The Sky is What We Leave Behind - CapriStar (OneDer) - 文豪ストレイドッグス (2024)

Chapter 1: The UA Entrance Exam

Chapter Text

Dazai Osamu and the UA Entrance Exam

D azai Osamu had taken down armies.

He had. Single handedly.

(Well, almost single handedly. But in this case, the other party in question was Chuuya, who was less like a helping hand and more like an appendix in that he was relatively useless and tended to explode at the most inconvenient moments).

But that wasn’t the point.

The point was that Dazai had taken down armies single handedly. He was a master. A powerhouse. The leader of the infamous Double Black, for goodness sake.

(After all, one of them had to be the leader, and it wasn’t going to be Chuuya. Again, he was less like the head and more like the appendix. The appendix while it was going through the first stages of rupturing, at that).

Dazai sighed. He really needed to stop thinking about Chuuya of all people during perilous situations.

From his position crouched behind the remains of a bench, he surveyed his surroundings. What once resembled a cityscape had transformed into mountains of ash and debris. They littered a ground of torn up concrete, rendering it completely invisible. Towering glass buildings and brick layered shop fronts were unrecognisable amongst a sea of wreckages. The scene spanned out before him like a panorama. Somewhat beautiful in its hopelessness, he mused.

Sounds of destruction- echoes of the chaos ahead- blared around him like alarms, but all of the fighting was blocked from his view. It served to make the experience seem slightly surreal. Dazai’s lips twitched upwards, minutely.

It was a stupid situation. He had taken down armies single handedly. He was a master. A powerhouse. The leader of Double Black. And yet here he was, taking a god damn high school entrance exam. Sure he was fifteen, and this was what normal fifteen year olds did, but for the reasons stated above, Osamu Dazai was not a normal fifteen year old.

At least, he supposed, the high school was not normal either. UA High School for heroics was a lot of things, but normal was decidedly not one of them.

Pulling at the sleeves of his black coat, Dazai stood up from his shelter, languidly. He had racked up a couple of points in the entrance exam so far, but not nearly enough to ensure a spot in class 1A. The test was, unfortunately, not well suited to his abilities. If you asked Dazai, it actually felt like a strange form of discrimination- or at least an oversight on the part of the UA exam coordinators.

The written test had gone according to plan (Dazai had littered a few inaccuracies amongst otherwise flawless paragraphs, penned an error or two into his formulas) and there was no doubt in his mind that he would be given a percentage in the low nineties.

The practical test was, in a sense, going to plan too. But it pissed him off that he’d even needed to concoct a plan to beat this ridiculous challenge.

Whoever had chosen massive robots as the targets deserved to be fired on the spot (in Dazai’s humble opinion). In what world did heroes have to fight giant, mechanical foes rather than real villains? Humans with hands to be forced, hearts to be manipulated (and notably, quirks to be nullified)?

There was no use dwelling on it now, Dazai knew, but that didn’t stop him from feeling somewhat disdainful.

He did, however, have a plan to rack up some points. A plan that, as the clock ticked down to show three remaining minutes and the head of a somehow even bigger robot broke up the skyline, could only now come into fruition.

Dazai dusted down his shoulders before starting a light jog towards his destination. He wondered, briefly, how Chuuya was doing, before forcing the thought from his mind. He had a job to do.

—

Nakahara Chuuya and the UA Entrance Exam

“F uck yeah!”

Ask the Chuuya of last week what he’d be doing on Wednesday morning and he’d probably suggest a couple of answers. Maybe trying different teas with Kouyou (unfortunately not). Training his martial arts with the black lizards (thankfully not). Or even out on a mission with Dazai (closer to the truth than one might believe). In the most literal sense, though, he was beating up huge, killer robots in a high school, surrounded by amateur quirk users and in an arena about a kilometre away from his least favourite suicidal bastard. Honestly, he was having a pretty great time.

He leapt over the roof of another building, legs propelling him, gravity pushing him up. Crushed a robot beneath his palm, almost absentmindedly, as he swung through the city. A voice in the back of his mind was telling him not to overdo it, not to differentiate himself too much from the pack of frankly pathetic middle schoolers around him. But really, this was just too easy. Plus, the voice sounded an awful lot like Hirotsu’s, and that was reason enough to disobey in itself.

Chuuya couldn’t help but think back to why he was even here in the first place as he flew. Red locks tangled around him. The breeze caressing his face felt like falling in love.

—

“Dazai-kun, Chuuya-kun, thank you for coming to see me on such short notice.”

Mori Ougai’s office was quiet for once. Elise was nowhere to be seen. That was the first sign that whatever had prompted this meeting was serious. Chuuya shared a glance with Dazai, who had clearly come to the same conclusion.

The office hadn’t changed since the last time Chuuya had been in it, almost three months ago. All high ceilings and a long, mahogany table that appeared to be antique. Even though the room overlooked an expansive view of Yokohama, it still held a certain darkness to it that was yet to be chased out.

“No problem, boss,” Chuuya replied, hesitantly. Dazai had that look in his eyes, the one he got whenever he saw Mori, so it was probably best not to let him engage.

“What can we do for you?”

Mori tilted his head slightly as he gazed at Chuuya, lips contorted into a smirk and hands rested gently on the arms of his chair. He seemed almost impressed, Chuuya thought, as he took the initiative.

“I’ll admit that this is a bit of a strange one. Not difficult as such, but certainly out of the ordinary.”

Mori stood up, approaching the huge window beside him. The introduction seemed to have peaked Dazai’s interest, but Chuuya just felt cold tendrils of dread curl up inside him.

Abruptly, Mori turned to face them.

“Yokohama has seen a higher number of hero patrols since January than it did in the entirety of last year.”

The spring picture painted outside showed it to be April, and Chuuya felt an involuntary shudder pass through him. He had noticed some sort of influx in heroes lately, but to think it was so drastic…

“Needless to say, this is not ideal. For both the Port Mafia as an organisation, and in a wider sense, the citizens of Yokohama, who have thoroughly rejected a hero-led society since the drawing of the quirk era.”

His hands were clenching into fists. His teeth gritting tightly. The very word ‘hero’ bought about a gut reaction; it twisted his insides like wringing a wet towel. Before he could act out, Dazai finally stepped in. His voice was cool and calm in the way it always was when he addressed Mori.

“I don’t see how Chuuya and I come into this. Killing all the heroes who walk into the town wouldn’t exactly solve our problems.”

It was a little strange, Chuuya observed, to hear Dazai speak like that. He seemed guarded, somehow. Defensive in a way that hinted at protectiveness.

“You’re right. That would only sever the Yokohama Treaty, and thus the government and hero council’s leniency. What I have in mind for you two is,” he trailed off, tilting his head. “A little more specific.”

—

So yeah. For reasons that Chuuya still had yet to puzzle through, he and Dazai were being enrolled in the most prominent hero school in Tokyo, maybe even all of Japan.

‘To infiltrate the fundamental essence of hero society’, Mori had said. ‘To create a foothold in the next generation of heroes’.

Still, the logic didn’t quite add up. Chuuya was certain that there was another factor somewhere, another reason that Mori was keeping hidden. He supposed it wasn’t his job to question, but to act.

The other entrance candidates were an interesting bunch, he thought, absentmindedly. An honestly psychotic blonde guy was blowing everything up. A semi-Martian looking girl was secreting odd fluids from her hands (if a drop got on Chuuya’s hat he would freak the f*ck out). Not to mention the disembodied school uniform he had seen wondering around.

Her quirk wasn’t really suited to this exam, though, so Chuuya doubted he’d see her again.

It was the flashier ones that had the advantage- his own and explosion kid’s over there.

(He briefly spared a thought for how Dazai was doing, but let the idea wash over him. If anyone could power through this exam, basically quirkless, it was that bastard).

He crushed another robot as the timer ticked down to its final seconds. A gong sounded, the noise resonating around the partially destroyed city-scape, and all the robots came to a halt. A voice chimed over speakers that must have surrounded the arena:

“The UA practical exam is over. Candidates in Arenas A, B and D should advance to their nearest exit point where a pro hero will be waiting to escort them out. Candidates in Arenas C and E should remain in their position and wait for a pro hero to reach them due to large amounts debris in the arena making movement unsafe.”

Suppressing a laugh, Chuuya joined the stream of kids walking towards the exit gate. Dazai was in C. And in all likelihood, he was absolutely fuming.

As he walked, he noticed a figure ahead of him. Not because they stood out particularly among the throngs of mutants and weirdos, but because they were moving in an odd manner. Limping.

Pushing past a couple of chattering students, Chuuya reached the boy’s side.

He appeared relatively normal at first glance, tall and toned, with bright red hair styled in a strange, spiky manner. If one looked closer, however, they would find an ocean of crevices lining his skin, and a hard substance akin to stone sprinkled over the tips of his fingers. The fading remnants of some sort of transformation quirk, perhaps.

Honestly, he wasn’t entirely sure why he wanted to help the kid out. Maybe all these hero students were rubbing their germs off on him. Maybe he was simply an alright person. Maybe the mission-oriented part of him wanted to get closer to a could-be classmate, or maybe something about a bunch of fifteen come sixteen year olds training to carry the weight of the world just didn’t sit right.

“Hey, man,” the boy said, cheerily, teeth baring in a smile.

Chuuya glanced behind him quickly, but no one was replying. He realised, with a start, that he was the ‘man’ in question.

“Umm hi,” he said, as the other boy laughed good-naturedly. He clamped down on the blood that was rushing to his cheeks.

“My name is Kirishima. Kirishima Ejirou.”

Kirishima held his hand out to shake.

“I’m Nakahara Chuuya.”

Chuuya shook it.

“Are you alright there? You’re walking a bit…”

Kirishima grinned.

“Don’t worry about me, dude. My quirk is pretty defensive so I had a tough time with the exam. Don’t get me wrong, though, I’m hopeful!”

He beamed, punching Chuuya’s arm lightly as they approached the gate.

“Thanks for asking. That was pretty manly.”

They parted ways after that. But the conversation didn’t leave Chuuya’s mind. It was weird, interacting with another kid his age. One who wasn’t a complete head case like Dazai, or codependent like the sheep had been.

He stuffed his hands in his pockets as he walked away, grinning.

Lingering by the huge gateway to UA, Chuuya decided to make his way back to his and Dazai’s apartment (mafia perks) alone. Couldn’t have the asshole think Chuuya was worried about him or something.

—

Dazai Osamu and the UA Entrance Exam

T he plan had originally been born following a patented ‘Dazai plotting session’. He had been curled up on the lime green couch (the one that he’d spent all his savings on) with his laptop on the table in front of him. Chuuya had been digging through the fridge, occasionally calling out a dinner suggestion.

Stretching his fingers, he hunched over the laptop, taking to the search bar.

UA entrance exam

Naturally, he went straight to the AllOurMight hero blog. He scrolled throughthe topics until he found a list of previous entrance exam subjects, just begging to be analysed.

urmyhero • List of all the UA practical exams since 2160:

• Quirk presentation to panel of pro heroes (2160-72)
• Dummy hostage situation (2173, 77, 80)
• Obstacle course (2174, 76)
• Fighting robots (2175)
• Laser tag style game (2178, 79)

What are our predictions for 2181?

Copying the list, Dazai transferred the information to a spreadsheet. A couple more clicks got him the GDP of Japan for each year, the economic growth of Tokyo, and that of UA itself. It was hard to make any connections, but a scatter graph showed correlation pretty quickly: the richer UA was, the higher chance of a shiny new entrance exam.

The statistic seemed relatively unsurprising in hindsight, and was decidedly vague. But given the situation, it was quite powerful. Recently, All Might had been somewhat absent in the world of heroics- many people assumed that he had something important brewing, but rumours about possible retirement had been circulating as well. The worth of Tokyo had dropped noticeably as a result, suggesting to Dazai that an exam would be recycled.

His next hint was an article that had been published six months prior.

UA Heroics School Clamps Down on Leaking Information

It may seem as though UA high school has an open relationship with the public and the media, but earlier today, this was called into question. The school famous for its successful alumni and teachers, as well its annually televised sports festival, has recently been trying to reduce the amount of information being made known to the general public. Although, not to much success.

In the press conference held last Saturday, head of public relations, pro hero Present Mic, commented that ‘at the end of the day, [UA] is still a school to which pupils entrust their personal details. Details which absolutely must remain secure and private.’

Additionally, exam coordinator Yamaguchi Yuta stated: ‘although [UA] aims to effectively communicate with citizens and heroes, as in any organisation, a certain level of secrecy must be maintained.’

This article concatenated with his previous deduction was enough for Dazai to conclude that the next entrance exam would surely be the path least travelled- the robot fighting exam. Possibly with a twist.

Dazai let an evil grin overtake his face, before it was promptly wiped off by a flying cushion, and a call of:

“Stop being so f*cking creepy!”

And that was how Dazai found himself in the current situation, ready to put the plan he had painstakingly formulated from his previous calculations into action.

The UA exam consisted of four types of robots. The one pointers (no larger than a two-story house and with poor combat ability), the two pointers (slightly larger than a two-story house and with adequate combat ability), the three pointers (definitively larger than a two-story house and with decent combat ability). It followed that next would come a four pointer, but this was not the case.

Finally came the zero pointer robot, of which there was only one. It was probably about the size of a three-story house, and had gigantic firepower. It was, however, notably slower than the other robots. Dazai supposed that anything of such a size was never going to be agile.

The whole concept of the zero pointer robot had immediately seemed strange to Dazai when it was introduced. Why bother? No one in their right mind would try to fight it, so it would just lumber around taking swipes at candidates. Anyone with decent coordination or any basic survival instincts should be able to get away from it just fine.

This robot wasn’t meaningless, no, very few things in life are meaningless. It also wasn’t a trick or a trap of any sort. This robot was something of a get-out-of-jail-free card. It had to be.

Being able to beat the zero pointer would be impressive for an untrained fifteen year old. They would stand out from the crowd. Perhaps rather than zero points meaning ‘worthless’, it actually meant ‘priceless’; perhaps it was a shortcut to success. Or a way for a candidate previously low on points to stand out to the teachers.

(The point system itself suggested that candidates with the highest number of points would receive a pass, but it was never explicitly stated).

Dazai had formed his plan entirely around this basis, and continued running towards the zero pointer in the distance. A makeshift spear that he had salvaged from the debris earlier remained tight in his grip.

His plan was not actually to defeat the zero pointer himself. No way in hell. There were two reasons for this: one was that the brains didn’t do the dirty work and the other was that he was pretty sure he physically couldn’t.

No, he would play the role of the head. Find some do-gooder willing to be his appendix, or arm, or even elbow given that they had enough jabbing power to fight for him. Then take the final kill- call it teamwork. When the teachers later traversed their database, searching for the recorded name of the killer of the zero pointer… boom. Dazai Osamu at your service.

For any other robot, his plan would probably get him beaten up by some fifteen year old hero wannabe; for the zero pointer, it was perfect. There were literally no points to be beaten up over. Most of the kids here probably didn’t even realise that the robots contained a special mechanism to record their killer. Dazai had seen the little device before though, and recognised it instantly upon his first kill.

He skidded up to the monstrous form of the zero pointer, coat flapping behind him. His eyes locked on a small, blue-ish figure that was charging towards it. Perfect.

Narrowing his eyes, Dazai took a closer look at the kid that was clearly preparing to engage the robot. He was a little small for his age, a little trembly, but there was a glint of determination in his eyes that gave Dazai a spark of hope for him.

He was dressed in what Dazai assumed was his previous school’s PE kit- mangled though it was- and (somewhat prematurely?) grey bangs gathered around his eyes. Choppy in length.

Dazai ignored the sounds of chaos around him, and scenes of kids desperately running away from the path of the worthless zero pointer. He himself focused on the bangs kid. He watched as a transformation began to take place, and cerulean sparks shot off from the boy’s form like lightning. They twirled and fizzled, and eventually began swirling around the boy in unison. Slowly, behind the curtain of sparks, he began to change.

His form, colouring, size- everything warped. When Dazai’s view was no longer obscured by the curtain, there was no sign of the boy from before. Except for a single spark in those steely eyes.

He had become a tiger.

Dazai whistled, watching as the tiger crouched down, ready to pounce. That was a pretty sexy ability; Dazai briefly found himself pondering over whether Mori would like it. It had been clear to Dazai that he and Chuuya hadn’t been told all the details about their mission, maybe this was the final reason for it. Some sort of recruitment method? The idea was still flawed though, and Dazai let it go to rest.

