Chapter Text
As with all things in Dabi’s life, this situation started with hope, descended into embarrassment, and finally crash landed into bitter disappointment.
Hope: He’d been hired. Finally. After several months searching for work after the disaster of his old bartending job, he’d been accepted as a janitor on the night staff at a Paragon Productions INC office building. He’d never cared for the agency’s trashy reality series, but he would pretend to like a million shitty, contrived romances if it paid toward some financial independence.
Embarrassment: Getting into the building was a nightmare. Security and secretaries kept shuffling him around like he was some annoying interloper instead of a new employee. Their eyes lingered on his face: on the dark burns wrapping up his jaw and down his neck to match the marring under his eyes, all held in place by the glint of surgical staples he’d applied himself because he had no doctor to speak of. He knew that when they looked at him, they thought villain. Everyone did. He could make a child cry just by existing, and make heroes square up when all he wanted to do was pour a drink and go home. Bigoted asshats, he thought in return, but stayed stubbornly calm and pleasant because the only thing worse than looking like a villain was proving them right and losing this job. By the time he finally got through to the back offices he was already running ten minutes late for orientation. When he entered the room, his would-be supervisor looked at him with the same surprise, disgust… and weren’t those three new hires standing in the room, when there had only been three openings? Dabi realized, with a rush of white-hot shame, that no one had expected him to be here today.
Disappointment: The acceptance email had been a mistake; some sort of “reply all” bullshit that the hiring staff hadn’t double checked. The supervisor tried to let him down gently, but as much as his words were professional, his tone was irritated. He had a lot to do today. He didn’t want to deal with Dabi. Dabi should take the back exit so the higher ups on the main floor wouldn’t have to look at his ugly mug. Dabi snapped something rude at him (something about false professionalism, possibly just gibberish, he was too mad and humiliated to make sense even to himself), and left.
Dabi did not bother with pleasantness again when he stormed through the halls. If he had to rely on his face’s intimidation to make a quick getaway, that was fine by him. All the pencil pushers jumped out of his path. He made good speed all the way to the last stairwell, where a crowd of suit-wearing office types were yammering together with their latest to-go coffee orders. Dabi paused at the top of the stairs, waiting for them to move, but no such luck. They stayed stubbornly where they were, blocking the damn exit. Fuck them. Fuck these people and their paying jobs, and their ability to keep their fucking hair clean, and those fucking breakfast bagels that made his empty stomach growl at the smell. Fuck this morning. Fuck everything.
“Hey!” he barked, loud enough to make most of them jump. “Get out of the way!”
“Watch your tongue!” said the supervisor, huffing and puffing as he caught up. “You can’t speak to people like—”
“You didn’t hire me, so you’ve got no power over me,” Dabi hissed. He turned his glower back onto the suits, who gaped up at him. He forced all the seething authority he could manage into his tone and continued, “Some of us need access to the stairs and door. I’m done here. I want to leave. So scram.”
He flipped his hand for emphasis, and the suits scattered. He strode through the new opening, shoved the door open, and disappeared back out onto the streets.
“You’re back early,” Kurogiri said an hour later.
Dabi made a noncommittal noise as the bar door swung closed behind him. The digital jukebox sang soft jazz in the corner, and the dimmed lights made his head ache a little less. Dabi tugged his tie—borrowed from and tied by Kurogiri this morning—loose, then pulled it over his head and dropped it on the bar top. Kurogiri had been cleaning a glass but set it cautiously aside. His yellow eyes narrowed somewhat in the dense, dark mist of his face.
“It didn’t go well?”
“It didn’t go at all,” Dabi said flatly. “Administrative error.”
Kurogiri’s shoulders slumped. “Oh, Dabi—”
“Don’t,” said Dabi, turning away.
“But—”
“No. I’ll be upstairs.”
Kurogiri was quiet a while, but as Dabi opened the door to the stairwell he said, “When you come back down, you can have a drink on the house. I respect how hard you’re working to stand on your own, but you will always have an offer here.”
