Chapter Text
Aizawa’s hands were tied tightly behind his back. He tried to memorize the path as he walked: right, ten steps; left, eighteen steps. The metallic blindfold was secured around his eye orbits, locked at the back of his head. Aizawa heard a door open, and he felt the cool air of the room washing over his short-cut head and the back of his throat, as he inhaled.
“Finally getting a lackey of your own, eh?” Aizawa heard the man who had brought him to the room say, probably talking to a person inside—his potential roommate and, apparently, his new ‘boss.’ He heard the sound of a key being shoved into the lock, and a few seconds later, the blindfold opened with a quiet click.
His hands became free afterwards. Aizawa reached up and took the blindfold off his head, his eyes throbbing mildly from how tightly the blindfold had pressed against his eye orbit bones. It was designed this way to prevent the user from removing it by force.
The room was not very bright, but he still had to squint to adjust to the light after about two days of being literally blind. He opened his eyes to scan the surroundings and see who his roommate was, and the moment he did, he froze.
Fuck.
There, standing close to one of the two beds in the room, was a very tired-looking, very unimpressed purple-haired teenager—a fucking teenager. From the moment Aizawa laid eyes on the purple-haired boy in front of him, he realized with horror that months of planning and training were going to be thrown out the window.
Because a kid? That changes everything.
Of course, Aizawa didn’t let any of the conflicting thoughts be shown on his face. Instead, he averted his gaze from the boy and started darting his eyes around the room, much like the scared newcomer he was meant to be acting like.
The man standing behind him suddenly slapped him on the back with his palm—half playfully and half threateningly. “The boy is your new boss now. You will do what he says and go where he goes. He will be training you and he will show you how to complete a mission. His rank is higher than yours, so you better respect the boy,” the man said in a mocking tone, a smug grin spreading across his face, revealing his yellow teeth.
Aizawa realized that this little speech was not meant to inform him that the teenager was a superior, but rather, it was to mock and insult him, as if obeying and respecting someone much younger was somehow an awful thing. It was not. He had seen enough teenagers during his teaching years—many more capable and stronger than adults—so he wouldn’t make the mistake of underestimating the boy.
The man then moved his hand from Aizawa's back to the back of his head and pushed. “Why don’t you introduce yourself, huh?”
Despite the man’s effort to make this feel like it should wound his pride, Aizawa lowered his head and complied. “I’m Aizawa. My quirk is nullifying other people’s quirks.”
When he straightened, the boy was still near his bed, looking like he had just been lying on it a second ago. He regarded Aizawa with a bored expression and nodded once. The man chuckled behind Aizawa, enjoying himself as if this were some sort of fun show. “Why don’t you answer him, Shinsou? Are you shocked that you are getting a lackey that you’ve lost your ability to talk?”
The boy—Shinsou—merely glared at the man but didn’t say anything. Something about the way he remained quiet felt off. The man let out another laugh and finally moved to leave the room, closing the door while telling Aizawa that he better behave.
When the door closed, neither Aizawa nor Shinsou moved. They stared at each other, both keeping their faces neutral. Shinsou wore a dark gray long-sleeved shirt that was oversized for him. He was tall for his age but lanky. Aizawa broke eye contact; he didn’t want to appear threatening or rude right of the bat.
He glanced around the room again: the walls were white. There were two beds on either side, with the one belonging to the boy closer to the door. There was just enough space between the two beds to squeeze another one, but no more. A white, plain nightstand sat between two beds, which had two drawers.
In the far corner of the room, closer to Aizawa’s bed, was a toilet, and near it a sink, with only a white plastic curtain separating them from the rest of the room. There were no windows, no mirrors, no outlets, and no closet.
“The name’s Shinsou. My rank is 7.”
Aizawa’s head snapped back to the teenager still standing in front of his bed. He continued when Aizawa didn’t say anything.
“You are my responsibility for now, until you climb up in the rankings to become independent. You will do as I say, and you will answer everything I ask. You, on the other hand, can ask me questions, but I don’t have to answer anything. You will not disturb me at nights. You can rest in your bed; you can do whatever you want in your free time, but you can’t come near my bed. My bed is my place, got it?”
Aizawa nodded.
“Good. Do you have any questions?”
“I have many. Where am I?”
Shinsou sat on his bed, appearing to be unaffected by the fact that Aizawa didn’t even know where he was. “No one knows. Next.”
Aizawa frowned at that. “What do you mean no one knows? Are we out of town?” Shinsou just shrugged. “Don’t know. Next.”
“Who is the boss of this organization?”
“Same thing, no one knows.”
Shit. This was going to be a problem.
“What am I supposed to be doing?”
“You will be sent to complete tasks given to you. Missions.”
Aizawa waited for Shinsou to elaborate, but he just went silent. “What missions?” he pressed after a second.
“Anything and everything. Whatever Boss wants. Robbery, kidnapping, drug dealing, bodyguarding. Whatever has money in it.”
Aizawa already knew all of that. He had been monitoring the activities of this organization for a very long time. He had never heard of them before the Hero Public Safety Commission brought him the case two years ago.
The organization was a big one, and they were developing rapidly without anyone noticing. Their boss, whoever they were, was doing a great job of leading them. And the organization… they were sneaky, on top of everything else; they weren’t leaving any trace behind them. Worst of all, they weren’t leaving any evidence to suggest they were actually an organized group, instead of individual villains.
The only thing that gave them away was the increasing reports of arrested villains without official profile in the police’s ID database, all of them with one or more strange marks on their backs, around their shoulders, out of sight. The other unsettling detail was that they have all vanished from police stations after a day or two; or in some cases, they were found dead in their cells.
There was no information on them. No one knew what they were after or who their leader was. No one knew where their hideout was located. They didn’t have a name. Most heroes didn’t even know they were an organization. Even Aizawa himself hadn’t noticed, even though he was an underground hero. Not until he received a letter from the Hero Commission asking him to attend a highly confidential meeting. He wasn’t even allowed to let his closest friends know about the meeting.
He was brought to an unofficial building by a commission driver, and there he met the president herself. That was when the madame president proposed the idea of Aizawa going undercover. He was not a well-known hero, and he was suited for the job because he was an underground hero. The commission told him they would erase all the evidence suggesting that he was a hero and give him a new identity as a villain.
He had to live the life of a villain for an unknown duration to find a way to infiltrate the organization as a member.
He had to abandon his life, his job as a teacher, his friends and family. He had to change his appearance, which wasn’t really a problem, considering he had kept his hair long for almost all his life.
Aizawa had initially considered rejecting the proposal. This wasn’t a game, and he wasn’t a fool. Going undercover meant you had to cross any line if it was necessary. It meant that not only he had to act as a villain but also to commit villainy. It meant he had to become one.
Madame president asked him to think about it and give his answer after a week. During this week, he had to review the files about this organization. Which Aizawa did, even though he found himself reluctant.
The whole case was a mess. There were brief descriptions compiled by other undercover agents, but nothing consistent. It wasn’t until he was called to Nezu’s office that he fully understood the gravity of the case in his hands. Nezu—that intelligent rat—was always two steps ahead of everyone for his own good.
“How did you get your hands on this, anyway? I thought these were highly classified?” Aizawa asked, making himself comfortable on the principal’s office’s couch.
“I have my own ways, Aizawa-kun. But that’s not why I asked you to meet me today. I called you to ask you to accept this mission.”
“You want me to abandon teaching?” Aizawa asked, raising an eyebrow.
“As the principal of this school, I must consider what is best for both our students and teachers. I recognize you as one of the best options for teaching the first years, Aizawa-kun. But I am afraid teaching is not of the highest priority, in this situation. You, of all people, should know the value of information in hero work. An inside man can prevent many future incidents from happening. If what I think is true—” Nezu’s ear flicked, revealing a crack in his carefully maintained calm smile, “the patterns indicate that this organization can become a problem in the near future. They might even affect our students; despite all the security measures we have at UA.”
Aizawa took a long sip from the tea that the principal had served him. “I’m listening.”
*******
He looked at the boy now getting comfortable in his bed. “How long have you been in this place?” Aizawa asked.
Shinsou looked him in the eyes, obviously considering whether he should answer or not. “Six years,” he finally said, as if it was that simple.
Aizawa frowned. “How old are you?”
Shinsou huffed. “Don’t get cocky, old man.”
Aizawa turned around and sat down, never turning his back on the boy. “You said you are ranked 7. What is mine?”
Shinsou snorted, like Aizawa’s question was somehow amusing for him. “You are 10, a.k.a. the lowest.”
“I assume there are 10 ranks then…”
“Congratulations, you can count.”
Aizawa held back the urge to roll his eyes. Great, he was a brat.
He wanted to get more information, but the teenager beat him to it. “What did you do anyway? No one comes here ranked 10 out of their own free will. You must have messed up big time.”
Going undercover and securing his position as a villain took two years. He crossed many lines and pretended to cross many others to be trusted within the inner circle of the city's dark side. He started with petty robbery and ended up doing dangerous guarding duties by the end of those two years.
It was around that time that he finally discovered a way to infiltrate organization. They didn’t have a name; villains usually referred to it as the “safe house.”
It turned out the boss of the organization would take in the worst cases—those who had no other choice but to go along. The unlucky souls who were in debt too big to pay back, people who somehow managed to piss off a big-time villain or yakuza leader, and those villains who were being chased by heroes and the police.
“I killed a hero.” Aizawa admitted, telling the boy the same lie he told every other villain. “What about you?” Aizawa asked, his curiosity unreadable.
He expected fear, but Shinsou didn’t react to the new information beyond a blink. “I didn’t do anything. I’m here because I chose to be.”
"Did you start it as a 10-rank?" Aizawa asked and the boy nodded once. “I thought you said people don’t do that.”
Shinsou shrugged. “I’m not people.”
Aizawa looked at the boy. The first thought that crossed his mind upon seeing him was that he was screwed. A kid was not a part of the plan. Aizawa had already done so much dirt just to be there. He knew, rationally, that a kid shouldn’t make him falter. But Aizawa had strong morals; he was willing to get his hands dirty, but he would never kill an innocent, and he would never hurt children.
Aizawa had seen so many mischievous teenagers willing to engage in more villainous activities than even adults themselves. He had fought and arrested a few in the past. He knew that age alone didn’t exempt people, and it certainly didn’t grant them a free pass when it came to the law.
He would rather contact the commission right there and then and get the kid out of the organization, just so he could focus on bringing them down. But that was simply not an option. Not until Aizawa could figure out how villains were vanishing after arrest.
Aizawa closed his eyes for a second. No, he would not half-ass things. He made a promise to himself the day he went undercover—that he would see this mission through. The boy was a member of a villain organization, and not just any kid—'not people,’ as he said it himself. He would not underestimate him, and he would do what was necessary for the mission.
He would not let the boy get in his way.
Notes:
So... I kinda came back to proofread this chapter and realized I made it sound like Shinsou is Aizawa's boss or something, which is NOT the case, and definitely not the kind of first impression I want to make XD. So just to be clear, the man who brought Aizawa to his new room was just messing with him and thought it was funny to insult him a bit.
Chapter 2: Unlocked Doors
Summary:
Shinsou shares some general information, and Aizawa manages to freak him out.
Notes:
The events of this fic start in late fall. If I'm not mistaken, the school year begins in April and ends in March in Japan. So we are currently about 4 months before Class 1-A starts their journey in canon. So, yeah! While we are here sweating, Midoriya is probably training hard with All Might.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Aizawa lay down on his bed and gently massaged his eyes to relieve the growing pain at the back of them.
At the periphery of his vision, he could see how Shinsou was keeping a careful eye on him. They didn’t talk much. Aizawa just needed a little rest. The past two days had not been easy, to put it simply. He had been kept in a room, blindfolded and tied to a chair. He had been questioned by three individuals during these two days, which he couldn't see: a woman and two men.
It was a “background check,” or so it was called. For him, it was a game of repeating his fake identity information and story over and over again while trying to endure the occasional fists to his sides and ribs and people yelling at him to tell the truth. The truth was that he killed a hero, and now the entire hero society was on his tail. That was the truth they had to know, anyway.
The real truth, however, was that the Hero Commission had faked the murder of a hero who wanted to retire early and live the rest of his life with his family by Aizawa’s hands. Simple and practical. Yet, it took two days for them to check if his story matched reality.
The sound of the door opening brought him out of his thoughts. Come to think of it, he hadn’t heard the door being locked after the man who brought him here left. Interesting.
Without a word, a tray of food was slid onto the floor before the door shut again. No locking.
Shinsou stood up and picked up the tray. It consisted of a single bowl of Tamago Kake Gohan. Were they supposed to share? The last time Aizawa remembered eating anything was two days ago.
Aizawa cursed internally. Shinsou didn’t even bat an eye before starting to shove the rice and egg into his mouth. He was eating way too fast for it to be healthy, and it was alarming. He was obviously not sharing. Maybe Aizawa was being denied food. He knew how to endure hunger, but he needed the energy if he wanted to complete this mission.
He considered taking the boy’s food by force, not because he wanted to, but because that was what a villain would do. However, he didn’t want to make an enemy out of his new roommate and probable boss. Speaking of which...
“The man earlier mentioned that you are my boss,” Aizawa said, trying to ignore the issue of the food for now.
“His name’s Hachiro. And no, I’m no one’s boss. Mention that outside this room, and you’ll get both of us in trouble,” the boy said with his mouth full. “The only bosses here are Boss himself, the one and only rank 1, and Izaier, Home, and Corpse, all three being ranked 2. I am your trainer for now. I’ll show you how to fight, how to follow orders, and what to do during missions, but that's all.”
Aizawa quickly took note of all those names. He had only heard some rumors about this “Izaier” character but hadn’t heard anything about “Home” or “Corpse.” The names were probably based on each person’s quirk.
Training was the least of his concerns right now; he wanted to know more about the bosses. But those were not the questions of a newcomer. Instead, he asked, “What happens if I fail a mission?”
Something dark crossed Shinsou’s face, but it was gone as soon as it appeared. “You don’t need to know for now. Instead, you have to focus on successfully passing your first mission.”
“I’d still rather be prepared for what might happen if I fail,” Aizawa said, frowning slightly.
“I said no. It’s nothing good, but knowing the details would only stress you out, so drop it. I will tell you when the time comes,” Shinsou said firmly, shoving another spoonful of rice into his mouth.
“Alright, how about you tell me a bit more about this ranking system?”
Shinsou nodded but didn’t look up from his bowl. “It’s not complicated. You succeed in enough missions, defeat all the people ranked the same as you, and you get promoted. Each rank has its own privileges. At rank 9, you’re excused from cleaning duties. At rank 8, you can order an item you want each time you succeed in a mission. At rank 7, you get paid. At rank 6, you get a better room, and you can go out three days a week, plus more money. At rank 5, you’re free to leave this place and are paid even more. At rank 4, you get your own lackeys to order around, and you become rich. At rank 3, you can lead missions and take the money.”
“So, it’s a motivation to do better,” Aizawa muttered, mostly speaking to himself.
“That’s what it’s supposed to be.”
“What is it now?”
Shinsou looked up, and something savage crossed his features. “Now, it’s a system that allows me to beat you to within an inch of your life if you even think of doing something funny, and you don’t get a say in it. So I suggest you mind your manners around me, or else.”
Aizawa was taken aback by the boy's sudden change and how he was openly threatening him, but he didn’t show it on his face. Aizawa wondered if this was some sort of attempt at setting boundaries on the teenager's part. That made sense. He was alone in a room with a man much older than himself, with no way for him to run if Aizawa were to do something. He also knew he couldn’t let his guard down around the boy either, especially since he didn’t know him properly yet; he still didn’t even know what the teenager’s quirk was. So, he made a declaration of his own in return.
“You don’t mess with me, and I won’t mess with you,” Aizawa said, keeping his voice even but stern.
He was tempted to add a “kid” at the end to intimidate him, but he chose against it. Shinsou must have been looked down upon enough if he had really been here for six years. He didn’t want to establish authority here as he would in his class. He was not a teacher trying to intimidate his students into listening to him.
He would play along with whatever this ranking system was, and for now, the boy was a higher-up.
Shinsou narrowed his eyes for a second before shoving another spoonful into his mouth, then putting the bowl back on the tray and sliding it across the floor until it hit Aizawa’s bed. He raised his brow at that but then bent down to take the tray off the floor and into his lap. He held back a wince when his bruised ribs protested against the movement.
“Is there always going to be one food serving for two people?” Aizawa asked.
“You have a problem with that?” Shinsou asked, still sounding a bit bitter about their previous conversation.
Yes, Aizawa had plenty of problems with that. The food was not enough for both of them. At least it explained why the boy looked outright malnourished. Only a third of the meal was left in the bowl, long gone cold and sticky.
“How many meals do we usually get?”
“Two. Sometimes less, sometimes nothing. And you better eat that fast.”
“Why?”
“To get used to it. The food is usually served before missions, and no one will wait for you to finish.”
Everything the boy said was alarming. He had probably experienced starvation if any of this was true. Aizawa had no idea if Shinsou’s previous roommates were kind enough to share their food. He could guess, though he didn’t like it one bit.
Shinsou took the tray when Aizawa finished his meal, opened the door, and slid it outside onto the floor before closing the door again.
The next few hours were spent in total silence, until the single light in the room suddenly went out. The only illumination came from the crack under the door. Aizawa felt Shinsou walking toward the toilet behind the curtain to take care of his business.
Aizawa stood up from his bed and approached the door. The pain in his ribs was getting worse, but he ignored it. He reached for the doorknob and tested it carefully. The door opened without any problem, making an almost unnoticeable sound as it swung open.
The corridor was even brighter than the inside before the light went out. There were at least 20 more identical closed doors lining the corridor. No one was out there, and there were no stairs in sight. Aizawa took a careful step toward the door before he heard Shinsou approaching him from behind. Suddenly, he was yanked back by the collar of his clothing. He allowed himself to be pulled back and let the door swing closed with a quiet thud.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?!” Shinsou shouted, his fury evident. It was the first real expression other than the constant boredom that Aizawa had seen on the boy’s face.
“The door is not locked,” Aizawa flatly stated. Shinsou’s eyes widened in disbelief.
“What did you think? That you could just go through the door just because it isn’t locked?! Do you fucking recognize where you are?! Do you think this is some kind of hotel?!”
“No,” Aizawa frowned. There was no one in the corridor, and he hadn’t noticed any cameras. He needed to gather as much information as he could. He could claim he was just a curious newcomer who wanted to wander around. It wasn’t like they had locked the door.
But something about the way Shinsou was freaking told him it wasn’t that simple. The boy in front of him wasn’t just angry; he was scared.
“You can’t do that! You can’t pass through the door of this room unless you’re directly instructed to. They would know who goes where. You were just about to put us both in trouble,” Shinsou said, panting a bit.
Aizawa raised his right hand defensively. “Alright, I understand—”
“No! You don’t! You don’t understand!”
“Enlighten me then,” Aizawa said. They would know. Aizawa didn’t know who or how.
Shinsou took a step back, inhaled deeply, and exhaled slowly. He reached for his unruly and wild hair, gripping it tightly.
“There’s a severe punishment for people who try to leave their room. They don’t lock the rooms because they don’t need to. No one is stupid enough to leave,” Shinsou said in a calmer voice, still gripping his lilac hair.
“How would they know? I didn’t see any cameras—”
“Home,” Shinsou cut him off sharply. Aizawa didn’t miss the way his voice shook at the mention of that name.
“It’s a quirk,” Aizawa stated more than asked. “What is their quirk?”
Shinsou let go of his hair and looked him straight in the eyes. He slid easily back to his tired facade.
“I don’t know.”
That, Aizawa figured, was a lie.
Notes:
No trigger warnings.
Have a nice weekend!
Chapter 3: Letting Go
Summary:
Yamada receives an update on Aizawa, and Aizawa begins his first training session.
Notes:
I initially said I would post TWs at the end of each chapter, but I decided against it because I don't want people to accidentally miss them.
I would really like to hear your opinions on this so far, so please feel free to comment!
Have a nice rest of the week!
TW: Death
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Yamada couldn’t sleep. Four days. It had been four days since Shouta went completely radio silent. The last he heard from him was that he was close to getting into the organization. Finally.
Yamada never agreed to Shouta going undercover, even though his reasoning was utterly selfish. He didn’t want his closest friend to put himself in such danger. He wanted Shouta safe; he wanted to be able to keep an eye on him. He wanted to protect him. The stress of constantly worrying about Shouta was too much for him. He just couldn’t take it. It had been two years, and his stress hadn’t lessened one bit.
Yamada knew Shouta would be a great option for undercover missions. Unlike Yamada, Shouta was rational, logical, and steady. He would never let emotions get the better of him. Shouta was great at keeping calm and hiding his feelings—again, unlike Yamada. Shouta also wasn’t a famous hero like Yamada was.
Yamada would have taken his place any time, but he couldn’t; he was already known throughout all of Japan.
Yamada rolled to the other side. The blanket had been tossed aside. He wondered if Shouta was warm. The nights were getting cold, especially since they were at the beginning of winter.
He was finally about to drift off when his mobile started vibrating. He kept his mobile in his pocket; he didn’t want to miss an emergency call while his hearing aids were out. He saw Nemuri’s profile and felt his heart race. He put on his hearing aids and answered hurriedly.
“Nem?”
“Zashi.”
Yamada felt his heart drop. Something was wrong. Nemuri’s voice was muffled by sirens and crowd noise, with people talking loudly while she had to shout to be heard. But shouting didn’t hide the way her voice was shaking.
“Nem? What’s going on?”
“Zashi, I think you need to come here. Zashi, I—I’m—”
“Nemuri, where are you? What happened?”
“I’m sorry, I’m so—oh, Zashi, I’m so—just—please just come here as fast as you can.”
Something cold flooded Yamada’s body. He went rigid, unable to move, unable to breathe.
“Nem… did you—Is it about Shouta?”
He was shaking, unable to breathe out the air he had taken in.
“We—they’re not sure. I’m not sure, Zashi, I—just—please just come here. I sent you the location. I think—he—he… Just come here, Zashi.”
Yamada didn’t remember if he hung up or not. He didn’t remember if he changed. He didn’t remember driving. One moment, he was in bed; the next, he was standing at the entrance of an alley. There were police officers, medical staff, and commission agents everywhere. Yamada didn’t recognize any of them. He couldn’t hear right. Maybe his hearing aids were broken again. He vaguely remembered seeing Nemuri talking to someone in front of one of the doors in the alley. He remembered seeing a body.
He remembered taking the white cover off. He remembered feeling happy. He remembered feeling relief. Shouta was there. He was finally able to see Shouta. He remembered trying to hug his friend, complaining that he had made him worry. He remembered Shouta not hugging him back.
He chuckled. Shouta always cowered away from physical contact. But Yamada knew he secretly loved it. He loved being hugged. So Yamada hugged him hard. He pressed his friend’s face to his chest, telling him he needed to tell him everything about his mission now that it was over.
He looked up to see Nemuri looking down at him, tears running down her face. Was she seriously crying from happiness that Shouta was finally back? It wasn’t like Nemuri.
“Zashi, you shouldn’t change the scene. Let him go… let—let Shouta go.”
Oh sure, he could do that. They had all the time now that Shouta was back from his mission. He would hug his best friend as much as he wanted when they went back home. But his hand wouldn’t move. He tried, but his hands only gripped tighter around Shouta’s sweater. He couldn’t let go; he didn’t want to let go. Shouta couldn’t go. He couldn’t just leave.
“Shou,” he heard himself say. His voice wrong and broken to his ears.
“Shouta, please.”
He heard himself beg.
“Shouta, don’t, please don’t. Please, you can’t. Don’t—no, no, please.”
He heard himself plead.
Someone was trying to make him let go of Shouta.
They couldn’t make him do that!
“No, no, no. Please-“
He wouldn’t.
He wouldn’t let him go.
Shouta was his friend.
He was his closest friend.
He was his family.
He can’t let go.
He was finally back. After two years. He was finally here.
He was back, but he was gone.
“Shouta, no. Please,”
“Present mic, you are not allowed to move the body.”
“Hizashi, listen to me, you need to let go.”
No, he can’t.
He wouldn’t.
He wouldn’t let go.
Even if Shouta did.
Even if he was gone. Even if Shouta left him, he wouldn’t let Shouta go.
He wouldn’t.
… Until someone pulled him back.
And he did.
*******
Aizawa woke up to the sound of the door shutting, and the first thing he felt was a throbbing pain in his head and a spreading ache around his ribs. There was a tray of food on the ground. Only one, again.
Shinsou was already walking toward the tray. Aizawa wondered how long he had been awake. He didn’t remember drifting off last night. The exhaustion from two days of continuous interrogation had caught up to him.
Shinsou was eating his portion when Aizawa finally started to sit up. He had no toothbrush here, and his mouth tasted like copper and felt like sandpaper. He went to the sink and drank some water. When he was back, a third of the food was on his bed. Shinsou was keeping an eye on him, monitoring each and every one of his movements.
He took the tray and started to eat. It was plain bread with a pathetic amount of butter covering it. He didn’t comment on how Shinsou wasn’t giving him half, but rather a third. He wasn’t going to complain. The boy was growing, and he needed to eat way more than this.
The door suddenly swung open, and there stood the same man from yesterday—Hachiro—. “Hurry up, gang! What are you doing chilling around?” Hachiro said, eyeing the bread in Aizawa’s hand with a look he couldn’t quite decipher.
Shinsou stood up fast, and Aizawa understood what he meant when the boy told him to eat quickly. He wasn’t even halfway through his portion. He dropped the bread and stood up to walk toward the door, but the man stopped him in his tracks.
“Whoa, whoa! Where do you think you’re going like that? Put on your blindfold, you idiot. Did you think we spent so much money for it to be used judt once? No one trusts you, and you have to put it on all the time when you’re getting out of this room.”
Hachiro reached into his pocket and pulled out a keychain, rotating it around his finger in a show intended to provoke Aizawa. He tried not to show his irritation. This was bad. He knew people didn’t like his quirk. He knew villains hated it even more. No one wanted their quirk taken away from them. It made them feel empty and vulnerable. Living and relying on your quirk just for it to be torn away? No one wanted that.
He was no stranger to a blindfold either. He had been blindfolded more times than he cared to count—by villains, by his classmates at school, and even twice by his own mother. He was not afraid of being blinded like that. He had practiced hard to know how to fight while being blind to the world. No, it wasn’t fear of being blind; it was the fear of not being able to gather information. It was the fear of being useless after getting this far.
He needed information. For that, he needed to see.
He reluctantly turned toward the nightstand, where he had left his blindfold last night, only to stop in his tracks and stare at the teenager in front of him.
Shinsou was standing by the nightstand, locking a fucking muzzle onto his own face. Shinsou looked him right in the eyes, daring Aizawa to comment on it. Aizawa surveyed the very tired and on-edge-looking teenager before indifferently rounding him and taking the blindfold off the nightstand.
They were muzzling a fucking child.
The world went dark shortly after.
******
“Where are we going?” Aizawa asked, his hand on Shinsou’s shoulder, guiding him to wherever they were heading.
“You didn’t tell him? What, too busy doing charity?” Hachiro addressed Shinsou instead of responding to Aizawa’s question. “You know, Home wouldn’t be happy if she were to hear about it,” Hachiro continued, still talking to Shinsou who couldn’t answer because of the muzzle on his face. Aizawa felt Shinsou’s shoulder become stiff for a second before he relaxed again.
Charity?
Aizawa could feel more people walking around the further they went. He could hear their chatter. He felt the three of them entering what felt like a very big, crowded room. Aizawa pinched his nose at the smell of sweat and blood in the air. He could hear people shouting around them, skin contacting skin, fists landing on bodies, feet moving around, and the sound of panting.
This must be the training that Shinsou mentioned.
He sensed a person approaching. Aizawa felt Shinsou’s shoulder stiffen again under his hand. This time, he didn’t relax. He went almost completely motionless when the person approaching them began to speak.
“Hachiro, give me his key.” The voice belonged to a woman. Her tone was rough, as if she had just smoked a cigarette. She was obviously smiling, but something about it set off Aizawa’s instincts, and he felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.
He felt her grab his head roughly, and a second later, his blindfold was removed. She took it off in a smooth motion, and Aizawa opened his eyes to take a look at her. But the moment his eyes landed on her, she swung the metallic blindfold and slammed it against his cheek. Aizawa controlled his reflexes and didn’t move his face away, letting the metal cut through his skin.
She reached out, fisting her hand in his collar and pulling him towards her. Up close, Aizawa could see all the details of her face: she had dark red irises. Her eyes were wide, just like her grin, morphing into what Aizawa could only describe as maniacal.
There was an old scar on her forehead, beginning above her left eye and running all the way to her hairline. Where the scar met her hair, she had dyed her hair a bloody red, like some sort of bad joke. The rest of her hair appeared to be black, likely her natural color. She had three piercings in her left ear, and the other ear was hidden behind her hair.
She was slightly shorter than Aizawa, and he was being pulled a bit down by his collar to meet her level, invading his personal space.
“Welcome to hell, newcomer,” she said, tilting her head slightly to the right. “Can’t wait to have you in the chair with me. I’m sure you feel the same, don’t you? So please, use your quirk just one time outside training, and we can have all the fun in the world for a very, very long time.” She continued, digging her nails further into his collarbone with each word.
Aizawa immediately understood what was so unsettling and maniacal about her. He had seen enough sadists in his life to recognize one anywhere. Heck, even he himself had been accused of being a sadist for the way he trained his students to their limits and instilled fear in them with threats of expulsion.
One thing was obvious to him: the woman in front of him was someone with a lot of blood on her hands. Not just anyone could have such eyes; you must have done so much evil to get those kinds of eyes in this world.
Aizawa decided to keep quiet, not that he was affected by the threat she had just made. But he was not about to give her the satisfaction of letting her do whatever she was eager to do.
“Good,” she said, satisfied with his silence, releasing him slowly.
“I heard you were a guard before getting into deep shit. You must know one or two things about fighting, right? Shinsou, spar with him. Let’s see what he’s got,” she said, never breaking eye contact with Aizawa. Aizawa turned his head to look at Shinsou. He was still stiff and looked a bit shaken by the whole interaction. Aizawa took a quick look at their surroundings. They were in a very large training room, though it was nothing like the gyms at UA.
There were no mats. Instead, the ground was made of stone flooring, and he could spot old stains of blood on the ground and walls. There were about thirty people in the room, all having abandoned their training and looking at them with amusement the moment the woman hit him with the blindfold.
Hachiro reached to the muzzle on Shinsou’s face and unlocked it. He saw Shinsou standing in front of him, getting into a fighting position. Aizawa mirrored him, adopting his own stance.
Yeah, let’s see what he’s got.
Notes:
Did I kill my main character in the third chapter?
Yes.Am I sorry about it?
No, no I'm not.
Chapter 4: Home
Summary:
Aizawa vs. Shinsou
Notes:
Finals are here, and I'm stress-writing! :))
I remember during last semester's finals, I was stress-reading 'The Wards of UA', and now I'm writing my own fic. How crazy is that?Wishing all of you who are dealing with exams the best of luck, and for those of you who aren't, good luck as well! :))
TW: Violence (Canon-Typical)
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Aizawa followed his handler through the corridor. The walls of the unofficial building of the Hero Public Safety Commission were dark green, dark like the dirty secrets they held inside. Aizawa didn't like the atmosphere one bit.
He knew how dirty the real face of the government was behind the shiny and popular façade of hero celebrities. Nezu better be right about this, or else he would rather be anywhere else than here, cooperating with HPSC.
His so-called ‘handler’ was a middle-aged man with short, curly brown hair. The whites of the man's eyes turned pink when he detected a flaw due to his quirk. It was more practical than Aizawa had first thought. His handler didn't even need to talk when Aizawa made a mistake during practice. Aizawa truly appreciated the silence.
They arrived at their usual training room. His handler turned toward him.
"Out of all the things that could give a person away during an undercover mission, there are two things that stand out the most. Could you guess what they are, Eraser?"
Aizawa crossed his arms over his chest. The way his handler spoke to him never failed to get on his nerves. He spoke in a tone as if he were a child. Aizawa didn't like to think about what that might imply about this handler of his—or about the HPSC as a whole.
"Why don't you get to the point? I have other places to be."
His handler's eyes flashed pink.
Not the right answer, then.
"The answer is your past, and you. We will be taking care of your past. We will ensure all information about you is deleted from official systems and replaced with your new identity. We will find as many of the villains you've fight before as we can to ensure they keep their mouths shut or that they're in prison. You operate at night, so it's not like they clearly saw your face anyways. You will also change your appearance and you will quit using your trademark weapon," his handler said, then pointed his finger at him.
"But that's all we can do. After that, you yourself will be the highest threat to your cover. What you say, what you eat, how you behave, what you think, how you talk, how you fight—they can all give away the hero you've been living as for more than ten years." He redirected his finger from Aizawa to himself. "I'm here to help you with all that, but for now, we will be working on your fighting style. The way you fight will easily shout to anyone with eyes that you've been trained. A pro hero's moves are flawless; they are practical and efficient. An untrained villain, on the other hand, makes thousands of mistakes because they aren't trained—their fighting skills are learned on the streets."
The man motioned to Aizawa's capture weapon that hung around his neck, like it always did. "Take that off; you will not use that anymore."
Aizawa did as he was told. He unraveled his loyal weapon from around his neck and dropped it on the floor near the corner. He might be irritated, but he had every intention of taking this seriously.
"Today, you will be doing a simple task: you will let me hit you." His handler said, moving closer to him until he was close enough to throw a punch.
"The hardest thing to drop will be your reflexes. Fight back, but don't block my blows. Let them land. You know we have a very good healer, so don't worry about the damage."
Yeah, the healer. The healing-type quirks always had some sort of side effect or cost. They were lucky to have Recovery Girl for their students, with exhaustion being the only side effect. HPSC’s healer, however, as Aizawa found out, had a very powerful healing quirk that Aizawa had never seen before, with the ability to heal someone completely and immediately without even exhausting them. But this came at the cost of shortening the person's lifespan, varying from a few hours to a week, based on the severity of the damage. It was so like HPSC to have such a healer, who would only care about immediate results and was ready to replace any member the moment they became useless.
Without further notice, his handler threw his fist toward Aizawa’s rib cage. Aizawa let it land as he was told, and then he countered with a fist of his own. His handler moved out of the way and brought up his foot to kick Aizawa's side. Aizawa let it land for the second time, but his handler already sent another fist, and Aizawa instinctively blocked it without meaning to.
His attacker's eyes glowed pink. "Let it land, keep an eye on my eyes, and see when you are making a mistake. Again."
They went back and forth like that many more times, and Aizawa found that throwing off his reflexes was harder than he thought. His moves were integrated into his body. He had years of muscle memory, and he could practically fight without even thinking at this point—fighting with his spinal cord and not his cerebrum, as he liked to refer to it. He never thought that would cause him any problems. Not until now.
By the time his handler stepped away, Aizawa's body was sore with new bruises starting to appear, but they hadn't made much progress. Not that Aizawa expected anything else. He knew rationally that so many years of experience wouldn’t disappear overnight.
His handler wiped sweat off his forearm and opened the door opposite to the one they came in from.
"Come in." His handler motioned for who seemed to be a villain to come inside, and then uncuffed him. The villain looked average in every aspect.
"For the rest of today's session, you will be fighting him," his handler said, moving to the side to give them space. "I want you to observe him closely. Take note of how he moves and then try to copy him. See which attacks he can block and which he can't. This is what a on street fighting style is. This is how your fighting should look from now on. Begin."
The villain lunged at Aizawa without needing to be told twice, muttering, "Better than rotting in a damn cell all day."
*******
Aizawa breathed out slowly and tried to remember how not to fight well. ‘No acting on sheer instinct,’ Aizawa repeated in his mind. He needed to appear as a villain, meaning he had to disregard the academic training he had received. He needed to appear somewhere between sloppy, like villains usually are, and strong nonetheless, so that he could advance in the rankings without raising any questions about when he learned how to fight.
Somewhere between a clumsy street fighting style and a strong fighter.
Somewhere between the inefficient fighting style of an untrained villain and the powerful fighting of someone with potential.
Somewhere between not jeopardizing his cover but also not appearing weak.
He needed to find that exact spot.
By now, he figured the boy standing in front of him had a voice-activated quirk, but he still had no idea what it was. He would wait and activate his erasure quirk the moment the boy tried to speak.
They both waited for the other to attack first. The first person to attack usually put themselves at a disadvantage by announcing their move. Seconds later, Shinsou finally lunged forward with decent speed, shooting his fist toward Aizawa’s throat. Aizawa grabbed his hand by the back of his wrist and used his opponent’s unbalanced momentum to pull and throw him to the ground, until Shinsou turned and used his elbow to target Aizawa’s nose.
Aizawa ducked out of the way of the elbow and twisted the wrist still in his grip to initiate an elbow lock. Shinsou lowered himself and used his leg to push against the back of Aizawa’s knee, unbalancing him, as if saying, “If I’m going down, you’re coming with me.”
If the teenager were one of his students, he would scold him for pulling such a risky move. This could end up in a dislocated shoulder if the boy were facing an experienced and trained opponent, which Aizawa had no intention of showing he was. So instead of putting pressure on Shinsou’s shoulder, Aizawa let him go before they both went down. Shinsou didn’t waste any time and attacked again, this time targeting Aizawa’s kneecap while leaving his guard wide open.
Aizawa moved the leg Shinsou was targeting and took advantage of the lowered guard in front of him, until a millisecond later when he realized that was a trap.
Shinsou received a kick to his side for lowering his guard but landed a fist right where Aizawa’s ribs were aching. They both got hit, but Aizawa’s damage was greater considering his previous injuries.
The move the boy pulled was both terrible and impressive at the same time. Aizawa realized with horror at the back of his mind that the boy had probably learned how to fight in these kinds of sparring sessions, facing opponents way more powerful than himself. He must have learned, after countless instances of being beaten, that the only way for him to survive was to be manipulative and observant. Just like how he had lowered his guard to draw Aizawa in and how he knew exactly where Aizawa was injured.
Aizawa gritted his teeth and pulled back, but Shinsou followed suit and targeted his ribs again. This time, Aizawa brought his guard up, but the boy was already moving to execute his next plan. He lowered the fist that was flying toward Aizawa’s ribs and tried to slam his shoulder into Aizawa’s chest, which Aizawa countered with a kick of his own.
“Move.”
Aizawa activated his erasur without even interpreting the words that the boy breathlessly shouted. Shinsou's hair fell over his face, and his eyes widened in response to Aizawa's glowing red irises and the sensation of his hair brushing against his skin. To Aizawa’s amusement, however, he recovered quickly. Aizawa actually didn’t understand what the boy meant until Shinsou spoke again.
“Move your legs. Don’t just stand there.”
Oh. He was teaching him the basic principles of fighting. He was coaching him.
Aizawa stopped himself from smirking. He had gotten so used to teaching hero students that his brain took a split second to catch up to the fact that now, he was the student and a teenager was being his teacher.
“Bounce on your feet,” Shinsou said again while throwing his fist at Aizawa. Aizawa complied, moving his feet on the ground the way he instructed his students many times before.
“Alright,” Aizawa said and deactivated his erasur quirk by blinking afterwards. The boy made an expression that was akin to surprise, and Aizawa didn’t know if it was due to his inability to use his quirk or because a grown-up was trying to follow his lead.
They went back and forth like that for a while. To the boy’s credit, he was holding his ground against Aizawa decently well. He was in no way strong; in fact, he was actually weaker than a teenager his age was supposed to be. But he made up for the lack of muscle with speed and deception.
He could easily win against half of a typical first-year hero student class at UA without even needing to use his quirk.
Shinsou’s fighting was full of flaws, nonetheless. The worst thing was that Shinsou was fighting to win and win only. So, the boy wouldn’t hesitate to put his safety in jeopardy, which was the complete opposite of what Aizawa tended to teach his students.
As much as seeing a teenager sacrificing his well-being irritated him, he knew he couldn’t blame him. Shinsou shouldn’t be in a situation where he felt he had no other choice but to put himself in danger in the first place. He shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t have fighting-to-survive drilled into him like this.
And yet he was. While Aizawa didn’t know the full story, it made him endlessly angry. At the villains who kept a literal child trapped, and at the hero community that failed to prevent such a thing from happening alike.
Even if Shinsou claimed he came here of his own free will, a child should never have been near crimes like this in the first place. It was the hero’s responsibility to shield kids from the dark face of the city. Yet, no one had probably even noticed when the organization first got their hands on Shinsou.
Shinsou was starting to get exhausted. He had realized by now that Aizawa was not weaker than him—if anything, he was stronger.
“You’re not so bad, you know?”
Aizawa activated his quirk upon hearing the teen’s voice. “You’re not so bad eith-.” Aizawa cut himself off mid-sentence when the boy lunged his hand toward Aizawa’s eyes in an attempt to cover them.
So, it only took a few moments of sparring for him to figure out Aizawa’s quirk’s main weakness. Trying to eliminate Aizawa’s quirk also meant the boy was getting desperate to use his own.
Aizawa was tempted to give the boy a chance to use his quirk, only to gain information on its nature, but he decided against it. He couldn’t risk allowing an unknown quirk to be used against him, especially when literal dangerous villains were apparently scared enough of Shinsou’s quirk to force a damn muzzle on him.
Aizawa huffed through his nose, grabbed the boy’s hand, and threw him away by applying sheer force. Shinsou managed to grab onto Aizawa's shirt at the last second, using all that force to roll himself and slam down onto Aizawa’s back. Shortly after that, he locked his arms around Aizawa's neck and his legs around his waist. A very common lock, but a good one.
Aizawa knew at least three ways to safely break out of the pin, but those moves were all pro-hero level techniques. An untrained person would freak out from the sudden lack of air and throw themselves to the ground. Wrong move. Exactly what Aizawa decided to do.
He was in the middle of putting on a show of decent struggle when the woman interfered with a fierce, “That’s enough.”
Shinsou quickly complied, letting Aizawa go and stumbling to his feet. Aizawa followed suit after taking a few deep breaths, his lungs finally getting air.
The woman regarded Aizawa with a calculating gaze, the maniacal grin long gone. Then she directed her attention to Shinsou and smiled. The smile was anything but warm. “What do you think about our new asset, Shinsou?”
Shinsou didn’t even look up from the ground, carefully avoiding making direct eye contact with her. Something about how suddenly tense he was felt awfully wrong. He didn’t say a word in answer to her question.
She placed her hand on Shinsou’s shoulder and squeezed just enough for it to be painful. “You know, those moves don’t look like the kind of moves that someone who went through three days of starvation would pull,” she said, and Aizawa finally understood.
He really was being denied food.
The kid probably lied about how two people got one serving, and shared his own food with him.
Aizawa cursed himself for not noticing sooner. How could he be so oblivious when it was obvious that the food was not designed for two people? Those two days of interrogation must have affected his situational awareness if he failed to notice such an obvious matter.
There was no use regretting it now. Aizawa had no choice but to stand aside and let the woman do whatever she wanted.
“Did you share, Shinsou?” She said in a low dangerous voice. Shinsou pressed his lips tightly together and still didn’t say anything. He clenched his fists in his pants on his sides and Aizawa could see how his knuckles were turning white from the pressure.
“Did you forget that no one eats anything here unless I’m the one allowing it?” the woman asked, her smile slowly being replaced by a scowl. Shinsou shook his head hurriedly.
“You eat only if I say you get to. Did you try to go behind my back, Shinsou?”
More head-shaking.
“Are you trying to deny my authority?!”
Shinsou desperately shook his head, still not saying anything in his defense.
“I thought you, of all people, had learned your lesson by now. Do you need a reminder? Do you, Shinsou?” Aizawa uselessly watched as Shinsou shook his head more fervently, lowering his shoulders under the painful grip. Every neuron in Aizawa’s head was shouting at him to move, move, move.
He would, if he were a hero.
The woman dug her nails into Shinsou’s shoulder for a moment longer until she finally let go. Shinsou audibly released the breath he had been desperately holding in to remain silent.
“Hachiro, no food for these two for the next two days. They both need to learn a thing or two about who the boss is around here.”
“Yes, Home,” Hachiro replied.
Home.
So, she is Home.
She was one of the three 2-ranked bosses.
She was the Home that both Hachiro and Shinsou had mentioned.
Home directed her gaze from Shinsou to him, and Aizawa felt like he could breathe much better this way. “You fight like shit; you waste of air! You better be grateful that the boss decided to shelter you. If it were up to me, I would have never given a person who can’t even win a fight against a kid a second chance. But I had no say in that, so I will put your ass through real training instead, and you better do yourself a favor and learn fast before I run out of generosity. We’re going through a lot of trouble just hiding you from the heroes, one of whom you killed, so you better work to pay us, unless you want us to hand you over to the heroes. You got that?!”
Aizawa nodded. Part of him sarcastically wished Hizashi had actually deafened him at the first-year sports festival back in high school. Better than listening to this nonsense.
“Didn’t hear you,” Home said expectantly.
“Yes, ma’am.” Aizawa replied, failing to sound as scared as he was probably meant to be.
“Watch yourself, Aizawa,” Home warned, an unspoken threat lingering behind her words, as she turned and dismiss them.
*******
“Hurry up and move those asses! You only got 10 minutes. Move it, assholes!”
Sickle Claw shouted, as if they didn’t already know. Hitoshi moved toward the usual shower he used in the corner, his eyes carefully avoiding the backs of people where their scars were visible. He suppressed a shiver as he felt the hand on his shoulder shift slightly. He hated being touched, even if it was his blindfolded trainee that he needed to guide around. Though, he was grateful that the man was at least hanging onto his right shoulder. His attempt to suppress the shiver failed at the reminder of Home’s grip on his left shoulder.
He brought both of them to the spray nozzles at the corner. He kept his mind blank; this was not a good time to remember all the past incidents that had happened in this room. He hated having to shower in front of so many eyes. He hated even more that he couldn’t remember how it felt to have the privacy of showering alone.
Hitoshi made quick work of undressing himself. People were chatting and shouting around him. He wished they would ignore him.
He grabbed the end of Aizawa’s cloth and tried to make him understand that he needed to get undressed.
“Shower?”
Hitoshi rolled his eyes, ignoring the fact that the man couldn’t see it. He tapped at his muzzle, and Aizawa raised his head slightly at the sound.
“I think we need a way to communicate. Tap on my arm once for yes and twice for no, from now on.”
Hitoshi rolled his eyes, again. He didn’t know what it was about the man that was getting on his nerves, but he couldn’t help it. Still, he tapped once on Aizawa's forearm.
The man nodded and started to undress. Hitoshi turned on the spray and began scrubbing his skin as fast as he could. He didn’t want to be there one second longer than he had to. He spared a sideways glance at Aizawa’s progress but quickly turned his eyes away when he saw the scars and bruises on the man’s body. People usually didn’t respond well to him staring at their scars. Even though he knew Aizawa couldn’t see him stare.
He reached over and turned the spray on for his trainee. The man jolted slightly at the sudden splash of cold water on his skin. The dried blood on the man’s cheek from the cut that Home had caused by the blindfold immediately dissolved into water and disappeared.
Hitoshi handed him a bar of soap and a washcloth, trying to convey that he needed to start washing himself. He didn’t really know what he was doing. He wasn’t used to this, whatever it was.
“Thank you.”
Thank you. Hitoshi tried to ignore it, tried to ignore him as a whole. He scrubbed faster. He saw Aizawa starting to do the same.
“I assume there is no shampoo, then?”
This time Hitoshi didn’t even roll his eyes, he just tapped twice on the man’s forearm.
Shampoo? Was that supposed to be a joke? What is he, a prince?
Whatever.
It was good the man couldn’t see him, though.
It was then that an idea suddenly crossed his mind. He carefully reached out and grabbed Aizawa’s elbow, moving him further away from the spray and closer to where he could block the view of others. The man looked in his direction, waiting patiently. Hitoshi re-adjusted the shower spray for him.
He held his breath until he saw the man initiate washing himself again and not comment on what Hitoshi had just done. As he thought, it was better with Aizawa blocking others from seeing him. He still felt vulnerable and exposed, but it was better. Just a bit safer. Hitoshi let out his breath through his nose as he continued washing.
Thankfully, no one paid them much attention. Ten minutes didn’t leave any space for others' curiosity about the new member.
Hitoshi wished it would stay that way.
Unfortunately for him, Hitoshi’s wishes tended to never come true.
Notes:
Like I said before, the villains in the USJ arc are all members of the organization, and I’m going to mention some of them in this fic—like that Sickle Claw guy. You can check out how they look on the U.S.J. Arc Antagonists page.
You can also check how Home looks by clicking the link below if you’d like!
Original Characters Art
Chapter 5: Shiko
Summary:
Aizawa goes on his first mission and discovers what Shinsou's quirk is.
Notes:
Enters Shiko! You can see how she looks in the link bellow! (Unless you'd like to use your own imagination which is cool!)
TW: Starvation.
Chapter Text
“No, Shiko! I don’t want to!”
“You said that two minutes ago, and I said bullshit. Here, I will prove it to you.”
Shiko took a spoonful of rice and brought it to Hitoshi’s face. Hitoshi pressed his lips tightly together and turned his face away, but his traitor belly growled loudly at the smell.
Shiko laughed, as if the sound of his stomach rumbling was somehow funny. “See? You can bullshit me all you want, but your belly will always tell me the truth. Isn’t that right, Toshi’s belly?”
As if on cue, his belly rumbled again, and Shiko laughed even harder. “Aw, don’t worry, Toshi’s belly; help is on its way. I won’t let Hitoshi hurt you anymore,” Shiko said, and Hitoshi felt his cheeks turning pink from embarrassment.
“Shut up,” Hitoshi said as he hugged his tummy tightly to quiet it down.
“Hey! No talking shit to Toshi’s belly!” Shiko said, trying to sound serious but failing miserably.
“Cut it out, Shiko. I said I don’t want your food!”
“You mean our food.”
“No, it’s your food. My food is not here because I messed up again, and Home said this is my punishment—”
“No, Toshi! You messed nothing up! I already told you a hundred times that all quirks have limits, and if—”
“But I should have been able to brainwash more than three people! Home said—”
“I don’t give a flying fuck about what Home says, Toshi! I’m your trainer, and I say you’re doing great!”
“But—”
“No buts. It’s eating time. Open up.”
“No.” Hitoshi whined, pressing his palm over his mouth.
Shiko sighed dramatically, took the tray from Hitoshi’s bed, and stood up from where she was crouching in front of him. “Alright. Then let’s put it outside. Sorry, dearest belly. I tried and all, but Toshi apparently decided to start photosynthesis instead of eating.”
Hitoshi snorted from behind his palm at that. They learned about how plants do that to get food last week.
“I mean, sure, why not? But it’s a shame we need to throw such good food away,” Shiko said and opened the door.
“Wait!” Hitoshi shouted; way louder than he meant to. “I mean, uh, maybe we could share?”
Shiko closed the door slowly with a grin. “We could, but while I usually don’t photosynthesize like you, I am still a 23-year-old young lady who needs to stay in shape. How am I supposed to be attractive if I get fat, Toshi?”
“You would be great either way,” Hitoshi muttered, knowing that she was lying for his sake.
“That’s what you say. But thank you!” She sat next to him on the bed and brought the spoonful of rice up again.
Hitoshi felt his throat closing up from frustration. He was hungry, and he knew Shiko was too, but he also knew that she wasn’t going to accept a no for an answer. Hitoshi looked at the spoon and then back at Shiko. “You give me your food every time I’m being punished. It’s not fair, Shiko. I don’t want you to stay hungry because of me.”
“Hush, Toshi. I told you; grown-ups don’t get as hungry as little kids who are still growing,” Shiko said, using her gentle tone that always calmed Hitoshi.
“I’m almost 11! I’m not a kid,” Hitoshi muttered.
“No, you’re are my little Toshi, and we are not arguing about that. But hey! How about you eat so you can grow up fast? What do you say?”
Hitoshi huffed, but he listened. He could never really argue with her when she wanted something.
*******
Hitoshi closed his eyes and let the memory unfold behind his eyelids. He swallowed what he could of the sorrow and hunger deep within; yet neither faded away. Hitoshi’s stomach growled audibly. He wrapped his hand around it and squeezed tightly.
Shut up! You don’t get to growl after eating so much of her food.
It growled again.
Stupid. Stupid belly.
Hitoshi huffed. He felt his throat close at the memories of all the times Shiko had given him her food and convinced him that she wasn’t hungry. He should have never eaten her food. He shouldn’t have let her starve because of him. He should have accepted his punishments and let her eat. If he hadn’t eaten her food, if he hadn’t taken from her like that, if he hadn’t stolen her food like a goddamn thief, she would have been healthier; she would have been faster; she might have been able to move quicker; she might be—
“I’m sorry.”
Hitoshi jolted out of his thoughts. He looked over to the other bed and saw Aizawa sitting against the wall, blinking at him.
Damn, did he get lost in his thoughts again? He should know better than to do that by now.
“Huh?”
The man looked at him but didn’t answer right away. Of course. Aizawa doesn’t even know what his quirk is, and he is already scared to answer him. Hitoshi should have known he would get scared when he saw the muzzle yesterday. It’s not like he could avoid it, but still, he should have known better than to—
“I didn’t know it was your food; otherwise, I wouldn’t have eaten it.”
Oh.
“I’m sorry, you are starving because of me—.”
“I didn’t do it for you,” Hitoshi cut him off, watching the man’s face warily for a reaction. Adults don’t like to be interrupted. Sir would have gotten mad if he ever dared to interrupt him.
Aizawa only blinked at him. He spoke again after a long pause.
“I’m grateful, nonetheless. But I still preferred that you told me the truth. I don’t want to put you in trouble because of how I-,”
“I didn’t do it for you,” Hitoshi repeated like an idiot. Aizawa nodded and turned back to inspecting his blindfold and messing with its lock.
Hitoshi got up from where he was lying on his bed and sat up while keeping an eye on the man. He shouldn’t have zoned out earlier. He shouldn’t lower his guard like that. The fact is that Hitoshi knew next to nothing about Aizawa. The only things he knew were that his quirk cancels others’ and that he is above average when it comes to fighting. He is strong, Hitoshi could tell. He felt it while sparring with him yesterday, and he saw how muscular he was when showering.
“You should work more on your blocking.”
Aizawa turned his eyes from the blindfold to Hitoshi without moving his head, and Hitoshi cursed himself for talking. What if the man didn’t want to be disturbed? What if he got irritated because a kid was trying to point out his weaknesses?
But then again, he was his trainer. Hitoshi needed to teach him all he could. He needed to make sure Aizawa would succeed in his missions. He couldn’t take that responsibility lightly. He needed Aizawa to succeed, at least for the first month. The first month. The fucking first month.
“I think you’re right.”
Hitoshi didn’t expect that as an answer.
“I’ll have you practice some blocks next time.”
“How did you know my ribs were injured on the left side?”
Hitoshi inhaled through his nose slowly. Here it comes. He had attacked Aizawa's bad side several times during sparring. Of course Aizawa was mad. He probably wanted revenge or something. He must want him to pay.
What should he say? Should he apologize? He wasn’t sorry. The man was physically stronger than him; what choice did he have? That sparring was more a demonstration that a real sparring. He wanted Aizawa to realize Hitoshi was strong, that he can hold his own and even beat him if Aizawa decided to attack him one day.
Should he tell the truth? Should he admit that he hadn’t slept the last two nights and had watched him instead? Because he was scared out of his mind that Aizawa would suddenly attack him in his sleep. The man was a murderer, for crying out loud.
The man couldn’t sleep on his left side, and he grabbed his ribs one or two times during the first night. Aizawa was obviously good at hiding his pain—maybe a little too good—but he was probably exhausted from whatever they did to him before coming here, and it’s not like you can control your movements during sleep.
Hitoshi wouldn’t say any of that, of course. “You’re not hiding it as well as you think you are,” he said instead. Aizawa’s stoic face didn’t falter, but he didn’t nod this time.
So, what now? He wasn’t going to do anything?
Aizawa wasn’t moving. Wasn’t shouting at him for what he did. The man didn’t even look mad. He just looked tired like he did from the moment he set foot in this room.
Huh, he must be the more patient type. Hitoshi hated them the most. It was always a damn waiting game with those types, waiting for them to finally snap.
Hitoshi hated the waiting the most.
“What weapon do you use?” Hitoshi asked when the silence suddenly felt unbearable.
“I’m more comfortable with tantos.”
“Did you use a tanto to kill that hero too?” Hitoshi flinched at his own question. What the fuck was wrong with him? Was he deliberately trying to piss the man off?
Aizawa saw him flinch; Hitoshi was sure of it.
“No.”
Hitoshi raised his left eyebrow but decided not to push any further. “We have tantos here. You should practice with weapons since your quirk is not physical.”
Aizawa huffed in what was probably a laugh. “Don’t remind me.”
“It’s a good quirk,” Hitoshi said, and he truly meant it. The man’s quirk was definitely rare, and it felt odd. He couldn’t really say what felt so odd about it while fighting, but it felt light? Empty? Silent, maybe? Almost comfortable. He didn’t really know how it felt to have his quirk deactivated, having it constantly active ever since it manifested.
And the part where his hair fell into his face? He knew it! He knew the way his hair stood upright had to do with his quirk. No hair just defies gravity out of leisure. At least now he was sure it was because of his brainwashing quirk.
“What’s your quirk?” Aizawa asked, and Hitoshi felt frozen. He didn’t want to answer.
“It’s none of your business,” Hitoshi bit back, his words soaked with venom. Aizawa’s eyes widened for a second before narrowing. Hitoshi would have missed such a subtle reaction if he wasn’t looking for it.
The man opened his mouth to say something but was interrupted by the door suddenly opening and Hachiro appearing in the doorway. “You have a mission.”
Hitoshi’s empty stomach tightened with stress.
This better go well.
*******
Aizawa put the blindfold away. He had been examining it since he woke up. The lock wasn’t hard to pick, but it wouldn’t break that easily. There was no leverage for him to try to break it. The metal was also sturdy. He might be able to break it if he hit it hard enough at the right angle over its hinge, but that kind of force might damage his eyes in the process. He might also give himself a concussion.
He still needed a safe way to be able to open it in case of emergency.
Hachiro gave him a set of normal clothes: a black button-down shirt and black trousers with a belt. Aizawa appreciated the color, but the fabric was hard to move in.
Shinsou brought out a dark gray hoodie and black sweatpants from under his bed and disappeared behind the curtain to change. When he emerged again, he had his hair covered by a black hat and was wearing a black mask that hung under his chin. With his tall frame and the teenager’s deep voice, he could easily be mistaken for a 19- or 20-year-old if he put the mask on.
Aizawa followed behind Shinsou toward the door until the boy stopped abruptly at the door frame and turned toward him. His face was bored, but he was obviously processing what he wanted to say next.
From this close up, Aizawa could regard him in more detail for the first time. There was a faint mark over his cheeks and nose that Aizawa now knew was a result of repeated usage of the muzzle. He had dark bags under his eyes that were probably even darker than Aizawa’s. His irises were bright violet, with an endless tiredness behind them.
“If you want to survive this place, you need to follow two rules from now on,” Shinsou said, his voice suddenly far more serious than Aizawa had ever heard.
“I’m listening,” Aizawa said, genuinely curious.
Something dark sat behind Shinsou’s eyes.
“Rule number one: Never show anyone what you love. Rule number two: Never let anyone know what you hate.”
Aizawa frowned. He recognized the rules; he already knew them. He had been following them since day one of going undercover. He had been told the same thing by his handler from the HPSC. What struck him was that the boy in front of him had probably discovered this the hard way—that he was speaking from experience.
“Why is 'not showing what I love' the first rule?” Aizawa asked, even though he already knew the answer; he just needed his doubt confirmed.
The boy's face morphed into something that Aizawa could only call grief. “Because it will hurt more when what you love gets taken away than when what you hate is forced on you. I don’t care what you love or what you hate; just don’t let them know.”
Aizawa nodded, still frowning. “I’ll try.”
“No! Not just try. You need to follow them,” Shinsou said in a forcefully low voice, not wanting Hachiro to hear them.
“Alright, I’ll follow them,” Aizawa said. “Thank you.”
The frown disappeared, and Shinsou’s eyes widened a fraction. It was like he wasn’t used to being appreciated.
“What’s taking you two so long? Home has the location; let’s go,” Hachiro interrupted rudely.
“What’s the mission?” Aizawa asked.
“It’s a simple one. We should be back by 15:00,” Hachiro answered.
They walked past the corridor that Aizawa had taken a quick look at the first night. The doors were all closed, and he could sometimes hear some noises from behind them. They were probably underground, so they should reach a staircase or an elevator. Hachiro looked at his watch and stopped. He stood there, just waiting.
“Something the matter?” Aizawa asked.
The other two didn’t even glance at him. They just stood there, waiting, like it was normal. Aizawa saw the digital watch around Hachiro’s wrist change from 12:59 to 13:00, and only then did he open the door and motion for them to leave.
“What was that?” Aizawa asked in a low voice, turning to Shinsou. Shinsou looked at him from the corner of his eye. “We should leave exactly on time and we should come back exactly on time, too.”
That made sense, but Aizawa wasn’t expecting a villain organization to operate in such a precise and systematic order. To Aizawa’s surprise, there was no staircase; when they opened the door, they were on the street.
That was wrong.
That was very, very wrong.
The neighborhood looked unnervingly normal; they were in town, not in some shady out-of-town warehouse.
Aizawa turned and looked at the building they had just left. He could only describe it with one word: wrong.
This was wrong. That building was small and normal, and it looked like a regular residential building. The place they had come from was a lot bigger and it was underground.
They had been underground, and now they were suddenly not.
What in the hell is this?
“Aizawa?”
He turned, and Shinsou was looking at him expectantly.
“Don’t suddenly stop. Follow me closely,” Shinsou said, starting to walk again.
Aizawa tried to push the sense of wrongness to the back of his mind, but it all came rushing back when he realized they were not going to get into a vehicle; they had actually arrived at their destination.
What’s going on here?
“This one is fairly straightforward. This guy,” Hachiro casually showed them a photo of a man, “cut with a beautiful lady last week. He broke her heart or some shit. Now the woman wants revenge and she paid a decent amount of money for it. We get there, have fun, and go back. Simple as fuck.”
Shinsou nodded, acting normal. But when he spoke to Aizawa in a low voice, he could hear a trace of stress. “Don’t call us by our names while we’re in there. Cancel his quirk if necessary. Don’t get distracted. Do what Hachiro says. And Aizawa,”
He looked at him with pleading eyes and reached his hand over to his left shoulder, scratching it as if it was suddenly aching. “Don’t mess this up.”
“Shinsou, enough chatting. See that? it’s that door. Go do your thing,” Hachiro said.
Shinsou went to the indicated door and hesitated for a moment before knocking loudly.
It was the middle of the day; the man could not even be home.
“Delivery, sir,” Shinsou shouted, knocking again.
Some passersby looked at them passively, none of them suspecting a thing.
“Yes?” a man said from inside the house. His voice sounded as if he was a bit suspicious; he probably already saw Shinsou through the peephole.
“Is this 192 Yamashitacho?” Shinsou asked.
“Yes?-” the man replied after a pause.
“Close your eyes,” Shinsou said, suddenly sounding completely different. “Open the door.”
Seconds later, the door opened, revealing the same man from the photo, eyes closed.
Aizawa cursed in his mind.
This must be Shinsou’s quirk.
They went inside and closed the door.
“Don’t open your eyes. Come sit here.”
The man didn’t move—maybe because he couldn’t see where 'here' was. Shinsou realized the same because he took the man by the elbow and guided him to sit in a chair near the dining table. “Come. Sit.”
“Nice job, Shinsou! Aizawa, go tie his hands and cover his eyes,” Hachiro said cheerfully.
Aizawa went to one of the rooms, looking around and inspecting the house to see if they were really alone. He found two clothes and went back to tie the man’s eyes and hands from behind. He was numbly sitting in the chair, muscles relaxed, eyes closed.
“Did you break up with your girlfriend last week?” Shinsou asked, his voice hoarse.
“Yes,” the man answered, and Aizawa froze.
What?
“Why did you leave her?” Shinsou asked.
“I was afraid of her,” The man answered, like a robot with no emotion.
Did the man...
Did he just answer what Shinsou asked?
What in the...
“What’s your quirk?” Aizawa asked suddenly. He kept his voice carefully bored despite the grave danger he was feeling.
“He didn’t tell you? It’s brainwashing,” Hachiro said with a smug grin. "Pretty nasty, isn't it?"
..
Nasty?
..
Well,
Shit.
No, actually,
Fuck.
This was not good.
This was bad.
Out of all the quirks that Aizawa’s roommate and trainer could possibly have, it had to be brainwashing.
He should have known.
All this time, Shinsou could have brainwashed him and asked him the simplest question, like,
“Who are you?”
And he would have said,
“I’m Aizawa Shouta. Pro-hero Eraserhead.”
Fantastic.
Chapter 6: Trolley Problem
Summary:
Aizawa's first mission - Part 2.
Chapter Text
Trolley Problem.
Undercover missions are one giant trolley problem.
‘A runaway trolley is headed towards five people on a track. You are standing near a lever that can divert the trolley to another track, where only one person is present. Do you pull the lever, sacrificing one person to save five, or do you do nothing, allowing the trolley to kill the five?’
If you do nothing, will you become a murderer or remain innocent?
If you pull the lever, will you be a savior or a murderer?
Or can one be a savior, a murderer, and an innocent all at the same time?
Can one be a hero by being a villain?
*******
“Why did you leave her?”
“I was afraid of her.”
Hitoshi could feel the man struggle in his mind. He was thrashing under his control. He was scared, and Hitoshi couldn’t blame him. Hitoshi knew what was coming; he knew what they were going to do. But before that, Hitoshi had to know. He had to know why they were going to beat the man in front of him, sitting with his hands tied behind his back, blindfolded.
He needed to know.
“Why were you afra—”
“Drop it, Shinsou. Why does it even matter?” Hachiro whined.
“What if—” Hitoshi started, but then he bit his lip. How could he possibly still try to ask questions after all this time? Idiot. “Maybe his girlfriend deserved to be left,” he stated instead.
Hachiro glared at him and then turned to Aizawa. “Tell that brat—so what? We do our job. It’s that simple.”
Hachiro was always moody. He sometimes got mad, sometimes ignored, and sometimes treated him with silence. At least he never beat him for daring to talk directly to him; he just used it to provoke him. Sometimes he dared him to talk as a joke, like two nights ago when he brought Aizawa.
And Aizawa...
Aizawa was just looking at him. Hitoshi didn’t know what he was thinking. Part of him didn’t care; the other part was afraid. Everything always changes when people figure his quirk. They stop talking to him at best, or make him stop talking at worst. He didn’t know which one Aizawa would do. He didn’t want to know.
Hachiro walked toward the man tied to the chair. Hitoshi sucked in a breath and braced himself.
Here it comes.
A punch connected with the man’s jaw, and the connection in Hitoshi’s mind snapped.
The man gasped. He stayed still for a second, just panting. Then he began to jerk his head in random directions while pulling his hands hard, trying to free himself.
“HELP!” the man yelled as loud as he could before Hachiro jumped and punched him again, locking his jaw joint with his quirk. The man struggled, but he couldn’t move his jaw anymore.
Joint lock. That was Hachiro’s quirk. He could lock up to two joints of the person he touched. It was a powerful quirk. Hitoshi had personally experienced the hard lock many times during training. He knew how it could limit movement if used on the correct joints.
Hachiro grabbed the man’s hair and brought his face close to his own. “Try that again if you dare,” Hachiro said, releasing his quirk when the man eventually nodded.
“Who are you p-people?! W-what do you want with me?!” he asked, shaking from fear uncontrollably.
“Well, what do you think?” Hachiro said, a grin spreading across his face. He punched the man in the stomach, causing him to bend over, crying in pain.
“Wait! Wait! P-Please! Just take whatever you want and leave! I have money! I’ll give—” Hachiro hit him again in the stomach, and the man groaned.
“How generous! Well, the bad news is, we are not thieves. We are philanthropists! We are establishing justice out of the goodness of our hearts here. I mean, you can’t just break an innocent lady’s heart and expect no one to care, can you?”
The man’s head shot up, understanding suddenly flooding his features. “Kotone sent you,” he said, both asking and stating.
Hachiro punched him in the ribs. “Bingo.”
“Wait! Don’t! Please, God, don’t—”
Another punch.
Hitoshi looked away.
“Stop! Stop, I can explain—”
Another punch.
“Please! Just wait—"
Another on his left ear.
“You don’t understand! She is crazy!”
Another on his sternum.
“Ok! Ok! Sorry!”
Another.
“I’m sorry! I’m sorry, please!—"
“You better be,” Hachiro said with a grin, landing another punch on the man’s face. The man began to cough, struggling to breathe, nose bleeding. Hitoshi could see out of the corner of his eye just how badly he was shaking from pain and fear.
“I am! There is no need for this. Tell Kotone I am—”
Another punch.
“I’m sorry, please—.” The man began to cry in desperation as his shouted pleas fell on deaf ears.
Another, to the stomach.
Another, to the cheek.
Another, to the jaw.
Another.
The man could no longer speak; he was just crying from the pain, laodly, grouning with each punch. His face was becoming a gruesome mix of bruises and blood.
But Hachiro didn't stop.
He landed another punch.
And another.
And another.
And nother.
Another.
Ano—
“I think you made your point,” Aizawa spoke up. He sounded almost bored.
Hachiro stopped and slowly turned to Aizawa. “Huh?”
“You made your point. She wanted revenge, right? I think this is good enough for that,” Aizawa said. Hitoshi closed his eyes.
Shut. Up.
He told him not to do that.
He told him not to do that, less than an hour ago.
He told him not to show what he hates, no matter what.
“Actually, she was really specific about what she wanted. Shall I recite? ‘Beat him till he uses his quirk’ is what she said. That’s why you are here, newbie. We brought you so that you can nullify his quirk if it’s something messed up. The woman never said what it was after all,” Hachiro said while picking at his ear with his pinky.
The man choked on a sob at that. His head was dangling from his neck.
Hachiro straightened up, walked to the couch, and dropped onto it with a huff. “What’s your quirk anyway?” Hachiro asked as if he just remembered that detail.
The man sobbed harder. “I’ll pay you. I’ll pay double whatever she paid. Just leave... please,” he pleaded, avoiding the question.
“Do you have 5 million yen right now?”
The man’s face paled at that, and he lifted his head with what seemed to be the last of his strength. “I-I’ll borrow. I-I’ll pay.”
