Chapter Text
He was not infallible.
The streets hear his name and they tremble in fear, whispers passing from ear to ear in quick, hushed tones. His name and his deeds were passed down like an urban legend or mafia horror story, terrifying even the most hardened killers. He was said to be peering around every corner, listening to your every word.
Watch out, they’d say. He knows all.
He knows this. He capitalizes on this. He, does not know all, though. He shores up his walls of defense with his mind, constantly planning and on alert, tapping into his extensive information network and plotting, always plotting. His mind is his greatest weapon, and while it isn’t his only one, it’s the only one effective against his enemies, against those who would aim for his head with vengeful glee.
He didn’t see this coming. He tries to forget that he’s human, because oftentimes he feels like he isn’t. He feels like a cold, unfeeling doll puppeteering a flesh prison. He tries to forget, despite his photographic memory, caution, and strategic genius, that he is human because when he is reminded he feels powerless and pathetic. Even he is fallible. His chest burns and twists as he’s reminded of Odasaku, and how even then he was powerless, unable to do anything except hold his dying friend as he takes his last breaths.
Like now, he muses to himself, a blank expression on his face as he stares at the cold, dead body of Mori Ougai. He chuckles to himself, his lips twitching into a sardonic, almost sadistic smirk. “Ah…” He murmurs, eyes sharp and slightly wild, “How pathetic you look, dead like this… it’s so easy to forget how much of a pain in my ass you were.” He hums, feeling hollow. “You deserved worse.”
He refuses to give Mori the satisfaction. The guards stationed outside were pathetically trained. It took him less than a minute to kill the both of them, and they didn’t even lay a finger on him. In doing what he did, Mori signed his death warrant, and he knew it and welcomed it. He didn’t even try to guess why. He didn’t want to. He didn’t care, because Mori was dead, his blood on the floor shining a deep red.
The red scarf was placed neatly on the desk that used to be Mori’s. He turned away, turning his back on the fate Mori trained him for. He refused. He would not do what Mori wanted to do. He burned in the light, and bloomed in the darkness, if you looked away at how the petals bled crimson. He belonged nowhere. He had yet to find a reason to live, and he no longer cared, anymore. He would not bleed and hurt even more for an unfeeling organization when nothing tethered him here anymore.
Not when Mori did what he did.
Yokohama would fall. He could see it written in the future. He could see the way the pieces would fall, in the aftermath of the tragedy, and not even he could stop it. He didn’t want to, anyway. Watching the world burn would be more fun, he thinks, slightly hysterical. He walks away, out of the office of a dead man, ignoring how he leaves bloody footprints in his wake.
He finds himself at the graveyard he saw Chuuya visit, on occasion. He had destroyed his phone, annoyed by the incessant buzzing of his coworkers (his friends, the last few people on this earth he even somewhat cared for) as they spammed him. Clearly Ranpo had snitched. What a bother.
He finds the few graves dedicated to The Flags. This is the first time he’s visited, having never cared one way or another for them. He’s feeling sentimental, though, so he takes the time to do so. Sits down besides the gravestones, leaning back and staring at the evening sky, his hair fluttering in the slight breeze. “Say,” He says aloud, “I never thanked you for helping him. I doubt any of you would want or care for my thanks. Yet, I find myself compelled to do so.” He says with a hum. “Thank you, for taking care of him.”
He sits there, listening to the wind blow. He smiles, a bitter, lonely smile, before he stands up. It feels wrong. “It shouldn’t be me.” He says, quiet. “It should have been him, the lone survivor. Not me. Never me.” What a laugh. The suicidal kid being the final one to make it to the end. Out of everyone, why him? Why him, who cannot love, cannot even find a wish to live. Why him? At age 22, the last one standing of them all.
He should have died at fourteen, when his first attempt failed, and Mori rescued him. That he lived was life saying fuck you right to his face. He was lucky, despite it all, if you look from a certain perspective. For him, it was life torturing him in an unending hell. He supposes that makes sense, after all, why should he get the one thing he’d longed for his entire life, when he had taken everything away from everyone he ever came near.
He shakes his head, and turns away.
He does not visit Odasaku’s grave. He feels his friend would be disappointed in him for everything he did, and what he will do. Like a coward, he cannot bring himself to face his judgment. It would be far too painful.