Dabi gave a noncommittal wave and closed the door.
Kurogiri was a nice guy, but he didn’t have the money to be paying Dabi anything. The bar was small, out of the way, and had little traffic. What nest egg Kurogiri did have was eaten up by taking care of Dabi and the rest of the misfits in the apartment upstairs, and even then there wasn’t exactly space for them. Dabi was one of seven charity cases Kurogiri had taken in: all of them formerly homeless, all of them trying (failing) to pay their share of the rent, and all of them, miraculously, able to play instruments. The others might be more or less complacent, but Dabi had dealt with one authority figure crumbling under pressure and had zero desire to let that happen to anyone else. He was going to pull his own weight.
“No, no, no,” Shigaraki said waspishly, his skin scarred and dried out, hair an unkempt white mop that swayed as he tapped a drumstick rhythmically against the coffee table. “You’re behind on the notes when we come into the bridge.”
“Am not,” said Toga. As usual her hair was tied into two messy blond buns.
“Are so,” snapped Shigaraki.
“Are not!”
“Are so,” muttered Spinner, scaled fingers plucking at the strings of an acoustic guitar that had almost an entire roll’s worth of duct tape keeping neck to body.
Toga hissed, flashing her sharp teeth. Spinner hissed right back, but lizard-ish as he was, he had an omnivore’s flatter teeth and wasn’t nearly as intimidating. Shigaraki hissed louder than both of them because he was a brat who needed to establish dominance at all times.
“Tut-tut,” said Compress in the corner, because the magician was indeed the sort of man who said tut-tut out loud. “You see, if we kept my idea and turned it into a solo—”
“Your violin doesn’t match the vibe!” said Shigaraki.
“Yeah, we’re going for more of a da-da-da-da than a whooooo,” said Toga, as if that made any sense.
Compress clapped a hand to his chest as if he’d been shot. “Betrayal from my own bandmates!”
Magne paused in brushing her hair to pat Compress’ shoulder sympathetically, but everyone could see her roll her eyes. “I’m sure they’ll need your violin on the next song.”
“Always the next one,” Compress sighed.
Magne grinned. She leaned closer as if to share a secret, but whispered far too theatrically for anyone else to miss: “Just think. The next time they come along asking for the violin, you could say no. Hold it over their heads.”
“Now, that’s an idea,” said Compress.
“Big Sis, no! Don’t give him ideas!” cried Toga, making to stand up.
“Sit your ass down and let’s do it again,” said Shigaraki. “If we can’t get this bridge to work, we won’t move on to another song at all.”
Everyone else groaned.
“We’ve been doing this all morning,” Toga whined, slumping over her electronic keyboard. One of the switches flipped under her elbow, and the preset Marimba tune started playing.
“And we’ll keep going until either you get the bridge right or Kurogiri goes to bed,” said Shigaraki.
They all groaned louder.
The last of their number, Twice, flopped onto his back on the floor, clutching a bass guitar miserably to his chest. This gave him a perfect, upside-down view of the door. He gaped for a moment before scrambling up.
“Dabi! What are you doing here? You should’ve stayed gone!”
“Dabi?” said Magne, baffled. “But you’re not supposed to be back until six!”
Spinner sent a horrified look at the window. “Have we been stuck on this all day? Wait, no. The sun’s still up. What gives?”
“Shit happens,” said Dabi.
That was all they needed to know. Twice and Magne looked tempted to console him. Dabi would rather jump out the window than suffer through that. He walked right past Twice, sat down at the coffee table, and pulled Shigaraki’s battered notebook closer.
“Which song has you stuck?”
“Things We Lost In The Fire.” Shigaraki tapped out the basic tune.
Dabi snorted. “Really? This one?”
“We were trying to get through it while you were gone. Can you really complain?” said Spinner.