“Sorry, buddy, you obviously don’t have that much. It’s now or never.”
The man wanted to protest, but Hachiro cut him off. “Aizawa, why don’t you pick up from where I left off? Since you are feeling so kind today.”
“I’m not being kind; I’m being rational. The more we stay here, the more there’s a chance that someone finds out and calls the heroes. We broke into this house in the middle of the day. A neighbor could have heard us and gotten suspicious by now. Besides, we can make a deal with him. He said he is willing to pay. How about we get as much as he can pay? We can have both of them paying us money. It’s a win-win,” Aizawa said in a calm voice.
“Yeah, well, we don’t do that. The boss is really sensitive about the whole ‘customer satisfaction’ thing.” Hachiro said, drawing quotation marks in the air with his fingers. “Now, do what I said,” he added in a more serious tone.
Aizawa stayed silent at that. Hachiro leaned forward. He narrowed his eyes and said, “It’s a direct order. Do it.”
“Do it,” Hitoshi spoke up when Aizawa didn’t move. All three other men turned to him as if they had forgotten he was there. Hitoshi cursed himself for drawing attention to himself like that. But he needed Aizawa to understand the situation. He needed him to succeed in this mission. He needed Aizawa to not fail in the first month, at the very least.
And it was Aizawa's own fault for speaking up when Shinsou had explicitly told him not to.
“Follow orders, or you'll get us into trouble,” Hitoshi insisted.
Aizawa finally moved with a sigh, as though all this was a big inconvenience for him. Hachiro and the other man both leaned back, one to make himself comfortable and the other out of fear. Aizawa regarded the man for a second.
“Use your quirk and I’ll stop,” Aizawa said, his voice steady and indifferent.
“I can’t… I can’t. No, no, please.… It’s enough, please…” the man spoke, shaking his head pleadingly.
Aizawa clenched his fist and swung it back, landing a hard blow on the man’s face, which turned toward his left shoulder, blood splattering on his tank top as a pained groan escaped his lungs. Then he punched him forcefully in the shoulder, causing the man to topple over and fall to the ground along with the chair to which his hands were tied.
Aizawa bent, took the chair, and brought the man back up. He pulled his fist back and landed it hard on the man’s stomach.
The man cried in pain and whimpered. Aizawa was about to hit him for the fourth time,
when the man finally used his quirk.
*******
Aizawa was disgusted. This was nothing new to him. There was always crime associated with relationships: betrayal, revenge, hatred, murder. He had seen far more homicides than all the other heroes performing in daylight. It didn’t make it any less disgusting.
Aizawa stood in front of the man, who cowered away from him and leaned back. He heard their conversation. He knew Aizawa was going to hurt him. But Aizawa had other plans. He struck the man in the face to put on a good show, and then hit him in the shoulder, more of a push than a hit this time. The man fell onto his back along with the chair, just as Aizawa intended.
Aizawa played it off as if it were an accident. He bent over the man and brought his head close enough that only the man could hear what he was about to say.
“Use your quirk. I will erase it.”
He pulled the man back up by the chair and punched him right in the stomach, preventing him from getting a chance to say something that could give them away.
Just before he was about to land the next punch, the man cried out in desperation, and a spiraling black ball suddenly began to form in front of him. The whole room started to shake, and all the furniture began to move toward the man. Aizawa felt a strong pull of gravity drawing him toward the forming black ball.
Aizawa activated Erasure without wasting another second, and everything stilled. The room fell into silence. They all stood there motionless, the only sounds being the swinging of the chandelier and the panting of the man tied to the chair.
“What the hell was that?” Hachiro muttered, shell-shocked at what had just happened. “What the hell did you do?” His muttering turned into yelling.
“b-lack h-hole,” the man choked.
“The fuck?!” Hachiro was standing now, eyes impossibly wide.
“Is that your quirk?” Aizawa asked.
The man sobbed.
*******
“How do you know what your quirk is? I assume you didn’t use something like that in your daily life,” Aizawa asked, striving to seem unaffected by the entire situation.
That was a very dangerous quirk. If Aizawa hadn’t been present, the situation could have escalated very quickly. Who knows how much a black hole can consume before someone could stop it. If someone could stop it.
They were all silent for a few moments. Even Hachiro was at a loss for words for once. They gave the man some time to calm his crying.
“No. Of course not. If I were to ever use my quirk, I would be the first to be sucked into the black hole. My father had very weak control over gravity, and the quirk specialist we visited when I was a kid diagnosed my quirk before it manifested. I used it once in a controlled simulation when I was a child, and I was knocked out before the black hole grew enough to cause any real damage.”
“What the heck? We could have all died just now!” Hachiro said, no longer shocked but now angry.
“That’s what I was trying to tell you! Kotone is crazy! She knew my quirk! She knew it would kill me! She wan—” His voice cracked, and he swallowed. When he spoke again, his voice was broken and defeated. “She wanted to kill me.”
“Man, that sucks,” Hachiro said as he dropped back onto the couch.
Oh, so now he decided to show sympathy.
“We should leave,” Aizawa said. He didn’t want to be there for a second longer than necessary. They had probably traumatized the man, but he could still minimize the damage. He needed to send the information and address of this man to Hizashi to ensure he received some sort of help, even if the damage was already done.
“We can’t. We still have another hour,” Hachiro said, still recovering from the earlier rush of adrenaline. “You two should go grab something to eat. You’re hungry, right?”
“I’m fine,” Shinsou said, his voice deeper than usual. Aizawa was not happy about the fact that Shinsou had to watch a man get beaten. But the boy was holding up surprisingly well, and Aizawa wondered how many times the kid had witnessed violence.
Hachiro stood up and went to the kitchen, ignoring Shinsou’s response.
“It’s over—”
“We’ll leave soon—”
Aizawa and Shinsou spoke simultaneously when Hachiro left the room, reassuring the man. Aizawa raised his brow, and Shinsou glared at him.
“Thank you… for erasing my quirk, I mean,” the man spoke.
“It’s alright. What’s your name?” Aizawa asked, shifting his gaze from Shinsou to the man before him.
The man hesitated for a moment, weighing his options before finally responding, likely hoping to remain in their good graces.
“Kosuke.”
“Alright, Kosuke, breathe.”
“What are you doing?” Shinsou asked in a hushed voice. They could hear Hachiro shuffling through cabinets in the kitchen.
“What are you doing?” Aizawa countered. He was aware of the risk in responding to Shinsou, but it was unlikely that he would brainwash him in this situation.
“A scared person always makes things more complicated,” Shinsou said in a matter-of-fact tone.
“My thoughts exactly,” Aizawa said. He would help Kosuke as much as he could with the options he had, even if just to remind him to breathe. He also needed his name for later.
Hachiro came back, his hands filled with some snacks and a glass of water. He tossed some biscuits to him and Shinsou and went to the man, pressing the glass to his lips. “Drink.”
“No, please!” Kosuke tilted his head back.
“Calm down. It’s just water. You just went through a messed-up near-death experience or something. So drink it or I’ll force it down your throat myself.”
Kosuke pressed his lips together but eventually opened them and began drinking. Shinsou was already munching on the biscuits. Aizawa opened the cover and glanced at them for a moment. This would definitely count as robbery. If it were Hizashi, he would have never consumed stolen food, and Aizawa couldn’t exactly fault him for that. However, Aizawa could view things more rationally. He hadn’t had a proper meal in three days, and they wouldn’t get anything tomorrow either. He needed the energy. Plus, he was supposed to be a villain here, and a villain didn’t care about ethics when they were starving.
So no, Aizawa didn’t hesitate to eat.
“Didn’t take you for the type to do, charity,” Aizawa said, pausing before uttering the last word, a direct reference to what Hachiro had told Shinsou when he realized the boy had shared with Aizawa.
“Yeah? Well, I almost died just now. So shut up about it and be grateful before I change my mind.” Hachiro slammed the now-empty glass on the table like it had personally offended him and made himself comfortable in the same spot on the couch.
“Now, why don’t you tell us how in the world you managed to find such an insane girlfriend in the first place, my unlucky dude.”
*******
Aizawa had plenty of time to gather his thoughts while Hachiro started babbling and chit-chatting with the man he had just beaten, as if it was perfectly normal. The excessive talkativeness was probably a reaction to the stress of what had just happened, Aizawa thought.
Aizawa tuned down the conversation to focus his mind and analyze the information he had gathered.
Shinsou said that rank 10 people don’t enter the organization just because they want to join. That was true. The organization was recruiting people who somehow had no other choice. There might be individuals being kept there against their will.
Shinsou also mentioned he had been there for six years. He must have been brought in when he was around ten—a kid. There could be more children in the organization right now, without any way out for them.
The biggest mystery from the beginning of this case was about how no one ever left the organization. And how the few members they arrested would always vanish from police stations or would end up dead when there was no evidence of anyone breaking in.
There was just one way to explain that: a quirk. But which one?
A teleportation, maybe?
That could actually explain the feeling of wrongness from earlier. How there was no way the building of the organization was actually the one Aizawa had seen. The places just didn’t match. There were no windows in their room or in the training room, yet that building had plenty. If the number of rooms that Aizawa saw and the size of the training room were any indication, the real building of the organization must be a lot bigger than the one they had left from earlier.
But there was also the issue with how they had to leave exactly at 13:00 and come back exactly at 15:00.
So maybe it was a time-based teleportation quirk?
But Aizawa didn’t see any gate, which was the case with most teleporting-type quirks.
He didn’t even feel anything.
There was also another strange issue.
The doors weren’t even locked in the building they were in.
The first night when Aizawa tried to leave the room, Shinsou said that he couldn’t ‘pass through the door of this room’. Those words were far too specifically chosen for it to be a coincidence. He also mentioned that ‘they would know who goes where’. In fact, he said ‘Home’ would know. So, a surveillance quirk, maybe?
He also had another problem: Shinsou’s quirk. A brainwashing quirk was rare, especially one this powerful. Mental quirks were usually limited to making a temptation or suggestion. Others would manipulate emotions, like instilling fear or love or even nausea. But a brainwashing quirk that could make you answer questions? It was just a bad match for him. If the teenager could make him answer his questions, there was a great chance Aizawa would give himself away.
He had to make sure Shinsou didn’t use his quirk on him. Aizawa didn’t know if he could erase Shinsou’s quirk while being brainwashed, and he wasn’t willing to risk it to find out. He had to make sure Shinsou never used his quirk on him. He just needed to figure out how.
If Shinsou were an adult, Aizawa would use force to make him comply. But Shinsou was just a kid, and Aizawa didn’t want to hurt him. He was probably already traumatized, and Aizawa didn’t want to add to the mix.
In the best-case scenario, he could make a deal with him. But deals could be broken. He probably had to scare him. Aizawa wasn’t unfamiliar with using fear as a means when dealing with teenagers. It was fast and effective. He couldn’t count how many times he had threatened expulsion or used his glowing red eyes or even his capture scarf to make his students listen to him. Those troublesome kids just didn’t know what was best for them, and Aizawa would use all the tools he had to make sure that when his students graduate, they graduate to be heroes who would live until retirement. He could not and would not tolerate them throwing their lives away like it’s something worthless.
He simply didn’t have the heart to see a student in a body bag.
Not ever again.
Not after Oboro.
But this was not the same. This wasn’t Aizawa protecting his students. This was Aizawa protecting his cover.
He wasn’t scared of what would happen to him if his cover were to be blown. Not one bit. He knew the risks from day one when he accepted this mission. No. He was scared of what would happen if he didn’t succeed in this mission. The events of today—the way they broke into a civilian’s house and tortured him—probably leaving lasting damage to his mental health; it was just one of the many crimes the organization was committing.
Before this, Aizawa simply didn’t know. But if people were to get hurt after this, after Aizawa infiltrated the organization, the organization wouldn’t be the only one responsible for the damage; it would also be Aizawa’s fault because he could have but failed to stop them in time.
He needed to see this through to the very end, at any cost. Because if he didn’t, there was no one else who could bring them down.
So, yeah. He had a problem, and that was Shinsou’s quirk. He would try to negotiate with him. But if that wasn’t enough, he would have to use other measures.
The ones that would make him doubt if he was really still a hero.
It was all just a big, fat trolley problem.
Notes:
Does anyone have any suggestions for this old problem?
By the way, don't ask me about Hachiro. I don't know him either.
¯\(◔_◔)/¯
I can't even tell if he was messing with the man when he said 5 million yen or if he was serious. His mood swings, is all I know.
Chapter 7: Some Shut-Eye
Summary:
After two sleepless nights since Aizawa arrived at the organization, Shinsou finally manages to get some shut-eye...
Or maybe not.
Notes:
TW: Panic attacks.
Me when I posted the first chapter:
"Don’t get disheartened if no one reads this."
Me seven chapters later:
"Never mind, I need more comments."Yes, I care a lot. No, I'm not indifferent.
...
I'm joking XD Thanks for all the feedback so far!
Have a nice rest of the week :))
Chapter Text
“Aizawa, change your clothes and grab your blindfold. You have some toilets to wash,” Hachiro said with a smirk as he turned and left without any further explanation. As Aizawa expected, they left exactly on time, re-entered the same building they had exited before, and arrived back at the organization’s headquarters.
They left Kosuke behind, blinded and tied up. He should be able to maneuver along the chair and reach for a knife to free himself. Aizawa wondered if there would come a day when he could apologize to him personally, even if it was meaningless after the damage they had caused.
Shinsou collapsed onto his bed. He hadn’t said anything since eating the biscuits. Sure, the kid wasn’t talkative in the first place, but something felt off to Aizawa, and he couldn’t quite place what it was.
“Cleaning toilets?” Aizawa asked after Hachiro closed the door.
“Home thinks cleaning duties are good for breaking newcomers’ spirits. She thinks it’s a good way to humiliate them,” Shinsou replied, sounding almost sympathetic.
“It’s working. I’m already feeling like I should reconsider my life choices,” Aizawa joked while maintaining a serious face.
But Shinsou only glared at him. “You should. Didn’t I tell you not to show what you hate?”
It was a direct question. Aizawa looked the boy dead in the eyes, trying to read him. He activated his erasu
r, even though he couldn’t sense any ulterior motives.
Shinsou flinched hard, not expecting Aizawa’s eyes to glow red all of a sudden. His wild eyes were covered by the violet hair falling over his face as his quirk deactivated. Aizawa felt a bit bad for that, especially since the teenager was just trying to be considerate of him, but he needed to make it clear that he didn’t want Shinsou to brainwash him.
Aizawa also didn’t know how to respond to the question. Earlier, he had tried to stop Hachiro from hurting the man further. He covered it up by saying he was generally worried about heroes finding out and that they could take the money he was offering instead.
But Shinsou somehow sensed what he was truly after. Hachiro probably did too when he ordered him to pick up from where he had left off.
He needed to level up his game if he wanted to keep up his act.
“You’re right. I’m sorry,” Aizawa eventually conceded.
“Whatever, I don’t care.” Shinsou looked away, wounded by Aizawa using his quirk, even if he was trying to act otherwise.
Aizawa sighed and deactivated his quirk. They would have to talk about it later. He changed and grabbed the blindfold, walking toward the door. But before he could exit, Shinsou surprised him with what he said.
“You did good today. Keep—uh, keep it up.”
Aizawa turned, and to his astonishment, Shinsou attempted to give him an encouraging smile.
The teenager was really trying his best to act as a good trainer.
“Thank you,” Aizawa nodded.
“Is there something you want? You can have a reward for successfully completing your first mission.”
“They give rewards for that?” Aizawa asked after activating his erasur again, though Shinsou was expecting it this time. It was strange. He remembered Shinsou saying that was the case for rank 8. ‘You can order an item you want each time you succeed in a mission,’ as he had said about rank 8, but not about rank 10.
Now that he thought about it, Shinsou hadn’t said anything specific about rank 10.
“It’s just because it was your first mission,” Shinsou shrugged.
“Alright. I’ll think about it while my spirit is being broken.” Aizawa twisted his lips into a half-smirk, hoping it would atone a bit for using his erasur like that.
The last thing Aizawa saw was Shinsou nodding before he locked the blindfold around his head. Hachiro clicked his tongue when he exited the room and muttered “What a pain,” before grabbing him by the upper arm to direct him.
They reached a door and a staircase beyond that.
So they really were underground.
They exited the staircase and entered what felt like another corridor. When Hachiro shoved the key into the lock behind his head and opened it, a room came into view. The room was slightly bigger than theirs and had only one bed. It had a closet and other furniture, as well as a personal washroom with a shower. Still, no windows.
This must be what Shinsou meant by a ‘better room’ for rank 6. Aizawa assumed they were in the room of one of the rank 6 members. The room was lived in and in decent need of cleaning.
“Rhino and the others won’t be back until night. Clean this room from head to toe. There are two other rooms you need to clean before midnight. Don’t touch their stuff unless you have a death wish. I don’t want to see a single speck of dust here once I’m back. Capiche?” Hachiro explained while handing him some cleaning products and napkins.
“What was your rank again?” Aizawa asked, pretending to be annoyed. He wasn’t; this was a good opportunity for him to gather information. A free ticket to inspect the personal belongings of a probably mutant-type with a rhinoceros quirk and two other higher-ranked members of the organization? Finally, something useful to do.
“Don’t get ahead of yourself, infant,” Hachiro spat, shutting the door behind him with impressive force.
*******
Aizawa returned feeling utterly spent—not to mention that he stunk. He hadn’t gathered as much information as he had originally hoped. Two of the rooms contained few personal belongings: no weapons, no communicators or mobile phones, no diary or notebook. No pictures—just some drugs in one of the rooms, obviously for personal use. The third room was no better, but he managed to find a fake photo ID.
It didn’t feel right. They were probably not allowed to have some of those items. If the way his interrogators instructed him upon entering the organization was any indication, they all had to depart from their past lives; their identities, their families, their friends. That was part of why there was so little information about this organization: they were restrictively secretive for their own good.
Another possibility was that maybe they were afraid to possess any belongings related to their personal lives for some reason.
When Hachiro finally approved that Aizawa’s cleaning was acceptable enough—those damn bathrooms were impossible to clean, thank you very much—it was past midnight. As Aizawa entered their room, he found Shinsou already passed out on his bed. He was lying beside a… textbook?
Aizawa blinked in the dim light to adjust his eyes. He scanned the open page. It was elementary-level chemistry.
He looked over at the teenager slumped on his bed. Shinsou’s face was relaxed, but even in sleep, he looked impossibly exhausted. Aizawa ran a hand over his short hair and breathed deeply.
God, Shinsou was just a kid.
He should be at school, playing and talking with friends, growing up in a warm and nurturing home with caring parents. He should be eating proper food and developing healthy teenage habits. He should be getting into trouble like a normal teenager—laughing, running, studying, and—
God, he shouldn’t be here.
Villain or not, he was still a child.
He shouldn’t be trapped, after breaking into a man’s house to beat him because he had broken up with his crazy girlfriend and nearly gotten killed in the process. He shouldn’t be assigned to train a middle-aged stranger who had apparently killed a hero—a murderer. He shouldn’t be forced to wear a damn muzzle every time he wanted to leave his room.
He shouldn’t be starving because he was kind enough to share his food. He shouldn’t be here with a man who erased his quirk just because he had asked why he wasn’t more careful about hiding what he despised from those who would force it on him.
He shouldn’t be so skinny, so scared, so tired.
Aizawa had to speed things up. He needed to figure out their location, identify their members, uncover their connections and quirks—everything. Fast. He needed to find a way to contact Hizashi and even HPSC if necessary.
Aizawa reached for the thin blanket that had been tossed aside, but then he hesitated, his hand stopping midair.
‘You can’t come near my bed. My bed is my place.’
That was one of the first things Shinsou had told him. What had happened to make him feel the need to declare such a thing? Aizawa pondered.
He withdrew his hand. The room was cool but not unbearably cold. He wanted to respect Shinsou’s request.
Instead, Aizawa went back to his bed. He wasn’t used to having so much time for sleep. Two years ago, he had to patrol at night and teach during the day while also preparing lectures and grading assignments and exams after classes. He would sleep whenever he could find the time, even during classes when his students didn’t need his attention. Not to mention he fueled himself by caffeine all the time.
He wasn’t really accustomed to having so much time to sleep.
That’s why he didn’t sleep much that night, his mind occupied with future plans and the information he had gathered.
******
He must have dozed off somewhere in the middle of his thoughts because Aizawa woke up to the sounds of whining and shifting.
Aizawa stirred from where he was lying and looked over at Shinsou’s bed. The boy was shifting around, making occasional sounds of discomfort. His eyebrows were knitted together, and his features twisted in distress.
He is having a nightmare.
Aizawa didn’t really know how to approach a child experiencing night terrors; that wasn’t a skill he needed as a teacher. But he couldn’t just leave Shinsou like that.
He stood up and took a step toward the boy, keeping his distance to give him space if he needed it.
“Shinsou,” Aizawa said in a low voice, trying not to startle him.
But Shinsou didn’t wake up.
“Shinsou,” Aizawa tried again, a bit louder this time.
No change.
“Hey, Shinsou! Wake up,” he urged for a third time, and the boy suddenly gasped and jolted upright. He looked at Aizawa with unfocused eyes, panting. His face was wet with sweat, his pupils dilated, and his hair messier than usual.
“It’s okay. You were having a nightmare.” Or was it a memory? Aizawa thought bitterly.
The boy suddenly froze, completely still. Aizawa could see he even stopped breathing. His eyes grew impossibly wide, coming into focus on Aizawa’s face.
“I’m sorry,” Shinsou whispered in a way that Aizawa had to strain to hear him. Aizawa frowned slightly and raised his hand, palm facing the boy in an attempt to gesture that it was fine, but that was the wrong move.
The moment Aizawa moved his hand, Shinsou flinched and pushed himself away from Aizawa until he hit the opposite wall.
“I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” he said in a shaking voice, raising his hands defensively.
“It’s alright. It was just a dream. You’re awake now,” Aizawa said, his hand frozen awkwardly in mid-air—not at his side and not completely raised either. Shinsou probably wasn’t fully awake and was mistaking Aizawa for whoever he had seen in his nightmare. He needed to make him realize he wasn’t dreaming anymore.
“I-I know. I—p-please, Aizawa, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry! I didn’t m-mean to. I-I’ll—just give me—just give me a moment, plea-please,” Shinsou said in broken words. His breathing quickened even more than during the nightmare.
Aizawa.
Realization hit him.
And it hit hard.
Shinsou wasn’t scared because of the nightmare he had, nor was he having a hallucination of some sort. No.
He was afraid of Aizawa.
He was afraid of him.
Shinsou probably misinterpreted Aizawa’s momentary shock as something else, rushing to plead between gasps as he began to shake.
“I’m so s-sorry—I’m …. sorry, I’m sor-ry! Please, please—I didn’t mean … to wake you up. Pleas—please! ... I’ll shut up! I can fix it. I’ll … fix it. Just g-give me a moment. I just … need a moment—I’ll make this s- ... stop. I’m sorry, sorry, … please-,”
Shinsou was hyperventilating, repeating those words over and over again. Aizawa found himself frozen uselessly in place. Because Shinsou was having a panic attack, and it was because he was scared Aizawa was going to hurt him? For what? Having a nightmare? Making noise? Waking him up?
“Alright, it’s okay. I’m not going to hurt you, Shinsou. I promise. I’m going back to my bed now,” Aizawa tried to comfort him, but it wasn’t working. The boy flinched again and curled in on himself, attempting to make himself smaller.
Shinsou probably couldn’t even register Aizawa’s words right now, not over the rush of panic.
Aizawa forced himself to move because it wasn’t the time to be shocked. He slowly retreated to his bed, trying to announce all of his movements until he reached it. He lowered himself onto the bed slowly—first sitting and then lying down—keeping his hands unmoving the entire time.
Shinsou waited for a bit, looking at Aizawa in disbelief. He was gasping for air, shaking, and his clothes were becoming damp with sweat. When he figured Aizawa was giving him time, he slowly moved toward the end of his bed, placing his fingers at one end of the metallic footboard and tracing it along its length to the other corner, inhaling with difficulty as he did so. Then he reversed the movement, trailing his fingers back to the same corner while exhaling in shaky, uneven bursts.
At first, his breaths were erratic, but after repeating the action several times, they finally began to slow down and even out.
It was a smart technique. During a panic attack, time and space perception becomes disoriented and vague. That’s why another person often has to guide someone through their breathing by asking them to mimic their pace. Connecting the rhythm of breath with a constant length in space is effective when you have no clear idea of what pace is too fast and what is too slow. You may not have a proper understanding of time, but grounding yourself with a constant in space can help guide you through the panic.
When his breathing slowed a little, Shinsou slowly moved out of his bed and walked to the sink in the corner of the room. Something about how hard he was trying to be quiet made Aizawa's chest hurt, but he couldn’t offer reassurance given the current circumstances.
It was okay. You are allowed to make noises.
Aizawa was not mad.
He wanted to say those things, but he couldn’t. He was afraid any word might send Shinsou into another panic.
Aizawa closed his eyes and pretended to be asleep instead. That was the least he could do.
He listened to the sound of water as Shinsou drank a bit and then splashed some on his sweaty face.
The boy came back and slowly opened the lower drawer of the nightstand. Aizawa could feel Shinsou’s constant gaze on him, as if he were worried Aizawa would suddenly jump out of bed and attack him.
Shinsou took something out of the drawer and closed it slowly. He then returned to his bed. A moment later, Aizawa heard a sound similar to the noise of screwing open the lid of a jar.
He heard some shifting on the bed, and then he smelled a strong scent in the air.
Mint?
It sounded like Shinsou was applying something with a mint scent.
Breathing exercises, drinking water, washing his face, and using a scented product—these were all grounding techniques.
It was a routine.
Did he learn all that on his own?
How many times did he have to navigate a panic attack on his own?
He was probably forced to be self-sufficient like that.
Aizawa pretended to be sleeping, but he was counting and listening to Shinsou’s breathing. He could feel a pair of eyes on him the entire time, but eventually, the boy dozed off. The nightmare and the panic must have drained him; otherwise, Shinsou likely would have preferred not to sleep for the rest of the night.
Watching Aizawa instead.
Chapter 8: Fourteen Plus One
Summary:
Aizawa and Shinsou talk about their previous night, and Shinsou spirals down into some dark places and some less dark ones.
Notes:
TW: Child abuse, belt, past child abuse flashbacks, nightmares.
At first, I titled this chapter "My End of the Deal," but then I changed it to "Fourteen Plus One" for a reason that I will reveal later on. Please mind the TWs.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Hitoshi woke up to the sound of a flush. As he came to, he was met with two sensations: hunger and drowsiness, as if he hadn’t gotten any sleep last night. He groaned, remembering that they weren’t going to get any food today either.
Why was he being starved again?
He thought back to all his trainers: more than six years, fifteen trainers. He had been tossed around to different rooms and different trainers, just like the handful that he was.
No, Hitoshi didn’t want to count Shiko in the same group as his other trainers. Fourteen plus Shiko. That was better.
Fourteen trainers, some of whom never even told him their names, let alone their full names. And then there was Shiko.
“People call me Rope, but fuck them! I hate that name. My real name is Shiko Shikamaru. You can call me whatever you like, but all my friends call me by my name—Shiko. You can call me Shiko too, now that we are friends!” Shiko said with her cheerful voice and a wild grin lighting up her face.
‘No, they are not friends!’ Hitoshi thought at that time. ‘Hitoshi had never had a friend. Besides, they had only met few times in trainings or some missions. She didn’t really know Hitoshi if she thinks they are friends.’
“B-But H-Home said we’re not allowed to use our f-full names ever again,” Hitoshi said, trying to control the overwhelming fear he felt whenever someone broke a rule—especially now, with this loud and cheerful girl with messy short orange hair who was breaking the name rule.
“Then don’t call me that when others can hear. How about that? Call me Shiko only if it’s just you and me. What do you say?”
What did he say? Hitoshi didn’t really remember. He recalled how he hadn’t told her his own full name for a long time. He had been in the organization for a year already when Shiko became his trainer, but even that had been enough to break him. He was broken, and shattered, and lost. He didn’t dare defy Home, even if it was just to tell Shiko his full name. Shiko had to put him back together piece by piece all by herself. She had to patch him up anew.
He made her call him Shinsou for almost two months. He was an idiot. He didn’t like the memories of her calling him anything but ‘Toshi; he didn’t like hearing the same name that Home and others used coming from Shiko’s mouth.
Fourteen plus one trainer, and only Shiko had ever told him her full name. Fourteen plus one trainer, and only Shiko had ever known his full name.
Fourteen plus one trainer, and only Shiko wasn’t afraid of his quirk.
“You can brainwash people?” Shiko asked.
Hitoshi closed his eyes, pressed his lips together, and braced himself. Here it comes: the fear, the shock, the disgust, the hatred. This is where she finally understands how dangerous he is. This is where she leaves him—
“That’s sooo cooool!” she practically shouted, vibrating with excitement. Hitoshi opened his eyes, not believing his ears. And there, in those brown and lively eyes, he swears he saw stars.
“That’s so darn cool, Shinsou! That’s so powerful, so unique! You are exceptional, Shinsou! Man, imagine what you can do with your quirk. You can order those idiot excuse of a human around you like a king! You can make Corpse tap dance—fuck, how funny would that be? Can you imagine?” She laughed, hugging her belly as if that was the funniest thing in the world.
“Wait, wait, even better! You can make Home hug Hachiro! Imagine Hachiro’s face if you do that!” She bent over, laughing so hard that Hitoshi found himself chuckling too. Except he wasn’t really laughing.
“Oh, holy shit, you can—” She straightened up and looked up at him. The moment she did, her ear-to-ear grin fell. That’s what he always did; he took away her happiness. He took away her smile. He made her sad.
“Shinsou?”
She looked worried and sad, and it was all his fault.
“I’m sorry.” Shiko said.
No, no, no. He was the one who should apologize, not Shiko!
“I-, I didn’t mean to make you sad.” Shiko said apologetically.
No, don’t say that; he was the one making her sad.
But he couldn’t say those things because he had a big, fat ball of sadness in his throat, squeezing it and making it sore. He just couldn’t stop the stupid tears from falling.
Because no one had ever told him his quirk was cool. Not ever. Always villainous, always unacceptable, always disgusting, always monstrous, always scary.
Never cool. Never powerful. Never unique.
He was ‘villain’, not ‘king’.
He felt Shiko wrapping her arms around him. He flinched, but she didn’t let him go. She hugged him, and he cried and cried and cried.
And she held him through it.
Fourteen plus one trainer, and Shiko was the only one who had ever asked him to use his quirk on her. Fourteen plus one trainer, and she was the only one who trained his quirk.
“Let’s see if you can make me do a backflip!”
Turned out he couldn’t, and she hit the ground hard with her back. She was laughing even though she couldn’t breathe from how hard she fell. And Hitoshi was crying because he made her fall.
“Why are you … crying, Shinsou? … I’m the idiot one … who asked you to make me … do a backflip,” she said, trying to breathe, stop laughing, and calm him at the same time.
“Oh! I know! How about you make me sing? Or dance? Oh. My. God! Order me to fly! Let’s see what I will do. Maybe I’ll start flapping my arms! That would be so hilarious!”
Fourteen plus one trainer, and Shiko was the only one who shared her food with him, who starved for him.
Fourteen plus one trainer, and Shiko was the only one who bought him anything. She was the only one who gave him gifts.
Fourteen plus one trainer, and she was always the ‘only’. The exception.
That’s why he swore to himself he would never be like his other fourteen trainers. He swore he would never do what they did to him. No. He would be like Shiko. Not like Sir, not like Nanausea, not like the rest of them.
If he were to ever became someone’s trainer, he would do what Shiko did for him.
So that’s why he was hungry now. He was trying to be like Shiko. He was doing it for her.
Not for Aizawa-
Aizawa…
Last night.
Last fucking night!
Hitoshi jolted awake, sitting up in his bed.
He woke him up. In the middle of the fucking night.
Hitoshi swallowed. All the memories from last night came rushing back to him all at once. He had been having a nightmare about his family, and he had woken Aizawa up. Adults hate it when he does that. When he has nightmares and wake them up at the middle of the night. They would always get mad. He tried so hard to make himself stop, but he still had nightmares like a toddler. He couldn’t even sleep like a normal person. He just had to make noises and wake up his trainers, disturbing them while they were resting.
They would always get mad. And Aizawa was mad too. Last night, he could swear Aizawa was going to hit him. He was already halfway to his bed. But then he stopped and went back to sleep.
That…
was strange.
But Hitoshi was grateful, nonetheless. He just needed a second to calm himself down. And grown-ups were not usually patient enough to give him that time. But Aizawa did.
He really was the patient type.
Hitoshi waited for him to wake up and punish him after he quieted himself down, but the man just slept? Hitoshi waited for him to make his move. And he waited. But after some time, Hitoshi fell asleep, too.
He didn’t plan to do that.
He wanted to keep an eye on Aizawa.
At the very least, he wanted to wake up sooner than him.
Yet, he messed even that up. The man was already awake.
Now that he thought about it, Hitoshi finally understood. The man was probably just too tired to deal with his shit last night. He went to sleep, which meant he was likely saving his punishment for the morning when he wasn’t tired anymore.
Aizawa was probably more like Nanausea. She liked to play with him, making him feel like he wasn’t in trouble, only to use her quirk when Hitoshi let his guard down. She was so fucking patient. She could wait as long as necessary to catch him off guard. Those three months with her were the worst Hitoshi had ever experienced; even worst than Sir if he had to choose.
Yeah, he would choose Sir over Nanausea.
Or maybe not.
Aizawa finished washing his face and pushed the curtain aside. He looked at Hitoshi, who tried not to move.
What would he do? What would Aizawa do?
Hitoshi still hadn’t seen the man angry. He still didn’t know his methods. One thing was clear, though: he hated Hitoshi’s quirk; he made that clear when he nullified it yesterday. Hitoshi wasn’t even trying to brainwash him.
What would he do? Use the belt? The muzzle? Just plain biting? Take away his food? (Well, that option was off the table for now.) Make him stand until his legs gave out? Or perhaps he’d confiscate Hitoshi’s belongings. Not that he had many to begin with. Maybe he’d even keep him awake at night—an eye for an eye, as some of his trainers liked to say.
What was Hitoshi going to do? Should he use his rank as leverage to intimidate the man, warning him that there would be consequences if he hurt Hitoshi?
But would he even take him seriously?
Home definitely didn’t care if Aizawa did something to him. Ranks didn’t work that way. A Rank 10 wouldn’t hurt a Rank 7—not because it was a rule, but because they simply couldn’t. It was about strength. Because a rank 7 was stronger than a rank 10.
Hitoshi tried his best to make the man recognize his authority here. He even tried to beat him up in the sparring match to establish dominance. Hitoshi hoped he could actually overpower the man, but Aizawa was good at fighting, and he was strong. Worst of all, Hitoshi couldn’t even use his quirk against him.
Maybe he should apologize.
Maybe he should fight.
Maybe he should use his quirk.
No! That was a terrible plan. Aizawa had already seen the muzzle. What if he forced it on him like some of his trainers did after he used his quirk?
He should probably just apologize. But that would make him seem weak. That would show how much he hated being punished.
Rule number two: Never let anyone know what you hate.
Maybe he should just accept whatever Aizawa decided to do. Maybe it wouldn’t be—
“Morning,” Aizawa said.
Hitoshi tensed all his muscles and stopped himself from flinching by force. He just realized Aizawa was looking at him. And Hitoshi was looking back. How long had they been just staring at each other like that?
“Morning.” Hitoshi answered, trying to appear indifferent.
Stop being a scared toddler, Hitoshi!
Hitoshi scolded himself. He tried to remind himself that none of this was new to him. He probably deserved whatever Aizawa was going to do anyway.
Hitoshi looked at the man’s hands as he wiped them dry against his pants. He stopped moving them for a second, then put both of them in the pockets of his pants.
For some reason, that eased his nerves a bit. Aizawa was restraining himself by doing that, but Hitoshi wasn’t going to point it out.
“How are you feeling?”
“I’m fine.” Hitoshi said those words as natural as breathing air.
Aizawa nodded and walked toward his bed. He was moving uncharacteristically slowly. When he reached the bed, he didn’t sit on it. Instead, he sat on the…
ground?
He leaned against his bed, and then he put both his hands on his laps. Hitoshi had to look down at him from where he was sitting on his bed, which honestly,
wasn’t all that bad.
“Last night…,” Aizawa began after a second.
Fuck.
Here it comes.
“… I’m sorry that I scared you. I didn’t mean to.” Aizawa said.
Huh?
“I wasn’t scared,” Hitoshi found himself saying automatically. Don’t let them know you are scared.
“I wasn’t mad at you, and I’m not mad now. I’m sorry if I did something that made you think otherwise.”
Hitoshi frowned.
What is this?
Even Nanausea wouldn’t go this far to deceive him.
“I want you to know that I had and have no intention of hurting you. I don’t mind you having nightmares, and I don’t mind you waking me up. It’s completely normal to have nightmares. everyone experiences them. Even I have nightmares sometimes. There is nothing to be—,”
‘I don’t mind you waking me up.’
‘I don’t mind you having nightmares.’
‘You should learn to break this bad habit, son.’
‘I will help you through it. I will show you how to behave appropriately.’
‘I won’t tolerate you still having night terrors at this age.’
‘A respectable and well-behaved young man would never disturb others when they are resting.’
He was panting, and his face was wet from how much he had been sweating.
He couldn’t breathe. There was not enough air in the room. It was dark. It was too dark. Is he dreaming? Is he awake? Where is he? With which one of his trainers?
He could still see images from the nightmare he was having. He was being brought to the Chair. He was screaming for help; he was trying to escape. But when he entered the Chair room, the Chair was already occupied. Shiko was sitting there. And there was blood—there was blood everywhere. He tried to open her hands. He tried to free her. He tried to help. But he was small again, and he couldn’t reach—
He woke up with something hitting his cheek. It immediately brought him out of the Chair room and back into his bed. His cheek was throbbing and it was hot, like all the blood in his body had drained and rushed to his cheek. The eye above his hot cheek was watering. His vision was blurry.
“Do you understand, son?”
“No.” he said, without even comprehending what that ‘No’ meant.
“It’s alright. I will make you understand.”
Hitoshi heard the sound of a belt unbuckling. Then he heard it being taken off. Suddenly, his body filled with ice.
“Stand up.”
Sir said, his voice calm as always.
Hitoshi wasn’t sure if he was awake yet. Where was Shiko? Was she still in the Chair room? He should go save her. He should tell Home it wasn’t her fault—
Something gripped his hair, and his vision went white despite how dark the room was. He cried out in pain and tried to break free.
His efforts were rewarded with another slap to the same cheek. It hurt just enough to ground him, and he was suddenly back in the present. He was standing near his bed, and right beside him was Sir. He looked calm, but he was cold.
He did something, didn’t he? He did something bad again. He made a mistake. What did he do? It was night, he was sleeping, he had been dreaming about Shiko, he had a nightmare—
Oh.
He had woken up Sir.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
“You know the routine, don’t you, Shinsou?”
‘Shinsou’, not ‘son’. He really fucked up this time.
“No, please. Please. I’m sorry.” He started shaking despite how hot the room was.
“I know you are. But I should teach you not to forget it. Now, you know what to do.” Sir said, still calm. “Bent over.”
Hitoshi felt tears running down his cheeks. He wanted to apologize. He wanted to refuse. He wanted to say that he was sorry. That it won’t happen again. That he knows what he did was wrong. That there was no need for Sir to do this.
But it was too late.
And he knew how Sir would respond to arguing.
“Yes, Sir,” Hitoshi muttered.
“Shinsou?”
He did what he was told.
The sooner he obeyed, the sooner it would be over.
He knelt beside his bed, pressing his chest and stomach against the mattress. Reaching for his blanket, he clenched it tightly in his fists to keep his hands from moving.
The belt struck his back, searing at the impact. He bit his lip and held his breath, trying to suppress any sounds from escaping.
The belt hit the same spot again, and Hitoshi held back a whine. If he remained quiet, it would end sooner.
If he could stay still, it would end faster.
The third—
“Shinsou!”
Hitoshi jolted out of the memory and back to reality.
“Huh?” Hitoshi said and then he winced.
Why was he wincing?
Aizawa was looking at him. His usually tired eyes were wider than usual, but he hadn’t moved from his spot on the ground. His hands remained still on his lap, and his legs were crossed where he sat.
Did he zone out?
Fuck.
“S-sorry, I got distracted a bit. What were you saying—,” Shit, shit, shit, “You were saying something.” He corrected himself.
Aizawa just stared at him for a few seconds. Just when Hitoshi began to think the man wouldn’t say anything, he spoke again.
“Yeah, I was saying how I don’t mind, uh,” Aizawa closed his mouth and sighed through his nose.
“You are my trainer, Shinsou.” He decided to say instead.
Hitoshi straightened up at that.
“Your rank is higher than mine, and I respect that. I respect you. It’s one of the rules here to respect the higher rankings, am I correct?” Aizawa continued.
Hitoshi nodded. That was exactly what he wanted Aizawa to believe from day one. It wasn’t really a rule, though. If lower ranks were disrespectful toward higher ranks, they were put in their places—by sheer force.
Not because it was the rule, but because they had the power to do so.
Which Hitoshi didn’t have.
But please, don’t let Aizawa figure that out.
But if Aizawa was going to believe it was a rule without Hitoshi having to prove it to him, he wasn’t going to say anything about it.
“You said your rank is 7, and mine is 10. So, I can’t hurt you or offend you. Because you are my superior,” Aizawa said. The phrase ‘until I advance in ranking’ remained unspoken.
“That’s right,” Hitoshi said, suddenly feeling more confident than a few minutes ago.
“And that’s what I plan to do. I’m not after any trouble here. I just want to mind my own business. I need the organization to keep me safe from the heroes, and for that, I’m willing to follow the rules.” Aizawa said, his voice steady and calm.
“That’s good.” Hitoshi nodded, still feeling a bit dazed.
“I want us to be able to work together while we are here, and I want to learn from you to improve in combat. That being said, I think it’s best if we set some ground rules for each other and follow them.”
“Okay,” Hitoshi said, and he meant it. It was always easier to know the rules rather than guess and live in fear of crossing some unspoken line.
Aizawa paused, searching Hitoshi’s face. He probably found what he was looking for because he nodded and continued, “My rule for you is that you never use your quirk on me. Never. Not even in training.”
Hitoshi wished he could say he was surprised. He wasn’t. That was the most cliché rule ever. That wasn’t even really a rule; it was a default in his life. Even his parents had that rule; the only difference was that they never physically punished him for breaking it, they didn’t hurt him for it.
He wanted to laugh. He wanted to comment sarcastically, ‘That’s it?’
But he didn’t.
It wasn’t really all that funny. All his trainers had that rule; except for Shiko, that is.
They didn’t even have to ask him nicely to follow it. They would muzzle him if they sensed he was even thinking of brainwashing them.
“Well?” Aizawa asked.
“Alright.” Hitoshi said.
“Thank you.” Thank you? “Now you can set a rule for me as well.” Huh?
“I set a rule for you,” Hitoshi repeated.
What is this?
What. in. the. hell. is this?
First, there was the lie about not minding Hitoshi waking him up. Then the nonsense about respecting him because he was higher in ranks. And now this.
“Yes. You are my trainer; it’s only natural for you to set a rule or two for me.”
Oh.
Maybe he was right. Hitoshi had never been a trainer before. He didn’t really know what it meant.
He honestly expected Aizawa to suddenly laugh at how naïve Hitoshi was for believing all this, for falling for such an obvious joke. To tell him it was all a lie, that he was just messing with him.
That it was all an act.
A show.
A deception.
It might as well be one.
But Hitoshi had nothing to lose.
“No beatings and no muzzles,” he said without needing to think about it.
If Aizawa wanted to laugh at Hitoshi for being naïve enough to think such a rule was even an option, this would be a good time. Because no beatings and no muzzles? That was outright impossible—
“Alright. No beatings and no muzzles. We have a deal,” Aizawa said without hesitation, without even a crack in his ever-so-stoic face. He showed no indication that he felt Hitoshi’s rule had been absorbed.
“We have a deal,” Hitoshi said, and he would think about what that meant later.
Because it certainly didn’t mean “no beatings and no muzzles.” Villains would never agree to that. Even if they did, it was obviously a lie.
Hitoshi had trusted them far too many times and had gotten hurt every single time. So no, he didn’t believe it.
But for now, he was going to keep his own end of the deal.
Because if there was even the slightest chance that Aizawa wasn’t joking, that he really meant it, Hitoshi was going to grab that chance and hold it tight.
Aizawa nodded firmly, as if it was really that simple for him to agree.
“We have a deal,” Aizawa repeated, emphasizing his words.
“And Shinsou,” Aizawa said, like he had suddenly remembered something. “I thought about what I want as a reward for the first mission we had.”
“Uh, right.” Hitoshi had almost forgotten about that. “Tell me, and I’ll tell Hachiro.”
“I think I want a radio.”
Notes:
Okay, just to be clear, Sir isn’t Shinsou’s father. He calls him 'son,' but he is actually Shinsou’s last trainer.
Chapter 9: Not Done Fighting
Summary:
Next training session; and Aizawa watches as Shinsou spars with a stronger opponent.
Notes:
TW: Canon-Typical Violence
Okay, I'm gonna settle on weekly updates from now on :)
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
When Aizawa woke up, he knew what the most urgent matter to attend was: a talk.
He just wished Hizashi were there to help him. He was much better than Aizawa when it came to handling sensitive conversations and scared children. Aizawa would rather hunt down whoever made a child think they needed to apologize for having a nightmare and ensure they had nightmares of their own for the rest of their life, instead of doing the talk.
But Hizashi wasn't there. So he had to do it himself.
After washing his face and hands, Shinsou woke up. He tensed when he saw Aizawa, and Aizawa tried not to show how much that stung. Was Shinsou still afraid of him because of last night?
They just stared at each other for a while. The boy seemed out of it for some reason, and then he started to chase Aizawa’s hands with his eyes while Aizawa dried them on his pants. Aizawa could almost hear what he was thinking—waiting for him to lash out and hurt him.
Maybe Aizawa was going to give the bastards who hurt this boy more than just nightmares.
He walked slowly and sat on the ground instead of his bed, making himself as small and non-threatening as possible, placing his hands on his lap where Shinsou could see them.
And then he began the talk.
Aizawa apologized to Shinsou for startling him last night and explained that he had no intention of doing so. He told the boy that he didn’t mind him having nightmares or waking him up at night. He shared that he was used to only getting a little sleep and usually couldn’t sleep well anyway.
He reassured him that nightmares were natural—he had them too.
The boy looked at him with disbelief when Aizawa said he didn’t mind being woken up, as if that was unfathomable and wrong. And then Shinsou zoned out, and Aizawa could tell he wasn’t listening anymore.
Aizawa didn’t know what to do. What if he startled Shinsou again and made him panic?
He gave the boy some time, then tried to call him back when it seemed giving time wasn’t working. Shinsou appeared paler than usual when he returned to the present. Whatever he was thinking about probably wasn’t pleasant. That was when Aizawa realized his approach wasn’t working.
Deciding to change tactics, Aizawa tried to use the ranking system to reassure the boy that he was safe—because he doubted Shinsou would believe him if he said it plainly and directly. It seemed to work; the color slowly returned to Shinsou’s face.
When Aizawa brought up setting rules, it seemed like it was music to Shinsou’s ears.
But when Aizawa established a rule, the boy’s disbelief returned— even worse than before. It worsened when Aizawa said he would follow the rule Shinsou sat.
‘No beatings and no muzzles’? It made Aizawa sick to his stomach that a child would even ask him that. He felt even worse knowing Shinsou didn’t hesitate before asking; as if he’d had it ready in his mind for years. But Aizawa agreed without hesitation, not arguing that it wasn’t even supposed to be a rule, but rather, it should be a goddamn default.
By the end of their conversation, Aizawa could tell Shinsou was still processing and he seemed skeptical, but he wasn’t scared anymore. For now, he considered that a small victory.
*******
-“Don’t hold your fists so tight.”
-“Now you’re holding them too loose!”
+“Like this?”
-“No, you’re leaving your back exposed.”
-“Better. Again.”
-“Use your height as an advantage.”
-“No! Like this.”
-“Shit.”
+“You okay? Sorry about that.”
-“I’m fine. Again.”
Shinsou attacked again, and Aizawa brought up his guard. Shinsou was teaching him a block that was technically at least 60% wrong, but it would work sometimes. Aizawa tried to mimic it anyway, because at least Shinsou sounded like he was enjoying this. He deserved some time to do something that didn’t make him feel insecure, and training Aizawa was apparently it.
Aizawa knew the feeling. Teaching was endlessly tiring, but all that tiredness was rewarded when the student finally pulled off the move. Not that Aizawa was ever going to admit that to anyone.
Maybe Aizawa would teach Shinsou the correct form of this block one day, after he was done with this mission.
“Alright, that was less terrible than the first ten times.” Shinsou took a step back to catch his breath.
So, Shinsou was not the type to praise easily, too. How ironic.
“Thanks, sensei.” Aizawa joked with a straight face. Shinsou looked at him for a second, processing what Aizawa had just called him. His eyes widened, and his mouth turned into a faint upside-down V for just a brief second before he looked away, scratching the back of his neck and muttering, “Whatever.”
Aizawa tilted his head down to hide his smile— except there was no capture weapon around his neck to hid his chin it. Aizawa sighed inwardly; that habit was hard to shake off.
“Hand-to-hand sparring time!” the woman with gorilla arms shouted. “Snitch, with Zealot. Oxy-man, you’re with Sharp Blade. Sickle Claw, against Chomper. Shinsou, you’re up against Tesla. You,” the woman pointed at him, clearly not knowing his name yet, “you’re with Needle Hair. Mummy and Yashamaru, you two against each other…”
Aizawa memorized all the names and categorized their quirks. According to their fighting skills, their ranks must be somewhere around 10 to 7 or 6 at highest. This Needle Hair was a middle-aged woman with the ability to control her gray hair. She must be a rank 10 if they were against each other, and that Tesla must be ranked 7 if he was against Shinsou.
Aizawa stood across from Needle Hair, who was inspecting him with a shit-eating grin. Aizawa gave her one of his best I-can’t-care-less-about-this-shit looks and started the sparring. He erased her quirk, and her hair fell down over her face, blocking her view. Her grin quickly turned to shock, and Aizawa used that to his advantage and attacked her. He would have finished her in 2 seconds as pro-hero Eraserhead, but the villain Aizawa took about 1 minute before knocking her off. She didn’t stand back up again after that.
He needed to advance in rankings, and this was the first step. Shinsou had said that to advance, one should defeat all the people in the same rank and succeed in enough missions— whatever ‘enough’ meant. At least defeating those in the same rank was clear.
He looked around the room and watched others fighting. Home was not there today, and he still hadn’t seen Izaier or Corpse. Aizawa saw a flash of electricity and then heard a loud scream of pain. He turned his face toward the sound, a pang of horror in his gut. When he caught sight of Shinsou, he had to lock all his muscles to stop himself from lunging forward to protect the boy, just as he would for his students during a villain attack.
Not too far away from him, Shinsou was lying on the ground, his muscles spasming occasionally with the remnants of electricity in his body. Aizawa took an involuntary step toward the boy when Shinsou struggled to get up, but he stopped abruptly in his path;
and then he saw it.
Shinsou brought himself up from the ground into a crouching position, and he laughed.
He laughed. Almost savage and rebellious and—
dangerous.
“What was that, Tesla? That embarrassing excuse for a sparkle didn’t even tickle.” Shinsou grinned mockingly.
Aizawa considered his options before reminding himself of where he was. He masked his face with indifference, but he struggled to grasp the picture in front of him. He had never seen Shinsou smile freely, let alone laugh. And he had just been struck by electricity from his opponent, Tesla.
And he was mocking him.
He was trying to provoke the man.
Shinsou suddenly sprang from his crouching position toward Tesla and landed a punch on the man’s torso. But the moment his knuckles connected, electricity surged through his hand, and his entire body sagged from the shock. He screamed again, shocked back down to the ground.
“How are you even gonna face Nikola in the afterlife with such a weak electricity, Tesla?” Shinsou teased, his head down, holding his injured fist with his other hand.
Aizawa held back a wince at the third flash of electricity and the uncontrollable scream that followed. Shinsou dropped to the ground, and Tesla, snarling with anger, stood over him, grabbing a fistful of Shinsou’s purple hair. He lifted the boy’s head with one hand while his other fist retreated back, ready to strike. That’s when Aizawa saw it.
Shinsou’s eyes.
They were glowing with determination.
Tesla landed a fist on Shinsou’s chin, but the boy’s head couldn’t snap back because of how hard Tesla was gripping his hair.
“How are you a rank 7, Tesla?” Shinsou asked, and Tesla landed another punch on Shinsou’s left cheek without answering.
“You punch like a girl.” Shinsou laughed, tiredly but teasingly. Tesla gripped his hair harder, and Shinsou winced, grabbing Tesla's forearm to ease the tension on his scalp. But that was the wrong move. The moment he touched Tesla, sharp electricity surged through his body, and he screamed at the unbearable burst of pain.
Shinsou’s body went limp when the electricity stopped. Tesla released the teen’s hair, assuming he was down. But that was a trap Shinsou had planned. The moment his hair was released, Shinsou landed a hard punch on Tesla’s face, forcing his head to snap sideways.
“I won!” Shinsou shouted, and Tesla almost opened his mouth to object, but he snapped it back shut and snarled instead, grabbing Shinsou by the collar and lifting him up before slamming him back to the floor hard.
The air escaped Shinsou’s lungs in a sharp, ragged gasp. He coughed and gulped simultaneously, choking on his own saliva. He squeezed his eyes shut and coughed again, bringing his leg up stomach at the same time to his and drove it hard into Tesla’s sternum. The electricity was weaker this time, with the sole of Shinsou’s shoe in the way, and Tesla was thrown off him, clearly not expecting an attack while the boy was struggling to breathe through his coughing fit.
Shinsou rolled onto his stomach and coughed into the crook of his arm before pushing himself up, straightening his arms for support.
He looked up, and Aizawa could tell just by looking at those eyes;
He wasn’t done fighting.
“I got you there, motherfucker,” Shinsou rasped, adding fuel to Tesla’s rage.
Aizawa watched as Tesla moved toward Shinsou. He watched them engage again, which mostly consisted of Shinsou getting beaten, getting shocked when he touched Tesla, screaming in pain, and then saying something to tease Tesla until the man was too lost in rage to even think before answering.
Shinsou was starved for two days. He had shared his last two meals and had only some biscuits yesterday. He had a panic attack last night, and he was tired, and now he was beaten.
But he wasn’t done fighting.
Even at UA, Aizawa rarely got a chance to witness that kind of determination. He saw far more students who happened to be born with strong quirks but had no spirit to back it up. That’s why Aizawa asked Nezu to authorize him to expel students who had no potential. Aizawa would never tolerate training anyone who lacked that potential.
But there were rare occasions when he would see a student with true potential. A student with a burning flame of determination and persistence that would never be extinguished by any hardship, inspiring even those around them to reach their own heights of resilience and resolve.
Back at UA, Aizawa allowed the students to fight each other to their very limits—to see who would give up and who would stand back up.
Back in UA, as much as he was against how some of his students would go as far as harming their own bodies to win, he allowed it to some extent because he knew they would have to face harder battles down the line. He could allow it because he knew they had Recovery Girl who would heal their wounds afterward.
He saw those kinds of eyes sometimes back in UA. But now, he was seeing them again—burning and glowing, filled with so much emotion. In this dark and dirty criminal organization, deep down inside society’s dumpster, he was seeing those same eyes.
The eyes that shouted they wouldn’t stop fighting.
“I bet you’re still a virgin, Tesla.” Shinsou’s raspy voice cut into his thoughts. Tesla’s fist froze mid-air, and although Aizawa couldn’t see Tesla’s face, he bet his eyes were wild.
“I mean, you’ll crisp your partner if you get too excited when fucking them, right?”
“You little—” Tesla started to say, all the ‘not-responding-to-the-brainwasher’ forgotten in the explosion of anger. Shinsou brainwashed him without wasting any more time. Aizawa let out his breath slowly. He relaxed his muscles, which he had been tensing to prevent himself from moving and protecting.
“Get off of me!” Shinsou ordered. Tesla mindlessly obeyed and stood up from where he was leaning on Shinsou’s small body. Shinsou let his muscles relax with relief when Tesla moved away, but was immediately greeted with pain, if the way he hissed and winced was any indication.
Shinsou lay on the ground and panted for a while until he caught his breath. He pushed himself up on his elbows and looked up at Tesla’s lifeless face. “Are you really a virgin?” Shinsou asked with a serious face. More people in the room were watching, and laughter erupted when Tesla mindlessly said, “Yes.”
Aizawa couldn’t read the expression on Shinsou’s face, but it definitely wasn’t mockery. It seemed as if he asked that to gain information on Tesla’s insecurities rather than to humiliate him. It felt like he was desperate to find leverage over Tesla in case he needed to make him respond again. Like he knew gaining information on people was a necessity if he wanted to use his quirk against people who already knew his quirk.
“Walk to the wall and hit your head on it as hard as you can and knock yourself out,” Shinsou ordered, his face pinched with pain, indifferent to the audience he had gained.
Aizawa watched in astonishment as Tesla walked toward the wall and hit his head against it so hard that he immediately lost consciousness, his slack body falling to the ground like a lifeless bag of flour.
“He always fights like that,” Aizawa heard Needle Hair say from the ground beside him. Uh yes, he almost forgot about her. She was still sitting on the ground where Aizawa had knocked her earlier.
“Like what?” Aizawa asked. Needle Hair was massaging her shoulder where he had landed a solid hit moments ago.
“Like his life depends on it. The kid’s crazy. I’ve been here for six months, and I’ve already seen him nearly get himself killed in sparring twice. You can beat him all you want, but the idiot brat just stands back up like he enjoys broken ribs.”
Aizawa frowned. “Maybe he wants to rank up. He probably wants to become independent.” Aizawa suggested. He probably just wants to be free. But something told him that wasn’t the whole story here. He really didn’t know Shinsou all that well. He didn’t know what the boy wanted—why he was here, why he was fighting like that.
Needle Hair looked at him like he was the biggest idiot on earth. “What kind of psycho asks to go up against Izaier just to climb the ranks? The kid is just not right in the head. He has a death wish or something.”
“He asked to go against Izaier? I thought people only fought those in the same ranking,” Aizawa asked, his frown deepening.
“And against their trainers.” Needle Hair corrected, emphasizing on the first word.
“He asked Izaier to train him?”
“How the fuck do I know? I’m just telling you what I heard. It’s not like Izaier ever trains anyone anyway. He rarely even shows up here.” Needle Hair whined, but then she looked around to check that no one was listening and lowered her voice to an almost whisper. “But I heard rumors about the kid being here longer than most. Who knows, maybe they do have a history. I heard Izaier got his scar during a huge mission with seven members, but only he and Shinsou came back from it. But you didn’t hear this from me.”
“Sure,” Aizawa muttered, still frowning.
Izaier, from what Aizawa had heard, was a gunman murderer who kills in cold blood without batting an eye. He didn’t like to think of a child like Shinsou being in proximity to such a person, let alone going on missions with him or being trained by him.
Why would Shinsou go so far as to want to be trained by the man in the first place?
Aizawa looked at Shinsou one last time before starting to spar with his next opponent, whom he took down in a very boring four minutes.
*******
Hachiro didn’t show up to escort them back. Aizawa’s hands rested on Shinsou’s shoulders, and he hoped the touch wasn’t bothering him. He knew the boy might be uncomfortable with any form of physical contact, given the history he seemed to have.
Hachiro arrived shortly after they reached the room. Aizawa heard as Hachiro rotated the key in the lock of his blindfold and it clicked open with a thud. He saw Shinsou turn his back to Hachiro, waiting for him to unlock the muzzle; but that never happened. Shinsou looked at Hachiro over his shoulder with a questioning look, but Hachiro just shrugged.
“Sorry, kid, but you shouldn’t have pissed Tesla off like that,” Hachiro said, having the audacity to look somewhat apologetic.
“Open the muzzle, Hachiro,” Aizawa said, already knowing what was coming.
“Sorry, but can’t do. Unless you have a better offer that is,” Hachiro replied, scratching his ear.
Those bastards. “Tesla bribed you,” Aizawa accused, feeling a wave of disgust settle in his stomach. Of fucking course; a group of villains would never play fair. What had he expected?
“What can I say?” Hachiro smirked, then turned toward Shinsou again. “The man was freaking pissed. I heard you humiliated him in front of everyone today,” he said, titling his head.
Shinsou looked pale, and then he shook his head, making a muffled noise as if trying to protest or defend himself behind the muzzle. Hachiro shook his own head in response. “You should know better by now, kid. I don’t even know why you bother. Can’t you just keep your head down or something?”
“Come on, open the damn thing,” Aizawa said, knowing full well it would be in vain.
“Ain’t happening. Sorry, but that stays on for now.”
Hachiro turned and left in front of Shinsou’s shocked face, and Aizawa felt the most useless he'd ever felt. The only thing he’d managed to do was shout the man’s name angrily before the man disappeared.
Shinsou’s face crumpled into one of pure despair, and he uttered something from behind the muzzle, which came out as a low whimper. He darted toward the closing door but he hit it when it shut completely. He slapped his hand against it a few times, then started punching the door in anger.
He was angry. Mad. Violated.
“Shinsou,” Aizawa began, but he found himself at a loss for words. What could he possibly say? He had never felt so powerless, standing by and watching as a child was left muzzled right in front of him. He couldn’t even calm the boy because he had every right to be angry.
This isn’t fair.
He shouldn’t be treated like this.
He fought and won—fair and square—and now he was being punished for it.
Shinsou continued his tantrum, punching the door harder. Aizawa finally moved when he saw Shinsou was starting to hurt himself. He closed the distance between them.
“Shinsou, stop. You’re hurting yourself,” he said firmly, because he couldn’t stand the sight of a kid injuring himself.
When the boy didn’t respond, Aizawa tried to grab his wrists, attempting to stop him from further damaging his knuckles. But Shinsou was trashing with anger and accidentally hit his elbow into Aizawa's ribs. Aizawa ignored the pain—thankfully, Shinsou didn’t even notice he’d hit him.
“Shinsou, that’s enough. You have to stop,” Aizawa said, voice steady and stern. He took hold of Shinsou’s wrists, turning him toward himself and away from the door. He placed both hands on the boy’s forearms, trying to hold his hands at his sides.
The moment Shinsou’s eyes met Aizawa’s, Aizawa felt something painfully squeeze his heart. Shinsou’s eyes were filled with unshed tears and anger and hurt and betrayal.
Shinsou didn’t stop struggling, he just looked him in the eye, as if asking why? Why? Why?
Aizawa had no answer.
Aizawa softened his voice and said the only thing he could to the hurting boy in front of him: “I’m sorry.”
Shinsou stilled, frowning. And then he suddenly froze completely, feeling Aizawa’s hands on his forearms, holding him in place. Aizawa quickly withdrew his hands and Shinsou stepped back, trembling, and he quickly wiped his eyes as if scared of Aizawa seeing them fall.
Aizawa wanted to shout. He wanted to break out of the room and find every single person in the building to break a few bones—how dare they muzzle a kid like that?
But he knew the people in this building were low-rank pests; the truly dangerous high-rank villains were out there. He couldn’t act now because he wasn’t close to uncovering all the members, their locations, their connections, or even the identity of their boss. A reckless move might cost him his life—and the boy’s.
So, Aizawa turned, taking a deep breath. He was this close to stepping outside and snapping all the noses within a hundred meters around him.
He might do it someday, when he was sure it would end this organization once and for all.
For now, he just breathed.
Then he did the only thing he could do: give Shinsou some space to cool down. He allowed the boy to sit on his bed while he sat across from him.
And then he spoke.
“You fought really well, Shinsou. I’m impressed,” Aizawa said, and as if praising wasn’t already rare enough for him, he did something even more unusual.
He smiled at him. With honesty.
Shinsou’s eyes widened as if no adult had ever given him praise before. He looked away, clearly embarrassed.
Shit.
He really wasn’t used to compliments, was he?
“Not that I expected any less from my sensei,” Aizawa said, because as much as cheering people up wasn’t his strongest forte, he would do what he could for the kid who had been forced to endure injustice that heroes failed to prevent.
He just wished he could do more. But wishes are meaningless; only actions matter.
And that’s exactly what Aizawa was going to focus on.
Actions.
Notes:
Tesla and the other villains mentioned in this chapter (exept for Izaier and Hachiro who are original characters) are all from the USJ arc. If you need a reminder of how they looked, you can check out the details here.
U.S.J. Arc Antagonists
Chapter 10: Lock Picks
Summary:
Shinsou wants the muzzle gone and has the perfect tools for the job. However, in his frustration, he becomes a bit careless.
Chapter Text
"Happy birthday, Toshi!"
He hadn’t had a birthday the last two times. He was busy surviving, and no one really cared. Hitoshi was surprised when Shiko handed him a box. He needed to think for a few seconds because the only output his brain was giving him was an ‘error 404 not found.’
"It's not my birthday, Shiko," Hitoshi finally said, because it really wasn't.
"Who cares? You can be born every day," Shiko said, sounding way more confident than she should be.
Hitoshi huffed, "That line deserves a Nobel or something."
"I know! I'm a genius." Shiko’s face lit up at the praise.
"I'm messing with you," Hitoshi deadpanned.
"Oh, shut up. You'll understand the wisdom behind my words when you grow up. Now open it. You can consider it a gift for your last birthday if you want."
Hitoshi smiled, because that was stupid. But Shiko was just like that. She would always find a way to have fun and laugh even in the worst situations.
Hitoshi opened the box, his heart pounding with excitement rather than fear for a change. He couldn’t deny it; he was excited.
There were two strange-looking, uh, tools? They were metallic, and they had a handle, and their ends had some strange curves.
"They are luck picks," Shiko explained, and Hitoshi just looked at her.
"They pick lucks," Shiko said with a grin when Hitoshi didn’t say anything.
Well, no shit.
"Did Home approve these?"
"Yeah, she really liked the idea of me going behind her back. She said she’ll give me a promotion."
Hitoshi rolled his eyes. "Where did you get these?"
"I stole them," Shiko said, sounding stupidly proud.
"What? Shiko, what? But why? You know we can't get off the building. The doors are not even locked. Why would—"
"It’s for the muzzle,” Shiko cut him off, “I'll teach you how to open that cursed object with these." Shiko said, she was smiling, but it wasn't reaching her eyes like usual. She looked kinda serious.
"You serious?"
"Dead."
"Wha-What if Home finds out?" Hitoshi stuttered, feeling his breath shorten at the mere thought of it.
"We won't let her. Toshi, don't worry so much. I know how to hide things. I did it all the time when I was a teenager, you know?"
She stood up and opened the drawer and took out the muzzle, holding it like it killed a member of her family.
She took the tools and started working on the lock.
"I'm not an expert, but we will figure it out."
"No," Hitoshi said.
Shiko gave him her attention but didn’t stop working on the lock. "Huh?"
"I said no. No, Shiko! No! I will get in trouble! You will get in trouble. Why did you even get these? I don’t want them! I wore the muzzle for more than a year, I'm used to it now—"
"You shouldn't be, Toshi! You shouldn't be used to it! I won't allow it!” Shiko snapped, “No one has the right to take away your voice. You have the right to fucking talk. Screw them! Screw them all! It makes me sick to my stomach every time I see this thing on your face. I would have burned it if I could. Heck, I will burn it when we get out of here. I'll burn it and then microwave it and then put it in a rocket and launch it out of the atmosphere, or out of the solar-fucking-system, because screw it! Screw whoever wants to silence you. You don't deserve it."
Despite himself, Hitoshi found himself chuckling. It was funny how Shiko could get this angry on his behalf. Shiko cursed under her breath while working on the lock, and Hitoshi didn’t press. Shiko’s words warmed his chest for a reason he couldn’t explain.
The lock suddenly clicked under Shiko's hands, and her face lit up again. Good, anger doesn’t suit her.
"Did you see that? Did you freaking see it? It opened! Fuck, I really must be a genius or something,” Shiko said, grinning to herself. “Here, I'll show you. Then I will teach you how to unlock it from behind in case I wasn't around." She said, moving closer to him to give him a better view.
He just never thought ‘in case I wasn't around’ would ever come true.
*******
Hitoshi waited. And waited. And waited.
He had been waiting for hours now.
He made a quiet sound and looked over to see Aizawa’s reaction.
No reaction.
He really was asleep.
Good. Took him long enough.
He reached toward the tube-like rod on the bed frame above his head, the one that was against the corner of the room, and removed the plastic plug covering its end. Using his fingers, he carefully retrieved the lock picks from the tube where he had hidden them. Shiko had shown him how to hide them inside the metallic tubes of the bed frame and use tissues to prevent them from falling along its length.
He looked over at Aizawa to make sure he was still asleep. He sat up on his bed without making any noise and then shoved the lock picks into the lock at the back of his head. He had practiced this many, many times, but he still wasn’t good at unlocking the damn thing in this position. It was already hard enough to unlock it when he had the muzzle in his lap, let alone from behind.
This happened sometimes. He would piss someone off, and they would pay him back like this; by muzzling him. It was fine. It was better than those trainers of his that would muzzle him all the time.
There was always the problem of his trainers always being asleep not too far away when he wanted to open the muzzle. He would usually just ignore it and endure it if there was a risk of waking up the roommate.
But tonight, the muzzle felt extremely tight, and he couldn't breathe. He wanted it off.
It was unfair. He didn’t mean to humiliate Tesla. He just wanted him to talk. He wanted him to answer his damn questions. And the man wasn’t reacting to any of his provocations. But the partner subject finally did the trick, so he had to know while he could, in case he had to face Tesla again.
It was his quirk. Everyone else always used their quirk, and no one cared. Paralysis, headache, water, electricity, spines, joint lock, fucking anything else. All the quirks were damaging and painful and fucking villainous. But none of them would get punished for using it, because none of them were brainwashing.
It was always his quirk that was bad.
It was always him who would get punished for using it.
He was a villain among villains.
It wasn’t fucking fair.
And so, Hitoshi wanted the muzzle gone, even if it was for a few minutes.
He had hidden the lock picks for so long. He kept them secret from his other trainers. He would wait for them to fall asleep and then open the muzzle from behind and stay under his thin blanket, and let it hang loosely over his mouth till morning, and then he would lock it again before they woke up and found out.