So he walks away, and leaves a white chrysanthemum on Chuuya’s grave, placed next to his old group of friends. He leaves a pink carnation on Kouyou’s grave, which was next to Chuuya’s. He knows the mafia had not been able to recover Chuuya’s body, which had burned like a dying star. Kouyou’s body similarly has not been found, but she was reported as dead and given the evidence Dazai was inclined to believe that. A shame, truly.
He says nothing, because no words he could say would be of any comfort to either of them. So he just tilts his head in respect for Kouyou Ane-san, and leaves the graveyard, his tan coat left folded on the edge of the cliff. He leaves, walking towards what he hopes is his final resting place.
He stands on top of the proud building, reaching far higher than the rest could ever hope to. Port Mafia headquarters was as easy as ever to break into. Mori should have updated security procedures, really, but he didn’t. He ignored the blood pooling around the dead bodies that slowly piled up in the mafia’s bid for power. The only remaining executive was Verlaine, and he was too busy mourning a long dead man to ever want to step up to the helm of the mafia. All that remained was anarchy, as evidenced by the bullet holes in the walls and the distant screaming.
He smiles, leaning against the railing with a bitter laugh. “I hope you’re happy, Mori.” He says, far too amused that Mori had essentially broken an entire organization over one last hope, one last power play. Natsume was wrong to trust Mori with the balance of Yokohama. He, himself, was wrong to ever trust Mori with the lives of people he still cared for. He should have killed him, all those years ago, when he held Odasaku in his arms.
He hopes the agency and the Akutagawas would forgive him.
“See you on the other side, Chuuya.” He says, a peaceful smile on his face as he raises a gun to his temple, and pulls the trigger.
-0-
“And that,” Midnight says, in her overly enthusiastic manner, “Is how the Dark Era came to an end, two-hundred years ago.” She says with a grand flourish, which was a little off putting given the subject matter. The entire class is staring at her, shocked and horrified in differing measures.
Midnight pouts at the lukewarm reception, before spinning around and picking up a hefty stack of papers. “Now, I’m going to have you all answer these three questions, and then at the end of class I have a super fun surprise project for you all!”
Izuku tunes her out, and instead stares at the projector, a slight frown on his face, seeing the pictures of newspaper headlines detailing the collapse of the Port Mafia, and the arrests of high ranking mafia members. Pictures of dead bodies and the horror that was Mori Corporation – a front for the mafia – in the aftermath of the boss’s death. He felt a little sick, looking at it all.
Izuku understands that they’re heroes in training, but this feels like a bit much.
He risks a glance at Iida, who was shaking slightly, his lips pressed into a thin line. He looks away when Midnight hands him his own paper, and sighs internally as he looks over the questions. He wonders why they even needed to learn about this. Yes, it was a tragic era, especially so since it was around the time that quirks were becoming more well known despite being feared or reviled. But… did it really deserve its own unit?
He shakes his head, and focuses on the three questions on his paper. The first question was, ‘Give a quick summary of the Dark Era, and why you think it is important to discuss this.’
Izuku frowns again. He wasn’t sure. He knows that it was approximately a forty year period in the awkward in-between of the shining baby and the MLA era, where war was being revolutionized… by taking advantage of quirk users as weapons. They had moved from being never seen before to rare, and in that time they were treated as subhuman. They were feared and scorned widely. In that time, they hadn’t been called quirks, but rather Abilities, so they could blend in a bit better and talk about them a little more openly. Quirks as a term came around after the acceptance of quirk users, and people wanted a more distinct term for it.
The Dark Era was rife with crime, war, and death. Ability users were hunted down, and often died earlier than most because they were either used as weapons, denied a job or home as a result of their ability, or were hunted down and killed. Those that could hide their abilities did so, and those that didn’t often died fast. That why was those with mutation quirks weren’t seen in those times; they were either killed by their parents or sold off. It was humbling, hearing about the hard times before quirk acceptance. But… was it really necessary to learn about all this death and destruction in such detail?
He slumps at his desk. He never really understood history. It was interesting to see how things played out in the past, yeah, but… lessons from the past don’t apply to the future, a lot of the times. He doesn’t get it. He holds back a sigh. This is why he prefers mechanics, he thinks, slumping even more. Machines are easy to understand. History class? Hell. Actual hell.
Midnight ends up giving them a group project to focus on important historical figures in the Dark Era at the end of class. She puts names up on the board, most of which are Japanese – the majority of the impact was in Japan, after all, even if the era was inclusive of the entire world. It’s an interesting list, to say the least. Izuku makes a beeline for Ochako, who gives him a cheery wave as he comes over. Ochako ends up dragging Tsu over, and Iida and Todoroki eventually drift over to their little group as well.