The tiger sprung. Suddenly and rapidly. The sheer weight of it halted the robot in its monotonous forward movements. Razor sharp claws left grooves in metal. The robot aimed its huge, mechanical arm at the tiger on its chest, but he retreated back to the ground before it reached him.

The robot recovered quickly, even as scraps of metal curled and peeled away from its new wound. The tiger growled.

“Hey, tiger boy!”

Abruptly turning to look around for the caller, the tiger turned its back on the zero pointer. That was when it chose to strike.

Dazai gritted his teeth. He swung into action, sprinting towards the pair and deflecting the incoming hit with his spear.

The tiger watched him, slightly startled. Even if he was clearly a bit of an idiot, he was, at least, lucid in tiger form. That was important.

Dazai turned his head to the tiger, keeping his spear out in front and at the ready.

He had beaten four one pointers and three two pointers throughout the exam. It was a pretty measly number overall, but had given him plenty of time to dissect and investigate the engineering of the robots after each kill.

“The circuit board is located in the neck, just above the left shoulder. That’s where we need to target.”

Something between a growl and a purr came out in response, and Dazai had to stifle his laugh between bandaged fingers.

“I’ll cover your right, so go,” he shouted.

At his words, the tiger sped off to the left.

He dodged and weaved around the robot, a dance interspersed with attacks. His nimble movements had completely outclassed the zero pointer, and Dazai allowed a small voice in his head to praise the boy.

The tiger started throwing in attempts to race up the tiger’s left arm. He was constantly swatted at, and forced to abort. However, they were making slow progress. Meanwhile, Dazai was spinning his spear. He deflected attacks and stabbed at robotic joints.

60 seconds were left on the clock. Dazai cursed.

The pair kept working, kept weaving, perhaps slightly frantically. In fact, Dazai noticed the tiger’s movements become messier and messier, less targeted and more outright feral. Fewer hits landed, and Dazai was getting frustrated.

It was when the robot actually succeeded in its counterattack that Dazai came to a realisation.

Mechanical claws from the left slashed through fur, colouring snow crimson, and the tiger let out a distressed roar.

“Tiger! Get your-”

Dazai stopped, flawed by what he saw.

The tiger had turned to face him, marred by blood, and for a split second, Dazai hadn’t recognised the thing. That clarification, the bright, steely lucidity that had coloured its eyes- that was gone. Replaced by an animalistic haze. It reminded Dazai of Chuuya during corruption. Completely unreachable.

Ignoring him again, the tiger continued its attacks.

The clock was down to 10 seconds, and Dazai knew what had to be done.

He ran in towards the tiger, using his spear as shelter.

5 and he lunged towards the tiger.

4, 3 and he dodged away from the tiger’s swipe, suddenly aimed at him. He narrowly avoided the attack, but his otherwise pristine coat was not so lucky.

2, 1 and his outstretched fingers made contact with the reddened fur of the tiger.

A gong rang out as No Longer Human surrounded the tiger like water. He was a boy again. The robot powered down before him.

The exam had ended, and Dazai felt regret well up inside him like poison in his veins. He had failed the exam. He must have.

He had never really failed a mission before. He let himself wonder what Chuuya would say, what Mori would, and resigned himself to jumping off the nearest bridge rather than listening to it.

“Thank you so much,” a voice whispered almost to itself. It could barely be heard over the instructions telling him to wait in place.

(He was utterly seething about that. What kind of idiot couldn’t move past a little debris. And why did UA care for their health all of a sudden now?)

“Don’t worry about it,” Dazai sighed. “Is your cut alright?”

The boy ran a hand over the bloodied rip in his back.

“It’s fine. The tiger has regenerative abilities.” He shrugged, looking a little uncomfortable about it.

Dazai nodded, committing this boy to memory.

“Dazai Osamu.”

Dazai stuck out his hand.

The boy blinked a couple of times, before a look of realisation passed over him.

“Oh! That’s your name.”

“Yes. And it’s only polite to give me yours now. Or did they not teach basic manners in the jungle? I hear it’s all a little savage down there.” Dazai let his lips quirk up.

The boy laughed.

“It’s Nakajima Atsushi.”

They shook hands. Atsushi glanced down at Dazai’s.

“You’re pretty bandaged up. Is everything okay?”

Dazai didn’t get a chance to say his usual ‘no, no it is not’. They were interrupted by a dark figure walking towards them. A pro hero, Dazai knew, but one that he recognised only from blurred flashes circulating on hero blogs.

Eraserhead. A vigilante type hero with a quirk similar to Dazai’s own. His white capture weapon hung around his neck like a scarf, stark against an otherwise black ensemble. His long hair was wild and unruly, blowing this way and that in the wind.

Dazai wasn’t sure what he expected from the hero, but a calm, perceptive demeanour wasn’t it.

He spoke into a headset as he approached.

“Only two of them in area beta. I’ll take them to the gate now.”

He waited for an affirmation before turning to them. Silently looking them over, he tilted his head in the universal ‘follow me’ gesture.

“Congratulations on completing the exam. If you are in need of medical attention, please follow the clearly marked arrows to Recovery Girl’s office. If not, please sign out at reception and then leave the premises,” the man said. His tone was drab and tired, his words routine. Eraserhead looked kind of like he wanted to die, which was relatable.

Atsushi nodded, thanking the man as they followed him away from the powered down zero pointer robot. Dazai only had time to give it one more hate-filled glare before it was completely out of sight.

“I’m sorry about your coat,” Atsushi mumbled as they walked.

Dazai looked down at the long rip that was splitting the tail of his coat in two, and laughed. He had forgotten all about it, what with most of his energy going into wondering how Mori will react when Dazai inevitably receives his UA rejection letter. He felt his hand shake at his side, and balled it into a fist.

Drawing his expression into a mask of arrogance, he replied, words easy.

“It’ll cost you twenty thousand yen.”

Atsushi started spluttering with a passion, and Dazai grinned again.

“Just kidding! I hate this old thing anyway. Black is so last season.”

Atsushi breathed out an almost comical sigh of relief.

“I would like to ask you a question, though. What happened out there?”

It was a rather ambiguous question, but Atsushi seemed to catch on given his quickly reddening cheeks and minute grimace.

Dazai figured that if he was going to get f*cked over, he might as well know why. He felt Eraserhead’s gaze brush over them lightly, but ignored it.

“Sometimes, the tiger,” Atsushi muttered, before pausing. “Sometimes I don’t control it. It controls me.”

Dazai saw red eyes, stark against a familiar face.

“Whenever I panic, something pushes its way out of me. Clawing up into my brain.”

Dazai saw blood around a beating heart, a God living through it.

“It takes me over completely.”

Dazai saw Chuuya in the boy with a beast inside him.

“That’s why I want to become a hero. I want to control the tiger, and myself. I want him to save people for me, rather than hurt them.”

Atsushi looked guiltily at the coat again, before turning to Dazai with a fire in his eyes.

They were almost at the gate, and Eraserhead wasn’t even hiding his contemplative gaze on the two.

Dazai shrugged. He said the words that he’d said to Chuuya days after their first meeting.

“That thing inside you? That’s you too. And it’s the most natural thing in the world.”

Then, he added: “over sharing, much.” Atsushi turned bright red.

—

Honestly, something about Eraserhead’s gaze on him had given Dazai hope, and he had saved his bridge jumping exploits for another time.

As it turns out, he and Chuuya didn’t have to wait long at all to hear the results of the UA entrance exam. About a week afterwards, two matching envelopes arrived in the post.

Given some reflection time, Dazai had taken up a rather philosophical view about his performance. If he got in, yippee ki yay. If he didn’t, at least he didn’t have to spend more time with Chuuya. He also took great pleasure in announcing this, and dodging Chuuya’s half hearted retaliations.

There they stood, staring down at the two envelopes haphazardly splayed on the coffee table. A rare moment of silence lingered between them.

Chuuya was the first to break, running a hand through his hair.

“I haven’t been to school in, like, five years, but the feeling of getting exam results still f*cks me up.”

Dazai grinned in response. He picked up the brown envelope addressed to Chuuya, tearing it open to a barrage of complaints.

“What the hell, asshole?”

Chuuya began tugging at the half-opened letter in Dazai’s grip.

“Chuuya! So vicious. And you always say you’re not a chihuahua.”

“Give. That. Back.”

At that moment, three things happened in such a short interval of time, that they appeared to be simultaneous.

First, with a final, definitive pull, Chuuya ripped the paper from Dazai’s hands, just as the latter let go completely. Chuuya went careening to the ground, a string of curses leaving his lips. The envelope went down with him, its contents spilling across the floor.

Next, a flash of light burst out from the fallen items. It was a bright, blueish shimmer that encompassed the whole wall in front of it.

“That doesn’t seem natural.”

Finally, the shape of a man phased into the projected image, and a somehow familiar voice boomed out.

“Nakahara Chuuya, congratulations. Your combined scores on the written and practical assessments have allowed us to offer you a place at UA High.”

It only took Dazai a second to recognise the man in the video as his figure became clearer, taking on shape and colour. An iconic hero suit was on full display, and beam out in full force.

It was none other than Japan’s number one hero- the symbol of peace himself- All Might.

Dazai felt an odd twinge run through him. The sudden appearance of All Might both answered and asked questions; if the hero was affiliated with UA, it explained Mori’s sudden interest in the school. But what was All Might’s role in this?

As virtual All Might talked through some basic admin, Dazai turned to look at Chuuya, surreptitiously. The other looked a little dazed. His eyes were narrowed in that way of his, and head tilted, allowing red locks to tangle before his eyes.

All Might had always gotten to Chuuya, Dazai knew, for reasons that he had never really pushed to discover.

Unbidden, his hand stretched out to tap Chuuya’s arm.

“Nice of them to send an audio file, don’t you think?”

Chuuya looked at him inquisitively.

“They probably figured that even a dog trained by such a spectacular owner must be illiterate.”

And then Chuuya was back, snapping and growling and petulantly focusing on the video. Dazai smiled.

All Might was still speaking when he returned his attention to the screen.

“- total score is first place overall. A truly outstanding result. Your practical test score was tied first, and your written exam just edged you over the top. My most sincere and heartfelt congratulations.”

Chuuya twitched. A small, clicking sound left his lips. To Dazai, it sounded suspiciously like the sweet, sweet chime of a bell, marking his victory in a battle that he hadn’t even been fighting. A surge of realisation swept over him like a tidal wave.

He slowly turned to face Chuuya, lips pulling into a smile involuntarily. After a moment, the other noticed him.

“What?”

“You were going all out, weren’t you?”

Chuuya looked confused for a moment, before his eyes cleared, and then widened in horror.

“No! f*ck no! That would have blown the mission-”

“You were going all out. And you tied for first. With a middle schooler.”

“I was not going all out,” Chuuya yelled. Dazai stifled a laugh behind his fist. “And what about you, sh*tty Dazai? Did you even make it in at all?”

Dazai pouted at Chuuya’s victorious look.

“Guess we’re about to find out,” he sighed. “How do I shut this guy up? He’s been talking for like, twenty minutes. There’s nothing more to say.”

After failing to control the device for a couple of seconds, Dazai simply crushed it under his shoe. The video instantly turned off. Chuuya looked like he wanted to complain, but ultimately couldn’t fault the efficient method.

He picked Dazai’s envelope off the table more gently. Peeling it open, he studied the recorder inside. It was completely black and smooth- free of any buttons or obvious control panels. He just set the rectangular device onto a coaster, and they waited for it to begin.

It only took a couple of seconds for the same blue light and mountainous figure to appear on their wall again.

“Dazai Osamu,”

Dazai looked away.

“Congratulations. Your combined scores on the written and practical assessments have allowed us to offer you a place at UA High.”

He stilled.

“What?”

A grin started to pull at the corners of his lips.

“f*ck yes,” Chuuya whooped, arm thrown around Dazai’s shoulder. “Now Mori won’t murder you and incinerate your body.”

Dazai laughed.

“A shame, really.”

And they continued to watch the All Might on screen. Closer than they had Chuuya’s, taking in all the information.

Dazai was slightly surprised to find that they seemed to have personalised all the videos, not just Chuuya’s first place result.

“You might-”

Chuuya audibly gagged at the ‘All Might’ pun.

“Be wondering how your score qualified you. Well, not only was your written test of tremendous success, but your practical score was likely higher than you expected too.”

He inhaled.

“UA is a high school for heroics. First and foremost, to be a good hero, you need the ability to put others above yourself and act to protect them, even to your own detriment. We are aware that our entrance exams are often poorly suited to candidates with non-combat specific quirks. And because of these reasons, rescue points were born.”

Dazai nodded slowly, pondering the concept. Honestly, it hadn’t been too far off from his own predictions concerning the zero pointer and Eraserhead’s assessments of him. Still, it was a bit of a shock to hear.

These rescue points seemed to be the internet’s best kept secret, though. Dazai had absolutely decimated all hero blogs to no mention of them.

“Rescue points are a parallel scoring system on the practical exam that are later combined with villain points and in some cases, a judging panel’s assessment to create your total. Most students never receive or hear of rescue points, as they are given out very rarely. Each rescue point is worth ten villain points. This brings your total practical score to 40 points.”

Chuuya was looking at him strangely. Brows furrowed.

“You’re really-”

Chuuya faltered. And Dazai leapt on that moment of opportunity like a predator.

“I’m really…?”

The ginger scowled, ripping his arm away from the other’s shoulders.

“You’re really schemey and manipulative. How the hell did you figure out that rescue points existed? Who even thinks about that sh*t?”

Laughing, Dazai stretched his arms out to the sides.

“Are you suggesting that I’m not just an upright young gentleman who saves others without thinking about the benefits? Or are you shocked that sometimes we can use our brains rather than our brawn to solve problems?”

He ducked just as the crushed remnants of Chuuya’s entrance recording were flung at his head. Although really, this only served to prove his point.

From then on, All Might said very little of interest. Only telling them to read the rest of the contents of their envelopes in which they’d find forms to fill as well as variouspreparatory measures. When the tape shut off, they did as instructed. There were mainly admissions forms, but in Dazai’s, he found a document requesting that he does not explain the concept of rescue points to any third parties. He supposed that was why the points had been practically wiped from the Internet.

Chuuya grabbed the burner phone that Mori had left them with from the drawer in his bedroom. It was a sleek, new thing; space grey in colour and regular in size.

He tapped out a quick message, his thumbs moving across the screen expertly.

We both passed. NC in first overall. DO received ‘rescue points’. All Might has connections to UA. Nothing else outstanding.

A chime signalled a reply barely a minute later.

Congratulations are in order, then.

Chuuya, it is too late to recover your anonymity. Play up the ‘number one student’ role. Please integrate into the class as a reliable pillar.

Dazai, forge connections amongst not only the class, but also the student body as a whole.

More instructions will be sent at a later date.

Dazai blatantly adorned a look of revulsion as he read the message over Chuuya’s shoulder. Eventually, he skulked back over to his forms as Chuuya returned the phone to the drawer.

They were disrupted again only by Dazai’s gasp. His eyes were widened almost comically as he stared down at a document. Looking up, Chuuya prompted him to explain himself.

“Chuuya, this is a form for hero costumes! Hero. Costumes. It’s makeover time!”

Dazai was practically glowing with happiness, sprawled out on the carpet.

“We’re not in a f*cking Barbie movie,” Chuuya retorted. Still, Dazai knew from the way he rolled over and readjusted himself on the sofa that he was hiding a smile. If there was one thing Dazai knew about the guy who dressed like a vampire fashion icon and hoarded dress shoes, it was that he loved a makeover.

“Please. We both know that the image of me and you prancing around in skintight suits is in your wet dreams.”

Chuuya choked on the air.

“You f*cking-”

“Hit a nerve?”

Dazai failed to avoid the television remote that came hurtling towards him.

“Now that hit a nerve,” Dazai said, rubbing his cheek.

Several pens later, Dazai held up a takeout menu they had ordered from the other night, proudly. An ink-stained sketch marred one corner. Chuuya leaned forwards, peering towards it.

“All black? Really?” Chuuya asked, incredulous. “If I saw someone coming at me in that, I’d run back towards the burning building or whatever.”