He usually did this under the cover of his blanket, which made the whole process 40% more excruciating and longer, especially in summers. But he was especially restless this time. Because, because—
‘I’m so sorry.’
‘You fought really well, Shinsou. I’m impressed.’
‘Not that I expected any less from my sensei.’
Aizawa’s voice was repeating non-stop in his head, and honestly, fuck him.
How dare he? He didn’t know anything. Was he mocking him? What did he mean ‘sorry’? He was afraid of his quirk too, dammit. The only rule the man set was that he didn’t want Hitoshi to use his quirk. He must be relieved that he is muzzled right now. So why, why?
Why did he look sad? Why did he look angry? Why did he ask Hachiro to open the muzzle?
Hitoshi shook his head to dismiss the distracting thoughts. He needed to focus on unlocking the muzzle. He couldn’t afford to get caught up in some meaningless, empty words—he wouldn’t fall for that again. Adults lied, and Aizawa was just so good at it.
His hands started to ache from holding them up for so long, yet he still couldn’t find the right route in the lock. It was as if every time he adjusted a gear in the right direction, it would just slip back when he moved on to the next one.
His hands began to shake from the lack of blood flow, and his neck was getting sore from staying bent in the same position for so long.
He gave a side glance at Aizawa to check on him, making sure he was still asleep.
And his blood ran cold.
Aizawa was looking at him in the dark from where he was lying down on his bed, with his eyes halfway open.
Hitoshi froze.
All the air got sucked out of his lungs, and he stopped breathing.
He was awake.
… He saw him.
He knew.
Aizawa saw.
He saw the lock picks.
No.
No.
No.
No.
Hitoshi felt his throat close up completely.
He messed up.
It’s over.
It’s over.
He messed up.
How could he mess up like that?
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
The room went blurry, and his eyes stung.
Home would kill him.
She would kill him, and he would lose the lock picks.
He would lose Shiko's gift.
It was going to hurt.
It was going to burn so badly.
It was going to be the chair.
It was going to be bad.
It was going to—
He was not going to—
He—
He wasn't breathing.
He couldn't breathe.
He couldn't breathe.
He needed air.
He opened his mouth to take a breath, but his jaw wouldn't move.
He was muzzled.
He needed it off.
Come off.
He clawed at the muzzle and pulled it hard. But it wasn’t budging. It was cutting through his nose, but he just pulled harder.
Air.
Air.
He needed air.
Off.
Come off!
Come off, come off, COME OFF!
Someone grabbed his hands and shoved them away.
And they took the lock picks from him.
His lock picks!
No! Give them back!
They are his! They are his!
Shiko gave them to him!
They are his!
Someone was behind him. Someone's hands were on his head. They were doing something behind his head.
No!
Get away from him!
He tried to move his head away, but someone was holding it firm in place.
Someone was saying something. He couldn't hear. He couldn't see. It was dark, and he was drowning.
Something clicked behind his back, and his hair stood up at the familiar sound.
He was being muzzled.
But then the muzzle dropped, and someone took it away.
He was muzzled, he wasn't. He needed air.
Something was shoved into his hand. Something was in his hands.
He tried to feel them, tried to find out what they were.
They were long and hard and cold.
The lock picks?
"Shin- , Can-... -eath."
Someone was saying something, but it was too muffled.
"Focus- ... m-... voi-".
Focus.
“Follo-… m-… -eathing”
Huh?
"Breath in, 1, 2,...4, …”
Breath.
Yeah, he needed to breathe.
“...,hold, 1,..., 3, 4, -eath out, ... 3, 4,"
Okay.
"Brea- in, 1, 2…, hold, 1, 2, 3, 4,”
Okay.
“… now breath out, 1, 2, 3, 4, good job."
"Breath in, 1, 2, 3, 4, hold, 1, 2, 3, 4. That’s it, Shinsou. You’re doing good.”
Hitoshi felt the pressure on his ears slowly moving away, like he had earplugs and now he was slowly taking them out.
"You are doing great, Shinsou. Focus on my voice, breath in, 1, 2, 3, 4, hold, 1, 2, 3, 4, now breath out, 1, 2, 3, 4, hold,"
"Well done. That’s it. You’re doing good.”
Hitoshi tried to breathe along with the numbers the man, Aizawa, it was Aizawa, was counting.
His vision was slowly coming back to him, and he could see things again in the dim room.
Aizawa was crouching in front of him on the ground. His hands were on his lap.
“Nice job. Keep going.”
And so Hitoshi did. He breathed. He breathed. He breathed.
“Very good. You’re doing great. Can you tell me where you’re sitting?”
Hitoshi shifted slightly. Was he sitting?
“On… my bed.” He said, his voice coming out raspy.
“That’s great. Can you tell me who I am?”
Hitoshi swallowed. “Aizawa.”
“That’s right. I’m going to give you something, Shinsou. Can you tell me how does it smell?”
Something was shoved in his other hand. It was like a jar, and it was cold.
“Can you smell it for me?” Aizawa asked.
Hitoshi brought it up and did what he was told. It smelled like… mint.
Oh.
It was his menthol gel.
“It’s my gel.”
*******
Aizawa couldn’t sleep even if he wanted to. Shinsou was watching him closely like a hawk. He was always wary of him when sleeping, but that night was especially intense. Maybe being quirkless made him feel more vulnerable than usual, and he was making sure Aizawa didn’t intend to do something harmful to him.
So Aizawa pretended to be asleep, for both their sakes. Shinsou continued watching him silently the entire time. An hour later, Shinsou made a sound that would make anyone react if they were awake or if their sleep wasn’t deep. Anyone but Aizawa, that is.
And then the boy started moving and shifting. He could hear the sound of metal and quiet panting through his nose.
Aizawa wasn’t sure what it was, but it was making the boy frustrated as time passed. As much as Shinsou was skilled at being quiet, Aizawa could still feel his frustration by how his breathing pace was picking up.
He didn’t want to pry, especially since Shinsou was obviously being secretive. But he couldn’t ignore the growing frustration and that whatever he was trying to do wasn’t working. Aizawa opened his eyes halfway and looked at Shinsou. He was sitting on his knees with his head bent down and his hands brought up over the back of his head, and it was like he was messing with the lock of the muzzle.
Aizawa heard the sound of metal again, and then he saw the lock picks. He would give one of his grins that no one seemed to like, the ones he would wear after pulling off a good logical ruse on his students, because he was kinda proud that Shinsou could get such tools in here, even though bringing them and hiding them was probably hard and stressful.
It meant Shinsou still hadn’t surrendered completely yet. He hasn’t become an obedient asset like how the organization tried to force them to become. He still had that rebellious spirit in him that didn’t want to let them make him silent.
He also felt a relief that he hadn’t felt ever since Hachiro left that day with the keys. Because that meant Shinsou had a way out of that damn thing.
But it seemed like the lock wasn’t opening, and it was no surprise really. That position wasn’t ideal for lock picking. Aizawa considered going back to sleep and letting the boy be, but he could help if Shinsou would allow him. He was skilled even more than many villains at picking locks.
That was when the boy glanced at him absentmindedly. Then he froze completely. Aizawa had to watch in horror as the boy paled rapidly over a few seconds and soon fell into a full-blown panic attack.
Aizawa cursed himself. He had caused the kid to have a panic attack last night, and now this?
He shouldn’t have opened his eyes. But it was too late for that. He needed to do something.
It was much worse than last night. Shinsou was muzzled, unable to breathe through his mouth, and he was paling far too much.
Aizawa moved when he saw Shinsou starting to claw at his face, trying to remove the muzzle, cutting his own face.
Aizawa moved, not caring about startling him because the first priority was getting the muzzle off. He grabbed the lock picks from the boy by force and shoved them inside the lock. Thankfully, the lock had only seven pins, and Aizawa could pick it in ten seconds in usual circumstances, but Shinsou was moving his head and struggling, so Aizawa had to hold the muzzle firmly in his hand simultaneously, even though he knew that would freak the boy out even more.
The muzzle finally came off and dropped on Shinsou’s lap. Aizawa took it and threw it away on his own bed, not wanting to make a loud sound by throwing it at the wall like he wanted to. He then put the lock picks in Shinsou’s hand in an attempt to tell him that he had no intention of taking them away from him.
He sat on the ground as far away as he could and put his hands where Shinsou could easily see. Then he began guiding Shinsou through deep breathing. Gradually, Shinsou started to come back, his breaths slowing down as he focused on Aizawa’s counting.
Aizawa then started to ask him questions to ground him, making him use his senses. He opened the drawer that he knew had that thing with mint scent inside. It was a gel. He put it on Shinsou’s other hand that wasn’t occupied.
“Can you smell it for me?”
“It’s my gel.”
“That’s right.” It’s yours, I won’t be taking anything away from you.
“Can you tell me how it smells?”
“…Mint.”
“Excellent.”
Shinsou was considerably calmer now. He looked down at his other hand where he had his lock picks. He fisted his hand around them and held them so hard his knuckles turned white. His breath started to pick up again.
Hell no.
“When I was in high school, I had a friend whose name was, uh, Boro, and he could make clouds with his quirk,” Aizawa began suddenly. He wanted to distract Shinsou somehow. “He even had cloud-like blue hair. He was confident and fun and full of energy all the time, but I swear he had a neck for trouble.” Shinsou lifted his head to look at him, slightly puzzled, but Aizawa could tell he was listening.
“One day, he came to us excited about this restaurant that had the best steaks in the entire district. He said the cashier there was a helpless simp for young girls. Boro claimed he saw him give discounts to some girls he wanted to flirt with the other day.
“Boro had already made up his mind. Once he decided on something, there was no stopping him. He wanted to go to that restaurant and eat those famous steaks—no matter what it took—because he was just that stubborn. But none of us had the money, and a discount sounded just too tempting to pass up.
“Unfortunately for us, none of us knew a girl that was willing to come with us, so Boro came up with the most terrible idea in the entire universe. My other friend, his name was Zashi, he had natural blond hair and green eyes. So Boro suggested that he dress like a girl and seduce the cashier. But Zashi had the flirting skill of a goldfish at that point, so we had to educate him during the week and execute the plan on the weekend.
“So, they made me play the cashier, and Zashi would practice flirting with me. I swear to God, I’d never been so close to cutting ties with both of them and pretending I never knew them for the rest of my life. It was so embarrassing, and no matter how hard I tried to change their minds, neither of them listened. They were both idiots—and I probably was, too, if I was their friend.” Shinsou huffed, and it was almost inaudible, but Aizawa heard it nonetheless.
“Anyway, Boro was in charge of getting Zashi’s dress and makeup from his sister and preparing him to look like a girl. Turns out Boro was surprisingly talented at applying makeup, and since Zashi was young and everything, he didn’t look completely awful either.
“And then on the weekend, I tried my best to hide in my room, away from the world and away from my two idiots of friends, but those two came and got me and literally kidnapped me. When we got to the restaurant, Zashi walked right to the boy like the confident idiot that he was and started to talk to him with the worst attempt at mimicking a girlish voice. And I was ready to flee from there any moment, because there was no way that our stupid plan would work.
“But then guess what, the cashier gave Zashi the biggest discount there was. I think the cashier guy really was a mess. Zashi even gave him his phone number. It took me God knows how long to convince them not to do that ever again, because if it was up to them, they would be going to that restaurant for the rest of their lives as long as the cashier was willing to fall for their prank.
“At least that was the case until we met our other friend, Nem, who would seduce the hell out of men, including Zashi and Boro. We never had to pull any of those stupid moves with her around.”
That was an awful story to tell a teenager, Aizawa realized too late. It was such a bad influence, and parts of the story may or may not even be true, especially the happy ending. He just thought of the most stupid things Oboro and Hizashi attempted at pulling at that age, which wasn’t a short list honestly, and he picked the first thing that came to mind.
Aizawa inwardly cursed himself for picking that memory to tell Shinsou for distraction, because who in their right mind would pick a memory about steaks to tell to a boy that hadn’t had a proper meal in two days.
But at least, it seemed like it worked because he saw Shinsou’s shoulders start to relax halfway through the story, and he started to press his lips together at some point to stop himself from audibly chuckling.
Bless Hizashi, honestly, for showing him how to distract a scared kid by telling them stupid stories. The first time that happened was in the first year of his teaching, and he had no idea what he was doing because kids were complicated. He didn’t read the situation right and scolded a student that had put herself and her classmates in grave danger to the point of her starting to have a panic attack, and after that, all he could do was stand there and stare at what he had done until Hizashi came and saved the day.
“That was the most stupid thing I’ve ever heard,” Shinsou said after a while, and he immediately winced and leaned back and closed his eyes, as if he didn’t mean to say that out loud and he was afraid Aizawa would hit him for simply calling his memory stupid.
“That’s because you still haven’t heard about the time Boro wanted to make his clouds rain and made us help him,” Aizawa said, pretending like he didn’t notice Shinsou’s distress. Shinsou opened his eyes, frowning, but that seemed to grab his attention. “Yeah, we almost blew up the entire school that time,” Aizawa said, huffing and shaking his head.
Shinsou just got a bit relaxed, and Aizawa wanted to keep it that way. He didn’t want to send him down another panic but he needed to assure the boy that he was safe. Shinsou would never believe him if he were to directly tell him that he would never rat him out about his lock picks, nor was he going to take them away from him.
So he changed tactics.
“Shinsou, I’m willing to make a deal with you.” That immediately got his attention, and his shoulders tensed again.
“I promise that I will not tell anyone about the lock picks, and I will not take them away from you if you give me your word that you will use them to unlock my blindfold if the same thing happens to me one day,” Aizawa said, pronouncing each and every syllable as clearly as he could to make sure Shinsou followed.
Shinsou’s eyebrows pinched, like he was pained at the reminder that Aizawa knew about his lock picks. The boy searched his face carefully for a while. But then he slowly nodded.
“Do we have a deal?” Aizawa pressed. He wanted to make sure the boy understood.
“Y-,” His voice cracked, and he had to clear his throat. “Y-Yeah, you… have my word.”
“Good. Then we’re good.” Aizawa started to stand up to go back to bed and hope for his roommate to get at least a bit of sleep before morning, but Shinsou talked again.
“Why—I mean, you opened the m-muzzle,” Shinsou said, eyes fixed on the discarded muzzle on the other bed.
Aizawa paused, contemplating his response before speaking. “I’m against it,” he said, both as himself and in his guise as the villain he was pretending to be. He was a villain who opposed child abuse. Aizawa knew well that not all villains were purely evil; most were shades of gray, and he was one of those.
“But you hate my quirk,” Shinsou said in an as-a-matter-of-fact tone.
“I don’t. I despise quirks being used on me in general. Must be an effect of my quirk on my personality,” Aizawa lied. It made sense for a man whose quirk could nullify all others to say such a thing. He wished it would be convincing enough for Shinsou, but deep down, he knew it wasn’t.
That was the last thing he said to Shinsou that night anyway.
Fortunately, Shinsou managed to get some sleep before morning, the panic having worn him out completely.
Aizawa, on the other hand, didn’t.
Notes:
Why can't I give Hitoshi a break?
Chapter 11: Hating Heroes
Summary:
Weapon training, some conversations, and the radio.
Notes:
TW: None.
Who wrote that summary? It needs some serious reconstruction. *Sigh*.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“Remember that time-manipulator kid from 1-B? She froze time RIGHT BEFORE my exam for TEN MINUTES! Ten minutes, Shou! Can you freaking believe it? I mean, sure, her friends were all happy about the extra time, but I still had to call her to the teacher's lounge and scold her, again. But holy shit if I wasn’t proud! Because ten minutes? That’s a record. I bet she could get up to fifteen if she had to participate in one of your ethics pop quizzes. Oh right! About that- how did 1-A do on the ethics final exam yesterday?” Hizashi rambled on in his usual enthusiastic tone.
Aizawa was watching Hizashi as the man moved around the kitchen, completely forgetting about the final papers he was grading, scattered in front of him on the table.
He and Hizashi used to crash at Oboro’s house all the time. Mr. and Mrs. Shirakumo always welcomed them with a smile and hospitality, even though his sister would just ignore them. Hizashi’s home was really crowded with all his foster siblings, and Aizawa would rather be anywhere else but near his mother at that time, so they would find an excuse just to go to the Shirakumos’.
After Oboro died, they stopped. They both blamed themselves for his death; Aizawa for failing to protect him and Hizashi for allowing the villain to steal his quirk and use it to kill their friend. Mr. Shirakumo assured them time and time again that they didn’t blame either of them, but Mrs. Shirakumo crying every time she saw them was not something they could easily bear.
He and Hizashi moved together to a small rental apartment after graduation, and then to their current house after they started working five jobs collectively. They had known each other for so long, and Aizawa just couldn’t imagine living without him.
“Shou?” Hizashi looked at him from where he was chopping the carrots when Aizawa didn’t answer his question.
“I’m going undercover in a week.”
They just looked at each other for a moment, as if that girl from 1-B had frozen time for them.
“What?” Hizashi finally said, blinking.
“In a week, I’m going undercover as a villain,” Aizawa rephrased.
“Undercover?”
“Yes.”
Hizashi stared, blinking every now and then.
“F-For how long?”
“I don’t know, Zashi. Long, probably,” Aizawa said, shaking his head.
“For which case.” Hizashi said, more as a command than a question.
HPSC had emphasized strictly that he was not to mention the mission to any of his friends or family under any circumstances.
It was a mistake to listen to them for this long.
“There is this organization that we have close to zero information about. No member has ever been imprisoned, and apparently, no one has ever escaped. We didn’t even receive any missing reports from the families, like we usually do when it comes to these kinds of organizations.”
Hizashi inhaled sharply through his nose. The knife was still in his hand, and Aizawa wished Hizashi would use his quirk and not the knife because his quirk couldn’t really erase knives.
“What the hell, Shou?” Hizashi’s voice was uncharacteristically low, and that unsettled Aizawa.
“I should have told you sooner,” Aizawa amended, because the sooner he started, the better.
“What in the actual HELL, Shouta?” Hizashi’s voice grew louder with each word. “You are going to go undercover NEXT Week, and now is when you’re telling me?!”
Aizawa erased his quirk the moment he started to use it. Honestly, Aizawa would let his friend use his quirk on him at home, first because Hizashi would only do that when he really deserved it, and second because Aizawa knew Hizashi would never do it to the point of causing real damage to his auditory system. But their neighbors wouldn’t really appreciate that, and Aizawa was done apologizing to them.
“I’m not allowed to say even this much.”
“According to who?”
“The commission.”
“The commission?” Hizashi spat that name like it had a bad taste.
“I shouldn’t have trusted them.”
“No.”
“I know the commission is not—.”
“I meant,” Hizashi cut him off and closed his eyes for a second before opening them again. “I meant the mission. No. You will not go undercover.”
Aizawa sighed. “It’s too late to quit now, Hizashi.”
“No, it’s not.” Hizashi said firmly. “Shouta, you know how undercover missions are. It’s just lying and faking and deceiving and doing all kinds of wrong things for right intentions. What if you have to do something wrong? What if you have to hurt someone just to protect your cover?”
“Then I have to.”
Hizashi shook his head, unable to believe what he was hearing. He opened his mouth a few times, but no words came out. The very own voice hero was at a loss for words. How ironic.
“I trust you, Zashi—”
“Oh, you obviously do,” Hizashi said, some of the hurt he was feeling leaking into his voice.
“I trust you,” Aizawa repeated, “and I trust Nem, and to some certain extent, I trust Nezu too. But I don’t trust the Hero Commission. Not anymore. I saw some things that suggest they don’t deserve to be trusted.”
Hizashi frowned. “Saw what? When?”
Aizawa cleared his throat. “During the times I had training.”
“You had training?” Hizashi asked, his eyebrows shooting up, before he frowned, confused, “When? You're teaching during the day and patrolling at night. When did you—”
“I may have lied about cooperating on a case with the police.”
“That was a lie?! Shouta, you were on that for three months!”
“I needed some training to get ready for the undercover mission.”
“Fantastic.” Hizashi smiled and shook his head. “What kind of training again?”
Aizawa paused. He had decided to tell Hizashi everything, so he couldn’t stop now, could he?
“Fighting style, adaptability skills, observation, manipulation, deception, torture endurance—”
“Torture endurance?!” Hizashi almost shouted.
“—and thought regulation.” Aizawa completed his sentence despite the interruption.
“Shou, they didn’t actually torture you, did they?” Hizashi asked in a low voice, as if afraid of the answer Aizawa would give, his eyes wild for a totally different reason than before.
“It was training, and they had a healer. It was fine.”
“A healer? How come I never noticed any extraordinary exhaustion?” Hizashi asked, frowning.
“It—” Aizawa sighed. “The side effect wasn’t exhaustion; it was a shortening of lifespan. But that doesn’t really matter right now—”
“Shortening LIFESPAN?!” Hizashi outright shouted this time.
“Only a few days—”
Hizashi slammed the knife on the counter, and that was Aizawa’s cue that he had probably said too much. Aizawa snaped his mouth shut and looked at the man in front of him who was trying to take deep breaths. Aizawa tended to speak without considering people’s feelings because, logically, what needed to be said, needed to be said.
Hizashi left the kitchen, abandoning half-chopped carrots, and took his leather jacket from the hanger.
“I need some air,” was all he said before leaving the house.
Aizawa didn’t really know what to do with the pot on the stove except to take it off before its contents burns.
(Like the unwelcome sting at the back of his throat.)
*******
Two servings of instant ramen. That’s what they finally got after two days.
Shinsou was quick to put the muzzle back on his face in the morning before Hachiro opened the door with two trays of food in his hands. He unlocked the muzzle with the key he had to let him eat, and then he left the room without saying anything, which was odd for a man who seemed like he would die if he didn’t talk.
The ramens were plain and lacked the protein they needed, but at least it was simple and good on the stomach for people who hadn’t eaten for quite a long time.
Aizawa ate half of his serving, took his bowl, and brought it to Shinsou’s bed, placing it beside the boy’s slowly emptying bowl. Shinsou looked at him questioningly, an eyebrow raised.
“I’m full; you can have the rest if you’d like,” Aizawa explained.
Shinsou shook his head and handed him back the bowl. “I don’t need it.”
“You haven’t been eating for two days,” Aizawa pressed.
“You don’t owe me anything,” Shinsou said, playing with his remaining noodles.
“I do,” Aizawa stated.
Shinsou huffed. “Look, it’s— you can pay me back by succeeding in your next missions, not this.” Shinsou motioned vaguely toward the bowl in Aizawa’s hand. “Besides, I’m already full.”
Shinsou only had about half of his meal, but it made sense if the teenager wasn’t able to eat much.
The irony of undergoing starvation is that the less you eat, the less you can eat afterward. It would be of no use even if Aizawa could provide a table full of servings; Shinsou probably still wouldn’t be able to eat more than half a dish.
So Aizawa took the bowl back to his bed and continued eating. Shinsou kept playing with his food, but Aizawa could tell his mind was wandering elsewhere. He finally decided to speak.
“About last night—.”
He was interrupted by the door opening and a very gloomy Hachiro appearing in the doorway. “Training. Get up.” He announced and then slammed the door shut again.
“What about last night?” Aizawa asked, careful to keep his voice neutral.
As Aizawa locked the blindfold around his head, he heard the door open again. “Oh, and—here.” Hachiro threw something that Shinsou caught with a sharp inhale through his nose out of surprise. “I had to look really hard to find one affordable with the portion. You’re welcome. Now, move it. I ain't got all day.”
“Nothing,” Shinsou answered Aizawa’s question when the door closed.
Aizawa blindly took his tray to put it outside the door when Shinsou handed him a box-like object without a word and took the tray from Aizawa’s hand to give him time to inspect the thing.
Aizawa moved his fingers over the surface and identified it when he sensed the shape of an antenna under his fingertips.
A radio.
Exactly what he needed.
“That’s an odd thing to ask for as the first prize, you know,” Shinsou said right before locking the muzzle on his mouth.
Yes, Aizawa was aware that was a risky move, but it was one he was willing to take nonetheless.
“I’m a big fan of radio shows. It’s really hard to break a habit.” And he was going to listen to a few more shows than just Hizashi’s to back that lie up.
*******
They practiced with weapons this time. Hachiro brought him to an equipment room. Aizawa searched the weapons and finally found a well-made tanto, at least as well as one could be in this place.
He spun the tanto a few times in his hands to test its balance. He tried to push the thought that he might be forced to use it to cut someone other than a villain to the back of his mind.
Cutting.
That was not Aizawa’s style.
Most people around him never truly understood why he dedicated so many years to mastering a weapon as odd and uncommon as his capture weapon. Aizawa was not a man to waste his time on something pointless. So if he spent that many years practicing, it was for a reason.
A hero’s duty was to capture villains with minimal casualties, and his weapon was an extension of that mission.
He designed the scarf-like weapon from scratch himself and taught himself how to use it. Erase and capture; that was the most logical approach. Not cutting, not shooting, and certainly not burning like some heroes, such as Endeavor, would do.
His capture weapon allowed him to catch villains with the minimum amount of harm to them. That’s why Aizawa chose it. He would always carry a tanto on his back in case of an emergency, like when a villain could use his scarf against him and he had to cut it off, or in other unpredictable situations, but it wasn’t his main weapon, and he rarely ever used it.
Aizawa sheathed the tanto and went to the training room. The capture weapon was too much pro-hero Eraserhead for him to have while being villain Aizawa.
He spotted Shinsou in the corner of the room, away from the others. Aizawa took a quick note of all the villains, their quirks, and their weapons before going to Shinsou. The teen was practicing with two knives with black handles.
He struck at an imaginary opponent with the knife in his right hand, dodged an imaginary blow to his head, then spun on the heel of his foot and threw the knife in his left hand toward the wall. The knife sliced through the air and landed right on target, if the momentary proud light in his eyes was any indication.
As Aizawa approached closer, he observed that the wall was covered in knife holes, obviously from years and years of knives being thrown at it.
He would be proud of such a display of skill from a first-year student back at UA, but here, he couldn’t see a student; he could only see a lonely, scared kid being forced to learn how to survive on his own, practicing alone among villains far stronger and crueler than him, beside a wall with nothing but two knives.
Shinsou felt the stare on the back of his head and turned toward him. Their eyes locked, but Shinsou’s gaze fell to the tanto in Aizawa’s hand before turning away. Shinsou walked toward the wall to pull his knife out.
“Who taught you how to use knives?” Aizawa asked.
“A friend,” Shinsou said, freeing the knife from the wall.
A friend, huh?
“Did they get in higher ranks and leave the organization?” Aizawa asked, thinking about the most likely explanation for why he hadn’t seen this ‘friend.’
“A hero killed her.”
Oh.
An icy feeling settled in Aizawa’s veins. Shinsou turned toward him, and Aizawa saw it in his eyes—the overwhelming hatred and unhealed grief behind it. The anger, the revenge, the hurt. All those feelings so prominent and misplaced in such young eyes.
The next question would naturally be ‘how?’, but Aizawa already knew the answer to that.
As long as there are villains and heroes, the relentless fight between the two would go on and on, and both groups would kill from the other. The battles between such forces are destined to turn violent and sometimes get out of hand, no matter how thoroughly heroes try to prevent it. There were casualties in the past, and there will be in the future as well, regardless of how hard they train their students at UA.
“Does this have anything to do with that mission? The one they say Izaier got his scar in, and that out of seven members, only you two came back from?” Aizawa asked, remembering what Needle Hair said during the last training.
Shinsou’s head shot up just a fraction, as if he didn’t expect Aizawa to know about it.
“The part about the scar is true; everything else is just rumors. It was only me, Izaier, and her when it happened,” Shinsou said, frowning as he stood in front of him, preparing to spar. “Use your weapon. I want to see how skilled you are with a tanto.”
“My condolences,” Aizawa replied quietly, his tone sincere.
Shinsou’s frown only deepened at that, and he attacked without saying anything, with such force that was obviously not meant for training, but rather from an unseen and repressed anger.
Aizawa wasn’t a stranger to how loss could change people, how it could affect every aspect of their lives if they don’t properly face the reality of their grief. He understood how it took a lot of time and effort to heal.
He also knew how it could make a person into a moving dynamite, ready to explode at the mere reminder of their loss if one tries to forcefully push all that grief inside. How the wound could easily turn into hatred and a blood-seeking need for revenge.
As he dodged a dangerous swing, Aizawa wondered if Shinsou ever had the chance to properly mourn the loss of his friend. If he ever had the chance to let the hurt be shown.
Shinsou threw his knife viciously, and Aizawa knew the answer was no.
*******
Aizawa washed the cut on his upper arm with water and soap. They ended up sparring for a good part of the training period. At first, Aizawa thought Shinsou’s reckless attacks were because Aizawa reminded him of a painful memory, which was true, but it turned out that was also how they always held these weapon trainings—with zero regard for serious injuries.
Some of the others also got minor injuries, and Aizawa identified the more ruthless villains in the room, but none of them, except for two, were serious threats.
The most important realization was that there must be a healer somewhere in the organization if they held these dangerous trainings regularly, a realization that Shinsou confirmed further into the session.
The rest of the session was spent with Aizawa sparring against other 10-ranked members while Shinsou faced 7-ranked opponents, as part of the system where they had to defeat all members of the same rank to advance.
Aizawa, with the current level of skills he was pretending to have, could probably take on all the 10 to 8 ranks with no problem, pretend to struggle against the 7 and 6 ranks, but ultimately defeat them all and settle at rank 5. But defeating members of the same rank level was not the only condition the organization set.
He had to succeed in missions too, and that was the real problem here. Just how many crimes did Aizawa have to commit to get close to the inner circle of the organization? Even if he decided not to be worried about the morality of his actions, succeeding in missions was extremely time-consuming. This might take months, even years.
He didn’t have that much time.
One of the rules of undercover missions was to finish them as fast as possible. That rule amplified the moment Aizawa realized a kid was involved.
Aizawa needed to find a shortcut.
He needed to find a way to circumvent that condition and advance faster without raising any suspicion.
Shinsou was acting more wary than usual around him again, probably because he had cut Aizawa’s upper arm during training. It was both intentional and unintentional on Aizawa’s part. He could have prevented it if he had been seriously targeting Shinsou with his tanto, but he didn’t want to cut the boy.
But on the other hand, Shinsou was decently skilled at using knives in combat. He knew how to pretend he was about to throw the knife in one direction but change the projection and throw it in another way at the last minute. It was quite an advanced technique; one he must have learned from the friend he had mentioned.
That was how Aizawa got cut—missing the flying knife by a hair but still managing to get nicked. It was superficial and didn’t even need a stitch; he just needed to make sure it wouldn’t get infected.
Aizawa didn’t know how to assure the kid that he didn’t need to be so wary around him after an incident that was bound to happen during those kinds of training, but he didn’t know how. The mention of the wound would probably stress Shinsou out even more.
So, Aizawa let it go undiscussed and followed Shinsou to the showers. He still put his hand on the boy’s shoulder for guidance during the walk, even though Aizawa could navigate himself just fine by following the sound of footsteps and his memory of the route. Aizawa just didn’t want to change anything between them after the fight they had; a change could be easily misinterpreted.
To Aizawa’s amusement, Shinsou still used him as a human shield in the shower, and Aizawa didn’t mind being one if it helped. It took a few seconds for him to understand it the first time it happened, after Shinsou pulled him away from the spray to where it definitely felt too far to be suitable for taking a shower. But he didn’t mind.
It even gave him a faint sense of satisfaction, knowing he was somehow making the boy feel a little safer—even if it was such a small gesture that it hardly counted. Aizawa wished he could do more; he wished he could bring Shinsou to safety right then and there. But he knew it wouldn’t help if Shinsou were brought back to the Safe House by the quirk Aizawa still didn’t know much about.
When they came back to their room, Hachiro didn’t unlock Shinsou’s muzzle again.
“How long is this going to continue?” Aizawa asked, keeping his voice far less irritated than he really felt.
“We agreed on a week with that electricity guy. Also, that’s not your fucking business, newbie. Keep your head down or I might accidentally lose the key to your blindfold,” Hachiro spat, rotating the chain of keys around his index finger to show them off. It was amusing how the man could swing between personalities like that, going from somehow apologetic yesterday to outright threatening today.
Shinsou didn’t react this time; he just ignored Hachiro and eyed him with his tired gaze, still wary from training and now probably worrying that Aizawa would mention the lock picks to Hachiro.
When Hachiro left, Shinsou went and sat on his bed, still watching Aizawa out of the corner of his eye. Aizawa sighed and massaged his eyes tiredly.
God, he missed coffee. It was ten times easier to deal with the crap in life with caffeine flowing in his veins.
He let his hand drop and saw Shinsou flinch at the sudden movement.
Shit.
Aizawa reminded himself that Shinsou was a traumatized teenager. It would be odd if he wasn’t scared, if he didn’t act this way.
He didn’t know the extent of what had happened to the boy, but he could see the signs, despite how hard Shinsou was trying to hide them. He was a good liar too; Aizawa realized that on the first day with what happened with the food.
The signs only showed during incidents, like when he accidentally woke Aizawa up from a nightmare and immediately fell into a panic, begging Aizawa round and round to give him time and not hurt him. Or like last night, when Aizawa discovered the lock picks and Shinsou assumed that Aizawa was going to take them away from him or rat him out, panicking at lightning speed.
He was trying to act tough despite those incidents, to show Aizawa he was the trainer and Aizawa was the trainee. That was part of the reason Shinsou put so much effort into their sparring, trying to demonstrate his superiority, his power, his capabilities. If he were only a scared teenager, he would avoid injuring Aizawa altogether, but instead, he attacked him where he was injured and wounded him during weapon training.
But no amount of showcasing his authority was reassuring for Shinsou because, at the end of the day, Aizawa was stronger and Shinsou was a scared kid. Aizawa didn’t know what Shinsou’s previous roommates did to him, but it didn’t take a genius to guess.
He was actually surprised today when Shinsou mentioned a ‘friend.’ Aizawa didn’t know who this friend was or if they treated Shinsou better than other members, but it was good to know that Shinsou, at least for part of the time he spent in the organization, had someone he could consider a friend.
Something Shinsou couldn’t consider him to be, which wasn’t a surprise. Aizawa was forcing Shinsou not to use his quirk, making him think he was not allowed to ask questions—probably just like all the other assholes in this damn place who muzzled him and suppressed his quirk.
Even if it seemed impossible, Aizawa still wanted the boy to feel safe around him. If they could build some level of trust, it would benefit them both. Aizawa could gather more information if Shinsou trusted him, helping to complete the mission faster and get the boy out sooner. Meanwhile, Shinsou wouldn’t have to stay constantly on edge around him, at least not when they were in their room, giving him a rare chance to relax.
But there was really only one way to foster that trust: through encounters. Again and again. They needed to face each other repeatedly, testing the waters of their relationship; for Shinsou to see if Aizawa was safe, and for Aizawa to see if Shinsou was trustworthy.
So Aizawa moved toward the boy’s bed instead of his own. To encounter.
Shinsou looked up at him as if he didn’t expect Aizawa to come his way, and when Aizawa got closer, he saw the boy lean back a bit. Aizawa slowly brought up his hand, palm facing up. He signaled all his moves enough not to startle the boy, and Shinsou still looked at Aizawa’s hand as if he was ready for it to strike.
“I will open the muzzle for you. We had a deal, so there’s no reason for you to worry. Like I said last night, I won’t take them away from you, and I won’t tell anyone about them,” Aizawa said in his usual tired voice, not mentioning the cut. Encounter, but one problem at a time.
Shinsou searched his face for a long time, looking between Aizawa’s unmoving hand and his face a few times. Aizawa would stand there with his hand raised in the air all night if he had to, but as time passed, he began to think the boy might actually decline.
But that was when Shinsou slowly moved. Bewilderedly, hesitantly, but moving nonetheless. He reached toward the corner of his bed on the left-hand side, close to the corner of the room. He took off the plastic lid that was covering the metallic tube of the bed frame and brought out the lock picks. That was a clever place to hide the tools.
He then faced Aizawa again and placed the tools in Aizawa’s still-open palm after looking at his face for the last time.
Aizawa nodded, and Shinsou shifted on his bed, sitting on his knees and turning his back to Aizawa. That was a show of trust—turning his back to Aizawa, taking his eyes off him. A tiny bit of trust that Aizawa would call progress.
Aizawa shoved the lock picks into the lock and saw how Shinsou held his breath and tensed his shoulders. Eight seconds later, the muzzle opened, and Shinsou took it off his face, putting it away on his bed and turning to face Aizawa again. Aizawa held the tools out, and Shinsou took them after checking Aizawa’s face for a sign. He put the lock picks back where they were.
Aizawa moved to his bed and took the radio off the nightstand, finally having an opportunity to test it. Hizashi’s show was broadcast two days a week on Mondays and Thursdays, which was today. Although his show wouldn’t begin for a few hours, Aizawa didn’t want to only listen to Hizashi’s show and make Shinsou suspicious.
The radio was secondhand and used, and it had definitely seen better days.
“You mind if I turn it on?” Aizawa asked. Shinsou just shrugged like he couldn’t care less, but Aizawa could see a flicker of curiosity below the surface.
Aizawa turned the radio on. It immediately crackled with static and emitted a series of garbled noises rather than playing. Aizawa tried to check other channels, but none of them were working.
Maybe the thing was broken.
Aizawa heard Shinsou snort, which he tried to cover up when Aizawa looked up.
He shot a questioning eyebrow at him, and the boy just shook his head, but he eventually spoke up. “That’s probably Jammer’s doing.”
“You have a radio jammer?” Aizawa asked. That was new to him.
“We,” Shinsou corrected, “and yes, duh.”
A jamming quirk.
Of course such a secretive organization would have some sort of countermeasures for communication attempts with the outside. But it didn’t make total sense to cut off all the signals, because even though that meant no information would leak out, it also meant no information could come in, which wouldn’t be smart.
“Does that mean I can’t listen to my shows?” Aizawa said, acting like he was some sort of die-hard fan of radio shows.
“Don’t sweat it, grandpa. You can listen to your show alright. Jammer’s good at what he does. He can monitor and select the signals that come in. He’s just restrictive about what goes out. Besides, they wouldn’t have approved a radio if they were going to block it in the first place. Unless they wanted to mess with…” Shinsou muttered that last part as he trailed off, like he was considering the possibility.
A selective jammer. That could be a problem. That meant Aizawa couldn’t communicate with the outside world or find the location with a GPS device even if he had one.
“Do I have to talk to this… Jammer?”
“Nuh, you should probably just leave it turned on until he lets the signals come in,” Shinsou suggested, and Aizawa did exactly that.
*******
The signal finally came in at the middle of the "Put Your Hands Up" show.
So much for easing into the show instead of jumping right into it.
Shinsou was lying down on his bed, but Aizawa saw how the sound of the radio grabbed his attention.
Hizashi’s cheerful voice bloomed in the room, and Aizawa’s stomach clenched. He thought he would enjoy hearing Hizashi’s voice after so long, but the first thing he felt wasn’t calm or warmth; it was wrongness.
It felt so wrong to hear Hizashi’s voice in this room. Aizawa didn’t want Hizashi anywhere near this place, and playing his voice felt like dragging his friend here, into a basement, into danger, into the organization. Aizawa knew it wasn’t rational to think that way, but he always had difficulty fully comprehending his emotions or understanding the reasons behind them.
That didn’t make them any less real.
Hizashi mentioned his own hero name in a sentence, like he usually did on the show, and Shinsou suddenly sat up. “Present Mic?” Shinsou asked, his demeanor shifting completely after realizing whose show it was.
Aizawa activated his quirk and answered in an indifferent manner. “Yeah. He’s a funny guy with good taste in music.”
“He is a fucking hero,” Shinsou reminded him with a disbelieving glare.
“He is. And he talks about heroes often in his show. It’s important for us to keep a close eye on heroes and familiarize ourselves with their line of thinking. It’s vital to know how your enemy thinks, Shinsou,” Aizawa explained confidently.
Despite what Aizawa expected, Shinsou didn’t even blink as Aizawa activated his quirk. He visibly scowled at Aizawa’s speech, and Aizawa saw it for the second time that day.
The hatred.
“You’re a fan of Present-fucking-Mic?!” Shinsou asked, scowling in anger.
So he didn’t just hate the hero that killed his friend.
He hated them all.
“I’m not a fan. No. Like I said, it’s necessary to keep track of heroes and their—”
“You for real?” Shinsou asked again, his irritation overcoming the fear of asking questions. Aizawa kept his eraser activated.
“What’s wrong with that?” Aizawa asked, and he regretted it immediately. Villains hate heroes, and heroes hate villains. That’s the norm. That’s the case all the time.
And Shinsou was not outside the norm either. Aizawa shouldn’t act so bold. Except he had to listen to the show, and he was ready to take risks for it.
Shinsou narrowed his eyes at that. “Turn the volume down if you really want to listen to the show of a stupid fucking hero.” Shinsou fumed, his voice as cold as ice—the same tone he used when commanding others with his quirk.
Aizawa complied regardless. He didn’t want to argue, and Shinsou’s request was reasonable enough. He turned the volume down and held the radio near his ear.
That was when the feeling of wrongness suddenly grew tenfold. Something was off with the show. Hizashi was cheerful as always and cracked jokes between music tracks like usual, but the problem was not with Hizashi.
It was with the show.
It was wrong.
Aizawa remembered this episode. He had heard part of it before.
He was there when the man was recording it.
It was a recording.
Not live.
Hizashi would never use recordings, not unless something had happened.
Something must have happened.
And Aizawa didn’t know what.
He didn’t like it one bit.
Notes:
... I tagged 'dead character', didn't I? :((
Also, did I miss something in the anime, or did they really not reveal who the jammer was in the USJ arc? I never figured out that detail.
Chapter 12: Vigenère Cipher
Summary:
Aizawa is on his second mission and, unsurprisingly, can't stay out of trouble for five seconds.
(And he calls his students problem children.)
Notes:
TW: None.
I don't think there will be another chapter this peaceful after this one—at least not for a while.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Aizawa ended up not eating anything after Hizashi left, deciding to work on memorizing the information HPSC had given him instead. He needed to commit to memory the train routes of every city, important active crime organizations, significant yakuza groups, dangerous villains’ faces, their quirks, their names, message codes, important heroes in every city, key buildings, other undercover agents—more faces, more names, more quirks, more—
Aizawa sighed and rubbed his hand over his face tiredly, looking at the clock. 1:07. It had been three hours since Hizashi left to ‘get some air.’
He heard the sound of a key in the main door followed by it closing shortly after. Footsteps approached, paused, and then there was a knock.
“Come in,” Aizawa said, wondering if Hizashi was still mad about their last conversation.
“Hey,” Hizashi opened the door, leaned against the frame, and crossed his arms over his chest, not entering. He looked calmer but much more tired than when he left.
“Hey,” Aizawa replied.
Hizashi’s eyes went to the papers on the desk, then to the ground, and finally back to Aizawa. “I’m sorry I left you like that. I was mad. I still am. But…” He sighed, letting his stiff shoulders drop. “I’m willing to listen now.”
“You have every right to be mad,” Aizawa said, truly meaning it. “I should have told you sooner.”
“You should. But that’s not the only reason I’m mad, Shou. I’m angry about you not caring for yourself—shortening your lifespan? Infiltrating a villain organization that we know nothing about? Going along with intensive training by the commission and keeping it all to yourself for three months?”
“It was necessary. It is necessary. Someone has to handle this organization before they get out of hand. Besides, we need intel on the villains. There have always been traitors and villains among heroes and the police force. We need an inside man of our own.”
“And that person has to be you,” Hizashi stated, grief in his voice, as if Aizawa was already lost to him.
“Someone has to do this, ‘Zashi. Nezu thinks this organization will cause trouble soon—potentially even for our students. You know how accurate the rat’s predictions usually are.”
“I’m pretty sure he’s a bear,” Hizashi said in a low voice, with a vague smirk that disappeared shortly after.
Aizawa huffed—more of a chuckle. Hizashi shook his head and let his hands drop. He pushed himself off the frame and stepped inside, walking toward Aizawa’s desk. He glanced at the scattered papers. Aizawa allowed him to read; he had already decided that he needed Hizashi’s help on this mission, and for that, Hizashi had to know everything related to the case.
“Every city in Japan?” Hizashi asked, taking a page out and scanning it.
“We don’t know where their hideout is. They could be anywhere. The few who were arrested came from different cities.”
“What happened to them?” Hizashi asked, his brow furrowing as he glanced at the paper in his hand.
“One of them was found dead in the room where he was held. The rest just vanished without a trace.” Aizawa reached into the pile and pulled out a document, handing it to Hizashi.
“A quirk?” Hizashi asked, flipping over the file Aizawa had handed him.
“What else could it be?” Aizawa rubbed his thumb wearily over his eyebrow.
He allowed Hizashi to read a bit longer before speaking again. “What’s really strange is that the police couldn’t identify any of them. No fingerprints on record, no quirks registered, no profiles—nothing. Not even their birth records,” Aizawa said gruffly. He waited for Hizashi to reach the mugshots in the police report, then pointed at the photographs. “Those are the only clues suggesting they’re part of an organization and not just some random villains.”
“Are these burns?” Hizashi asked, furrowing his brow as he inspected the circular marks on the backs of the arrested villains up close.
“That’s what the police said they looked like—circular burns on their backs. Different villains, different numbers of scars, different sizes of burns; but all on the back, all circular.”
Hizashi looked away from the papers for the first time since he started reading and met Aizawa’s gaze.
“Punishments?” Hizashi asked, and Aizawa could see the anger and horror tangled up in his friend’s eyes. They both knew what that meant without needing to say it aloud: if Aizawa was infiltrating the organization, he might have to endure the same fate.
“It’s a possibility,” Aizawa settled on saying.
Hizashi pressed his lips together, trying to hold back the words that were about to spill out. He put the paper down, sat on the bed beside the desk, and rested his elbows on his thighs, locking his fingers together over his lips. He stayed like that for a while before he took a deep breath and looked at Aizawa again.
“I trust you too, Shou,” he finally said, a direct response to what Aizawa had said three hours ago. Aizawa nodded, knowing that Hizashi had more to say and not wanting to interrupt.
“I know you’ve thought this through. I know you made your decision carefully. I know you wouldn’t have accepted it unless it was absolutely necessary. I know you’ve considered every angle, every possible outcome. I understand, Shou. I really do. But I also know— I know how you put others before yourself. How you often neglect your own well-being.”
Aizawa opened his mouth to object, but Hizashi raised his hand gently, silently asking him to let him finish.
“I know you hate this too—abandoning your life, your students, being forced into villainy. I know you despise the faking, the lying, and all the mind games that come with undercover work.”
Hizashi paused, searching Aizawa’s eyes before continuing. “I just want you to know that it’s okay to consider your own feelings. It’s okay to do what you want. If you don’t want to do this, no one expects you to endanger yourself, Shou. It’s not your responsibility. You can let someone else handle it. It doesn’t have to be you.”
“I’m an underground hero, Hizashi. It’s what I do. Even if I don’t, someone else has to step up.”
“Then let someone else do it! You’re already doing enough good as it is—teaching, patrolling, pursuing shady cases that no one else will touch. You’re helping many kids learn how to become good heroes. You’re patrolling areas that other heroes avoid. You don’t have to go undercover—”
“Hizashi.” Aizawa warned gently.
“What about your students? Huh? Are you just going to leave them?” Hizashi pressed, growing more desperate.
“Nezu will arrange for a substitute next year,” Aizawa replied calmly.
He understood Hizashi’s desperation. Undercover missions were inherently risky and dangerous. Even if you were fortunate enough to emerge unscathed, with a successful mission and a perfect conclusion, you still had to face the aftermath. The guilt of actions taken while undercover, along with the identity crises that arose from pretending to be someone else for so long, could haunt a hero for years even after the mission ended.
Undercover work for heroes was like being sent to the front lines of war for military soldiers. You could never let your guard down, never rest; you could trust no one but yourself. The loneliness, the guilt, the shame—they would accumulate bit by bit. And the hero had no way to take a break. Once undercover, there was no pause. You had to keep pushing forward until you reached closure.
It was psychologically exhausting and mentally draining.
But it was necessary. There was no shortcut, no way to avoid it. As long as there were villains skilled enough to bypass the country’s security, having an inside man was the most rational solution to dismantling them from within.
Aizawa understood his friend’s urgent need to change his mind. He knew he might have reacted the same way if the roles were reversed; if it was Hizashi going undercover instead.
“Shouta, a person that goes undercover must be able to prioritize themselves before all else. Will you do that? Will you be able to abandon the mission if it endangered you?”
“Yes, I will—”
“No, you won’t! You won’t, Shou!” Hizashi said, his voice rising as he threw up his hands and stood up, no longer able to sit. He took a few steps in Aizawa’s room, hands on his hips, shaking his head slightly. “That’s what’s scaring me. Because I know you. I know how you are… It doesn’t matter how many times you lecture your students on the importance of self-care and self-preservation; you never listen to your own advice. I’m afraid for you. I’m afraid that you would sacrifice yourself if it means succeeding in the mission.”
“Of course not. ‘Zashi, I’m not gonna—”
“Save it Shou. You say that every time, and I still have to collect you from hospitals,” Hizashi cut him with a bitter smile.
“Hizashi, I’ll be fine. I’ll be careful... Besides, I’ll keep you updated all the time.”
Hizashi’s green eyes lit up slightly with hope. “You will? But I thought you said the commission—”
“I was a fool for trusting them for so long… That’s the case, Hizashi; that’s why I’m telling you about the mission now. I trust you, and I want you to be the one I give information to— not the commission.”
“What does that mean?” Hizashi’s eyebrows knitted in confusion.
Aizawa leaned back in his chair and sighed. “The Hero Commission, they… I think they are willing to do anything if it means protecting society, even something morally questionable,” Aizawa explained, the memory of seeing that kid in the dark-green corridors of the commission flashing through his mind, recalling the conversation he had with Hawks afterwards.
“What are you trying to say, Shou?”
“I don’t trust them,” Aizawa confirmed, “Let’s say I help them arrest all the members of this organization. What if they put them in an experimental lab with the information I gave them? What if they decide to kill those with more dangerous quirks? What if they use them for training purposes? What if they interrogate them with methods they’re not supposed to? — All because I gave them what they needed to capture them.
“Hizashi, I don’t want those people to leave a villain organization just to end up trapped by the commission. I want them captured, yes, but I want them to have a fair trial with actual judges and actual lawyers. Not to be arrested behind the scenes. Not to be lost in God knows where when no one’s looking.”
“Hold on. What are you suggesting Shou? Are you saying you’re gonna…?”
“I’m going to withhold information from the commission, yes,” Aizawa said as he looked right into Hizashi’s eyes.
“Wha—Shou. No! It’s the commission, Shouta! They can easily revoke your hero license!”
“I’m aware.”
“What—?” Hizashi asked, his expression puzzled. “Don’t tell me you want to go against the commission!”
“Maybe I do.”
“What?!”
Aizawa didn’t respond, simply meeting his friend’s gaze with a knowing stare, arms crossed.
“Okay. Okay. You said you saw something, right? What was it? What did you see?” Hizashi gestured animatedly with his hands as he spoke. Aizawa was familiar with Hizashi’s expressive style—using lots of hand motions—but he usually did that when in his Present Mic persona.
“I’ll tell you tomorrow,” Aizawa said with a sigh. Hizashi looked like he wanted to protest. In fact, he looked like a ball of protests and objections, barely holding up. He ran his long fingers through his yellow strands, some escaping his loose half-bun.
“Okay. Alright. Tomorrow. Fine. Just tell me this; if not the commission, who then? How?”
“You,” Aizawa said like it was the most natural thing on earth, “I want you to be the one I report to. And I also want you to update me on what is happening on heroes’ side. I want you to give me the information I need and report everything I give you to Nezu in return.”
Hizashi inhaled sharply, absorbing the weight of the information. “You really believe the commission would just stand by and watch?” Hizashi asked, still shaken by the whole idea.
“No, I don’t think they will,” Aizawa responded calmly. “But I’ll handle them once this is all over. I want the end to come with a publicized raid, planned by Nezu and the hero agencies. I refuse to let this organization—whatever it is—be wiped out quietly and in secret by commission agents.”
Hizashi nodded slowly, trusting him for now rather than voicing his doubts. “Okay. But how are we going to communicate? We can’t risk villains figuring out you’re in contact with a hero.”
Aizawa offered one of his trademark grins—the one he reserved for when he’d just pulled off a logical ruse. “Present Mic broadcasts whatever he wants across all of Japan, does he not?”
Hizashi gave a half-grin of his own as realization dawned on him. People knew Hizashi for his loud and cheerful personality, but few knew how his grin could be ten times more maniacal than Aizawa’s.
“You want me to broadcast top-secret information on a public channel across Japan?”
“To be fair, that’s Nezu’s plan,” Aizawa replied coolly. “But yes, that’s the idea.”
The grin lingered for a few more seconds before it disappeared behind a worried expression. “That only solves half the equation. How are you going to get information to me? It’s not like we can just meet each other, can we?”
“Why not? It’s completely natural, after all.” Aizawa let a smile play at the corner of his lips as all he got was a conflicted look from Hizashi. “Come on, Mic, how do villains meet up with heroes?”
Hizashi’s eyebrows shot up for a moment as he figured out what Aizawa was talking about, but then he exhaled through his nose, shaking his head slightly. He was obviously against it, but Aizawa knew he would trust him on it.
“In a fight.”
*******
Aizawa listened to Hizashi give the audience his loud and cheerful goodbye before ending the show. Hizashi had recorded this about four years ago on a weekend, like he used to for fun. That wasn’t the plan. That wasn’t normal. Hizashi was supposed to be broadcasting his show like usual while Aizawa was undercover. Something must have happened, and Aizawa didn’t know what.
Nezu proposed that Present Mic’s show was the safest way to keep Aizawa updated on what he needed to know and what to do next after infiltrating the organization. No villain would really suspect Aizawa of listening to a public and popular radio show, and it was easier to get a radio than a mobile or any other communication device without raising suspicion.
Nezu chose to encode the hidden messages using the Vigenère cipher system, where every letter corresponded to another letter, and only a person with the key could decode it. The key was “RSQDN,” a random, meaningless key they settled on. The first letters of the names of the songs Hizashi played on each episode served as the code. This meant the messages would be relatively brief. If the message was longer, the first letters of the sentences following Hizashi’s phrase “my lovely listeners” would also count.
Aizawa sighed and turned off the radio. He needed to find a way to contact Hizashi as soon as possible and figure out what was going on.
He just needed to find a way.
*******
Shinsou brought in the food servings. Hachiro had Shinsou's muzzle open before he left, the one Shinsou had quickly put on when he heard footsteps approaching. Aizawa wasn’t expecting to see two full dishes of steaming curry with two bottles of Ramune drinks alongside them.
Shinsou paused for a moment, staring down at his tray before starting to dig in with an uncharacteristic appetite. “Eat fast. This could only mean long missions for the night,” Shinsou said with his mouth full.
Not appetite then, but urgency.
Aizawa followed the cue and tried to take in as much as he could. He needed the energy for whatever was coming.
Not long after, Hachiro reappeared at the door. “Get ready, Aizawa. You have a mission,” he said, his tone somehow darker and more tense than usual.
Shinsou frowned, glancing back and forth between Hachiro and Aizawa. Aizawa quickly disappeared behind their only private space in the room to change into the black cloth he used for missions.
“Hey!” Aizawa heard Shinsou’s protesting cry and hurriedly pushed aside the curtain. What greeted him was the image of Hachiro securing a muzzle around Shinsou’s face.
For a moment, Shinsou stood there, dazed, his hand hovering over the muzzle as if inspecting it for the first time. Then, he gestured to himself, raising an eyebrow questioningly toward Hachiro. When Hachiro didn’t respond, Shinsou muttered something that was muffled behind the muzzle, coming out as a high-pitched hum.
“What?!” Hachiro snapped when he couldn’t tell what Shinsou was trying to ask, as if he wasn’t the one who forced the muzzle onto the kid’s face.
“Hmm,” Shinsou desperately hummed with his mouth shut, slapping twice with the palm of his hand on his chest, eyebrows pinched.
“No, just Aizawa. You have another mission in two hours,” Hachiro said, yawning lazily.
Aizawa started to step toward Hachiro, but Shinsou quickly raised his hand against Aizawa's chest, stopping him in his track.
“Hmmh!” Shinsou protested more frantically. When Hachiro just stared at him like a confused question mark, Shinsou rolled his eyes and stormed toward his bed, pulling out a worn-out notebook from under it. He flipped to a half-empty page and wrote something down aggressively. He then raised the notebook for Hachiro to read, who looked like he could fall asleep leaning against the door any moment know.
Aizawa couldn’t read what was written in the notebook, but Hachiro snorted upon reading it and shook his head. When he started talking, the words poured out of his mouth tiredly and slowly.
“Trainer? Kid, you’re so naïve. Home only put Aizawa under you to humiliate him, not because she considers you an actual trainer or something. You didn’t have a roommate for three months after that garbage-brain water-manipulator, right?” Shinsou didn’t dignify the man with a nod or any other sign of approval. He just glared daggers at him.
That actually made Hachiro snort even more. “No one wanted a brainwasher for a trainee, let alone a roommate, and Aizawa acted tough during his background check. Home put him under a literal kid to stomp on his ego—Plus there was a vacant bed here. So don’t get ahead of yourself thinking this means you’re suddenly some higher-ranking trainer who can make demands.”
Aizawa clenched his teeth. He didn’t care about why he was put with Shinsou or what Home thought of him, but he didn’t appreciate hearing those words about the kid. As a hero, Aizawa should be glad to hear that the organization wasn’t taking Shinsou seriously and didn’t consider him a real trainer, but for some reason that he couldn’t fully comprehend at the moment, he felt almost offended.
Sure, Shinsou was still a kid and a lot younger than most of them, but that didn’t mean he was weak. In fact, Shinsou was far stronger and more skilled than most of the members Aizawa had seen so far.
Sure, Shinsou didn’t have any real sheer strength or body mass—the bastards themselves had starved the kid, for fuck’s sake—but he compensated for that with speed, deception, and the power of his quirk along with using knives. He could easily defeat stronger opponents if he wanted to, like how he had defeated Tesla.
It didn’t make sense to treat him as someone lower or undeserving of the position just because he was a kid. Or was it because they were afraid of his quirk that they refused to acknowledge him?
Shinsou shook his head, as if that wasn’t what he meant and Hachiro wasn’t getting it, and quickly wrote another note, this time more desperate than aggressive.
Hachiro narrowed his eyes on the text in front of him and then scratched the back of his head. “Just face it, kid, you won’t be coming. Aizawa, move.” Hachiro pointed his thumb over his shoulder, gesturing for Aizawa to move.
Shinsou drew two lines under a word to emphasize it, but Hachiro was ignoring him at that point.
Aizawa didn’t know exactly what was making Shinsou frustrated, but he could at least guess that he wanted to come along for some reason, probably to be able to guide him during the mission like last time. Aizawa stopped at the door and turned back to look at Shinsou. The boy was staring at the ground with a deep furrow in his eyebrows, the notebook almost crumpled in his fist.
“Shinsou.” Shinsou’s head shot up at him. “Don’t worry, it’ll be alright.” He reassured the kid, but the furrow in Shinsou’s brow remained prominent. Suddenly, something crossed Aizawa’s mind. “Will you get in some sort of trouble if I fail this?” Aizawa asked just to make sure. Shinsou looked him dead in the eyes as he shook his head and shrugged. He flipped to a new page and wrote something down before turning it for Aizawa to read.
‘No. But don’t fail. You’ll be the one in trouble if you do.’
Aizawa nodded once and then left the room. The door slowly closed, and Shinsou’s lanky figure disappeared behind it.
*******
Hachiro didn’t accompany them this time. The mission was clearly more serious than the last. There were six villains besides him, and all their quirks, except for the leader’s, who Aizawa was meeting for the first time, were combative.
The leader's quirk wasn't identifiable at first glance, but Aizawa later figured out that he had infrared receptors in his left eye and could see the number and location of people in the building from outside and at night if he closed his right eye.
They exited the organization, and when Aizawa turned back, he could tell, even in the dead of night, that the building wasn’t the one he, Hachiro, and Shinsou had exited from last time. This supported the theory that a teleportation quirk was involved.
They reached their destination shortly after. It looked like private property, if it weren’t for the fact that it was guarded by security personnel. The place resembled a private business more than a government facility.
Were they going to rob the place?
The leader instructed him on his role, and it made sense. He was to nullify the quirk of the guards from behind while the other five villains attacked from the front and knocked them out.
Easy.
Aizawa was going to fail.
Aizawa had a problem: he still hadn’t confirmed the connection between the marks on the backs of those arrested villains and the organization. For all Aizawa knew, there was a chance that their information was biased and that all this time, he was in the wrong place.
He also needed to know the extent and details of how the organization dealt with failures. Shinsou had made it clear that he wasn’t going to give him anything on that because he didn’t want to "stress him out." But Aizawa had to know if he wanted to complete this mission. The reward and punishment system in an organization is a key feature for understanding how they operate and how the organization manages and motivates its members.
It's such an important factor that organizations could fall apart simply because they didn’t develop a functioning and efficient system for keeping their members in check. To fully understand an organization and know how they operate, one of the first steps is to understand their system of reinforcement and punishment.
Shinsou wasn’t participating in this mission, so the kid wouldn’t be affected by the consequences even if Aizawa happened to fail.
It was a good opportunity for Aizawa to test a few of his theories.
So, if Aizawa erased the quirk of one of his own teammates because the idiot happened to jump into his line of sight while he was erasing the quirk of a guard, and that led to the guard punching the now-quirkless teammate in the face, which caused chaos, and that chaos led to more guards coming at them, resulting in an all-out fight between villains and guards that alerted the hero patrolling nearby, forcing them to retreat…
Uh, well, that was all an accident; and it only happened because Aizawa was an inexperienced newcomer.
Not that he meant it.
Nothing intentional, of course.
(You’re welcome, the owner of the property, by the way.)
Notes:
Useless-interesting facts of the day:
The Vigenère cipher was invented about 500 years ago.
It was used in the American Civil War (1861–1865) and was still being used by Soviet KGB spies in the 1950s, as well as by British spies during World War II—because it's just that dang strong.
During the Civil War, they used Vigenère ciphers with key phrases like "Manchester Bluff," "Complete Victory," and "Come Retribution" to encode their messages.
Just some fun facts. Anyway, it can be cracked by computers nowadays.
Chapter 13: The First Month Rule
Summary:
Just like any other organization, there are consequences for failures.
Notes:
TW: Violence, Abuse, Child Abuse, Chastisement
I'm here to warn you that this chapter contains some detailed child abuse scenes. I have marked it with ======= (basically after ======= and before =======). It is violent and painful. I sincerely ask you not to read that part if you think it might be disturbing or triggering. It does not contribute to the overall plot, and not reading it won't matter. Your health is more important than this story or any other.
Also, if you remember, Hitoshi mentioned "one month" one or two times in the previous chapters. This is where we understand the reason. I will explain it more in the next chapter.
Take care of yourselves and stay safe.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
They opened the door and aggressively pushed him inside. He had to use his hands to catch himself on Shinsou’s bed frame to prevent himself from falling onto the boy’s bed. The last thing Aizawa could see was how wild Shinsou’s eyes had grown upon seeing Aizawa being thrown, before the blindfold covered his eyes and was locked a few levels tighter than usual.
The door shut loudly behind him, and after that, the only thing he could hear was Shinsou’s heavy breathing.
Aizawa pushed himself off Shinsou’s bed and stood up. He had taken a few punches from the infrared eye leader to the stomach, but that was it. They had just thrown him back here. Whatever they would do to failures in this organization would probably happen in the morning, which should be in an hour or two. The sky was starting to light up as they were coming back.
He had to wait.
“Are you alright?” To his own surprise, that was the only question he had. According to what Hachiro had said, Shinsou had been sent on another mission while he was gone.
Seconds passed. Aizawa remembered the muzzle being on Shinsou’s face before he went blind. He cursed himself for letting the heat of the situation make him forget that detail. Aizawa reached his hand out slowly to where he estimated Shinsou was standing.
“Tap like I showed you in the showers.” Once for yes, twice for no.
After a few more seconds, Aizawa felt Shinsou’s finger on his palm. But it wasn’t a tap; it was… tracing?
When Aizawa didn’t understand, Shinsou repeated what he did with a frustrated huff from the nose. He was drawing something on Aizawa's palm. It looked like 成 (sei).
“成 (sei)?” Aizawa asked. Shinsou tapped once.
Yes.
“Alright, I get it. You want to spell it. Okay, go on.”
Shinsou drew another letter on Aizawa's palm.
Aizawa would have frowned if it weren’t for the blindfold pressing so tightly against his eye sockets. He tried to guess, but Shinsou’s handwriting was incoherent, to say the least.
“功 (kou)?” he finally guessed.
Shinsou tapped once.
“成功 (Seiko)?” That was the word for ‘success.’
One tap again.
Aizawa sucked in a slow breath. “You want to know if I succeeded in the mission,” Aizawa concluded. Shinsou didn’t even tap to confirm it. He just stood there, waiting. Was Shinsou this worried?
“I’m sorry…” Aizawa finally decided to say, “I made a mistake and we eventually failed.” Aizawa said this with a regret that he wasn’t truly feeling. He heard Shinsou inhale sharply, and then the boy dropped onto his bed; the creaking of the old bed confirmed the movement. Aizawa mirrored him and sat on his own bed, but a lot less frantically.
“You should try to get some sleep, but before that I can try to open the muzzle if you’d like. It’ll take longer, but I can still open it with my eyes closed,” Aizawa offered. He heard two hard blows on the nightstand. Aizawa’s head jolted slightly at the sudden loud sounds, as he hadn’t expected Shinsou to make them. It was as if Shinsou was mad.
It probably had something to do with Aizawa failing the mission.
“Is that a no to sleeping or to me unlocking the—” Aizawa was cut off by another two loud knocks.
Shinsou was usually too focused on being quiet. Even his normal walking was much quieter than that of a typical teenager. Aizawa knew, painfully, that it was a learned behavior. But if the boy was this overwhelmed, to the point of ignoring his instincts and hitting his fist this loudly on the nightstand, then that was Aizawa’s cue to stop talking.
“Alright.” Aizawa decided to drop it for now. He leaned back on his bed. He needed some rest before whatever morning had in store for him.
*******
About two hours later, Aizawa woke up to the sound of footsteps approaching and then the door opening. He hadn’t really slept; it was more of a shallow nap, resting while remaining alert.
He was ready.
It was Hachiro and another person. Aizawa could tell by the sound of footsteps and the keychain that belonged to Hachiro. If it were for training, Hachiro would come alone, and it was also too soon for that. They were here to take him.
“Shinsou, come on. Home is expecting you. You know how it is,” Hachiro said with the groggy tone of someone who had just woken up.
Shinsou?
Aizawa sat up on his bed. He heard Shinsou doing the same, but the boy didn’t stand.
“What does Home want from Shinsou? I thought you were here to take me,” Aizawa said, his voice solid and deep, but alert.
Hachiro cursed under his breath. “You didn’t fucking tell him?” Hachiro asked, suddenly annoyed. He stepped inside but went towards Shinsou rather than Aizawa.
“Tell me what?” Aizawa felt his heartbeat picking up, and his heartbeat never picked up—not even before the most dangerous raids. He was known for being calm during crises.
But this…
Hachiro huffed but didn’t answer. Instead, Aizawa heard Hachiro pushing Shinsou to his feet, and Shinsou gasped through his nose; it wasn’t a sharp inhale. It wavered.
“Come on, brat.”
“Wait!” Aizawa stood up and blindly threw his hand toward what he estimated was Hachiro’s wrist. He grabbed it, knowing it was the same hand that was holding Shinsou.
“Let go, Aizawa!” Hachiro warned, not shouting but coming close.
“Why are you taking Shinsou?” Aizawa demanded, dreading the answer.
“What do you think for? Punishment, you fool!” Hachiro shouted.
Fuck no.
No, no, no.
“What? But why? Why? He didn’t fail his mission, did he?” Aizawa asked, clawing desperately for the last possibility in which this wasn’t somehow his fault. Tat Shinsou also failed his mission and this had nothing to do with Aizawa’s failure.
That possibility shattered with the next thing Hachiro said.
“No, you fucking idiot! Punishment for your failing,” Hachiro spat, and Aizawa automatically placed another hand where he estimated Shinsou’s shoulder was, fearing he might suddenly vanish before Aizawa could collect himself and grasp what the hell Hachiro just said.
Hachiro was holding Shinsou’s collar, and Aizawa was gripping Hachiro’s wrist with one hand and Shinsou’s shoulder with the other, because no one was fucking leaving this room unless it was Aizawa and Hachiro.
“What the fuck is the meaning of this? I failed! Shinsou had nothing to do-”
“He is your fucking trainer!”
“So what?! You yourself said that means nothing! I’m still the one who failed-”
“You are his responsibility!”
“He wasn’t even there last night!”
They were both shouting, and Aizawa felt the world he couldn’t see starting to spin.
Because no, no fucking way this was happening.
No way in hell Aizawa would allow this to happen.
He would die before he let a child be punished for his actions.
Shinsou’s shoulder was trembling slightly under his hand. He was completely silent. Not that the damn muzzle would let him say anything, but he wasn’t even making a sound.
He was too silent.
Shinsou knew this would happen. He knew it the moment Aizawa answered his question about whether he had succeeded or not.
It all made sense now—how he had asked Aizawa before both missions not to fail, how he protested when Hachiro said Aizawa was going on the mission alone, and how he asked to come along.
He wanted to prevent this from happening.
“Martial, take Shinsou to Home,” Hachiro commanded. Aizawa felt Shinsou’s hand on his wrist, trying to free himself from Aizawa’s grip. His fingers were cold. Aizawa only held him tighter.
“No. I want to talk to Home. Bring me to her, now!” Aizawa commanded in his gravest, don’t-even-dare-argue-with-me voice.
“You don’t get to ask for shit, asshole!” Hachiro spat.
“Bring me to her; I’ll accept my punishment. I failed, and I accept it! What is the point of punishing Shinsou? How is this going to teach me any lesson? This is nonsense, Hachiro, and you—”
Aizawa felt his jaw suddenly lock without warning. He tried to forcefully move it, but it was firmly stuck.
Hachiro’s quirk.
That bastard!
Aizawa felt Hachiro’s hand retreating to send a fist toward Aizawa’s torso, but Aizawa couldn’t really dodge if he wanted to keep his hold on Shinsou. The fist landed, and Aizawa didn’t even flinch, holding onto Shinsou as if the world would end if he ever let go.