Dabi could complain a lot, actually. The group’s songwriting sometimes pulled from their histories, and this one hit particularly close to home. He didn’t like the way Magne and Compress had stitched his drunken rambling into something coherent. It didn't matter that the kernels of himself were hidden inside words and a tune they'd been bouncing around beforehand; the 'fire' in the title still felt like a brand on his back. He’d get over it the same as he’d done the others, though. Repeating it over and over could numb it to unimportance.
“Sing through it with us,” said Shigaraki. “Toga always does better when she can follow the vocal lead.”
“Save us from the bridge! I hate the other songs, let’s stick with this one,” said Twice.
Dabi didn’t like the song, but he especially didn’t like the idea of talking about his morning and Magne was still frowning. He’d take the distraction.
“From the bridge or from the top?”
“From the top, and we can repeat the bridge if she doesn’t blend into it,” said Shigaraki.
Toga cracked her knuckles and poised her fingers over the keyboard, looking at Dabi expectantly while the others readied themselves.
“Things we lost to the flames,” Dabi began.
Shigaraki rapped the table again. “No, don’t read it. Sing it! We need to match the beats!”
Dabi rolled his eyes and started over. “Things we lost to the flames; things we’ll never see again—"
The song started slow, with a few somber notes out of the piano. As the words picked up so did the other instruments: drumbeat entering at the chorus, bassline sneaking in to join it. Spinner plucked at the guitar, more experimental than the others since they hadn’t really settled into the sound yet. The bridge did indeed have trouble. Shigaraki’s idea had the piano ramping up to emphasize the vocal switch, which sounded fine in theory but just would not work.
“Softer!” Shigaraki cried, fifteen attempts later and looking tempted to rip out his hair. “You’re competing with Dabi for sound! We’re trying to emphasize him, not drown him!”
“I can’t go softer! This keyboard’s old! It doesn’t have that kind of sensitivity!” Toga snapped back.
“Maybe if you used lower notes?” Magne suggested.
“No!” said Shigaraki. “Then you’ll drag it slower again! We’re going up right now! Up!”
“This would be so much easier if any of you actually had any education in music,” Dabi drawled.
“Shut up,” said Shigaraki.
“Maybe you should pay more attention to the lyrics instead of the sound,” Spinner grumbled.
“The sound is our fucking problem!” Shigaraki screeched.
“And it doesn’t match the fucking lyrics!” Spinner retorted. “This is like, a mourning song. Things have been lost in the fire. I get that you want the bridge to go ‘up’ or whatever, but the piano’s the wrong sound for it. Toga can work up the energy level but what we need is ‘bittersweet.’”
Shigaraki sent him a suspicious look. “Do you think you can manage that with a guitar?”
“I can try.”
“You’re just trying to steal my part!” cried Toga.
Twice plucked at a few chords of his bass and ventured, “Was I okay? Praise me, damn it!”
“You were fine,” Shigaraki said dismissively, too busy watching as Spinner tried the chords for the bridge.
“You were fantastic, Jin!” Toga shuffled around to Twice’s side. “You carried the whole song! You were the only good thing about it!”
Twice stuttered in happy embarrassment. Meanwhile Compress put his arms around Spinner and Shigaraki’s shoulders to say, “If we’re looking for a mourning song, you know there’s nothing more mournful than the wail of a violin—”
“We’re not using your stupid violin,” said Shigaraki.
“Are you saying that because it wouldn’t fit, or because I hid your drumsticks in a marble for two hours yesterday?”
“You and your violin are dead to me.”
“Maybe if you got an actual singer, the sound would work,” said Dabi, because letting them get complacent on that subject would be a nightmare. “I’m only filling in.”
For a moment they all went silent, simply staring at him, before turning right back to their conversations as if he hadn’t said anything.
“Wow, fuck all of you, too,” said Dabi.
