn't supposed to be working, so no one knew he had been chasing that villain or would know to come get him, and his phone was probably drowned. He pulled it out of his pocket to check, and water ran out of the seams. Best not to even try to turn it on until it was dry. He let his hand fall to the ground again.
His sleeve overlapped oddly. Did it stretch that much in water? Shoto raised his arm to study what was wrong with it, and frowned at how huge it looked, billowing on his arm. He looked down and realized that his clothes were all too big on him and his hand wasn't…right. God, it was crooked and the skin had grayed. What the hell was that villain's quirk?
He rose to his feet, giving a hiss at the pain in his leg. He had to tighten his belt — make a whole new hole — and roll his pants up three times before he could walk, his body shrunken at least a foot in height. He hobbled up the slope of grass to the road. It was midday, so there would be people there who could help him get in contact with his agency.
A woman passed nearby.
"Excuse me." His voice rasped, and Shoto flinched at another horrible surprise change in his body. "Can you help—"
She looked over and then yelped, stumbling. She dug some coins out of her pocket and tossed them at his feet, tinkling and rolling around on the sidewalk, then hurried away.
Shoto flushed and stared after her. He touched his face, finding rough skin, and an uneven bone structure, one cheekbone slightly higher than the other, and...was that pus on his cheek? Some kind of lesion? Ugh.
If his face looked worse than his hands, the way it felt like it did, then he didn't blame her for running, but he wished she'd given him a chance to explain.
He left the coins on the ground and looked around for help from someone else. People's gazes seemed attracted to him, and yet they never made eye contact. As he moved, they moved, always a large circle of empty space around him as they made their way around him like he was contagious.
"Excuse me," he said, a little forcefully, trying to make a man pay attention to him.
"Agh." The man made a face, and hurried off down the road.
Shoto gave up on the pedestrians. Enough had noticed him and started walking away, that he would have to run to catch up, and then it would look like he was chasing people and cause alarm to the public.
He looked at a nearby shop. He could use a phone there. He activated his ice to help him move, since it would be easier than walking on his hurt leg—but it didn't activate.
He tried again, but nothing would make it come to the surface.
He sighed and hobbled to the shop doorway and pushed inside, the bell tinkling over him.
Shelves stood close together, packed tight with items, and about a dozen shoppers were dispersed throughout. He scanned for the clerk.
"How many drugs do you have to take before you look like that?" he heard someone say, and he turned, startled by the rude words — no one had ever talked to him like that — but didn't know which customer had said it. They were intently ignoring him, only side glances flicking his way.
A small boy came around an aisle, looked at him, and burst into tears, grabbing onto a woman's coat and trying to climb her. "Mommy!"
The woman looked over to see the problem and startled. “Ah!” She scooped up her child.
Shoto felt bad and embarrassed, but there was nothing he could do. "I—"
"You're dripping all over the place! Get out!" the shop worker said, shooing him with the bristle end of a broom.
Shoto firmed his stance to withstand the prodding. "I'm a pro hero in need of assistance!"
The man stopped and studied him with narrowed eyes. "I've never seen you. Show me your license."
Shoto shoved his hand in his back pocket — and only felt wet fabric and some sand, and his eyes widened in realization. "I lost my wallet in the pond."
"Tch! Get out of here."
Shoto clenched his fists, his cheeks warming in anger. "I'm Shoto!"
There was a second of silence, where the people in view around the store looked stunned and stared at him. Finally, they listened, of course, since he had such a big reputation and popularity — but then guffaws of laughter filled the shop from some people, while others were disdainful with a tinge of pity, but not the kind where they feel like being helpful. The man poked him with the stiff bristles of the broom, prickling at him through his clothes, prodding him backward.
Shoto resisted. "I'm not leaving, until I use your phone!"
"Like hell you're touching anything in here."
"I got this," a man said, and a tentacle grabbed the back of Shoto's shirt, scrunching it up to his armpits and lifting him off of his feet. Shoto's hand flew up to try to free it, and kicked his legs to try to unbalance the man, but he didn't have the weight he did before he shrank to this horrible form. He made a sound as the man swung him through the door and tossed him.
Concrete bit into his hip and shoulder, scraping his cheek and jarring his injured leg.
His eyes watered at the aches turning into searing stabs in his skin and joints. He wiped the irritating wetness away, staying there waiting for the throbbing to abate.
They wouldn't have believed him, even if he showed them his license. He could see that now. Even if they hadn't been brash people, he looked nothing like the picture on his identification. They probably would have accused him of theft, or fraud.
If he started walking now, maybe he could make it to the agency before dark. He stood, hobbling to compensate for his bad leg, and started limping toward his workplace.