“Shinsou, come on. Home would be mad if we make her wait any longer.” The fourth person in the room—Martial—spoke.
What she said must have really worked on Shinsou, because the boy started to thrash under Aizawa’s grip. Aizawa wanted to protest, but his jaw was locked in place. Shinsou was starting to pull too hard, and Aizawa couldn’t hold on tighter or he would leave bruises on the teen’s shoulder. So, inevitably, Shinsou freed himself from Aizawa.
Aizawa reached out to catch the boy again, but Hachiro sent another fist toward Aizawa’s face. With many years of training with blind eyes, Aizawa dodged, not caring about how that wasn’t something a low-ranked villain could pull. But even that split-second delay was enough for Shinsou to get away.
This was all happening too fast.
Aizawa darted in the direction of Shinsou, but Hachiro grabbed him from behind.
Without a second thought, Aizawa twisted the wrist in his hand and heard Hachiro cry out from the pain. With a swift move, Aizawa took the keychain from the man’s pocket and kicked Hachiro in the face, making him let go. The man whined and hit the ground, and Aizawa finally felt the right arrangement of teeth under his fingers, belonging to the lock of his blindfold.
Aizawa shoved the key into the blindfold and opened it quickly, already on his way toward the door. He took the blindfold off and threw it away. He opened the door and shot the man, now trying to sit up, a glowing red flash of his quirk, releasing his jaw, and left the room after Shinsou.
“No! Don’t!” he heard Hachiro shout, before he entered the room.
…
What?
Aizawa blinked for a moment. He dumbfoundedly looked at Hachiro sitting on the ground in front of him, who had been behind him a second ago. He looked back at the door over his shoulder—the door he had just gone through.
He had just left the room.
But he was in the room.
What the fuck.
Shinsou was the priority. Aizawa spun on his heel and exited the room again, brushing off whatever that was as some kind of hallucination.
And he entered the room.
What the hell.
Aizawa activated his quirk, glaring at the door and passing through it, only to enter the room again.
Fuck, fuck, what the fuck.
He wasn’t leaving.
Every time he left the fucking room, he entered it again.
What the fuck is this?
He heard Hachiro chuckle from behind him. He turned toward the bastard and activated his quirk, glaring at him with lethal wrath.
“What the hell is this?” Aizawa ordered, not shouting, but worse, whispering in the most dangerous voice.
“That,” Hachiro said, pushing himself to his feet, “you idiot newbie,” an ugly grin split his face as he brushed the dirt off his clothes, “is Home’s quirk.”
*******
Martial Hair was a woman a bit shorter than him. She could—
The chair.
She could move her hair with her quirk and—
The chair room.
The pain.
And she could make them into some kind of sharp—
It’s gonna hurt.
It’s gonna hurt so bad.
Home is gonna—
NO! Don’t think about it.
Martial Hair! Yeah, think about anything else.
She could make them into sharp horns. She almost always wore a short pink sleeveless turtleneck, with long pink boots and—
Will it be the chair?
Or will it be something else?
Please let it be anything else.
He can’t handle the chair.
He can’t—
No! Don’t let your mind go there!
Distract yourself.
Martial Hair… She is,
someone.
She—
Home—
She—
Distract yourself, Hitoshi.
It always makes it worse to think about the pain beforehand.
The fear of the pain was sometimes worse than the actual pain itself.
He would be fine.
It will be over fast.
Even if it’s bad, Hela will heal him.
And it will burn even worse.
No, don’t think about that either.
He shouldn’t think.
He should—
He should—
He should have known. Hitoshi should have known. He should have trained Aizawa better. He should have begged Hachiro to let him go with Aizawa.
Maybe he should have told Aizawa about this. Maybe the man would have worked harder if he knew—
No!
If Aizawa knew he wouldn’t be punished during the first month for failing missions, he would have stopped trying. He would have stopped caring. He would have gotten comfortable and cared less about the missions.
Or worse, he would have failed on purpose just to hurt Hitoshi. He would have done it on purpose if Hitoshi ever irritated or angered him.
Maybe that’s exactly what he did.
Aizawa was mad at Hitoshi for hitting him on his injured ribs in the first training session. Hitoshi did it in front of everyone else, and Home taunted him for not being able to defeat a ‘kid.’ He was mad at Hitoshi for cutting his upper arm with a knife. He was probably irritated at Hitoshi for waking him up the other night with his stupid nightmares.
Or maybe worse, he was pissed because of the humiliation of being put under a kid much younger and physically weaker than him. And he wanted Hitoshi to pay. He wanted Hitoshi to see how insufficient he was at being a trainer.
But he didn’t know about the rule. That a trainee is the trainer’s responsibility in his first month. Hitoshi didn’t tell him.
But why does it matter now? Aizawa knows. He could fail anytime he likes now, and Hitoshi would be the one to pay for it.
Only for one month.
Then this would end.
Only for—
“Shinsou,” Martial Hair scalled, gesturing to the door for Hitoshi to enter. The Chair room.
Hitoshi swallowed, pushing down the nausea rising in his throat.
It only made it worse.
He entered. He tried not to look at the metallic chair in the middle of the room, nailed to the ground. He muted the sounds of screaming, begging, and pained cries associated with the room. He looked at his shoes instead. He turned off his mind and turned autopilot on.
Home was sitting at the table beside the chair. Hitoshi could feel her speculative gaze on him, measuring him from head to toe. “Martial, put him on the chair,” Home ordered with a smile in her voice.
Just like that, Hitoshi was pulled out of autopilot back into his body.
His head snapped up; his eyes wild with fear.
No!
Martial Hair put her hand on his shoulder and pushed him forward. Hitoshi leaned back with his trembling body and shook his head.
No, no, no, no, PLEASE!
“HmmHm, mhmm.” Hitoshi tried to grab Home’s attention. She raised an eyebrow. Hitoshi tapped at his muzzle, fighting against Martial's push.
Please let me talk, please let me speak, please let me explain.
Please let me beg.
“Hmhh!” Hitoshi tapped his hand on his muzzle more frantically.
“Shut up, Shinsou. You’re annoying me,” Home said, her smile gone.
Martial pushed him more forcefully, and Hitoshi tried to resist. He leaned back against Martial, but his shoe uselessly slipped on the ground, skiing back and forth.
NO, NO, PLEASE!
Not the chair, not the chair!
He was trying to delay it, but Martial was pushing him closer and closer to the chair.
No, not again! Not again! Not againNotagainNOTAGAINNOTAGAINNOT—
Hitoshi freed himself from Martial’s hands and threw himself on his knees.
He would do anything.
He lost every last drop of his pride many years ago.
He would kneel and beg Home if he had to.
He would do anything; he would do anything to avoid going to that chair again.
He barely survived the last time.
Please.
Martial tried to pull him back up on his feet, but he resisted. “HHMmMH!!”
“Alright, Martial, that’s enough. Let him talk,” Home said with a grin, looking down at him. Her hands were folded against her chest and her right leg was crossed over the other. Hitoshi looked up at her from where he was kneeling.
“Go on. Talk,” Home said, both her grin and her eyes growing wilder.
Hitoshi felt tears welling up in his eyes. He couldn’t. He was muzzled. Dammit.
This wasn’t fair. He wasn’t even the one who failed the mission.
Home tilted her head to the side, her eyes wide open. “What’s the matter, brat? Can’t talk?”
Hitoshi looked at the ground. Only the most foolish people would glare at Home, and Hitoshi wasn’t one.
“You,” Hitoshi looked up in horror, but Home wasn’t pointing at him; she was pointing at Martial Hair. “Out.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Hitoshi heard the door shut behind him shortly after.
“Every time I tell myself you finally learned, you end up right back here. What’s your quirk, Shinsou? Alzheimer’s?” she said, snorting at her own joke. Hitoshi continued looking at the ground, avoiding eye contact at all costs. He feared Home might see some of his feelings in his eyes, and he didn’t want that.
Not when he was feeling angry and afraid, so tangled up together that even Hitoshi couldn’t tell which was which anymore.
“Shinsou; the little fuck-up. You never change, do you? You were always such a troublemaker, such a slow learner, such a fuck-up. I trained you personally and put you under some of my best trainers to make you into a strong villain. An independent one. To make you a force to be reckoned with. But how did you repay my kindness?” Home asked, and Hitoshi swallowed, knowing full well it was a rhetorical one.
“By messing up,” Home continued, snarling slightly, “Each time I gave you a second chance with a new trainer, you messed it up all over again. And yet, I was still generous enough to give you this opportunity, to let you grow independent and be on your own, to be a trainer instead of being under others. And yet, you managed to mess even that up too.”
Hitoshi clenched his teeth and willed his face to stay blank and even ashamed. He couldn’t let her see his feelings. He couldn’t let her see the anger. Because, fuck her. She was lying, and she knew it. She never wanted Hitoshi to climb up the ranks, let alone to become independent and promoted to a trainer. Heck, she doesn’t even see him as a trainer. She only sees a weakling, a pathetic toddler, as she told him many times before.
She probably put Aizawa under him out of boredom, or just to see Hitoshi fail so she could have fun punishing him.
“I heard your trainee messed up big time and blew up a month’s worth of preparation and research. He had a single job: to nullify the guards’ quirks, and yet he managed to mess up anyway. Like trainer like trainee, huh? And guess what? Just before you came here, he tried to leave his room four times without permission. So that adds up to your punishment for failing to teach him manners.”
Hitoshi looked up at her in surprise, eyes wild, but he quickly lowered his head again.
That idiot!
He told him not to do that!
He told him not to leave the damn room!
“You know, that collector was keeping some rare stuff in his office. Could you imagine how much money we could make by selling them?”
Hitoshi waited for her to continue, swallowing hard, just to be reminded again that his mouth was as dry as sandpaper.
“Look at me.” Hitoshi did immediately. He expected to see her grinning, but she was frowning slightly.
“A lot,” Home continued, “that money would have made Boss really happy, you know.” There was something simultaneously savage and sad in her eyes. She looked like both a predator and a prey. When she focused back on Hitoshi’s eyes, only the predator remained. “But your trainee took that happiness away from Boss. And I would do anything to make sure that doesn’t happen again. Honestly, I would have rather punished Aizawa for it, but Boss has that stupid one-month rule, and who am I to oppose his will?”
Home’s smile slowly came back and—
“You will make sure he never fails again, isn’t that right, Shinsou?”
Hitoshi nodded with all the strength he had.
“I believe you,” Home said, and she pushed herself off the table. Her red high heels made a loud sound on the concrete floor as they made contact, making Hitoshi flinched.
“I still have to punish you, though. You failed as a trainer. You should have made sure he was ready for the mission—and you didn’t. You both messed up big time, but Aizawa is a new member, and it’s your responsibility to make sure he doesn’t fail. But—” Home looked down at Hitoshi, still kneeling on the ground. “I will forgive you this time because it was your trainee’s first. So not the chair. But the table. Get up,” Home ordered, and Hitoshi followed immediately. He got to his feet quickly, knowing full well Home wouldn’t tolerate delays.
=======
“Take off your shirt,” Home said as she walked toward her tool closet. She reached inside, and Hitoshi couldn’t tear his eyes away from her hand. He dreaded what she would choose. When her hand came out, he saw it.
A cable.
His stomach dropped.
He was hit with another wave of nausea.
Hitoshi took his shirt off with clumsy movements and shaky hands. Despite how hard he was trying to keep his feelings in check, he was trembling. He balled his shirt and hugged it over his chest. It was still warm, and Hitoshi would cling to any bit of comfort he could find.
“Bend over the table,” Home instructed, holding the two ends of the cable together in her fist, forming a long loop.
Hitoshi leaned on the metallic table, his shirt still hugged against his chest. The cold surface pressed against his bare skin, and he shivered. He kept his hands beneath his chest, pressing them to the table, letting his body weight hold them down. This way, he could grip the fabric of his shirt, and the weight would trap his hands, preventing them from accidentally moving. Home wouldn’t be happy if Hitoshi’s hands got in her way.
The muzzle was digging into his face, and he couldn’t find a comfortable position to rest his head on the table. He decided to hold it up, looking at the wall in front of him, even though it strained his neck to do so.
“Twenty times,” Home announced. “I’ll let you go if you be a good boy and hold still.”
Hitoshi nodded with his eyes shut tight. He could do this. He’d endured way worse than twenty lashes of cable.
He braced himself, waiting for the—
The first lash landed on his bare back, and he sucked air through his nose. It still hurt so much, but he knew that first one would be nothing compared to the last.
He heard the sound of the cable slicing through the air, then hitting his skin, followed by an unintentional gasp.
It hurt. It hurt.
Piercing, landing, gasping.
Third.
Piercing, landing, gasping.
Fourth!
Hitoshi clenched his teeth harder than the muzzle pressed them, a futile attempt to hold back the whimpers.
Piercing, landing, gasping.
Fifth.
Piercing, landing, and a muffled whimper escaped his throat.
Piercing, landing. Despite his tense muscles, his head shot up at that.
Piercing. It landed near the previous one, and Hitoshi cried out in pain, gripping his shirt tighter.
Piercing, landing, whimper. Ninth. Hitoshi felt his breath hitch. Hitoshi felt his breath hitch. The end of the cable left a burning sensation—more like a knife slicing through flesh than a fist delivering a blow.
Piercing, landing. The cable veered and landed on his stomach instead of his back. Hitoshi screamed and shifted but tensed his muscles before he could move more.
He shouldn’t move.
Piercing, landing, and Hitoshi remained silent, because he had exhaled all the air in his lungs during that last scream.
He felt the cable connect near his neck. His ears were starting to feel heavy, and he couldn’t hear the piercing or the landing anymore.
All he could feel was pain. Pain. Pain.
It hurt. It hurt so badly.
Another lash struck his back, cutting deep. Hitoshi screamed behind the muzzle, and his body jolted uncontrollably. His back was burning.
The next one landed on his back, and his right hand freed itself from beneath him. He gripped the edge of the table desperately, trying to prevent himself from moving away further.
The next lash, and Hitoshi heard his muffled scream from underwater. His vision swam with black dots; what wasn’t black was blurry.
Each hit felt like a knife slicing through him.
The next stroke—and Hitoshi swore it pierced his lungs because he couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t breathe anymore. Before he could gasp, another burned his back. Hitoshi cried silently, breathless.
The cable veered again, slashing his stomach. Hitoshi’s feet gave out from beneath him. He felt Home’s hand on his back, pinning him to the table before he could fall.
The next lash was less aggressive.
“Stand!” Home’s irritated voice reached him from underwater. Hitoshi pushed himself to his feet, making his trembling legs to hold his weight. The next lash hit his back with more force than all the previous ones. His screamed until it tore the back of his throat, unable to move past the muzzle.
He felt Home threw the cable beside his head on the table. He didn’t remember when he had started crying. He never could tell during a punishment.
He cried, breathless, on the now-hot table, longing for the coldness to return.
His back was on fire; his face was heating. He cried over the table, tears falling uncontrollably, whimpers breaking free.
He stood there, shaking, waiting for Home to decide what was next.
He cried until he gradually regained control of his hiccups. Until all that remained was the occasional sniff.
Until his sight cleared enough for him to see again.
Until the burning on his back turned into a bearable buzzing.
It was funny how cable lashes would hurt like hell in the moment, the hit the skin, but hurt far less the moment it was over. They became almost bearable. Only the hotness, the throbbing and the memory remaining.
The overwhelming pain was over.
“Was that enough, or should we continue?” he heard Home ask. Her voice was clearer now. Hitoshi shook his head with all the strength he had. Which wasn’t much. He was tired.
“Good. Get back to your room.”
Hitoshi pushed himself off the table. He grabbed his crumpled ball of a shirt from the table. His fingers trembling from how tightly he had clung to his shirt and the edge of the table.
“And Shinsou,” Home added, her voice stopping him. He slowly turned to look in her direction, eyes averted to the ground. “Get that trainee of yours under control. I don’t want him failing a single mission again. Understand?”
Shinsou nodded.
“Get lost,” she dismissed. Exactly what Hitoshi did.
=======
Home didn’t transport him directly back to his room. He had to walk there. She wanted him to walk.
So he walked.
The cold temperature of the corridor made him realize he was still shirtless. He liked the cold. He craved it. His temperature was too high; his body too heated—especially his back.
But as much as he liked the chill, he knew he might bump into someone. He didn’t want anyone to accidentally see his back.
Before putting his shirt on, Hitoshi wiped his face with the fabric, not caring about the tears and snot making it damp. Then he pulled the shirt over his head, slipping into it.
He was careful not to let the fabric pull on the welts, but it did. He hissed at the pain.
But it wasn’t all that bad anymore.
Nothing compared to the chastisement itself.
The main ordeal was over.
The main pain was over.
Hitoshi moved forward, numb, toward his room. His shirt occasionally pressed against the welts uncomfortably, but he couldn’t care less.
He was tired.
So, so tired.
He felt empty.
It was over.
He hadn’t slept last night. He had been sent on a mission. Then he waited in his room; waiting, stressing, contemplating whether Aizawa’s mission would succeed or not.
And when Aizawa told him he had failed, he had to wait another stressful two hours, waiting for Home to send someone to get him.
Then he was chastised. Hitoshi lost count, but he was sure he received all twenty lashes, just as Home had decided.
He was so, so fucking tired. But he couldn’t rest just yet.
He needed to know something.
He walked, with only one thought in his mind; a question. And he needed an answer.
It was so hard to accept that all of this was just an accident.
That it was all unintentional.
Human error.
It was so damn hard to think that the man he sparred with many times in the training room was weak.
It was hard to wrap his mind around why that man left the room four times, despite Hitoshi warning how it would put both of them in trouble.
It was hard,
So fucking hard not to think,
So damn hard to actually think,
when your back was on fire.
Notes:
I've never felt so sick writing a chapter, but I guess there's always a first for everything.
Chapter 14: A Three Letter Question
Summary:
Aizawa and Shinsou have to face each other after what happened in the morning.
Chapter Text
Aizawa brought his hand up and slowly passed it through the door. His hand went through as if nothing was there, as if nothing was out of the ordinary. He then moved slowly toward the door frame, his hand still outstretched in front of him. He moved cautiously, trying to catch the exact moment the teleportation occurs.
Just as his head passed through the door frame, the corridor transformed into the room, and then he was entering it. Aizawa moved slowly backward to see if it would reverse the process, but he was just walking backward in the room.
A quirk that can control doors, or at least something close to it.
That explains so much.
That explains how all the missions must start on time and end on time. Because Home has to know when to do the transportation.
That explains how they always arrive within walking distance of their destination without having to use a vehicle.
That explains how all those arrested villains disappeared from the police stations without a trace. That would explain why a few ended up dead. Home must have sent an assassin to finish them off before they could spill the beans.
That explains why the doors aren’t even locked.
That explains how they were operating in all cities across Japan despite their only hideout seeming to be the Safe House.
“Nice job, asshole. You just dug Shinsou’s grave deeper than it already was.”
Aizawa turned toward Hachiro, shooting him the deadliest glare. He stormed toward the man, taking him by the collar and slamming him into the wall.
“Bring. me. to. Home. Now,” Aizawa said, his voice low and demanding.
Hachiro raised his hands defensively, as someone might when trying to convey that they don’t want to fight a wild animal. The man’s demeanor shifted from anger to a mix of mockery and sympathy. “Listen, Aizawa... There’s nothing you can do to stop Shinsou’s punishment. The only thing you’re doing now is making his situation worse. If you push any further, Home might decide to punish both of you. That doesn’t mean Shinsou would be hurt any less. The exact opposite! he might end up even more hurt-.”
Aizawa activated his quirk and pushed Hachiro further into the wall.
“Ow, ow, ow. What the fuck! Cut it out, damnit! I’m telling you; there’s nothing you can do now. It’s over. It’s done.”
“What kind of circus is this place?” Aizawa growled, fisting his hands around Hachiro’s collar; it would have shattered if he had glass in his hands instead. “You punish a literal child for the mistakes of a grown man?”
Hachiro had the audacity to snort. “Child or grown up—do you think it matters? Shinsou is your trainer. We have laws here, whether you like it or not. During the first months, the newbie is the trainer’s responsibility.” Now it was Aizawa’s turn to snort, though it came out as an exasperated huff.
Hachiro’s face grew more serious as he continued. “How many people do you think would survive if we were to punish them for every single mistake they make during their first few weeks? Huh? The damn newbies make thousands of mistakes! We can’t fucking punish them thousands of times! They’d all die before they even start!”
“So you punish their trainers instead,” Aizawa said, venom lacing his words. He distantly felt like throwing up.
“Boss said that way we don’t accidentally kill half of our new recruits or scare them all off. That would also make the trainers more dedicated to improving their trainees. Win-fucking-win, wouldn’t you say?”
“Brilliant,” Aizawa spat, leaning back and releasing the man more harshly than when he grabbed him. Hachiro was nothing more than another pawn. He had no control, no say in anything. He was a dog, wagging his tail and obeying his master's orders in hopes of getting a pat on the head.
“Just brilliant. So fair. When we fail, the punishment is for the trainer, but when we succeed, the reward is not. How generous of you.”
“What was that? Where did you get that idea?” Hachiro's left half of his face scrunched in confusion as he readjusted his collar.
“I’m saying you rewarded me for the first mission. How is that fair? How is that a functioning reward and punishment system? To punish the trainer and reward the trainee?”
“The fuck you mean? The first-month rule is both-sided. All the trainee’s accomplishments count as the trainer’s, and all his failures are also on the trainer. The trainer is the one who gets the money when the trainee succeeds in a miss—hold on. Did you just say you got a reward?”
Aizawa felt a bucket of cold ice being poured over his head.
And he denied it.
He denied what he was hearing.
That can’t be.
Aizawa parted his lips to maybe say something, but he closed them right after, looking at Hachiro in a cold daze.
“Holy fuckin’ shit,” Hachiro swore under his breath, amusement apparent on his face. “That brat is crazy, I swear... I can’t believe him. Did he get that radio for you?” Hachiro purposefully bumped into Aizawa’s shoulder as he moved away from where he had been slammed against the wall, shaking his head with a smirk. “Now that I think about it, I thought it was sorta strange for the brat to order a radio of all things. He usually orders food or medicine or some stupid books if he has money to spare. But a radio?” Hachiro chuckled, and Aizawa felt like he had been hit with a brick wall.
He stared ahead at where Hachiro’s head had been a moment ago and asked himself a few very delicate questions.
How the hell did Aizawa let this happen?
How could he not tell?
He was a goddamn pro-hero, for fuck’s sake, and yet-
A teenager managed to trick him, lie to him, hide from him.
And he believed him every single damn time.
Shinsou told him roommates get one serving of food and shared his own with Aizawa.
And Aizawa believed him.
And let the kid starve.
Shinsou told him they reward the newcomers for their first successful mission, and Aizawa believed him. He got that radio with his own portion. Shinsou was starving, and he could have bought himself some food. Hell, Aizawa could have requested food himself, even if he didn’t know the money wasn’t his.
But instead, he prioritized his mission and asked for a radio. And let the kid starve.
And when he asked Shinsou if he was going to get in trouble for his failures, the kid looked him in the eyes and lied.
And Aizawa, the man trained to detect lies, to pinpoint any form of dishonesty and deception from five kilometers away, didn’t notice. Didn’t suspect.
Or maybe he did, but just didn’t acknowledge it.
Because he was so invested in his next move, in his mission, that he saw only the things he liked to see.
He wasn’t a damn trained pro hero. He was a fool.
He was a fool for letting all of this happen.
He was supposed to be rescuing the kid, finding a way to get him out of here, protecting him while trying to destroy the organization.
But instead, Shinsou was the one protecting him.
Shinsou was the one who made sacrifices for his sake.
Shinsou was the one saving Aizawa.
He was more of a hero than Aizawa was.
Eraserhead his ass. He couldn’t even save a kid from getting punished for his sake.
“Don’t beat yourself up, pal. The kid’s the one decided to keep ya’ in dark. He does stupid shit like that all the time. And it’s not like it would change anything. Like, you would have still fuckin’ failed.”
No, he wouldn’t have.
Aizawa turned to find the man getting his keys off the ground and putting them back in his pockets with a pout. Aizawa didn’t even have the energy to be angry anymore. He felt like he was drowning in regrets—regretting choices he knew, logically, he couldn’t change anymore.
“Don’t touch my keys again,” Hachiro warned, which came out more as a nag than a threat. He effortlessly moved through the door and closed it behind him, whining about how it was too early for all this shit. Apparently, Hachiro had free pass through any door he wished.
Aizawa dropped uselessly onto his bed, cupping his hand over his forehead. He let the miserable silence of the room engulf him. He strained his ears for any sound outside, as if he could hear what was happening to the kid if he listened hard enough.
Then the sight of a notebook under the opposite bed caught his attention.
He remembered something. He reached out and took the notebook.
Flipping through the pages, he noticed it was worn out, every space and corner carefully filled. Shinsou hadn’t left a single spot unused. His handwriting was messy and almost incoherent, like it belonged to a first grader. Aizawa tried not to pry; he hadn’t asked for permission to read it, but even that brief glance was enough to realize they were notes related to his studies—math, physics, chemistry.
Shinsou was forced to fight for his life every day in this hellish prison, and yet, the kid was studying.
An irrelevant question unexpectedly cropped up in his mind, confusing him with its origin.
Who is this kid?
Aizawa caught a glimpse of a few personal notes but quickly averted his eyes. He didn’t want to invade Shinsou’s privacy. He flipped through the pages more quickly until he found what he was looking for: the notes he wrote for Hachiro last night.
‘I’m his trainer. I’m supposed to keep an eye on him early on.’
‘It’s his second mission. Please, let me come. I will make him succeed.’
Those were the lines Shinsou had written to Hachiro before the mission, with two lines under the word ‘succeed.’ Aizawa had thought the desperation stemmed from the kid’s concern for his safety. He told Aizawa it was nothing good, after all. He said nothing about this.
Shinsou had begged Hachiro to let him come along, but they denied him. They didn’t allow him to join, and then they punished him for not preventing Aizawa from failing.
It was cruel.
And sick.
But then again, of course it was. Nothing was fair in the dark side of the city. No one was merciful in these shadows.
On the next page, he saw the familiar words Shinsou had written for him before he left:
‘No. But don’t fail. You’ll be the one in trouble if you do.’
Don’t fail.
Exactly what Aizawa did.
As a villain, as a hero, and as a man.
The kid was afraid because he knew he would be the one to pay, not Aizawa.
And Aizawa misjudged that fear, taking it as something completely different.
Aizawa closed the notebook and put it back under the opposite bed. He closed his eyes and pressed the heel of his palm against them, to the point it was more painful than soothing.
And he thought about how Shinsou might be suffering right now, while he was uselessly sitting there and waiting.
*******
A sound made his head snap up from where he was holding it tightly with both hands. Shinsou was standing at the door. He looked ten times more tired than before. His cheeks were flushed red, and his eyes were bloodshot and puffed.
Like he had been crying.
Aizawa felt an invisible hand grab his throat from the inside and squeeze it hard.
What did they do to him?
Shinsou’s eyes were unfocused, and his hands were shaky. He took a few unsteady steps but then collapsed against the wall close to his bed, his breathing starting to pick up.
Aizawa moved.
Fast but cautious.
He inspected the boy for visible injuries or critical bleeding. When he couldn’t see an injury in immediate need of attention, he moved toward the kid’s bed.
He took out the lock picks from where Shinsou had hidden them inside the bed frame. He went back to Shinsou, careful to move slowly and signal his intentions clearly so as not to startle the teen any further. Shinsou was heaving more vigorously, barely supporting his own weight against the wall.
“Shinsou, I’m going to unlock the muzzle, is that alright?” Shinsou’s breathing was turning frantic, and he was squeezing his eyes tightly shut. “Shinsou, can you hear me?” Shinsou whined lowly, not giving any clear response. He brought his hand to the muzzle and started to pull at it, the edges digging into his nose bridge.
He was starting to panic.
No, not again.
Aizawa moved behind the kid and grabbed the muzzle as gentle as he could. He shoved the lock picks inside the lock and maneuvered them with ease. He was familiar with the gears and the route. He opened the damn thing under ten seconds, even with Shinsou pulling his head away.
The muzzle clicked loose, and before Aizawa could even take it off, Shinsou started to collapse on the ground. Instinctively, Aizawa grabbed Shinsou’s upper arm to steady him, but that was the wrong move. Shinsou flinched violently and throw himself away and hit the ground. Aizawa crouched down alongside him.
“Shins—”
“I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” Shinsou blurted out, shakily pushing himself on the ground, trying to get away from Aizawa until he hit the leg of his bed.
“It’s alright—”
“P-Please! I didn’t mean to! Sor- I’m sorry!”
“Shinsou, kid, it’s okay—”
“I’ll do better! I’ll be better! Please don’t hurt me!” Shinsou pleaded, his voice hoarse and shaky, his left hand coming up with the palm facing Aizawa while the other covered his head. Aizawa held up both his hands, trying to convey that he meant no harm.
“I won’t. I promise. It’s alright, kid. You’re alright.”
“Please! Please!”
“It’s over, kid. It’s over. I promise you; I’m not going to hurt you. I’ll back away now. I just want to get up and get away. I won’t hurt you.” Aizawa tried to push down all feelings and comfort the scared kid.
Aizawa started to slowly back away, to maybe give him some space, but even that mere movement made Shinsou flinch again. “No, please! No! What do you wanna do? What are you going to do with me?” Shinsou shouted as he trembled violently, his eyes looking at him with fear, glassy from unshed tears.
“I’m not—” Aizawa began to assure that he wasn’t going to do anything.
But he was cut off before he could even begin.
His head suddenly filled with thick purple fog.
Aizawa’s entire body went limp, and his vision became foggy.
He lost every bit of control he had on his body at once.
As if his body wasn’t his own.
Aizawa didn’t need to have experienced being brainwashed before to know that he was now.
Shit.
Aizawa tried to move a muscle, a finger, anything, but to no avail. It felt like he was trapped inside his own body, watching the world from behind a layer of violet mist.
Shinsou fell completely silent. He took a deep breath, steadying his labored breathing as if it were nothing.
He glanced at Aizawa’s unmoving body with indifference. His expression shifted from panic and disorientation to tired and unimpressed. If it weren’t for the excessive tiredness evident in his eyes, Aizawa would have said the boy looked almost bored.
Shinsou wiped his glassy eyes with his sleeves, looking every bit like a theater actor wiping off his makeup after a performance.
“Stand up and walk toward the wall on the other side,” Shinsou said, his voice a bit hoarse but cold and even, with zero sign of the shakiness from only a few seconds ago.
Aizawa distantly realized his body stood and walked toward the other wall without any resistance. He had no control over his limbs, as if they didn’t belong to him.
Shinsou pushed himself to his feet, his expression unwavering.
He was perfectly calm, as if the panic had never even happened.
That brat.
It was all an act.
He faked panic just to lure Aizawa into responding to him.
He tricked him.
That little manipulative piece of shit.
He knew Aizawa would help him through the panic.
He knew Aizawa would respond.
“You will answer every question I ask honestly, okay?” Shinsou asked in a bored tone, following through what seemed to be an unwritten procedure.
“Yes,” Aizawa answered like a robot. It was his voice, but he wasn’t the one who answered.
Fuck.
This had suddenly turned into a very bad situation.
Something Aizawa knew he had to prevent at all costs.
This could end in the worst possible way.
It would take only one wrong question for Aizawa to spill everything about his real identity.
Fuck.
Aizawa tried to activate Erasure with all his might. He willed his quirk to activate, to resurface in his eyes. But it didn’t even budge. It wasn’t working at all.
Shinsou must have felt the struggle because his eyebrow twitched, and he frowned slightly.
“Did you fail your mission last night on purpose?” Shinsou asked, pronouncing each word clearly and slowly, as if Aizawa were a dim-witted toddler.
“Yes,” the word poured out of Aizawa’s mouth like the filter between his brain and mouth didn’t exist. He saw Shinsou’s eyes widen at the answer.
Fuck. Fuck.
Aizawa decided that was as far as this could go. And so he pulled. He pulled against the restraints with all he had.
This cannot happen!
He cannot let his identity be uncovered.
He cannot fail his mission.
He cannot let the organization escape and continue operating.
He has to end them.
He needs to keep his cover.
Aizawa pulled. He pulled hard. He pulled with sheer will against the control.
He vaguely registered from the other side of the violet mist how Shinsou winced and grabbed his forehead, as if Aizawa’s harsh struggle had caused him a sharp pain in the head.
Then, all of a sudden, Aizawa couldn’t struggle anymore. The restraints became impossibly tight, and he felt himself drifting away. He was getting further from his body, being buried inside the thick violet fog, inside his mind, outside his body. He lost sight of his surroundings as he was enveloped by the mind-numbing thickness of Shinsou’s quirk.
“Why?” He heard Shinsou’s command from far behind the fog. If Aizawa weren’t so deeply buried under the fog, he could have noticed the bitter betrayal in Shinsou’s voice.
“Because I needed to find out the organization’s methods of punishment.” Aizawa’s robotic voice emerged from somewhere far away from his own ears, and he dreaded it. He dreaded the next question Shinsou would ask.
A question with only three letters.
Only three letters.
And all of this would be over.
Only three letters, and two years of work and struggle and crossing lines would go to waste.
Only three letters, and Aizawa might never see the sun again.
Might never see Hizashi.
W.
H.
Y.
‘Why?’
‘Because I’m a hero sent to investigate this organization.’
Fuck.
Aizawa tried to pull again despite how tightly he was restrained under Shinsou’s control. He tried to activate his quirk again, tried to break free. He couldn’t give in. He couldn’t just let his cover be blown.
He promised himself to stop the organization.
He promised Hizashi to be careful.
He promised. And yet he was there, three letters away from breaking both promises.
Because he failed to see through an act.
Because a teenager outsmarted him.
Because he fell for his trick.
Because he fell for Shinsou’s lies. Again.
“You wanted to know how Home punishes people here?” Shinsou asked, a trace of confusion beneath his words, as if he didn’t expect that as an answer.
“Yes,” Aizawa confirmed.
“You didn’t do it to hurt me?” Shinsou asked.
“No.”
Silence followed. And then—
“Did you know about the first month rule?”
“No.”
“Did you know I would be the one punished when you failed?” Shinsou pushed skeptically, as if he couldn’t believe it, like the answers weren’t matching his expectations.
“No.”
“What about when you left the room? You tried to leave four times, right?”
“...” No answer left Aizawa’s mouth, as if his mind couldn’t register the order.
“Did you try to leave this room four times?” Shinsou asked, annoyed.
“Yes.”
“Did you know it would anger H-Home even more when you tried to leave the room?”
“…” No answer.
“Didn’t you remember the time I told you how it would put us in trouble if you leave the room without permission?” Shinsou tried to approach the question differently, visibly frustrated, trying to confirm his suspicions.
“…” No answer again. Aizawa was beginning to vaguely realize that brainwashing was nothing like a confession or a truth quirk. Not all questions could force answers out of him.
“Why did you try to leave the room?” Shinsou changed tactics.
“I wanted to stop them from taking you.”
“What?” Came a sharp question.
“…”
“Elaborate,” Shinsou ordered.
“…”
“What do you mean you wanted to stop them from taking me?”
“I didn’t want you to get punished. I wanted to take your place myself.”
The thick fog wrapping Aizawa’s mind suddenly became clear enough for him to gain his sight again. Aizawa didn’t think Shinsou did that on purpose, but just because Aizawa’s response surprised him enough to make his control falter a bit.
Shinsou was frowning, looking Aizawa in the eyes. He was cupping his nose and mouth with his left hand. Aizawa, in his floaty brainwashed state, couldn’t really tell whether it was out of surprise or just a mindless gesture or that it had another reason.
“Why?”
Aizawa’s blood ran cold. How would he answer that? What if he said it was because he was a hero? Because he had the responsibility to save the vulnerable?
“…” No answer left his throat, surprising Aizawa more than it surprised Shinsou.
Shinsou muttered something behind his hand, low enough that Aizawa couldn’t catch it. In the heat of the moment, Aizawa thought he saw a flash of crimson between Shinsou’s fingers, where he was cupping his face. Is he bleeding? He wasn’t sure if it was real or just his imagination.
Aizawa waited for Shinsou’s next question, for him to rip the truth out of his chest.
He waited.
He didn’t know if he waited an hour or just a few seconds. His sense of time was broadly disturbed.
The next time he could concentrate on Shinsou, the boy’s eyebrows were tightly pinched, and he looked deep in thought. His eyes were on Aizawa’s hands, but he seemed to be looking somewhere far away, mindlessly massaging his back with his other hand.
A wave of sickening regret hit Aizawa, even though he still wasn’t in full control of his mind. But he didn’t need that to realize this was where Shinsou must have been hurt.
“Turn around and face the wall,” Shinsou commanded, and Aizawa’s body obeyed without hesitation.
Aizawa heard vague movements and shuffling from behind his back. He heard Shinsou opening a drawer and taking out some things. He heard Shinsou hiss at some point, followed by more shifting. Aizawa wondered with a disoriented sense of judgment if Shinsou is attending to his possible wounds.
Aizawa waited, anticipating the teen to come back and continue questioning him, or to go to bed and rest while Aizawa stood facing the wall. He even considered the possibility that Shinsou might seek revenge, forcing him into something as payback for failing the mission or causing him suffering.
Shinsou could, if he wanted to. He certainly had the power. He had the control.
Aizawa wasn’t sure if he would really mind the last possibility, if he would resist it at all, in case that really was the case—that he had caused the kid pain.
A part of him still wanted to think of it as an ‘if,’ as a possibility yet to be confirmed, and not the reality. Not a certainty caused by his own actions.
But he already knew that was just wishful thinking. He already knew it wasn’t an ‘if’ anymore. He knew what was already done. He knew Shinsou had gone through some real punish—
Suddenly, the control dropped.
The fog cleared as if it were never there.
And he was released.
And Aizawa could breathe again.
Aizawa took in a harsh gasp of air, his hand coming up reflexively to steady himself against the wall he was still facing.
He blinked to clear his vision, feeling the control of his body fully return. The rush of many blocked thoughts slammed into him with full force.
Too close.
That was dangerously close.
He was too close to failing the mission. To getting his identity discovered.
Aizawa turned, finding the boy standing a few steps behind him. Shinsou’s eyes were downcast. His face was indifferent, and his body relaxed—almost too much. Both his hands dangled loosely at his sides. There was a moment when Aizawa saw a shift in his jaw, but that was it.
Aizawa took a few seconds to decide as he turned to fully face the teen; the person who had both been hurt because of him and almost blown his cover.
Who had come closer to discovering his true identity than any other villain had in the last two years.
Aizawa knew that even if he somehow got away with his secrets still intact, that would most likely not be the case next time. That Shinsou, despite the deal they had, would brainwash him in a moment of vulnerability. That the boy was certain to use his quirk if he ever felt cornered again.
His quirk was likely the only weapon the kid had against other villains, his sole means of survival against those who were far stronger. Aizawa should have known better than to believe Shinsou would keep their deal when it came to protecting himself.
And Aizawa had to make sure that would never happen again.
He had to. He had to make sure.
He had to ensure he would never end up in that position again, being questioned by a quirk capable of revealing who he was. It was the kind of precaution an undercover agent was obligated to take.
And there were only a few ways to ensure such a thing.
The ones Aizawa would have never approved as a hero.
The ones Eraserhead would have never allowed.
Aizawa took a step toward Shinsou and heard Hizashi’s voice in his head, as vivid as two years ago.
‘What if you have to do something wrong?’
And he took another step toward the teen.
‘What if you have to hurt someone just to protect your cover?’
The memory echoed in his mind as Aizawa took another step, his own answer feeling heavier than it had two years ago.
‘Then I have to.’
Aizawa closed the distance between them completely with his final step.
Then I have to.
Notes:
Expectations: Aizawa treats Shinsou's wounds, apologizes, and maybe asks him not to hide anything from him again- plus some fluffy comforts.
And then the reality:Yeah... expectations and reality rarely align.
Chapter 15: Then I Have To
Summary:
[In place of summary]: An angryZawa is a scaryZawa.
Notes:
I have zero control over the word count. ;-;
Also, I edited Chapter 8, where Shinsou sets his rule. I don’t know what forsaken state of mind I was in when I was writing that part, but Shinsou would NOT word his rule the way I initially wrote. (I mean, he’s the trainer—why would he say it like that?)
Anyway, I hope you enjoy the chapter.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Aizawa had used his capture weapon on his problem children many times. He wasn’t afraid to hold it a bit too tightly to properly convey his point. He made his students run laps, do push-ups, do planks, and do sit-ups. Aizawa wouldn’t hesitate to use his quirk to silence the class or to assign more assignments to teach his students what they should learn. He would intimidate them or scare them with threat of expulsion if he deemed it necessary.
But in all those cases, he knew his students were completely aware that their sensei would never hurt them.
But when he stepped toward Shinsou in that room, he knew that if he were to scare Shinsou even slightly, the boy would immediately assume Aizawa was going to hurt him.
That was the biggest difference. That was what made all the difference.
At UA, Aizawa was a hero.
Here, Aizawa was… not.
That was the difference.
Aizawa activated his quirk, staring at Shinsou with glowing red eyes. Shinsou didn’t even react, as if he was expecting it. Aizawa brought up his hand and grabbed Shinsou by the collar of his shirt. The boy was looking at the ground and didn’t even flinch when Aizawa grabbed him.
His body was completely limp against Aizawa’s hand, and Aizawa realized it immediately.
Shinsou was accepting whatever was coming.
Aizawa pushed Shinsou backward toward the wall. The boy stepped back along Aizawa’s push, a bit clumsily but obediently nonetheless. Aizawa quickly checked Shinsou for any signs of serious injury, bleeding, or broken bones. There were none. But the kid was clearly hurt on his back. So Aizawa decided to change their path from the wall to Shinsou’s bed with a sharp turn.
He needed to scare Shinsou just enough so he would never use his quirk on him again. He didn’t want to hurt him or worsen his injuries by slamming him against the wall.
So he pushed him toward his bed by the collar of his shirt, and Shinsou didn’t even try to resist. He was limp and almost lifeless in Aizawa’s grip, going along without resisting. It made what Aizawa was about to do even harder than it already was, seeing how the kid wasn’t even fighting back.
The back of Shinsou’s knees hit the frame of the bed, and Aizawa pushed him further over the bed, towering over the boy and holding him suspended by his shirt. For a moment, Shinsou reached toward Aizawa’s wrists by reflex to prevent himself from falling backward onto the bed, but he didn’t grab them. He kept his hands loosely hanging around Aizawa’s wrists, as if trying not to touch Aizawa but still afraid of falling down.
It seemed awfully like a learned behavior. ‘Don’t touch the angry adult to avoid further angering them.’
“You broke my rule,” Aizawa said bluntly. His voice was at a normal level but cold and threatening. Shinsou avoided eye contact at all costs, keeping his gaze on Aizawa’s chest instead, slightly frowning. He almost completely stayed silent, not even trying to respond to the accusation. Then he forced his hands away from Aizawa’s wrists and let them drop limply to his sides, giving in completely. If Aizawa were to let go of his collar, the boy would have fallen onto his bed.
“Look at me,” Aizawa ordered, and Shinsou did so quickly, even though he was obviously uncomfortable. “What kind of man do you think I am?” Aizawa asked with the same cold voice, still keeping it at a normal level—not too loud, not too quiet. “Do I look like someone who would tolerate you breaking our deal? Did you think I would just look away and let you do whatever the hell you want?”
Aizawa paused, waiting for a response. Shinsou shook his head slightly, his eyes filled with anticipation, waiting for the scolding to turn violent.
“You and I had an agreement, didn’t we?” Aizawa asked, ignoring every voice in his head telling him to stop. Ignoring how the way Shinsou had completely submitted felt sickeningly wrong.
Shinsou looked away again and pressed his lips together, afraid to speak.
Of course he was.
“Look at me,” Aizawa ordered again, a bit harsher this time. This would work much better if the boy was looking directly into his eyes, still glowing with his quirk. “Answer my question. Didn’t we have an agreement?”
“Yes, sir,” Shinsou said hesitantly in a very small voice, almost hard to hear.
“Then why did you break it?” Aizawa pressed.
“I’m sorry,” Shinsou said in the same small voice, deciding to jump straight to apologizing instead of explaining.
“I didn’t ask you to apologize; I asked you to explain.” Aizawa pushed, pulling the boy up slightly so their faces were closer. He pushed down the sickening feeling in his throat, blocking every emotion from rising up and getting in the way of what needed to be done.
“I’m sorry, sir,” Shinsou muttered again, his voice no louder than a whisper, and he averted his eyes but forced them back quickly with a faint wince.
This was going nowhere. Shinsou was obviously waiting for this part to be over, waiting for Aizawa to start hurting him. That was just reducing the effectiveness of what Aizawa was doing.
He needed to intimidate the boy, because that was the most he could do. He couldn’t do more. He wouldn’t. But he couldn’t scare the kid if he was waiting for something worse.
Aizawa steeled himself and, with a harsh move, pushed the boy down—half letting him fall, half forcing him to do so. Shinsou let out a surprised gasp at the sudden sensation of weightlessness but used his arms just in time to stop his back from slamming onto the mattress. The boy dropped onto the bed, his body bouncing a few times on the old mattress, the creaking of the old springs breaking the dense silence of the room.
Shinsou supported himself on his elbows, not wanting to be completely lying on his back, his knees still over the bed frame. He looked up to find Aizawa towering over him.
The spell finally snapped, and Shinsou’s previous state of surrender and numbness quickly dissolved into evident fear, his body tensing, as if he was ready to bolt at any moment.
“What were you thinking using your quirk on me?!” Aizawa fumed, letting his voice grow loud, echoing in the closed space. He looked down at the boy almost lying on his bed, gazing up at him with wild eyes.
That’s how intimidation works: using height and body mass to make the person feel smaller, trapped, and helpless, seeing their invader as someone bigger, more powerful, in control.
He felt sick of himself.
“Answer me!” Aizawa ordered, leaning a bit forward to convey how serious he was.
“I’m s-sorry,” Shinsou muttered, almost breathless, his eyes wide. Aizawa leaned down and reached out his hand toward the boy. Shinsou flinched violently and covered his head. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” Shinsou blurted out, his voice loud and pleading. Aizawa grabbed the kid’s collar and lifted him back into the same position.
“Are you now?” Aizawa hissed, blinking for a split second as his eyes started to beg for one, reactivating his quirk right after, as he made the kid suspended over his bed.
“I am, I am! Please!” Shinsou rushed to assure him, his hands still covering his head, his lower lip trembling a bit. "I wont use my quirk again! I promise!"
“You said the exact same thing when we agreed on each other’s rules. Do you think I’m stupid enough to believe your words again?” Aizawa said, making his face cold and skeptical.
“It’s d-different now. It’s different!”
“Different how?” Aizawa tried to make it seem as if he was willing to listen, creating an opening for Shinsou to convince him that this time was his last. Except Shinsou only gulped, probably searching for the right words.
“How?!” Aizawa gave the boy a shake, enough to urge him to talk.
“I-I had to make s-sure. I had to make sure what happened wasn’t on p-purpose. I’m sure now! I am! It won’t happen again! It won’t! I promise!”
Aizawa narrowed his eyes and stared down at him, letting the seconds tick by. Letting the moment sink in. Letting it be burned into the boy’s memory.
“I promise, I promise… please…” Shinsou mumbled, afraid to say those words louder than a whisper. Aizawa stared at him a bit longer until he took a deep breath; making a show of calming himself, trying to appear as if he was concealing his anger. Trying to hide how he wasn’t feeling an ounce of it toward the kid.
If anything, he felt sick. He felt unbearably sick of himself. Sick of how he was making a kid tremble. Sick of how low he was to use his body to overwhelm a malnourished child. Sick of how he was scaring a kid who had already gone through pain because of him.
“Please…” Shinsou murmured again, and Aizawa hated how there was a bit of hope at the end of his voice.
“Shinsou. You. will. never. brainwash me again. Never,” Aizawa said in a deep voice, pronouncing each word firmly. “If you do, it won’t be without consequences. Am I understood?” Aizawa asked, hating how the kid grew more tense at the threat.
“Yes, sir,” Shinsou replied without hesitation.
There are steps to how a responsible adult should react to the mistakes of children in their care. There are guidelines for how a teacher must act, how they should respond and talk to a student who made a mistake. Aizawa knew this because he had done research and read many different sources and guidelines. Teaching, like any other job, had a certain methodology. In Aizawa’s opinion, teaching was even more delicate since it directly affected children.
If Shinsou were a student and had made a mistake, Aizawa should have first checked if he was alright; both physically and emotionally. The safety and well-being of the students was above all else, and there was no exception to that.
Then, he would have asked the student to explain why he made such a mistake. And he would listen to their explanation—really listen, with patience and understanding, never with anger and contempt.
After that, he would have talked to the kid about that explanation. He would have made sure to let the kid know that he was heard and understood.
Explaining to them why their actions were unacceptable and wrong came next. This step involved outlining the natural consequences of the student’s mistake—explaining why the action was wrong in the first place, how it could cause harm, and why that behavior might endanger themselves or others.
Then, based on the situation, if it was necessary for the learning process, he would lay out an appropriate punishment—one that would help the student in the long term, never meant to hurt them. This usually involved writing essays, or sometimes just apologizing to the person harmed by the mistake.
At the end, he would thoroughly check if the student had any further confusion about the matter and make sure everything was clear for them. It was important to answer all the questions around the matter.
That would make roughly six necessary steps.
None of which Aizawa followed.
Because Shinsou hadn’t even done anything wrong. There was no mistake to begin with.
Shinsou had every right to use his quirk to protect himself in this situation—alone in a room with an adult. With a villain. A murderer. He had the right to use it for protection. He had every right to ensure his safety.
Aizawa was the one making a mistake by asking Shinsou not to use his quirk.
Everything was wrong. The rule he set, the way he was trying to enforce it on the kid. The way he was reinforcing the trauma of a child. It was all sickeningly wrong.
And yet, he had no other choice.
Hurting a child was a line Aizawa refused to cross, but then again, here he was. He still had to threaten Shinsou with something more vivid than ‘it won’t be without consequences,’ something graphic—something that Shinsou would remember the next time he was about to brainwash him.
Scaring and threatening. That was the best insurance Aizawa could pull.
But how could he? How could he possibly threaten to hurt a kid?
This was enough. He couldn’t. He couldn’t threaten a traumatized kid. That was too far.
And Aizawa simply didn’t have what it took to do it. He couldn’t continue this any longer.
So he held the boy and searched his face with narrowed eyes. “Are we sure?”
“Yes, yes, sir” Shinsou said, clenching his jaw.
“I will take your word for that. But that’s the last time I’m so forgiving. There won’t be a next.” He saw Shinsou swallow.
Aizawa took a deep breath and exhaled slowly through his mouth. Then he deactivated his quirk. He backed away from towering over Shinsou and pulled the boy up by his shirt to help him stand straight again.
And then he let him go.
Aizawa wasn’t someone to hope for something.
He knew hope was for lazy souls—those who wouldn’t take action and just sat around instead.
He knew actions mattered above all else, and that if someone wanted something to happen, they had to work for it.
But at that moment, Aizawa allowed himself to not be his usual self.
To simply hope.
Hope that this was enough to prevent Shinsou from using his quirk on him again. Because there wasn’t anything else Aizawa would allow himself to do. That was all. And now, he could only hope.
Aizawa inspected the boy in front of him. He saw how Shinsou’s shoulders were stiff, elevated up to his ears.
He was still expecting a blow.
“How badly injured are you?” Aizawa asked. Shinsou made eye contact before looking away, frowning. He looked skeptical. After a lot of hesitation, he only shook his head.
He was cowering away from talking. Aizawa tried to keep his face calm despite the tightness in his chest.
“Would you like me to treat them? I can clean them for you if you want.” Aizawa asked, even though he knew what his answer would be.
A headshake.
“Alright,” Aizawa said and walked. Giving some space to the kid was the least he could do. He felt Shinsou’s careful gaze on his back, following his every move.
Aizawa dropped onto his bed and laid down. He should make sure Shinsou’s injuries weren’t serious, but he was sure Shinsou wouldn’t allow him. All he could do for now was give him some time to cool down after what had happened.
He laid on his bed and closed his eyes, waiting for Shinsou to do the same. The kid looked visibly exhausted—more than Aizawa had ever seen him, which said a lot considering how the kid always looked sleep-deprived. He waited. And a quarter of an hour later, the boy was still standing in the exact same spot, looking at him.
And Aizawa finally understood what this was.
He was waiting for Aizawa to dismiss him.
Aizawa gritted his teeth and cursed himself. Then he cursed all the people who had any role in making a boy think he didn’t have the right to move without being dismissed.
Aizawa swore he would find every single one of them and make them pay.
Aizawa opened his eyes looked at the kid, only to make him flinched look away.
Aizawa cursed himself some more for good measure. He certainly deserved at least that much.
“Shinsou, you can move if you want.” Shinsou shook his head as if refusing a generous offer.
Shit.
Aizawa sighed and sat on his bed. “I am mad that you broke the rule I set. But you assured me that you would never use it again, and I accepted your word. That conversation is over. You can move from there.” Aizawa said this in a matter-of-fact voice. “You can also talk. I never said you were not allowed to.” Aizawa added, because the kid wasn’t speaking.
Shinsou shook his head again.
Double shit.
Aizawa pinched the bridge of his nose with two fingers. “Why not?” He waited for Shinsou to answer. Shinsou shifted nervously from one foot to the other until he finally spoke.
“I broke my end of our agreement…” Shinsou said in a small voice, as if still unsure if he was allowed to talk, and trailed off, leaving the rest unsaid.
Leaving the ‘So, now you will break your end of the deal’ unsaid.
His end, of course, was ‘no beatings and no muzzles,’ which was an insult to humanity to even call it a rule in the first place. But that so called rule wasn’t a default here, not for Shinsou, so Aizawa had no say.
“Shinsou, could you please come sit here?” Aizawa motioned toward the boy’s bed in front of him. Shinsou followed without question, looking at the ground again.
Aizawa let the kid settle, and then he spoke again. “How about we exchange information. You’re grown, so I won’t call it a game, but it really is one.” Shinsou’s head snapped up, locking eyes with him in surprise.
“I know you already asked me a few questions, but I figured your quirk doesn’t allow you to ask just any question and get an answer.” The way Shinsou clenched his jaw supported Aizawa’s assumption.
Aizawa continued. “Let’s do it this way. I can ask you any question. You are free to say ‘next’ if you don’t want to answer, so there’s no need for you to lie if you don’t want to tell me something. You can just say ‘next.’ In return, you can ask me any question, and again, I can decide whether I want to answer or skip by saying ‘next.’ I will nullify your quirk, of course, but I will answer you honestly. There are no consequences if either of us decides to skip a question. Are the rules clear for you?”
Shinsou frowned, as if trying to understand what that meant for him, but he slowly nodded.
“Are you okay with doing this?”
“I ask questions,” Shinsou stated, but he was asking for confirmation.
“Yes. And I do too.”
Shinsou shook his head hesitantly, unsure if he was allowed to refuse, but wanting to. Not because it wasn’t a good opportunity for him, but because he was expecting it to be a trap. And of course he would, after what Aizawa had just done.
“Like I said, I will activate my quirk, so there’s no problem with you asking questions. I think it would be good for both of us to get our questions answered.”
“You’re sure.” Shinsou said, still too thrown off by the situation.
“Yes, I am. Do you want to do it?” Aizawa assured him, giving him a choice Shinsou wouldn’t realize he has.
Shinsou searched Aizawa’s face carefully. Shinsou understood the value of information when he brainwashed Aizawa, even though he was probably anticipating that it would end with him even more hurt than he already was.
Even if the kid was scared, even if he was still shaken by what Aizawa had done just a few minutes ago, he was still too smart and also too desperate to let such an opportunity slip through his fingers.
“Y-Yes,” Shinsou confirmed, still hazy and hesitant.
“Alright… I’ll go first.” Aizawa knew it would be hard for Shinsou to start asking questions right away. Shinsou nodded, a bit surer this time, like he was more familiar with being questioned.
“How badly are you injured?”
Shinsou blinked. “I’m fine.”
“It’s okay to skip a question, but you should answer honestly if you decide to respond. That’s the only rule.”
Shinsou blinked again and considered his options. “Okay. I, uh… I checked with a tissue. The skin is not cut anywhere, and I’m not…,” bleeding, “So there’s no chance of infection. It’s nothing serious. It will heal on its own.”
Aizawa nodded stiffly. “Alright, thank you for being honest. Now it’s your turn.”
Shinsou hesitated but finally asked, “What… What are you, uh, going to do? Now—now that I broke your rule?”
So he was still expecting more.
Of course he was.
It’s very likely that every experience he had with his quirk on past roommates ended with him getting hurt. Even normal people would frown upon having their free will being taken away, and Aizawa had seen enough villains to know they wouldn’t stop at just ‘frowning upon’.
Aizawa activated his quirk. “I will keep a close eye on you now that you’ve broken it once. I will nullify your quirk if you ask me a question, and I will not tolerate it if you use it again. But if you keep your word, then we’re good. And that’s it. Like I said, that discussion is over.” Shinsou’s face only grew more confused. Aizawa sighed tiredly, and even that simple gesture made Shinsou tense.
Shit.
This is what happens when you intimidate a child like that.
Aizawa couldn’t undo what he had done. He knew his actions would leave a lasting impact, a burden Aizawa would have to live it. He had made a decision, and he would have to stand by it.
But that didn’t mean he could bear keeping the kid scared. There is a big difference between frightening the kid for a few minutes and keeping him that way.
So he said his next words, knowing full well that they might lessen the effect of his so-called ‘insurance,’ yet he did it anyway. There was only so much Aizawa was willing to do, and letting a kid stay in a mentally draining state was not one of them.
“Shinsou. Listen. The fact that you broke your rule doesn’t mean I would break mine. I am a man who would never break a promise, no matter what happens. I keep my word, despite what you do. I will follow the rule you set for me, in case you thought otherwise,” Aizawa said and then deactivated his quirk.
Shinsou stared at him, dumbfounded.
“It’s my turn. How did Home punish you?” Aizawa asked bluntly, draining his words of the deep regret he felt.
There was a moment when Shinsou winced, but it was gone right after. “N-Next,” Shinsou said, still too hesitant but also testing the waters to see if Aizawa would really stay true to his words.
“Alright,” Aizawa said neutrally. “Why didn’t you tell me about the first month?”
Shinsou’s lips twitched downward, and Aizawa thought for a second that he would say ‘next’ again, but then he answered. “Because I was afraid you would… fail on purpose to-to… -if I ever.” Shinsou sighed, annoyed that he couldn’t find the words. “I thought you would use it against me.” He finally settled.
Aizawa blinked, trying to put himself on Shinsou’s shoes. He had more questions but it wasn’t his turn.
“I see. It’s your turn.”
“Now, uh, now that you know, will you—will you—uh—”
Aizawa activated his quirk and completed the question for him. “Will I fail on purpose to hurt you?”
Shinsou pressed his lips together.
“No,” Aizawa said with such certainty that it left no room for argument. “Now that I know you’re held responsible, I will try a lot harder not to fail. It wasn’t my intention to hurt you when I failed my mission, Shinsou. You heard what I said; I just wanted to know how the organization deals with failures. I wanted to be prepared, so I failed on purpose to see it for myself.”
Shinsou shook his head slightly as he frowned. “You wouldn’t have… if I had told you.” It could have been a question, but Aizawa sensed it was more of a realization.
The last thing Aizawa wanted was for Shinsou to think this was somehow his fault.
“Shinsou. This is not your fault,” Aizawa said, sounding more like a scolding than he had intended. “It’s on me. I shouldn’t have, I-,” Aizawa cut himself and closed his eyes. He shouldn’t have done so many things, and not just in the past few days, but in the past two years. Still, it was irresponsible to dump his regrets on a kid.
Aizawa opened his eyes and softened his gaze. “I’m sorry, Shinsou. I’m truly sorry for the pain I caused you. It wasn’t my intention to do that, and I apologize for failing you. You took the time to train me, and I still failed. I knew I was your responsibility to some extent, but I didn’t know how they would punish you for my failures. I don’t expect you to forgive me, and I don’t expect you to believe me right away, but I want you to know I will do my best to make sure this never happens again.”
Shinsou looked at him as if he had suddenly grown a second head.
That look of disbelief…
It hurt, to say the least.
As if no one had ever apologized for hurting him before.
As if Shinsou were a stranger to the concept of being apologized to.
“My turn,” Aizawa said after a while. “Why did you think I wanted to hurt you by failing?”
Shinsou’s shocked face turned into a slight wince as he looked away. He reached his left hand to the back of his neck and scratched it mindlessly. “I, uh…”
“You can say ‘next’ anytime,” Aizawa reminded him.
“No, it’s okay.” Shinsou looked at his hands and fidgeted with his shirt. “I… because that-that is what I… did.”
Aizawa didn’t let the surprise appear on his face. Shinsou swallowed and continued. “I, uh, years ago, when the boss set the rule for the first month, I failed on purpose. My second trainer—he was an ass. He-he was an ass and I was mad and angry, and… and,” he sighed, “I was stupid. I didn’t know much at that time. I didn’t care about the consequences. I was mad, and I guess I just wanted someone to suffer like I was.
“So, when the boss set the rule, I… I failed on purpose, and Home punished my trainer. I’m not sure what she did to him, but when he came back, he was angry, and he-he b-beat me for what I did. And when the next mission came, I… um, I failed again on purpose because I couldn’t hurt my trainer like he did me. But Home could. So… I failed again, and… I knew he would be mad for that, but I was an idiot and I didn’t care. And the same thing repeated and he was, he—.” Shinsou shook his head, as if trying to shake off the memory.
Oh.
Fuck.
Shinsou searched Aizawa's face and bit his lip before letting go. Aizawa opened his mouth to say something, but Shinsou continued. Aizawa knew he wasn’t exactly opening up to him; it was his nerves talking.
“I attacked you where you were hurt and cut your arm with a knife. So, I thought you might be like how I was. The first month is the hardest for everyone. It’s a new place. New rules. New people. And it’s tough. People are usually frustrated and mad—I know I was. And they—I don’t know. I just thought you would want to somehow make someone pay for all of this. And you didn’t choose to be my trainee. You didn’t-you didn’t choose to be put under me. And I-I thought you would want to—somehow, settle the scores or… whatever.”
Aizawa thought he was done, but then Shinsou opened his mouth and murmured something that added to the already great amount of self-loathing he felt, “And you left the room four times, even though I told you that would put us in trouble… So, I figured you might have… that maybe—,” Shinsou left it unfinished, sighing.
No amount of cursing himself would be enough for this.
Of course he made things even worse.
Shinsou’s eyes were half-closed tiredly, and he narrated the memories of that bastard trainer of his with such a casual and bored voice that Aizawa dreaded how much worse the teen in front of him had experienced to become so numb.
Aizawa moved from where he was sitting on the bed and crouched in front of Shinsou on the ground. He did so slowly, so the boy only slightly leaned back but wasn’t startled, even though he looked endlessly puzzled.
It was almost meaningless how the same person who had forced the kid to look up at him for the purpose of intimidation just minutes ago would now make himself smaller on purpose. But what Aizawa had done before was no excuse for him not to have this conversation properly.
That was the least Shinsou deserved.
“Shinsou, listen to me. What your trainer did to you was wrong, and you didn’t deserve it.
“I-.”
“You didn’t.” Aizawa emphasized, “And I’m sorry you had to go through that.”
“I didn’t go through—it was nothing.” Shinsou tried to object, as if he was already regretting ever sharing that information.
‘Don’t let them know what you hate.’ Shinsou had said before.
Aizawa didn’t argue, and decided to continue instead. “And about what you said: attacking your opponent on their weak spots is a strategy. It’s not something I would hold against you. And in the practice with weapons, I know injuries are meant to happen during those kinds of training, one way or another. I’m aware of that. It’s not your fault, and even if you did it on purpose, I still wouldn’t want you to get hurt for it. I know it’s training. If anything, I am grateful that you are teaching me your techniques.
“I didn’t leave the room to put you in more trouble, Shinsou. I know you have the right not to believe me, since you warned me about it before, but I wasn’t thinking clearly at that moment. I left trying to get to you and take your place because I knew I was the one who failed, not you. It was very wrong of them to punish you for someone else’s mistake. I’m sorry I couldn’t prevent it, and that I was the cause of it. I apologize.”
Aizawa allowed his demeanor to be sincere, which was a rare occurrence since he had gone undercover. He continued after a pause.
“And I’m grateful to you. You shared your food. You starved for two days because of me and didn’t complain. You even used your own money to get me the radio, even though you could have easily used it for yourself.” Shinsou’s head snapped up, surprised that Aizawa knew. "You had to suffer through a punishment because of me, and when you came back, you didn’t hurt me like your trainer did, even though you could have done it when I was under your control.
“So, no. I’m not mad, and I don’t want to hurt you. There is no reason for me to want that. You helped me, and I am in your debt.” Aizawa said all these words matter-of-factly, with the same unwavering voice. As he spoke, Shinsou’s eyebrows began to raise, and his eyes became much wider than his usual half-closed. The disbelief was so prominent in his tired eyes that Aizawa found himself saying his next words almost automatically.
“You are a kind person, Shinsou.” Aizawa said with a smile. Shinsou pressed his lips together, and for a brief second, Aizawa thought he looked like a kitten with big eyes, before Shinsou caught himself and looked away quickly, pinching his eyebrows and scratching the back of his neck.
Aizawa was about to tell him that it was his turn to ask a question, but Shinsou suddenly froze, stopped breathing altogether, and paled. Aizawa froze too.
What happened? Did he say something wrong?
There was a knock on the door, which meant food. Aizawa looked at the door and then back at Shinsou, but just like that, the kid was breathing again, and the color was returning to his face.
With trays of food behind the door, Aizawa reminded himself that they had to eat quickly before training started.
“Let’s eat for now,” Aizawa announced.
He stood up to take the trays off the ground from behind the door. When he came back to Shinsou, the boy was rubbing his back absentmindedly, unaware of how that filled Aizawa with more well-deserved guilt.
Shinsou mentioned that his skin wasn’t cut anywhere, and he seemed reluctant to let Aizawa know what had really happened.
Aizawa didn’t know what Shinsou had endured. He was just grateful that it was over.
Aizawa took in the picture of Shinsou rubbing his back and let it be burned into his memory, as he decided he would never let the same thing happen again. He would never let himself fail a mission during the first month.
Except at that time, he had no idea how hard it would be to keep his word.
Notes:
Honestly, I don't think Aizawa could really hurt a child even if his life depended on it.
And what I like about Aizawa's pov in this chapter? It shows that he's not even considering beating or muzzling. It’s like he doesn’t see those as options, let alone something he’d be conflicted about.
Chapter 16: Distraction
Summary:
There are nights when sleep just doesn't come to Shinsou.
Notes:
Every time I post a new chapter, [Sherlock spoiler alert], I hear Moriarty(Andrew Scott)'s voice in my head saying, "I'm the storyteller. It's on DVD." [End of the spoiler] Except it's not on DVD, it's on AO3.
Hope you all have a great week!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
It was wrong.
It was all sorts of wrong.
This wasn’t what Aizawa was supposed to say. This wasn’t how he should have reacted.
When Hitoshi was walking back from the Chair room, he made a plan. It was hard not to think about how this wasn’t intentional when your back was on fire. There had to be an ulterior motive here, a reason for all this suffering.
Hitoshi had sparred with Aizawa a few times. He knew he was strong. He knew he was capable. So how? How could he fail a mission? Why did he leave the room four fucking times, despite Hitoshi telling him not to?
He had to know. He wanted answers. He deserved to know why he had to endure twenty lashes.
So when he reached the room, he did one thing he had gotten really good at during six years of constantly having to survive: he deceived and lured his prey into his brainwashing.
When Hitoshi’s quirk manifested, he thought the only way to brainwash people was by having them answer his questions. It turned out that was not the only way. Later on, he started to feel that tug of a strand in his mind when people engaged him in conversation too.
They didn’t necessarily have to answer a question; a conversation was enough. But the connection that Hitoshi could establish with a question was much stronger than the one he had when a person simply talked to him.
He gradually figured out that in order to make people do more complicated tasks, he needed a stronger connection. With the connection of a conversation, Hitoshi could make people do simpler tasks like running, walking, and other physical movements.
However, for more complicated things—like making them talk or use their quirk—Hitoshi needed strong connections, a. k. a., the kind achieved by people answering a question.
When Hitoshi first came to the organization, his quirk was weak, and he could only make people do simple tasks, but only if they answered questions. Until then, he hadn’t used his quirk more than the number of fingers on his hands.
But after joining the organization, he was forced to use it almost every day. The first year was the worst. He had constant headaches, even migraines, and he had too many nosebleeds. One time, when he had to hold five people simultaneously, he even blacked out.
But that made his quirk grow stronger and stronger. He began to make people talk under his control, and he could keep them for longer periods of time with only a moderate connection.
Recently, he had some incidents where he felt the connection when his words elicited an extreme emotional reaction. During a mission, when he was trying to get a person to answer him, he shouted, “Can I marry your mother?” The guy’s head shot up at him. He didn’t answer verbally, but when he reacted, Hitoshi felt a string in his mind and grabbed it. but the connection was weak, and it immediately snapped.
That was when Hitoshi understood the nature of his quirk better. His quirk was based on his own voice, not others. He also realized that different responses gave him different connections, allowing him to order different tasks.
A strong emotional reaction could give him a weak connection, allowing him to hold the person under his control for only one or two seconds.
A verbal conversation would give him a moderate connection, enabling him to order people to do simple physical tasks, like walking or closing their eyes—nothing too complicated.
A verbal answer to his question would give him a strong connection, one he could use to make people perform complicated tasks like talking or using their quirks.
The Achilles’ heel of ‘making people talk or use their quirks’ was that it strained his mind. Forcing people to perform complicated tasks put pressure on his quirk, and he could hurt himself or suffer a nosebleed if he used it too long or too often. It was also harder to make stronger individuals carry out complex tasks, especially when they struggled to break free.
Aizawa had no problem talking to him, but he would activate his quirk if Hitoshi asked a question. Hitoshi needed a plan to make him specifically answer a question without nullifying his quirk. So he planned to deceive the man. He faked a panic attack and tried to act as if he was afraid of Aizawa.
And it worked.