He swiped one of the sandwiches Magne had put together and left them to their arguments to go stand out on the little balcony. There wasn’t much to look at—the balcony overlooked the dingy alleyway behind the bar—but Kurogiri had tried to spruce it up with a little flower box. The flowers had been crushed by errant elbows already and cigarette butts peeked out from under the petals, but at least they kept it watered. They tried. It was always trying, with them. Never succeeding. He really shouldn’t have expected anything different, this morning. Dabi shut his eyes tight and tipped his head back to face the overcast sky. If all he focused on was the slight chill of the air, and the scent of oncoming rain, he could pretend nothing had happened. Bury the shame, and the hope, and go right back to numb.
He loitered there a while, until Toga started whining about a text from Kurogiri (something about help bringing in some boxes?) and Twice shuffled out for a smoke. Dabi made to leave again—there wasn’t much room out here to start with—but Twice gave him a wan smile and said, “Don’t worry about it. I’m not going to bug you about anything. You don’t seem like you’re in a chatty mood anyway. You never are, you antisocial loser!”
Dabi relaxed again. As overly friendly as Twice could be, he had his moments of shrewdness. They stood there in silence as the clouds grew darker, and might have stayed like that longer if Dabi’s phone hadn’t started buzzing in his pocket. Twice craned his neck to get a better look as Dabi pulled it out. If he was trying to figure out who was calling, he was out of luck; everyone with contact names in his phone were squabbling over music in easy earshot. Dabi didn’t recognize the number, but that didn’t mean anything. Maybe some other company was interested in his resume. He’d dropped it off at more places than he could count. He clicked to answer and held the phone to his ear.
“Hello?”
“Hi, is this Touya Himura?”
Hearing that name still felt like a knife to the gut sometimes. Dabi ground his teeth together before answering, “I actually go by Dabi.”
“Dabi, then,” said the stranger. “My name is Misty, and I work with Paragon Productions INC. Am I right when I’m thinking that you interviewed here for the janitorial position? You were in the office this morning?”
Oh, great, it was just someone calling to cover their ass. Maybe this was the person who’d sent him the wrong email, come to grovel before he could complain on social media. Dabi didn’t really want to hear it, but sometimes companies would fork out discounts or gift cards to smooth things over. He could suffer for something like that. He leaned further against the railing and said flatly, “That’s right.”
“Great,” said Misty. “I know you didn’t get that job, but I was hoping you’d interview for a different position with us.”
Wait.
“What?” said Dabi.
“You made an impression,” said Misty, as if that explained anything.
Twice had perked up at Dabi’s confusion, and tried to slip closer to listen in. Dabi switched his phone to the other ear and leaned further away from him, saying, “What kind of position are we talking about?”
“What are your thoughts on being on TV?”
Dabi gave a harsh bark of laughter. “Do you have any idea what I look like?”
“Yes? That’s kind of the appeal.”
“Wait, why are you laughing?” Twice whispered, still stubbornly trying to eavesdrop. “Not that I care! Who would want to talk to you?”
“What kind of show would find me appealing?” Dabi wracked his brain. Paragon didn’t handle any horrors or dramas; they went for game shows and reality TV. Was there going to be some ‘heroes versus villains’ team on one of their dumb games?
“Well,” Misty said innocently, “have you ever heard of the Bachelorette?”
Dabi could almost hear his mental record screech.
“What,” he said again, flatly as he could manage.
“When it comes to Bachelorette contestants we try to get a good variety, but this time we’re trying to find something… specific,” said Misty. “I only saw you for about thirty seconds, but that impression falls pretty solidly into the category we’re looking for. I can’t go into the details unless you sign an NDA, to prevent any leaks for our upcoming season, but I hoped you’d be interested enough to hear me out. It’s kind of last minute, and I know it’s not for everyone, but would you be interested in an interview?”