Dazai pouted. He had quite liked his hero costume design. It consisted of his usual long black coat (plus more pockets because practicality, and with a kevlar lining because duh), a black athletic top and cargo pants, as well as black combat boots (heavy and strong but bouncy). Naturally, this was all topped off by bandages wrapped loosely around each article of clothing. The only part that wasn’t black.

Dazai fought pretty exclusively with guns, but he drew a few knives into the jacket pockets as well, for good measure.

Chuuya sighed at the paper, ultimately resigned to his fate.

“You can keep the black under layer, but the coat has to change. To tan, I think.”

“What about bright pink with a high collar?”

“Tan with a high collar or I’m subscribing to loads of vegan recipe mailing lists using your email address.”

“Scary.”

Scribbling out his prior drawing, Dazai reworked his sketch.

“It’s still not very heroic.”

Chuuya rolled over on the sofa, kicking his legs about absentmindedly.

“No, it’s not. Don’t most heroes have, like, a symbol of some sort? All Might has his logo thing. Endeavour’s got his flaming moustache. Hawks has his f*cking lit wings…”

Twirling his pen in thought, Dazai added a final je ne sais quoi to the drawing, holding it up again under the ceiling lamp.

The addition was a small blue gem stone situated in the centre of the chest.

Chuuya nodded at it, approvingly.

“I think it’s the closest you’ll ever get to chic.”

“I’ll take that as the compliment it is! Now it’s your turn.” Dazai grinned, wickedly.

It was only for a split second, but Chuuya stilled in his position on the couch. His lips pursed.

“A hero costume, huh?”

Dazai stayed silent, for once. He took his pen to paper again.

He had finished a couple of minutes later, and waved the design at Chuuya.

This time, he had gone for something closer to a body suit, but certain parts of it were more flared in style: the sleeves tastefully baggier before tightening again into gloves and the calves loose before reconvening at the thighs and ankles.

The whole suit was a gradient of black and lighter grey (according to Dazai’s sh*tty sketch) and orange detailing ran the length of it.

Black boots and an orange cape added to the outfit, but what Chuuya noticed immediately was the headpiece. It consisted of night vision goggles pulled over a thick black band when not in use. The band covered his hair like a hat before running down to grip the sides of his face like black talons.

For some reason, the existence of a headpiece was strangely touching to Chuuya.

“Chuuya- that look- are you finally accepting your true adoration for me?”

And the moment was gone. Chuuya scoffed, copying Dazai’s design down on his form with some annotations before packing all the papers back into the envelope.

“Your attempt at drawing hands looks more like starfish was drained dry of even a modicum of water before being deep fried and then blended in a food processor.”

“That’s definitely criticism but I wouldn’t call it constructive.”

In response, Chuuya simply sighed. He stood up, and resigned himself to cooking dinner.

—

Shigaraki Tomura on ‘the End’

H eroes and villains. So simple in their nature, so black and white, yes and no, that they’re almost childlike. We live in a world that over complicates things of little importance and over simplifies everything else. We’re just too scared to face what matters, you see. We’d rather devote our time to surviving and then to dying.

We assign meaning to everything- little, subconscious labels that sort us into lines and rows. What happened to the golden ratio? To the most beautiful, natural curve of all?

‘Hero’ doesn’t mean anything anymore. Maybe it did once. Maybe when it was just confined to the realms of fiction. Maybe when it was a ‘should’ and not an ‘is’. An ideal and not a reality.

Perhaps the problem lies not in the quest itself, not in the goal, but in the afterwards.

What do we do after we finish the story? After we attain, achieve?

There’s nothing left for us after the end. But we all run towards it anyway.

Principles? People who hold onto them are either privileged or suicidal. Killing is a means to an end and the end is three letters and three million consequences.

Chapter 2: Day One

Chapter Text

Dazai Osamu Makes a Friend

T he first day was kind of like a punch to the gut followed by the words ‘this is your life now’.

He had sat down at his desk next to a girl who was literally invisible, been verbally accosted by the return of a very enthusiastic tiger boy (who Dazai had quite frankly forgotten existed) and then witnessed a sexually charged brawl between some blonde kid and pretty much everyone else. Also, their form teacher was Eraserhead- who appeared to be semi homeless- and he had immediately threatened them all with expulsion.

Wild.

That said, the challenges he had put them through weren’t exactly opportunities for imminent demise. There had been a running race, a ball throwing test, and some other fitness checks that could be expected from a normal high school. Of course, the fact that students were allowed to use their quirks was somewhat abnormal, but definitely interesting to watch. Dazai internally noted any quirks that caught his attention, and considered the wide array of… let’s say creative methods in which they were used.

Immediately, Bakugou Katsuki appeared on his radar. The angry blonde who seemed to be constantly mid-battle. Not because of his quirk (powerful though it was), but more because of his intelligence. Given such an outrageous ability, many people would simply rely on that innate force, using obvious plans and attacks. Bakugou went deeper than that. He adapted his explosions for purposes other than pure fire power, such as speed. Heat. Momentum. He had a good head on his shoulders, although it was sometimes hard to see through the plumes of smoke.

Todoroki Shouto was also one to watch. He was the opposite of Bakugou in that his quirk had immense strength and he relied solely upon it. For now, that was fine- enough to propel him constantly to the podium- but soon, he would need to expand his repertoire. Whether he could might decide if he’d fall or fly.

The final interesting party came in an unexpected form: that of Midoriya Izuku. He was distinctly green, in both hair, and quirk usage experience. His ability was clearly unbelievably powerful. So powerful that the sheer pressure of it literally crushed his bones upon use, and rendered his control about as acute as a toddler’s. Watching Midoriya was fascinating; he was so determined that he was toeing the line of suicidal.

It begged the question of why UA had let him join the school in the first place. At the rate his bones were breaking, it seemed to be doing him more harm than good. Not to mention that Bakugou seemed to have a one-sided vendetta against him.

God, what a mess.

Dazai had the feeling, as emerald lightning crackled around the boy’s fist, that Midoriya Izuku was more than he first appeared.

The fitness tests ended with little ceremony and no expulsions, much to Dazai’s disappointment. Chuuya, Bakugou and Todoroki had all congregated at the top, while he himself settled just below the average. He could have done better had he sabotaged his opponents, but he was undercover in a hero school. That probably wouldn’t have fit the image he was trying to create.

Atsushi had done pretty well, Dazai noted- although he wasn’t sure why he’d bothered.

The bell rang out, signalling lunch, as class finished up and Eraserhead dismissed them all with a flippant ‘scram’ gesture. The class immediately became abuzz with chatter, everyone high on the relief of avoiding expulsion. (An expulsion that was realistically never going to occur).

Now, Dazai may have been emotionally stunted and inexperienced in the ways of high school, but he wasn’t completely out of the loop. He was well aware that lunch was a key socialising event- all the big players were out networking, building their web of allies from the get go. He watched, a smile bound firmly to his lips, as small groups formed around the field and trailed one after the other towards the lunch hall.

It was really quite a spectacle, how quickly people paired up.

It was then that a familiar head of silver head bounded up to him. Atsushi.

“Dazai-san,” he called, turning a couple of curious heads. Dazai forcibly armoured his smile to stop it from twisting into a grimace.

“Atsushi-kun. Please, please drop the ‘san’? I try to keep my general superiority on the down-low.”

Atsushi just chuckled. He was quickly by Dazai’s side, discussing the ins and outs of the quirk apprehension tests fervently.

(Everyone was calling it that, but to Dazai, the exercises had just seemed like an over glorified sports day).

Dazai shared a nod with Chuuya over the boy’s head, and the other split off towards a different group. They had been told repeatedly not to associate too closely- too many links between them could spell trouble.

“I’ve been thinking a lot about what you told me,” Atsushi said, more somber, as they sat themselves down at a table. He only expanded at Dazai’s questioning look. “About the tiger being a part of me. It’s really, really helped me, Dazai-san. I’ve been training differently, and thinking differently.”

Atsushi trailed off with a self deprecating laugh.

“It’s so simple, and yet I never even considered it.”

Dazai smiled amongst the white noise of the cafeteria. Hundreds of students weaving between wooden tables and chairs, dishes clutched in their hands.

“It’s harder to notice these things about yourself.”

Atsushi opened his mouth to reply, but someone else got there first.

“Nakajima-san, Dazai-san. Can we sit with you?”

In a fortunate turn of events, it was just the man that Dazai wanted to see. He marvelled, briefly, at his own good luck.

At his nod of affirmation, a mop of green hair slid onto the bench beside him, followed by Mr. never-skipped-a-leg-day and gravity girl, who had won the ball toss.

Dazai quite liked gravity girl. She was smart, and a little mischievous. More distinctly human than the others, who acted like a herd of sacrificial lambs just jumping for the chance to be first to the slaughter.

Plus, Bakugou had exploded (metaphorically, this time) when a girl had beaten him at the exercise, which had been gratifying. Little did he know that the entire female population of the Port Mafia could have squashed him under their thumbs like a particularly annoying moth.

“Of course! And just ‘Atsushi’ is fine, really.”

Rifling through his school bag for something, Midoriya grinned in return.

“Atsushi-kun, then, I thought-” he paused as he pulled an object out of the front pocket. “Your quirk was really awesome today. Is it alright if I ask you some questions about it?”

He had produced a compact, blue notebook with scrawling handwriting denoting his name on the front. Flipping through the pages, Dazai saw glimpses of jotted notes and pictures. Some sort of quirk journal, it seemed. He shouldn’t have expected anything less from hero students.

“Yeah, I guess,” Atsushi, said, not unkind but a little surprised nonetheless.

“I’ve known Midoriya-kun for about five minutes and he’s already stopped to ask seven random students about their quirks and broken two fingers. I’m seriously considering going to the bathroom and never returning.”

That was gravity girl, lamenting in a painfully solemn manner. The effect was somewhat ruined by her cheeks being absolutely stuffed with food.

Dazai laughed as Midoriya stuttered frantically, turning tomato red.

“What? It was only, like, three people. Maybe four. Definitely not seven!”

A deeper voice spoke up then: leg boy.

“Let’s see… there was Ibuki-san from 2A, Yamada-san from general studies, Kuina-san from the-”

“Okay! They get it! We all get it, Iida-kun!”

Dazai chose that moment to interject. He fiddled with the cusp of his sleeve as he spoke (God, wearing uniforms was weird), and wore his brightest smile.

“You must really like quirks, Midoriya-kun,” he chirped. Midoriya was nodding in relief, but Dazai was certainly not finished yet.

“In the same way that us normal people like celebrities and movies.” He feigned a contemplative expression, fingers reaching up to brush his chin. “Where I’m from, we call people like you…”

Gravity beat him to the punch.

“A nerd! The biggest nerd I’ve ever met.”

She held out her hand for a high-five which Dazai took immediately and without hesitation.

“Atsushi-kun,” Midoriya groaned, looking for some kindness amongst a pack of hyenas.

“We shouldn’t bully him for his interests, guys,” Atsushi said, gently. “Surely his hair colour is a far easier target?”

“What about you? You literally have grey hair! How old are you really?!”

“I would rather look like an old man than vegetation.”

“Iida-kun, vegetation seems a touch harsh.”

“You think vegetation is bad? I just got compared to a pensioner.”

“Oh? Are are you disrespecting your elders? Are you slandering the pillars of modern society?”

“That’s not what I meant and you know it-”

The conversation was interrupted by gravity girl choking on her food due to both her shovelling-style technique and her laughter. Various attempts at the Heimlich manoeuvre ensued with a healthy dose of meaningless chaos.

There were about five minutes left of lunch break when their table came to a brief armistice. Other students were beginning to file out of the lunch hall. Dazai looked around casually, but couldn’t spot Chuuya anywhere in the vicinity. He must have left.

Dazai was considering doing the same, but Midoriya’s notebook was still out and on the table, and his gleaming eyes told Dazai that he wasn’t going to let his questions go so easily.

He lounged back in his chair as Atsushi finished off his lunch, blissfully ignorant of the interrogation that would surely follow. It was funny, Dazai mused, absently. He had assumed that socialising with a group of All Might fans would be the worst part of the job, but so far, he could say with certainty that it had been the best.

—

Nakahara Chuuya Makes a Friend

C huuya may not be the boss, like Mori. An assassin, like Kouyou. Or even whatever the f*ck Dazai considered himself to be. But he was still a Port Mafia member, and he could tell when a pair of eyes were locked on him with all the deadly precision of a sniper gun.

They had been pretty much since Chuuya first walked into his form room, immediately identifying a head of spiked red hair as a familiar and welcome sight.

He had, like a gentleman, been trying to ignore the gaze. That had just become distinctly more challenging, though, considering that the eyes were no longer somewhere in the far distance. No, now they were directly in front of him and still fixed on him with a dedication that Chuuya could only describe as either creepy or really gay.

How he had come to sit with Bakugou Katsuki of all people at lunch, Chuuya would never truly understand.

Following the athletics tests, Chuuya had been bombarded with praise. A lot of the class seemed like lovely, agreeable people and Chuuya was more than happy to join Kirishima and his makeshift group of friends for lunch. All had been going spiffily until Bakugou dropped his tray onto the table with a jolting thud. He hadn’t said a word in reply to the stilted greetings offered up by Kirishima, Ashido, Kaminari and Sero, instead choosing to hunker down on the bench and resume his staring massacre.

Bakugou appeared to be the type to speak his mind, no matter the reception, so Chuuya was increasingly confused at the lack of communication. It was making them all uncomfortable, and he was going to put a stop to it. He flung his hair over his shoulder in an act of courage and vindication.

“- she said, ‘Mina, you can’t just bell Hawks every time your deliveroo driver is a bit slow’, and I said-”

“Do you have a problem with me?” Chuuya demanded.

He internally apologised to Ashido, but kept his gaze locked onto Bakugou’s. Guys like him didn’t respond well to fear (they were similar to small dogs in that sense). Chuuya matched his challenge head on, lips contorted into a frown.

The others at the table were watching the showdown raptly. Even the buzz and chatter that filled the cafeteria seemed to soften into white noise as tension thickened into sap. Every tiny movement, every rise and fall of a chest or clench of a jaw registered in Chuuya’s mind with an incredible clarity. His mafia training, he supposed. It flowed through his veins, had merged with his very being like oxygen diffusing into the cell membrane.

“W-why isn’t he answering? Is he okay?” Kaminari whispered to Sero next to him. The latter simply face-palmed in response.

Unfortunately, the nature of the silence at their table meant that the exchange could quite easily be heard by all occupants. A growl clambered up from the depths of Bakugou’s throat.

“Shut the f*ck up, Extra. This is between me and him.”

Something snapped.

“Don’t f*cking talk to people like that. I thought you were here to become a hero, so act like it.” Chuuya leant back in his chair, and let his scowl slacken. Honestly. He just couldn’t figure this guy out.

“You were treating Midoriya-kun like sh*t earlier, but you had some history, fine. This has come from nowhere. I’ve never met you before in my life.”

A cough sounded from somewhere on the table.

Rather than calming down, Bakugou looked more agitated than ever. Or maybe- maybe more uncomfortable than agitated?

Chuuya tilted his head, looking at Bakugou like he was a particularly tough puzzle. Observing his every movement.

It was funny; anyone would assume that the Port Mafia were a somewhat violent and aggressive group of people, but this guy had most of them beat.

Finally, Bakugou moved. He leant forwards, right into Chuuya’s space. A fist banged down onto the varnished surface of the table.

“Listen here, I don’t like you and I don’t trust you,” Bakugou narrated, slowly and deliberately. “I saw you in the entrance exam, and that sh*t wasn’t normal. Kids barely out of middle school shouldn’t be able to do that.”

Chuuya felt himself tensing up, involuntarily. It was his first day. His first day. And already, someone had looked right through him. Seen through to his core and branded him as an outsider. As someone untrustworthy.

He looked around to the others at the table, who were all shell shocked. How long before it spread to them? Before the distrust became contagious and-

That was when the laughter started. Ashido first, god bless her, and the others following one by one. A minute later and they were all practically in tears- Kirishima was doubled over after a particularly harsh inhale.

“He was complimenting you! That was literally a compliment!”

Bakugou was fuming, but his complaints were growing less heartfelt, and as they went to clear their trays, Chuuya could swear he saw a hint of a smile colour Bakugou’s face.

He spoke again as they were walking down the hall to their form room, the remnants of laughter floating through the air.

“I’m not asking for your hand in marriage, Bakugou-kun. If you don’t like me, that’s alright. If you don’t trust me,” Chuuya trailed off.