He could feel Aizawa struggling under his control. When he started to ask him questions, Aizawa tried to free himself, pulling at the strings. At one point, Aizawa pulled the strings so hard it left a cutting sensation in Hitoshi’s forehead, and that was when his nose started to bleed. After that, Hitoshi had to hold the strings much firmer so Aizawa couldn’t struggle anymore. Hitoshi cupped his nose, trying to stop the blood from spilling all over him.
Some of the questions were too complicated for Aizawa to answer. Hitoshi knew his quirk wouldn’t work if the person didn’t understand the explicit order or if they were conflicted about the matter.
But the man did answer many other questions, even though the answers were not what Hitoshi had expected.
‘I wanted to take the punishment myself.’
‘I wanted to stop them from taking you.’
That… was new.
That was… not what he thought he would hear.
He didn’t know what to think about those answers or why Aizawa would want that.
The man confirmed that he didn’t know about the rule of the first month, so there was no way for him to want to use that against Hitoshi. That part was clear now.
He didn’t want to hurt Hitoshi.
Up until then, that is.
Now he knew about the rule. And that wasn’t the worst part.
The worst part was that Hitoshi had brainwashed him.
He ordered the man to turn around and face the wall. He tried to take a look at his back. Despite the bad angle, he could make out the angry diagonal lines on his back and how the lines ended in a bruising purple U shape. There were also two red welts on his stomach from when the cable had turned and landed there.
Hitoshi moved his fingers over the two welts. The skin was swollen, especially near the ends where the cable had landed the hardest. The U-shaped marks would disappear in a few days, but he knew they would leave some bruises.
He pressed a tissue on his back to make sure the skin wasn’t cut and that he wasn’t bleeding. He wasn’t. He then wiped the blood from his nose and made sure it was clean. He didn’t want Aizawa to see his weaknesses. He put his shirt back on and looked over at the man still facing the wall.
Hitoshi knew what was coming the moment he dropped the control, but for now, the man was still at his mercy.
What should he do with him?
He could hurt him.
It was Aizawa’s fault that he was hurt.
He could do to Aizawa what his previous trainers had done to him.
He could rip out the man’s darkest secrets and deepest insecurities.
“You’re not like them, ‘Toshi.”
Shiko’s voice echoed in his head. He could hear her voice so clearly, as if she were saying it right now, as if she were in the room with him.
“You’re not like them, ‘Toshi.”
Hitoshi felt a painful lump squeezing shut his throat.
God, he missed her. He missed her so much.
“I’m sorry, Shiko. You’re right. I’m sorry,” Hitoshi said in his mind, feeling guilty for having these intrusive thoughts. He wasn’t like his past trainers. He decided not to be. He wanted to be like Shiko. To be a trainer like she was.
He ordered Aizawa to turn back. Hitoshi looked at the man’s lifeless white eyes, a sharp contrast to his dark ones. Before he could help himself, he glanced over at the man’s hands.
Those hands would hurt.
He knew Aizawa could hear him. Hitoshi could explain why he broke the rule and brainwashed him. He could try to ask for forgiveness before releasing him. But why did it matter? He had broken his end of the agreement and brainwashed him. Now Aizawa would break his end and beat him up or even muzzle him. Or maybe he would take away Hitoshi’s lock picks. Maybe he would forbid him from eating or drinking. Maybe he would make him stay awake at night or force him to stand beside the wall for hours.
It didn’t matter. There was nothing Hitoshi could do. He kind of felt like he deserved it. He had brainwashed the man. That was the only rule Aizawa set. And it was his quirk. Life had thought him that using his quirk was the worst crime Hitoshi could commit; no matter why and how.
He could delay it, of course. He could keep the man under his control longer.
But that wouldn’t change what was bound to happen. There was no point in keeping Aizawa under his control any longer. There was no point in delaying the inevitable.
He released Aizawa and waited for him to come. He wouldn’t fight; he wouldn’t resist. Honestly, he was just tired. He wanted it to be over as fast as possible. Aizawa activated his quirk and then stormed toward him. He grabbed his collar and pushed him toward the wall—
Or not the wall—
But the bed?
For a horrifying split second, it crossed his mind that Aizawa wanted to do something to him.
No, no! Izaier forbade those kinds of things!
But the man only held him over the bed by his shirt.
Hitoshi was kind of grateful. He didn’t want his back being slammed against the wall.
“You broke my rule,” Aizawa said, and Hitoshi felt the hairs on his body standing straight up at that. He tried not to shiver. Aizawa’s tone? It wasn’t shouting, which could only mean the adult was beyond mad.
“Look at me,” he ordered, and Hitoshi followed, knowing he would be better off obeying when the adult was this angry. But when he looked into the man’s eyes, he had to force himself not to look away, because just a look into those cold eyes was enough for Hitoshi to feel like he was thrown into the middle of a storm, despite how they glowed.
“Do I look like someone who would tolerate you breaking our deal? Did you think I would just look away and let you do whatever the hell you want?”
Hitoshi knew that the moment he dared to talk was the moment the man would snap. He bit the inside of his lip, making sure he stayed silent.
Don’t talk, don’t talk, don’t talk.
“Look at me.” When had he even looked away? He couldn’t disobey the man when he was this angry and make him repeat himself. Stupid. He was stupid, stupid—
“Answer my question. Didn’t we have an agreement?”
No, he knew he shouldn’t talk.
He wouldn’t.
But the man was waiting expectantly.
And now he was testing the man’s patience. Fuck.
He should have answered sooner.
“Yes, sir.” He wouldn’t dare call Aizawa by his name now. Saying the word ‘sir’ left a sharp, bitter taste in his mouth, reminding him of his last trainer and how he forced him to call him that all the time.
“Then why did you break it?”
There was only one correct answer. “I’m sorry.”
“I didn’t ask you to apologize; I asked you to explain.”
“I’m sorry, sir.” Hitoshi repeated, because that’s what Aizawa wanted to hear. That was the only answer to any question from then on.
Honestly, there was no need for this. Aizawa should just get to the point. There was no point in those small talks; he knew they were just formalities. Hitoshi would rather they skip that part and get to the point. He was ready—
Or he thought he was.
Until Aizawa dropped him, and he fell onto the bed. For a moment, he forgot there was a mattress under him and thought he would hit the ground. He couldn’t help but let a gasp slip.
He looked up, only to wish he hadn’t. His blood ran cold and he immediately snapped out of the numbness he was feeling, and all of his survival instincts kicked in.
Because that face?
It only meant danger, danger, danger.
In that moment, Hitoshi realized he had never seen Aizawa from this angle. He knew the man was strong, muscular, and tall.
But he hadn’t realized how intimidating he could be.
He had never seen Aizawa’s anger before.
Aizawa had never really done anything to him up until then.
Hitoshi had foolishly assumed that Aizawa couldn’t do anything worse than what he had already been through. But at that moment, when he looked up to find the man looming over him, he realized he couldn’t possibly know that.
Aizawa was unknown.
Hitoshi had no idea what the man was capable of.
Aizawa had killed a hero. He was a murderer. Hitoshi had no idea what the man could do.
And Hitoshi was quirkless against him. Weaker. And they were alone in a room with no exit.
Hitoshi had made a mistake. He shouldn’t have brainwashed the man. He shouldn’t have done it. He shouldn’t have. He shouldn’t have.
Aizawa’s hand reached out, and Hitoshi braced himself, protecting his head on reflex.
Aizawa grabbed his shirt and lifted him up. “What were you thinking using your quirk on me?!”
Hitoshi knew from firsthand experience that no amount of begging would be enough once he made such a big mistake. But he couldn’t help it. He couldn’t help but ask for forgiveness. He couldn’t help but fall all over himself to assure the man that it would be his last time. That he would never make the same mistake again.
“Shinsou. You. will. never. brainwash me again. Never. If you do, it won’t be without consequences. Am I understood?” Aizawa said, and Hitoshi did all he could to stop himself from shaking.
“Yes, sir,” he rushed to confirm. He understood. He did.
Aizawa searched his face carefully for a long moment, and Hitoshi did all he could not to tremble under that heavy gaze.
“Are we sure?” Aizawa asked after a while.
“Yes, yes, sir,” Hitoshi repeated, and he could repeat those words until the end of the world if he thought they would change anything. If he thought they would stop the next thing that was coming.
And just like that, the man deactivated his quirk, pulled him back up, and helped Hitoshi stand straight again.
Then he asked if Hitoshi wanted him to treat his wounds. And honestly? Fuck him. As if Hitoshi would ever let him see. The man probably just wanted to see where he was hurt most.
But then… he left?
Just like that.
Aizawa went to his bed and lay down.
What the hell?
Hitoshi didn’t dare move. He didn’t dare talk. Heck, he would stop breathing if he could.
Maybe this was the consequence of what he did: to stand there for hours, unable to move, unable to talk, just like how he had made Aizawa be a few minutes ago.
But then, a few minutes later, the man told him he could move if he wanted to. Did Aizawa think Hitoshi was stupid? That was the most obvious trap in the book. And when Hitoshi refused, Aizawa sounded as if he was genuinely… unhappy?
Then he asked Hitoshi to sit.
And then he wanted to… play a game?
What the fuck?
And then he asked him to ask questions?
That was all sorts of weird. But Hitoshi was tired. He was so unbearably tired. His body ached, and he was done with this shit.
He was done waiting for the pain, for the man to finally snap.
And if there was even the slightest chance he could get some information out of all of this?
He would take the risk of a trap for that.
But they really did ask each other questions. And it wasn’t all that bad. That was what Hitoshi had to sometimes nearly get himself killed for to get: answers to his questions.
Sure, he had to give something to get some, but he was willing to trade.
Then the man started to talk about how he was sorry, and grateful, and in his debt, and it all stopped making sense. Hitoshi didn’t know what to do with what Aizawa was telling him. He didn’t know what they meant. He didn’t understand the feelings he had in his chest with each word that came out of the man’s mouth.
He didn’t know why his throat felt tight and his chest even tighter.
And then Aizawa said something he shouldn’t have.
“You are a kind person, Shinsou.”
‘You are a kind person.’
That—no.
No, no. He wasn’t.
He wasn’t. He was a villain. He hurt people. He hurt innocent people. He took away from others. He had been villainous from the very start. He did all sorts of wrong. He—
H-he—
He k-k-k—
Killed—
Killed a—
He—he—he—
There was a knock on the door, and Aizawa said something about how they should eat before going to get the trays. Hitoshi blocked that thought. He wasn’t going there. No, he wasn’t.
Aizawa came back, and Hitoshi reached out to take his tray from the man’s hand, but Aizawa blinked at him before moving the tray out of Hitoshi’s reach. Hitoshi’s hand froze awkwardly in the air. His brain gave him no output but a blank error. Did Aizawa just…
Hitoshi froze.
Aizawa—he—
He was taking away Hitoshi’s food.
He thought the man said he wouldn’t do anything else.
He thought he said it was over.
He said he wouldn’t…
Of course, it wasn’t true.
Of course, not a single word he said was true.
He lied.
He lied, he lied, he lied.
Starvation?
That was what he wanted to do to Hitoshi for being brainwashed?
He was going to starve him.
He was going to punish him after all.
Hitoshi felt a deep stab of betrayal. And he shouldn’t; he shouldn’t feel that way, really.
Why was he even surprised?
He shouldn’t have assumed the man was done with him in the first place. He shouldn’t have let his guard down.
He should have known!
Idiot. Idiot. Idiot.
Idiot!
HE WAS AN—
“Sorry, kid. But you should wait until Hachiro comes to unlock the muzzle. If he comes and sees you eating, he’ll know about the lock picks.”
Oh.
Uh…
Hitoshi had… forgotten about that.
Aizawa gave him his tray then, and Hitoshi took it in a dazed state. Aizawa went back to his own bed and sat. But he didn’t touch his food. He just sat there and blinked tiredly at the ceiling.
He wasn’t eating. But why?
He just sat there with the tray of food beside him on the bed and waited. Why wasn’t he…? Is he?
Is he waiting for Hitoshi to be able to eat too?
Why?
Hitoshi wanted to say something, to tell him he should eat while they had time before training. He opened his mouth but then closed it. Was he really allowed to talk? The man said it was over, but Hitoshi had just brainwashed him minutes ago.
His other trainers would be mad at him for days. Heck, they would have muzzled him for days.
But Aizawa wasn’t doing any of that. He just repeated the rule and said Hitoshi had to follow it and that he wouldn’t tolerate him breaking the rule again. That it wouldn’t be without consequences next time.
That couldn’t be it, right?
There had to be more.
Hitoshi took the muzzle and secured it on his face for when Hachiro would come. The key to the muzzle belonged to his trainers when he had one. Now, it was Hachiro’s responsibility. And the man sometimes forgot about it.
He didn’t this time. He came and opened the muzzle, giving both of them some awkward looks, and then left.
Aizawa started eating when Hitoshi did.
Huh, he really was waiting for Hitoshi.
… What a strange man.
*******
The training went on as usual. Hitoshi was in the power position again. He was the trainer, and he relaxed a bit because of that.
Hitoshi tried to teach Aizawa a pinning technique on the legs. He chose a move that didn’t involve straining his back and tried to avoid anything that would contact it.
It wasn’t on fire anymore; it was just a bit warm where the marks were bruising. Overall, it didn’t hurt unless something directly connected with them.
He sparred with Aizawa, and the man avoided his back altogether, which made it awkward as hell. Aizawa would stop himself and change the move whenever there was a chance of him getting near Hitoshi’s back. It irritated Hitoshi because the man wasn’t fighting properly, and there was no way he would improve like this.
Hitoshi had to train him right, and he wanted Aizawa to improve. He needed to work hard to make sure Aizawa never failed a mission again.
So he called the man out on it and told him not to hold back before he could stop himself.
And Aizawa had the audacity to smirk. Or was that a laugh?
It was hard to tell with how rarely the man’s face changed from a tired neutral expression.
“Sorry, sensei, I’ll do better,” Aizawa muttered, huffing—or laughing, or smirking, or whatever. Hitoshi DID NOT feel his cheeks heat up.
Shut up.
Later on, when Hitoshi skipped the shower, Aizawa didn’t comment on it.
*******
Hitoshi couldn’t sleep. The only position that felt somewhat comfortable was lying on his stomach, but after two hours, it became unbearable. He rolled onto his back and clenched his teeth, trying to suppress a hiss from escaping.
His back was even more uncomfortable. Sleep just wouldn’t come to him that night. His mind kept going back to the Chair room, to how Home told Martial Hair to put him in the chair. His thoughts drifted to past memories: the overwhelming pain, the burning, the screaming—to the—
No.
He needed a distraction.
He looked over at Aizawa. Few hours ago, the man had listened to the radio again. First, a boring show about minerals, then that damn hero’s show. Aizawa turned the volume down before Hitoshi had to ask.
Aizawa’s breathing was even and calm, but that man’s breathing was always even and calm. Hitoshi couldn’t tell if he was sleeping or not. He had incorrectly assumed the man was asleep before; he wouldn’t make the same mistake twice.
They had talked during training, and Aizawa seemed fine. But Hitoshi would rather be safe than sorry. He would speak less unless directly asked a question. He couldn’t lower his guard. What if Aizawa was like Nanausea, waiting for Hitoshi to drop his defenses before acting? What if he was waiting for Hitoshi’s wounds to heal so he could hurt him all over again?
Hitoshi doubted that.
And he hated himself for the doubt.
Because he would always lower his guard, always start to trust, always start to get attached, until the reality of his life hit him for the thousandth time in the face:
That everyone would always hurt him in the end.
And everyone would always leave.
That no one would stay.
Hitoshi looked at the ceiling. A part of him wanted to talk to Aizawa. A very childish part of him wanted to ask for a story. He wanted to distract himself from the Chair room and his memories.
Shiko told him stories almost every night. She would share stories of her life, her memories, and all the trouble she got into as a kid. She would talk about her family and her brother. Sometimes, she would make up fairy tales about imaginary characters and their adventures. But on rare nights—oh, how Hitoshi loved those nights—she would tell him stories about their future. About how she would climb the ranks and get out. About how she would request Hitoshi as her lackey and get him out too. About all the things they would do together once they were free.
Hitoshi would have stayed, of course, if Boss hadn’t let him leave. But it was still nice to imagine. It was nice to dream. It was nice to hear Shiko talk with excitement about all the things they would do together, all the places they would visit, all the foods they would taste.
Those were the happiest nights he had. Sleep never came to him easier than those nights.
Hitoshi didn’t know what it was about stories that made him so calm. He was starting to believe it had something to do with his quirk. Because it wasn’t normal how he would drift off so easily when someone told him stories; it was almost embarrassing.
He even had some theories. It was as if his quirk was always thrashing in his mind, reaching out to other people’s minds, trying to get a hold of them. It would vibrate in frustration when he couldn’t find a voice to grab onto. It made sleeping harder.
It was as if his quirk was stressed, worrying that people wouldn’t talk to him. That it could never cling to someone’s mind, making it feel helpless.
But when someone told him stories, when he could hear a constant voice talking to him, and when he didn’t have to worry about them suddenly stopping or treating him with silence, it was as if he could breathe easily. His quirk would stop stressing from the lack of control over others and would calm down, knowing it had control.
He didn’t like how he would fall asleep so fast and always miss half of Shiko’s stories, but he liked not having to struggle so much just to sleep.
The other night, after Hitoshi had panicked about the lock picks, Aizawa had told him a story about himself, Boro, and Zashi, and Hitoshi felt the same kind of calmness—the sort of calmness he hadn’t felt since Shiko.
He wished Aizawa could tell him another one. Maybe that one about when they tried to make Boro’s clouds rain?
Wait… what is he—
Hitoshi kicked himself mentally for how childish he was being. He needed to collect himself. What was wrong with him?
Was he seriously thinking about Aizawa—the man he had brainwashed the day before—telling him a bedtime story?
Foolish. Childish. Idiot.
If anything, Hitoshi must be grateful that the rest of his body wasn’t covered in bruises.
It was kind of strange that it wasn’t, actually. Maybe Aizawa took pity on him because Hitoshi was already hurt. But that never stopped his other trainers before.
That never stopped Sir from—
Shit.
His mind would always stray back to those times.
Like he said, he needed a distraction.
And no, Hitoshi, you can’t ask fucking Aizawa to tell you that story about Boro’s clouds. The man was probably already asleep anyway.
Now that he thought about it, ever since Aizawa came, Hitoshi hadn’t gotten a real chance to study. It was just one incident after another. But he could try now. He knew he wasn’t getting any sleep that night anyway. He could always tell when it was going to be a sleepless one.
So, he slowly sat up, making sure not to make any loud sounds, just to be safe. He took his textbook from under his bed and walked toward the door, tiptoeing all the way there.
He sat behind the door. The light from the corridor illuminated the area around the door crack, making it decently lit. It was enough for him to make out the words and read.
Hitoshi flipped the pages quietly until he reached the right one. It was fifth-grade chemistry. He was behind in chemistry compared to other subjects. The damn thing was just so freaking complicated.
He was in the middle of third grade when he came to the organization. He had abandoned studying for more than a year until he met Shiko. It was she who insisted he should start studying again.
“How would you know, Toshi? Maybe you’ll decide to become an astronaut one day!”
An astronaut. Sure. Right.
Hitoshi didn’t really have any problem with school; he just hated how things gradually changed between him and his teachers and classmates as words spread around the school about his quirk. He hated how his friends started to avoid him, telling him their parents didn’t want them to be friends anymore.
He hated the flash of wariness on his teachers’ faces whenever he asked a question. He hated how his classmates would accuse him of using his quirk whenever things went south for them. He hated that some of his teachers actually believed them.
But he didn’t hate the lessons. Math, sports, games, literature—they were fun. But he had never truly connected with the whole science thing.
Yet, he couldn’t refuse Shiko. How could he look her in those brown eyes and tell her no?
So he agreed, and Shiko stole brought him some third-grade textbooks. Hitoshi swore he would study every single page of those books just because she took the risk to provide them for him.
And he did. But not alone. Shiko taught him, and boy if it wasn’t fun. He never laughed so hard while studying. Her examples, the way she explained things, the way she would get confused over the material; it was all so fun.
Shiko had to study everything herself first before trying to explain it to Hitoshi, because her monster of a father never sent her to school as a child. She was taught the basics at home before being sent out to work alongside her father at a very young age. After all, no one would suspect a little girl of drug dealing.
Maybe that was part of why she was so persistent about Hitoshi’s studies. Because she herself never had the chance to go to school.
She would go as far as using her portion of money to buy Hitoshi notebooks, textbooks, and pencils.
She insisted he study and taught him herself until studying became fun. Until Hitoshi even started to find comfort in how his mind would be occupied with rotating a shape around point (3, 1) on the coordinate plane instead of thinking about all the missions they had done. How he would be busy trying to understand the difference between past perfect tense and past continuous tense instead of thinking about Home. How he would be distracted by electrons and protons instead of thinking about his mom and dad.
So he became more and more interested. He and Shiko practically discovered the content themselves and self-studied the entire third grade.
They were in the fourth grade when Shiko died.
It took him a long time to start studying again. It took him a long time to get used to doing it without Shiko.
He started studying on his own, half because it was what Shiko would have wanted and half because that was the only distraction he had. The only way he could escape everything. Get far, far away from the organization, from his actions, from his memories.
Hitoshi opened his palm and looked at the old scar on his right hand under the light coming from under the door. That was the only scar on his body that he didn’t actually hate. It was from Shiko. He traced his thumb over the faint white tissue, his mind filling with her overly excited voice.
“Come on, Toshi! Two more problems and we’ll outsmart Einstein!”
He turned back to the textbook in front of him, a faint smile playing on his lips as the memories faded to the back of his mind, replaced by the words of his textbook coming into focus.
It wasn’t ideal to sit behind the door. He had been hit in the head by it being opened more times than he cared to count. But it was the only place that had sufficient light at night.
He tried to understand what a double bond was. It was two lines that would be between only some atoms, not all of them. Hitoshi couldn’t understand why. Why could Fe not make a double bond but C could? Why couldn’t Na make even a single bond? Wait, what was a single bond again? He studied that a month ago. Fuck, he was forgetting things already. C was carbon, which was a molecule. No, wait! It was an element, which was the same as an atom? Were all elements also atoms? Anyway, many atoms could make a molecule. But real-life carbon was like burned wood. But many atoms were a molecule, yet real-life carbon was too big to be a molecule. Was carbon many molecules? Was it many molecules connecting together with a single bind? Each single bind—no wait, it’s ‘bond.’ Each single bond was between atoms. So how were molecules sticking together? Can single bonds connect—
Aizawa coughed quietly and Hitoshi still jumped out of his skin.
Hitoshi turned to look at Aizawa. The man was sitting on his bed, very much awake.
Shit.
Did he wake him up?
Was he annoyed that Hitoshi wasn’t sleeping?
His trainers almost always ignored him when he was studying. Aizawa would too. Probably. Hopefully.
But Aizawa wasn’t the trainer. Hitoshi was. Would that change anything?
“Having trouble sleeping?” Aizawa asked, his eyes tired and half-lidded. Hitoshi just shrugged. Aizawa’s eyes fell on the book open in front of him, studying it for a second before he looked back at Hitoshi.
“Do you mind if I join you?” Aizawa asked and his voice was way too gruff and tired. Shit. Was Hitoshi studying bothering him?
“I’m sorry.” That was all Hitoshi could manage.
“What for?” the man asked, still sounding way more tired than felt healthy.
“I didn’t mean to wake you up,” Hitoshi said, and he didn’t know why he was talking so quietly. The man was already awake.
“You didn’t. I was awake.”
He was awake all along, then. Great.
“So, what do you say?” What does he say about what? Did Aizawa ask something? Did he say something that Hitoshi missed? How could he tell the man he had no idea what he was asking? What if he got mad because Hitoshi wasn’t paying attention?
Aizawa blinked at him a few times. “It’s alright. I’m gonna lay back down again. Good night.” He leaned back to do what he said.
“No! I mean—” Shit. Shit. What was wrong with him? He couldn’t prevent the man from sleeping. But he couldn’t stop the words from pouring out of his mouth, as if he had suddenly lost the precious filter between his brain and his mouth. “I mean, sorry, I’m—I’m sorry.”
Aizawa just blinked. “What for?”
What was with Aizawa and that ‘what for’ question tonight?
Hitoshi swallowed. “I didn’t hear what you asked.”
“I asked if you minded me joining you,” Aizawa said, without any indication of being irritated by Hitoshi missing his question the first time. Also, joining him?
“I’m studying,” Hitoshi said in the same way he would say something like ‘I’m pissing,’ in case Aizawa didn’t know. No one wanted to join him, let alone for studying.
“I know. I might be able to help if you’d like. I’m good at some topics. It’s okay to say no,” Aizawa said, each sentence like he was reading an address aloud. Like he didn’t turn Hitoshi’s world upside down with each one.
“You want to help me study,” Hitoshi asked by stating it. That didn’t make any sense. The man was probably too sleepy to realize what he was getting into.
“Yes,” Aizawa answered, his tone too certain for it to be a fluke.
Hitoshi really shouldn’t be thinking about this. He should refuse immediately and let the man sleep. What if he was strict and bad at teaching, turning all the fun Shiko associated with studying into stress?
But for some reason, he didn’t want to be awake alone that night. Maybe it was because he had to go to the Chair room the day before. He just didn’t want to be alone with his thoughts. So, he said something he knew he might regret for the rest of his life.
“Sure.”
Notes:
That moment when Aizawa doesn't hand Shinsou his food wasn't even planned on my part; it was bound to happen due to the story's logistics. Yes, I was shocked too XD.
Chapter 17: Slow Learner
Summary:
Shinsou and Aizawa start studying.
Notes:
I hereby admit that using dual POV for a single scene is not a smart move because we won’t get anywhere if I continue doing this. So, yeah, enjoy the last time we get to see what both of our major characters think about the same event.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“… That’s how a single bond forms.”
Aizawa explained, and Hitoshi looked at the tired man in front of him with awe.
When Aizawa left his bed to help Hitoshi with his studies, Hitoshi regretted agreeing almost immediately. He remembered how the man had towered over him after he brainwashed him, how he had felt frozen cold under the man’s intense gaze, and how intimidating Aizawa was.
Hitoshi shouldn’t have disturbed the man’s rest. He should have bitten his tongue and stayed quiet. Yet he agreed to Aizawa’s offer because his back was hurting, which kept reminding him of the Chair room. He needed a distraction and didn’t want to stay awake alone.
Aizawa was obviously a strict man. Who knows how he would react if Hitoshi didn’t understand a concept when he explained it? Hitoshi had never had anyone except for Shiko and Sir (and Corpse, but we are NOT thinking about that) teaching him after he left school. Aizawa wasn’t like Shiko, cheerful and energetic and fun, so he must be more like Sir. And that meant he would get mad if he figured out just how stupid Hitoshi was.
Hitoshi knew he was far behind the students his age. Supposedly, he should have been in ninth grade right now, yet he had only managed to get as far as fifth grade, and not even considering English and Literature. (Because according to Shiko, “Who needs Literature? We can already read and write, can’t we? Only rich people spend 600 yen to read about a blonde boy who left his planet because his rose lied to him.”) (And his English textbook had been torn by one of his trainers and he never bothered to get another one.)
So yeah, he knew he was stupid and couldn’t understand many things; otherwise, why would he struggle to grasp concepts meant for students four years younger than him?
He also knew how hard it was to teach him something.
Sir didn’t really care enough about school stuff to take the time and teach him, but he was serious about teaching him proper manners. Proper behavior, proper greetings, proper talking, proper walking; generally, proper everything. He wrote many phrases for Hitoshi to practice “how a respectful young man speaks” on a piece of paper and made Hitoshi memorize them, which took him longer than it should have, apparently. Honestly, it was hard to focus on memorizing when all he could think about was when Sir’s hand would start unbuckling the damn belt.
So, when Aizawa came to sit with him, Hitoshi braced himself for the worst. For Aizawa to tease him and tell him how slow-witted he was, or how he could possibly be so dumb, or be disappointed at how behind Hitoshi was. Or worse, he would snap when Hitoshi didn’t understand. Aizawa was more prone to losing his cool since Hitoshi had brainwashed him the day before, after all. Or maybe he was like Sir and would use physical force to drill knowledge into his brain.
Fuck. Maybe he shouldn’t have agreed to this.
Hitoshi shifted to make space for Aizawa to sit on his left, but Aizawa ignored it completely and sat on the ground to Hitoshi’s right. If someone opened the door, it would hit Aizawa first.
Whatever.
Aizawa glanced at the page Hitoshi was reading. “It’s fifth-grade chemistry,” Aizawa stated with his usual stoic expression. Hitoshi had two successive thoughts: first, Oh wow, the man could tell with just a single look, and second, Oh shit, the man could tell with just a single look.
Hitoshi swallowed—or tried to—but his throat suddenly felt too dry. Aizawa was close, and Hitoshi still wasn’t sure if it was okay to talk after how he had brainwashed the man yesterday. He decided it was safer to stay quiet unless Aizawa asked him direct questions.
This dynamic was also new to him. Before, Hitoshi was Aizawa’s trainer, even though he was physically smaller and younger. But now, if Aizawa decides to teach him, he would have the upper hand. Hitoshi didn’t know how Aizawa would act in a superior position.
“You said you joined the organization six years ago. Who taught you until fifth grade?” Aizawa asked, his eyes scanning the page.
It was a direct question. “My friend helped me with the rest of third grade and half of fourth grade. After her, I-I taught myself.” Hitoshi didn’t mention how he had already forgotten half the content he learned or how he solved most of the problems mentally or just skipped them because he didn’t want to waste the ink of his only pen. He also didn’t mention literature or English.
“You taught yourself half of fourth grade and half of fifth grade?” Aizawa asked, looking at him for the first time after he had started to scan the open page.
Yeah, and it took four fucking years.
Hitoshi tried to hide his nerves and act normal, so he just shrugged. But he knew what was next: ‘What a slow learner.’ ‘You really are behind.’ ‘I think you should quit.’ ‘Stop wasting my time.’ ‘You disturbed my sleep for this nonsense—’
“Hmm. That’s impressive. You should be proud.” Aizawa turned his gaze back to the textbook, as if what he said was just a mere fact and not a mind-blowing thing to say.
Not to mention how Sir used to use the same as-a-matter-of-fact tone to tell him the opposite.
“How would you like to do this? I can just sit back and be here for when you have difficulty solving a problem or understanding a topic, and then I can try to explain it to you. Or I can walk you through the topic you are currently studying and teach it to you. We can also go back to previous material you feel you don’t fully understand and work on that first.”
Hitoshi blinked. He what?
A few seconds were spent in utter silence, prompting Aizawa to look up at him again. “You can also tell me to leave any time you want. It’s fine either way.”
That was… Okay. Alright. Options. Sure. It wasn’t ‘you should’; it was ‘how would you like’? He could work with that. Okay, he would choose the option Aizawa wanted him to choose… which would be option… what was the difference between option one and two again?
“I-I’m fine with whichever you want,” Hitoshi settled, as the infamous ‘don’t-test-people’s-patience’ timer ticked by.
Aizawa stared at him for a few seconds, which felt like a lot longer, and then he nodded. “How about I explain the topic you were studying for now? Does that sound good?”
“Sure.” Hitoshi nodded, and he could breathe a bit better without having to choose.
“Double bonds.” Aizawa’s eyes locked onto the pen in Hitoshi’s hand. Without hesitation, Hitoshi extended it, silently offering. He fought back the urge to do the exact opposite and hold the pen to his chest like Aizawa was a thief and the pen was the last piece of bread on earth. Hitoshi used the pen only if it was absolutely necessary; ink and paper were both far too valuable to be used casually. But he couldn’t tell that to Aizawa.
Yet, Aizawa didn’t even move his hand to take the offered pen. “There’s no need,” Aizawa said, then moved the end of his shirt away, and for a horrifying split second, Hitoshi thought his hand was going toward his belt, causing his body to flinch against his will. But then he realized Aizawa just wanted to take a tissue out of his pocket.
Damn, he should calm his nerves. The man didn’t even have a belt on him.
Fortunately, Aizawa didn’t seem to notice the flinch. He tore the tissue into several pieces and asked Hitoshi to make them into small balls. When they finished, Aizawa said the tissue balls were atoms.
Aizawa held up a single small ball. “The world is made out of atoms. Water, paper, trees, humans; everything,” he explained. “Do you recall what an atom is made of?”
“Electrons, protons, and…” Shit. “N-neutrons.”
Aizawa nodded. Then he said 99.99% of the atom was just empty space, which meant electrons were really, really far away from the nucleus. Which was crazy. But then he said that also meant 99.99% of the world was also empty space, which was outright mind-blowing.
Holy shit, 99.99% of the world was nothingness.
Hitoshi wanted to ask how. How could 99.99% of something like a rock be nothing? And what was nothing anyway? Was it like air? He wanted to ask why electrons didn’t move toward protons because he remembered from physics that protons and electrons were supposed to attract each other.
But of course, he didn’t ask anything. He knew better than to go down that path.
Then Aizawa started to talk about molecules and asked Hitoshi to put the tissue balls two by two together, ‘like they are couples,’ and explained each pair was a molecule with two atoms. Then Aizawa asked him to put them in groups of three and told him each group was a molecule made of three atoms. Molecules could be made of two atoms, three atoms, four, five, or more.
Then they put the molecules together, and that made a thing, like a piece of wood or a pen. Things were made of many, many molecules.
Aizawa explained more about atoms, molecules, and elements, and Hitoshi couldn’t help but gaze at the man before him in absolute awe. How could the man possibly be so good at this? All this complicated gibberish was suddenly beginning to seem uncharacteristically simple. And Aizawa didn’t need to study first before teaching him the concepts.
Hitoshi had met many villains, most of whom never even finished school. Many had quit at a young age, and many had been expelled and never started school again. Those who actually finished school usually did so with bad grades and courses they barely passed. Hitoshi knew from when Aizawa told him about his high school friends that he had at least passed middle school. But to be so good at it?
Hitoshi had never met a villain so good at chemistry.
That thought left him with a sense of guilt at the pit of his stomach. He didn’t like to think Shiko was a bad teacher or that she explained some of the concepts wrong, but Aizawa was just in a whole different league.
He was good.
And everything he said was easy to follow.
Aizawa asked if he understood and if everything was clear every few minutes. And every time, Hitoshi nodded—not just out of habit, but because surprisingly, everything really was clear. That is, until they started to talk about bonds and how electrons of different atoms make up a bond, and it wasn’t clear anymore.
That was when Hitoshi started to worry again. He couldn’t fully understand, even if Aizawa was teaching at a slow pace. It was all just complicated. Yet, he didn’t say anything and nodded whenever Aizawa asked if he understood until they reached an example that Hitoshi didn’t know how to solve.
Maybe it was a bad idea to agree to study with Aizawa after all. When he was studying alone, there were no consequences for not understanding a problem or solving it wrong. Heck, he didn’t even have a real way of knowing if he solved a problem correctly or not.
But now, Aizawa would be watching, and he would know the moment Hitoshi made a mistake. The man had been explaining this topic for about an hour, putting so much effort into teaching him. He had given up on sleeping just for this, and now he was about to find out his efforts were wasted.
“I will solve the first problem and then let you solve the second one,” Aizawa said. Okay, maybe that would help.
Aizawa explained the answer to the problem, and it made sense. Mostly.
The next problem was similar to the one Aizawa had solved, Hitoshi could tell, but it was also different. He looked at the problem in front of him and squeezed the pen in his hand.
He didn’t know the solution.
Hitoshi stared at the problem as if it would come to life and bite him at any moment. He stared at the words like the problem would solve itself if he stared at it hard enough. Aizawa was waiting patiently, like he had all the time in the world. How much longer would he wait? Not much longer if this continued.
He shouldn’t have agreed. Okay, he admits that Aizawa was good at chemistry—maybe even great—however that’s possible. But nothing would be worth the risk. He should have known it would all come down to this eventually; with him failing to understand.
Maybe if he apologized sooner and admitted that he was an idiot, that he was aware of it, it would prevent the man from snapping at him. He didn’t want the events of the previous day repeated. He didn’t want to anger the man again.
Maybe if he promised that he wouldn’t waste his time again, this would end without Aizawa getting mad.
He prepared what he was going to say and repeated the words in his mind a few times to practice. But every time he wanted to open his mouth to say them out loud, no words came out. Until Aizawa spoke, and all the words Hitoshi had prepared poured out in a rush.
“Do you want me to explain this—”
“I’m sorry. I’m-I’m sorry to waste your time. I didn’t mean to bother you or disturb your rest.”
“I wouldn’t have asked to join you if I thought this was a waste of my time,” Aizawa said in the same way he had explained what a double bond was.
Hitoshi turned his gaze back to the problem and frowned. That’s because you don’t know I can’t solve this yet. “I know you explained this already. I know these things are easy, and I know these are meant for people much younger than me. Thank you for teaching me, but I will study alone again after this. You don’t have to waste your time on—”
“Shinsou.” Aizawa said. It wasn’t loud; it was just firm, yet it made him snap his mouth shut, and he had to fight the urge to lean back and recoil.
“It wouldn’t be in an academic textbook if it was easy,” Aizawa pointed out.
“I don’t know how to solve this.” Hitoshi said, an ‘can’t you see?’ question hidden beneath his words.
Aizawa hummed in acknowledgment. “Which part don’t you understand?” he asked, as if it were the most normal thing in the world. But Hitoshi could read between the lines. Aizawa wanted him to admit he couldn’t understand, to admit he was stupid.
“I know.” Hitoshi said, trying not to frown but failing miserably.
Aizawa blinked. “Know what?”
Fine!
“I know I’m a slow learner. I-I know I’m stupid.”
“You’re not.” Aizawa said in that damn this-is-a-fact-from-the-dawn-of-time tone of his, “You haven’t been sleeping for two consecutive nights, and I’m not a chemistry teacher, and we don’t have enough light. Considering all that, I’d say you did well.”
Well?!
Hitoshi couldn’t help but to stare at the man. Aizawa stared back. It wasn’t a staring contest or anything competitive; they weren’t trying to see through each other. It was just that they didn’t have anything else to say. It was a dead end. That is, until Aizawa sighed and broke the stare, massaging his eyes.
“Shinsou, do you remember Kosuke?”
Dah. “The black hole guy.”
“When you tried to get him to respond, you could have asked him anything. You could have asked him what his name was, or if he had ordered a pizza, or if he could open the door.” Yeah, so what? “But instead, you asked him to confirm his home address. Why?” Aizawa asked, his voice non-judgmental but probing as if to make a point.
Hitoshi shrugged. He didn’t like to participate, not when it was about his quirk and the things he did to get people to talk. Aizawa didn’t seem annoyed by the lack of response, though.
“Because people tend to be reluctant to give personal information when the situation is even a bit suspicious, especially when a masked stranger is at their door where they’re supposed to be safe. They won’t give away information, but they are willing to hear what the other person knows, and they are willing to confirm that information just to see what else they know. In situations where trust needs to be verified quickly, trivial questions can provide a false sense of security, and you knew that.”
Did he? Hitoshi didn’t give it all that much thought. It wasn’t like that. He just—
“You were also able to defeat Tesla because you were fast enough to judge him based on the nature of his quirk.”
Where was this going? Was Aizawa going to mention how Hitoshi tricked him yesterday into answering him, too? Was he trying to remind Hitoshi he wasn’t off the hook yet?
Hitoshi did not swallow, and he did not tense up.
“All of that means you are not stupid.”
Oh.
That was the conclusion?
“You were able to study on your own without help or additional resources. You probably solved many of these problems mentally to save your ink and paper, which is a hard thing to do. Many students can’t do that. All that means you are not stupid or a slow learner,” Aizawa explained in his… teacher tone, which Hitoshi only now knew he had. “And I choose how to spend my time myself, so you can’t tell me I’m wasting my time or not. Understood?”
Hitoshi gaped twice and then decided to shut his mouth completely.
No.
He didn’t understand.
Because that wasn’t true.
Home told him he was stupid. Sir told him. Many of the other members of the organization did. He messed up more than any other member. The scars on his back were a constant reminder of how stupid he was.
The only people who ever told him otherwise were his parents. And Shiko.
Three versus everyone.
And now four versus everyone.
If he could even count Aizawa.
The man probably just didn’t know him well yet.
So, one more person.
It was still four against everyone.
Hitoshi didn’t say anything, even though he knew the answer to that “Understood?” was a “yes, sir.” But he couldn’t talk. His throat was suddenly even drier than before, stinging and dangerously close to shutting entirely.
Aizawa’s eyelids dropped slightly at the lack of feedback, and for a moment, he looked kind of sad. That expression disappeared as quickly as it came when Aizawa tried to solve the problem for Hitoshi. Except Hitoshi couldn’t concentrate on the problem anymore; his mind was occupied with bigger issues, like what Aizawa had just told him.
That was when Aizawa suggested they should wrap things up and try to get some rest.
Which was a good idea because Hitoshi was tired.
He was tired, and his body ached.
And his throat ached even more.
*******
Shinsou was trying to sleep on his stomach, avoiding any contact between his back and the mattress. He shifted a thousand times in his bed, but it was obvious he still couldn’t find a comfortable position to sleep.
And it was all Aizawa’s fault.
It was his fault a kid was hurt.
He had let a kid get hurt in his place.
And he couldn’t even give him something as simple as a painkiller.
Aizawa wanted to speak. He wanted to do something instead of lying uselessly in his bed, being reminded of how he had let down the kid every time Shinsou shifted.
But every time he wanted to speak, he was reminded of the fear he had purposefully instilled in the kid.
Shinsou probably didn’t want to hear from him now. He probably wished he could be anywhere else but in proximity to Aizawa, anywhere else but in the same room as him.
Shinsou hadn’t said a word after their training. He skipped the shower and went straight back to their room. Aizawa might not have had a watch on him, but he knew it had been at least ten hours since the last time either of them had spoken. Shinsou was obviously still shaken by what Aizawa had done, and that was what Aizawa wanted, wasn’t it?
He wanted Shinsou to be scared enough not to use his quirk again.
He did this himself.
So Aizawa decided to stay silent.
He reminded himself that when he agreed to go undercover, he accepted that he might have to do something morally wrong. He reminded himself that he was willing to accept the consequences of his actions as well.
He listened to Shinsou’s shallow breathing and his occasional shifting, forcing himself to remain completely still and non-threatening, pretending to be asleep.
Until the boy woke and walked toward the door, moving as quietly as a cat. For a second, Aizawa thought Shinsou might try to leave the room—which was a bad idea and not possible—but the boy just sat right behind the door where the only source of light illuminated from the crack under it and—
He started to study.
..
Which was. Oh.
How was he studying right now?
And why?
Aizawa had spent half his life using thousands of different methods, varying from bargaining and bribing to threatening and expelling, to make his gremlin students study—for the love of God and the sake of his sanity— and they always acted as if they were being tortured in his classes anyway.
But now, this kid.
He was studying in the dead of night with his back probably hurting and an adult no further than a few feet away from him, an adult who had grabbed him by the collar and scared him to his core, after having gone through a mission, the anxiety of having his trainee fail the very last night, and a long day of training with an insufficient amount of food in his stomach.
Sleep-deprived, scared, hurt, and probably hungry.
And he was studying without anyone even asking him to.
How?
Aizawa didn’t know.
Why?
Aizawa could only guess.
Distraction and maybe interest.
No one studies in this situation if they don’t genuinely enjoy learning.
As a teacher, Aizawa felt proud, and then he felt uncharacteristically enthusiastic and even in need of teaching.
Sure, Aizawa enjoyed teaching, and he cherished being a sensei. He would do everything in his power to properly transfer his knowledge to the next generation of hero students.
But never in his life had he felt such a sudden need for teaching. Like it wasn’t the student that needed a sensei, but that the sensei needed the student. He needed to help. He needed to teach.
But how could he even think of asking to accompany Shinsou? His presence would only remind the boy of how he had to suffer a punishment and how he was scared of Aizawa, of how cruelly Aizawa was forbidding him from using his own quirk.
So he pushed down his own desires to let Shinsou be comfortable and think Aizawa was asleep. He suppressed that overwhelming need and forced himself to remain still, not wanting to disturb or worry Shinsou.
Until Shinsou started to get frustrated with whatever he was reading, and Aizawa knew he couldn’t just watch anymore. Whatever it was that Shinsou was studying was clearly pushing him into a corner.
He tried to clear his throat first instead of speaking, hoping to avoid startling him, but that didn’t work as planned, and Shinsou flinched at the sound. Not a good start.
Aizawa asked if he could join him. The boy looked at him like his mind was racing a hundred kilometers per minute, but none of the thoughts turned into words.
Aizawa assured Shinsou that he hadn’t woken him and that he was already awake, then asked for his opinion on what Aizawa had asked.
But Shinsou went deafeningly silent and still, continuing to stare at him.
Alright, that meant the kid probably didn’t want to be anywhere near Aizawa but was too scared to reject him. Message received.
“It’s alright. I’ll go back to lying down now. Good night.”
“No! I mean,” Shinsou nearly shouted, and Aizawa stopped himself from lying down. “I mean, sorry, I’m-I’m sorry.” He went back to apologizing again.
It turned out Shinsou didn’t hear him asking a question, so Aizawa repeated it, stripping his voice of any emotion that could be misinterpreted as irritation. He didn’t expect Shinsou to accept his offer so easily. Shinsou didn’t seem like he was forcing himself to accept Aizawa’s company; he even sounded willing and a bit relieved.
Aizawa tried to give Shinsou options, letting him know he was the one in control, which only confused the kid. Aizawa knew confusion could lead to panic, so he offered what he thought might be the best option for them. He didn’t want to ask Shinsou directly if he knew the prerequisites for understanding double bonds. That might embarrass him if he didn’t know, which he shouldn’t be; no real teacher had taught him those topics, and he had every right not to know them.
So, Aizawa started from the beginning. When the teen reluctantly offered his pen, Aizawa refused, knowing how hard it must have been for Shinsou to provide the bare minimum and how carefully he must be using them. Instead, he thought maybe he could use a tissue to explain the concept of atoms and molecules.
But when he brought his hand towards his pocket, Shinsou flinched and leaned back, closely following Aizawa’s hands like a prey following the movement of its predator. Aizawa put every last drop of his hero training into practice to not freeze at the sudden change and proceeded to take the tissue out, pretending he didn’t notice.
But he did notice, and he recognized the signs. He knew why a kid would react so extremely to something as simple as an adult bringing their hand towards the waist of their pants. He had seen those signs before, in some of the worst cases of child abuse he had been involved in.
And he didn’t like what those signs were leading to.
Being disciplined by a belt.
Aizawa would be lying if he said he didn’t know that about Shinsou already. He saw how Shinsou eyed the belt that Hachiro had given Aizawa along with the rest of the clothes before their first mission.
He could only swallow his anger, pushing it far down, away from Shinsou’s eyes. But he swore he would find every single villain who had ever touched this kid and make them wish they had a time-reversing quirk so they could undo what they did.
He pushed his anger to the back of his mind and tried to focus on the stars that were starting to appear in Shinsou’s eyes the more Aizawa explained. It filled him with warmth to see how eager Shinsou was to learn and how his eyes would light up when he understood a concept.
Until Aizawa started to talk about bonds, and the stars began to disappear, replaced by fear. The misplaced fear that Aizawa was growing to dislike wholeheartedly, especially when it felt so misplaced on such young eyes.
Then Aizawa asked Shinsou to try to solve a problem after he solved a sample and assured him that he could take as much time as he liked and that he could ask Aizawa to explain it again anytime.
That was where he was wrong. Because Shinsou was too scared to ask Aizawa anything, let alone to ask him to explain something once more. The moment Aizawa opened his mouth to let the kid know he could explain the concept again, Shinsou rushed to amend and apologize.
“I’m sorry. I’m-I’m sorry to waste your time. I didn’t mean to bother you or disturb your rest.”
You did nothing wrong, kid.
“I don’t know how to solve this.”
It’s completely natural. Nothing to be ashamed of.
“I know I’m a slow learner.”
Who the hell dared to tell you that?
“I-I know I’m stupid.”
No, he wasn’t. If anything, he was intelligent.
Aizawa tried to explain why he wasn’t. He attempted to prove it by providing solid evidence and going through the logistics step-by-step. Yet even after that, Shinsou looked at Aizawa as if he were the one at fault, as if Aizawa were the one who couldn’t see the truth.
And that was okay, too. Aizawa wouldn’t fault Shinsou for the biased self-concept he seemed to have. If the Safe House was where he grew up, then the image the teen had of himself was likely consistent with what other members told him.
What villains told him.
That meant Aizawa’s words were probably a sharp contrast to what the boy had heard every day for the past few years. That only meant Aizawa had to repeat what he had said just that many more times.
And he would. Aizawa would help him study from now on, if Shinsou allowed him to do so.
Aizawa went back to his bed after they finished, his mind settled on that decision.
Over the next five days, they got a chance to study together two more times, until on the sixth day, new orders arrived, and they were sent on their next mission. One that Aizawa was determined not to fail.
Except at that time, he didn’t know things would get more complicated than he had initially anticipated.
Notes:
The question of the day is: Did I choose a random topic from a random discipline, or was it also metaphorical?
Chapter 18: The Villain Within
Summary:
In which Aizawa realizes that not failing might be a greater obstacle than he had imagined.
Notes:
We have a guest star, ladies and gentlemen! Yokumiru Mera. You know him from the license exam. He, along with Shinsou and Aizawa, will always be the eye-bag trio of MHA for me, and it would have been interesting to see them together in a one-shot.
It would go like: “Once upon a time, Mera, Aizawa, and Shinsou accidentally got locked inside UA’s equipment storage. They searched the room for an exit tiredly; the flip of a fly’s wings could be heard in the absolute silence. After a few seconds, the trio shot each other some meaningful looks; the unspoken shared agreement no longer needed to be said out loud: they were done with this shit. And so, they decided to sleep for the next nine or so centuries. ‘Wake us up after the apocalypse,’ was the last thing the trio thought before falling asleep. Except for Shinsou, that is. He had insomnia. He couldn’t sleep. What a bummer. The End.”
…Sure, sure, I’ll stop talking now. Enjoy the chapter! XD
[Once again, the villains mentioned in this chapter are from USJ.]
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The elevator’s door opened with a ding, revealing the features of another person inside. Aizawa looked at the man leaning against the corner of the elevator, fighting the urge to dose off while murmuring something about how he needs to get through a meeting and get some sleep as soon as possible. Aizawa… could sympathize, to say the least.
The man had beige, messy hair that made him look like a sleep-deprived mushroom.
Yokumiru Mera.
Aizawa had seen him during the provisional hero license exam before; almost every year for the last five. He was responsible for supervising and explaining the rules, and he always looked overworked and in need of a break, year after year. Aizawa entered the elevator and saw that the button for his floor had already been pressed.
This was officially the last time Aizawa would set foot in the HPSC building before going undercover, which he had no problem with. He would rather not step inside there ever again.
Not after the talk he had with Hawks the other day.
“Oh, you’re the… eraser,” Mera suddenly said, as if speaking in his sleep. Aizawa ignored him.
“At least you’ll get to sleep... But you won’t… You’ll have all the time in the wor-, but no rest. Maybe I should try going undercover again... Or maybe I shou- become a popsicle seller instead of all this. Or a cloth hanger. At least they can rest... I just need some sl… Why do I have to go to this meetin-? Who cares about an underco-…”
Mera murmured the rest of his negative string of complaints so unintelligibly that Aizawa could no longer understand.
“Excuse me?” Aizawa regretted the question even before asking it. He should probably avoid interacting with Agent Mera. Who knew what kind of catastrophic disaster could result from the collision of their equally exhausted personalities.
But Aizawa wouldn’t initiate just any small talk. Yokumiru Mera was a dedicated and hardworking man, and some even believed he would be the next vice president of the HPSC. So, if he had something to say about undercover missions, Aizawa wouldn’t mind hearing it.
Mera opened one eye halfway, which seemed like the most he could manage. “Aizawa Shouta. I saw your file. It was a big file... I stayed up all night… Why did you have to have such a thick file? Why did I…” He trailed off again, his head tilting left and right as if his neck couldn’t support his head anymore. Aizawa was getting even more exhausted just by looking at him than he already was.
They really were not a good match.
“Anything notable?” Aizawa pushed, trying to keep his annoyance in check.
“Oh yes.” Mera said, and his head shot up as if he were suddenly awake. The elevator arrived with a ding.
They both walked out of the elevator, apparently heading in the same direction, possibly to the same meeting from the looks of it.
“I could see why madam president insisted on having you. I’ve been on a few undercover missions myself. I hope you get some sleep… You probably won’t. Just like me.”
Aizawa was starting to wish he had taken the stairs.
“You know what’s the biggest mistake undercover agents make?” Mera asked as he developed a new method of sleeping while walking toward the meeting room. Smart. Maybe Aizawa should try it sometimes while heading to his classes.
“Not getting enough sleep?” Aizawa deadpanned.
They both came to a stop behind the door of the meeting room. They were right on time. Mera looked into Aizawa’s eyes. He had impossibly small irises that made them look black, but they were actually beige at the center.
“The biggest, but unfortunately most common mistake, is that they try to fake their personalities.”
Aizawa raised an eyebrow but otherwise remained silent, waiting for the man to elaborate.
“They pretend to be someone they are not, and when the time comes to prove that personality—when they have to do something out of their true character—they can’t. And that would be their downfall. If you can’t stomach hurting animals, your undercover persona must also be someone who can’t kill animals; otherwise, you will be found out the moment you are put in a situation that involves hunting a bird or beheading a dog or something as such.”
“With this logic, no hero could ever do undercover missions. Faking, deception, and having two or more faces are the ABCs of such missions,” Aizawa challenged.
“…That may be true... Honestly, this is too much work, and maybe we can both get some sleep instead of discussing this while standing...” Mera raised his hand tiredly and shook it left and right, as if to dismiss what he had said before, and moved to open the door.
Aizawa frowned. “Agent Mera,” he called. Aizawa would never sacrifice work to get some sleep; he would cut his sleep to get work done. And he had a feeling the man in front of him had done the same in his career. But maybe he needed a push. “Elaborate, please.”
Mera looked at him while hunched over the doorknob, considering. Then he straightened up, turning to fully face him, and his expression grew serious.
“Going undercover isn’t about faking to be a villain,” he said, his eyes intense despite the bags beneath them. “It’s about bringing out the villain that could emerge from the darkest depths of your soul; one that even you didn’t know existed. I’m not implying that agents should become villains, but the exact opposite. They should keep reminding themselves they are heroes before they get lost in their false identity.
“What I’m saying is that you should look deep inside and see what the most villainous thing you are capable of doing is. How far are you mentally able to go? How much dirt can you tolerate on your hands? What is the last line you are willing to cross?
“Whatever lies beyond that is what you should avoid pretending to be. You should synthesize your undercover personality using elements of your true self. If you are a blunt person, be a blunt villain as well. If you are not easily scared by threats, don’t pretend to be a coward around your presumed villain bosses. You’ve been a teacher for many years, Eraserhead; you must have developed some feelings for kids. If you can’t find it in you to hurt a child, then be a villain whose red line is hurting minors.”
Mera turned the doorknob in his hand and stepped into the room, seemingly finished with his advice. “Bring out the villain in you, set the boundaries you can’t cross for him, and don’t even hide them. Let everyone know your red lines.”
Aizawa followed him into the meeting room. They were two minutes late now that they had stopped to talk.
He hadn’t realized it at the time, but that piece of advice from the equally exhausted man proved to be more useful than all the training he had received over the past months from that handler of his.
*******
The breeze of early winter spiraled through the alley, whispering a teasing cold against Aizawa’s exposed ears. Shinsou buried his head a bit deeper into the neck of his hoodie, which would soon prove insufficient against the cold weather approaching in a few weeks.
Everything seemed normal and peaceful: people occasionally passing by, stray cats sniffing around for food in the dumpsters, and the sun glowing weakly on this seemingly typical early winter day. People chatted and walked as usual, completely oblivious to the absolute disaster that was about to unfold in less than five minutes.
Aizawa, Shinsou, Gorilla, Hard Head, Varanus, and Stitched Giant were all lined up against the wall of a narrow alley, back-to-back, having been sent there minutes ago from one of the abandoned houses nearby with Home’s quirk. All six pairs of eyes were fixed on the brainwashed man dragging a black wagon behind him across the street, his movements lifeless and robotic.
A black wagon.
Containing a bomb.
They were in the more crowded part of the city—whichever it was. Aizawa had a hunch they were in Shizuoka, but it wasn’t exactly like he could confirm that with only one district in sight.
Maybe the Aizawa from a week ago would somehow interfere with the current mission, knowing how dangerous it would be to detonate a bomb in a district filled with citizens. But the current Aizawa knew one thing his past self did not. It had been a week since the day Shinsou had been punished for Aizawa’s failure to complete his mission, and this one counted as the next after that.
Before that day, Aizawa thought he had the benefit of choice; able to decide whether to complete a mission based on how much it conflicted with his morals. But now, his hands were tied, and he had less control over what he could refuse to do, because his failure would result in Shinsou getting hurt again.
He couldn’t fail this.
‘This,’ of course, referred to a bombing mission, which he should really be preventing.
A part of being a hero infiltrating a villain group was to prevent disasters before they happened. Many lives could be saved by a reliable inside man. Unfortunately for Aizawa, as a ranked 10 nobody, he didn’t get to be informed prior to a mission, so there was no way for him to relay the information to the right hands before it was already too late.
Aizawa could prevent this. He could defeat all five other members and stop the bomb before it went off. But he wouldn’t. And the fact that during the first month he was the responsibility of his trainer was only part of the reason why he wouldn’t. The other reason was that such an action would blow his cover or, at best, make the organization suspicious of him.
And that was not an option—not now that he knew about Home’s quirk.
That quirk was simply too dangerous.
At first, Aizawa’s mission was just an investigation: an infiltration to see if the organization truly existed or if it was just a misinterpretation on the commission’s part. After that, it was about finding out how deeply the organization was rooted in the underground world and how dangerous they were.
With both their existence and the grave danger they posed confirmed, Aizawa’s mission became rather simple: identify the boss, find other high-ranking members, locate their hideout, and cooperate in the final raid.
That is, until he found out about Home’s quirk: some sort of control over doors.
As vague and unregistered as the quirk itself was, it changed everything. Before that, Aizawa thought finding the location of Safe House would suffice for a raid and ending the organization’s activities for good.
But as long as Home was active, even if Aizawa knew where they were, no hero could set foot inside the building because Home would keep the doors sealed. Even if they managed to explode the walls, Home could transport everyone to another place, and the whole organization would disappear again without a trace.
That was probably why the organization’s building was known as the ‘Safe House’ among the criminals and villains aware of it. Because it really was if we define safe as impenetrable.
Before this, having an inside man was a privilege for heroes. But now, it was a necessity. The only way to take down the organization would be for someone to neutralize Home’s quirk before the raid started.
And that person was going to be Aizawa.
If Aizawa’s cover was blown before the raid, if he got eliminated, who knew when they could get another chance to send in another spy. How many lives would be put in danger until then? How many innocent people would be hurt?
Aizawa needed to Erase Home’s quirk before any real attack could take place. And so, he needed to keep his cover intact—even if that meant collaborating in the bombing of a public district.
Which was… Fuck.
To what extent do the ends justify the means?
Aizawa looked from the top of the purple hair in front of him to the man who had come to a stop in the middle of the pedestrian street with the black wagon containing the bomb. Shinsou had brainwashed a passerby, and his orders were explicit: pull the wagon to the middle of the road, activate the timer, and walk away.
Once the timer was on, they would have exactly three minutes before the bomb exploded. What should he do? How could he minimize casualties? How could he ensure no civilians got caught in the blast?
Damn this mission. The bombing wasn’t even the organization’s main objective; it was just a distraction from their real goal: the robbery of the jewelry shop two blocks away.
The plan was simple yet smart, and it would work if everything went according to plan. They were divided into two groups: the distraction squad and the robbery squad. The jewelry shop they were targeting had impenetrable security at night and was only vulnerable during the day.
However, it was located in a busy part of the city, and the fact that they had to operate in the middle of the day meant they would face attacks from all sides by heroes and police before the robbery squad could even blink, let alone grab any real merchandise.
That was when the distraction squad would come into play. The best way to turn all eyes away from the robbery two blocks away was to create a scene far more distracting for heroes than the robbery itself.
And the best way to cause chaos and fuss? A bomb.
Fucking fantastic.
Once the bomb goes off, all heroes and police would rush there, giving time for the robbery to take place without any major interferences. The organization had no regard for the lives that would be lost in the blast. They would sacrifice innocent lives to get their hands on money. That’s how low they truly were.
That didn’t mean Aizawa wouldn’t do everything in his power to minimize the damage.
He put his hand on Shinsou’s shoulder to get his attention, not missing the way Shinsou jolted at the sudden contact. “Shinsou, drop your quirk when the man turns on the timer,” Aizawa said, his voice confident.
“What?!” Gorilla shouted in a harsh whisper from behind him. “No, Shinsou, don’t! What the fuck, Aizawa? We are sticking to the bloody plan. No last-minute changes!”
“The plan is to cause a distraction. If Shinsou drops the brainwashing, the man will see the bomb and panic. His panic will cause everyone else to panic, creating a scene way more distracting than if the bomb goes off with people unaware. Panic and chaos lure the heroes here like a magnet,” Aizawa explained, his eyes fixed on the brainwashed man, his voice urgent and demanding.
“Shut your mouth and do as you were told. We’re not changing the plan at the last minute,” Gorilla spat from behind him, her voice irritated but also stressed.
“If the bomb goes off like this, many people will get caught in the blast. But if that man starts shouting, we get the distraction we came here to cause, and we might be able to prevent unnecessary casualties. It’s easier to get off the bat if we don’t leave behind dead bodies. That’s just how heroes are.” Aizawa rationalized, hoping to come across as someone trying to achieve the best results rather than someone desperate to save the innocent.
“What the fuck do you mean unnecessary casualties? No, we do as we were told. Who gives a shit about who gets caught in what? We have orders, and we’re going to act accordingly,” Gorilla growled while keeping her voice low for the sake of their stealth.
Shinsou turned his head back and up to look at Aizawa, his neck at a painful angle, his mouth slightly agape and his eyebrows pinched. He looked tempted but not enough to act.
Of course it wasn’t enough.
It was wrong of Aizawa to expect Shinsou to overcome his fear of disobeying the organization and trust him in such a stressful situation. It was wrong of Aizawa to ask Shinsou to forget about himself and prioritize the lives of others over his own.
The brainwashed man turned on the timer, and Aizawa knew he was out of time to argue.
Aizawa activated his quirk and erased Shinsou’s quirk. Panicked citizens were the last thing Aizawa wanted as a hero in situations like this. Panic complicated everything in an instant. But ignorant citizens were even worse.
If they started running now, at least some of them might be able to escape the blast.
As Aizawa predicted, the man came to his senses and looked around, confused and disoriented. If anyone were to pay attention to the abandoned wagon in the middle of the road, it would be the confused man seeking a clue to understand how he ended up there.
The man’s eyes locked onto the wagon he was standing near, and he reluctantly reached to push away the cover, probably still having some vague memory of pulling it there.
Aizawa was yanked back by the collar of his shirt and slammed harshly against the wall, the giant hands of Gorilla pinning him fiercely. “What the hell have you done? You ruined everything!” Gorilla hissed with anger. All the other members of their squad, including Shinsou, looked at him in shock.
“What have you done…” Shinsou muttered. It was a question directed at Aizawa, and he could hear the pure shock lingering in those words.
Before Aizawa could explain himself, the shouting he had been anticipating erupted. “A bomb… IT’S A BOMB! IT’S A BOMB!! GET AWAY! EVERYONE GET AWAY!”
There’s always that split second where everything goes completely still and silent—as if time itself stops—before chaos unfolds and everything descends into mayhem and panic.
Someone screamed, and people began to run all around; not necessarily away from the bomb, though. That’s the worst thing about panic; people no longer operate on reason. They just run.
“If this mission goes to shit, it’ll be on you,” Gorilla fumed, giving him one last crushing push by the collar before pulling him back up and pushing him toward the fire escape staircase at the back of the alley. “Move it! We need to get away from here.”
Aizawa climbed the stairs, moving right behind Stitched Giant, glancing at the chaos on the street for the last time.
Please, get away from here.
They reached the rooftop and crouched near the edge, waiting for the blast to happen and for the heroes to arrive. From the glance Aizawa stole at the bomb, he knew it wasn’t a very powerful type. It would break the windows of nearby buildings and cause some property damage. It could still kill people if someone were close enough.
People were shouting, running, and falling on the street. A kid was crying in the distance, and someone was calling for help. It was a mess.
Hurry up and get away from the bomb, Aizawa pleaded in his mind.
Two minutes to the blast.
“Where is it?! Where is the bomb?!” a woman screamed.
“It’s the wagon!”
“Get away from that wagon!!”
“Where are the heroes?!”
“Someone calls the police!”
“Hey, stop pushing me!”
One minute to the blast.
“Hey! Get away from there!!”
“Get the people out of the buildings!”
“I’ll get that building. You go warn those in the shop!”
“Someone come help me get people out of here!”
“Somebody help!”
“How long until the blast?”
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?! Let go of me!”
“Oh God.”
“Watch it!”
“RUN! RUN!”
Thirty seconds.
“Oi what does she think she’s doing?!”
“Get back here, lady!”
“My son! Where is my son?!”
“Wait! No, don’t!”
Three seconds.
Two seconds.
One second.
…
BOOM.
The entire district shook with a loud blast, and a giant cloud of dust and debris rose into the air.
The sound of the panicked crowd was replaced by a deadly silence, except for the seven or more car alarms ringing simultaneously.
*******
As expected, once people became aware of the bomb, mayhem erupted. Fortunately, everyone managed to get away to safety, more or less. People helped evacuate the nearby shops, and the space around the wagon seemed empty, with no one near it.
But just as the last few seconds ticked by, Aizawa watched in horror as a woman ran straight toward the bomb.
No.
What the hell was she thinking?!
The bomb exploded, and Aizawa caught a glimpse of the woman being caught in the shockwave, blasted away into the alley on the other side of the road, disappearing before Aizawa’s eyes.
Goddamnit.
Aizawa’s ears were ringing from the loud sound of the blast despite having covered them. The bomb was mostly designed to produce a loud sound rather than cause real destruction. The nearby heroes had surely heard it. They should be arriving any moment now.
Aizawa pushed himself to his feet and quickly scanned the street below. He spotted three injured people at different locations. He could hear the sounds of crying, coughing, falling debris, and shattered glass. Some people were starting to collect themselves and rush to those in need. Overall, if the shop closest to the blast had been completely evacuated, as it seemed, there should be no lethal casualties other than the woman who had run to the bomb at the last minute.
And then the first hero arrived.
“Varanus, go!” Gorilla ordered. Varanus, the masked giant with a distinctive hunchback and long neck, jumped off the roof to engage with the hero.
More heroes started to appear, and it was time for them to fight. “Hard Head, you go right. Stitched Giant, Aizawa, you two take the left. Shinsou! You’re with me. Don’t let any hero escape! Make as much of a fuss as you can! Now GO, GO, GO!” Gorilla commanded, pointing frantically in different directions.
Aizawa ran toward the roof's edge, jumped onto the overhead cables, grabbed them with his hands, and swung himself, landing on the ground before a hero in a blue and yellow costume. If Aizawa could keep all the heroes here and away from the robbery down the street, it might be possible for him to avoid scrutiny over erasing Shinsou’s quirk despite their direct orders.
They had to succeed.
He had to make sure no heroes slipped through his fingers.
The hero in the blue and yellow costume raised his hand, probably to use his quirk. Aizawa’s eyes glowed red, instantly erasing the hero’s ability. Aizawa closed the distance between them with quick moves, using the hero’s confusion over his unresponsive quirk to land a hard fist on his neck.
Sorry, but I have to.
The hero choked and jumped back, shocked by the villain’s speed and power. Aizawa followed closely to land another kick, but another hero appeared behind him, forcing him to duck to avoid a hardened fist.
He heard Varanus screech a few feet away, and the hero facing him transformed her fingers into hard chains, attempting to restrain him, but the long-necked monster broke them with ease.
More heroes were appearing, and the fight was heating up. Aizawa fought, using the techniques he could muster under the calculating eyes of the organization members. He erased the brick-fisted hero’s quirk and aimed a hit at his knee, simultaneously dodging the blue-and-yellow hero now behind him.
When a third hero joined the fight against him, Aizawa drew the tanto from its sheath hanging at his waist. He didn’t even blink as he cut the knee tendon of the third hero, immobilizing him to knock out the other two.
The hero screamed in pain, but his voice was lost in the chaos around them.
*******
Aizawa jumped and stomped with both feet on the hero who was on top of Hard Head, knocking him out.
Twenty more minutes. They had to hold for twenty more minutes, and this would be over.
Aizawa looked toward the alley where he last saw the woman disappear. He waited to see if any heroes would find her, but none had, and the medic was still not there.
He needed to draw a hero’s attention to the alley and get the woman the help she required.
The hero he had knocked down recovered and pushed himself back to his feet, his nose crinkling in annoyance and his teeth clenched in a scowl directed at the villain who had sneaked up on him—otherwise known as Aizawa. Aizawa gave the hero a two-finger salute with his usual stone-serious face, then turned his back and fled.
He glanced over his shoulder to ensure the hero was following.
He was.
Good, follow me.
Aizawa ran toward the alley and made a sharp turn, using his hand to grab the brick wall at the entrance. He scanned the area for the woman the moment the alley came into view.
Aizawa spotted her on the ground near the very end of the short dead-end alley. She was lying there motionless.
But she wasn’t alone.
Someone was crouching beside her. Their back was to Aizawa, and he couldn’t see their face.
Aizawa moved closer, trying to steady his panting after all the fighting he had done.
He heard the hero following him reach the alley’s entrance and come to an abrupt stop. “You! Stop right there!” the hero called out, causing the head of the person hunched over the injured woman to jerk back toward the sound, making Aizawa see something he never wanted to see.
Aizawa’s breath caught in his throat.
Black mask.
Dark hoodie.
Violet eyes.
Shinsou.
There were droplets of blood splattered on Shinsou’s face. Aizawa moved his eyes away from the wild violet eyes locked onto his and dragged them down to the boy’s hands. Shinsou was gripping a knife tightly, and his hands were covered in blood, the sleeve of his dark hoodie soaked red.
Aizawa traced his gaze from the hand to the knife, as if following a path on a map. The tip of the knife was pointed at the woman’s side. Right under the tip of the knife was a deep wound, blood oozing out with each pulse.