Dabi found himself stuck against the balcony door. He pressed a hand to Twice’s shoulder to keep him from crowding too much as he contemplated the idea. His gut instinct was to say no; people like Dabi did not appear on the Bachelorette. It would be like a cosmic joke. But… he did know something about the show. Toga and Magne liked to watch it whenever they had the chance, so unless he wanted to hang out in the bathroom or Kurogiri’s bedroom there wasn’t any way to avoid it. For all the contrived interpersonal drama and sappy romances, it was pretty tame. Disagreements were likely scripted, and it wasn’t like the audience was tuning in to think about anything political. Even the ‘hated’ competitors were shown in a fairly sympathetic light. If he were on camera his scars may be touched on, but they wouldn’t hold the focus. He wouldn’t be cast as a villain.
“Alright,” he said slowly, “when’s the interview?”
Misty might’ve sighed in relief; it was too soft to really tell. “how does ten in the morning sound, tomorrow? I’d like to get you in as soon as possible, but if that doesn’t work I’ll find something else to fit in your schedule.”
“Fine. Ten. Where do I go?”
“Just check in with one of the secretaries on the ground floor, and they’ll direct you up to me. Thanks again. I’ll see you tomorrow!”
Dabi’s second visit to Paragon Productions INC was drastically different from the first.
Before he even reached the main desk, a secretary greeted him by name. She smiled at him overly sweetly, gave him a visitor pass, and then handed him off to a security guard; from there he was escorted into an elevator and up several floors. For the janitorial interview he’d been crammed into a small, uncomfortable chair in what amounted to a storage closet. Today he was sat down in a cushy swivel chair at a massive, empty table in a meeting room with a wall of windows giving a clear view of the downtown rooftops. The security guard even fetched him a bottle of water. Was this some kind of intimidation tactic? Five minutes of suspicion later, Misty hurried into the room.
‘Misty’ apparently matched her quirk. Her skin was pale blue but her hair hung like a sleek white curtain, tapering and fading out at the ends like the vapor coming off a waterfall. Dabi had seen something similar in his mother, during her decline: frost dancing in a haze off her skin, beautiful and painful. Thankfully his interviewer’s mist seemed completely benign. More unnerving was the fact that her eyes were completely white to match, so he couldn’t tell just where she was focusing.
“Sorry for the wait,” she said breathlessly, setting her papers on the table opposite him. “PR is a nightmare sometimes. I almost had to use my quirk to get away.”
Dabi gave a noncommittal grunt.
Misty sat down, sighed, and visibly collected herself. “Anyway. Good morning and welcome back, Dabi. I’m really glad you agreed to this interview, because one of my coworkers is pushing for another guy and I hate his guts.”
“You might hate mine, too,” Dabi pointed out.
“You can’t possibly be worse. Anyway, you had a reason to be mad, yesterday.” She pulled out a form from her stack of papers and slid this and a pen over to him. “Here we go: NDA, and then we can talk business.”
Dabi drew it closer and studied it. The form was basic and innocuous, only mentioning inner workings of The Bachelorette and its parent groups as applicable to the upcoming season. Sure. Whatever. He signed and slid it back. Misty shuffled it back into her stack, beaming.
“Fantastic! Okay, so, I want you to be one of the men on this upcoming season of The Bachelorette,” she recapped. “I mentioned before that some of our competitors play certain roles in the ‘story’ of the season. Mostly they’re assigned a few plot points, as it were, and then they spin it however they want. So long as they hit that mark, we encourage them to work without scripts as much as possible. Some people like the scripts so they have a guideline, while others wing it. It’s up to you how you’d want to approach it. What we’re looking for in your character, or plot marks, are twofold.”
She took out another page with several graphs and numbers. Dabi squinted but couldn’t make head nor tails of it.