A reliable pillar, Mori had said.

“If you don’t trust me, we can work on that. It’s not my fault I’m insanely talented. Exert less of your energy on being a dick and maybe you’ll get to my level too.”

He smiled, for good measure.

“Someday.”

A chorus of cheers rang out from behind him. Kaminari was especially enthusiastic, and Chuuya almost felt inclined to take a bow.

“As if I’d ever marry you anyway, Hat f*cker.”

The excitement from his friends only grew at that. He was almost certain, this time, as they walked into the classroom- Bakugou was smiling.

Crisis averted.

—

Their lesson that afternoon was an odd one. An introduction to hero marketing and self promotion. It was probably a side of the heroics industry that most of his classmates had never really considered, and it was definitely the side that pissed him off the most. It just seemed to go so clearly against the spirit of the thing that the contrast was jarring.

As Midnight, who was teaching the lesson, flipped through her PowerPoint, Chuuya gazed across rows of seats, mindlessly. He had situated himself near the back of the classroom, so people watching was a luxury he could afford. It was somewhat amusing how perfectly each student played into their various stereotypes: Iida and Midoriya were paying rapt attention to the board. Jirou had subtly plugged an earphone in. Tokoyami’s gaze was directed somewhere outside the window.

Chuuya took the moment to lament over how incredibly ridiculous the painted picture was. A whole class full of elite hero students. In Yokohama, such a class was an unwelcome pipe dream. Finding even a couple of kids with both the will and means to become a hero was challenge enough in itself.

The only hero agency in Yokohama was the Armed Detective Agency, and whether or not they were ‘heroes’ as such was debatable. They were really just a collection of civil servants that were licensed to use their quirks in public, and generally operated from the shadows.

Like a more charitable version of the Port Mafia, Chuuya supposed.

The lesson ended with a final question posed by Midnight. Coming up with an answer was their homework for the week, and she became uncharacteristically somber when she asked them each to consider the words carefully.

“Why do you want to be a hero?”

Well truthfully, he didn’t. Maybe once, such a thing had appealed to him- had meant something. Now, the word felt empty, and the dream was long withered.

Chuuya left the classroom, feeling strangely burdened by Midnight’s words.

—

Dazai Osamu Makes a Friend

T he next day marked class 1A’s first real hero training lesson, and the excitement in the air was palpable.

One (perhaps slightly superficial) reason for this was that it was their first opportunity to try on their hero costumes.

The other was that All Might had strolled into their class as if that was completely normal, and introduced himself as their teacher.

For Dazai, that had only raised the stakes. Fooling a bunch of untrained fifteen year-olds into thinking he was your typical hero hopeful was one thing. Fooling the number one himself was a whole other story.

Slipping his arms into tan sleeves felt weird, to say the least. Black had been his sole companion for years. Being without it felt almost like being completely bare. He forced a shudder down, and instead worked on attaching the blue gem to his chest using a harness-like string structure that the support course had built.

He couldn’t stop himself from looking over at Chuuya, who was finishing up on the other side of the changing room. His signature hat was off, and replaced by Dazai’s goggle concoction.

He looked good, Dazai could admit that much. If anyone asked, it was because of Dazai’s own talent in fashion design.

“Are you three ready? This will surely be a testing, but valuable challenge.”

Dazai had gotten used to Iida’s stilted way of speaking and frankly insane hand movements through a culmination of conversations.

“Naturally. Isn’t this what we all came for?”

Midoriya nodded in reply. His hands were fisted, and he looked a little shaky. His freckles stood out starkly against pallid skin like ink on paper.

Dazai was tempted to ask after the other’s health, but was stopped short.

“I’m ready.”

The words were solid, unyielding and caked in a mud-like conviction. Midoriya’s body wasn’t racked with nerves, but excitement.

It made Dazai feel sick.

It wasn’t easy to unnerve him- he had shot real guns like they were merely video game depictions. Hated with such a deep resentment that hatred was as much a part of him as his own skin and bones. But this. This child, conditioned to become a weapon of mass destruction, conditioned to want to. This evoked a feeling that even blood slicked hands couldn’t conjure.

They left the changing rooms, and Dazai pushed down a surge of dread with a meandering exhale.

Explaining the rules was an ordeal in the way that most things at UA seemed to be. What was actually a very simple task (either be the villains and protect the bomb or be the heroes and fight your way to the bomb) was made to sound very complicated.

Dazai watched the battles progress with a casual sort of engagement. The type one might feel towards some vaguely interesting daytime television.

First were heroes Atsushi and Uraraka versus villains Bakugou and Iida.

The heroes started off well, developing a strategy that had Atsushi fronting the charge and Uraraka following up the rear and deploying guerrilla tactics.

Their big mistake was thinking that Atsushi stood a chance against Bakugou. The former was talented, yes, but the latter was skilled. That subtle difference was exploited and the villains won the round.

Bakugou even left a gaping hole in the floorboards of one of the rooms. It was on the second floor near the bomb, but All Might deemed it noticeable enough to be safely left without maintenance.

Next up to the metaphorical chopping block were Todoroki and hand guy against tail guy (what was with these people and their plentiful limbs?) and Casper the friendly f*cking ghost.

Needless to say, Todoroki decimated the game and secured a win in minutes.

Tokoyami and Asui beat Kirishima and Sero next in a glorious display by Dark Shadow.

“Hero team: Yaoyorozu-san and Nakahara-kun, villain team: Kaminari-kun and Jirou-san,” All Might said. Although simply ‘speaking’ for All Might was shouting for the rest of the world.

Dazai watched from his perch on a chair as Chuuya headed towards the battleground, nodding to Yaoyorozu as she joined him. They made a funny pair, if only because Yaoyorozu towered over him as one of the taller girls in the class. Plus, while Yaoyorozu walked with all the elegance of the nobility, Chuuya trudged around like a delinquent.

The screens in front of them crackled into life, displaying views of the front of the building, as well as various rooms inside where the ‘villains’ were already situated. Said villains were prodding at their ‘bomb’ in an attempt to push it.

The idea seemed reasonable enough in that Chuuya and Yaoyorozu had already received the chance to watch multiple other groups try the same exercise, so they had advantageous knowledge of the building compared to other heroes. It was less reasonable in that their bomb was a huge, metal cylinder, and without the aid of a super strength quirk, no amount of pushing was going to move it an inch. Still, Dazai applauded Kaminari for trying.

Sudden movement flashed on the monitor showing the exterior. The two heroes had previously been huddled together in front of the grimy walls of the tower block. Now, Yaoyorozu was pulling an object out of her chest. The grainy picture made it hard to tell what exactly it was, but Dazai’s eyes narrowed in recognition.

Even though there was no audio, Dazai could tell immediately that this was Chuuya’s plan being set in motion. Brash and bold and considered thoroughly but not quite thoroughly enough.

“Rubber gloves,” Midoriya mumbled from beside him.

Dazai sighed. “I wish Chuuya wasn’t so very predictable.”

Midoriya looked at him, head tilted. Then realisation spilt onto his features.

“You went to the same middle school as Nakahara-san, right?”

Dazai nodded. It was the lie the pair had agreed on. It would be impossible to avoid each other completely for the entire duration of the mission without garnering some suspicion. Best to tell a believable half-truth and be done with it.

“The hero team will lose.”

Eyes sharp and alert, Midoriya turned back to the screen. The heroes were making their way into the building now, Yaoyorozu splitting off and up the stairs, rubber gloves on her hands. Chuuya remained prowling along the bottom floor.

“Chuuya has already decided that he can’t avoid falling prey to Jirou-san’s quirk,” Dazai narrated. His gaze never left the monitors even as Midoriya and a couple of other classmates blinked up at him.

“He’s looking to exploit the fact that the villain team currently deem him the bigger threat. They probably agreed before starting that should the heroes split up, Jirou-san would prioritise tracking Chuuya. He wants to create a situation in which Yaoyorozu-san and Kaminari-kun can fight one-on-one, because she has the advantage.”

As he spoke, Jirou crept down the corridor, bypassing the stairs completely. She plugged her earphone jack into a wall and listened, solemnly.

“However, Chuuya has underestimated the perimeter of Jirou-san’s ability. Or at least decided the hero team’s combined strength can overcome certain aspects of it. Midoriya-kun, you must have asked how far away Jirou-san can hear using her quirk?”

Midoriya nodded, still watching the events play out before his eyes.

“She said she can hear everything clearly for about 50 metres in any direction.”

“The building is less than 50 metres tall and relatively quiet. She doesn’t need to focus on one hero or the other. She can track both.”

Movement on a screen that had been still up until then caught his attention. It was in the villain’s base. A dull place, really, with water damaged walls and dusty wooden floors. Kaminari was nodding as he listened to Jirou through their headset. Abruptly, he darted out of the room, into a small offshoot to the side.

Meanwhile, Yaoyorozu ran down the hallway approaching the base, looking around guardedly.

“Is Kaminari-kun going to throw a surprise attack?” That was invisible girl, back from her turn.

“No,” Dazai replied with a smile, watching Midoriya shake his head as well, mumbling about the ineffectiveness of such a method.

“A surprise attack would be the least surprising move they could make. No matter what Kaminari-kun does, Yaoyorozu-san will be ready for him. But someone needs to protect the bomb. So there’s only one option left.”

Yaoyorozu charged into the room, hands thrown out in combat stance and legs in a lunge. But other than the gleaming metal bomb, the room was completely empty.

She seemed reluctant to let down her guard, but began walking towards the bomb anyway.

On the bottom screen, Chuuya had been walking towards Jirou’s corridor. A smirk pulled at his lips as he crossed the final corner towards her.

“How could they possibly lose from here?” Iida asked, genuinely unsure.

“They’ll lose.”

That was when Yaoyorozu’s head snapped to the left. A noise had clearly alerted her to something being amiss. Acting frantically, she dived for the bomb, only needing to touch it to attain the victory.

Her gloved fingers were inches away when something happened. Vibrations filled the air, even the camera picking up on the violent distortions. Yaoyorozu’s body flailed in mid-air, being forcibly pushed back towards the corridor. Her hands clasped her ears tightly, her eyes watering.

Then Jirou sprinted through the room, kicking Yaoyorozu’s legs clean out from under her.

“Sound waves!” tail guy gasped from behind Dazai. “How the hell did Jirou-san get up there? I thought she was following Nakahara-kun.”

On the monitor displaying the ground floor, Chuuya rounded the corner, arms outstretched. The smile was wiped off his face instantly. Kaminari jumped out from behind the wall, lightning surrounding him like a shield, and grabbed onto Chuuya’s arms tightly. Both fell to the ground.

“Chuuya was focused on his own advantageous knowledge of the building and his classmates. He has a tendency to overestimate himself, you see. He forgot that the villains also had knowledge of the battleground. Namely, the hole that Bakugou-kun created in the first round.”

Midoriya practically squeaked, his eyes widening. “It’s exactly above where Jirou-san was hiding. They swapped places while Nakahara-san and Yaoyorozu-san were distracted and got the advantage in both fights.”

Dazai beamed. “Exactly. Typical Chuuya not to imagine that your opponents can also take opportunities given to them.”

“Victory for the villain team,” All Might shouted over the intercom. Although even he seemed a little surprised.

Midoriya was staring at him like he had seen a ghost.

“Dazai-kun, that was amazing. You just predicted that entire match before it even began.”

Standing up from his seat and dusting his coat off, Dazai began walking towards the exit. His turn next. Bullying Chuuya for his humiliating failure could be a fun evening activity.

“I’ve had plenty of practise. I may not look like it, but I’m something of a crime drama fanatic.”

Midoriya laughed, and jogged over.

“My mum is the same.”

He paused at the doorway, something clearly still on his mind. Dazai stopped as well, repressing a sigh.

“Hey, Dazai-kun,” Midoriya began. “What exactly is your quirk?”

All Might’s instructions interrupted them.

“We’re onto the final group, now. The hero team is Ashido-san and Midoriya-kun. The villain team is Dazai-kun and Sato-kun.”

Dazai grinned.

“I guess you’ll find out, Midoriya-kun. Good luck!”

And off he went.

—

The bomb was pretty realistic, upon closer inspection. Sleek and cold to the touch, marred by shallow scratches. It was nice handy work, Dazai mused, as Sato exited the room.

Dazai’s plan had been mixed and seasoned with two basic facts at its foundations. One: Midoriya and Ashido had watched all the previous battles. Two: Neither of them knew Dazai’s quirk.

Sato, although a sweetheart (and a sweet tooth), was quite happy to simply follow instructions on the strategic front. He had popped a sugar cube into his mouth, committed Dazai’s plans to memory and run off into position with a departing fist bump. Dazai had liked that. The only person who ever first bumped him was Chuuya, and those tended to be slightly more violent and painful than encouraging.

It’s easy to believe that we can’t be influenced once we’ve made up our minds about something, but such a view point is naïve. Similarly, we like to imagine that external factors don’t have too much sway over us. Again, we’re wrong. Everything we see, watch, consume plants thoughts into our minds that cannot be pushed aside and ignored in their entirety. These thoughts have a tendency to narrow our viewpoints and entice us to act in ways previously presented to us.

Ashido and Midoriya had witnessed each of the previous groups battle, and therefore saw all of the members split up before engaging in one-on-one fights. Midoriya seemed rather prone to getting stuck in his own head as it was. All the reinforcement of ‘dividing and conquering’ would only amplify this effect. Dazai was certain of it.

Ashido and Midoriya would not work as a team. In fact, they would completely overlook it as a possibility. Therefore, the most logical course of action for Dazai and Sato was to do exactly that.

It was a little risky, as it would involve leaving the bomb unprotected, but Dazai had requested they move it to a different location between matches. He just hoped it was enough to stall Midoriya while they fought Ashido.

“Midoriya-kun is going up the main staircase. Ashido-san is along the bottom corridor. I’m going to meet her.”

Dazai responded with an affirmation. Sato’s quirk was powerful but had low endurance- they needed to finish the match off as quickly as possible. In that sense, their defensive roles as villains was somewhat disadvantageous.

He headed towards the back staircase, leaping down the floors to reach the bottom. Sato was already mid-battle, throwing punches and kicks with clumsy trajectory. Ashido seemed to be on her way to the triumph. She was quick. If Sato couldn’t reach her, his super strength was rendered meaningless.

Dazai hid in the doorway, unseen. He just had to wait for the right opportunity to act.

The fight dragged on for another precious half minute before he found a chance to interject. Sato had dealt a harsh blow to Ashido’s left arm, and she was open.

Now.

He charged forwards, fingers outstretched to Ashido’s left. Their eyes met briefly, surprise etched into every line of her face. She secreted a pool of acid from her left hand just as Dazai reached her.

Hissing lowly as the sting of the acid spread across the skin of his arm, Dazai watched the calming blue of No Longer Human engulf Ashido.

He wished, briefly, that his powers could affect physical matter created by quirks (like Ashido’s acid), but pushed the thought aside.

“Go, Sato-kun,” he yelled. He didn’t have to, though. Sato was already swinging back his arm and dealing the decisive punch.

(He kind of liked this guy. Maybe he should replace Chuuya with this more obedient slave. Dog. Appendix. Whatever).

“Let’s head up,” Dazai said, not waiting to receive a nod before running back to the stairs. He listened to the thumping footsteps behind him as he tried to divert his gaze from the blistering patch of skin on his arm. That would leave a nasty scar.

He hoped that Midoriya hadn’t progressed too close to the bomb- it would be nice to have a second or two to recollect himself.

Unfortunately, his prayers were not answered. Reaching the top of the staircase gave him an expansive view of the top floor of the building. Midoriya was striding towards the bomb, quirk in control (for once) and sparking around his legs.

Now that he was observing from such close range, Dazai felt something like recognition pass through him. The lightning-like substance that he emitted, the super strength with a power that far surpassed any other quirk of a similar nature. There was a certain hero that came to mind at such descriptors.

Before he knew it, Sato and Midoriya were locked in combat. But Sato was slowing down by the second, and Midoriya seemed to be getting bolder and bolder as all his bones remained intact. It was probably a bad thing to be wishing your friend’s bones would break, right? Anyway.

Sato was using his increased body surface area to shield the bomb from Midoriya, pushing him back. But for every one step backwards, it seemed to be two forwards for the hero.