Aizawa dragged his eyes from the woman’s side to her face. She looked pale and wasn’t moving. He braced himself and looked into her eyes. What he saw confirmed his assumption.
The woman’s irises were white and soulless. She was very much brainwashed.
Aizawa took his eyes from the lifeless irises and shot them back up to the violet ones, a question ringing in his ears.
Shinsou.
What have you done?
Notes:
Shinsou: "Noo What have you done?"
Aizawa: "Noo What have you done?"
Me: "Noo, what have-" Oh wait, I can't say that. XD
Chapter 19: The Hero Within
Summary:
Leaving their assigned posts, Aizawa and Shinsou pursue their own version of the mission.
Notes:
TW: Blood and injury.
The thing about this chapter is that Aizawa will never see Shinsou the way he did before. Hope you enjoy!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“Where are your parents, Shinsou?”
“They’re dead.”
Aizawa blinked at the boy hunched over the textbook near the crack of the door, which was their only source of light at night. It had been three nights since Aizawa had helped Shinsou with chemistry.
The night after, Shinsou didn’t wake up to study again, but he didn’t sleep well either. Aizawa listened to him shifting all night, and the boy jolted up from a bad dream shortly after he had finally managed to sleep.
Aizawa found himself vacillating between waking up to help Shinsou after the nightmare or pretending to be asleep to give the boy space. Eventually, he decided to do the latter. Shinsou calmed himself by going through the same routine he had seen before, and after drinking some water, the scent of mint spread through their room.
The night after that, Shinsou finally got a decent amount of sleep after three sleepless nights, and Aizawa managed to get some sleep himself that night as well.
The days were mostly filled with doing nothing inside the room, training, and occasional cleaning duties for Aizawa, but otherwise, they were uneventful. Aizawa listened to some radio shows but also tried to save the battery, especially for Hizashi’s ‘Put Your Hands Up’ show, which Shinsou continued to show hostility toward with a passion. Hizashi continued to use recorded episodes with no sign of coded messages being broadcast.
Aizawa knew something must have happened. Hizashi wouldn’t just resort to recorded episodes for no reason. He had been working on his radio show ever since they were in high school, and he cared about his DJing job as much as he did about being a hero. They also had a deal with each other.
Aizawa decided to put that aside until he could find a way to contact Hizashi and find out what was going on.
The day after both of them got some decent sleep, Shinsou brought out his textbook again and sat on his bed with his back against the wall, mirroring Aizawa’s own gesture in some way. The boy almost never sat with his back to Aizawa, always keeping him in his field of vision one way or another.
Aizawa didn’t offer his help right away, deciding to let Shinsou navigate this new tutor-student dynamic on his own. But then again, whether it was because of the promise the kid made to never ‘bother Aizawa again’ or simply because he was uncomfortable with the idea of asking—both literally and figuratively—the kid never asked.
Sometimes Aizawa couldn’t help but wonder how things would have been if Shinsou wasn’t a vulnerable minor. If his roommate had been a grown, vicious criminal. Or how things would have been if he had allowed himself to cross his morals.
Shinsou had been a part of the organization for six years. He was practically one of them by then. And as much as the kid denied knowing anything about where they were and who the Boss was, there was no way he had zero useful information.
Aizawa had been trained for manipulation. Whether by applying psychological pressure, unhealthy seduction, or more violent methods, Aizawa was confident he could get anyone to open up to him eventually. But the same rules couldn’t be applied to someone at Shinsou’s age.
There is a reason adolescence is considered such a determinant stage in life. It’s the stage of development and transformation; the stage of discovering identity and understanding personality. Because of the rapid physical and cognitive growth, teenagehood is already a confusing and rough stage without external complications.
Shinsou is at a stage where he is building the pillars of his personality and laying the foundations of his mental health. In other words, mess with him now, and he might never be able to recover later in life.
Besides, Aizawa didn’t want to use Shinsou as a mere tool to fulfill his desires. He didn’t want to do to Shinsou what the organization did. If Aizawa were to use Shinsou like a disposable tool just to extract information, the day secrets about Aizawa’s true identity comes to light would be the day a certain purple-haired boy loses all his faith—if there is any left to begin with—in heroes and in the good of humanity.
According to his handler from the commission, the only two priorities for an undercover agent during difficult decision-making were the result and time. In other words, the best path was not the ethical or heroic one, but one that led to desirable results faster.
An advice Aizawa deemed useless the very day he had set foot in his assigned room in the Safe House. A few days later, the day after Shinsou’s first nightmare, Aizawa decided to go through the harder, more time-consuming, and more suffocating path: through trust and human interaction.
Shinsou wasn’t a sealed safe box of information. He wasn’t a mere roommate who happened to possess a quirk threatening to Aizawa's cover.
He was a human, aside from the prevailing notion of heroes and villains. Aizawa wanted to know who he was and how he had ended up there. Even if Shinsou made it clear that he had chosen to be part of the organization, Aizawa still refrained from making any preconceived assumptions, at least until he had the whole picture in sight.
For now, Aizawa decided it was best to try and find a way to make things less stressful for Shinsou until the day he could put an end to the organization once and for all. For that, studying could be a great common ground. It would benefit them both in the end—if only Aizawa could make Shinsou realize he didn’t need to be so afraid of making mistakes and not understanding. This didn’t seem easily achievable, considering the shattered pieces of evidence pointing to Shinsou’s past experiences.
Shinsou was still wary of him after the brainwashing incident, and for Aizawa, it felt as if he was walking on a knife-edge: he needed Shinsou to be scared enough not to use his quirk, yet he absolutely hated seeing a child afraid of him. It made his chest tighten whenever Shinsou flinched away, as if he were a lowlife child abuser.
It was fair for Shinsou to assume that. Didn’t make it any less painful.
Aizawa had to push aside the uncomfortable atmosphere dominating their relationship and try to communicate with Shinsou. So he decided to try again. Aizawa aimed to prove to Shinsou that what the world said about him being stupid was irrelevant, and he had every intention of working toward that.
He offered to help Shinsou study again.
Which Shinsou accepted, once again, even if he seemed hesitant.
So they studied once more, this time focusing on math, working until the lights turned off. Right in the middle of a lecture. Thank you very much.
Aizawa let Shinsou decide whether he wanted to continue or not. And that’s how they ended up behind the closed door again in the middle of the night.
Shinsou was working on a problem when Aizawa asked the question he had in mind from the very beginning.
“Where are your parents, Shinsou?”
“They’re dead,” came the flat answer, the boy not even bothering to look up from the problem in front of him.
‘They’re dead’ made a lot of sense, and was a lot less unexpected than one might think. It wasn’t unlikely for minors involved in crime to be orphan. Aizawa had suspected that himself, considering Shinsou had been in the organization for six years and no one was apparently looking for him.
But there was only one problem.
This small detail that could have easily gone unnoticed if Aizawa wasn’t a pro.
There wasn’t anything suspicious about what Shinsou had said, considering his situation, and there was no tell in his tone either.
But the timing. It was off.
It was in the way Shinsou had rushed to answer that triggered a feeling of wrongness; a puzzle piece not fitting correctly in place.
The emotionless tone and uncaring demeanor were explainable occurrences. It happened when children with insecure-avoidant attachment to their parents mentioned them. But no child would rush to announce their parents’ departure, especially someone as secretive and closed off as Shinsou, who liked to keep his personal life close to his chest.
“Are they keeping you here against your will?” Aizawa asked after a while, the tense influence of the last question still lingering in the air.
“You’re saying that because I’m a kid,” Shinsou said through gritted teeth, ceasing to write what he was working on.
“You are.”
“I’m not.”
“This is no place for someone your age, Shinsou,” Aizawa said, leaving no room for argument.
“I’m not a kid,” Shinsou spat, his voice low but venomous. He looked up and glared at Aizawa as if he had offended him by stating the facts.
“And no, I’m not asking just because you are a kid. I’m genuinely curious,” Aizawa clarified, his voice blank.
Shinsou looked at him, eyes narrowed but emotions so tightly guarded that even Aizawa couldn’t read what he was thinking. He clicked the pen in his hand twice, then said the next words so indifferently that Aizawa questioned whether he had heard them correctly.
“I’m a villain, Aizawa. I’m here because I want to.”
*******
Shinsou.
What have you done?”
Shinsou froze upon seeing him, his eyes growing impossibly wild. It was as if he had been caught in the middle of doing something wrong. A child caught stealing cookies. A teenager caught watching R-rated videos on their phone.
He was, indeed, caught.
Aizawa’s mind took less than one second of bluescreen moment before bombarding his consciousness realm with questions. (Or were they facts disguised as questions?)
What was he doing to the woman.
Why was she brainwashed.
What was he doing with that knife before Aizawa interfered.
Why was her blood on his hands.
Did he stab her. What were his motives. Was she a witness. Is that why she had to be eliminated.
Even though he had no certain answers to those questions, the tugging under his sternum pointed to a new realization: Shinsou wasn’t as unjudged in Aizawa’s mind as he had thought. His file wasn’t as blank as Aizawa believed it to be. ‘Refraining from making any preconceived assumptions until he had the whole picture in sight,’ be damned. Aizawa had already decided how he thought Shinsou was: Not a villain.
He shouldn’t have.
Unapproved assumptions were poison for investigations, biasing the mind and blinding it from seeing the reality. He shouldn’t be disappointed if he had followed that procedure. He shouldn’t feel betrayed. He shouldn’t feel as if he had caught one of his students doing something wrong.
He shouldn’t be shocked. Shock was for the unprepared, for the unprofessional, for those invested in their own version of reality instead of building it based on evidence and empirical data.
The ‘evidence’, on one side, was that Shinsou had been with the organization for six years. The ‘evidence’ was that he had admitted, twice, that he was one of them out of his free will. He had spent a good part of his life living with criminals and villains, feeding, existing, and fighting alongside them. The ‘evidence’ was that Shinsou did obey the bosses’ orders, completing his missions without arguing. That he was ready to let people get caught in the blast.
The evidence, on the other side, was that he shared his food with Aizawa even though it was against Home’s orders. He had chosen to use positive reinforcement, getting the radio for his trainee, against the usual methods of his own past trainers. The evidence was that Shinsou was trying to guide him to the best of his ability, feeling responsible and not taking his duty lightly.
It was illogical to give more weight to the evidence on one side of the balance than the other, just because that would be the more desirable version of reality.
And while there was evidence supporting that Shinsou was a villain, the opposing evidence wasn’t enough to reject it.
That’s why Aizawa was naïve for drawing his own conclusion without having enough evidence.
He had no way of being certain. He shouldn’t have assumed it was possible for a kid to survive for so long among villains without becoming one himself. It wasn’t even Shinsou’s fault if he were truly a villain.
It was the inevitable consequence of the environment; the unrelenting influence of nurture in the old ‘nature versus nurture’ debate.
“Put your hands where I can see them, now!” the hero barked from behind him, shattering Aizawa’s train of thought. He blinked, suddenly aware that his mind had wandered for nearly seven seconds.
Shinsou finally had something other than Aizawa’s dark eyes to focus on, and snapped his head to where the hero was standing behind Aizawa.
“P-Please, hero! My mom! Please! Can you help us?” Shinsou shouted, miraculously managing to recover from the shock of being caught and putting his acting skills to good use.
“Stay ther-,” the hero started to say and got caught in Shinsou’s trap exactly as the teen had planned.
The moment the control was secured in his hand, Shinsou’s eyes snapped back to Aizawa, but they were no longer shocked; they were hardened. “Knock him out,” Shinsou ordered, gesturing to the hero with his chin to show he didn’t mean it the other way around. He suddenly seemed confident and demanding, a complete one-eighty from how shell-shocked he had been just seconds ago.
Except Aizawa was getting closer to completing his degree in seeing through masks.
Aizawa looked between the knife and Shinsou’s carefully fixed gaze one more time before he stiffly turned and moved toward the hero.
“There is a brick over ther-.” Shinsou’s sentence remained unfinished as Aizawa punched the hero hard on the right temple, knocking him out with a single move. Aizawa turned back to Shinsou, his calloused knuckles barely registering the punch they had delivered, his eyes bloodshot from repeated use of Erasure.
Shinsou looked at the unconscious hero on the ground and then back at Aizawa, without moving his head an inch. Aizawa didn’t miss how stiff the boy’s shoulders had been ever since Aizawa set foot in the alley, and how they had gone even more tense after witnessing the punch.
“Or you could do that, I guess,” Shinsou murmured, his dry sarcasm a form of escapism. Aizawa took a step toward him, and Shinsou’s body jolted in surprise.
“What are you doing? Get back to fight. Didn’t you hear Gorilla’s orders? You should be with Stitched Giant. You can’t abandon the mission like that,” Shinsou said, slipping back into the his trainer role.
“What are you doing here?” Aizawa returned the question dryly, not stopping. “Don’t even try,” Aizawa warned him against using his quirk, pointing to his own eyes to show him what happens if he does.
“I was making sure not to leave any witnesses behind. I’m handling it. Go back to your post and do what you were told,” Shinsou demanded, taking down his black mask so that Aizawa could see his entire face, which grew a shade darker with every word. Aizawa could literally see how he was starting to snarl the more Aizawa walked down the alley.
“Why did you abandon the mission, Shinsou?” Aizawa asked in a cold voice, ignoring how Shinsou’s body language grew more offensive with each of Aizawa’s steps.
“Go back, Aizawa. I’ll finish her off quickly and join you in a minute.”
Aizawa was blinded by overwhelming disappointment, and his mind was occupied with coming up with a way to protect the injured civilian, and so he utterly failed to see how the offense was actually a defense in disguise.
Until he got too close, and it was too late.
With a quick move, Shinsou pointed his knife at Aizawa, the false mask of superiority crumbling with the action, revealing the plain helplessness beneath.
Aizawa stopped and looked at the knife pointed at him. The gears in his head worked painfully sluggishly as he tried to understand where that new piece of information would fit in the incoherent picture in front of him.
Shinsou, crouching beside an injured woman, telling him repeatedly to leave, and now pointing a knife at him.
He couldn’t place the pieces together.
Until Shinsou brought up his other hand, covering the woman’s head in the universal gesture of protection, and everything fell into place like a delayed dropping of a penny in a vending machine.
Shinsou.
He was protecting the woman.
From Aizawa.
From another villain—a person who had killed a hero, in the boy’s perspective.
Aizawa took his gaze off the knife and inspected the wound on the woman’s lateral abdomen, looking for another piece of evidence proving the idea.
What he found wasn’t a knife wound, but an injury caused by an outside object, probably a piece of debris blasted away by the bomb that hit her when she was thrown into the alley.
The woman’s body made a slight spasm, and at the same time, Shinsou winced. He snapped his head back at the woman. “Shit,” he muttered slowly, noticing something unusual. Then, without further stalling, he moved his knife away from Aizawa and back to the woman’s body. Aizawa’s hand twitched, his body wanting to act on instinct and stop the knife aimed at a civilian, based on past experiences.
Shinsou brought his knife under the woman’s clothing, and with a hard tug, tore it open to reveal the wound. He then moved to where the clothes were soaking in blood on her arm and thigh and tore the trouser and sleeve, too.
The woman was breathing deeply in a robotic manner. In, holding, and out, each done for exactly four seconds. She wasn’t panicking or moving like most injured people do, which would have worsened her wounds. She was holding still and breathing deeply.
The most ideal for providing medical attention.
Shinsou brought out a bottle of antiseptic from the fanny pack under his hoodie, his hands visibly shaking, but he managed to open the cap. He poured some over each wound, cleaning them. He was muttering something, repeating some words like a mantra over and over again, but Aizawa couldn’t understand.
Alright, Shinsou was helping her. Not hurting.
Aizawa felt an odd wave of relief, but he pushed it all to the back of his mind and moved, rounding Shinsou and the woman, and crouching down on the other side of her. Aizawa quickly assessed the woman’s condition. She had lost a lot of blood by the looks of it. There was no time for bringing another hero.
“Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Fuck. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid…” Shinsou was muttering nonstop, his eyebrows pinched in distress. He tried to put the antiseptic’s cap back on, but it wasn’t going into place. With a grimace, he set aside the bottle, the cap rolling away on the ground. He pulled up his hoodie, taking out some gauze bandage rolls from his pack.
He correctly identified the wound on the woman’s abdomen as the one with higher priority. But his hands froze midair above the wound, shaking as if he didn’t know how to wrap the bandage around it when she was lying down.
Aizawa leaned forward, reaching for the antiseptic bottle beside Shinsou. He poured some into his palm and washed his hands, ensuring they were thoroughly sanitized. Careful not to make a startling move, he placed a hand on Shinsou’s trembling ones. Shinsou jolted, looking up at him as if Aizawa were going to cut his lifeline at any moment.
Aizawa gave him a reassuring look and proceeded to gently take the gauze roll out of his grip. That, however, made Shinsou’s composure shatter into a desperate plea, and he visibly paled. “No… No, please. I lied. She didn’t witness anything. Please. You can tell Home everything when we get back, but please… just let—let me help her. She didn’t do any-.”
“Shinsou, calm down,” Aizawa said in the same way he used to guide his students in a rescue simulation. “It’s alright. Give me the bandage. I know how to wrap her wounds.” Aizawa looked right into Shinsou's eyes, mustering reassurance into his voice, and said, “Let me help.”
Whether it was out of surprise or trust, Shinsou’s grip loosened, and Aizawa didn’t waste a moment to take the gauzes.
He had to calm Shinsou, but first, he needed to stop the bleeding.
Aizawa moved his hands quickly, tearing a sufficient length of gauze and folding it into a ball. He brought the gauze ball near the open wound, pausing just to ask, “Will your quirk hold?”
Shinsou shook his head slightly, knowing exactly what Aizawa was talking about. “No.”
The wound on her left lateral abdomen was deeper than the other two. The bleeding wouldn’t stop just from bandaging it. What they needed was to seal the opening completely.
“Then hold her down,” Aizawa ordered.
Shinsou moved after just a second of hesitation. He took the woman’s arms and held them above her head, putting his weight to secure them. Aizawa gave a slight nod, and with his thumb, he forced the ball of bandage inside the open wound.
The woman screamed.
As she came to her senses, she immediately started to struggle frantically against Shinsou’s hold and wailed in pain.
“STOP! STOP IT!” the woman screamed, trying to push her body away from Aizawa’s hands. The wound was deeper than it looked, and Aizawa stuffed more gauze in to seal it, causing her to scream even louder. “Hold her!” Aizawa ordered as she started to move more frantically.
The moment Aizawa was done, Shinsou spoke. “Ma’am, can you hear me?”
“HURT-!” the woman started but then went limp, her eyes turning white.
Shinsou hissed, and Aizawa gave him a quick side glance before proceeding to wrap the bandage around the sealed injury. “You’re bleeding,” Aizawa said, moving carefully to examine her for a spinal cord injury or a cervical fracture.
“Breathe deeply. Inhale… Hold... Exhale... Repeat,” Shinsou ignored the question and instructed the woman, his voice clipped.
“I’m going to lift her. Move closer when I do so I can place her shoulders on your lap. That way I can wrap her wound. Got it?”
There was only silence that followed.
“Verbal,” Aizawa ordered, but there is no malice behind it.
“Al-alright.”
Right after the confirmation, Aizawa finished the examination and lifted her slightly, careful not to put pressure on her wounds. “Now,” Aizawa said, and Shinsou followed quickly, moving his legs under her shoulders.
With her back lifted off the ground, Aizawa started wrapping the bandage tightly around her waist with practiced ease. From the periphery of his vision, he could register blood dripping down Shinsou’s chin. “Release her if it’s putting pressure on your quirk,” Aizawa suggested, knowing that a nosebleed was a common sign of quirk overuse in Emitter-type quirks.
“She’ll call attention,” Shinsou said, his voice rough.
When he was done with the abdominal wound, Aizawa took the antiseptic bottle and moved to the one on her thigh. He washed the wound more thoroughly. “Do you have more rolls?” Seconds later, another gauze roll was stretched out toward him. Aizawa took it, wrapping one layer above the bleeding site before tying an especially tight knot to restrict blood flow. Then he proceeded to bandage the wound. “You can put her down now. Be careful not to move her neck.”
Shinsou shifted, securing his hand under her neck before moving to put her down. “Wash the wound on her arm the same way I did. Use all of the remaining solution if you don’t have another bottle.” Aizawa glanced at the boy briefly before focusing back on the operation at hand. The nosebleed hadn’t ceased, but it wasn’t severe either. Aizawa decided he would erase his quirk if it gets any worse.
“Do you have a headache too?”
“I’m fine,” Shinsou said, sounding very much not fine.
“You should take the signs seriously.”
“I said I’m fine,” Shinsou spat, wiping his face roughly with his sleeve while performing the task Aizawa had asked.
Suddenly, a loud shout came from outside the alley. Both their heads turned toward the sound in a synchronized move.
It sounded like Gorilla.
Aizawa still had to make sure the mission was a success, and that shout didn’t seem very promising. He couldn’t delay their absence any longer.
Time to go back.
Aizawa finished the bandage quickly and pushed himself up to his feet. “Wrap the one on her arm like the other two. There are a few other cuts, but they aren’t deep. Ignore them. When you finish, get out of here and then drop your quirk. Don’t forget to put your mask back on.” Aizawa listed, moving in the opposite direction.
“Whatever, boss…” Shinsou murmured sarcastically, but it was loud enough for Aizawa’s ears to pick.
Aizawa walked toward the entry of the alley to rejoin the fight. But just as he was about to leave, he paused and turned back and found Shinsou crouching beside the woman’s arm, his back to Aizawa. Exactly like how he had found the boy minutes ago.
When Aizawa entered that alley, he regarded Shinsou as a villain.
Now that he was leaving it, he thought of him as the opposite.
“And Shinsou,” Aizawa called over his shoulder, “I won’t rat on you if you don’t rat on me.” Aizawa said before disappearing into the dusting chaos of the fight, a strange sense of pride stealthily making its way to his chest.
Notes:
One thing I like about this chapter and the previous one is their titles. They just show the transition, and they also fit because of the double meaning they have.
It relates to how Mera told Aizawa to bring out the villain from the darkest depths of his soul and how Aizawa caught Shinsou doing something presumably villainous (The Villain Within). Then, in the next chapter, both of the supposedly villainous people show that they have a hero inside, and they also might be the heroes within the villain organization (The Hero Within).
Chapter 20: She Was a Mother
Summary:
Actions prompt questions.
Notes:
TW: Electrocution.
“She Was a Mother” also known as “The Day I Abused Italic and Enter.”
(Also, Mondays it is!)
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Aizawa’s red eyes stared at him, and the connection in his mind snaped.
Hitoshi drew the curtain closed with more force than necessary.
“A bomb… IT’S A BOMB!!” the man shouted, scared out of his mind, still disoriented from being brainwashed.
Hitoshi turned the faucet on and put his hands under the water. His head was spinning.
“What have you done…” Hitoshi asked, looking in disbelief at Aizawa before he even realized he was asking.
The dried blood started to dissolve in the cold water, and Hitoshi breathed in the smell of iron.
“My son!”
He started scrubbing.
“Where is my son?!” the woman screamed.
His sleeves were getting soaked in water the same way they had been in blood. He didn’t care; he just scrubbed harder.
“Where is my son?!” the woman screamed; pure fear washed over her face.
Hitoshi scrubbed. And scrubbed. And scrubbed.
She ran right towards the bomb, just to make sure her son wasn’t near it. Said son could have been safely away from the bomb, somewhere in the crowd, but she didn’t stop at that possibility.
She wanted to make sure he wasn’t anywhere near the bomb. She wanted to check the alley.
She wanted to see with her own eyes that her boy wasn’t there.
She ran right at the bomb.
Hitoshi clawed at his nails to get the dried blood out from under them.
Her blood.
She was blown away by the bomb Hitoshi activated by brainwashing that man. She was injured by the bomb Hitoshi helped setting.
“STOP! STOP IT!” the woman begged when Aizawa forced the gauze inside her wound with his thumb.
She just wanted to make sure her son was safe.
What wouldn’t Hitoshi have given just to see his mother running towards him like that.
He shook his head so hard he was sure he pulled a muscle in his neck.
Shut the fuck up!
He scrubbed.
How dare he even think about something like that?
He scrubbed. Faster. Harsher.
“HURTS-!” the woman shouted before falling under his control again.
The blood. The woman. The mother.
The mother.
“You okay?”
Hitoshi’s head snapped towards the other side of the curtain. It was Aizawa.
Fucking Aizawa.
Hitoshi turned off the faucet and pushed the curtain away with even more force than when he had drawn it. “Why did you do that?” he asked, glaring straight at the man’s dark eyes, not caring that he was asking. He wanted answers. Now!
Aizawa blinked at him. He will lash out at him. Hitoshi didn’t care. He will lash right back.
But Aizawa just activated his quirk instead and answered, “That was a more efficient way to create a distraction. If I hadn’t canceled your quirk, it would have only left us with dead bodies and angry heroes wanting revenge.”
“No,” Hitoshi spat with a bitter smirk, walking away from the sink and shoulder-bumping Aizawa as he rounded him. He turned towards the man when he reached the middle of the room.
He wanted to shout and lash out and break. His mind was too disoriented to realize how dangerous it was to shout at a stronger adult, but his body was still aware. It moved from being cornered to a place with more escape routes, sensing the mistake Hitoshi was about to make.
“No?” Aizawa asked and deactivated his quirk, his voice just a bit tired but blank overall. He didn’t open his eyes after blinking; they were bloodshot from how long he had kept them open during their fight with the heroes. He brought his hand up and massaged them tiredly.
“Yeah. No. You can’t bullshit me. You don’t give a damn about completing a mission successfully. You don’t give a shit about obeying orders. Better distraction? Revenge? Bullshit!” Hitoshi was vibrating. This was too much. He was making a mistake. He had already made a mistake by sneaking out, and Aizawa had caught him. Aizawa himself had made a mistake, and Hitoshi might have to pay for it again. He was screwed. He had messed up by leaving his post and helping that mother. Aizawa had screwed up with the plan, with the mission, with Hitoshi, and with Hitoshi’s perspective of the world.
Ergo, Aizawa had screwed up a lot more than Hitoshi. And it didn’t even matter!
Aizawa opened his eyes halfway, putting the least possible pressure on his overused red eyes. His face was a direct translation of ‘tiredness.’ He apparently decided to stay silent rather than use his quirk again. He turned his back on Hitoshi and moved towards the sink. He washed his hands far less frantically than how Hitoshi had clawed at them. Then he collected a tiny pond of water in his palm, lowered his head, blinked in the water, and washed his eyes.
What’s with him?
No, he had a better one.
What’s with Hitoshi?
“What’s with you? Why did you cancel my quirk? It wasn’t because you cared about the mission. No. You wanted the people to get away, didn’t you? Why?! Why did you lead that hero to that alley? You wanted to bring his attention towards that woman, didn’t you? Why?! What is your game here? Why did you help me treat the woman? What did you mean you won’t rat on me? Why not?! I abandoned the damn mission! You abandoned the damn mission! No one does that here! No one—” Aizawa’s head snapped up from over the sink, shooting him a look, and Hitoshi shut his mouth and took an involuntary step back.
This was going too fast.
He shouldn’t ask questions.
He shouldn’t show he was mad.
He should shut up, shut up, shut up!
Aizawa looked at him, water streaming down his cheeks like tears because of how he had washed his eyes. They were red and tired before, but now there was something else in his eyes as he stared at Hitoshi.
Hitoshi couldn’t tell what.
So, he assumed it was anger.
Assuming the worst was what he always did.
Aizawa drew the curtain back and walked towards him. Hitoshi took another step back, but the man didn’t stop; he just came closer. Hitoshi kept his hands glued to his sides, his shoulders tensing, and closed his eyes tightly, waiting for the blow.
But nothing came.
He cracked one eye open. Aizawa was nowhere in sight. Hitoshi turned around and found Aizawa behind him, crouching down and opening the first drawer. He had rounded him and passed him. He didn’t come at him.
“How much did I mess up?” Aizawa asked, like he wanted to evaluate the damage caused. His voice tired and,
Apologetic?
He didn’t expect that. He must have heard wrong.
Aizawa turned and looked at him. “Will you be in trouble again?”
Hitoshi just stared at him.
He didn’t know if he was in trouble. If Aizawa was in trouble.
He didn’t understand why Aizawa was asking about the former and not the latter.
Hitoshi felt the tension leaving his shoulders in a painfully slow flow, like an oversized balloon slowly deflating. It was fucked up how he felt calmer just because Aizawa asked him those questions.
His head was aching. He had overused his quirk, and ever since the mission had started, it had been one thing after another.
Aizawa nullified his quirk. People panicked. Everyone was shouting, screaming, and running. The mother ran right towards the bomb.
The bomb exploded, and it was so loud it destroyed nearby buildings like they were made of paper and shattered the windows like they were biscuits.
It was silent for a few seconds—absolute, mortifying silence—until cries for help started.
Until heroes came and they had to fight.
Until he sneaked out of the fight and went to the alley.
And the woman was lying down, soaked in blood, crying so hard that if it weren’t for the loud sounds of heroes fighting and people shouting, she would have been heard by everyone.
She was trying to move, and blood was oozing out.
And she was still asking for her son. And she was panicking.
He wished he could see his mother again.
Hitoshi asked her if she wanted him to look for her son, because he didn’t think she would have responded to anything other than questions related to her son.
And he brainwashed her.
He ordered her to breathe deeply and not to move. He took out his knife to tear the cloth so that he could bandage the worst of the wounds.
That was when the hero shouted, and Hitoshi noticed Aizawa and the hero behind him.
That was when he realized he had screwed up. That was when he knew he was caught.
Aizawa had seen him. He had seen him leaving his assigned part in the mission.
And for what?
Helping a civilian they were supposed to be killing with the bomb?
They shouldn’t be doing something like that.
Home would have never looked away from something like that.
And now, Aizawa knew.
And he looked mad. He looked disappointed. He looked betrayed. Hitoshi could see all that in his cold, pointed stare.
Of course he was. Hitoshi was jeopardizing the mission.
Stupid idiot. He was a damn idiot!
Hitoshi brainwashed the hero, and Aizawa knocked him out with a single punch.
And Hitoshi shivered.
Some villains were against helping those caught in the middle of their missions.
Some villains ignored the injured.
Some villains enjoyed seeing blood.
Some enjoyed seeing others suffer. Some enjoyed hearing them cry.
The ones that didn’t want to dirty their hands would just leave them to die on their own.
Which one was Aizawa?
He walked towards Hitoshi even though Hitoshi tried to send him away.
He got close, and Hitoshi assumed the worst: He was going to kill the woman, or Hitoshi, or both of them.
He raised his knife to defend themselves without even thinking.
‘Please leave. Please don’t hurt her. Please don’t kill her. She is not a witness. She is just a mother. She did nothing. Please just leave! Leave and please, please, don’t tell Home what Hitoshi has done.’
Before he could even open his mouth to say any of those things, he felt a painful tug in his mind and looked at the woman. It was so damn hard to keep her under control while she was in so much pain. He had to hold the control too tightly. The pain was what could break his control, but he had come to learn how to hold harder over the years. It was still too much pressure. He could feel the strings in his head cutting through his mind. He knew his nose was going to bleed at any minute.
And she was losing blood too fast.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
He ignored Aizawa. The woman was dying. And she had a son.
She had a Hitoshi.
He couldn’t let her die. She can’t die. She can’t leave her son.
But he was shaking uncontrollably. He couldn’t ignore the mistake he made. He couldn’t distract his mind from the consequences that were sure to come. From what Aizawa would do now that he knew. What would Home do when she found out? He couldn’t stop his hands from shaking. His mind was suddenly blank, and he forgot how to apply a bandage around a wound in the side of the stomach when the person was lying on their back.
That was when the impossible happened.
A villain helped.
Aizawa helped him. Helped her.
Villains don’t do that.
Okay, some might do. Some of them cared.
But not those in the organization. They were too afraid of Home to do that at the cost of abandoning the mission—at the cost of disobeying the Bosses’ orders.
But Aizawa helped, and he was good. Skilled even.
How?
And what did he even mean by ‘I won’t rat on you if you don’t rat on me’?
Why—
“Shinsou?” Aizawa jolted him out of his thoughts.
Fuck. He zoned out. Two steps away from the person he had just asked thousands of questions. From the man who made it clear that he didn’t want Hitoshi using his quirk on him.
“I-I don’t know. It depends on whether the robbery was successful or not. I don’t think Gorilla noticed we were missing for a few minutes in the middle of the fight, but she probably already told Home about how you changed the plan without- without permission.” He answered, not sure if he was answering the right question. He just responded to the last question he remembered Aizawa asking.
Aizawa nodded once but otherwise said nothing. In one hand, he held his blindfold. With his other hand, he reached inside the drawer and brought out,
the muzzle.
And he held it towards him.
Wait.
Wait. Wait.
He said he wouldn’t do that.
He said no muzzles.
No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no.
Why?
Hitoshi knew why.
Hitoshi had asked him too many questions.
He knew.
He shouldn’t have snapped.
He should have known Aizawa wouldn’t tolerate him running his damn mouth forever.
He should have known.
But he couldn’t!
He couldn’t handle being muzzled right now.
No, no, no…
“No, please no,” Hitoshi said in a low voice and took a half step back.
Rule number two: never show them what you hate.
Fuck rule number two.
He couldn’t be muzzled right now. He couldn’t breathe as it was.
Aizawa’s eyes visibly widened. He grimaced like he had just taken a bitter-tasting medicine, and he threw the muzzle on Hitoshi’s bed as if it had burned him. “No. No, Shinsou. I didn’t want to-, I would never-” He lowered his head and rested his eyes on his palm, holding them like that for a few seconds. When he opened his eyes again, he didn’t look up at him. “Hachiro said Home wants to see us in ten minutes, remember? I think we should leave right about now.”
Oh.
Right.
Home.
She wanted to see him and Aizawa.
That was why his nerves had been on fire ever since they came back. That’s why his mind was moving ten miles a second. That’s why he was acting like a short-tempered idiot.
Aizawa looked at him from where he was crouching beside the drawers for the last time before putting on the blindfold and locking it from behind. Hitoshi had never seen the man’s eyes so bloodshot before.
Hitoshi looked at the muzzle on his bed.
Right. Aizawa was giving it to him so they could go see Home. In the Chair room.
Aizawa didn’t want to muzzle him; he actually looked pained when Hitoshi thought he was.
Hitoshi took the muzzle and looked at it. The scar on his left shoulder suddenly started stinging. He reached his right hand over his shoulder and began scratching it, his hand shaking slightly. He tried to fight off the intrusive memories, battling the phantom burn that was starting to flare.
Aizawa stood up, ready to leave the room. “Aizawa,” Hitoshi called, his voice hoarse. Aizawa’s head turned towards him, even though he couldn’t see him, but showing that he was listening.
“H-Home, sh-she,” Hitoshi stuttered, and cut himself off before he could stutter even more. He sighed. There was no escaping that. He needed to collect himself and stop freaking out like an idiot. He should act like a grown person and not like a damn toddler throwing tantrums because so many things were happening too fast.
He needed to be a damn trainer and tell Aizawa what to expect. He should prepare his trainee.
Hitoshi took a deep breath. Slowly inhaled, held, and slowly exhaled.
Alright.
“Home… She likes to play all sorts of games…. She-she likes to play with you and see how you struggle. She is the organization’s disciplinarian for a reason. Even the strongest villains here are a-afraid of her, and… they won’t do anything to anger her. Because she knows how to put them in their places. She doesn’t just punish; she doesn’t just—she hurts you where it hurts most. She tries to know you and then uses that knowledge against you.
“What-whatever happens in the Ch-Chair room…” Hitoshi took a breath, even though his lungs struggled to fill properly. “…do not, under any circumstances, try to resist. Don’t defy her. Aizawa, don’t argue with her. Don’t provoke her. Don’t even try to change what she decides to do. Don’t try to act tough.” Aizawa looked like the kind of man who would do that, so Hitoshi repeated himself.
“Don’t try to act tough. She-she wants to see you break.” He couldn’t believe he was saying all of that out loud. But he had to. It was Hitoshi’s responsibility. He had to make sure Aizawa was ready for what might happen in the Chair room. “The more you resist, the more she continues. There’s a chance she’ll let us go if the robbery was a success, if Boss is happy with the results. But I can’t tell. Just-just don’t resist. Do-Do you—” Hitoshi cut himself off. Despite already asking thousands of questions, he didn’t want Aizawa to think he was trying to brainwash him while he was blindfolded. “Tell me you understand.”
Aizawa had to. He had to understand.
Aizawa was frowning, which looked painful given the way the blindfold was pressing against his skull. He was silent for a few seconds until he spoke. “What did she do after my last mission?” Aizawa asked, his voice sounding the way it did in the mornings. Deep and dry.
Hitoshi huffed. Did Aizawa listen to a word he said? “That doesn’t matter right now. Tell me you understand.”
Aizawa just stood there for a while, frowning. Hitoshi wished he could at least see the man’s eyes to understand what was going through his mind. Scratch that. He couldn’t possibly know what was going through the man’s mind even if he could.
“You won’t be blamed for what happened today. You didn’t do anything wrong, and Gorilla and the others witnessed that. I was the one who changed the plan,” Aizawa said, sounding like his stoic self, his voice even and steady, like he was laying out the facts.
“Did you even—” Hitoshi cut himself off and made an annoyed sound at the back of his throat. “You didn’t listen to a word I said! I just told you not to resist her! If you try to go against her decision, she’ll just become more motivated to push. Don’t let her know what you like or what you don’t. If she figures it out, she’ll use it. It’s that simple! I need you to tell me you understand.”
Aizawa turned his head toward the door. Hitoshi couldn’t tell what was going through the man’s head, but the seconds were ticking by, and Aizawa wasn’t talking. It was getting close to the time they had to leave.
“Aizawa.” Hitoshi called, desperate to hear that damn confirmation.
“Alright,” Aizawa finally said. Holy fuck, he was stubborn. But that stubbornness could be the end of both of them in the organization.
“You said you’re a man who never breaks a promise. Prom-”
“I won’t promise what I can’t keep,” Aizawa said flatly. What? “We should leave.” He announced, suddenly sounding determined.
Hitoshi wanted to push, but Aizawa was right. They should really leave.
So, he put the muzzle on, and they left.
To go see Home.
*******
Home was waiting for them in the Chair room. One of Aizawa’s hands was on Hitoshi’s shoulder. He took his hand off when they arrived. Hitoshi suddenly felt mournful of the warmth that was gone. He hadn’t liked it at first when Aizawa put his hand on his shoulder, even though Hitoshi himself had told him to do so. But now, in the Chair room, with Home in the same room as him, he wished he had that hand back on his shoulder.
“Uh, Aizawa! How nice to see you here,” Home greeted with a fake cheerful grin. It was wiped from her face like it was never there when she said her next words. “Heard bad, bad things about you. Heard you’ve been disobeying orders. Heard you’ve been acting on your own.”
Hitoshi prayed that Aizawa wouldn’t answer.
He didn’t.
Home turned her gaze towards Hitoshi, and he felt his blood run cold. “Thought I told you to get him under control. I thought we had an understanding when you left this room last time. Wasn’t that punishment enough for you?” Hitoshi swallowed and averted his gaze, looking at the ground.
Home sighed dramatically. “Newcomers really are trouble. It just takes them too long to finally understand where they are.” She turned back to Aizawa. “Aizawa, you are one hell of a troublemaker.” She chuckled in what seemed to be feigned amusement. “You two are so damn lucky the robbery was a huge success. So damn lucky Boss is happy with what we retrieved today.”
Oh, thank fuck.
“That doesn’t mean I’ll let people act the way they please. We have rules here. Didn’t the brat explain them to you?”
“He did.” That was all Aizawa said.
Hitoshi kept his eyes glued to the ground and resisted the urge to glance at Aizawa, just to see how in the world he could sound so calm.
He sounded almost bored.
“Great. Then follow the damn things. They are not for decoration. You had three missions, and you fucked up in two of them. Sixty six percent failure. It’s not acceptable. Although,” Home said, moving towards the closet where she kept her tools. Hitoshi held his breath and felt blood draining from his head. Whatever came out of that cursed closet would be what Home used on them.
“Gorilla said you fought very well. She said you didn’t let any hero get away. Nullifying and cutting, huh?” She sounded content. When her hand came out of the closet, Hitoshi felt like he could faint from the sudden dizziness.
She was holding the taser wristband.
Hitoshi's breath hitched.
“Both of you.” Home called; her voice devoid of the previous amusement. Devoid of anything. Endlessly dry. “Bring up one hand.” Home ordered.
Aizawa brought up his left hand without hesitation. It took Hitoshi a second longer than Aizawa, but he eventually raised his right hand, holding it next to Aizawa’s.
They both chose their non-dominant hands.
Now that his hand was next to Aizawa’s, he couldn’t help but notice how his hand trembled compared to how calm Aizawa’s hand was. There wasn’t even the slightest bit of vibration in his hand; it was held up like it was made of stone instead of flesh and nerves.
Home walked toward them, one hand holding the wristband and the other the remote control. She stopped in front of their raised hands, examining them as if deciding between two different options for birthday cake in a bakery. “Now, who—”
“The members shouldn’t act on their own, you said,” Aizawa spoke, interrupting Home. His voice was nonchalant and even a bit bored, as if he didn’t fully grasp the gravity of what he had just done. “Then how am I supposed to correct a plan when it’s not efficient enough?”
Fuck.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
He… had lost his mind.
What does he think he’s doing?!
He should have made him promise.
Home turned her head toward Aizawa, moving her neck painfully slowly. “Is that so?” Home asked, a dangerous grin slowly spreading across her face. “And who are you? Some kind of mastermind?”
Aizawa turned his head toward her voice and shifted his jaw once, as if he was chewing on nonexistent gum. “Maybe,” he said, sounding too serious, like he was discussing an important matter with an equal.
Home snorted, the red glint in her eyes as sharp as a nail. “I really like the enthusiasm of newcomers. Always so full of themselves,” she said, shaking her head. “That’s why I hate the rule of one month Boss has set.” Her eyes widened impossibly, and her grin disappeared when she said her next words. “It just means they get to think they have the right to have their own opinion for a whole month before I show them who the real boss is around here.”
She put the wristband on Aizawa’s hand and locked it onto his wrist with a particularly hard push.
Hitoshi let out the breath he didn’t know he was holding.
He immediately felt bad for feeling relieved. He felt as if he had secretly betrayed Aizawa, like he had just abandoned his trainee with that single sigh of relief.
Aizawa said nothing; he didn’t even move. “That blindfold is made out of metal, right? Let’s see how you’ll like electricity with that on,” she said with a grin Hitoshi knew far too well.
The grin she wore before starting.
And just like that, she pressed her thumb on the bottom of the remote in her hand and activated the taser. The cuff turned on with a buzzing sound of electricity.
Aizawa’s hand spasmed at the sudden surge of electricity, and he fell to one knee shortly after. That’s what the surge of electricity does; it takes away control of all the muscles in the body.
Hitoshi kept his eyes glued to the ground. He maintained a neutral expression, his eyes indifferent.
He could hear the sound of electricity surging. He could see, out of the corner of his eye, the violent spasms of Aizawa’s hand. He could see the shaking of his body. He could hear the unforgiving buzzing of the taser.
But he couldn’t hear Aizawa. Because he wasn’t making any sounds.
He wasn’t screaming, nor was he falling to the ground. Before he could stop himself, Hitoshi glanced at the man near his foot. Aizawa was bending over the hand with the wristband on it, his other hand hanging on for support.
Hitoshi looked away and focused on his shoes instead. He didn’t want to see this. He didn’t want to see Aizawa’s suffering. He started counting the seconds in his mind instead, to do something other than feeling like throwing up. To see how long Aizawa had to endure the shock.
1.
2.
Hitoshi could practically hear how hard Aizawa was gritting his teeth together.
3.
4.
He was resisting.
5.
Hitoshi had told him not to do that.
6.
This would be over if he didn’t resist.
7.
If he could just show that he was as sorry as Home wanted him to be.
8.
9-
The door suddenly burst open with a loud bang.
Home took her thumb off the button almost on reflex, and Hitoshi heard Aizawa gasping as the electricity stopped.
Both Hitoshi’s and Home’s heads snapped toward the door in an almost synchronized move, to see who the intruder was.
To see who even dared to interrupt Home while she was working in the Chair room.
Hitoshi looked at the man standing in the doorframe, and the strangest tangled combination of morbid fear and relief hit him with full force.
Izaier.
He was back.
Notes:
Someone's showing up fashionably late to the party. ¬ᴗ¬
Haha, yay. *No one actually cheers*
…
Okay :D
Listen! I know original characters aren’t exactly ideal or desirable in a fanfic, and I know it takes a lot of effort to understand and connect with a non-canon character. But this story will be a better ride if you can take the time and get to know them.
And honestly, I don’t really have much choice because of the plot. We can't have an organization with no members. Theoretically, I could have had Aizawa infiltrate the League of Villains, but to me, they’re more like a family, and I would’ve missed out on a lot of anguish and angst if I did that.
Anyway, please keep in mind that if Izaier is there, his guns are there, and that means gun violence is on the table too. This guy has zero regard for anything and will shoot whenever the hell he wants.
…Yeah.
Chapter 21: Izaier
Summary:
Aizawa has to decide whether he should treat Shinsou with silence or not.
Notes:
Now I'm starting to sound like a broken record repeating myself here, but if you'd like to see how Izaier looks like, you can check the link below.
Original CharactersAnd with that out of the way, I wanted to mention that if something similar to last week comes up, I'll always drop a quick note at the end, like I did last week. I just don’t want to keep anyone waiting for no reason.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Aizawa used to complain about how he always seemed to be surrounded by the loudest people on earth, while all he wanted was a moment of silence and peace. Joke, Oboro—the guy literally had ‘loud’ in his hero name—Nemuri, but most of all, Hizashi. He was the voice hero, after all.
But not this time.
Aizawa looked over at Hizashi through the mirror’s reflection; the lack of any sound made something uneasy settle in the air, making him think that something was out of place. The bathroom was enveloped in mutual silence; the only sound echoing in the closed space was the frictional squeak of the plastic haircut cape that Hizashi was setting around his neck.
Hizashi would usually hum a song or play one from his ever-growing playlist while acting as their GOAT barber. But apparently, he had decided to work in utter silence this time, making Aizawa wonder—in what must be the first time in his biographical history—if he was supposed to… fill in the silence.
Hizashi reached for the comb, but Aizawa dismissed it before he could take it. “There is no need for that. Just shave it, please.”
Aizawa’s words fell on deaf ears as Hizashi took the comb anyway. He started combing Aizawa’s thick and wavy black hair, beginning from the tips and moving gradually upward to the top, untangling the knots with care.
“Hizashi,” Aizawa complained. He should have known this would happen when he asked Hizashi to cut his hair. His friend was on the opposite side of the spectrum when it came to hair care; the many shampoos, gels, and conditioners on the bath shelf stood in stark contrast to Aizawa’s singular shampoo.
“It’s okay to admit you like your hair, you know.” Hizashi said, voice lacking the man’s usual expressive energy.
“I don’t,” Aizawa answered, his voice monotone. “The purpose of hair is to cushion the head and add another layer of protection for the brain, and also to keep the head warm. Anything beyond that is just an unfounded obsession.”
Hizashi huffed. “Always the logician,” he muttered, as if talking to himself, before glancing at Aizawa in the mirror. “The shortest your hair was neck-length, and that was when you were in kindergarten. You’ve kept it long ever since high school. You sure about this?”
“Yes,” Aizawa said, trying not to let annoyance creep into his voice.
“I don’t know, Shou. They’re,” Hizashi said, running his fingers through the silky strands as he continued combing, “They seem to be a part of you by now.”
“They will grow back. And I’m not defined by the length of my hair.” Aizawa glared at Hizashi in the mirror, earning absolutely no reaction in return. Hizashi was being eerily quiet, and although Aizawa couldn’t personally understand why people got so invested in something as unimportant as hairstyle, he could at least try to put himself in his friend’s shoes.
After all, ‘ever since high school’ was another way of saying ‘ever since we met.’
Hizashi placed the comb beside the sink after thoroughly untangling the strands but didn’t make a move to take the hair clipper. He stood behind Aizawa, a deep knot in his brows, looking down at Aizawa’s black hair as if he was watching a memory play between the waves.
“I’m not sure,” Hizashi finally spoke after what felt like an unnecessary amount of pause.
“‘Zashi.” Aizawa frowned in the mirror.
“I mean—shave?”
“Yes, please.”
“That’s overkill!” Hizashi shook his head, still looking down at the hair instead of meeting Aizawa’s eyes in the mirror.
“It’s called disguise. It’ll guarantee my cover—”
“They’re taking away a part of you!”
“That’s the whole point—”
“What about an undercut?” Hizashi bargained, as if trying to lessen a jail sentence.
“Hizashi.” Aizawa snapped, making Hizashi finally face him in the mirror.
Hizashi bit down on his lower lip before releasing it. “Are you sure about this? It’s not too late to back off, Shou. Someone else can go instead of you—”
Aizawa rolled his eyes, jerked forward, and took the hair clipper himself, turning it on. “Thank you for your service,” Aizawa muttered sarcastically and brought the vibrating edge of the hair clipper toward his hairline before Hizashi stopped him by snatching the clipper out of his hand and turning it off.
“I said I’d do it! I just wanted to make sure you know that you have a choice,” Hizashi said, his eyes softening. “No one is forcing you to do this, Shou. I just want you to know that.”
“I do,” Aizawa answered, matching Hizashi’s resolve.
Hizashi studied him in the mirror for a long time and finally broke the staring contest with a sigh.
“Can we at least take a picture?” Hizashi said in the same tone a toddler would use to convince their parents to stay a bit longer in the park before returning home.
“I’m sure you already have plenty in your phone,” Aizawa pointed out, an unintentional twitch pulling up the corner of his lips.
Hizashi put his hand on Aizawa’s shoulder, his eyes growing serious. “Are you sure about this, Shouta?”
Aizawa had half a mind to roll his eyes and end this whole ordeal, pushing Hizashi out of the bathroom and shaving his head himself. But there was something in Hizashi’s vibrant green eyes that made him unable to look away. Something heavier than just his hand pinning him to his seat.
He knew it wasn’t a simple question. Hizashi wasn’t just talking about the haircut; he was asking a serious question, one that encompassed more than whether Aizawa wanted his head shaved.
He was, all along. Hizashi’s hesitation was never about cutting some strands of hair. He could be sentimental from time to time, emotionally attached to the comfort of familiar things. But not when there was a chance that familiar thing could endanger his closest friend.
No. He was asking if Aizawa was really ready to abandon being a pro hero, abandon teaching, abandon his friends and colleagues—his life.
If he was sure he could do what it takes to go undercover, to dirty his hands and not be broken by the weight of guilt.
To endure loneliness and befriend the villains he had fought for most of his life. To live among those he loathed.
To pretend and lie, to deceive about who he really was, and cross many lines to keep that lie from being revealed.
No one could be sure when it came to that. But Aizawa knew doubt was a rational part of these kinds of missions—an inseparable part of it. He would have to move without certainty, never sure whether he was making the right call, never able to entirely trust the precision of his actions. He knew he had to learn to live in a world of gray from then on, always suspended between 0 and 100.
“I’m sure,” Aizawa said, a paradox buzzing on his tongue as he spoke, his seriousness matching Hizashi’s, and maybe even more.
“Alright,” Hizashi breathed out in acceptance, nodding, and turned on the clipper. “Alright.” Hizashi moved the hair clipper close to the roots of Aizawa’s hair, and seconds later, black strands started to fall onto the cape.
Aizawa could tell how much lighter his head felt the more Hizashi continued, but he also felt a strange kind of heaviness starting to grow in parallel.
This was the point where he could no longer turn back. He would no longer resemble Aizawa-sensei or pro hero Eraserhead. He would be the villain Aizawa.
Aizawa closed his eyes, leaned back, and listened to the vibrating noise of the hair clipper behind his ear and Hizashi’s silence. His neck and ears came in direct contact with the air, no longer sheltered by his long hair, and Aizawa realized;
Hairs really do warm the head.
*******
Izaier swung the foot he had used to kick the door open once, up and down, as if testing whether his knee joint was functioning properly. Then he slowly put his leg down.
From the corner of his vision, Hitoshi could see Aizawa starting to rise to his feet again, a bit stiffly, but overall not matching the demeanor of someone who had been shocked just moments ago.
Not giving in to the urge to look at Aizawa, Hitoshi kept his eyes fixed on the intruder. He had learned long ago to always watch the most dangerous person in the room.
Izaier was wearing casual black clothes. The shirt looked a bit too tight, and the pants a bit too loose. He wasn’t in his usual long green leather coat, the one where he kept his many pistols, guns, and bullets tucked inside.
Izaier’s eyes were closed, and he was casually scratching the corner of his jaw with the tip of his gun. His olive-green hair was ten times messier than usual, strands leaning in random directions. He looked like he had been rudely woken up and brought there straight after sleeping for twenty hours on a loveseat too small for his tall frame.
“Oh, look whose highness finally decided to grace us peasant commoners with his divine presence,” Home spat, her smile twisted with irritation.
Izaier opened his eyes, fierce olive green, already fixed on Home, as if he had been looking at her all along even from behind his eyelids. “Cut the bullshit, Home. It’s too early for me to deal with your…” He looked Home up and down. “Entirety,” he finished.
“It’s not even evening yet, you lazy waste of space!” Home snarled, putting one hand on her hip. “I had to do all the hard work myself without your useless ass this whole time! What the fuck have you been up to in the past two bloody months?”
“Been breathing. Isn’t that boring?” Izaier put the tip of the gun on the scar on his lips as he slightly tilted his head.
“You’re meaning to tell me,” Home started with a low, disbelieving voice that grew into a full yell as she continued, “you’ve done absolutely nothing but sleep and eat like a worthless pest in the fucking two months you’ve been vanished into thin air?!”
“And pissing,” Izaier corrected.
“I’ve been doing twice the work to cover for your fucking ass!” Home fumed, baring her teeth.
“I have lost the ability to give a damn, Home, or have you forgotten?”
“Oh, fuck off!”
“I’ll pass.”
Home took a harsh intake of air as if trying to restrain herself from setting Izaier on fire, closing her eyes. “I can’t fucking believe it,” she muttered to herself. “Boss should have made you eat humble pie before you got this out of line. He obviously gave you too much freedom, which gave you the idea that you could act however the fuck you want. He wants to see you, by the way.” She said in a relatively calmer tone, knowing full well she wasn’t authorized to set Boss’s second-in-command on fire.
“That old whistle is still alive?” Izaier said, leaning against the door frame with his elbow, his forearm resting on top of his head, his gun dangling loosely beside his ear, the other hand resting in his pocket.
Home rolled her eyes and muttered something about “a fucking poser,” low enough that Hitoshi only heard because she was standing close to him. “Just piss off already! He’s in his room,” she answered Izaier.
“No way. I thought he was in hell,” Izaier deadpanned.
“Show some respect, you leech,” Home scolded. Disrespect toward Boss always made her angry without exception.
“What’s a respect?” Izaier countered carelessly, then eyed Hitoshi without moving his head. “What did Fern do this time?” Izaier asked, emphasizing on ‘this time.’
Hitoshi tried not to shiver under the sudden undivided attention, maintaining eye contact with the man. Izaier’s lips always looked curved in a faint smile, but Hitoshi knew that wasn’t it. The curved appearance wasn’t a smile; it was because the man always had his head slightly tilted down. His olive eyes almost never centered in the middle but were skewed toward the upper part, making them look sharp and concentrated, like a predator’s gaze.
Fern, of course, was the name Izaier liked to use for Hitoshi. It probably had something to do with his unruly, gravity-defying violet hair, or maybe it was just a random name Izaier picked because he didn’t care enough to remember his real one.
“His trainee ignored the plan he was supposed to follow and acted on his own. I was in the middle of a very informative educational session before your ugly mug rudely interrupted.”
Izaier snorted through his nose. “Of course Fetus is a troublemaker; Fern is training him.” Izaier took his eyes off Hitoshi and focused on Aizawa this time. “What did he do?”
Congratulations, Aizawa. You got the honor of being titled Fetus by the very own Izaier.
“He announced the bomb to the entire fucking district before it went off. The original plan was to create massive casualties to keep the damn heroes busy while the other team robbed the jewelry shop. He ruined the most important part of the damn plan!”
“Whose genius idea was it to blow people up?”
“Corpse. Who else?,” Home answered, cutting Izaier off when he opened his mouth to probably deadpan a sarcastic comment, pointing at him accusingly. “And you don’t get to comment on blowing people up, you walking dead-body factory.”
Izaier returned his eyes to Home, the diagonal cut over his lips moving whenever he talked. “Corpse, huh? A damn fetus plans better than that broken vocal cord.” Izaier spoke in his usual slow and dragging manner, as if he genuinely couldn’t care less about taking everyone’s time for what he wanted to say. “Panicked people create far better distractions than dead people, you idiot clowns. I swear the cumulative intelligence of the three of you doesn’t even add up to the IQ of a tomato, which is zero, in case you didn’t know.”
By ‘you three,’ he must mean Corpse, Home, and Boss himself.
Hitoshi swallowed under his muzzle.
Only Izaier could insult them like that and get away with it.
“Haha, very funny, Izaier. Now why don’t you take your salt somewhere else and leave? I told you Boss has some important business to discuss.”
Hitoshi kept as still as possible, trying to seem as unnoticeable as he could. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t hearing the conversation. Boss always let Izaier choose when he wanted to show up and when he didn’t. He was one of the few people Home wasn’t allowed to use her quirk on, except during a plan. If Boss summoned Izaier, that could only mean an important mission was coming up.
“Oh yeah, about that… I actually had a reason for coming here.”
Izaier took his hand off his head and scratched the back of head with the tip of his gun, as if trying to remember.
“What was it again? Oh yeah.”
Bang!
Izaier moved his gun before any of them could even blink and shot.
Hitoshi’s whole body jolted at the sudden loud sound. He saw Aizawa move his hand toward him for a split second, but it was gone as though it never happened. Hitoshi looked down at his body in panic, searching for a sign of bleeding, his veins suddenly filled with ice. When he found nothing, he looked at Aizawa, his entire body stiff with cold horror.
Nothing again.
Thank fuck.
“The fuck?!” Home shouted, angrier than anything else. Hitoshi looked up at her, wondering if she had been the one shot. But she was fine.
Hitoshi’s eyes followed the path of where the gun had pointed and stopped at the wall. There was a hole in the wall behind Home’s head, alongside a few others.
Izaier tilted his head slightly downward, his eyes piercing in a murderous olive green. “Use your quirk while I’m going to the washroom one more time, and I won’t miss again,” he threatened, his cold, sharp gaze making it obvious he wasn’t joking.
No matter how many times Izaier suddenly shot like that, Hitoshi could never really get used to it. It terrified him out of his skin every single time.
Home uttered a sound that was a mix of anger and disbelief. “That’s the only fucking place you frequent, asshole! What the hell am I supposed to do?”
“Don’t interfere with my pissing,” Izaier said matter-of-factly and pushed himself off the door frame to leave.
“Izaier.” Home called, effectively preventing him from leaving. Izaier glanced over his shoulder, not bothering to turn around to face her. “Pull that shit on me one more time, and I swear I will kill you with your own weapon, shooting every single hole in your body as I laugh.” She threatened with a lowered voiced, her eyes wild.
One corner of Izaier’s mouth twitched upward. “Creative. Might use the idea.” The twitch disappeared. “Later.” He turned and waved goodbye with his gun before disappearing behind the closing door.
Hitoshi tensed the moment the door clicked shut. They were trapped with Home again.
Who looked downright pissed.
She kicked the table with her high-heeled black shoe, and the table screeched loudly on the floor. Hitoshi flinched, even though he saw it coming. Aizawa, on the other hand, just turned his head toward the sound, as if giving his attention back to a TV show.
Home turned and looked at Aizawa. Hitoshi was glad he wasn’t on the receiving end of that glare, and he was also glad that Aizawa was blindfolded and couldn’t see it. It was as if she were calculating how to dissect the man alive.
Home clicked her tongue after ten suffocating seconds of silence. “Hachiro!” she shouted, looking away. Hachiro entered, obviously having been waiting behind the door all this time. “Yes, Home?”
“That fucking human olive ruined the mood! Take these two back to their room.” She clicked a button on the remote in her hand, and for a second, Hitoshi thought she was going to shock Aizawa again, but instead, the cuff came off and fell to the ground.
As if on cue, Aizawa put his hand on Hitoshi’s shoulder for guidance toward the exit. Or was it for something else? Either way, Hitoshi wasted no more time and started walking, praying that this would really be the end of it.
“And don’t unlock their quirk restraints until their next mission. They need to learn how to follow orders properly,” Home said, “for fuck’s sake.” She muttered under her breath, sounding disgusted, as if they were toddlers incapable of completing the simplest tasks.
“Muzzle and blindfold ‘til the next mission. Got it.” Hachiro grinned, showing all his teeth, and nodded like a dog shaking its tail for its master.
“Aizawa.” Home called, and they both stopped in their tracks. Hitoshi didn’t move an inch, but he felt Aizawa turning back to face her.
“I wouldn’t have been this merciful if Boss wasn’t happy with the result. Disobey the orders given to you or change the plan as you please one more time, and I will do something that makes you curse your own mother for giving birth to you. Am I understood?”
“Yes,” Aizawa said, and Hitoshi tensed. “Yes, ma’am,” Aizawa corrected, as if he had felt it under his hand.
“I’ll have you under a microscope from now on. You too, brat.” Hitoshi nodded sniffily, still frozen in place.
“Get lost,” Home finally said in a low voice, and Hitoshi moved to follow the order.
He could only let out the breath he had been holding once they were out of the Chair room.
That was too fucking close.
*******
Once they arrived at their room, Shinsou’s shoulder notably relaxed under Aizawa’s palm. The door closed with a quiet click. They stood there like that, Aizawa’s hand on Shinsou’s shoulder. Aizawa could feel Shinsou staring at him, probably thinking Aizawa wouldn’t notice because of the blindfold. But he could. He could even sense the confusion and calculation in Shinsou’s intense gaze. Finally, Shinsou shrugged Aizawa’s hand off, and Aizawa let it drop to his side.
“Are you alright?” Aizawa asked.
No tapping came. No humming. No sound. Shinsou stood there for a moment longer before moving toward his bed. One might think he was going to lie down or sit, but Aizawa knew what Shinsou was after: the lock picks.
Aizawa went to his own bed and sat down, listening to the sound of the tools shifting inside the muzzle’s lock. It went on like that for what seemed like fifteen minutes until the lock finally opened with a click, followed by Shinsou letting out a breath of relief.
Aizawa decided to say nothing. Shinsou had complete ownership over his possessions, and Aizawa would never say or do something that suggests otherwise.
“Are you alright?” Shinsou asked, his voice a bit clipped but overall painted with mock worry—a direct question uttered solely to test the waters.
Aizawa didn’t answer, fully aware of how it would make Shinsou feel. There was a possibility that Shinsou would brainwash him the moment he opened his mouth, demanding to know why Aizawa did what he did that day. Why he changed the plan. Why he helped that woman in the alley.
Shinsou snorted at the lack of response, but it he was anything but amused. “Yeah, I didn’t think so either,” he said bitterly.
Aizawa moved his hand and tapped once on the metallic frame of his bed with the knuckle of his middle finger. One tap meant ‘yes.’ I’m alright.
It took Shinsou a while to understand the meaning of the tap. But when he did, he let out a very quiet snort.
As the silence dragged on, Aizawa lay down on the bed, giving no outward indication of the throbbing pain he felt in the back of his eyes. He was aware of the eyes fixed on him. He was also aware of the effect that treating Shinsou with silence had.
The privilege of being forcefully blinded was that he could completely focus on his other senses, especially auditory. That was probably the only reason he was able to hear Shinsou swallow after a very long time.
“Are you—uh,” he cut himself off, his voice devoid of the previous bitterness and more nervous. “I asked so many questions, I-I shouted.” Shinsou was purposefully avoiding asking questions, confessing as if those were grave crimes he had committed.
Aizawa lay there, staring into the darkness of the interior of the blindfold. The knowledge that he was treating Shinsou the way almost everyone else treated him weighed heavily on his conscience. He still didn’t know much about Shinsou’s quirk. But he knew for sure that questions elicited activation of his quirk.
“Is this 192 Yamashitacho?” Shinsou asked to brainwash the black hole guy.
“I mean, you will crisp your partner if you get too excited, right?” Shinsou asked to brainwash Tesla.
“What do you want to do? What are you going to do with me?” Shinsou asked to brainwash him.
“Can you help us?” Shinsou asked to brainwash that hero in the alley.
“Can you hear me?” Shinsou asked to brainwash that injured woman.
In all these cases, Shinsou’s quirk seemed to be activated by a question. Aizawa had yet to know whether he could brainwash with a simple conversation without having to ask questions or not.
After Aizawa set his rule to never use his quirk on him, Shinsou started to avoid asking questions, morphing his questions into statements instead. Aizawa was almost certain Shinsou needed a verbal answer to a ‘question’ to activate his quirk. The problem was in ‘almost.’
The day Shinsou had brainwashed him, he didn’t need to go so far as faking a panic attack if he could brainwash Aizawa without asking questions. He had already Aizawa talking to him without activating Erasure almost all the time.
But there was no real way for Aizawa to be sure. Shinsou could potentially brainwash without needing Aizawa to answer a question.
“You’re mad,” Shinsou muttered. The line between a fact and a question blurred by the way he said it. Small. Young.
He was blindfolded, so this was the best time for Shinsou if he wanted to activate his quirk. Yesterday’s Aizawa would have tapped twice on the frame to give a ‘No’ answer to Shinsou’s question instead of responding verbally. Yesterday’s Aizawa viewed Shinsou through the lens of the things the teen had told him—that he chose to become a criminal and wanted to be there, doing those missions and hurting people.
But something had changed. When he saw Shinsou sneaking out, going behind the organization’s back, knowing full well he would be punished if caught while abandoning his mission and ignoring orders, but still doing it just to help an injured civilian—that changed something withing Aizawa.
Yesterday’s Aizawa wouldn’t have answered, but he wasn’t yesterday’s version of himself.
Aizawa pushed himself up to sit on the edge of his bed. “No, I’m not mad,” he said. “You had the right to be angry. I pushed my luck today by changing the plan and putting you at risk again.”
Shinsou went completely silent the moment Aizawa answered him.
Aizawa waited for a response, but none came. He sighed tiredly and ran a hand through his short hair. It had grown longer than when he had cut it a few months ago. He did it with a not so sharp knife. And he didn’t have nearly as much skill as Hizashi had.
He could almost hear his conversation with Hizashi playing in the darkness of the blindfold, one they had before he shaved his head. ‘Are you sure about this, Shouta?’
‘I’m sure.’
Aizawa rubbed his forehead, unable to relieve the pain in his eyes. When he said he was sure, he didn’t know a kid would be involved. He didn’t know it would be Shinsou.
The first night, Aizawa told himself he wouldn’t let the teenager get in his way. But that said teenager shared his food, spent his portion of money for him, got punished because of him, and saved a civilian.
Aizawa had realized one important thing that day: Shinsou was lying about who he was.
Probably lying even to himself.
Aizawa let his hand slide along his head to the back of his neck and applied some pressure to the tired muscles.
‘I’m sure.’
what a statement.
No.
He wasn’t sure.
What he was, was stuck.
He knew he was stuck the moment he saw a kid standing beside his bed, masking all his emotions behind an unimpressed, tired face. ‘Not letting the teenager get in his way’ be damned. He knew he was stuck from the very beginning. But he pushed it to the back of his mind in favor of focusing on his mission.
But now, it was all coming back to him.
Now he was forced to see it: he was stuck between saving his mission and saving the kid.
Between hurting people and hurting Shinsou.
Between letting people die when the bomb went off and risking Shinsou being punished again.
They had narrowly missed that today, by a hair, having successfully distracted Home to put the cuff on his wrist instead of Shinsou’s. He used the advice Shinsou had given him to pull it off: ‘She hurts you where it hurts most. She tries to know you and then uses that knowledge against you.’ was what the boy had said about Home.
If that was true, Aizawa couldn’t let her know he didn’t want Shinsou to get hurt, because that would result in the exact opposite. He could never let that happen.
Today, he got lucky Home didn’t stick to that stupid rule of one month. And he was relying on his luck way too much recently for someone who didn’t even believe in it. He should find a better way than constantly relying—
“Turn.” Shinsou’s voice cut through his thoughts. Judging by the voice, the boy was standing somewhere in front of him.
“What for?” Aizawa asked, but he already knew what.
“We had a deal, old man.” Aizawa didn’t need his eyes to see the eye roll. “I’m not as fast, but I’ll open it,” Shinsou added in a less bold voice.
Aizawa considered turning and letting the boy open the blindfold. But then another idea occurred to him.
“Doesn’t it make you feel safer when I’m blindfolded?” Aizawa asked bluntly. Pointing out contradictions in how the student thought was an effective way of helping them gain a better understanding of their problems, and it also helped them confront their feelings.
Highlighting incongruence and conflicts was already a technique used in cognitive behavioral therapy, but it was also helpful in getting students to reach a conclusion more aligned with reality instead of sticking to the chaotic teenage narratives they seemed to believe without reasonable arguments to back them up.
The long pause Shinsou took spoke volumes; he didn’t expect that. “We had a deal. I’m keeping it,” Shinsou finally said, his voice impassive despite the pause.
Aizawa folded his arms across his chest. “I suspend our deal.”
“You what?” Shinsou asked, caught off guard. “I-I mean—you want the blindfold on.” Shinsou said. “It’s a question,” he added quickly to clarify.
“No,” Aizawa said without missing a beat.
“No,” Shinsou repeated, imitating Aizawa.
“I’d rather not have this thing on my face for another second. But I also believe you deserve to have an actual sleep.”
“Sleep.” Shinsou repeated, as if trying to understand the word by saying it again. “It’s a fuckin—” He closed his mouth, and Aizawa heard the snapping of his teeth. “It’s a question.”
So it wasn’t repeating; it was a question.
“I’m not as fast with a blindfold, and I don’t have my quirk, while you can see and use yours. Is that enough for you to get some actual sleep without checking on me every ten minutes?”
Aizawa heard Shinsou take a surprised step back.