“The Bachelor and its spinoffs are long-running shows, and have a very large following, so we tend to have a lot of flexibility in what we can do. That being said, we’re over two decades into this and we’ve gotten audience feedback that it might be getting stale. We’ve had a drop in viewership over the past seasons of both The Bachelor and The Bachelorette,” she said, pointing out specific numbers. the page must’ve listed seasonal metrics. “We’ve shaken that up in the past by throwing reunions, Bachelor Nation parties, and other spinoffs like Bachelor in Paradise, but we want to make sure that the originals hold their own. One of the biggest complaints we’ve tracked is that the show and interactions seem too scripted, so that’s we’re addressing. Your first role would be to act like the straight man in a comedy sketch: become the contrast that makes the rest seem genuine. You, as someone on the inside, would be critiquing the situation. Not cruelly, though. More like… showing reluctance or suspicion. Like you don’t fully believe in the possibilities but you’re going to give it a shot anyway. The more self-aware of the genre you are, the better. Our research shows that seeing a contestant touch on things that these naysayers also pointed out could forge a connection with those people, and ground the show enough to appeal to that wider audience.”
Dabi nodded slowly. Technically he was one of those naysayers. “I’m guessing there are limits on what I can complain about, though.”
“There are,” said Misty. She folded her hands atop the paperwork, suddenly much more serious. “First, you can critique the show’s genre as much as you want, but you can’t attack the crew for working on it, or the audience for watching it.”
“Valid,” said Dabi.
“Secondly, we fully expect you to have friction with the other competitors, but you can only express dissatisfaction with their actions. If it’s something they can’t change, like a mole or a quirk, you’re not allowed to pick at it. Is that clear?”
“Crystal,” said Dabi.
She smiled with something like relief. Had their other option given her pushback on those things? What a dick. Dabi for one would find it refreshing to have someone rag on him for his bitchy personality instead of the scars.
“That role would also tie into your second function, which is to contrast with one of the other contestants,” she continued. “This is probably our biggest surprise of the season, so remember that NDA…”
She turned a thick folder around for him to see it better and flipped open the cover. Inside lay more stacks of contracts, but a photograph was clipped to the top.
Dabi snorted and shook his head. “Very funny. Who is it, really?”
“Exactly what it looks like,” said Misty.
“Seriously?” said Dabi. “You really expect me to believe that Hawks, the number two hero, notorious for never taking a day off, is going on vacation for several months to play around on a dating show?”
Because that was definitely Hawks and his annoying smirk in that picture.
Misty threw back her head and laughed. “See? You’re already a natural at this! For real, though, I have no idea why he’s here. When the application first came in, we marked it as spam!”
“How do you know it’s not?”
“Because Hawks himself showed up with Best Jeanist during a patrol to ask about it. It was the most surreal day of my life. Just… the number two and three heroes snacking on the candy at my neighbor’s desk while the producer scrambled for a contract.” She shook her head too, in mirth and disbelief. “He put in his application on late notice, too. I don’t know if he was hoping for next season, or what he was doing. But in case it was just a whim, the producers jumped to get him on this upcoming season and get all the contracts signed to make sure we’d have him. Any hero—especially the number two—is going to pull in a huge number of viewers. It’s left us scrambling to rearrange everything, though. Normally candidates are narrowed down six months in advance to make sure they can prepare properly, but right now? You’re down to two months.”
Dabi frowned down at the photo. “It sounds like you’ve got the pull for your new audience right there.”
“Ah, but your role would be something much more permanent,” said Misty. “We won’t have big names like Hawks all the time. People will tune in to see the hero, sure. But the hero’s presence will trick them into seeing you in the process. Those new people will see you, connect with you, and become invested. When they know that ‘grounding in reality’ will continue into future seasons, they might stay.”
“That’s assuming my face won’t scare them off,” Dabi scoffed. “Or is that the point? I’m the villain for your golden hero?”
Misty wrinkled her nose. “I’m not going to lie, that’s part of the angle some of the producers are trying to push. I’m inclined to let them believe it if that means they’ll sign with you, but it’s not why I asked you to come in. I’m more preoccupied with this.”
She pulled up a video on her phone screen and held it up. It depicted his less than stellar exit yesterday: filmed from the bottom of the exit stairs while he stood livid at the top. Huh. He looked properly intimidating from that angle.