When Midoriya pulled a finger back for a flick, Dazai knew Sato wouldn’t be able to counter. He went rocketing back into the wall behind him, a stream of concrete chips breaking off and clattering to the ground.

Dazai stepped forwards, positioning himself between Midoriya and the bomb. Only three minutes left on the clock. He could drag this out.

(A voice in Dazai questioned why he even cared. Why he wanted, so desperately, to win this trial. This game concocted for children. Although the rational side of him knew better, the deeper, most pungent part told him he should win everything. Defeat all his enemies. Perhaps it was his mafia mindset, or perhaps Dazai simply couldn’t stand the flavour of defeat).

Midoriya shuffled a leg forwards, but hesitated even in his minute movement. Dazai pounced on that split second indecision.

“You’ve had plenty of time now, Midoriya-kun, and I’m sure it’s been on your mind. So take a guess.” Dazai grinned. “What’s my quirk?”

Midoriya didn’t let his guard down, legs planted firmly in a defensive stance.

“Well… it’s not an offensive quirk, or you would’ve found a way to use it in the quirk apprehension tests. And right now, that’s all I need to know.”

Dazai laughed, leaning back against the bomb. It was a show of arrogance. Really, if Midoriya was to jump then, Dazai wouldn’t have a hope in hell of stopping him.

“Midoriya-kun, I watched you interrogate Atsushi-kun about his quirk for a full twenty five minutes. I could write a seven page essay on the thing. I know more about his quirk than he does.”

He sighed.

“What I’m trying to say is, for you, knowing that my quirk is not offensive isn’t nearly enough.”

It was working. For now, at least. There couldn’t have been more than a minute and a half left on the clock.

Dazai was banking on Midoriya’s strategic mind stopping him from charging in without any background information, but he was beginning to look a little restless. Shifting about on the balls of his feet. Dazai’s teeth gritted, even as he hid an amused exhale.

“Let me ask you something, Midoriya-kun. Why do you want to be a hero?”

Stilling wearily, Midoriya tilted his head at that. He was uneasy.

“I want to save people.”

“From what?”

“From villains. From criminals. People who want to harm them. Why are you asking me this?”

A second of silence.

“Has Bakugou-kun ever harmed you?”

“Why are you suddenly bringing up Kacchan?”

“The very person that people need saving from is trying to become the saviour. I can’t tell if it’s genius in its ludicrousness or just ludicrous.”

That was when Midoriya snapped. Dazai cursed himself for being careless. There must have been more going on between Midoriya and Bakugou than there seemed to be at surface level. He should have tried a different route.

Too late now, he supposed, as Midoriya flew towards him. Green lightning filled the air as he propelled himself towards the bomb.

Dazai met him halfway, literally pushing him backwards, square on the shoulders. Midoriya’s quirk was nullified with a blue glimmer. He skidded backwards, face the picture of astonishment. It bought Dazai a precious few seconds, but it wasn’t long before Midoriya was back in the fight.

Dazai wasn’t going to lie, Midoriya was clearly trained to at least an amateur standard at combat, and he matched Dazai’s skill level, if not improved upon it. A physical fight wasn’t ideal, but was somewhat unavoidable.

Midoriya had chosen to abandon the quirk route all together. He caught Dazai in the stomach with a well aimed punch, before narrowly dodging an upper cut.

They danced closer and closer to the bomb. Surely, the time was approaching the limit by now.

Dazai was coming to the end of his abilities. It was time to put his final plan into action.

Hopping back, Dazai stood, spine pressed up against the bomb. Taking the opportunity, Midoriya rushed forwards. He must have known that Dazai wouldn’t let him get a subtle touch of the bomb in, or maybe he just wanted a more definitive win. Either way, his fist was aimed at Dazai rather than the metal monster behind him.

Dazai raised his right arm to block. And Midoriya stopped dead in his tracks.

This was the arm that- during the fight with Ashido- had taken a dosage of acid. Scar tissue was forming in reddened clumps. On top of the blackened edges of the coat sleeve and his bandages, it didn’t make for a pretty sight.

Even in attack mode, Midoriya’s moral compass rivalled that of the most noble superhero. Maybe it was a dirty move, but Dazai was certain that Midoriya would pull his punch if he used his injured arm as the target.

And Midoriya did. That second of hesitance cost him dearly.

“The time limit is up. As the heroes have failed to secure the bomb, the villains are victorious.”

—

Following the battle, All Might had ushered the four of them off to check in with Recovery Girl. Dazai felt bad for the poor woman; she must have been absolutely swamped with work.

He knew that her quirk wouldn’t have any effect on him, but he had tagged along anyway. All Might’s quietly concerned insistence and his own curiosity magnetised him to her office.

(And maybe- just maybe- a tiny, minuscule part of him wanted to find Chuuya. To bully him, obviously. Was that so wrong?)

He was walking beside Midoriya, both of them drowning in the silence. It was strange. Considering his friend’s habit of breaking bones and his own penchant for breaking people’s mental health, one would imagine that breaking the silence would be an easy job.

It was Midoriya who managed it in the end.

He sighed, scuffing a red boot along the ground.

“I’m really sorry, Dazai-kun. I got completely, irrationally angry when you mentioned Kacchan, and overdid it in the fight,” he said, sincerely. “No. Even before that, when you asked me why I wanted to be a hero… I don’t know. I’ve answered it so many times before. And I’ve always meant what I said,” he reassured Dazai, frantically. “But sometimes I wonder if it’s enough. Helping people is- it’s the most important thing you can do. But you picked holes in my logic instantly. Am I even qualified to be one of these elite saviours we put on pedestals? Is anyone?”

Midoriya was midway into a full on mumbling speech when they reached the nurse’s office. Dazai didn’t mind, though. In a way, he was just pleased to hear Midoriya thinking and observing for himself.

“You really have nothing to apologise for,” Dazai said, grinning. It bought Midoriya back to the realm of the living with an embarrassed laugh.

“First off, we were in a training exercise simulating the roles of heroes and villains. If you hadn’t gone all out in the fight, I would have been offended.”

He held out a second finger as Recovery Girl looked Sato up and down.

“Second, I didn’t mean what I said about why you should be a hero. I was just trying to waste time, talking in circles. I know a lot of people, and most of them are assholes. You’re-” he faltered. “Well, you’re not. And that makes you pretty qualified, in my humble opinion.”

Midoriya smiled at him, gratefully.

“And finally, I shouldn’t have bought up Bakugou-kun.”

Dazai threw his arms out, mournfully.

“I mean, for all I know, you’re bullying him from the shadows.”

A violent choke sounded from beside him.

“Plus, the two of you are clearly in love.”

“Dazai-kun please!”

Recovery Girl walked in on Midoriya turning an unhealthy shade of crimson. She ushered him over to a curtained off area, mumbling about broken bones and the like as he stumbled along beside her.

He only had to wait a few more minutes for his next goal to be satisfied.

“Hey, asshole. Come to gloat?”

A figure was approaching him from behind. He turned, moving from his comfortable position on an unoccupied bed.

“Chuuya! I’ll have you know that I’ve come to deal with this.” He held up his right arm. “I forgot that you even existed the moment you walked out the room.”

Expecting Chuuya to keep up their cat-and-mouse game, Dazai was a little surprised when the former’s features twisted in… something. In pain, maybe? Concern?

“That doesn’t look great,” Chuuya tried, almost carefully. “Are you okay?”

He joined him on the bed. Dazai looked in honey brown eyes and couldn’t see a hint of mockery.

Chuuya had always been different, Dazai knew, to the other members of the Port Mafia. To the boss, that slimy bastard. To the Black Lizard, who murdered as naturally as they slept, ate and breathed. Even to Kouyou, who survived on the cruelty running through her veins, though she kept any outward malice clamped down and out of sight. Chuuya hadn’t been born evil.

“I wonder which is wounded worse, my arm or your pride?”

“You f*cking-”

“Surely, a kind, young hero-in-training such as yourself wouldn’t hit an invalid?”

Chuuya visibly held back a twitch.

“Ooh a twitch? That lightning strike hasn’t given you any long standing fine motor control issues, has it?” It came out teasing. Chuuya saw through him.

“If I had fine motor control issues, who would cook dinner? We’d both f*cking starve.”

Later, Dazai left Recovery Girl’s office with multiple shiny new things. One was some gauze and fresh bandages neatly wrapped around his arm. Another was the phantom of a kiss on his cheek- Recovery Girl had said it wouldn’t hurt to try. She had been wrong. That kiss had been mildly wet, incredibly unpleasant and completely ineffective. And, of course, Chuuya in tow.

—

Shigaraki Tomura and the First Attack

“ I t makes me sick, Kurogiri. It makes me f*cking sick.”

“What makes you sick, Shigaraki Tomura?”

“Everything. All of it. Heroes and villains and everyone in between. Everyone who simply buries their head in the sand whenever a problem arises. Everyone who uses ‘heroes’ as an excuse to live their lives without working and fighting and loving. Who revels in the safety they say they provide.”

Shigaraki Tomura rose from his chair, abruptly. He dropped the newspaper he had been reading, letting it flutter to the ground. His entire body was on fire; his hands shook restlessly where he had pressed them to his sides.

“This world we’ve created is an illness, Kurogiri. It’s the rash under my skin.”

“Control yourself, Shigaraki Tomura-”

“f*ck off,” Shigaraki cried, whipping around to face the smoking form that constituted his ally.

“His information is good- reliable. I’m sure of it. Today, we prepare. Soon, we march on the USJ.”

He bent down, slow and deliberate, until he was hovering over the newspaper that had gracefully landed besides him. All Might’s beaming face stared up at him. Shigaraki felt that familiar mix of adoration and disgust. He wondered how strong it would become when he was face-to-face with the real deal.

Chapter 3: Attack on the USJ

Chapter Text

“Why do you want to be a hero?”

Yokohama was an island. Perhaps not in the physical sense, but in every way that mattered. It was indignant and ever-evolving. A wind tunnel of ideas and emotions.

It was a place that Chuuya adored in the most genuine sense of the word. Adored in a way that wouldn’t let up or break down. Yokohama could detest him- could throw him into the depths of its raging waters or bury him in the blackened, charred earth which made up its very foundations. His feelings towards it wouldn’t change.

Whether it was just the kindness of the moment- the gentle caress of a breeze against his cheek. Or whether his feelings had been locked up inside him, pressed against his heart since his first moments of clarity. Chuuya could accept Yokohama into him- completely and without regret.

He turned to Yuan. She was sat beside him in the muddied alley, her voice little more than a breath of wind against the bustling crowds by the port.

“I don’t want to be a hero,” he said. He was a little confused. The Sheep were important, he felt, and were fighting on the side of justice. But he had never once considered them heroes.

“But aren’t we kind of like heroes?” Yuan shifted a little. She brushed pink strands away from her eyes; her hair was growing longer as each day passed. The sleeves of her bomber jacket were fraying beneath fiddling fingers. She was ashamed, he thought, or maybe even guilty.

“We protect the innocent, and we deliver justice to evil.”

“Yuan-”

“I know. I know we shouldn’t really say it out loud. But can’t you admit it just for a second? Aren’t we kind of like the heroes of Yokohama?”

Chuuya felt his body stiffen, each muscle pulled taut. Stretched and torn only in order to become stronger. He saw Yuan’s expectant gaze on him: her friend, her leader.

“I guess we kind of are.”

Her beam was radiant, and so impossibly worth it.

For a split second, maybe two, Chuuya let himself wonder. Let himself dream of what kind of life he could have led.

Dream of the people he could have saved. Of the way that his fans would have looked at him- adoring and humbled. Now, people only looked at him with disgust (when he was just another street kid in Yokohama) or fear (when he was King of the Sheep, the fearsome vigilante group).

Vivid blue eyes came to him in his memory. Eyes that looked at him with warmth and benevolence.

“You’re already a hero, my boy. And no quirk, no scar, no God can change that. What makes you a hero is your actions- it’s you alone.”

For once, the memory didn’t hurt him. Didn’t feel like the scrambling and clawing of a long-dead corpse clambering out of its coffin. It felt like the compassion of a truly good man.

For only the second time, Nakahara Chuuya wished he could become a hero.

—

Dazai Osamu and the Two Strangers (Part 1)

U A was large. Large enough to host a school full of aggressive teenagers. Large enough to house multiple gyms, arenas and even some dorm rooms, Dazai had been told. Not to mention the crocodile pool that he had been actively avoiding. But more relevantly, large enough to get lost in, if one didn’t know their way around.

Dazai found that out the hard way.

When one’s sad*stic form teacher makes one skip out on the initiation assembly for a quirk apprehension test of shifty legitimacy at best, one does not know their way around. And one does get lost.

The bell had rung only a few minutes ago, signalling the end of the day. The unavoidable beginner’s nerves had begun to wear off of class 1A, and were slowly but surely being replaced by the general distress that came with school life.

The waking up at seven and choking down breakfast. The dreaming through maths lessons and thinking of inventive new excuses for lacking homework.

Dazai had realised that, in amongst the flurry of first term activity, he had quite simply failed to explore UA. He was a spy. A plant. An informant, for goodness sake. So why was he the holder of so little information? He had been (devastatingly) forced to ask Atsushi for directions to the teachers’ lounge the other day. Atsushi. Worse, the boy had actually provided him with an answer.

Dazai had watched Atsushi walk into a pole and then look around for what hit him. He wasn’t exactly the most clued up kid in the world.

So there Dazai was- traipsing through the halls of UA in a good-natured attempt to get to grips with the layout. Five random turns later and he was lost.

It was a nice corridor, at least. Or so Dazai told himself, perhaps in a pitiful attempt to placate his bruised ego.

Beige carpeted floors spanned the area, soft and newly laid. Dark blue walls were disrupted by door upon door. Checking the signs, Dazai figured that he was in the general education building. How incredibly exciting.

Strolling down the halls, Dazai resigned himself to a life of wandering. A stray student or teacher passed him occasionally, but no one that he felt the desire to bother.

“Class 3A, 3B, 3C- ooh 3F. How novel,” Dazai recounted. “Class 2A, 2B,” he chirped, before a sign caught his eye. Printed in bold black characters:

“The library,” he hummed.

In a rare moment of optimism, Dazai decided that the library could be interesting. It did, after all, contain fountains of knowledge. Word after word building lives and spirits that didn’t exist in this realm. And more importantly, it may even contain the most wonderful book of all- The Complete Guide to Suicide. Oh, what a miracle that would be!

So in he pranced, allowing the door to slam loudly behind him because he couldn’t care less about anyone else’s peaceful reading experience.

The first thing that Dazai noticed about the UA library was that it was just as majestic as the rest of the school. Or maybe a more appropriate term would be imposing.

Shelves of books lined every wall, their spines on display in a maze of mahogany cabinets. A glistening, spiral staircase twisted up through the centre of the room, almost otherworldly in appearance.

There were a few other students dotted about the area. Some had books in hand, other were hovering quietly over scribbled worksheets. They had largely ignored his entrance, with one notable exception.

A boy was glaring at him, wearily. He was dressed in a neat rendition of the school uniform, his tie knotted more tightly than Dazai’s had ever been. Glasses perched on his nose, lips were downturned beneath an elegant mole.

Dazai waved his fingers cheerily. The boy did not respond.

Genres labelled the start of each section of cupboards and shelves in the same orderly manner that the boy’s tie had been arranged. He must have been the student librarian, Dazai’s mind supplied.

Although he had enjoyed his brief stint to the unknown halls of UA, he was rapidly running out of reasons to be there. Simply appreciating the wealth of reading material on display couldn’t keep him entertained for long. And there was quite a variety- from pre-quirk science fiction to the newest bestsellers. Not to mention the non fiction section.

He was considering making his exit, probably a welcome idea for the student librarian, when his gaze lingered on a single aisle. The sign above it held a combination of words that tapped at something in Dazai’s mind like a repetitive beat in an annoyingly catchy tune:

Quirk Biology

Of course, quirk physics and chemistry existed as well, both very interesting in their own right. Neither were what he needed though, as he considered what had drawn him to the aisle in the first place.

A simple question: what was Dazai Osamu doing at UA? A simple answer: spying. Most likely on the actions of the pro heroes that constituted the teaching staff, one of which was All Might himself.

A simple question: what was Midoriya Izuku doing at UA? A far more complicated answer. Surely, his almost complete inability to use his quirk would have hindered his chances at acceptance? Whether he had somehow battled through the entrance exam, or other forces were at play, his admittance to UA just didn’t sit right with Dazai.