“So!” Ochako says, eyes bright, as she claps her hands together. “Who do we want to pick?”
Iida huffs and pushes his glasses up his nose, looking distinctly uncomfortable. “We don’t know any of these people.”
Ochako isn’t fazed. “So? We can do a quick google search and see if they’re interesting! The whole point of this is to learn, isn’t it?” She says, a determined smile on her face.
“You’re taking this too seriously.” Tsu says, and Izuku secretly agrees. He doesn’t admit it out loud, though. “We should pick a random one.”
Ochako laughs a little, somewhat sheepish. “Ah, sorry, I guess I got carried away…” She says, and he tunes her out as he looks over the list of names. The one that stands out the most to him though, is Nakahara Chuuya. He was mentioned in the quick lecture Midnight gave about the end of the Dark Era, as one of the major leaders of the Port Mafia before his death. He’s curious about him, since he died in a suicide mission for the mafia. He can’t imagine dying for a villain organization like that.
“Maybe we could do that Dazai guy?” Ochako asks, looking around the rest of the group. “He seemed interesting. Like, who goes and kills a mafia boss and then kills themselves right after? I would celebrate or something!” She says, with a little twinkle in her eye. Izuku agrees a little. They didn’t have any context as to why that happened, just that the Mafia disbanded when the mafia boss was killed by a man named Dazai Osamu, and from there the underground devolved and perished later in a terrorist attack, forcing reforms in how the world handled ability users, which spiraled into a revolution.
“We should not do our project on a villain!” Iida says, giving her a stern look. “It is unheroic!”
“Uh, most of them would be considered villains.” Izuku points out. “I don’t think anyone could really live in this time period without committing at least one crime.”
“That..!” Iida wilts a little. “I… suppose.” Ochako snickers at him and Iida flushes, embarrassed. Izuku just smirks slightly, and leans back in his chair a little.
“We can do Dazai.” Izuku says, and Todoroki nods his head, looking a little lost and like he could really care less. Izuku could relate.
“Okay!” Ochako says, pumping her fist in excitement. She gets up and waves Midnight over. Izuku leans forward, a little curious to see if the force with which she’s waving her hand will cause it to fly off. She’s a little too enthusiastic about this, he thinks to himself, somewhat nervously.
“We want to do Dazai!” Ochako says, her expression just daring Midnight to deny her, and Midnight just smirks.
“What a controversial choice!” She says, looking amused. “I’m very curious to see how you all will handle him.” Her eyes linger on Iida for a bit, and Izuku had to hold back a laugh at the offended look on Iida’s face at that.
“Controversial choice?” Tsu asks, blinking slowly at Midnight.
Midnight nods, and sets her hands on her hips, slipping into Serious Teacher Mode. “Yep! There’s a lot of divide on whether or not he would be considered a hero or a villain, given his actions and his… sketchy background. There’s a lot to hate about the guy, but truth be told, without him and his actions, the world would be a much different place nowadays.” She says, a serious look in her eyes. “He’s a complicated person, and we don’t know nearly as much as we would like, which can be a bit hard for kids like you to comprehend.”
“Huh.” Ochako says, before her eyes light up again. “So that’s why we’ve been assigned this project!” She says, her eyes widening with excitement at the challenge. “This is to challenge our morals, right? The Dark Era is well.. dark, and I guess learning about different perspectives will help us improve our hero work!”
Midnight laughs, giving them a jaunty wave and a wink. “No spoilers! Have fun, kiddos!” She says, and turns on her heel and walks off to the next group that was calling her name.
Iida looks contemplative, and Izuku himself was a little confused by what she said. “I mean…” He says, frowning. “Isn’t it easy to tell what’s good and bad? Why would knowing that be hard?” He doesn’t really get it, and his head hurts when he tries to think hard about it, his brow scrunching up as he thinks.
Ochako hums, her expression darkening slightly. “...things aren’t always so clear cut, Deku-kun.” She says somewhat sadly. “It’s okay. We can learn about it together!” She says, injecting a little cheer into her tone as she looks at him with shimmering eyes. Izuku looks at her with concern, seeing the sad look in her eyes. He nods, determined to learn if Ochako thinks there’s something to learn. He trusts his friend.
“Yeah.” He stares back up at the projector. “I guess we will.”