“This,” said Misty, tapping the top of the phone, “is not a person other contestants can walk over. Not even Hawks. If we’re dealing with a big personality like Mr. Number Two, we can’t have people who’d fade into his shadow. You have presence. You’re visually striking, you know how to project, and you know what you want. That’s critical.”
Dabi didn’t quite know how to process that. Was this… a compliment? “So you want me to be a rival? Is that it?”
“Not quite. Honestly, I don’t care if you interact with Hawks at all. I think you’ll balance him out just by existing. Hawks is flighty, where you can be grounding. Hawks is idealistic while you’re more in tune with reality. Things like that. Viewers can compare and contrast you, and with that kind of anchor it can stay The Bachelorette instead of The Hawks Show.”
Dabi snickered. “Has he got that big a head about it?”
“He seems to have a big head in general.” Misty shrugged. “So, you see why I want to have you on board, now?”
“I can appreciate your arguments, but I’m not sure whether I’m the person you need,” said Dabi. He sincerely doubted any viewers would view him enough of Hawks’ equal to manage a balancing act like that. It might be worth the trouble if it had good benefits, though. “What would I get out of this?”
“Okay, so now we’re getting into some nitty gritty details that you may not like. First and most importantly, as a contestant you wouldn’t be paid.” Just admitting it made her wince.
Dabi raised a brow. “At all?”
“At all,” she confirmed. “That’s the dealbreaker for most people. We’ve got twelve weeks of filming for the series, and more time beyond it for orientation for you, and then the reunion afterward. Contestants need to arrange to have that time off. Most of them quit their jobs to participate. You can’t expect to do any work remotely, because the cameras are running twenty-four seven and everything takes place in the Bachelorette bubble— you stay in the mansion or on the specific trail marked out for you on dates, and there’s no phones or internet. You don’t have contact with the outside world.”
“Damn,” said Dabi. “Why does anyone compete, then?”
“Some people really are there hoping for love.”
Dabi rolled his eyes.
“Perfect,” Misty muttered, before moving on: “Money starts coming in for contestants after The Bachelorette wraps. Past contestants get interviews, book deals, TV offers—it’s major publicity.”
“I thought those were the ‘wrong reasons’ to be on the show,” Dabi said dryly. He vaguely remembered Toga getting worked up over that.
“Please never use that argument on air. It’s just beating a dead horse,” Misty groaned.
“I’m no hypocrite,” said Dabi. “I certainly wouldn’t join for love.”
“You might want to fudge that a little if you don’t want the audience to hate you. Like, I’m not counting on it instead of I hate the idea.”
“You wanted me genuine, didn’t you?”
“You didn’t want to be made out to be a villain, did you?”
They stared each other down a moment, but Dabi gave up pretty fast. He leaned back in his chair, waving for her to go on.
“Okay. So, since you’re stuck onsite for the full twelve weeks, you’d need to bring anything you might need during that time. If you run out of anything you can request one of the producers to get it for you, but you’d have to provide the money for it. We’ll give you a packing list so you’ve got an idea of what to bring, but you’re only allowed two suitcases so it’s up to you how to use them. You don’t have to worry about food, though.”
Dabi straightened up again quickly. What was that about food?
“Since we’re basically holding you hostage, we’re feeding you for free. The fridge and cupboards will always be fully stocked, and you can access them at any time—”
Dabi’s stomach chose that moment to rumble. It was very loud. Perfectly timed. He dug an elbow into it in a vain attempt to stifle it. Misty broke off, wide eyed. He glared, daring her to comment. She looked a little too happy about this.
“You know,” she said slowly, “lots of competitors gain weight during the show after eating so much…”
“Moving on,” Dabi growled, and she took the hint.
They delved further into Bachelorette minutiae. There were a lot. It was mind numbing. Dabi started to feel his eyes glaze over, and when he looked at the window over Misty’s shoulder he could definitely tell the sun had moved.
“So,” said Misty, what had to be two hours into the interview, “do you have any questions? Anything I didn’t cover?”
“Yes, actually,” said Dabi.