His newest revelation only supported this fact. Midoriya’s quirk held a strong resemblance to All Might’s. In fact, a part of Dazai was convinced that it was the very same quirk.

He had pondered for a little while over whether this could be coincidental. But concatenating all the facts (as well as the rare nature of such limitless super strength) could only lead to one conclusion. Midoriya and All Might were linked in some way. As the issue concerned the number one hero, Dazai had decided it was well within his jurisdiction to look into what exactly was going on. And what better place to research such a thing than the library?

He sauntered down the quirk biology aisle, eyes scanning titles and filtering out what wouldn’t be useful to him. He had gathered a pile of five books by the time he came round to choosing a seat. A nearby table was surrounded by several chairs. Each was crafted from a beautiful, dark wood, intricate patterns carved up the sides. Deep grooves added texture, and Dazai found himself marvelling at the work.

Only one of these seats were occupied- a boy with his head bent over a thick hardback. He seemed unbothered by Dazai’s presence, so he determined that there could be a quiet, mutual tolerance between them.

Slipping into the chair furthest away from his new research companion, Dazai spread his selected books across the table. Two of them were merely introductory books on the topic- thin and lacking in the detail he desired. He had only chosen them for reference in case a topic he was unfamiliar with appeared elsewhere. He shoved them to the side, confident in his base knowledge of the subject.

The third book in his pile had initially looked promising. But the first chapter quickly dispelled any such feeling. It seemed to be more interested in comparing pre and post quirk cell structures than anything else. Dazai did not have time to relearn the definition of the mitochondria, thank you very much.

Fourth in his spread was a heavy, leather bound book.

Quirks and Where They Come From

Written by Dr. Natsume Tobio, edited by Dr. Shigaraki Yoichi

Dazai peered over the table of contents, letting loose, brown curls form shadows on the page. He drew his finger down the list before finding a chapter of relevance. Page 243.

Genetic Inheritance of Quirks

It is common knowledge, in the field of quirk biology, that quirks are more often than not passed from parent to child through genetic inheritance. Simply taking a look around you- or even considering your own ability- should prove this fact. A mother with a transformation quirk that leaves her with the physical features of an eagle would not be unreasonable to expect a transformation quirk of a similar nature in her son or daughter.

Naturally, other factors such as the quirks of the father and remaining relatives will complicate this process. Additionally, genetic mutations could upset the straightforward transference of quirk from parent to child. Even environmental factors including the mother taking excessive drugs or alcohol during pregnancy could cause extreme changes to the nature of the inherited quirk.

The chapter largely continued in a similar fashion, stating information that Dazai had picked up long ago. He was considering simply moving on when a footnote tucked away at the bottom of the page piqued his interest.

1. Note that this evidence only applies to the inheritance of a quirk through the method of mitosis following sexual intercourse. It does not pertain to the inheritance of a quirk via asexual reproduction or transference. For more on this, please refer to The Changing of Hands: a Study on Unnatural Quirk Development.

As much as Dazai hated blatant self advertisem*nt, the book seemed to be exactly what he was searching for. The transference of a quirk via methods other than genetic inheritance. It was taboo- deemed impossible, by philistines. And yet, other than the fact that it had never yet been achieved, there was no scientific evidence against it.

Grinning, Dazai picked up the fifth and final book in his pile. Of course, it could only be one thing.

The Changing of Hands: a Study on Unnatural Quirk Development

By Dr. Shigaraki Yoichi

It was this ‘Shigaraki Yoichi’ guy again. He seemed to be quite the authority of the quirk biology field. Or at least, he had been when the book was published just over thirty years ago. Maybe he still was; the field of quirk biology hadn’t progressed much since its original boom, just after the first wave of quirks swept through the nation.

Skimming through the book, a couple of different concepts caught his eye. The mechanisms of quirk inheritance. Which precise bases in a double helix of DNA were attributed to the characteristics of each quirk.

A summation of the parts came as a mere detail in the final chapter.

Recently, a popular thought experiment has emerged in the world of quirk biology. This experiment was originally conceived by a Doctor and researcher who writes under the alias of ‘S.T’. It aims to test the hypothesis of whether a quirk can be transferred between one person and another via the ingestion of a quirk holder’s DNA.

Preliminary research has been performed, and shows certain limitations that need to be taken into account before the experiment is conducted by Dr. S.T in union with the University of Tokyo in December next year.

The first relates to the DNA consumed; an exact combination of bases (which after being configured into amino acids, form genes) must be ingested to provide the body with the foundations (discussed in chapter 8) necessary for a quirk. This would involve careful and precise extraction of the DNA from its source, as to ensure the requirement is met.

Another aspect that will need to be carefully vetted is the quirk in question being transferred. The Quirk Transference Experiment will benefit from use of a low-power quirk, initially. The effects that quirks have on the body are akin to the effects that water might have on a cup. The more powerful and plentiful a quirk, the more it fills up the body. Different people can be viewed as cups of different volumes, that can hold more or less power. Pouring a lot of water into a small cup would cause it to overflow. This could be fatal. Equally, pouring any water into a cup that is already nearly filled would cause it to overflow, leading to the same result.

This concept also creates parameters for the person the quirk is being transferred to. That is, they must be quirkless.

One should not ignore the countless dangers and perils of such an experiment either.

Dazai closed the book. He had learnt what he needed to.

Next to explore was clearly the QTE, led by Dr. S.T.

Something in his gut twisted as he approached the mass of books again. The sky outside had gradually darkened, and now only the golden of the ceiling lamps illuminated laminated covers. He dragged a finger along the spines, watching specks of dust gently dislodge themselves as he did.

It all felt like it was coming to a head. The so-called ‘Quirk Transference Experiment’ and the introduction of the mysterious Dr. S.T. What was most chilling was that Dazai had never heard of it. Either the experiment had been an anticlimactic failure, or it had all been brushed under the rug in a purposeful silence. The thought of the latter being the case felt like a terrible omen. Dazai could barely stop the smile that laced through reddened lips.

“Ryohei, Ryuichi…”

And there, right where S.T should have been scrawled, a cavity. A black hole in the shelf. Nothing.

A nothing that was of a slightly boxy negative shape. A hardback, then. And that was completely free of dust, Dazai noticed, as he swept a finger along the shelf. Freshly taken out. Dazai whipped around.

The boy from earlier was still there, book on the table, as Dazai had left him. A book that had just become infinitely more relevant to his life.

“Hello!”

The boy looked up, reddish hair shifting back into place and mouth a neutral line.

“Hello.”

Dazai rounded the table.

“If I told you that All Might himself has requested that I find that exact book,” he pointed at the boy’s hardback, “and deliver it to him before the clock strikes midnight, would you give it to me?”

The boy looked thoughtful for a second.

“Yes, I would give it to you.”

That… wasn’t what Dazai had expected. He tilted his head, lips forming unbidden words.

“Why?”

“Well, the small possibility that you’re telling the truth is one thing to consider. But assuming that you’re not, you probably just need the book. I’m pretty much done with it, so you can have it.”

Interesting. Pulling out the chair beside the boy, Dazai settled himself in. The stranger was attractive, yes, but appeared unremarkable. Dazai thought himself a good judge of character, though, and wasn’t ready to let up just yet.

“Dazai Osamu, hero course class 1A. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

He offered a hand.

“Oda Sakunosuke, general studies class 3C. Yours as well.”

He shook it.

“How was the book, Odasaku? Would you recommend it to an avid reader of Shigaraki Yoichi like myself?” Dazai swung his legs under the table.

Oda, to his credit, didn’t even flinch at the nickname. Instead he nodded slowly, as if absorbing the information.

“It’s very informative,” Oda eventually replied. “But I’m wondering how anyone could be an ‘avid’ reader of Shigaraki. He was an editor in his youth, yes, but as an author, he only ever published one book before his death.”

Dazai let his eyebrows furrow.

“How did he die?”

“Illness,” Oda shrugged. “The diagnosis was vague.”

Dazai nodded.

“That’s a bit of a downer. Tell me about yourself.”

Again, Oda complied without much reluctance. He didn’t seem like a pushover as such- just someone who was happy to exist in tandem with the flow of life. It’s laughable how rare those kinds of people are. Laughable how many of us choose to push against the current, draining our own life force, rather than simply swim with it.

“I’m hoping to take quirk biology into university, so I’m researching for my personal statement. And I really like curry.”

Dazai laughed, surprised.

“You moved on so quickly there! But maybe that’s a good thing,” he pondered, “I like quick witted men.”

(Made a nice change from all the other men in his life).

“Then I don’t know how much you’ll like me. Rather than quick witted, I just prefer to fully explain my thought process instead of filtering things out.”

“That’s very wise,” Dazai replied.

He took a moment, then. A moment of silence. Oda didn’t try to break it, which Dazai was thankful for. Some voids should be left unfilled.

Dazai was facing something of a conundrum, you see. Oda had unknowingly presented him with a piece of information that could change the sequence of events that followed astronomically. Words and images were joining together, forming a chain linked by the bonds of deduction. If the story at the end of the chain looked anything like what Dazai was beginning to suspect, then digging could be dangerous. Dangerous for himself, and for anyone else who got tangled up in this mess. He briefly wondered if it was best to quit while he was ahead.

But really, Dazai wasn’t sure why he’d bothered to question himself. There was only ever one option.

“Odasaku,” he began, voice light. “The QTE. It was performed by Dr. S.T, right?”

Oda nodded in confirmation.

“In conjunction with the University of Tokyo?”

This time, he hesitated.

“I’ve read up to chapter 16, and there’s been no mention of the University of Tokyo.”

Okay. Okay, that covered up a discoloured patch in Dazai’s theory. There was still no clarity, but there was a semblance of possibility.

He inhaled.

“And it failed, right? The QTE failed.”

This time, there was no pause.

“The QTE succeeded.”

Dazai felt the blood drain from his face. He could taste copper on his lips, metallic and tempting. Oda was staring at him, eyes questioning. Dazai ignored him. Because f*ck. Dazai’s theory was still scrambled and muddled, even in his own head, but it provided a basis for something of a scale far larger than he could have ever anticipated. Far larger, he presumed, than even Mori had anticipated.

A dry cough sounded behind him, suddenly. Dazai wiped his face blank in a way that he had grown adept at. Then he turned around.

It was the student librarian, wearing an expression that distinctly implied ‘you again’ from someone who was too professional to say it out loud.

Dazai grinned at him, pushing down the wavering edges of whatever this was. Letting them lie dormant beneath the surface.

Student librarian turned to Oda.

“Oda-san,” he greeted, tersely.

“Sakaguchi-kun,” Oda replied.

“The library is closing. Please leave the premises.”

“Aren’t you going to introduce us, Odasaku?”

Sakaguchi looked about ready to go off himself. Which, you know, could have been a fun bonding activity.

“This is Sakaguchi Ango, from the second year business course. And Sakaguchi-kun, this is Dazai Osamu, from the first year hero course.”

“Nice to meet you, Ango-kun! I’m sure we’ll get along great.”

Ango did not look like he returned the sentiment, but bowed anyway. He was scanning Dazai up and down in a way that he had probably intended to be vaguely threatening.

“I’m sure we will. Now can you please leave the library?”

“So,” Dazai hopped onto the table. “How did you two meet?”

Ango groaned, but to Dazai’s pleasant surprise, Oda laughed.

“I frequent the library, and Sakaguchi-kun has been the student librarian here since his first year.”

Dazai nodded.

“When I initially joined, I was desperately trying to convince Oda-san to join the library staff,” Ango reminisced, shaking his head. “Now I know that it wouldn’t fit his personality at all, but at the time, I just wanted anyone else even slightly capable around.”

Beaming, Dazai interjected.

“If you’re still looking for help, I could-”

“No!” Ango all but yelled. “No. That will not be necessary, thank you.”

Dazai genuinely considered pulling the ‘no shouting in the library’ card, but decided against it. He had, after all, already broken the majority of library rules himself.

“I understand, Ango-kun. You don’t want to burden an important hero student like myself with your silly, menial tasks.”

Ango’s voice immediately soured.

“It’s nice to see an important hero student be so upfront about their massive ego rather than pretending to be well adjusted like the rest of us.”

Oda looked a little pained as he watched on. But Dazai didn’t stop. If there was one loose fray in this whole, tangled mess that he could weave back into place, he damn well would.

“You’re only half right, Ango-kun. Yes I am important, but not because I’m a hero student.”

Ango sighed, humouring him.

“Why then?”

“There’s an old man who sells tofu on the corner of the Memorial park. Have you ever seen him? He’s hard to miss. The tofu is huge.”

Dazai mimed the shape in the air, drawing a rectangle of only slightly exaggerated size.

“I’ve passed by him, I think,” Oda nodded in recognition.

“Never seen him,” Ango interrupted, curtly, looking unimpressed by the diversion.

“Well, I buy his tofu every morning. No one else ever does- I’m the sole customer that keeps his store running. Doesn’t that make me important?”

Ango looked somewhere between entirely incredulous and somewhat interested. Oda was listening intently.

“What do you do with that much tofu?” Oda asked.

(Dazai thought, briefly, of the time he’d hidden the tofu in Chuuya’s school bag. Then of the time he’d hidden the tofu under Chuuya’s pillow. Then, finally, of the time he’d replaced Chuuya’s toothpaste with blended tofu).

He shrugged. “A variety of things.”

Oda nodded, seemingly convinced.

Then, Ango sighed. A half smile pulled at his lips.

“I like tofu.”

The three ended up parting ways a little later. Dazai had checked the book out of the library, and it remained in his grip as he trudged home.

When he reached the apartment, Dazai slumped down on the sofa. He dropped the book onto the coffee table, listening to its thunk resound around the room.

“Hey, asshole, we’re not even a month into living here. At least leave it a couple of days before you f*ck up all the furnishings.”

Chuuya swung through the doorframe to the living room, but stopped short. He wasn’t sure why, exactly. Just that there was a tension in the air that had lit every one of his nerves on fire.

Dazai was smiling. Really, genuinely smiling.

“Chuuya, I think I’m out of my depth.”

—

Nakahara Chuuya and the Attack on the USJ

Chuuya had seen a lot of smiles grace the lips of Dazai Osamu.

One was a fake brand of charming, plastic and jagged. One was superior, internally laughing at you. One was reserved for when he was being a complete asshole for no reason. Not to mention, of course, the one he pulled out from time to time, when he was acting like a decent human being rather than an unstable hazard to society.

This smile was different. It was new. And it was happy. Dazai looked truly happy- and it scared Chuuya like nothing else in the world.

When he had first asked Dazai what had convinced him to join the Port Mafia, the answer he received had sounded ridiculous. But as he got to know Dazai, he had found himself beginning to actually believe it.

“I want to be exposed to danger and death. To people living out their darkest desires. I think that’s the only way that I can ever feel alive.”

That smile, and those words (Dazai was never out of his depth, had never been). Chuuya could only imagine one meaning behind them. Dazai had finally attained it. Attained the gruesome, untainted evil that he had so desperately been searching for. And it terrified Chuuya to no end.

His distraction had continued into the next day, as class 1A were loaded onto a bus for some surprise field trip. (Iida was directing them like he was made for the job. He had become class representative at some point while Chuuya wasn’t listening. Good on him).

Glancing over at Dazai, Chuuya wasn’t too put off to see him acting completely normally. It was just like Dazai to maintain his facade as the world tore apart at the seams.

Entering the USJ took his mind off the situation, at least.

A vast arena spanned about before him, displaying a contradictory amalgamation of environments that Chuuya could identify at a glance. These included but were not limited to a flood zone, a cityscape, and even what appeared to be the site of a volcanic eruption in the distance.

A high, glass ceiling held all of these mismatched parts together. Triangular tiles tessellated to form an encompassing dome around the whole arena.

“Imagine having this much money and using it to build a disaster zone replica for a bunch of three year olds. UA could have had, like, seven more crocodile pools by now.”

At some point, Dazai had wormed his way through the crowd to reach Chuuya’s side. He wore a smile- the asshole one- and was looking around in poorly masked awe.

“Forget crocodiles. UA could have bought up the entire population of whales in the Atlantic Ocean.”

“How many whales constitute the entire population of whales in the Atlantic Ocean?”

Chuuya considered it.

“At least three.”

Dazai nudged his side, gently, stifling a laugh. He diverted his eyes.

From his other side, Kirishima looked slightly miffed.

