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It’s one of those clocks with three hands: one for the hour, one for the minute, and one for the seconds. Shouto’s eyes circle the frame, always outpacing the third hand. He laps it maybe ten times before the minute is complete, and has to stop because his eyes begin to hurt.
In the waiting room, it’s the only thing moving. The clock shows more signs of life than he does, probably. Shouto sits alone, situated in the corner where he can see anyone coming or going, but nobody is coming or going.
At the front desk, the receptionist is quiet. He looks at the clock again, but he can’t recall the last time he’s heard her type on the computer. Shadowy behind the window, he can’t make out the receptionist either. There is a stillness in the room that unsettles him. Has she gone somewhere? He’s not her direct report. She doesn’t have to update him on her whereabouts.
Right now, it feels like the world is asleep.
Is it asleep?
Is he asleep?
Shouto looks at his hands and counts his fingers.
One, two, thr… ee… one, two… one, two, three, four, one, two, three, fou—five? He has five fingers. That is the objective truth. Maybe, it’ll work better if he counts backwards.
Five, four, three, two… three, four, wait. Five, four…
Shouto’s head hurts and he puts his hand down. The finger counting has ended in failure, so Shouto decides to walk around and see if he can find anything. Maybe he’ll find someone who can tell him what’s going on.
Yes, Shouto will walk around.
Shouto stands up from the chair in the corner where he sits and the throbbing in his head gets worse. His muscles feel weak and Shouto feels the urge to sit back down and close his eyes.
But Shouto resists.
He takes a step forward, and another, and another until he is standing in front of the receptionist’s desk.
The receptionist is not there. Her computer screen is dark. There is a jar with a handful of pencils and pens in it, but it’s tipped onto its side. The chair behind the desk is tucked in.
Shouto steps away from the desk. He goes for the door to the outside, but something stops him in his tracks and he turns away from the door without thinking. He heads toward the door that went further into the building instead.
When he is about three paces from the door, he feels something touch his shoulder.
Shouto turns and backs away but there is nothing there.
Nothing he can see, at least.
What feels like a point finger—or a ring one? Or, no, a thumb —presses down on the back of his hand. His body reacts. Shouto swings his right arm, his hand cutting through the air, as his left foot angles itself towards the direction the touch has come from. He expects something to happen.
Nothing does.
Nothing happens but… but something should have happened, Shouto is painfully certain of that. Every atom in his body tells him that something should have bloomed into existence, from his hand, from his foot.
Has… has he forgotten something vital in this empty world? He can’t remember the last time he’s seen the receptionist. Or heard her. Or heard anyone.
The touch returns and he flinches.
Powerless. He’s powerless and helpless against the touch and there’s nothing Shouto can do to change that, no one to tell him that it’s alright or to defend him or to tell him that it’s his own po-
A wave of pain crashes against his consciousness. Shouto stumbles, a last attempt to get away and escape.
However, the touch is relentless. It strokes Shouto’s skin over and over again, a pattern repeating itself over and over and over—
A pattern.
Three short taps. Pause. Four short taps. Pause. Three taps with stronger pressure. Pause. Two short taps, followed by one with more pressure. Pause. One strong tap. Pause. Three taps with stronger pressure, again. Pause.
And then all over again.
Morse Code.
Someone is pressing his name against his skin.
His head feels like it's breaking in half. Someone's trying to reach him, but there's no one there, but—
The tapping stops, then resumes in a different rhythm. Shouto tries to focus solely on the sensation. The letters form into a new shape: Q-U-I-R-K. The message repeats again, then again.
Shouto can think about quirks. His own is an elemental one, isn’t it fire and ice? That seems right. He has fire and he has ice and that makes him powerful. He doesn't feel powerful right now. Can he use his quirk? He doesn't want to though. Maybe he can sit next to a fire instead, he's never tried just relaxing with flames nearby before. That seems like it could be fun. He could take someone camping, like... Like...
The code repeats and repeats, and nothing changes. Maybe he's not supposed to think about his quirk? What is he meant to do then?
Shouto looks at the surroundings again. He's next to a door for some reason, how long has he been standing here? He reaches up to open it, but the tapping suddenly stops and the feeling on his hand changes to pinching. Shouto lets out a yelp. What was that for?!
He tries to open the door again, but the pinching sensation repeats. Ow. So whatever's touching his hand right now doesn't want him to open this door. Okay. Shouto's going to listen, he's not a contrarian. Except for when he is, but now doesn't feel like the time for that.
Shouto turns around and feels a gentle squeeze when he does. Then his gaze is drawn to the clock again. The time goes by and his eyes circle the frame, outpacing the third hand. He laps it for the first, second, third time and—
The Morse code resumes.
E.
X.
I.
T.
He’s still not sure he understands.
His head is fogged and cloudy, each thought running slow as he tries to rationalize. What does his quirk have to do with escape? Does he have to use it?
Shouto stares down at his hands. They’re his, undoubtedly, but can they be his if he’s not even sure he’s real? A clock ticks in his brain, and he cringes back at the ringing thud.
Ow. That hurt. He almost wants to reach out and tear it from the wall, but then he remembers the touch that was and wasn’t at the same time, the outstretching punch that never connected. The first time, it was the hand that re-materialized. The next, it could be him.
He takes a shuddering breath.
Stop thinking. Stop feeling.
He can’t do this right now. His entire body is encased in a thick syrup that drags him back from the brink of discovery, and everything is too much.
Wait. That’s it.
His hands.
He can’t feel them, but he knows how to use his quirk in his sleep. Finally, the first feeling he’s had since he’s woken up here traces down his arm, tingling and twinging until it burns at his fingertips.
Roaring flame and searing ice light up the room.
At first, he doesn’t think it’s working.
And then his thoughts start to clear. The room falls away, walls crumbling down like cardboard as the desks collapse into themselves. The crashing toll of the clock continues to tick, but it gets quieter and quieter as he goes.
Finally, just maybe, Shouto has gotten out of there.
Sound returns to the air slowly but surely, car engines and blaring horns; somewhere, a crying child; bright, brilliant laughter.
And then light, almost blindingly sharp against his recovering eyes, burns through what he thinks is the sky. It’s a relief, to be somewhere that he can now barely even remember beyond a lingering, fading memory of a clock’s hand striking two.
Shouto laughs, a startled, flitting thing that leaves him feeling lighter than the encumbering heaviness that came with forgetting.
“He’s awake! Shouto’s awake!”
Shouto licks his lips, his mouth dry and parched. He opens his eyes to that bright sky, to signs of life, no longer alone.