He drummed his fingers on the table, debating whether to chance it. The whole situation was ludicrous already, and there was no way he’d agree without this, but… Hell. May as well get it over with. He pulled the folder with Hawks’ picture out from under her hand. Her brow furrowed in confusion but she allowed it. When Dabi opened the folder he couldn’t see any signatures on top, but that was fine. All he wanted was the focus right now.
“Hawks isn’t just famous for ranking and his schedule,” he said, tapping the picture. “He’s also infamously cagey about his real name. But he had to use that on your contracts, didn’t he?”
Misty’s eyes narrowed, and she set a hand on the pages again to keep him from turning any over. “You won’t find it on any of these. We have a strict confidentiality agreement.”
“I want the same treatment.”
She paused. “You… what?”
“If I’m on this show, then any information shared about me will be under the name ‘Dabi,’” he replied coolly. “My name, and any history that isn’t on my resume will not be shared. You’ll still have enough to build your basic profile, and I don’t have to worry about the wrong people paying attention to me.”
Misty frowned deeper. “Wrong people? If you’re avoiding someone, then I hate to say it, but broadcasting your face on one of the most popular shows on TV may not be a great idea.”
Dabi gave a snort of laughter. “No one’s going to recognize this face. The name, though? That one’s a dead giveaway.”
Misty didn’t seem to know what to make of that, but dutifully wrote a reminder on her notepad. “We’ll still need to do a background check and have you sign with your real name, but I think we should be able to swing that. The network has worked with heroes even beyond this show. It should be fine.”
“Incidentally, you’ll dislike my background check.”
“Are you a murderer?” she asked without looking up.
“Nah.”
“Pedophile?”
“Fuck no.”
“Stalker? Embezzler? Convicted felon?”
“No to all,” said Dabi, but he wasn’t particularly bothered by the accusations; it sounded like she was throwing out the most outlandish things she could think of without believing any of them.
“Then why don’t you think we’ll like it?” she asked.
“It’s practically nonexistent.”
“Noted,” said Misty. “So, as long as we can guarantee your name requirement, can I consider you officially bidding for the position?”
“Well, I don’t have a job to worry about losing right now, and you’re asking me to go on a free vacation to complain and eat as much as I want.” He settled back in his chair and grinned wide enough to strain his staples. “That sounds like a good deal to me.”
“Then it’s official: you’re in the running to be on The Bachelorette. There are a few more steps to go through from here, though.” Misty handed over a printed checklist. “The background check of course, but there’s also two more tests. You’ll need to take a psychological test—we can set that up—and you’ll need an STD screening, too.”
Dabi scowled. “I refuse to have sex on The Bachelorette.”
Misty cackled. “Maybe so, but the test is a requirement. I hope you pass all of these, Dabi. It would be nice to work with you.”
He left the office with mixed feelings. It would’ve been nice to have a paid job offer, but that was still several months’ worth of food bills that Kurogiri wouldn’t have to pay. It wasn’t a gain, but it wasn’t a loss either. More like stalling. And maybe having his face out there would do some good in future job hunts. After all, Gang Orca had been voted one of the most villainous appearances and still got hero perks from random civilians; maybe being a ‘star’ could land him a pity job.
Wait, why was he considering this like it was an actual option? Sure, Misty had roped him in for multiple hours and seemed genuinely invested, but she wasn’t the only one involved. Her higher ups would take one look at his file and throw it out. There was really nothing to dwell on.
He shook his head and turned his mind to his other job leads instead.
He followed the checklist, though. Just in case.
Later that week, he completed the psych evaluation—an uncomfortable but not unbearable situation.
Two weeks later, he had results from the STD screening confirming him clean, not that he’d expected anything differently.
Two weeks and two days later, he got an email confirming he’d been accepted as a contestant. Immediately afterward he got a follow up call from Misty confirming that yes, he actually had the job and this wasn’t another false alarm.
He’d been accepted on The Bachelorette.
What strange alternate universe had he fallen into?