“More than three, dude. Way more than three.”

It was around then that the Space Hero, Thirteen, made their appearance. They started off with a short speech on using their powers for good rather than evil, saving people rather than hurting them, and all the rest. Chuuya could only really focus on how much he liked Thirteen’s costume. It looked really warm and comfortable, unlike the skintight ensembles most heroes went for. He wasn’t even going to begin to comment on Midnight’s fashion choices.

That was when a low noise began. Barely audible at first, but growing from a distant rumble into a sizeable annoyance. Then, a bang on the door. Thirteen turned to observe- slowly, too slowly. Because suddenly, it was slammed open.

People began pouring in, wielding weapons with smooth, trained movements. Villains, a corner of Chuuya’s mind supplied. He felt alert and sharp, watching as his classmates also began to notice the rapidly worsening situation.

“f*ck,” he heard Eraserhead- or Aizawa Sensei- curse from the front.

“Thirteen, protect the kids,” he yelled, already leaping into action. Eraserhead’s fighting style was quite something, Chuuya could admit. The way he weaved and twirled around his capture weapon was almost like a dance. He was absolutely destroying every thug he faced, knocking them down like they were bowling pins.

“Your teacher is impressive, but one man alone cannot save you.”

Chuuya turned around with a jolt. A deep, resonant voice had sounded from behind the group. It belonged to a man that could only be described as pure evil.

His entire body seemed to be a black hole. Ebony mist floated where a head should be, disrupted only by glowing, yellow eyes. His appearance contrasted rather starkly with his suit and waistcoat ensemble, and Chuuya assumed that his strange consistency was a side effect of his quirk.

“Good thing he’s not alone.”

That was Thirteen, stepping in between the villain and the students. Talking of his class, they appeared to be shaky but determined, each of them assuming the amateurish defensive positions they had only just begun to nurture.

“Step aside, Space Hero. Where is All Might?”

All Might? What did some low-level thugs want with the nation’s number one hero? Did they genuinely believe they could one up him?

Chuuya stilled when he felt a breath of air against his ear. A wisp of Dazai’s distinctive brown locks brushed against his cheek.

“Standby for operation touch-me-love-me.”

That sounded incriminating, but it was really just the codename of one of Dazai’s plans of attack. It was pretty ambiguous, but communicated a clear idea. Touch me love me was reserved for when they were up against an enemy with a strong or unique quirk, and revolved around getting Dazai within touching distance in order to nullify and subdue them. Chuuya rolled his shoulders, time to work.

Thirteen and the foggy villain were engaged in combat when Chuuya turned back. The hero was holding their own well, and Chuuya wondered why Dazai thought they needed to intervene.

Then it hit him. Thirteen was fighting with a class of 20 odd children behind them. That could be 20 odd hostages, if the misty guy played the game in the way Dazai seemed to be expecting.

Outstretching their arms, Thirteen looked ready to activate their quirk. A widening chasm took shape where their torso had been, already arbitrarily engulfing the plants and items that made up their surroundings.

That was when Chuuya felt a movement beside him. A small shift, hardly noticeable. And then they were charging.

“sh*t!”

He reached out a hand- his fingers brushed a wrist. But couldn’t quite encircle it. Kirishima and Bakugou had brashly run at the villain, quirks at the ready. They had forced Thirteen to abruptly shut off their black hole with a panicked yelp to avoid inadvertently sucking them in. Chuuya sighed. They had played right into the hostage situation.

The pair’s disappearance into the smoking mass seemed to be something of a trigger for the villain. He started to fire off a volley of what Chuuya recognised as warp gates.

He scrambled backwards as one flew towards him, only just avoiding it. Shouts filled the entranceway as more of his classmates vanished into the blackness. He didn’t know where the gates went to, and he sure as hell didn’t want to find out.

He jumped and rolled, desperately avoiding the barrage of gates that flew at him. He couldn’t keep this up- he needed a system, some way to tell where they would come from next. As it was, there was no way he would be able to avoid them all.

Then, a ginger strand flew through his vision, just before another warp gate almost consumed him entirely, and he knew he had found his method.

Wind. The rushing black gates displaced air particles, creating a wind of warning just before they hit.

His hair floated upwards, and Chuuya leapt into the air. The warp gate passed under him safely, and he grinned, toothily.

The bombardment only continued for another minute before the black fog began to clear. Surveying the area, Chuuya immediately noticed Eraserhead, still holding his own impressively against the endless stream of villains sent to fight him. Bodies littered the marble floors of the plaza.

Around him, only a few figures remained. Thirteen, panting slightly, as well as the villain himself, still blocking the door. Dazai was standing only a few metres away beside a heaving Atsushi. Iida wore gritted teeth and a look of anxiety nearby.

Staring them down, the villain nodded his head slowly.

“Perhaps I should introduce myself, seeing as you all plan on sticking around.”

He swept an arm towards them all.

“My name is Kurogiri, and I am part of the League of Villains-”

He was interrupted by something that sounded distinctly like laughter.

“What is it?” He snapped.

“Sorry, sorry.” Chuuya knew that voice. He was tempted to punch Dazai in the stomach to shut him up for a while. “It’s just not a very creative name. Don’t let me stop you, though.”

Kurogiri blatantly ignored the comment, and continued his tirade.

But a slight rustle of movement caught Chuuya’s eye, and suddenly Dazai’s off handed comment made sense. Slightly further back, Thirteen was whispering to Atsushi and Iida. They gestured towards a tile in the glass dome. A tile that, as Chuuya squinted at it, appeared to reflect light in a different way to its counterparts. It must have been made of glass of a different density. Thinner glass- glass that would crack at the slightest pressure. It was positioned at a low point in the dome, easily accessible (allowing for a bit of a jump).

With a nod, the two boys slunk off into the undergrowth.

He understood. If they escaped from the USJ, they could call for help. This whole ordeal would shift from a one sided massacre into a waiting game. And if there was one thing that Chuuya had proved he was capable of doing, it was surviving.

“We are an organisation dedicated to taking down All Might, and turning this hero infested society on its head.”

(Atsushi and Iida were huddled together, motioning up at the ceiling. Atsushi transformed into his tiger form).

This time, Thirteen spoke up.

“What makes you think that you can defeat All Might, the strongest hero Japan has ever seen?”

Kurogiri smiled. Or at least, it looked like a smile, the fog shifting in such a way.

“I suppose you’ll have to find out.”

A crash exploded through the air. Shards of glass rained down as Atsushi leapt through the dome. His fur rapidly bloodied with thousands of tiny scratches, but he didn’t stop. Iida joined him soon after, speeding through the hole, motors whirring.

Kurogiri scowled, but couldn’t react. Because that was when Thirteen had decided to strike.

“Black hole!” They screamed, opening their chasm for the second time.

But it was all over in a flash. With only a look of slight inconvenience, Kurogiri shot a warp gate towards the hero.

Realisation flashed in Thirteen’s eyes. They rushed to shut their quirk off, but it was too late. The once mighty black hole had already consumed Kurogiri’s flying warp gate, causing that powerful suction to teleport and exit at a second gate. A gate that Kurogiri had planted directly behind Thirteen’s back. Black hole tore through the mist, remorseless as it ripped apart its very holder. Destroyed by their own quirk. Thirteen fell heavily to the ground.

A moment of absolute stillness followed after that.

Chuuya felt his cheeks pale. It was one thing to watch his classmates be so easily disposed of, but for a pro hero to lose in the blink of an eye? The ground shifted under him. The ‘infallible’ pro heroes were not quite as trustworthy as they seemed. This Kurogiri was not to be underestimated.

“Finally,” Dazai groaned from beside him. “Everyone has disappeared to some place or another, and the mighty Eraserhead over there,” he motioned behind him, “is a little preoccupied at the moment.”

Dazai trailed off, but Chuuya had already caught the drift. A familiar brand of exhilaration filled his veins.

“It’s time we went all out.”

Kurogiri looked a little contemplative at that, but ultimately stood his ground.

“Children who know little of the world shouldn’t overestimate themselves.”

Dazai rolled his neck beside him, looking remarkably relaxed.

“Age before beauty,” he almost sung, gesturing for Chuuya to go ahead.

“f*ck off,” he snarled, but didn’t hesitate a moment afterwards. Tensing his calves, he activated his quirk and propelled himself off the unforgiving floorboards and through the air, weightless. He had always loved flying like this, found it the most gratifying component of his quirk. His hero suit only added to the experience. It was relatively aerodynamic, allowing him to be quick and agile in the sky. Plus, his cape rippling through the air must have been quite the sight.

The sensation ended all too quickly though, and he was dropping down heavily, right in front of Kurogiri.

A warp gate appeared between the two of them, suddenly, and he pulled back before darting around the side.

He had to be careful- even though Kurogiri’s body looked solid enough, there was no way to tell if it was actually just more of the black fog that seemed to constitute his flesh and bones.

Before another attack could come, Chuuya planted a hand on the floor, gravity curling around him, and manoeuvred into an acrobatic roundhouse kick. Kurogiri stepped away, easily, but Chuuya continued his approach.

He fuelled his kicks with the intensity of gravity, constantly ensuring he aimed only for Kurogiri’s torso.

For his part, Kurogiri was an adept fighter. He dodged but didn’t retaliate. The passive attitude worried Chuuya a little; having escaped, his classmates would obviously be going for backup. Surely, the villains should be searching for a swift victory.

Chuuya ran in, intent on throwing a jab. But just as he approached, Kurogiri rushed to meet him. He had initially been standing on the steps at the entranceway, so as he advanced, Chuuya’s target (the torso) dropped lower and lower. Now, as he flew, the trajectory of his fist was heading not towards Kurogiri’s body, but towards the void that engulfed his head.

Acting quickly, Chuuya manipulated his own weight. He pulled himself down to the ground with all the force he could muster.
He exhaled painfully, a choking sensation gripping his lungs, as his back cracked against the ground. He gritted his teeth against the sparks of discomfort burning in his lower spine. The wispy shadow of Kurogiri stretched over him, and light footsteps descended towards him.

Panic began to prod at his skin like thousands of tiny pinpricks. A roar was growing louder under his flesh. The roar of a God locked behind iron bars.

Chuuya clenched his fist harshly into the fabric of his suit, willing it away.

No,he all but shouted. His voice only echoed around his mind as a whisper. Not you, please not you.

“Chuuya!” a voice drifted through the haze. Melodic and familiar, and slightly out of breath. It was Dazai, in front of him, suddenly. Through the crazed roaring and the nearing footsteps. He heard the next words with a beautiful lucidity. “Touch me love me.”

Eyes snapping open (he wasn’t even sure when they had fluttered shut), Chuuya jerked himself up. Kurogiri was right above him, Dazai had been shoved into the unforgiving glass of the dome around them. A malevolent smile was shaping the cavity where a mouth should have been. But Chuuya was ready this time. Before the villain could react, he grabbed Kurogiri by the waistcoat. His fingers clenched around the fabric, gravity threading through them, strengthening him.

“Go!”

Dazai didn’t need to be told twice. He charged forwards towards them as Kurogiri attempted to pull back. It was to no avail. Dazai had reached them in a second, and his hand was against the black mist that surrounded Kurogiri a moment later. A blue shimmer clouded Chuuya’s vision, before it vanished into the air.

As the ethereal remnants of No Longer Human gently dissipated like the melting of snow, three noises peeled through the USJ.

The first was a gasp. Short and breathy and right next to him. Chuuya turned to see Dazai, staring up at something with a look of unmasked astonishment. His arm was still pushed firmly against the dark fog (the same arm, Chuuya noticed absently, that had taken the brunt of an acid attack in their previous battle training. He hoped it didn’t hurt too much).

It took him a second or two to sort his thoughts into order. If Dazai was touching Kurogiri, then the villain’s quirk had to have been nullified. That was a rule that was subject to no exceptions. And yet, the black mist remained. Kurogiri was still a monster of fog and cloud, and he was still smiling.

The only possible conclusion struck Chuuya like a bullet. Kurogiri’s shapeless form- that wasn’t his quirk. That was him in his entirety. What they were dealing with- it wasn’t human.

Chuuya pressed a hand to his temple. It was throbbing, painfully. His back was, too. He didn’t know what to do.

Then came the second noise. It was a scream.

High pitched and piercing. It must have been a girl, a young girl. Chuuya whipped his head around to look, his neck objecting to the movement with an audible crack.

Some of his classmates were gathered, hidden in the undergrowth around the plaza. The scream must have come from Tsuyu, the only girl in the group. But looking her up and down, she didn’t seem to be injured at all. It was only when Chuuya took in the bigger picture that he understood the horrific scene playing out before him.

Eraserhead, who had been so easily dispatching of villain after villain, was on the ground. Blood had pooled around him, dying his capture weapon a stomach turning red.

Two figures were standing over him. One was a man with light blue hair and pale, disheveled skin. More noticeable, though, were the disfigured hands that gripped rigid limbs and covered any spare inch of space on his body like a grotesque fashion statement. They seemed to be attached to him- with one concealing his face like a mask- and were spotted with a discoloured grey hue.

The second. Chuuya wasn’t sure quite how to describe it. It was simply a creature. Huge and strong, and standing over his teacher with the intent to kill.

The third noise was the bang of doors against unyielding glass. There, at the top of the steps, were Atsushi and Iida. A smile rose to his lips, so, so thankful. Because behind the two, standing proud and tall, was a row of recognisable figures. And god, the indescribable joy that Chuuya felt at seeing them was not something he’d ever expected.

But there they were, All Might front and centre. The pro heroes.

—

Akutagawa Ryuunosuke on ‘Purpose’

W hen you’ve been dying all your life, it really gets you thinking about what exactly it is to be alive. What differentiates the two states. What sets those on earth apart from those that came before them.

Akutagawa would argue that such a divide is forged by the concept of ‘purpose’. Those on earth, they have dreams and goals and desires. They dig through the soil with muddied fingers in a desperate attempt to find whatever treasure they’re searching for. To hit on gold.

The dead? They wonder, meaninglessly. They exist only to survive, and then simply wither away into nothingness.

They are not remembered. They are not missed. And the things they do make no lasting impact. Produce no words on the records.

Akutagawa was- by his own definition of the word- dead. And part of him hated it. Felt ashamed and pitiful, inflicting nothing on the world but his own built up resentment. Committing petty crimes in order to what? Survive? Help his sister do the same? It all felt pointless.

That was when Shigaraki Tomura had found him. And everything had changed.

Chapter 4: An Interlude

Chapter Text

Nakajima Atsushi and the Attack on the USJ

A s it turned out, throwing his body into a panel of glass had been the easy bit.

Thick shards rained down on him as he soared through his makeshift window. The jagged edges cut at the skin beneath striped fur, drawing blood. Even so, the scrapes healed almost immediately, closing up of their own accord.

Ever since Atsushi had heeded Dazai’s advice, considered the tiger an extension of himself, he had felt lighter- freer as the beast. His control was stronger than ever, and his regenerative ability had improved as well.

When he reached the outside of the USJ, landing slightly clumsily, Atsushi paused. His fur was matted with blood, but the wounds were closing up where he crouched. Anyway, a couple of superficial skin injuries were the least of his worries.

Atsushi thought back to his friends’ faces when the villains had first poured in through the entrance. The fear. And then the determination. The willingness to fight for themselves and their allies.

He resolved himself, transforming back into his original form, letting the beast inside him melt away. Meld with him once more.

Then, Atsushi stood his ground, watching Iida steam through the hole he had created. The other boy looked a little winded, glasses knocked slightly off kilter, after the misty villain’s waves of attacks. Ultimately, though, he seemed to be unharmed. Atsushi felt a genuine smile curl at his lips. Every cloud had a silver lining, he supposed.

“Atsushi-kun, great work breaking through the dome,” Iida said. Even in the dire situation, Iida’s tone sounded sincere. A warmth bubbled up inside Atsushi at the words. He hadn’t always lived in places that allowed him to receive such affirmations. Such praise. He felt endlessly grateful for the wonderful people that surrounded him here.

“Don’t thank me just yet. We have to find the teachers and save everyone,” Atsushi replied, unwaveringly.

“We need to go back to UA,” Iida agreed. His motors were already raring, attention on the long road back to school.

“Why turn back when your opponent is right in front of you?”

Atsushi froze. The question had been posed by a gravelly voice- quiet in a way that demanded people listen to it. However, even as Atsushi surveyed the area, rotating slowly, he couldn’t see a single person in the vicinity.