Aizawa sighed. “Apparently, you assumed I wouldn’t notice, so let me elaborate. You never put yourself in a position that has me out of your sight. You didn’t get a minute of sleep the first two nights. Your aim is to sleep after me and wake up before me, which isn’t working because I don’t sleep well at night either.”
There was a chance that pointing those out would make Shinsou insecure and send him retreating even further into his shell. But Aizawa couldn’t let this go any further. They were making progress, yes, but Aizawa did not have all the time in the world, and addressing these matters directly was a more efficient approach.
‘If I’m such a danger, then let the blindfold be. But if you’re taking it off, then realize that at the very least, I'm not low enough to attack a kid in his sleep.’
That was the point Aizawa was trying to prove.
Aizawa wouldn’t expect Shinsou to trust him. No. Trust wasn’t realistic with all the variables at play.
But this could not continue. Constantly being on guard was a draining and exhausting state. It wore out the nervous system by always being alert with no rest.
“Sure. Whatever,” Shinsou muttered, deciding to shrug it off instead of debating.
“This is not a trap, Shinsou. I am being serious. You can let this stay on if it makes you feel—”
“It’s not that I don’t sleep because I’m watching you. You’re not that interesting, old man. I don’t sleep, period,” Shinsou said bitterly.
Aizawa heard Shinsou retreating to sit back on his own bed. He waited, giving Shinsou time to think about it.
“You don’t want the blindfold,” Shinsou said, and he didn’t need to clarify that it was a question for Aizawa to understand.
“I don’t.”
“You helped the woman,” Shinsou stated, maintaining the same tone despite the sudden change of topic.
“I did.”
“You’re a villain,” Shinsou said, and that was the whole point. That was the deadlock. The stalemate, the one that Shinsou rightfully identified.
Because if Aizawa was not a villain, then it made no sense for him to help a civilian by risking his own well-being. If Aizawa was a villain, what was stopping him from attacking a child in his sleep?
But that wasn’t how things were. Not in reality.
Because no hero is ever entirely heroic.
And no villain is ever entirely villainous.
Aizawa knew Shinsou understood that too, given how many villains he must have met over six years. He understood more than his age suggested.
So all Aizawa needed to do was prove to Shinsou that even if he was a villain, he wasn’t on the pure evil side of the spectrum, but rather in the gray in-between.
And he would tell Shinsou the closest thing he had to the truth to prove that point.
“I am. I am a villain. And I helped the woman.” Aizawa paused to let Shinsou understand that those two facts were not contradictory but possible combinations. “You asked me why I nullified your quirk. You didn’t accept my word when I said I did it because it was a better distraction. So, I’ll tell you the other reason I had, the one I told you when I was trying to convince you to drop your quirk. I didn’t want people to die.”
“You killed before,” Shinsou said flatly.
Aizawa sighed. He didn’t like being seen as a murderer in the kid’s eyes. He didn’t like how frightening that was, to be in proximity to a hero killer. “I didn’t mean to kill that hero, Shinsou,” Aizawa admitted. “It was an accident.”
Aizawa couldn’t tell Shinsou the truth. He couldn’t explain how he didn’t kill the hero and that it was all a show to infiltrate the organization. So, he told him the closest thing he could.
“I worked as a guard before I came here. There was a drug deal, and the leader of the group hired me to watch over them; to make sure the buyers didn’t cheat or try to steal the product by ambushing them. But the location was close to the patrol route of this hero with an amphibian mutation quirk. And I can’t nullify mutation quirks.
“So when the hero attacked, I engaged him in hand-to-hand combat and tried to render him unconscious to buy my clients time to escape. I locked his airway with a neck hold and held him down. He stopped struggling much sooner than I expected, so I thought he was playing dead to trick me into letting go. I held on longer. What I didn’t know was that amphibians have smaller lungs than normal humans because they can also breathe through their skin with cutaneous respiration.
“But skin breathing only works if their skin is wet. His wasn’t. So the time I thought would just knock out a normal human was enough to kill that hero from oxygen deprivation.” Aizawa finished the explanation with a heavy sigh. Even as a lie, it was a convincing story, and he took it one step further by displaying signs of regret in front of the boy.
It wasn’t exactly ideal to sit the kid down and have him listen to how a man choked a hero to death. Yet this was the closest he could get to assuring Shinsou that he wasn’t a cold-hearted murderer who killed a hero for fun.
“At the end, it doesn’t matter that it wasn’t on purpose. I’m still a wanted villain, and I still rely on the Safe House to keep me hidden because heroes won’t simply look away from the death of one of their own.”
Shinsou remained silent for a long time, but when he spoke, his voice was devoid of any emotion.
“I don’t care if it was an accident or not. Some of the worst roommates I had never killed anyone in their lives. Your story means nothing to me.” Shinsou said in a monotonous voice. “I had fifteen trainers, fourteen of whom forced the muzzle on me at some point. One of them considered making me throw up in my sleep as an educational moment. So excuse me for not putting my back to the only other person in the room who could accidentally choke me to death.”
Aizawa listened. The numbers rang in his ears: ‘fourteen of whom forced the muzzle on me.’
Shinsou walked toward him, and the next thing Aizawa felt was a hand turning his head until he was facing his own right shoulder.
“You unlocked the muzzle when Hachiro refused to open it after my spar with Tesla. You did it again after your second mission.”
Aizawa felt Shinsou’s hand gripping the blindfold, and he heard the lock picks being shuffled inside the lock behind the blindfold. Even so, he didn’t resist, allowing the boy to continue.
“You shared something of your past; I shared some of mine. You opened my muzzle; I’ll open your blindfold. If you ever attack me,” Shinsou said, and Aizawa felt a particularly hard tug on his blindfold, “I’ll attack you before you can even blink, with or without the blindfold.” Shinsou threatened.
Aizawa didn’t allow the amusement to seep into his voice. “Didn’t know you were interested in equations.”
“Better than the dealing system that can be suspended,” Shinsou countered.
The corner of Aizawa’s lips twitched upward. “Guess I might have to learn more than just fighting techniques from my trainer, then.”
Shinsou’s hands stilled behind Aizawa’s head. Then he muttered, “Whatever.”
It took a long time for Shinsou to figure out the correct route for unlocking the blindfold. When it finally clicked open, blood rushed to the areas that the blindfold had been blocking. Aizawa held back a wince as the edges of the blindfold detached from his eye sockets.
Electrical shocks burn where the electricity enters and exits the body. His left wrist was the entry point, and the metallic blindfold was the exit. It wasn’t anything Aizawa couldn’t endure, especially since they were interrupted by ‘Izaier’ and the whole ordeal didn’t last more than a few seconds.
But even that was damaging to his eyes. The receptor layer of the eye operates on electricity, and Aizawa knew that if the shocking he received were to continue for too long, it might have damaged his eyes permanently.
Aizawa opened his eyes, but the room was blurred. During the mission that day, unable to rely on any special fighting techniques, Aizawa had no choice but to depend on his quirk to fight the heroes. And he didn’t have his eye drops to soothe the dryness.
He nodded in Shinsou’s direction, appreciating the help, and then left to wash his eyes with water. The electric shock he received gave him no new information, especially not about the mystery of the circular scars. When Shinsou had returned after Aizawa’s second mission failure, he was hurt on the back.
Some pieces were still missing. And he still hadn’t figured them out.
As Aizawa washed his eyes with cold water, his mind shifted to a new subject—or rather, someone. A new player entering the game. A dangerous one.
Izaier.
Notes:
Some months ago, while I was aimlessly killing time on this strange creature called Pinterest, I saw a picture of Aizawa with a shaved head and it may or may have not sparkled the idea that if he had to go undercover, he’d have to cut his hair.
This is the picture, and for the love of God I couldn’t find the original post or the artist, even though it has an ID written on it: Aizawa minus hair
Current Aizawa has a bit longer hair than this, but it's kinda messier, because unlike Yamada, Aizawa is no barber and he cut his own hair with a not-so-sharp knife.
Now you are more than welcome to ignore this tiny detail as you imagine the story unfold in your mind. *says this after ruining people's image of Aizawa with long hair*
(Honestly, why would Aizawa keep his hair long in the first place when it’s an obvious tell for his quirk? The only thing I can think of is that he didn’t want to spend time on it, since “it’s not logical to keep cutting something that will just grow back.”)
Chapter 22: Sayonara, Shouta
Summary:
Nemuri and Yamada have to process their loss.
Notes:
TW: Death, Dead body, Morgue, Implied/reference self harm
In this chapter, there will be a song hummed, and I highly recommend that you check it out before you start, to grasp the rhythm. It’s called 'A Thousand Winds.' Here is the link. It includes both the music video and the lyrics. If that doesn’t work, you can check this; it just doesn’t have the English lyrics.
Click for some further explanations about this chapter!
As you have already seen, this fic has a somewhat non-linear approach, primarily for backstories and flashbacks. Our main and current timeline is where we left off Aizawa and Shinsou last chapter.
However, the events of this chapter take place in the first week after Aizawa was recruited by the organization, around the time his interrogation concluded and he met Shinsou.
As a ‘previously on Peopleteer’ sort of thing, Aizawa’s (fake) body was found, abandoned for about two days after death, in an alley on a very rough side of downtown, by a homeless person who happened to pass by and noticed the body.
The police were informed, and consequently, the commission was notified. They took on the case, secured the area, and sent a message to Midnight and Present Mic’s agencies. Nemuri then called Hizashi, leading to the events of the first part in chapter 3.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“All passengers traveling on the 3:30 American Airlines flight 107B to Washington, now boarding at gate 9…” The announcement echoed, loud enough for everyone in the airport to hear.
The airport was semi-crowded, but Nemuri wasn’t looking at the people; she was staring at the gate—the one Shouta had once used to leave for America. Logical ruse and all. Lying bastard.
Nemuri sank back into a random airport seat, one leg crossed over the other, as she fixed her gaze on the gate. She was still in her hero costume, with people glancing at her curiously. Worriedly. Shyly. Hungrily.
She didn’t care. All she could see was Shouta’s lifeless body in Hizashi’s hands. All she could taste was her gas quirk after she had used it on Hizashi—not to knock him out, just enough to calm him down. Just enough for him to let his best friend go. All she could hear was Shouta’s gruff voice telling them to take care of the students. To move forward. To stay safe.
The bastard should have listened to his own advice.
“…This is the final boarding call for passengers booked on flight 55C to Berlin. Please proceed to gate 3 immediately. I repeat, this is the final…”
Two years ago, Eraserhead was chosen to travel to the States as Japan’s representative for an international research project on the development of new quirk-canceling base treatments. She nearly hit Shouta in the gut when she arrived at the airport. She would have, if it hadn’t been for Hizashi and Vlad King intervening.
Shouta was never the spontaneous type. That was Oboro. Shouta was reserved. Organized. He actually valued order over whim. That’s why she couldn’t understand—why so suddenly? Why the United States? Why so far away? And abandoning being a teacher? She had to admit, she hadn’t seen that one coming. Shouta loved teaching as much as he loved being a hero, even if he was too stubborn and thick-headed to ever admit it out loud.
And the coffee-addict, cat-lover excuse of a friend didn’t even bother to tell her until he was already departing. She had to meet him at the airport for a last time? After all the time they spent together? That was heartless, even for Shouta.
She spent half her energy not making a scene at the airport and giving her idiot of a friend, Shouta, a half-decent farewell he surely didn’t deserve after making him promise to call regularly. The other half of her energy was spent shouting at her other traitorous friend, Hizashi, for not telling her sooner on the way back to the guy’s apartment. Because apparently, the traitor had some other things to discuss. “I’ll explain, Nem! I’ll explain! Please, stop shouting. I have the exclusive rights to that, you know. And I’m already half deaf!”
“Yeah? Well, you’ll be losing the other half too if you don’t give me a good explanation right now!”
“I will! I will! Just chill. Jeez. You’ll understand once we get there.”
“Why does it even have to be your place? Drive us to mine. I still need to get this anger out of my system, and sure, most of it is directed at Shouta, but he’s no longer here, so you’ll be taking responsibility for your friend and—” Nemuri gasped into her fist, remembering the stunt the man pulled all over again. “How could he even hide it from me like that?!”
“Well, that will sound like a nice joke compared to what he really did.” Hizashi murmured, eyes on the road.
“What do you mean?” Nemuri asked, head jerking to the side.
Hizashi glanced at her and winced, before looking back at the road. “Yeah… if you’re this mad now, then I’ll be needing my voice-canceling headphones for sure.” Hizashi spoke as if making a mental note.
“‘Zashi. Spit it!”
“Just wait until we’re back, ‘kay?”
“HIZASHI!”
And of course, all just to arrive at Hizashi and Shouta’s place to see the very ‘not-left-for-America,’ ‘I-lie-and-call-it-a-logical-ruse-because-I’m-an-asshole’ Shouta sitting in the kitchen, sipping on his coffee, his baggage disregarded close to the door.
“I want a divorce from both of you, and I’m taking the children. All twenty of them,” she said with the most disbelieving face she had ever mustered. And what was their excuse again? They wanted Shouta’s departure at the airport to look natural?
She was going to tie both of them up and show them what natural looked like.
After they explained to her, in detail, why Eraserhead wasn’t on his way to America after announcing it to the world.
*******
Nemuri didn’t know what brought her to the airport. Unlike Hizashi, who was dead serious about staying with Shouta—with… Shouta’s body—arguing with HPSC agents on the scene to let him be on the case, calling every contact he had on the phone, Nemuri didn’t follow.
She stood aside and watched as they moved Shouta’s body on the stretcher. She watched as they covered his lifeless body with a sheet. She watched as they placed him inside the commission’s van. She watched as the medic tried to back Hizashi off. She watched as they eventually allowed him in after he threatened to level the district to the ground with a single shout.
She stood in the dark, filthy alley, rooted to the ground, as she watched the van move away, further and further, until it disappeared.
She remembered a medic approaching her, offering help or a shock blanket. She dismissed him with a polite smile and walked away. She moved away from that alley, from the stomach-turning garbage odor that lingered in the air, clinging to every brick and every wall—so strong she doubted it could ever be washed away, no matter how much they cleaned that place. If anyone ever did.
She walked away, unsure if she could ever wipe the sound of numerous mice chewing on garbage bags in the distance from her memory. She walked, unsure if she could ever leave that place, if she could ever see anything but Shouta’s lifeless eyes staring not at her, but through her. Not dark. Not glowing red. Not angry. Not endlessly tired. Not stern. Not fond.
But grey. Grey. Grey.
Her feet brought her to the airport. She walked for God knows how long. Three hours. Four hours. Five hours.
She didn’t know. She walked in the dead of night, in the clinging dark that seemed everlasting. Whispering in the breezing cold malicious promises of eternal despair. Telling the prophecies of the death of the sun. Promising that sunrise would never come. That the night would never pass.
That their ancestors lied to them. That there was no hope in Pandora's box—only bad, and evil, and darkness.
Only loss, and grief, and suffering.
Only death and death and death.
She tore her sleeve at some point, knocking out a thug with her quirk. She left the unconscious body behind, sending a quick message to her agency to go and pick him up.
She wasn’t sure why she went to the airport. Maybe she wanted to watch people reunite with their loved ones. Maybe she wanted to see what she could never have again. Maybe she wanted to make herself jealous to the point of suffocation, to fill that empty hole inside her heart with anything. Anything.
Anything but this hollowness.
Or maybe she wanted to see them get separated. See people say goodbye. See people embrace their families, friends, loved ones. Say farewell. Maybe she wanted to remind herself of the time she said goodbye to Shouta. Even if it was fake, she hadn’t known it at the time. It felt real to her. Maybe she wanted to believe that the few days she spent with Shouta before he went undercover counted. That it was enough.
Or maybe she just wanted to see something other than Shouta’s body, discarded in that filthy back alley. Left beside the trash. Left there like he had no value. Like he had no one. Like no one would ever remember him. Like he died alone. Like—
Oh… Shouta…
*******
Turned out, night wasn’t everlasting. Sunrise did come.
No matter how unfounded, Nemuri still felt an unspeakable amount of anger welling up inside her chest as the sky started to light up, as morning arrived. Because how dare the world? How dare time pass as if nothing had happened? How dare the sun rise as if everything was normal? As if Shouta wasn’t—
She went back to her apartment. Took a shower. Cried. Turned the water hot until her skin turned pink, hoping to lessen the cold she felt.
It didn’t work.
Nemuri scanned her closet disinterestedly. Her hand automatically reached toward her black suit, but then it stopped midair and recoiled. They weren’t supposed to let anyone know they were grieving. No one was supposed to know about Shouta’s…
Shouta’s…
Shouta’s…
…death.
“Eraserhead wasn’t the only agent we currently have undercover. The investigation into the organization Eraserhead was trying to infiltrate is an ongoing case.” The commission agent, who introduced himself as Shouta’s handler, spoke while Nemuri waited for Hizashi to arrive at the scene. He was a man of average height with short, curly brown hair. The whites of his eyes turned pink when Nemuri very politely told him to fuck off.
The man spoke in a low, private voice, covering his lips with his hands for extra caution. “We cannot risk the villains we have under close watch knowing the commission is involved. It’s in the nature of mice to flee if they sense even a shred of vulnerability. Midnight, you and Present Mic are not to talk to anyone—absolutely anyone—about Eraserhead. Not even to Eraserhead’s own family. Since many ongoing cases are at stake, the commission has deemed confidentiality of the highest importance. I warn you that failure to maintain this information might result in the revocation of your hero license.
“The commission can, of course, arrange temporary leave for both you and Present Mic from your hero agencies, and you may take a step back from your work at UA for a few days under the title of cooperation with a classified commission case, not for personal reasons. Present Mic is obligated to continue his radio show, as the public nature of his job makes it prone to suspicion across all of Japan, not just from those who might be watching him.
“You are also not allowed to express grief and loss around your colleagues, families, or friends. Please act professionally and maintain the facade of your everyday life. As far as the rest of Japan is concerned, Eraserhead is still alive and is currently in America. The body we found tonight will remain nameless until we run genetic tests and go through the protocol examination for authentication.
“We ask both you and Present Mic to visit the commission’s morgue for the final identity verification based on your knowledge of the deceased body—”
“Does the commission always address the people they literally send to die like disposable tools, or am I getting the wrong idea here, Mr. Handler? You’re giving me a very wrong impression, and I don’t think it would be good for you if my impression is anywhere near true.” Nemuri fumed through gritted teeth, effectively cutting off the most suffocating rambling she had ever endured.
The handler took a step forward, a pathetic attempt to appear intimidating as he had the audacity to say his next words. “The man in question had displayed patterns of withholding information and uncooperativeness towards the commission, especially in the last few months of his mission. He failed to fulfill the purpose of his mission as he was unable to infiltrate the group of villains he was assigned to, and even if we eventually close this case and let Eraserhead’s death come to light, we still have to see if his name is clear or if he was a trai—”
Nemuri’s eyes grew wilder and wilder with disbelief, unable to trust her own ears. She reached out, grabbed the collar of the neatly ironed suit of the government representative, and yanked him toward herself. She swore she would have punched a hole in his face if it weren’t for hearing her friend’s voice.
“Nem?”
“Zashi.” Nemuri’s hand went slack as all the energy drained from her body, seeing Hizashi’s worried green eyes.
She let go, registering the handler fixing his suit like nothing had happened. Nemuri let go because she was hazed with shock. She let go because she knew Hizashi would need her. The man took a few steps back as he watched the two—the three of them from a distance, waiting patiently to get a chance to repeat what he had recited once again for Hizashi as well.
*******
Nemuri eventually settled for a light grey suit and skirt. Her heels echoed through the corridor as she walked toward the morgue, two levels underground. The dark green color of the commission building’s walls built something uneasy under her skin, but that was ignored in favor of swallowing down the growing weight clawing at the inside of her throat as she got closer and closer to the morgue.
She had talked to no one ever since last night. She hadn’t even gotten a moment of shut-eye. She couldn’t eat anything. She wanted to call someone; she wanted to talk to someone. To Joke. To anyone. She wanted to crawl to her bed and never wake up again.
She was a mess inside. Her chest was tight, as if her ribcage belonged to the teenage version of herself, but it was housing her adult-sized lungs and heart. Her head was unbearably heavy.
She was sad. Empty. Angry. Wounded.
But she put on a brave face. Because no matter how hurt she was, no matter how messed up she felt, she knew.
She knew that Hizashi was even more hurt. More in need of support.
God, she couldn’t even begin to imagine how that poor boy felt right now. First Oboro, and now…
…now Shouta.
Hizashi had lost too much. He was the only member of the trio left. He was alone.
Nemuri couldn’t let that be.
As she reached the morgue, she scanned the list taped to the wall beside the door. Everyone was obligated to put their name and sign, as well as write down the time of entering and exiting the morgue. She was familiar with the process; as a hero, she had done this before.
But as a friend…
They never found Oboro’s body. Not all of it, at least.
Nemuri took the pen dangling from the wall and wrote down her name: Nemuri Kayama, under the name of Yamada Hizashi. She found the exit box in front of Hizashi’s name empty, which meant he was still inside. Nemuri looked at the time of entry and pressed her lips together.
Oh… ‘Zashi.
He had been inside for almost two hours, if the time of entry was correct.
He had been looking at… Shouta’s body… for almost two hours.
She could only imagine what that had done to him.
Nemuri knocked. She didn’t know what she expected—maybe a neat-looking technician in a white laboratory coat. Someone who resembled the rest of the commission. But the person who opened the door for her was a heavy-set woman with a shaved head dyed red, wearing a disturbingly eye-catching orange tank top. She was chewing gum carelessly, with numerous piercings over her face, from nose and lips to eyebrows and ears. And she did have a lab coat; it was just tied around her waist like a jacket.
“Ugh, not another one,” was the first thing she said upon seeing her.
“I’m here to verify the identity of… Aizawa Shouta,” Nemuri said in what must have seemed like a calm voice.
“I was hoping you were here to collect the blondie,” the woman said, blowing her gum as she motioned with her head for Nemuri to follow.
The woman walked away, expecting Nemuri to follow. Nemuri intended to do so as well, but her body betrayed her. She knew she could never erase what she was about to see from her memory. It wasn’t that she had never seen a dead body before; it was just that she wasn’t sure she wanted the last image she had of her friend to be his naked, decaying body.
“Hey, missy. If you’re gonna throw up or wail, do both of us a favor and go home,” the diener said, chewing her gum with parted lips.
Nemuri didn’t have the energy or care to be irritated. She just wished she had her whip with her, that’s all.
Nemuri started walking, reminding herself that she was here for her boys. This wasn’t about her.
They rounded the corner, and Nemuri’s eyes immediately fell on the body laid out on the metallic table. She took a sharp inhale and closed her eyes, turning her head away. Her heart rate spiked as tears welled up in her closed eyes. She wouldn’t be surprised if she could never say a word again because her throat felt filled with shreds of broken glass.
Shouta.
Shouta.
…Shouta.
“Ya and I have a similar quirk, Midnight missy. I can breathe a gas that disables people’s olfactory system—pretty temporarily, so don’t fret. Short version: take a deep breath and don’t worry about the odor, ma lady.” The woman said as Nemuri worked through opening her eyes, swallowing the glass shreds deeper. “Lotta handy for the job, eh? Though I know my stuff, so suit yourself and ask around. Me and blondie here went through each scar three times already. We were in the middle of round four when ya knocked.”
Nemuri opened her eyes but kept them away, averting her gaze in favor of looking at Hizashi. There were three metallic tables in the morgue. Shouta was lying on the one to the right, while Hizashi sat on the middle one.
Nemuri’s heart broke the moment she saw Hizashi. He was a complete. Utter. Mess. He was rocking back and forth, sitting on the edge of the table. He was picking the skin of his lower lip, the tips of his thumb and index finger soaked in his own blood, the same as his split lower lip, as he stared down at Shouta’s body. He must have been picking at his lip for most of the two hours if the deep cut was any indication.
But even his bloodied lip was nothing compared to his eyes. Hizashi’s eyes were fixed on somewhere on Shouta’s skin, and he didn’t even seem to notice Nemuri’s presence yet. His eyes were… leaking. He wasn’t crying. No. That wasn’t crying. Nemuri doubted Hizashi was even aware that his eyes were watering in the state he was in. He had his gaze focused, two shining green irises floating in what was no longer white but bloodshot pink.
It was as if his body hadn’t been able to keep up with the state of his mind, crumbling completely under the pressure, his eyes starting to cry on their own while his mind was busy processing.
“…‘Zashi.” Nemuri murmured as she walked toward Hizashi. As if becoming aware of her presence just then, he looked up at her, his face lighting up with recognition.
“Nem. You’re here!” He… beamed. Not quite happy… just Hizashi beaming in hard situations.
It gave her flashbacks.
“Aizawa, Yamada. Let’s get inside. C’mon. Don’t want you getting sick out here.” Nemuri tried, holding her umbrella tightly in her hand as she looked at the two from a distance.
It was raining. It was raining heavily. It was raining sadly. Oboro was gone. The rest of them survived.
“Thanks, Kayama. But we’re good.” Yamada said, inching closer to Aizawa, smiling. Sad, toothy. But smiling. Being brave for Aizawa’s sake, who was shaking, crying, with his bangs covering his face. “The rain kinda fits our vibe right now…”
“‘Zashi…”
“You gotta see this, Nem! I’ve-I’ve been thinking—It was this-this thing, Nem. This thing staring at me—right into my eyes! But I couldn’t place it. It’s-it’s right here. Here.” Hizashi got to his feet and closed the gap between the two tables, pointing at Shouta’s exposed body. Nemuri kept her eyes stubbornly glued to Hizashi, unable to look at Shouta. She wasn’t ready. She didn’t want to. She couldn’t.
“Nem, before you came, me and the listener—”
“The name’s Inori, for the eighth time,” the woman interjected from a few steps away.
“Me and Inori went through every scar together. Went through everything.”
“‘Zashi.”
“Could you tell her what you told me about the cause of death, listener?”
“Inori for the ninth time. And yes. The cause of death is unknown. We ran a shit ton of tests in the last shit ton of hours, and yet, nothing. Eraserhead is dead. Why? We don’t know.” Inori explained, folding her arms over her chest.
Nemuri kept her eyes on Hizashi. She would see Shouta if she took her eyes off him. She would have to face him.
“And the genetic test.” Hizashi prompted her to repeat what she apparently had already said for Nemuri to hear.
“It was a match. A.k.a. positive. This is certainly the one and only Eraserhead.”
“That’s where you’re wrong, listener!” Hizashi said, pointing at Inori.
“‘Zashi.”
“Nem, listen! I thought it was Sho-uta too. But it’s not! It’s wrong. See—” Hizashi’s voice cracked on the name.
“Hizashi.”
“Look, look. This. See this?” Hizashi pointed at something Nemuri didn’t want to see. She kept her eyes on Hizashi. “This I remember. It’s from a childhood incident he told me about. He slipped off his bicycle. It’s pretty old, but you can see it. This is also old, but middle school old. He got it from his bullies…”
“Hizashi.”
“…Not that he didn’t fight back, though! He actually got the scar because he fought back! This one is from hero training. This one is from hero training, too. It scarred because he didn’t go to Recovery Girl right away—good old stubborn Shouta, huh? Chiyo was mad! She scolded him for twenty minutes straight!”
“Hizashi.”
“This is from a villain attack. This too. Villain attack. Villain attack. Villain attack. Villain attack. Villain attack.” Hizashi said, pointing at different places.
“Quit it... ‘Zashi.” Nemuri pleaded, her whisper strange even to her own ears.
“Now this one is from a student. I mean, you remember, right? Her quirk went out of hand, and Shouta blinked just once. This one is from a villain. Villain attack. This too. And This. This one made him hospitalized. So did this—”
“Hizashi… I don’t wanna—I don’t wanna—” see.
“This one is new.” Hizashi’s tone changed as his face darkened. The already cold room’s temperature dropped two more degrees. “This is new. This is new. This is new.”
She didn’t mean to, but her eyes unvoluntary followed where Hizashi was pointing. Nemuri took a sharp breath as she finally looked at Shouta. She avoided looking at his face, but his torso… his arms... his legs…
Shouta was wearing nothing, which of course he wasn’t. They were in a morgue. The only thing on him was the white plastic wrapping covering his private parts, and judging by the looks of it, it was an effort on Inori’s part, not Hizashi’s. And Shouta…
It was Shouta. It was him. But thinner. He was still muscular, but she could tell how much he had lost in the span of two years. He was visibly thinner. And the scars… Hizashi was right. There were new ones. Two of them weren’t even completely healed yet.
“This one is new. This one!” Hizashi took Shouta’s hand, but not gently, not affectionately. The hand was rigid in Hizashi’s, the dead, bruising skin already losing its elasticity, and even though Hizashi himself was pale, Shouta’s skin was a bluish-grey in Hizashi’s white hand.
Hizashi spread the middle and index fingers open, revealing a short but deep scar between the fingers. “This one! That idiot! Shouta must have had his hand open like this,” Hizashi tried to recreate the scene, the events that led to that scar. “He had opened his hand, palm facing the opponent. Like this. Nem! He knows! He knows that’s a wrong thing to do. Yet the idiot did it! On purpose! He must have wanted to seem untrained and inexperienced. And that’s not it!”
“Hizashi, stop. I don’t wanna—”
Hizashi reached toward the cover on Aizawa’s body, and that was when Nemuri’s patience ran out. “The—” Nemuri slapped Hizashi’s hand, just enough to pry his hand away from the plastic wrapping.
“That’s enough! Show some respect!” Nemuri raised her voice, trembling ever so slightly. Hizashi’s face visibly paled, even more than he already was, and his eyes grew wild.
“I—I—” Hizashi gaped, moving his lips with no voice coming out. He glanced at Shouta’s face and winced. That was when Nemuri understood.
Hizashi wasn’t seeing it as Shouta’s body. He was seeing it like some sort of dummy. Like some picture. Like it was some photos sent to the voice hero, and he was showing the important details to Nemuri. Like Shouta was alive somewhere else, yet they were able to see the scars he received in the two years he was undercover.
Hizashi shook his head as if to dispel the temporary awareness Nemuri had instilled in him with her scolding, reverting back to his previous state. “No… No, Nem. I’m not—It’s not—Look… It’s—” Hizashi set the cover aside just enough for a… bullet scar… to become visible on Shouta’s hip. …A bullet scar. And it wasn’t all that old.
Oh... Shouta…
“This one is a fucking bullet shot. A bullet, Nem! And he hadn’t even mentioned it to me! That self-sacrificing, I-have-zero-self-preservation idiot! He never mentioned he got shot! Like it’s some sort of…I dunno… unimportant detail not worth mentioning! And these!” Hizashi pointed at three burn scars over Aizawa’s chest…
cigarette burns…
“Those are Shouta’s doing.”
What? No. “No… no, Shouta doesn’t—He doesn’t do—” Self-harm. He doesn’t do that. It’s not logical. Not a rational thing to do.
“Don’t ask me how I know it, Kayama. I just do. I—That idiot! It’s in the number. Three. It’s the number of times he—”
“Hizashi, stop!” Hizashi flinched. “I don’t wanna know! I don’t wanna see!” Nemuri didn’t know when she had started crying, but she was.
“Nemuri, Nemuri. No, I have a point. I have a point, I promise! It’s wrong. It’s wrong, Nemuri. Just listen to me. Listen.”
“Hizashi…”
“It’s not the scars! I knew something was off. This looks like Shouta. It’s him, alright. It looks like him. These are his scars! I know them! But there is something wrong. Something I-I couldn’t point out. Me and Inori went through every scar, and we did it thoroughly—”
“Three times.” Inori added.
“Yes! Three times! We studied everything, Nem! Because something felt off, and I couldn’t pinpoint what. But it’s not the scars that are wrong! I was focusing on the wrong thing, Nem! It’s not about what is present. It’s about what’s absent! It’s about the scars that are missing. Hear me out! It’s wrong!” Hizashi continued to explain with exaggerated hand gestures.
“Hizashi.”
“There are too few, Nemuri. There are not enough. Not—Not—”
“Hizashi.”
“Nem. Shouta is undercover. And he is good at what he does. We know he is. He is so, so good. He is trying to act like an untrained rookie. Okay, sure. But he is not an untrained rookie! He is smart, Nem. And he knows stealth. He knows how to fight. He knows how to keep himself alive. We both know he doesn’t take nearly enough care of himself. We know that idiot acts like he has ten lives—”
“Hizashi!”
“But he won’t just drop dead! Not like this! Not “Cause-of-death-unknown”!” Hizashi made air quotes. “The only reason he might die is if his cover gets blown! And when that happens—if that happens—this—”
“Hizashi, enough!”
“This doesn’t happen, Kayama! This is too right. Too unharmed. Too untouched. Nem! He said he was close! Shouta said he was close and the organization—they—they do this thing to people. Burns. Circular burns! But those are not—Shouta doesn’t have them! If his cover was blown—this—this—it’s not the damage he would have taken! There—there are not nearly enough wounds on this body! This isn’t the body of a hero who had been found out by villains! This is not the body of someone whose cover was blown! This is not the body of someone who has been tortured! It’s wrong! This is wrong! This—this—thing! It’s not Shouta! It’s not—”
Nemuri didn’t think; she just reacted. She moved her hand and slapped her friend. The sudden crack of skin against skin was loud and jarring. She hadn’t meant to do it so hard. The force of the slap was enough to make the voice hero’s head snap to the side.
“Whoops… Am like, 92 percent sure I ain’t supposed to be seeing this,” Inori said, chilled, but she had at least stopped chewing her gum.
“I’m sorry, Hizashi.” Nemuri started with a bitter voice. “I’m so sorry Shouta’s number of wounds isn’t adding up to your taste.” Her voice rose, laced with venom. “I’m sorry our friend didn’t die a gruesome, horrific death! I’m sorry he wasn’t tortured! I’m sorry Shouta didn’t die without being reduced to a—!” Hizashi stared at her with impossibly big eyes, horrified by what he was hearing, cradling his bruising cheek with his hand. And Nemuri knew. She knew she was being cruel. She knew she was hurting Hizashi with her words. She knew that wasn’t what Hizashi meant.
But she couldn’t take it anymore. She was hurt, damnit.
Nemuri’s voice elevated, her body trembling. “I’m sorry his death isn’t up to your standards! I’m sorry he seemed to have a genuinely normal death instead of being beaten to death! I’m sorry if this is too much for you! I’m sorry you can’t open your eyes and see the reality, Hizashi. I’m so-rry.” Her voice wobbled. “I truly am. I’m sorry he is dead.” Her voice declined to a lower level, shaking. “I’m sorry he left you. I’m so sorry you didn’t get to say goodbye. I’m sorry if you feel like you’ve been left behind. I know you two were close. I know Shouta was more than just a friend to you. I know you are hurting. I know your heart is broken. I know it’s broken into pieces. I know ‘Zashi. I do!”
Hizashi’s eyes filled and filled with tears, the green of his eyes never so shiny, never so green, until the overfilled eyelids could no longer contain the tears. And they fell. Silent. Unnoticed by their owner.
And Nemuri couldn’t take it anymore. She closed the gap between them and pulled Hizashi into an embrace.
Hizashi was taller than her, bulkier; but at that moment, he seemed small, broken. Nemuri pressed Hizashi’s head to her shoulder. His body was rigid, impossibly tense. And he was trembling, so slightly Nemuri didn’t know he was. And his heart. His heart was racing like a little sparrow trapped in a cage.
“Hizashi… I know it’s hard. I know you want nothing more than for all of this to be just a dream. I understand your desperation to find proof that he is not Shouta. I know how you feel. You want to be in denial? Fine. Be in denial. You can’t take it all in at once? That’s okay, too. But I will not stand by and let you treat our friend’s body like it’s a mere puppet. You will not do that. Not to Shouta. Not to our friend. You will not stand there and disrespect Shouta like that. I will not stand by and let you act like he is not here.
“You can’t accept Shouta’s death? You want to sit and torment yourself with conspiracy theories? You want to find an excuse to convince yourself this isn’t real? Fine. You can. But not here, Hizashi. Not now. Not with Shouta’s body on that cold table! We don’t do that to our friend. We don’t treat him like that. We let him rest. We say our goodbyes. We promise him that we will be okay. We will tell him that he can finally rest. That’s what we will do. Not this!”
“That’s not my Shouta,” Hizashi murmured into Nemuri’s shoulder, small, trembling, heartbroken… angry. No doubt looking at Shouta’s face from over Nemuri’s shoulder. And it broke her. It broke her heart into a thousand pieces to hear Hizashi’s always so loud and cheerful voice reduced to that broken little voice.
Nemuri raised her hand and patted Hizashi’s back. Slowly. Tenderly. Up and down. “Hizashi. Listen to me. Do you remember how much it hurt us when they weren’t able to retrieve Oboro’s body? How much we regretted not being able to say goodbye to him? It won’t happen again. I won’t let you carry that weight for the rest of your life. You will talk to Shouta, and you will tell him how much you love him, and you will say goodbye. Do you hear me?”
Nemuri waited for Hizashi to respond, but the man stayed silent, enveloped in her hands. “Hizashi.”
Slowly, Hizashi nodded against her shoulder.
“Okay.” Nemuri murmured and finally pushed away. She gave Hizashi’s shoulder one last gentle squeeze before letting him go. She took in a shaky breath and then finally turned.
Finally, she faced Shouta.
A sad chuckle rose in her throat because the boy looked overworked and exhausted even in his death. Even more exhausted than school mornings. More exhausted than the nights after his patrols. He looked… older. Older than how much two years ages people.
Nemuri turned and fully faced Shouta, looking at him for a long time. Taking in all the little details: his always-present stubble, the deep bags under his eyes, the exhausted lines around his closed eyelids, the wrinkles in between his eyebrows and forehead, his black eyelashes, his black eyebrows, his pale thin lips.
Nemuri put her hand on Shouta’s head, but her other hand followed suit quickly as she covered her mouth to muffle a sob. Because Hizashi was right. It didn’t feel right. It didn’t feel like Shouta. It was cold. So cold. And the feeling. The feeling.
It was so not Shouta.
Nemuri convinced herself that it must be what death did to people. The sense of wrongness stemmed from death, not from the fact that it wasn’t Shouta like Hizashi was claiming.
Nemuri forced her eyes open and started patting Shouta’s head. Deliberately. Gently.
She stroked his head, the thick black hair running between her fingers. It felt so different from Shouta’s own long hair. But it didn’t matter. She continued to pat his head. “It’s going to be alright, Shouta. It’s time for you to finally rest. We will miss you. And we will always remember you. Don’t worry about anything. Everything is going to be alright. Rest, Shouta.” Nemuri murmured as she smiled, her eyes a sky blue; soft and kind. And then...
She leaned down and placed a kiss on Shouta’s cold cheek. “Sayonara, Shouta.”
Nemuri straightened back up and looked away as she stepped back, giving space for Hizashi to step forward. “Do you want to have a moment alone?” Nemuri offered. Hizashi shook his head and gave her what must be his attempt at giving a reassuring smile. Nemuri nodded and walked away, standing beside Inori against the wall, giving the two friends as much privacy as she could.
“I ain’t got a cigarette on me or I would have offered,” Inori said once she was close enough. Nemuri shook her head as she dismissed the concern. It was normal if nothing moved Inori anymore. Mortuary technicians were among those who had to deal with the most gruesome things in everyday life. If anything, Nemuri appreciated the woman’s presence.
She didn’t want to remember the smell on top of everything else.
Nemuri expected many things, but not for Hizashi to reach out and open Shouta’s eyelids. He had to force them open because eyelids go rigid post-mortem. But he did. And he stared into Shouta’s vacant eyes. He leaned down; the only reason his body didn’t collapse on Shouta’s was his two hands gripping the edge of the metallic table, holding him up like two columns. His shoulders were at the level of his ears as Hizashi stared down at Shouta’s hollow eyes. He stayed like that for a long time, barely even blinking. But then Nemuri heard it.
It was low at first, her ears almost unable to pick up the sound. But then it got louder, the evidence that Nemuri wasn’t hallucinating visible on Hizashi’s Adam’s apple bobbing ever so slightly.
He was humming. He was humming a song.
The rhythm seemed painfully familiar, to the point it made her uneasy. But as Hizashi continued humming, Nemuri remembered.
‘A Thousand Winds.’ Hizashi was humming A Thousand Winds as he gazed into Shouta’s eyes.
His humming was smooth and gentle, as if he was soothing a startled child. Hizashi took Shouta’s hand in his own and started drawing tender little circles on the back of Shouta’s pale hand as he continued humming.
Hizashi hummed, and Nemuri recalled the lyrics. And it squeezed her heart.
‘At night, I become a star and watch over you.
In the morning, I become a bird and awaken you.
I am not there.
I am not sleeping.
Please don’t weep in front of my grave.
I am not there.
I did not die.’
Hizashi finished humming, and without taking his eyes off Shouta’s, he gave his hand a gentle squeeze. “Hey buddy... Sorry for the past two hours… I was just—I really wanted to know why you… Why did you… Why did you—” Hizashi started, tasting his next words as he pressed his lips together. But then something painful crossed his features. His lips twitched with nerves, teeth clenching, and his eyebrows drew into a frown. He took in a sharp breath.
“Don’t.” Nemuri warned, making Hizashi stop what he was about to say. “I know you are mad. I know you are angry. I am too. But now is not the time. I know you want to complain to him. But don’t. Don’t say it, Hizashi. Don’t say something you’ll regret later.” Nemuri reminded him, her voice gentle but stern, leaving no room for argument.
Hizashi closed his eyes for a second, and when he opened them, there was no sign of anger anymore. He locked eyes with Shouta again, looking at him one-sidedly, and this time, his impossibly green eyes stood half-lidded in a sad fondness as they took in the picture of Shouta.
“You did a great job, buddy. You know that, right? Your mission was a huge success. Don’t worry about anything else anymore. Leave the rest to your loudmouth friendly DJ, Present Mic, alright? I promise you, Shou,” Hizashi’s smile grew dangerous as a revenge-seeking glint glowed in his eyes. “I promise I will end the organization. I’ll hunt down every single one of them and make them pay. I’ll find who did this to you. And I’ll kill them.”
“‘Zashi…”
Hizashi grimaced at his own words. “Don’t worry about anything anymore,” he compensated, the anger fading, the sad fondness returning. And then, he leaned down and rested his forehead against Shouta’s. Shouta’s eyes remained open, but Hizashi closed his, whispered beautiful lies into Shouta’s ear. “Rest easy, Eraserhead. The city is safe. The streets are clean. There are no villains on the loose. There is no violence in the world. Assault is a foreign concept. No one takes the life of their own kind. No one hurts stray cats anymore, and they are all fed.
“And your students? They are all safe, Aizawa-sensei. You don’t need to worry about them. They’ve all grown into fine heroes. You did a great job training them. They will all graduate safely. They will be fine heroes, and they will retire one day. They will die of old age. Not on a battlefield. Nemuri and I will keep an eye on them.
“You lived a great life, Shou’. The city is safer because of you. The world is a better place because of you. Don’t worry anymore. We will be fine. Everything is fine. It’s alright. It’s alright.” A tear ran down Hizashi’s nose and slid down Shouta’s cheek. Hizashi raised his head from Shouta’s forehead just enough to slide his hand between their faces to close Shouta’s eyes. He then moved his head and placed a long, gentle kiss on Shouta’s forehead. “I love you, Shouta,” Hizashi murmured with his lips still resting on Shouta’s forehead.
When he lifted his head, he didn’t glance back at Shouta. He turned away and walked off. No hesitation. No energy left. No tears remaining. He exchanged a knowing look with Nemuri before continuing toward the exit. Nemuri nodded, prepared to follow him shortly after.
She lingered long enough to see Inori putting the cover back on Shouta and zipping it closed.
The last thing she saw was the glimmer of Hizashi’s tear trailing down Shouta’s face.
Notes:
No because we obviously didn’t have enough angst already.
Chapter 23: One Second
Summary:
Izaier and Hitoshi's first mission.
Notes:
TW: Violence, Blood, Injury, Vomiting, Panic Attacks.
Takes place a few weeks after Shinsou joins the organization.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Hitoshi stared into space. He was facing the door so he could tell when someone was about to enter. But he wasn’t focusing on anything specific. He wanted to crawl under the bed to hide. But Home didn’t like it when he did that. It made her angry.
Hitoshi didn’t want to make her angry. She was scarier that way.
He felt the constant pressure in his ears easing. There was a ringing still present, but it was beginning to fade. The room was coming back into focus. The dark spots were fading.
He hadn’t been there minutes ago. He had been somewhere dark. Somewhere he couldn’t hear, couldn’t see, couldn’t breathe.
It had happened before. It had happened so many times now that he lost count. Ever since he set foot in the organization, it happened again and again and again. He would go there without warning. It was strange. One moment he was breathing, the next he was suffocating. And everything worsened once it started. It became harder and harder to breathe until he went completely under.
He resurfaces, exhausted, his head throbbing, his skin tingling.
He wondered if his quirk felt like that when he pulls someone under control. If it does, then they have every right to be scared, because it would really be villainous to force someone to go there; where you can’t breathe anymore, see anymore, hear anymore.
Hitoshi tried to return completely. He felt hazy, groggy. He felt cold, hot, damp. He moved his hand to touch his face but stopped as pain exploded in his chest. He tried to move again, slower this time—careful not to irritate the part of his chest that Home had kicked yesterday.
He traced the tips of his fingers over his forehead. They came away wet. He squinted at his fingers. It wasn’t blood; it was just sweat. This happened every time he went under. He sweated as if he had been thrown into a pool and then pulled out.
His couldn’t keep his head straight up anymore. He rested it on his knees, legs curled against his chest. It made the thing over his mouth dig uncomfortably into his chin. He tried to reposition his face patiently. Ha had given up on fighting the metal mask a few days ago. It only made his jaw sorer. He just had to keep his mouth shut. Let the thing trap his jaw. It would hurt more if he tried to move it.
He let his gaze linger on nowhere in particular.
He felt empty. He felt worn out. He felt like he had been running non-stop.
He hadn’t. He just sat there, thinking, getting more scared as he thought more and more, and then he went under.
He was wondering why it’s taking them so long to come for him.
Didn’t they notice he was gone? Why aren’t they coming? Is his father angry at him for not coming back home? Is his mother worried? Is his sister missing him? Do they know why he didn’t come home? Do they know he accepted the offer to do bad things? Did they know what he had done? Is that why they weren’t coming?
Do they… Do they not want him anymore?
Tears ran down his cheeks. Crying was all he did these past… past… past many days.
How many days has it been since he came here?
He wants to go home. He wants his mom. He wants his dad. Please. Please.
Mom.
He wants his mom.
Please find me. Mom, dad. Please find me. Please bring me back home. Please. I’m sorry I left. I’m sorry I listened to the nice man. He wasn’t nice. I was wrong. He is bad. He is a bad person. I’m sorry I left without telling you. I’m so sorry. Please don’t leave me here. Please find me. Please tell the heroes I’m missing. I want to come home. I will go to school again. I promise I won’t complain anymore. I promise, dad, I promise I won’t complain about my classmates bothering me. I will never talk about my teachers ignoring me. I won’t ever use my quirk anymore. I would be a better big brother for my sister. Please, dad. Please find me. Please bring me back hom-.
Home opened the door without warning, and Hitoshi jolted. He buried his face in his knees and covered his head with his hands, trying to look smaller, trying to become invisible.
“On your feet!” Home spat, and Hitoshi moved as fast as he could, but it wasn’t enough. Before he could fully stand, he was yanked towards the door by his hair and then thrown aside. “Ugh, disgusting! You’re fucking wet!” She growled as she wiped her palm over her shirt. She grabbed his wrist instead and pulled him, her nails digging deep into his skin.
He stumbled on his feet, trying to match her speed. “That’s why I hate kids! What was Boss even thinking?! All they do is cry, cry, cry!” She was talking to no one, yanking him forward.
They were in another room seconds later. There was that other guy there, the one with the strange-colored hair—brown, or maybe green. The tall man in the long coat. The one who had thrown him out the first time they met.
He was sitting on the sofa, one knee crossed over the other, loading his gun with bullets. Home pushed him forward, and before he could stop it, he was dropped on the ground near the man’s feet.
“Here. Brought you the brat,” Home said, already walking away toward the desk on the other side of the room. The table was in the back, behind the sofa. The man couldn’t see her as his back was to Home.
“What do I do with him?” he asked, not even glancing at the boy at his feet.
“Take him for your damn mission. Duh?”
“What for?”
“What for?” Home made a face as she mimicked the man’s way of speaking.
“I don’t need extra weight on my ass. He’ll just get in my way and I’ll shoot him in the first thirty seconds. Then the old geezer will wear my ears off for the rest of my life.” The man lifted the foot that was on his knee, and for a moment, Hitoshi thought he was going to place it on his hand. But the black boot landed two centimeters away from his hand.
Hitoshi couldn’t move even if the man wanted to stomp on him. He was frozen in place. He felt small. Like an insect. Weak. His earlier tears were drying on his face, while new ones rolled down his cheek, soaking into the mask covering his mouth. The one they put on him after he used his quirk on Home.
“For the thousandth fucking time: he is not old, dumbfuck! His hair is just grey! Natural. Grey. Get that through your thick, useless skull! And while you’re at it, learn to show some respect, too! He is your Boss, and that’s how you’ll address him!”
“You’re annoying me, Saori.” The man mumbled as he pushed another bullet inside his pistol.
“Home!” Home reminded, shouting so loud, Hitoshi flinched, coiling even further into himself beside the man’s feet.
“I don’t have one,” the green-haired man countered in a bored tone.
“Fuck you, Izaier. Call me by my villain name! Are you that dumb?” Home hissed. She made an irritated sound in the back of her throat when Izaier didn’t even bother to respond. “Just take the brat and go.”
“I said I’ll shoot him.” Izaier remarked coldly, and Hitoshi stared at the man’s boot through tears, a shiver climbing up his spine.
“Good. Damage Boss’s property and I’ll fry you on the oven,” Home snarled as she lit a cigarette, leaning against the edge of the desk.
“You lied about your quirk,” the man—Izaier—said after a long pause, tilting his head back over the sofa's backrest to glance at Home. While doing so, all Hitoshi could see of his head was his chin and throat until he brought his head back down again. Home smirked and exhaled a large cloud of smoke from her mouth.
“It’s your own fault for throwing the brat out without asking first. But why? Did it hurt your little feelings?” Home tilted her head, cooing.
“Let me see,” Izaier searched his pockets theatrically, “Oh right, I don’t have any.” He pushed himself to his feet and passed Hitoshi as if he wasn’t even there. “Later.”
“Izaier, you dick! I said take the brat!”
“I do my missions alone,” Izaier declared, halfway to the doorway.
“How are you planning to take on a whole gang alone? Oi! I’m talking to you, asshole!” Home raised her voice when Izaier didn’t stop.
“I’ll kill them all.” Izaier waved his gun, as if to show her how he planned on doing that.
“No, you won’t.” Home pushed herself off the desk, and Hitoshi leaned away as she stormed towards him. He covered his head and curled in on himself. She lifted him up by the hood of his clothing, as if he was a plastic bag. Home shoved him towards Izaier, and Hitoshi braced for impact, expecting to hit the man’s back. but Izaier just stepped aside without even glancing back, and Hitoshi hit the ground. He brought his hands up just in time to soften the fall.
“Kill fifteen people, and you’ll have one hundred and fifteen on our backs. Are you that messed up in the head, or do you just want us screwed? Because you don’t even understand basic damn elementary math!” Home took a long drag of her cigarette, continuing after with a more controlled tone. “People will come back to claim the bodies you put in bags, Izaier. Heroes, police, other gangs, yakuza—relatives, friends, family—whatever. Dead men have living people seeking justice for their blood. That’s how it works. Try to understand the simplest facts in the universe. Dead people multiply and come back to bite us in the ass!”
“They can all come and see if I care.”
“No. No. You will follow Boss’s orders. You won’t kill fifteen people; you’ll take the brat and make him brainwash their leader instead. That’s what Boss demanded, and you will follow. Take the brat. Do the job. Be back by 2.” Home instructed, each sentence more stern than the last.
Hitoshi stood completely silent as he waited for Izaier to decide whether he wanted him or not. He never had a mission with Izaier. He didn’t know what he should do or what Izaier would do. He didn’t want to know.
“Boss promised me interesting targets to shoot at. He promised me fun. This is not it. Tell that old man to stop being a joykill if he wants me,” Izaier said as he gave in.
“Like hell I will,” Home muttered, throwing Izaier a key that Hitoshi recognized as the one to the thing caging his head. “Be careful when you take the muzzle off. I disciplined him, but he is still trash at everything, including following orders. He still doesn’t realize where he is, so be my guest and teach him some basics.”
Then, after ignoring him for the blissful past few minutes, Home looked down and acknowledged his existence for the first time after they entered that room, nudging his thigh with the tip of her shoe. “You hear that, brat? You will do everything Izaier tells you. Or else you’ll be back in the chair. Do you want that?”
Hitoshi’s blood ran cold, and his breath ceased completely. He didn’t need a reminder; he would listen. He would do anything they wanted from him. He shook his head urgently, even though his neck felt locked in place.
Hitoshi shakily raised his head, only to find Izaier already looking down at him. His face was relaxed, nothing like the ever-present scowl on Home’s face. But anger wasn’t the only thing missing from the man’s expression.
There was nothing else.
Hitoshi trembled as he searched for any sign of emotion but came up empty-handed.
Izaier flexed his pointer finger twice, a gesture Hitoshi recognized as a signal for him to get up. Hitoshi rose to his feet without needing to be told twice. “I’ll be back whenever I feel like it,” Izaier said before moving out the door. Hitoshi followed, and they were somewhere else, like the other times when he passed through a door and ended up in a different place.
They were in a back alley, and it didn’t seem like there was anyone around at that time of night. Izaier turned to him, lowered Hitoshi’s head with two fingers, and inserted the key into the lock of the mask. Izaier was twice as tall as Hitoshi, or maybe even more. The cage opened with a click, and Izaier took it off, tossing it somewhere casually, shoving his hands in his pockets, and walking away, expecting Hitoshi to follow.
Hitoshi glanced at the metallic mask, now discarded on a garbage bag near the foot of the wall. He clamped his hand around his jaw and carefully opened his mouth. He flexed his jaw up and down and slid it left and right a few times to ease the soreness. He never thought that thing would be so painful.
He followed Izaier in a strange state. Everything was fuzzy and hollow. There were so many sounds in his head. It was as if he was walking in sleep, in the middle of a nightmare.
Hitoshi looked at their surroundings to see if he recognized where they were. Maybe they were near his school. Maybe they were near home. Or at least near the place where dad was working. But the alley was too dark and cluttered with garbage at every corner. And something was rotting—
“I’m gonna t-throw up—” he announced without even thinking about it. He caught himself on the nearest wall and heaved. The contents of his stomach rushed toward his mouth and nose, and his stomach coiled painfully. The little things he had in his stomach splashed over the asphalt ground. He coughed but he wasn’t finished. He was hit with another wave of nausea and threw up for a second time. His throat stung with the acid, and his mouth tasted like the grossest thing.
He coughed and gasped for air. He tried to spit out the awful taste, but it didn’t do any good. He cleaned what he could with his sleeve; the bits sticking to his clothes made him sick all over again. His eyes stung with tears as he stared down at the mess he had made on the ground. It reminded him of the time he was sick and skipped school. But now, there was no mom to rub comfort circles on his back and tell him it’s okay, and there was no dad to carry him back to his bed and tuck him under a blanket, telling him he would get better soon.
Mom and dad weren’t there. Home was. She had beaten him the last time he threw up and told him repeatedly not to do it when he was muzzled, unless he wanted to die. He guessed he was lucky to have managed to swallow the nausea until the mask was gone. Or maybe his body understood that it couldn’t throw up until the cage was removed.
Suddenly aware that he wasn’t alone, Hitoshi tensed up. He slowly looked up at the man standing a few steps away, leaning against the same wall he was clawing at to support his weight, both hands in his long coat’s pockets. He expected to see disgust and fury, but Izaier looked like he couldn’t care less.
“There will be a gang where we’re going,” the man started in the same slow, lazy tone he used to talk to Home. “They are making some drug for mutant-type quirks. Our clients want their hands on that drug’s formula. There will be about fifteen people where we’re going. I will sneak you inside and get you to their leader’s office. When we get there, you will brainwash him and make him give us the ingredients. We take it and get out. Simple and boring. Have anything to say?”
“N-No.” They wanted him to brainwash. That seemed to be the only thing they wanted from him. He had never used brainwash so much in his entire life as in the past few weeks. “I’m—I’m s-sor-ry,” Hitoshi stuttered, apologizing for the mess he made, his hand clutching his now empty stomach, but Izaier was already walking away.
Hitoshi followed him closely behind. He tried his best to be quiet, but he was unbalanced, and his head felt like it was filled with air. They played a lot of hide and seek. Izaier knocked out two men with ease. So casually, it seemed like he had been doing it his entire life.
Hitoshi didn’t know how, but they were in a room, and Izaier was attacking a man sitting behind a desk. The man had a quirk that turned his body into some kind of whitish stone. Izaier landed a kick so hard that shattered pieces of rock fell all over the place. He jumped on the man’s back and slammed his rocky head onto the desk. Once. Twice. Thrice—
The man let go of his quirk before Izaier could break his head and reverted to his normal form. Izaier put his pistol on the man’s temple and asked him a few questions. The man cursed and said things that were obviously not what Izaier wanted to hear.
Izaier whistled, grabbing Hitoshi’s attention, bringing him out of the hazy state he was in—partially. Izaier tilted his head, and Hitoshi knew it meant ‘do your thing.’ Hitoshi asked the man if he was the boss. The man cursed furiously, but that was enough for Hitoshi to take control.
Dad said swearing was a bad thing to do.
He repeated the exact words Izaier had told him to say. The leader walked to some sort of drawer and opened it, giving them a notebook. Izaier told him some other things to ask, and Hitoshi repeated them. He asked for drugs. And then for money. The man didn’t move after he heard the third order. Hitoshi explained something about his quirk to Izaier. Izaier said something back, but he didn’t know what; he was going under. He was losing it again. The room was spinning, and the darkness was closing in on him. The man was bleeding where his head had been slammed against the desk. Hitoshi’s head hurt. His quirk was slipping; the strings were getting loose. The man was thrashing under his control.
That was when everything suddenly broke into chaos. People rushed into the room, and the control in Hitoshi’s head snapped. They started shooting. They started using their quirks. Izaier was shooting at them and fighting back. He was enough against all of them. That was when Hitoshi made the biggest mistake he possibly could.
He slipped. His quirk slipped.
He hadn’t had a quirk slip since he was five. Unlike what everyone always seemed to think, Hitoshi had good control over his quirk.
And now he had a quirk slip at the age of eight.
It lasted only a second. Izaier’s eyes went white, and his body slackened, and that was enough for one of the men to shoot him in the back. The control snapped the moment he got shot.
He is dead. It’s over.
Izaier grabbed him by the back of his clothes, lifting him off the ground. The fabric was tight under his armpits and around his throat as he was swung back and forth with every move Izaier made. He clung to something over his chest, distantly knowing that it was important, and bent his knees, curling into a small ball. Hitoshi closed his eyes tightly. All around them was the sound of firing guns and shouting men.
The next thing he felt was an especially hard tug under his armpits and a quick turn. Izaier broke the window and jumped out. Hitoshi swore time stopped when they jumped out, shattered glass falling alongside them. His stomach dropped at the sensation of weightlessness.
Everything stopped for a moment while they were falling—until they hit the ground, or maybe a rooftop, and fire started to rain down on them. He hugged his knees to his chest as Izaier carried him by the back of his clothes. He could see bullet holes on the ground chasing them closely, bullets hitting where Izaier’s boot landed as the man ran.
Izaier jumped from one rooftop to another and then to a fire escape until they got away. The sound of gunfire still rang in Hitoshi’s head. He heard Izaier shouting something on his phone. Hitoshi kept himself curled up like a human ball, unable to move a muscle, unable to open his eyes. He was paralyzed. Dad once showed him how kittens don’t move when they are lifted by their necks. He wondered if it was the same for humans.
Izaier didn’t let him go even as he moved to an abandoned house.
And they were no longer in the alley. They were back.
“What the fuck happened?” Hitoshi heard a woman scream.
“Shut up, Home,” Izaier said, his voice clipped as he panted.
“Shit, did you get hit—”
“I said shut up.” Izaier growled, not raising his voice beyond a grunt. It made Home snort.
“Oh, the mighty Izaier taken down by his own weapon. How poetic,” Home mocked.
Izaier walked away, unable to make Home stop talking. Home followed like a particularly persistent tick.
“Just admit you messed up,” she said from behind them, a happy edge to her voice. That was when Izaier stopped, and Hitoshi was lifted even higher into the air. He forced his eyes open to see what was happening. He was raised so high that his eyes were almost at the same level as Izaier’s. Izaier reached and grabbed something from Hitoshi’s hands. Instinctively, Hitoshi clung tighter, resisting, unable to let go. But he looked down to see what it was.
Oh. he wasn’t hugging his knees all this time. He was clinging to a… suitcase. He had been holding it close to his chest like it was something as important as his heart. Izaier ripped it away from his grip and slammed the case against Home’s chest before moving to get away. “Did I?” Izaier asked as he turned.
Home made an exasperated huffing sound. “Where are you going? Hela’s room is that way! Oi! I’m talking to you! Jerk! Hey!” Home’s shouts were ignored as Izaier rounded the corner and left her behind. Now that his hands were free from the suitcase, Hitoshi could grip the collar of his clothes and push it down so that he could breathe. His entire weight was suspended from his armpits and neck while Izaier carried him around.
They entered a room, and Hitoshi recognized it. His heart stopped.
That room. The one… The one where Home… The Chair. That room.
Izaier had brought him to the chair room.
No…
No. No. No.
No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no!!!
He couldn’t. He couldn’t!
He froze for a split second before he thrashed and tried to get out of Izaier’s grip. He expected Izaier to resist some more, but the man hissed and let him go the moment he started to struggle. He hit the ground on his butt and used all four of his limbs to slide backward, trying to get as far away as he could.
He hit the corner of the room and pushed himself back with his legs, as if pushing hard enough would open the wall and let him escape even further.
The metallic chair stood in the middle of the room, bolted to the floor, silver and tall. Taller than Mount Fuji. Big. Bigger than Hitoshi. Hard. Scary. Painful. Painful. Painful—
He slipped. He had slipped. He got Izaier shot. Izaier was going to kill him. He was going to put him in the chair—no, not the chair, not again, no, no, no, NO!
“Fucking shit,” Izaier cursed under his breath. Hitoshi was torn between hiding his face in his knees and closing his eyes forever while making himself into the smallest ball possible, or lifting his head to sneak a peek at what Izaier was doing.
Apparently, his nerves decided to scream as if they were on fire when he couldn’t see the life-threatening man, so he cracked his eyes open and peeked from behind his forearms.
Izaier wasn’t even looking at him. He was searching inside Home’s closet where she kept her tools.
He was deciding what he wanted to use on Hitoshi.
He focused all his remaining attention on what would come out of that closet. Izaier’s hand came out with a pair of pliers.
No.
He threw the pliers on the table, and they hit it with a loud bang. Hitoshi’s entire body jolted at the sound.
No, no.
Izaier took another item out of the closet. It was a big knife.
No, no, no.
He threw the knife next to the pliers on the metallic table.
No, no, no, no.
He took out another item. A lighter?
Oh, no, no. Please. No.
Please, please, please, no, no, no.
This can’t be happening.
He had been on the chair just a few weeks ago.
Not again. No. This can’t be. He can’t take it. No, no, no, no. Please, no. No, no, no, no. Please, no!
Finally, Izaier moved away from the closet. He was doing everything with one hand while the other remained stuck to his body, unmoving and still. Wasn’t that the same hand he used to carry Hitoshi? Izaier took off his long coat awkwardly, as if he was trying not to lift his left hand. Once the coat was off, he looked down at it, examining the new hole. “Damn, my coat is ruined,” he said to nobody, as if he were complaining about his meal getting cold.
He was wearing a black T-shirt beneath his coat. The moment he removed it, Hitoshi gasped. Izaier’s left hand was smeared with blood. Red lines streamed down from his upper arm to his forearm and fingers. Droplets dripped onto the ground. He tossed his coat aside and moved to take off his shirt. He grunted in pain as he struggled to pull the black fabric off without moving his shoulder, finally dropping it to the ground once it came free.
Hitoshi’s stomach coiled as he took in the sight.
There, on Izaier's shoulder, was a hole, and blood was oozing out of it. The wound seemed almost black from how much blood had gathered around it. Izaier took a bottle off the table and poured its contents onto the wound. “Fuck!!” he cursed through gritted teeth as if the liquid had burned him.
Once done with the bottle, Izaier took the pliers with his right hand and reached toward his left shoulder with them. “Fucking bad angle,” he said, and his eyes moved to Hitoshi. He froze.
No.
“Come here.” Izaier addressed him as if he had just remembered Hitoshi was there. Hitoshi shook his head. Izaier fixed his gaze on him, his eyes intense. “You did this, you fix it,” he said as if it was that simple. Hitoshi shook his head some more. His tongue felt like dead meat in his mouth. He was far past begging. Izaier held the pliers out, the handles pointing at him, urging him to take them. “Today is more preferable.”
“N-No, plea—please.” His voice cracked at least three times saying just those two words.
“Now.” Izaier said in the same normal-level voice, but it made Hitoshi shiver. He thought there was no way he could walk toward the man on his own two feet, but something about how fiercely Izaier’s eyes were boring into his very soul made him move.
It was strange. He knew he would die if he moved. But he also knew he would die if he didn’t, too.
It was like being near a poisonous snake once the creature locks eyes with you. The moment it zeroes in on you, with those vertical slit pupils, you know you would die if you don’t move away, and you also know you would die the moment you do. That’s how Hitoshi felt under those eyes, filled with intense predation.
He shakily stumbled on his feet and felt paralyzed. He moved toward Izaier. As he got closer, his eyes fell on the man’s bare torso.
That was when it all changed.
He gasped at the sight, his hand flying up to cover his mouth—whether to stop himself from screaming, hold back the nausea, or muffle the gasp, he didn’t know.
Scars. Scars. Lots of scars.
Hitoshi had never seen so many scars.
Izaier’s entire torso was covered in… tally marks. There were at least a hundred tally marks on him: on his chest, on his back, on his stomach, on his shoulder blades. Everywhere. He was covered in them. It was as if a prisoner wanted to count the days of his captivity, but instead of a wall, he used Izaier’s body to make the marks, using a knife.
Hitoshi forgot about himself. He forgot his fear. He forgot where he was or what he was doing. He burst into tears. He felt his chest tighten with pain. “What happ-ened?” he asked between loud sobs, trying to cover his eyes but failing.
“These?” Izaier traced his bloodied fingers over the scars on his stomach. He was covered in sweat, the exposed skin of his face and torso shining. “My mentor,” Izaier said, solemn and uninterested.
“Wh-why?!” Hitoshi choked. He was sobbing uncontrollably now, gasping behind his fisted hands. Snot and tears ran down his face. He had never seen anything like that in his life. He had never seen someone covered in so many old scars. Why would his mentor do that?
“He put a mark on me every time I failed to kill him. He wanted to keep the count,” Izaier said, his voice so passive he might as well have been talking about the weather.
“But… wha-hay? How co-could… somone do-ho this?” Hitoshi heaved as he struggled to talk.
For the first time, the man displayed an emotion. Izaier snorted. Hitoshi had never heard the man snort before. He had never seen him show any emotion. “Are you crying for me?” he asked, raising an eyebrow, his voice amused. Hitoshi tried to wipe his eyes, but new tears filled them right away. He was too shaken by the sight.
“Interesting…,” the man murmured, eyeing him like he was seeing him for the first time.
Hitoshi held his breath, pressing his hand over his mouth, pushing his sobs down, trying to control his cries. His outburst turned into uncontrollable hiccups, shaking his entire being.
Izaier handed him the pliers, and suddenly, he was yanked back to reality again.
Remembering his own situation, Hitoshi stared at the pliers with wild eyes.
“Take the bullet out.” The amusement was gone, and Izaier’s voice returned to its uncaring tone. He turned his back on Hitoshi and crouched down in front of him, matching his height. Looking closer at the wound, Hitoshi could see all the details: how the skin was torn on the edges and how it was a mess of dried blood and new blood leaking out.
He was going to be sick.
“I-I can’t!” Hitoshi blurted out.
“Don’t touch the wound with your hands. Use the pliers,” Izaier said as if he hadn’t heard what Hitoshi had said. He took the knife and held it over the lighter’s flame.
“I c-can’t... I can’t! You shou—You should go to… H-Hela. She-She can h-heal you.” Hitoshi tried to push the words out between hiccups.
“I don’t want that ancient bitch to put a mark on me. Take the bullet out yourself. This is your mess. Fix it yourself.”
Hitoshi couldn’t do it. No, he couldn’t! He couldn’t he couldn’t hecouldn’thecould’t!
“I don’t know h-how! Please! Please!” Hitoshi cried out.
“Push the pliers inside the hole and keep pushing until you feel the bullet. Then open the pliers’ jaws and grab it and pull it out. It’s that simple,” Izaier explained, his focus on the blade he was heating over the flame. He stopped once Hitoshi didn’t move. “Do it.”
The tone made Hitoshi’s breath hitch. He looked at the wound in front of him. The man’s back was getting covered in red the longer time passed. He was losing blood. He was going to die.
Hitoshi brought the pliers toward the wound, but his hand was shaking so much he couldn’t even push the tips inside the hole. “M-My hands are sh-shaking so m-much I-I can’t.”
“Are you scared?” Izaier asked. Hitoshi couldn’t see the man’s face.
“Y-Yeah.” Hitoshi nodded frantically; the pliers heavy in his hand.
“Why?”
“I-I—You-You’re gonna… You’re gonna K-kill me! My—I—Slipped! … I s-slipped! You got shot! You’re gonna kill me. You’re gonna put me on the ch-chair! You’re gonna—It’s gonna—Please! Please! It’s gonna hurt. It’s gonna burn! I ca-can’t! Can’t take the chair. Not again—Please! Can’t—Plea—”
Suddenly, Izaier turned and took him by the collar of his shirt, so fast Hitoshi yelped in surprise. He brought Hitoshi’s face close to his own, their eyes inches apart. Hitoshi could see every detailed color variation in the man’s fierce eyes, from brown to green, blending together.