The assignment goals were very clear cut. The project was due in three weeks, and they were meant to write an essay and create a presentation detailing the life of the person they were researching, and why they did what they did, and what each member of the group thought. Ochako was right, Izuku thinks, looking at the assignment, a frown etched on his face. This really does seem like a test of morality, or… just trying to understand perspectives.
Izuku sits there, torn between excitement and dread, and tries to put it out of his mind as they’re dismissed, because next class is Heroics and he has to be focused if he wants to do well. Plus Ultra, yeah?
-0-
An 18 year old stands in the kitchen, humming an upbeat tune to himself with a slight smirk. His fluffy and curly green hair covers his right eye slightly as he makes his way around the kitchen, chopping carrots with a swift precision that any chef would be envious of. A chicken noodle soup is boiling away on the stovetop, and he eyes it critically as he adds the vegetables. He predicts another fifteen minutes would be suitable for it to be cooked to perfection.
“Mama!” He calls out, a playful look in his eyes. “I made you lunch!” He says, once the soup is finished and has cooled for a few minutes. He was rather proud of this attempt; it tasted like the best soup he’s ever had, and he’s had Inko’s cooking.
There’s some sounds of moving and rustling, and after a few minutes a harried looking Inko walks into the kitchen, peering into it with tired eyes. “Ah, thank you, Shuuji.” She says, leaning a little against the doorway. Shuuji hums, pouring her a bowl, and he hands it to her, a soft look on his face.
“Anything for you, mama!” He cheers, leaning back against the kitchen counter with a dramatic flourish. “You should really get some sleep, you know.” He says, quirking a slight smile with sharp eyes and a raised eyebrow.
She sighs. “Don’t look at me like that, young man.” She scolds lightly. Her tired eyes looked at him fondly. Shuuji gasps, putting his hand on his chest like her words had mortally wounded him.
“Mama! I’m just a son concerned for his mother!” He whines, giving her a pleading look. “Come on! Take a break! It’s not healthy for you to work so much!”
She just shakes her head. “Not yet, Shuuji. Soon, though, I promise.” She says, giving him a wobbly smile with shimmering eyes. “Thank you for the soup.” She turns around, walking back to her office, holding her steaming bowl of soup in a firm grip.
Shuuji watches her leave, his playful look dropping into a blank look of contemplation. He feels his phone buzz in his pocket, and a smug smirk appears on his face when he sees the text. He hums to himself, turning off his phone, and he casts a glance at the soup. Somewhat reluctantly, he gets his own serving, and retreats to his room with purposeful steps.
His door, decorated with notes passed between himself and his brother, as well as various drawings and photos of the two of them greet him. He opens the door, movements swift, and shuts it behind him as he enters his room. The room is meticulously neat, and his curtains are always closed, even if it creates a more gloomy atmosphere. The only light in the room is a small lamp, casting a soft glow in the eerie darkness of his room. He sets his soup on his desk, and boots up his computer, the bright light illuminating his slightly amused expression, looking like a cat that caught the canary.
“How kind of you to make this so easy for me.” He murmurs to himself, and stares at the location he managed to procure, thanks to a little legwork from a contact, and his own snooping around some less than legal channels. He smirks, staring at the location with nostalgic eyes. “Ah, there huh?” He says, his eyes narrowing at the screen as he thinks, the wheels in his brain turning.
Kamino Ward in Yokohama blinks back at him, as if taunting him.
“The universe must truly hate me.” He says, in a musing sort of tone.
The soup goes cold on his desk. He never finds the time to eat it.
-0-
A dead man blinks awake, screaming internally, wild reddish brown eyes staring up at exhausted green ones, smelling the sharp smell of antiseptic and hospitals, hearing the beep of machines. He cannot move his head to look around. He cannot do anything, except blink and cry.
“What will you name him?” A nurse says, smiling politely at the woman with kind green eyes.
“Shuuji.” She says, her tone firm yet awestruck, as she presses him against her stomach protectively. “Midoriya Shuuji.”
Dazai just wants to cry and curse out whatever god hated him so much that he was cursed to live, because not even death wanted him.
He starts crying and screaming again, and he’s too tired to even care about his ego because seriously? The new mother doesn’t seem to care, cooing at him with loving eyes. He screams and cries and kicks pathetically because fuck death didn’t want him and they were all dead.
Dazai cries himself to sleep, and wishes he didn’t wake up again. He never gets what he wants, though.