“Listen to me and listen carefully, because I only say this once,” Izaier began. Hitoshi swallowed hard. All cries ceased completely in favor of focus. “I have two modes, and two only. Mode one is that I don’t give a fuck. Mode two is that I kill before you know it. There are only these two possibilities: either I don’t give a damn about you, or I put a bullet in your skull. If I don’t care, that means I won’t do anything because it would be fucking boring. In the case of option two, there’s still nothing to be afraid of. Bang!” Izaier made a loud sound, and Hitoshi flinched but didn’t look away from Izaier’s eyes. “One shot. Straight to the skull. When I kill, it only takes one second. One shot to the head. One second, and everything is over. One second, and you will feel nothing after—no pain, no nothing, ever again. Is that really so bad? Is that so scary?” Izaier asked, his eyes wilder than usual, tilting his head in a questioning manner.
Hitoshi felt the exact moment his brain shut down. One second his brain was roaring in a tornado of thoughts, and the next, it was quiet, like there was nothing ever there.
‘Is that really so bad?’
Only one second.
It would last only one second.
He numbly shook his head.
Izaier let go and turned back once more. He took the blade and started heating it with the lighter again.
Hitoshi brought the pliers up and held the tip against the wound. His hands were still shaking, but not as badly.
It only lasts one second.
Maybe that wouldn’t be so bad.
Hitohsi pushed the pliers inside the wound and felt like throwing up at the sickening sound it made. Izaier groaned through gritted teeth, but didn’t move away. Hitoshi pushed the pliers deeper. And deeper. And deeper. He could hear Izaier groaning in pain. He could see his shoulder shaking from how hard he was holding himself still. But Hitoshi didn’t stop. He pushed deeper. He wasn’t himself anymore. His brain had been turned off. He was just a body. Someone else entirely. Someone else pushed the pliers so deep down until something hard hit the tip of it.
Hitoshi opened the pliers. He used to help dad fix appliances whenever they stopped working. They had opened and reassembled their air conditioner one summer. Dad had shown him how to use pliers.
He just never thought he would shove them inside a bullet wound one day.
Hitoshi opened the jaws, and Izaier moved his hands, and for a second, Hitoshi thought he would move away. But he just bit down on his forearm and muffled his pained groan. Hitoshi moved the pliers inside the wound, and more blood oozed out. The man’s body shook, but he had far more control than someone with a plier moving freely inside his open wound. He had the endurance of a man far too familiar with pain.
“Take it… out!” Izaier snarled, still biting down on his forearm.
"I’m trying…” Hitoshi said, taken aback by how raspy and unfamiliar his voice sounded. Like it didn’t belong to him.
The jaws finally felt secured around something sturdy inside the wound, and he pulled it out. That was the wrong thing to do. The moment he took the bullet out, blood splattered on his face, making Hitoshi close his eyes for a moment. The bleeding sped up. That was when Izaier put the blade, now glowing red from the heat, on the wound and screamed—or rather roared—with pain.
Hitoshi was sure he should have looked away. But his eyes were locked on the wound, on how it was burning and smoking. He could hear the sickening sound of skin sizzling, and his nose filled with the smell of burning meat.
He gagged, but his stomach was already empty.
“The fuck?” Hitoshi turned toward the door and saw Home standing there, giving one of the most prominent sneers he had ever seen in his life. “Tell me you’re joking.”
Izaier took the blade off his wound with one last pained sound and panted as he opened his jaw to release his forearm. There were perfect teeth marks left on Izaier’s skin where he had been biting. He sat there, panting, his breath gradually slowing down. “I’m… joking,” Izaier said, but it was nothing above a whisper.
“No, no, you didn’t bleed all over my floor,” Home said, her expression a mix of denial and disgust.
“You… spill blood… on this floor… as a hobby; you’re not… valid, Home,” Izaier said breathlessly. He pushed himself up, obviously tired and disoriented.
Home clicked her tongue and walked inside. “I told you to go to Hela.” She eyed all the blood on the floor. “Why did you come here of all places, you walking hazard?”
Izaier straightened up and flexed his shoulder, as if trying to see if he could move it. “You keep your tools… sterile. Your torture room is better equipped… than a bloody pharmacy.”
“Don’t want Boss’s assets dying of infection,” Home mumbled almost to herself, then tilted her chin up, motioning for Hitoshi to ‘get up.’ Hitoshi did exactly that.
“Where is his muzzle?” Home frowned.
“Don’t know,” Izaier said, fatigue evident in every syllable.
Home swore and closed her eyes for a moment, trying to keep her anger at bay. She seemed to notice Izaier’s state, holding back her irritation for once and dropping the topic after giving Hitoshi a ‘I’ll-kill-you-if-you-try-anything-funny’ glare. Hitoshi dropped his eyes, finding the white floor tiles now painted with blood suddenly very amusing.
“Say, Izaier,” Home said, her eyes still fixed on Hitoshi, but there was a skeptical edge to it that made Hitoshi’s blood run cold. “Did the brat get you shot?”
Turned out, the white floor tiles were no longer amusing, as Hitoshi slowly raised his head and looked at the man who could bring down unspeakable agony upon him with just a simple word of ‘Yes.’
Izaier slipped on his black T-shirt. “The man who had me shot is dead. With a very precise… bullet in his skull.”
“I don’t doubt it,” Home said, unfazed by the news. “But how did he pull it off? What, your quirk didn’t work or something?”
“This is getting boring.” Izaier complained, ignoring Home’s eye roll as he took his coat off the chair. “Teleport me to my place,” Izaier demanded. He seemed nonchalant, but his face was pale, his movements stiff.
“You mean your shit hole.”
“Teleport me to my shit hole,” Izaier deadpanned.
“I’m not your personal teleporter, Izaier. Get a fucking cab,” Home spat, but Izaier was already leaving. He flicked her off and disappeared after passing through the door. Home probably did teleport him, after all.
“Get this mess cleaned up and then go back to your room. I don’t want to see your face for the rest of the night,” Home sneered as she also left the room.
Hitoshi did what he was told and cleaned the floor. It was easy to spot the stains in the chair room because of how the floor and walls were made of white glossy tiles. He ignored the chair, ignored the closet, ignored the table. He didn’t let his mind wander to the memory of being tied up.
He went to his room when he was finished and sat there. Eyes empty. Head empty. Stomach empty.
He didn’t remember how long his head was devoid of any thoughts, but he remembered the first thought that popped into his head.
Huh. He wasn’t dead.
Notes:
I think it's about time we talk about a few things...
Okay! I really hope the information I include in the chapters makes at least a bit of sense without the whole picture in mind.
For example, in this chapter, there might be a few things: like why Home hates Izaier so much, even being happy when she thought he failed the mission. Why Izaier threw Hitoshi out. What happened after he was thrown out. What that part about Home “lying about her quirk” meant. What Izaier’s mentor did and why. How Boss recruited Izaier. How Boss generally recruits people. What Izaier meant by "ancient bitch" and “putting a mark on him” when referring to Hela (the organization’s healer).
I promise if something doesn’t make sense at the moment, it will later.
I know there are a lot of question marks right now, like the time Aizawa mentioned he made up his mind about the commission after “talking with Hawks,” and what he saw that made Aizawa realize the commission is not trustworthy, or the scar on Hitoshi’s palm from Shiko, or the Chair in general, or the circular marks, or how the organization is keeping all these wanted people ‘safe’, who the Boss is, what his quirk is, why Izaier called him old whistle (at least now we know why he calls him old, even though he’s not actually old), what Hitoshi means by he joined the organization “out of his own free will,” what those cigarette burns were, who that Nanausea woman was, who and where Sir is, who killed Shiko, who gave Izaier his scar, who gave Home her scar, how there is an identical dead body of Aizawa in the mortuary while he is very much alive, and how there is no mention of sexual assault despite these many villains taking showers together and being literally trapped in a room all day in pairs, what the name rule is and why they have it, why Hitoshi trains so damn hard, and why he wants Izaier to train him, etc., etc.
There are also these things that are really, really hidden; I don’t even expect anyone to pick them up, like the part where Nemuri mentions that they didn’t find Oboro’s body—at least not ‘all of it.’ This, along with ‘they only found Touya’s jawbone,’ has an explanation coming up later on (which seriously needs clarification, even in canon).
But we ARE piecing things together, like Home’s quirk explained a lot of things. This chapter clarified when Izaier started being interested in Hitoshi and why Hitoshi doesn’t fear Izaier as much, a bit of what happened when Hitoshi joined the organization, what his life was like before that. Things like why Eraserhead’s death isn’t announced, or how he went undercover in the first place (America), why Hizashi is broadcasting recorded episodes, etc., etc.
Anyway, this chapter was really necessary for understanding Izaier and Hitoshi. Rough, maybe, but necessary.
It was also the 100k word milestone! I hope that you enjoyed this so far and I hope you enjoy the rest of it as well! :)))
Chapter 24: The Olive Snake
Summary:
Aizawa and Shinsou prepare for a mission led by Izaier.
Notes:
TW: Death, Violence, Implied/reference sexual assault.
(Nope, I didn't make any notes this morning, and you didn't see anything. *very quietly deletes the note*)
Ok, so when I say 'implied', I really mean it's just implied. It's not even proven. But in case you want to skip this chapter, I will be writing a brief summery of all the parts important for the rest of the story in the notes of the next chapter.
Oh, and it has nothing to do with Hitoshi.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
They didn’t have to wait long for the next mission. Four days.
Training continued as normally as it could during those four days, with the muzzle clamping his jaw shut. Quirk-less training wasn’t a new concept for Hitoshi. He could still rely on his knives, putting what Shiko had thought him into practice.
He couldn’t say the same for Aizawa, though.
For what must be the first time, Hitoshi counted himself lucky for having a voice-based quirk instead of one related to the eyes. Hitoshi spent the first day of the four holding back winces as Aizawa was shoved around rather viciously during one-on-one sparring. The rest of the 10-ranks saw Aizawa’s vulnerability as an opportunity to score a win. They knew they didn’t stand a chance otherwise, given Aizawa’s quirk.
Hitoshi stopped watching after the first few minutes, deciding to focus on his own match. It wasn’t like he was immune to punches and weapons just because he could still ‘see.’
He wondered if Aizawa would need a visit to Hela’s room by the time training was over. But then the impossible happened. Home… intervened. She said something about ‘needing him unmarked,’ looking simultaneously displeased as if that was the opposite of her own desire.
Judging by Aizawa’s frown, the man was as confused as the rest of them.
That was when things took a 180-degree turn on the second day. Rumors about Izaier’s return had spread quickly—and they all knew that consequently meant there was a big mission coming up. What was different though, was that they seemed to believe Aizawa was involved, too, given the odd comment Home had made the previous day. And if Aizawa was involved, Hitoshi could be, too.
That somehow worked in their favor. Even with quirk restraints on, they managed to get away without a serious injury. Even Axer and Eye Palm seemed to get the hint and laid down for the meantime. There was a bit of bickering here and there, all of which Aizawa managed to resolve, even speaking for Hitoshi on some occasions.
To Hitoshi’s surprise, and secretly, a bit of delight, they seemed to start to follow this unspoken agreement, where Aizawa would be Hitoshi’s voice, and in return, Hitoshi would be the man’s eyes, tugging his sleeve and lead him around or tapping yes or no if needed.
*******
Aizawa had been deep in thought ever since Hachiro left. They ate their food in silence. Hachiro had informed them that they had to go on a mission afterward. Hitoshi had no intention of facing whatever task awaited them on an empty stomach. He devoured the contents of his bowl as fast as humanly possible. Aizawa, on the other hand, seemed to have a different opinion.
Aizawa offered his food in case Hitoshi was still hungry. And honestly, he needed to stop doing that. Hitoshi was used to two meals a day and couldn’t stomach any more instant ramen than he already had.
Actually, scratch that—he couldn’t stomach any more instant ramen and oatmeal than he already had, which was every damn day of the week, thank you very much.
The cook, whoever they were, sometimes made onigiri, or they had some bread for the first meal of the two. On rare occasions, they received a good meal—katsudon, fukomaki, even sushi once. But that only meant a huge mission afterward, and nothing good came from those. Aside from that, it was always the same damn instant ramen and oatmeal.
He remembered clearly that after the fourth week of eating nothing but instant ramen, his stomach, very politely, refused the meal. He would start gagging on an empty stomach from the mere smell of the food or the sight of it. It was almost comedic how he had survived a Chair session with Home but was about to die from not being able to eat.
He actually passed out after being unable to eat for a few days, and they had to send Hela to heal whatever was wrong with him. Hela was the one who told him the revolutionary secret: “Cast aside thy thoughts of yonder comestibles, and free thy mind from the recollections of meals long past. Let not the echoes of previous feasts linger in thy heart, but instead, behold the present with a spirit unburdened.”
Which made no sense at that moment—like, who even talks like that these days?—and no, he didn’t have a dictionary with him. But his mind seemed to function better when its survival was on the line, and Hela was kind enough to repeat herself times and times again. So he got it… eventually.
He was still thinking about his mother’s cooking.
He thought about her food all the time: the warmth, the taste, how she used to delicately pack his lunch for school, how she called him every night for dinner, how the four of them used to sit at the table and eat together as a family, how his father talked about his work, how Hitoshi talked about school, how his mother listened to them all while spoon-feeding his little sister, as if their boring daily events were the most interesting thing in the universe. How they—
He was still thinking about the past, so his body was refusing the present.
He started eating again when he learned how to stop thinking about the possibilities. When he learned how to stop dreaming. When he stopped seeing eating as something enjoyable, but rather a series of sequential movements of jawbone and throat: press the teeth together, let go, shift the jaw, move the tongue, press the teeth together again, repeat seven to ten times, push the contents inside the mouth to the back of the throat, swallow, put another spoon in, start over. (And do it fast, just in case.)
Sure, he started being able to push down ramen and oatmeal again. Didn’t mean he liked it. Didn’t mean he could eat more than he already did. So, no matter how many times Aizawa told him to have some more, Hitoshi still refused, even after Aizawa mentioned he was paying his debt. Oh, for his sanity’s sake.
He only shared because that was what Shiko did for him. He did it because he didn’t want to be like his other trainers. Not that he cared about Aizawa. Not that he had any intention of making his first few months any less miserable than his own. Not that he cared.
It wasn’t anything special. It wasn’t ‘kind,’ as Aizawa referred to it. It was nothing.
Hitoshi mindlessly drank the remaining broth and lowered the bowl, only to be greeted by Aizawa’s deep-in-thought expression again.
It wasn’t that Aizawa was a talkative person or anything; it was just odd to see him like that. Hitoshi had no idea what was going on with him. He was never given permission to pry into his trainers’ moods or what was going on in their heads. God forbid he ever dared to ask Sir if he had something on his mind. Such a disrespectful gesture that would be.
Hitoshi was used to being ignored more than anything, treated with silence as if he didn’t exist. No, he wasn’t. In his lowest moments, he would even admit that he preferred being hit to being ignored. His trainers could be in whatever mood they liked, and it was never Hitoshi’s business.
Yet, Aizawa wasn’t his trainer. Hitoshi actually had a sense of what was going on with the man. He had been like that ever since Hachiro came and informed them that they had a mission with Izaier that night.
They were both ready for Hachiro when he brought the meals, locking the quirk restraints beforehand. That was the privilege of living in an organization that operated on a schedule. They could predict it, more or less. Even though there was no window or clock, Hitoshi could still estimate what time of day it was. Aizawa was getting better at telling, too.
Needless to say, Hachiro only unlocked the muzzle for the meal and left the blindfold on. Home’s order, after all. Hitoshi picked the blindfold’s luck. He did it faster this time. Aizawa kept the thing hanging loosely around his neck, prepared for the next time Hachiro barged into their room.
Aizawa didn’t look nervous. Heck, the man didn’t look nervous even in the Chair room in front of a pissed-off Home. No, he just looked lost in thought, as if something was bothering him or he had a few concerns. It made sense, actually. People were wary of Izaier. And if it was Izaier, it meant the mission was an important one. He was the only second-rank who participated in the mission himself and led directly.
But, quite frankly, if it was up to Hitoshi, he would take the missions Izaier led over the others.
“You’re worried.” Hitoshi broke the silence. He looked carefully to catch Aizawa’s reaction, given that he had pointed out a personal matter so directly. It was actually a question, but it could easily be interpreted as a suggestion or even an accusation, depending on how Aizawa would interpret it. His previous trainers had never appreciated Hitoshi pointing out their weaknesses or flaws, and they certainly didn’t like him prying into their business. If Aizawa were like Sir, deeming what Hitoshi said a disrespectful nosy accusation, he would have already begun unbuckling his belt.
Aizawa wasn’t. Not for now.
Aizawa looked up from his bowl and blinked at him. His eyes were still a bit red from the last mission, and all the time with the metallic blindfold pressing against his eyes didn’t seem to be doing him any good. Hitoshi secretly prayed he wouldn’t have any problem using his quirk for the upcoming mission.
“Can you tell me more about this, Izaier?” Aizawa asked instead, a bit of pause before he said the name, which could be counted as an indirect approval of Hitoshi’s question.
Izaier… Yeah, that man.
Home sometimes called Izaier a ‘human olive,’ or a ‘walking olive’ if she wasn’t feeling particularly pissed at him. But Hitoshi wouldn’t say the same.
Olive? Maybe. But human?
He wouldn’t think so.
Izaier wasn’t human. He was a snake—calm, sharp, fast.
Murderous.
“There’s not much to be worried about,” Hitoshi found himself saying. “It’s a good thing he is leading the mission. Missions under Izaier’s direction almost never fail. He is a rank 2 for a reason. And unlike the ones other higher ranks lead, it’s not up to Home to decide what should be done to failures. Something about how anything related to his missions is none of Home’s business.”
Aizawa raised an eyebrow. “And how does he deal with them?”
“Uhm,” Hitoshi looked at Aizawa. The last time he hid details from Aizawa, it didn’t end… well. Maybe it was better to tell him the truth rather than worry about how knowing it might stress him and make him slip.
“He kills them.”
The raised eyebrow gradually turned into a frown. “He kills them?” Aizawa echoed.
“No! I mean, yeah. When you put it that way.” It wasn’t this absurd until he started to explain it out loud, what the hell? “It’s—Izaier… He doesn’t… His methods are different from Home’s. He doesn’t… t-torture people like her. He either doesn’t care and lets them go, or he... pulls the trigger. It’s—It’s a good thing…”
“…How is that a good thing?” Aizawa asked, abandoning his meal completely. Great, now the man looked like he was seriously reconsidering everything he thought about Hitoshi’s mental health prior to that new piece of information. God, why did he have to open his mouth?
“It’s not—I didn’t—it’s—” Hitoshi huffed. He couldn’t really explain it. He didn’t know what part of Izaier ‘killing his subordinates’ was a good thing for them, either.
But the thing was, Hitoshi wasn’t afraid of Izaier—not as much as he was afraid of Home, anyway.
He had been terrified of Izaier out of his mind when he first joined the organization. Izaier was tall, emotionless, and very skilled at slaughter. Not to mention, the first thing the man did upon seeing him was literally throwing him out. Very roughly, that is. He grabbed Hitoshi and dragged him to the front door, tossing him out like a bag of garbage and telling him to get lost before he killed him.
“You’ve mistaken this place for a kindergarten. If I see you here one more time, I won’t waste a second before shooting you,” Izaier hissed with rage as he shot.
He made it clear that Hitoshi wasn’t welcome, a sharp 180 from what Boss had said, and he emphasized it when he shot at Hitoshi—or shot at the ground between his legs while Hitoshi was on the ground, looking up with paralyzing dread at the man who had grabbed him, dragged him, thrown him out, and shot at him.
And so, he ran.
He sometimes wished Izaier had done that before he stepped foot in this place.
Before it was too late.
But it was too late. Home brought him back with her quirk—something even Izaier didn’t know she could do. And Hitoshi panicked. And he did the unforgivable. He used his quirk on Home. He was such an idiot. That was how he was introduced to Home’s methods for the first time.
Then came his first mission with Izaier. Which he failed. Awfully. He messed up with a quirk slip. And he hadn’t seemed to fear Izaier ever since—not as much as he had before that particular mission.
‘One second. Is it really all that bad? Is that so scary?’
Hitoshi shivered as he mentally shook his head to push the memory away. He couldn’t explain it well—the way he wasn’t as afraid of Izaier as he logically should be.
And he didn’t know why he was volunteering to talk about him. Maybe he just wanted Aizawa not to worry, too?
Or maybe he brought up Izaier for a completely different reason—something he meant to discuss for a long time.
“Not all the members of the organization are on the run for the same reason as—.” Hitoshi left the 'you' unsaid. It wasn’t wise to keep bringing that up. Not after Aizawa had clarified that it wasn’t intentional. “Not all of them are wanted for murder. There are other crimes. Other reasons,” Hitoshi continued. Aizawa was probably expecting an answer to his previous question, not this sudden change of topic. It took the man a second to adjust.
“Like what?” Aizawa asked, going back to taking another bite of his food, as if the new topic didn’t interest him as much as the last one.
“Like…” Hitoshi began, but the rest of his sentence caught in his throat so unexpectedly that he was surprised he didn’t choke. “…Like why the shower time is as narrow as… ten minutes.” Hitoshi pushed the rest of the words out by force, squeezing them through the narrow pathway that was his throat, and he refused to look anywhere but straight into Aizawa’s eyes, ready to catch even the slightest reaction—a twitch, a muscle spasm, a blink, anything.
It took Aizawa just a second to understand the sudden information thrown at him. But Hitoshi saw the exact moment something clicked in those black eyes.
And with that, Hitoshi became very aware that maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t a good idea to talk about it. Very aware that their door was as impassable as ever, and that they were trapped together just like any other time.
And by the way his pulse started to pick up, by the rush of blood flowing to his head, by how he knew his muscles were being fed by a new rush of adrenaline, he realized he was stepping into dangerous territory.
“Can’t say I’m surprised,” Aizawa stated, sounding exactly as he said. Hitoshi searched Aizawa’s face, the sound of his pulse loud in his ears, and he wanted to pull his hair out when he found nothing but that stoic, blank expression. Damnit.
Aizawa brought up his bowl and sipped the ramen broth. When he lowered the bowl, he said, “It’s not a surprise to find the most disgusting people of all hiding here.” And there it was. Anger. A glint of red in the dark of his eyes. “I also doubt that a mere shortened shower time would be a sufficient countermeasure against lust.”
Hitoshi held himself. He tensed every single muscle in his body until it hurt. But he wouldn’t flinch. He wouldn’t let it show. He wouldn’t cower away. And he wouldn’t be fooled.
He knew what Aizawa was saying. He could hear it clearly. He fully understood the meaning of those words. Aizawa was making his opinion clear, letting Hitoshi see the anger and disgust. But Hitoshi wouldn’t be fooled.
Shiko taught him what to look for, what he needed to know to protect himself. It was too soon for a boy his age to be exposed to the harsh realities of the world—realities meant for mature minds to comprehend. But he had no other choice. Shiko had no other choice.
And he was lucky. He was so goddamn lucky. He wanted to keep it that way, and he knew how to do it. He had to talk. He had to say it. He had to lay it out. The insurance.
“It wasn’t.” Hitoshi said, refusing to acknowledge the sudden urge to end the conversation. To end it immediately.
But at the same time, there was something else. Some other voice, coming out of nowhere, telling him despite the dangerous topic, he wasn’t in immediate danger.
“Ranked 10 to 7 members don’t get to have their own rooms. Two people are constantly living together all the time, day and night, in a room with… practically no exit unless Home allows it. One of them is the trainer; the other is the trainee. That means in every room, one of the two is stronger than the other.” Hitoshi made a point of maintaining eye contact, holding his chin up and praying that Aizawa wouldn’t see right through him.
“I’m aware,” Aizawa said, acknowledging it like… it was nothing. Like Hitoshi hadn’t just implied that one of them was weaker than the other and that Hitoshi wasn’t the one.
“Right…” Hitoshi said, internally kicking himself for the slight uncertainty in his voice. Aizawa had a tendency to throw him off guard at the worst possible times. It wasn’t his fault! He recovered quickly and continued, “Even so, we didn’t have an…” And suddenly, dying seemed like a particularly tempting escape route. “…i-incident. B-Because of Izaier.” Of course he stutters at the very last part. Joy.
The back of his neck wasn’t the only part of his skin that itched; his entire skin buzzed uncomfortably. But he willed his hands to remain still. To his surprise, they listened for once, instead of inching toward the back of his neck whenever he felt uncomfortable. Hitoshi wasn’t one to give himself credit, not after messing up that last part with a stutter, but it was good to see he had it under control, his breathing included.
Was he getting better at keeping calm? Like, really? After years of displaying all sorts of vulnerability like a fool—crying, stuttering, outright panicking—which only ever made things worse for him at the worst possible times. Or was it that, for the first time, he was the trainer? Or was it Aizawa?
That last thought surprised even him as the question popped up in his mind. Because that wasn’t it, was it? It couldn’t be. It couldn’t be because it was Aizawa.
“So it’s a rule,” Aizawa said, his demeanor relaxed despite his stoic face, as if even if it was a rule, it didn’t concern him. Like there was nothing in this discussion that he needed to worry about, and neither did Hitoshi.
“It wasn’t at first,” Hitoshi said. There was a split second when something passed over Aizawa’s face, his eyes flicking from Hitoshi’s right eye to his left. Hitoshi didn’t know what to make of it.
But it seemed like worry—an intense, suppressed kind of worry; directed at Hitoshi, merging to the surface without permission and disappearing just as quickly.
“It should have been,” Aizawa stated, his eyebrows drawn in a displeased frown.
And with that, Hitoshi wanted to laugh. The odd sort of laugh his memory failed to provide him with the last time he experienced it—the kind of laugh that was close to a cry. Because, yes. Yes. It should have been.
But Hitoshi wasn’t about to make room for something as foolish as relief just because the two of them appeared to agree. No, not yet.
“It wasn’t a rule until people died,” Hitoshi said with a straight face, keeping it all inside as ghosts of his memories bounced in front of his eyes.
“I’m listening.”
*******
His trainer landed a kick in his tummy, and Hitoshi stumbled back, landing on his butt when he hit the ground. Hitoshi quickly rolled out of the way to avoid another kick from his trainer. Even though he knew it wasn’t a good idea, he kept rolling. But before he could get away, he felt a foot land on his back, pressing him into the ground and pinning him in place. “I told you not to run away from the fight. Block or dodge instead of running away. Get up!”
Hitoshi felt the pressure of the foot lift from his back, and he pushed himself off the ground and stood up. Things had gotten bad between him and his trainer after Hitoshi repeatedly failed his missions on purpose. He was stupid. Stupid Hitoshi. He made everything worse. He made his trainer angry because he couldn’t keep all of his own anger in. His trainer was much better than Home, but Hitoshi just had to make things worse. Because he couldn’t handle a few slaps. He did this to himself.
Hitoshi knew his trainer wouldn’t be satisfied until he performs the block he had shown him properly. His trainer sent another kick his way, and Hitoshi tried to block, but his trainer stopped mid-air when they heard yelling near the training room’s entry.
Hitoshi looked over to see what was going on and saw something he had never seen before. Izaier was pulling Shield Hand by his hair, and Shield Hand was bleeding from what seemed to be a bullet wound in his leg.
Hitoshi didn’t like it.
He took a few steps back and hid behind his trainer’s back, reaching for his trainer’s sleeve to grip to something. He was scared. His trainer ripped his sleeve from his grip with a harsh move, pushing him away with an annoyed huff.
“What the fuck’s going on?” Home shouted at Izaier. Hitoshi shrank in on himself at Home’s angry shout.
He didn’t like it. He was scared. He didn’t know what was going on. He didn’t like the pained sounds Shield Hand was making while being pulled to the center of the room by Izaier. He didn’t like to think that Izaier had shot someone, despite telling Hitoshi himself that he only shot people in the head—making it fast and painless.
He reached for his trainer’s hand again, desperately needing to take it. He looked up at his trainer with pleading eyes. Maybe he would let him take his hand just this once?
But when his fingers touched his trainer’s hand, it retreated quickly, the back of the hand facing him, ready to strike. Hitoshi took a few steps back, giving up on taking his trainer’s hand completely. It was like his trainer was silently asking him, with a raised hand, if he wanted to be slapped. Hitoshi shook his head repeatedly. He didn’t. He didn’t.
“Gather everyone here, Home. Every. Single. Member.” Izaier said in a low, demanding voice. Something about his tone sent a shiver down Hitoshi’s spine.
Shield Hand was whimpering in pain, trying to pull his hair out of Izaier’s iron grip. “Please, Izaier! I didn’t do anything! I swear! This is a misunderstanding! L-Let go, please! I don't understand!” he pleaded in desperation, blood running down his leg and staining the ground, leaving a trail of red in his wake.
“Like shit I’m gonna get them all here! What the fuck do you think you’re doing, psycho? Who gave you permission to—” Home cut herself off when Izaier looked her in the eyes. Hitoshi didn’t know what she saw in his eyes that made her stop. Home never cut herself off like that.
“Whatever. But you’ll explain all of this mess to Boss yourself. I won’t stick my neck out for you. You’ll take full responsibility.” Home sent two of the members to collect the others, and Hitoshi knew she might have used her quirk to transport some others back, too.
The training room was starting to get more and more crowded by the second. It made Hitoshi’s stomach clench uneasily, until he saw a shade of orange moving in the middle of the crowd. Rope! The girl with orange hair!
Hitoshi had seen her during training, and they had talked a few times. She was different from the others. She was full of energy, and she laughed all the time. She didn’t push Hitoshi around like others did. She wasn’t scared to talk to him, too! And Hitoshi wanted to be around someone he knew right now. He sensed something was wrong; he just couldn’t tell what.
Hitoshi took a few steps toward Rope, but he was stopped as his trainer grabbed his upper arm. "Don't make any trouble!" his trainer hissed in a lowered voice. Hitoshi pouted but didn’t protest.
Rope didn't notice him.
Izaier dropped Shield Hand to the ground, and he fell on his belly. "Is this everyone?" Izaier asked Home.
"This is as many audiences as you'll get for your shit show," Home spat. Hitoshi could barely hear them over the chatter that filled the room. Everyone looked confused and wanted to know what was going on.
“You must think this is some sort of jungle,” Izaier started coldly, and the room fell silent instantly. So silent that Hitoshi could hear Shield Hand’s faint panting as he tried to crawl away. Izaier looked down at him, then lowered himself, and Hitoshi could no longer see him with everyone blocking his view. But he wanted to see!
Hitoshi crouched down on the ground, trying to find a better view. People's feet were blocking him, but he finally found an angle where he could see. Shield Hand was laid on his stomach, and oh—Izaier was sitting on his back, effectively preventing Shield Hand from crawling away.
Shield Hand was whimpering from pain, and there was a pool of blood forming under his thigh. Izaier held his hands together, and if it weren’t for the gun between his palms, it would look like a prayer gesture. His elbows rested on his knees as he sat on top of Shield Hand, holding the gun in front of his face, the tip of the weapon touching his forehead while his eyes were closed.
“A jungle that has no law. You must think you get to do whatever you please here. Or perhaps a zoo. Whatever made you think it’s a good idea to start acting like animals. How very uninteresting,” he said with his eyes closed, ignoring how Shield Hand struggled to move away.
“Izaier… Izaier, please! I didn’t do anything… I swear. It wasn’t what you think it is… Ask her! Ask her! Plea—” Izaier’s hand moved leisurely, no rush in his movements, and he placed his gun on top of Shield Hand’s head, pressing down hard enough for Shield Hand’s chin to be forced against the concrete, silencing him.
“Do I look like I care about what you have to say?" Izaier asked calmly.
“P-Please... Please! You can't possibly be mad at me! Stop… I-I didn't do anything. This isn’t fair... I'm not even the only one! What about Chizuru? Everyone knows he ra—”
Bang!
Hitoshi jolted at the loud sound of the gunshot.
“Good to know,” Izaier said indifferently.
"You…” Home was the first to recover from the sudden shock. “Moron! What the fuck have you done?! What the fuck! What the fuck!" Home shouted, shoving her hands into her black hair as if she were going to rip them out, looking down at the unmoving body of Shield Hand.
A few people stepped back, and some looked like they had stopped breathing altogether. The atmosphere grew tense, fear heavy in the air.
Chizuru? Wasn't that his trainer?
Hitoshi looked up at his trainer and was shocked to find the man awfully pale, his eyes wide open, his mouth opening and closing. Hitoshi wondered if he realized no sound was coming out of his mouth. Did he forget how to talk?
Izaier stood up and walked toward the crowd. People got out of his way like sheep fleeing from a wolf. He walked toward Chizuru—Hitoshi's trainer—his hands in the pockets of his coat, a vague smile on his face. There were droplets of blood splattered on the right side of his face.
Something brushed against the back of Hitoshi’s hand, and he flinched. He looked down to find the tip of a rope tickling his hand. He traced the rope to its origin and found Rope smiling at him. “Hey, Shinsou!” The orange-hair girl mouthed the words, waving to get his attention, her eyes as bright as always. Hitoshi took the opportunity and moved between people’s legs, his small size making him almost unnoticeable as he approached Rope.
“Hey buddy!” Rope greeted him with a bright smile, patting his head.
‘Rope, what’s going on?’ Hitoshi wanted to ask her, but the mask was keeping his mouth shut. His trainer didn’t remove it as often as he used to, after Hitoshi had gotten him into trouble with Home by failing.
“Wait, wait, wait! Izaier, sir! He lied! He was lying! I swear! I didn’t touch anyone!" Hitoshi heard his trainer’s scared voice and looked back.
Izaier put his left hand around Chizuru’s shoulders and leaned against him like friends usually do. “Calm your tits, Chizuru. I don’t really care,” Izaier said. He raised his gun and—
“Hey, wanna see a trick?” Rope asked, pulling Hitoshi’s attention back to herself. She transformed her fingers into ropes and started tying them together in a knot. Hitoshi watched her as he overheard his trainer talking about how Shield Hand had a grudge against him, and how he was lying to Izaier.
Rope made sure the knot was dead tight, and Hitoshi wondered if she could ever open it again.
Bang!
Hitoshi’s head jolted back, catching a glimpse of a lifeless body falling to the ground beside Izaier’s boots. But before he could see much more, Rope called him again, making him turn toward her. “Do you think you can untie it?” Rope asked quietly, offering the knot to Hitoshi to try.
“Anyone else feeling horny?” Hitoshi heard Izaier ask, but Rope kept him busy with the knot. “This is an organization. A facility. A workplace. But it seems that you’ve mistaken it for a brothel.” The knot wouldn’t open, and Hitoshi wanted to check on his trainer. But just when he tried to turn around, Rope made him look at her again. She moved her hand, and with a light tug, the dead knot came open like it was nothing! Hitoshi’s eyes widened in awe, and Rope grinned at his reaction.
“I don’t give a damn about what shits you do outside these walls. But you won’t get to do as you please here. From now on, I’m setting a rule. And you either follow,” Izaier glanced around the room, his eyes scanning the crowd, making people swallow, “or you die.” He finished.
“Wanna see how I did it?” Rope asked with excitement, still keeping her voice low, and Hitoshi nodded eagerly.
He remembered how Rope showed him her trick to open the dead knot. He remembered her taking his hand and leading him out of the training room afterward, as they walked along the crowd to exit. He remembered going back to his room after a while. He remembered waiting for his trainer to come back.
He never did.
Days later, he was told to gather his stuff and evacuate the room. He was informed that someone else was going to take him as their trainee. They pushed him into a new room, and Hitoshi was surprised to see Rope waiting for him with a wild smile.
That was how he met Shiko.
*******
Hitoshi might have been too young to understand what had happened that day—being only nine years old—and the memory itself was quite hazy, but he understood now. And he understood how important it was.
He knew for a fact that his trainer died innocent—or at least, as innocent as he could have been—that day. He wasn’t guilty of what Shield Hand had accused him of. People still talked about him sometimes, about how unlucky he was to be Shield Hand’s enemy, about how Izaier was so dead serious on the matter that he killed someone over a mere suggestion.
It made things very crystal clear for everyone.
Hitoshi had been through many things. But he wasn’t an idiot. He knew how much worse this whole situation could have been if it weren’t for Izaier. He knew what other things could have happened to him if it weren’t for that rule.
Hitoshi gave Aizawa a brief version of what had happened that day—about how Izaier had killed three members: two that day, one two years later, all for the same reason. Aizawa’s face was unreadable as he listened.
“I see.” It wasn’t until he heard Aizawa’s voice that Hitoshi detected something akin to relief in the man’s features. Aizawa didn’t say anything more than that—not that they had much time to talk anyway. Hachiro came to collect them for their mission, telling them to get ready.
Hitoshi took his clothes and disappeared behind the curtain to change. He felt a bit light-headed after the awkward conversation, and the memory flashbacks didn’t help either. But he tried to regain his concentration. He had more important things to focus on.
They had a mission with Izaier.
Hitoshi didn’t know what it was.
He just hoped it would end well.
Notes:
Izaier's introduction didn't seem this dark to me before I wrote it down...
Anyway!
I'm so exited for the next mission! And I think you can even guess what is about to happen. Look at it this way: the organization is customer-based, where people give them money and they do literally anything. And now, the underground world is aware that a new addition has been made to the market; a person who can nullify quirks.
Whose attention do you think that would attract?
Chapter 25: Plague
Summary:
In which their mission gets worse in Aizawa's eyes the more he learns about it.
Notes:
TW: There is a brief gun violence, but it’s not graphic. [Seriously, I feel like I can start a new TW keyword with “Izaier” and “Home.” Like, this chapter is Izaier-level violent. (Ugh, I feel like I’m staining the sacred word “home” here. T-T. I’m sorry.)]
You might have also noticed that I changed the cover summary. I hope it was the right call, haha... let's play it wild; I have nothing to lose XD
Click if you skipped the last chapter for the summary!
So, long story short, The Olive Snake refers to Izaier, as he is described by Hitoshi as not a human but a murderous snake.
Hachiro brings Aizawa and Hitoshi their last meal before their mission with Izaier. Over the meal, Shinsou starts a conversation (now that’s progress), both to be the responsible trainer that he is (not) and to ensure Aizawa that Izaier was actually good news for them (which he is not). He also tells Aizawa about the one rule Izaier had set, because knowing that rule was both his and Aizawa’s safety insurance.
Oh! And also, the last chapter is the first time we see a dialogue from Hela, who is the organization’s healer. I’m going to insert that part (because I’m lazy and am not going to summarize the entire thing).
(Hitoshi is talking about how he can’t eat more instant ramen and oatmeal after Aizawa offers him more.)
“He actually passed out after being unable to eat for a few days, and they had to send Hela to heal whatever was wrong with him. Hela was the one who told him the revolutionary secret: “Cast aside thy thoughts of yonder comestibles, and free thy mind from the recollections of meals long past. Let not the echoes of previous feasts linger in thy heart, but instead, behold the present with a spirit unburdened.”
Which made no sense at that moment—like, who even talks like that these days? —and no, he didn’t have a dictionary with him. But his mind seemed to function better when its survival was on the line, and Hela was kind enough to repeat herself times and times again. So he got it… eventually.
He was still thinking about his mother’s cooking.
He was still thinking about the past, so his body was refusing the present.
After this, Hitoshi tells Aizawa that Izaier had killed three of their members because they were accused of sexually assaulting another member. He set a rule that they can’t do that within the Safe House’s walls.
Also, about Shiko’s quirk: she can transform her fingers into long ropes. That’s why people call her Rope.
End of the summary.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Was it possible to be grateful to a mass murderer?
Two years ago, Aizawa would have said no. A firm, unnegotiable no.
Today, Aizawa would still say no, but not as firmly, not as certainly. What he was certain about, however, was that he had definitely lost a few weeks of his already shortened lifespan by the end of the talk he had with Shinsou. He hadn’t signed up for this level of psychological pressure.
Hachiro opened the door, interrupting their talk, and just like that, it was time for them to go.
Their next mission, led by Izaier.
Aizawa had a bad feeling about this entire new mission ever since Home made that comment. ‘We need him unmarked.’ That was four days ago. During these last few days, Aizawa had enough time to gather his thoughts about the alternatives and possibilities of what kind of mission would require the organization to want him explicitly ‘unmarked.’
Needless to say, none of them pointed to something even remotely good—if he could define "good" in the situation he was in, that is. He didn’t like what the word ‘unmarked’ could be pointing at. His quirk he could understand, his ability to fight he could understand. Even unharmed, he could understand. But unmarked.
It made him question what sort of service the organization was willing to provide if the price was appealing enough.
Aizawa, being an underground hero for many years, was well aware that drugs and quirk equipment weren’t the only active markets with high demands in the underworld. Many years of experience had made Aizawa realize that wealth and power weren’t the only ambitions people would seek through illegal means. There were other desires, other currents that pulled at the heart and mind.
He knew what kind of territory he was stepping into once he agreed to the Commission’s proposal.
But, he had a problem.
Alone, Aizawa was confident he could handle the situation, no matter the nature of his next mission. But with Shinsou, his hands were tied. He couldn’t push his luck as much as he could while operating alone. He couldn’t risk as much, and might not be able to refuse if necessary.
The explanation Shinsou had given during their meal, as immense as the relief was, didn’t provide much insight into their upcoming mission. If anything, it crossed off a few possibilities and left Aizawa with almost no idea of what they were going to face that night.
One thing he knew, however, was that he wasn’t going to let harm come to Shinsou or the innocent people they might encounter that night.
*******
Hachiro walked them to where Izaier was awaiting them. Aizawa and Shinsou had yet to receive an explanation about the nature of their mission. All Aizawa knew was that it involved him, Shinsou, and the second-ranked boss.
As they approached the same door they used for past missions, Aizawa could hear the faint sounds of a slide of a pistol being racked back and forth and magazines being loaded, from the end of the corridor. Given the choice weapon of the person who had put a hole in the wall behind Home’s head a few days ago, Aizawa already had a good idea of who was making those sounds.
Izaier.
“Good night, boss,” Hachiro greeted cheerfully as he took off Shinsou’s quirk restrain. Aizawa could tell by the familiar sound of lock and key, followed by a quiet click. “Delivery’s here, as requested. Poker face A and B at your service,” Hachiro mused, playfully slapping their shoulders successively. He was in a good mood tonight, which made him a few degrees too annoying. Good thing Aizawa had all the patience in the world; it was a prerequisite for being a high school teacher, after all.
“Both,” Izaier demanded, his tone indifferent.
“Yes, boss. But Home ordered me to keep him blindfolded.”
Scratch that; Aizawa’s patience was reserved for his students, not this nonsense. “Yes, until the next mission, which is now,” Aizawa said, suppressing the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose.
Aizawa felt the exact moment a new pair of eyes fell on him, but the sound of sliding fresh magazines into place didn’t stop. The man must excuse Aizawa for not being able to return the gaze, though he would really appreciate knowing why in the hell was that.
“That was the previous order. The new one is to keep this on for the mission,” Hachiro said, flicking the metallic blindfold, to which Aizawa didn’t react at whatsoever. “You’re not updated, my dude.”
What?
“Wha—” That was Shinsou, who quickly morphed his surprised question into an obvious statement, “But he can’t fight like this.”
What kind of mission requires him to be quirk-less?
“Donno; it’s not like I have a sa—hey! Don’t talk to me, brat!” Hachiro said, but there was no malice behind his words. He must really be in a better mood than yesterday.
“You’re the one who answered,” Shinsou murmured quietly.
“Do you know what a blind person is, Pendulum?” Izaier asked, his speaking pace slower than average.
Pendulum?
“Uhm… S-Someone who can’t see, boss?” Hachiro answered, unsure, probably even glancing at Aizawa for a better answer, like a student cheating.
Aizawa had an urge to sigh.
“In my way, is what they are,” Izaier said, still preparing his handguns by the sound of it. “And do you know what I do when someone gets in my way?” The atmosphere grew a touch tense with the unspoken threat.
“Copy that, boss,” Hachiro relented. He rounded Aizawa and pushed the key into the lock on the back of his head, simultaneously whining something only Aizawa could hear. “Hachiro do this, Hachiro do that. Make up your minds and give me a break already.”
The blindfold was a bad development from the very start. He knew many pieces of evidence could slip through his fingers while he was unable to see, but beyond that, an important part of his job was to identify faces and describe them to Hizashi and the Commission if he saw fit. They needed that information if they wanted to look out for specific individuals.
If not for the blindfold, this wouldn’t be the first time Aizawa could attach a face to the name Izaier.
Once the blindfold was gone, Aizawa took the time to pretend he was adjusting to the light. To everyone else’s knowledge, darkness was the only thing Aizawa had seen for the past four days.
If Izaier was calling Hachiro “Pendulum,” that probably meant he had paid enough attention to catch on to the man’s swinging personality. That kind of perceptiveness was something to be wary of, Aizawa noted quickly. So if that meant pretending that the light hurt, Aizawa wouldn’t mind.
Once he opened his eyes, he was greeted with exactly what he had expected to see: Shinsou standing a few steps ahead to his right, Hachiro holding the restraints and retreating, and Izaier standing closest to the door.
Aizawa didn’t need to read Izaier’s file to know that he was dangerous. All he needed was his instincts to notice the man radiating the calmness of a predator preparing to hunt.
Izaier tested the hammer of his gun and tucked it inside the long leather coat that reached his knees; the color of the leather matched his green hair. He took another pistol from the table and started setting it. Even from the side view, one thing that stood out the most was the deep scar starting from under his left cheek, cutting through his lips and ending on the right side of his chin. A scar from a blade, if Aizawa had to guess.
Gunmen usually don’t let their opponents get too close. They fight from a distance, shooting their targets. A scar on the face could mean that at one point, Izaier had run out of bullets, faced overwhelming defeat by someone with a quirk that made him bulletproof, or was fast enough to dodge bullets.
Shinsou walked toward the same table beside the wall in the corridor and started taking and placing his knives under his clothes. But then he glanced at Aizawa with evident concern.
So Shinsou had realized it too. What was obviously missing from the equipment table.
Aizawa’s choice weapon. His tanto.
Like an escalating fire getting worse by the second, this mission was starting to sound worse every time he discovered something new about it.
They weren’t giving him any weapon. He was supposed to stay quirk-less. They needed him ‘unmarked.’
Aizawa didn’t like it.
He was starting to question whether it was a mission at all. The next question that popped into Aizawa’s mind was one he hoped wouldn’t become a possibility for a long while at least—not so soon after infiltration.
Had they found out something about his true identity?
Because this was starting to sound like an execution of some sort if he was being denied even his weapon. But Aizawa chose not to pass judgment without sufficient evidence. He refused to let himself become unsettled.
Aizawa schooled his face as he returned Shinsou’s gaze. Shinsou pressed his lips together and looked away as he tucked the last of his knives beside his ankle.
“Boss,” Shinsou addressed Izaier once he finished taking the last of his magazines. “What’s the plan?” Shinsou…
Asked.
Just like that, Aizawa became immediately alert, ready to act. Izaier turned and gave his attention to Shinsou, his eyes sharp but his movements lazy and bored. There was a moment when nothing happened. Aizawa took a casual step forward, ready to protect the kid if needed.
“The plan is…” Izaier brought his gun out of his pocket and moved it up toward Shinsou’s head, hand stretched in front of him, leveling the gun against Shinsou’s—
No.
Without thinking, Aizawa put his hand on Shinsou’s shoulder, ready to take him out of the way if needed. Shinsou jolted and turned back to look at him with a questioning expression.
—against Shinsou’s… hair. “…to feed an insatiable greed, Fern.” Izaier finished his sentence without so much as glancing at Aizawa. He poked the gun against Shinsou’s violet strands, then let them go as if he wanted to watch how they would spring back up and stand straight.
The move made Shinsou look back at the Izaier, shoulders stiff. Aizawa realized it might not just be because of the gun poking his hair. Aizawa let his hand drop, and tried not to think too much about what Izaier might read into that action.
Aizawa willed himself to calm down. It was a false call on Aizawa’s part. Izaier’s eyes darted from Shinsou’s hair to Aizawa’s eyes without his head moving an inch, lingering there longer than what Aizawa could call a casual glance.
“I can’t fight without a weapon,” Aizawa stated, returning the gaze with his own pointed stare.
“Yes, and that’s called ‘boring,’ Fetus,” Izaier answered in the same don't-give-a-damn voice.
Objection; not being able to fight isn’t boring; sitting in a cell and serving a life sentence is. But of course, Aizawa wasn’t going to point that out.
Izaier turned around, not waiting to see if they would follow.
They did. They passed through the door and arrived at their destination.
*******
Izaier sneaked up behind a man who seemed to be a guard. The guard was carrying a rifle, a CAR-15 model XM177 if Aizawa had to guess, and was wearing a hooded white long coat that covered him from head to knee. But the most eye-catching feature was the plague mask covering his face.
When Izaier got close enough, he snapped his fingers behind the guard’s ear, causing the guard's head to jolt toward the sound, only to be struck in the temple by the grip of Izaier’s gun. Izaier maneuvered the man into the alley behind the residence compound that appeared to belong to a yakuza group.
“Fern,” Izaier called, disposing of the unconscious body beside the wall. “Put on his clothes and mask.”
Without hesitation, Shinsou crouched down beside the guard and started removing the guard’s clothes. Aizawa stood aside, and after checking the rise and fall of the unconscious man’s chest, he watched as the long white coat engulfed Shinsou’s lanky frame. The outfit wouldn’t fit if not for the fact that Shinsou was taller than most teens his age.
“Who’s the target?” Shinsou asked with the professional tone of an assassin. It left an uneasy taste in Aizawa’s mouth, reminding him once more that the kid was practically raised by the organization to carry out any task given to him without argument. Although, Aizawa had an idea that Shinsou was asking about who he had to brainwash, rather than who he was supposed to kill.
“I want you to infiltrate this residence and find some bullets.” Izaier pointed vaguely to the direction of the building behind him with his gun. “They are a yakuza called Shie Hassaikai. The Eight Precepts of Death. Their former boss was taken down by one of his own men called Kai Chisaki. He is known as Overhaul these days. He has been able to restore the previous power of their group by getting his hands on a compound that can erase quirks.”
They. What.
“Boss and this Overhaul made a pre-contract last week over the phone. I will be attending this stupid black communion to discuss our terms.” Izaier continued, twirling his gun around his pointer finger while watching Shinsou dress like one of the yakuza. “I told that whistling geezer not to send me on these boring missions, but he didn’t listen. So it’s only natural for me to ignore him in return. Isn’t that right, Fern?”
Shinsou stopped examining the plague mask and looked up at Izaier with a puzzled expression, a hint of worry behind his violet eyes. Aizawa took note of ‘whistling’ and ‘old,’ the same two terms Izaier had used before to address the head of the organization.
“You infiltrating the yakuza is not part of Boss’s original plan.” It’s Izaier’s. Aizawa informed Shinsou when the boy’s confusion didn’t seem to fade.
Face lighting up with realization, Shinsou looked back down to eye the beak-like mask. He seemed to suppress a shiver at the idea of putting the hideous thing on his face. Aizawa clenched his teeth, knowing that the kid was drawing a parallel between the plague mask and the muzzle.
“If he can’t find me interesting targets, I’ll find my own,” Izaier announced, eyes closed, leaning against the wall.
“Bullets,” Shinsou echoed, stating his question probably out of habit, since Izaier obviously didn’t care about Shinsou’s quirk. A villain was treating Shinsou’s quirk with more dignity than Aizawa. Aizawa dismissed the irony to the back of his mind. Not the time.
“They must be red if the file I read was accurate. When you find them, steal them. All of them. There will be a distraction in a few minutes. Wait for that and then get inside. Come back to the same location after you find the bullets.”
Shinsou nodded and then looked at Aizawa as though he wanted to say something but wasn’t sure. Aizawa gave him a curt nod to reassure him, which Shinsou returned with an almost unnoticeable nod of his own.
Izaier shoved his hands into his pockets and started walking away, leaving Shinsou behind. Not following immediately, Aizawa lingered long enough to look at Shinsou. He was being sent to infiltrate the yakuza on his own—a child against an entire group of armed, organized people.
Dangerous. It was very dangerous.
Aizawa would readily take Shinsou’s place. But he still hadn’t figured out what he was walking into, what his own job was, and he didn’t want to swap Shinsou’s situation with one even more dangerous.
Quirk-erasing bullets.
It was strange to hear the name of his own quirk so plainly stated. It made him think it wasn’t a coincidence. Aizawa stopped referring to his quirk as ‘Erasure’ the day he went undercover. He decided to call it ‘nullifying’ or ‘canceling,’ to separate his villain persona from Eraserhead as much as possible.
“You should be going,” Shinsou said, looking between Izaier’s retreating back and Aizawa.
What could Aizawa do in the short time available? What could he tell Shinsou that would be of use to him? There was an entire course dedicated to infiltration at UA, and it was meant for third years. He couldn’t possibly teach him everything in a few seconds.
“Yakuza members are known to be close and loyal to one another. They might figure out you’re not one of them faster than you expect. Tell them you are a new recruit. Refer to what you want from them as Overhaul’s orders. As long as you hold your head up and act confident, no one will suspect a thing. The faster you finish the job, the less likely your cover will get blown,” Aizawa advice, and then turned around. “Good luck,” he added, not waiting long enough to see Shinsou’s eyebrows raising up in surprise.
I’ll be trusting in your ability to survive, Shinsou.
Izaier didn’t so much as glance when Aizawa reached him. Aizawa walked half a step behind the man, playing the role of the subordinate he was pretending to be. Izaier moved at a leisurely pace, no urgency in his actions; his boots struck the ground, echoing through the narrow alley with each step.
“Boss, is it really wise to send a child to infiltrate the yakuza?” Aizawa asked. He was aware of yakuza codes and how protective they were over their group. They might even kill Shinsou if they found out he wanted to steal from them.
“Do I look wise to you?”
No.
“Of course, sir.”
“Then look closer.”
No fucking thank you.
“Why not send me instead? The coat isn’t even the brat’s size; it might give him away.”
There were a few seconds of silence. “You have another job,” was all Izaier said.
Aizawa kept silent the rest of the way after yet another failed attempt at figuring out what exactly his job was. He walked quietly toward what might as well be his doom.
‘And you call me dramatic!’ Hizashi’s voice played in his mind, and if Aizawa tucked his chin down out of habit to hide his mouth in the capture weapon he wasn’t wearing, no one saw.
*******
Minutes later, they were surrounded by guns and quirks pointing at them in all directions.
“Wow, we’re just tickled pink at this exemplary hospitality, are we not?” Izaier teased, his lips curling into a faint smile.
“Put down your weapon and kneel on the ground! Who are you?!” a guard demanded, his voice muffled behind the beak-shaped mask.
“Don’t know. The last time I looked in the mirror, I only saw myself. Isn’t that weird?” Izaier mused with a tilt of his head. And here Aizawa thought his students were the ones who liked to test the limits of his patience. The guards looked at each other, some of them gaping like a fish thrown out of water.
How did Aizawa end up in this mess again?
Oh yeah, it all started with the Commission running out of undercover agents.
And it ended with his psychopathic excuse for a boss deciding that it was a good idea to shoot at a guard’s finger with perfect accuracy just because the guard had the audacity to point at him when they arrived at the gate. It was all still the HPSC’s fault, Aizawa would claim.
But, Aizawa was aware there was another intention behind that shot, aside from the entertainment of a madman, that is.
A distraction, intended to assist Shinsou’s successful infiltration.
The guard was yelling in pain while holding where his index finger once was.
“Stand down, everyone! They are Overhaul’s guests.” A man stepped out of the gate, obviously a higher-up.
The guns were hesitantly lowered, and the man who spoke politely gestured for Izaier to follow. “I apologize for the inconvenience, sir. Our security was simply following orders. Please follow me. Overhaul is waiting for you in the reception room.”
They were guided inside the compound and descended to the underground level. As they entered a new hall, Aizawa realized that the foundation of the building was much bigger than what was visible outside. This meant they were trying to hide their activities behind a normal facade.
The halls were more of a maze than pathways, Aizawa figured after they walked in circles for what felt like fifteen minutes. They probably designed the maze to ensure outsiders’ sense of direction was completely thrown off, also supporting the fact that they were trying to hide illegal activity.
The more Aizawa observed, the more concerning the state of the yakuza organization sounded to him. Quirk-erasing bullets, highly secured facility, coordinated members.
Not good.
According to the government’s policy, heroes would allow yakuza groups to operate as long as they didn’t get out of line.
This entire residence had “out of line” painted all over it.
Their guide eventually stopped in front of a door that was completely identical to all the others they had passed and opened it politely for them to enter. The conference room was relatively small, featuring two couches on each side of a glass table.
On the couch opposite them sat a man with thin golden eyes and short auburn hair. He wore white gloves covering his hands and a green coat with purple fur on its hood. The lower half of his face was obscured by a detailed yellow and red plague mask.
Overhaul, Aizawa concluded.
Who didn’t look impressed one bit. Aizawa could blatantly relate.
“I prefer my subordinates to serve me with all their fingers attached,” was the first thing Overhaul grunted, glaring at Izaier with narrowed, sharp eyes. Narrower than they already were, that is.
Izaier sat on the couch and spread his hands over the backrest, leaving his guns inside his coat for once. Aizawa decided to stand beside the couch, watching. “And I prefer not having to look at so many human chickens and their beaks up my ass. Guess neither of us is getting what we want today,” Izaier shot back. Overhaul’s left eyebrow twitched at its zig-zag end.
“By the way, is making your guests nauseous by walking them in circles a new yakuza code I haven’t heard of?” Izaier continued, face tilted down, matching Overhaul’s fierce gaze.
“We don’t know who’s watching or from where, nor do we know what our guests are thinking,” Overhaul explained, his voice deep, solemn, and raspy at the edges.
“So it’s cowardice disguised as strategy. Noted.”
It had already been noted, or Aizawa wouldn’t have a constant migraine just trying to figure out the godforsaken address of the Safe House.
“I won’t take lectures from the higher-up of an organization that keeps their location off the map.”
“Then why don’t we end this boring exchange and get to the point?”
“Of course.” Overhaul leaned forward and folded his gloved fingers together in front of his mask as he put his elbows on his knees, getting down to business. Then his gaze snapped to Aizawa. “Is he the one with the nullification quirk?”
Oh.
“Obviously. The real question here is how much are you willing to pay?” Izaier said in a let’s-get-this-over-with tone.
Oh, indeed.
And finally, Aizawa could see the big picture, delivered to him on the golden platter of reality.
This was not a mission.
It wasn’t even a job.
It was human trafficking.
Old, plain human trafficking.
And standing there nice and tall was the merchandise, also known as Aizawa, delivered to the customer peculiarly ‘unmarked.’
No wonder they wanted him quirk-less and disarmed.
..
Fantastic.
“I want a demonstration before we get to that,” Overhaul said, gesturing with his pointer and middle finger for one of his subordinates to come closer. He made a show of taking off his white glove, which wasn’t anything good if the subordinate’s suddenly pale face was any indication.
“No! Please, sir! Boss! I haven’t disobeyed any of your orders! I haven’t!” the subordinate begged, but didn’t make a move to run.
“Shut your mouth.” Overhaul grunted.
“Boss! Have mercy on me!”
“I said quiet. I’ll put you back together if the nullifier’s quirk doesn’t work.” Overhaul sent an expectant look over at Izaier.
“Do your thing, Fetus,” Izaier ordered in a bored tone, leaning his head back against the backrest and closing his eyes, as if the highly boring meeting was enough for him to take a nap.
Aizawa looked over at Overhaul and schooled his expression into one without the immense irritation he was feeling. This entire situation had escalated very poorly. It could get out of hand within the blink of an eye.
He couldn’t allow himself to be sold to the yakuza.
He couldn’t risk his status as a member of the organization like that.
Not to mention Overhaul obviously didn't want him for his skills. He wanted him for his quirk. Erasure.
For experiment purposes, to be exact.
Aizawa realized, with a heavy weight pressing down on his chest, that if the deal between Overhaul and Izaier goes well in the next few minutes, he might never be able to escape the yakuza’s grasp, let alone return to the Safe House.
He might never be able to bring down the organization.
Might never be able to complete his mission.
Might never even see Shinsou again, let alone save him.
It was good that he got an insight into the yakuza’s inner workings and had a general idea of their activities.
But being sold was not part of his mission.
He should object and somehow end this contract. Fast. Before it gets out of hand.
One option was to prove his quirk pointless and deliberately fail the demonstration, letting Overhaul use his quirk. This had two pros: one, Overhaul would no longer have any interest in buying him, allowing Aizawa to focus on bringing down the Safe House; and two, he could identify Overhaul’s quirk and inform Hizashi, along with other information about the Eight Precepts of Death.
However—
Overhaul reached toward the shaking man who was his underling. The man squeezed his eyes shut and brought his hands up in a cross over his face to brace himself.
Aizawa activated Erasure and looked right at Overhaul with glowing eyes.
However, he was still Eraserhead, and he would not let an arrogant man in power suffocate his underlings like they were some worthless tools. He didn’t know how well this ‘putting back together’ Overhaul had mentioned would work, or how painful it might be.
Overhaul's eyes widened when he realized he couldn't feel his quirk. He tapped his fingers a few more times on his underling’s hand to test the inactivation. The skin on his right hand and the right side of his face broke out in hives. He looked utterly disgusted by the skin-to-skin contact, despite his evident amazement. “Fascinating,” Overhaul said, amusement lacing his voice as if he had finally made the greatest discovery of the century.
“How can I even believe my eyes?” Izaier mocked, his eyes still very much closed. Overhaul dismissed the underling with a flick of his head. The man vanished in what could be considered record time. Overhaul regarded Izaier as if he were an ignorant child too young to grasp these grown-up businesses.
“Don’t you find it maddening?” Overhaul began, making a show of putting on his glove.
“Finally, an agreement.” Izaier deadpanned but Overhaul ignored him as he continued.
“Every person in our society is afflicted by hero syndrome. Ever since quirks first manifested in this world, people have wielded them for their selfish ambitions.” Overhaul put his gloved hand on his face, four fingers on his forehead and thumb on his cheek, malicious golden eyes visible from the crack between his fingers.
“Governments have hurried to label individuals as either villains or heroes, but in the end, they are all cut from the same cloth. Villains exploit their quirks to get their hands on wealth, while heroes employ theirs to gain popularity and fame.
“At the end of the day, every human clings to their quirks like a lifeline, believing it will elevate them to their selfish aspirations. These quirks are the true plagues in the fabric of our society, and everyone is too blind to recognize it. I seem to be the only one still sane enough to grasp how humanity is becoming enslaved by these powers, allowing them to dictate our roles and desires. But I refuse to be blinded by this contagion that has infected our ecosystem.
“I will cure this society, using the very quirks they idolize against them. I will make the very quirks to become quirks' downfall. The eradication of quirks—”
“Woah, woah, woah, cut. Cut.” Izaier said, slamming the side of his hand against his other’s palm like a clapperboard. Overhaul's eye twitched in irritation, not appreciating the insulting interruption of his aspiring speech.
“Let me summarize, see if I understood correctly.” Izaier began, finally lifting his head off the backrest to level Overhaul with his gaze. “You are just as messed up in the head as I am, and you want to fuck the world the way it fucked you, but you also want it to have a noble purpose behind it so you can feel better about yourself. Does that sound about right?”
There was a moment when Overhaul didn’t even blink, and out of the corner of his eye, Aizawa observed Overhaul’s underlings tense in what must be fear of their leader’s wrath. But then Overhaul leaned back and said in his deep voice, disappointed, “I can see that you are already too infected by hero syndrome to even realize you’re suffering from this pandemic plague.”
“The only infection I’m suffering from right now is boredom. Talk business, Overhaul; how much are you willing to pay for my asset?” Izaier said.
Nope. Not happening.
“With all due respec—”
Bang!
Aizawa began to speak before being rudely cut by Izaier firing his gun at a point just a centimeter away from his foot. ‘You’re both expelled,’ was what was very unhelpfully bouncing at the tip of his tongue, coming out of nowhere, really.
Both of Overhaul’s underlings reacted as soon as Izaier drew his weapon; one aimed his gun at Izaier's head while the other manifested a giant hand, placing it threateningly on his shoulder.
“Respect is staying silent when two grown-ups are talking, Fetus,” Izaier said, his face serious, eyes still fixed on Overhaul. Aizawa took a few notes on Izaier’s speed and skill before filing them away for another time.
Right now, if anyone were to look closely, they would see Aizawa not impressed.
In fact, he might even take the trouble to ensure that the dungeon he sends these ‘grown-ups’ to has some intensive therapy programs, which, apparently, had been worryingly overdue at this point.
“Stand down, Nemoto, Mimic.” Overhaul’s orders were followed by the two. “I’d appreciate it if you don’t put your dirty bullets on my floor.”
“I’d appreciate it if you stop wasting my time,” Izaier said while putting his gun back inside his pocket. “I will trade Fetus for thirty quirk-erasing bullets.”
“Is that his name?” the man—Nemoto—muttered. The only answer he received was Aizawa’s glare and Overhaul’s meaningful silence. Nemoto cleared his throat but otherwise stood silent.
Overhaul frowned. “I trade with no bullets. But I am willing to pay 10 million yen.”
Is that so.
How generous.
“10 million?” Izaier snorted. “I wipe my ass with 10 million.”
No one wipes their ass with 10 million.
“100 million yen,” Izaier said, face serious.
Huh.
He had no idea the organization valued him so much. How touching. How flattering.
There was a moment when all Overhaul did was stare. “We are yakuza, Izaier, not the national bank of Japan. I have already made a pre-contract with your boss. He said nothing about 100 million,” Overhaul said, something sinister lurking behind his golden narrow eyes.
“Well, my boss you're contracted with isn't here right now. I am,” Izaier said and then pushed himself to his feet. “That’s my last offer. Think about it and call us if we have an agreement.”
Hm.
Interesting.
It appeared suspiciously as if Izaier was deliberately attempting to interfere with the contract. Given how weakened the yakuza were compared to the past, Aizawa doubted that 100 million was a price they could afford.
Izaier moved toward the door but was stopped by Nemoto and Mimic blocking his path.
“Izaier,” Overhaul called, “I’ve been looking for anti-quirk type quirks for a very long time. I’m resolved to get my hands on them by any means necessary. I was particularly interested ever since your boss announced a new nullifying quirk was available. I will offer you 20 million yen as my final proposal. You are free to refuse, but I cannot guarantee that I won’t resort to other measures, if you do.”
Now, now, children. No need to fight over him. He belongs to both the Safe House and Shie Hassaikai. Belong as in ‘will-make-sure-to-wipe-them-both-from-the-face-of-the-planet,’ of course.
Izaier turned halfway toward Overhaul and pushed back his olive leather coat at the waist, showing off the guns on his belt and the inner pockets of his coat. “I would like to see you try,” Izaier said, his eyes finally showing interest, his smile murderous.
One reality check later, Aizawa realized he wasn’t this popular either as a teacher or a hero. A couple of years as a villain, and everyone wants him.
Aizawa could already hear Hizashi rolling on the ground at that sarcastic comparison.
“How long before you run out of bullets, huh?” Mimic—the short subordinate who manifested a giant hand earlier—said with a mocking grin evident in his voice but hidden behind his mask.
“Running out of bullets is when the real fun begins,” Izaier said with a smile too devious to be considered one. That meant he could fight without his guns as well, Aizawa added that to the rest of the man’s file.
The two psychopaths leveled each other with intense glares—golden challenging olive—until Overhaul finally broke the stare and gestured for his men to step aside and let them pass. “I’ll get my hands on him one way or another. And I suggest you start formulating an excuse to present to your boss for when you return to him empty-handed.”
No.
Izaier wasn’t going to go back empty-handed, Aizawa thought, not if Shinsou was successful at retrieving the bullets.
Aizawa wasn’t sure whether he wanted Shinsou to succeed at that point or not. Who knew what the leader of the Safe House would do if he got his hands on the technology for erasing quirks? He also didn’t know how effective those bullets were yet or if their effects were permanent. He didn’t like the fact that someone like Overhaul, who viewed quirks as infections, possessed such technology to begin with. How did the yakuza even made such bullets in the first place?
Damnit.
What a hassle.
“That’s the plan,” Izaier muttered, letting his coat fall back to cover his guns as he stepped out of the room. Izaier’s smile disappeared the moment he turned his head away from Overhaul.
Aizawa didn’t return Overhaul’s possessive gaze as he followed without a word, leaving a disappointed but determined madman behind.
Despite the threat of being sold still looming over his head, Aizawa had but one thought in mind as he walked out of that room.
Good to know.
Notes:
Aizawa: *under immense psychological pressure.*
Also Aizawa: *dives into dry sarcasm head-on in his inner monologues* because ‘comedy is the highest form of tragedy’ and ‘he needs to cope somehow, damnit.’
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towardbetterthings on Chapter 3 Sat 19 Apr 2025 07:32PM UTC
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Masab on Chapter 3 Sat 19 Apr 2025 10:35PM UTC
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aleX_sytH on Chapter 3 Mon 05 May 2025 05:39AM UTC
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whentheimposterisdead on Chapter 4 Tue 08 Apr 2025 10:16PM UTC
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Masab on Chapter 4 Tue 08 Apr 2025 11:14PM UTC
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Frogs_Like_Bread on Chapter 4 Thu 10 Apr 2025 12:33AM UTC
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Masab on Chapter 4 Thu 10 Apr 2025 02:29AM UTC
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towardbetterthings on Chapter 4 Sat 19 Apr 2025 07:51PM UTC
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Masab on Chapter 4 Sat 19 Apr 2025 10:49PM UTC
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KHxJ on Chapter 4 Thu 24 Apr 2025 11:19PM UTC
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Masab on Chapter 4 Fri 25 Apr 2025 05:49PM UTC
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aleX_sytH on Chapter 4 Mon 05 May 2025 05:43AM UTC
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Masab on Chapter 4 Mon 05 May 2025 10:58PM UTC
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Frogs_Like_Bread on Chapter 5 Sun 13 Apr 2025 02:27AM UTC
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Masab on Chapter 5 Sun 13 Apr 2025 03:50AM UTC
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visibly_uncomfy on Chapter 5 Sun 13 Apr 2025 09:49PM UTC
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Masab on Chapter 5 Mon 14 Apr 2025 02:36AM UTC
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Drowning_in_fanfics on Chapter 5 Tue 15 Apr 2025 12:49AM UTC
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Masab on Chapter 5 Tue 15 Apr 2025 10:09AM UTC
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Masab on Chapter 5 Sat 19 Apr 2025 10:52PM UTC
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aleX_sytH on Chapter 5 Mon 05 May 2025 05:49AM UTC
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Masab on Chapter 5 Mon 05 May 2025 10:59PM UTC
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