He glanced back at Iida, ready to call out to him, but something in the line of Iida’s jaw stopped him. His gaze was fixed on the dome of the USJ. More specifically, the apex.

And right on the highest point of the glass ceiling, a figure stood, shadowy even in the direct glare of the sun. The silhouette was casually poised, comfortable and unafraid, even as the battle raged on below him. An elegant coat hung over his shoulders, dancing in the breeze. Locks of hair that should have framed his face were hovering out of place. The image of him against the sun, standing upon the whole world, held a certain beauty to it. A certain mortality.

“Iida-kun,” Atsushi whispered, eyes never leaving this newfound threat, “go back to UA.”

It was no secret that Iida had him beat on speed, even with the tiger’s animalistic power. Though the aura that resonated from the man atop the dome sent shivers down his spine, he couldn’t selfishly keep help from his friends by requesting Iida fight with him. Because that was clearly what the man was yearning for. A fight. It was clear in the shaking of his hands, restless, which wasn’t quite covered up by the general movement of his clothes. It was clear in his eyes, wide with hatred. The kind of hatred that could simply overwhelm a person. Indifferent to whatever target it had once been aimed towards, or purpose it hadserved.

God, Atsushi had seen enough people lose themselves to that kind of hatred.

“Will you be alright?” Iida asked. He was frowning slightly, lips pinched.

Atsushi inhaled. Last chance to back out.

“I’ll be alright,” he reassured Iida. And himself. “The tiger will protect me.”

After a moment, Atsushi felt more than saw his companion nod, grimly. Then he shot down the road, leaving only footprints in his wake.

As Atsushi had expected, the figure on the dome didn’t move to follow Iida’s retreating silhouette. He must have been affiliated with the villains attacking the USJ, Atsushi believed, but perhaps the link was weak. Rather than fighting for a cause, he seemed to be more interested in fighting purely for the sake of fighting.

“You must be confident in your abilities, sending away your ally like that,” he sneered. “I suppose I will soon discover whether that was bravery or stupidity.”

And with that, he jumped. Soaring through the air, he landed gracefully on the cobbled ground below. At once, he readied himself to attack.

Atsushi transformed immediately, the tiger enveloping him like a safety blanket. His fangs were bared when the enemy reached him, coat glowing with a burning red light.

The fight was fast and strong and hard. It was intense in a way Atsushi’s training could never have prepared him for. The boy (because he couldn’t have been much older than Atsushi himself) was experienced; that much was clear. He manipulated his coat between clasping fingers as if it was his own limb, cutting with it when it became as sharp as a knife. Holding it out to take the brunt of Atsushi’s attacks like an in-built shield.

It was strange- his enemy had clearly possessed the upper hand since the very beginning. Atsushi was defending desperately, grasping at any chance he could to back away, steal a moment of reprieve. He had barely landed a single hit, whereas his own regenerative powers were being stretched to the limit.

But for some reason, even arduous minutes later, the boy was simply unable to finish him off. Every time they reached some semblance of an ending. Every time Atsushi found himself thinking ‘ this is it’, he was able to escape the clutches of defeat. Maybe the final attack wasn’t decisive enough, lacked finality. Or maybe Atsushi himself was the disruption, desperately clinging to life. Like a parasite to its host.

Either way, the battle dragged on and on. His enemy was getting increasingly frustrated- that much was clear. His attacks were growing more reckless, slashing and stabbing rather than pulling back to defend. Aiming for the heart and the neck. Part of Atsushi’s mind considered this an opportunity to launch a counterattack of his own. The other part considered it a nightmare. Considered it seconds until his worthless existence met a brutal but unavoidable end.

(That same part of Atsushi was a little shocked to realise that he couldn’t accept that. He wouldn’t allow that.)

One thing that Atsushi had noticed about his opponent was that he was completely silent. Other than his own heavy breathing and the rustling fabric of his coat, he moved with impossible stealth, and said absolutely nothing. That was another way in which the fight was unlike his training, Atsushi mused. His instructor was always yelling insults or berating words during spars. The real thing was deadly silent. Not that Atsushi could have heard much over the constant ringing in his ears anyway.

At some point, Atsushi fell into something of a lull. He had been fighting the boy for what seemed like hours- the passage of time had stretched and warped, and he was tired. It was all blocking, defending, leaping back only in order to lash out with his claws in vain. Realistically, it was a one sided massacre. Atsushi could only wonder if the other had been keeping him going for so long just in order to toy with him. As some sort of sick joke, or to prolong the violence he so clearly yearned for.

He wondered, briefly, what it would take to end this match, in any way, shape or form. He came to only one, unyielding conclusion.

And then he felt something shift within him. It was a strange sensation- largely because rather than originating from his own weary body, it had come straight from the tiger.

Atsushi froze in his place, momentarily, as he strained his mind, trying to figure out what exactly this instinct was. It felt like caffeine rushing through his veins, erasing all the aches in his bones and the haze that had clouded over his head.

Adrenaline.

And then he was on his back.

f*ck.

He had been still for a second too long, lost his grip on his surroundings. Now, even as he struggled and thrashed, that demonic coat kept him thoroughly pinned to the stony floor.

He resigned himself to the villain eventually. That burst of energy had worn off like bursts of energy tend to do, and all the aches and pains that never quite disappeared, even after regeneration, pulled at twinging muscles once again.

Apologising was all he could do. Not to himself, but to the tiger. For letting them both down. Even after the tiger had granted him this gift, powered him on rather than shutting him down, taking over. It was shameful. And something about it felt wildly unfair, that he should die at the hands of this boy, even after everything he had survived. Orphanages and foster parents passing in a blur, simply too eager to get their hands on the tiger they thought was so marvellous. It had disgusted Atsushi. The tiger had.

But when he finally discovered a new perspective, he should fall at the whims of a maniac. It just wasn’t fair.

When he had chosen this path, he had known. He had known that heroes could die too. He’d just never thought it would be quite so soon.

He looked up then, into the eyes of his captor. He expected to see that unrivalled looked of anger again, before a cut through the heart, or a slash of the neck.

But he did not experience any of that. Because the boy’s eyes were no longer angry. It was as if any trace of resentment had been scrubbed clean, replaced by something else.

Bewilderment. Fascination, maybe. His brows were furrowed, slightly, and his lips were twisted downwards in displeasure. Then he spoke, for the first time since the beginning of his attack.

“You’re still a child.”

A sigh.

“Stand up, Were-tiger. Stand up and better yourself.”

Then the boy stood himself, removing the weights that had pressed Atsushi down into the earth. He stepped over him, like Atsushi was merely rubbish littering the street, and began making long strides towards the forest that surrounded the USJ.

He didn’t move an inch. Shock held his muscles firm. He had been one, fatal slash away from the end.

(A low noise was coming from behind him. Voices and thumps on the earth.)

The boy was quickly disappearing into the bushes as Atsushi peered over at him.

“We will meet again when the time is right,” he said, voice low, before vanishing from sight completely.

Relishing in the moment of stillness that overtook the world, Atsushi breathed out a sigh of relief. Why he hadn’t been killed, or what those words had meant were questions for another time. For now, the sky was a gorgeous blue, and the pro heroes were on their way.

—

Todoroki Shouto and the Attack on the USJ

W hen the pro heroes arrived, All Might leading the charge, a wave of relief swept over his body.

Sure, Todoroki had beaten the army of thugs in the mountainous zone easily enough, but the difference in skill between them and their leaders was outlandish. Facing up against the man who called himself ‘Shigaraki Tomura’ and the creature that they called ‘Nomu’ was a death wish.

The sight of his teacher leaking crimson on the ground only reinforced this. (Even as everything in him screamed to move. To help. He stayed where he was, hidden by the undergrowth around the plaza).

“Do not worry, for I am here!”

Todoroki respected All Might like no one else in the world, but his unfaltering smile and untameable hair style seemed almost comedic given the situation. All Might existed through a screen. Perhaps that was part of his charm. He saved people and captured villains, everyone coming out unscathed from the other end, like they were in a pre-quirk action cartoon.

But there his teacher was, dying on the floor, and suddenly, it was all very real. So real that even All Might couldn’t wave his magic wand and fix everything.

Todoroki watched as All Might extracted his classmates from harm’s way, and distracted the villains from his teacher. He watched as All Might faced up against the Nomu, his victory certain.

Then he watched as All Might began to lose. It was slightly surreal, actually. The idea that this all powerful, godlike force could be defeated. He watched as the other pro heroes jumped in. As the villains fled through a swirling, back portal and All Might was obscured behind a cloud of smoke, Midoriya rushing towards him.

And, noticed by no one, limping down the steps of the entranceway, he watched as two members of class 1A emerged from battle.

Dazai and Nakahara. Faces contorted in pain and laughter in equal measure as they approached the group. Blending into chattering groups of students as if they had been there the whole time.

(Later, he would overhear them talking to the others. Telling them they had been left stranded in the plaza, unable to help and regretful).

(Later, as the teachers briefed them in smooth tones, telling them it was a one-off attack, Aizawa-sensei was in hospital and recovering, they had a long weekend starting from tomorrow, he watched them. “Shigaraki, huh?” He heard Dazai mumble as the heroes recounted his name).

He didn’t know the what, the how, or even the why, but he knew that Dazai and Nakahara weren’t normal hero students. They weren’t trustworthy. And considering the recent villain attack, they were hostile.

—

Nakahara Chuuya and the Shopping Trip

“ C huuya, what did you just say?”

Chuuya looked up from his seat at the kitchen table. It was a bar stool- sleek and silver to match the rest of the decor.

Dazai was leaning against the marble counter. After all, he wasn’t allowed within a metre radius of the stove. For both the safety of the stove (Chuuya had grown very protective of it over the past month) and to avoid an untimely demise via being burnt alive.

“I said, we need to buy scented candles,” Chuuya repeated.

“Before that.”

“Nutella.”

“Before that.”

Confused, Chuuya sent Dazai a glance before returning his attention to the scribbled shopping list in front of him. That was when he understood. His head dropped to the table with a thud.

“Bandages.”

Dazai was beaming, and it was so, so terrible.

It was their day off- perhaps the best consequence of the attack on the USJ- and they had decided that a shopping trip was in order. The Port Mafia company card was still full to bursting, after all, and Dazai simply couldn’t allow that to continue. And maybe, just maybe, they were subtly trying to delay reporting the events of the USJ Incident to Mori. Because that would surely be a painful conversation.

Although Recovery Girl had done her best for Chuuya, her quirk couldn’t reach every ache and pain. Bandages were a necessity for the both of them, he justified, and there was no shame in buying them.

When he voiced his thoughts, Dazai laughed at him, unabashedly. And yes, it was definitely at him, not with him.

“When I buy bandages, I’m a freak and a bandage-wasting-maniac. But of course, when you buy them, it’s all very reasonable.”

Flipping him off, Chuuya slunk off to the doorway. He located his chunky, black boots. They were kind of like comfort blankets. Comfort shoes.

“Look at me, I’m Chuuya and I’m allowed to buy bandages because I’m mentally stable and have superior brain function,” Dazai was still speaking- for some reason- voice lilting in a mocking imitation.

He slid into his Gucci leather loafers (also on the Port Mafia company card) before following Chuuya out the door.

“Dazai, say another f*cking word and I will destroy all of your One Direction posters.”

“You wouldn’t touch Harry Styles,” he replied, deadly serious. “Would you?”

“Try me bitch.”

—

It didn’t take them long to reach the highway. Their apartment was situated in a nice area a couple of minutes walk from the road of busy shops and restaurants. Chuuya quite liked the neighbourhood, lined with trees and greenery, full of characterful eccentricities.

Chuuya liked to look in through the windows of each store as he passed by. It reminded him a little of his time with the Sheep in Yokohama. They had talked, half mockingly, half wishfully, in that bitter way of theirs, about what they would do if they had all the money in the world.

Somehow, Chuuya supposed that he had almost attained such a dream.

He sighed, turning his attention back to the precarious display of paperbacks that rested in the window of a bookshop. The Sheep were such a tangled mix of nostalgia and disappointment that Chuuya still didn’t like to think back on them too much.

“All those books making you uncomfortable, Chuuya?”

Although he was absolutely as annoying as usual, Dazai had seemed a little more subdued since the USJ. Maybe the events of the week were weighing down on him.

“Why would ‘The Cat in the Hat’ make me uncomfortable?”

Dazai faked shock.

“So you can read!”

Calming his annoyance with the longest exhale of his life, Chuuya increased his pace slightly. Unfortunately Dazai had no issue keeping up, the long-legged bastard was growing taller by the second.

All sorts of shops packed the street, including a pet shop (which Dazai practically squirmed away from) and an ice cream seller (which Dazai very nearly escaped into). Chuuya’s favourite was a quality menswear brand with a deep crimson exterior. A selection of mannequins posed in the window, clothed in velvet waistcoats and stylish top hats. He tried not to slow as he passed the shop, because God Dazai would bully him mercilessly for that, but clearly he didn’t succeed.

“That one would look good on you.”

Then he really did stop. He stared at Dazai in open shock, but Dazai wasn’t looking at him. He was intently focused on the clothes in the window, considering.

“What?”

“The dark green waistcoat. The swirly one. It would suit you.”

Chuuya scoffed, his lips curling into an incredulous smile without any thought.

“Thank you. It’s gorgeous.”

Dazai Osamu was someone who was hard to put your finger on. To ever completely pin down.

Dazai shrugged, murmuring something under his breath, and they continued on.

Later, they came to a stop outside of a Music Store. A colourful range of electric guitars were stood upright behind the glass, and several customers could be seen inspecting them.

“So we’re going to divide and conquer. I’ll take food shopping and toiletries. You’re on,” he grimaced, “bandages and all the stupid sh*t you added to the list while I wasn’t looking.”

“What’s stupid about tarot cards?”

“I will not be answering that. Meet back here at six.”

With an affirmative nod, they parted ways. Fulfilling his own role, Chuuya shopped quickly and efficiently. He was held up slightly at the conditioner aisle, because only the best for his hair, but managed to arrive back at the appointed location with five minutes to spare.

Chuuya considered himself a patient person, and had no issue waiting for a while. The view was beautiful as the sky began to darken, winter sunset bathing the street in a golden light. And hundreds of people were still milling about, making for an enjoyable experience in people watching.

By the time Chuuya felt inclined to check his phone, Dazai was already ten minutes late.

So he waited. And waited. And waited a bit more.

Just as he was reaching breaking point, a familiar silhouette bounded towards him. Bags were dangling from both hands, and his hair was slightly windswept. At least he appeared to have made an effort to get back quickly.

“Sorry, Chuuya! I got distracted trying to pick a colour for my lava lamp.”

Letting silence reign for a while, Chuuya massaged his temples.

“Which colour did you pick?”

“Orange.”

“And that’s so obviously the wrong choice.”

They were walking back, in comfortable silence, when Dazai next spoke up.

“Can we take a detour here? Go through the park?”

After a second, Chuuya nodded. It wasn’t too out of the way. And it was peaceful, out there. A welcome distraction from what had become a far more difficult mission that they had ever expected.

Dazai led as they walked along pebbly paths. Lush grass stretched out before them, wild patches of flowers dotted around the otherwise empty field. It was quiet- no children or dogs there to make noise- other than the hum of the wind as it disrupted the formations of leaves on trees.

Chuuya realised, as they walked, that they were slowly heading towards a small booth. It was situated at one corner of the rectangular park, its pine enclosure perfectly in keeping with the surroundings.

As they got closer, Chuuya could make out exactly what was being sold at the stall. He almost burst out laughing as he did. It was tofu. Huge f*cking tofu. He reminisced, briefly, about all the weird and frankly ridiculous places that he had found chunks of the stuff over the past few weeks. At some point, his real anger had subsided and now he just shouted for the show of it. Because that was how Dazai and Chuuya were, and always had been. Give and take, cat and mouse.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Watanabe,” Dazai called, voice high and airy.

A figure in the stall perked up, suddenly. He was an old man, wisps of a silver beard scratching at his chin. Wrinkles creased the corners of his eyes. From smiles, not frowns.

“Hello, Dazai-kun,” he replied.

Chuuya stood, awkwardly, as Dazai began browsing the selection. Not that ‘browsing’ was really possible; all of the tofu looked exactly the same to Chuuya.

“I can’t begin to imagine what a young person like you is doing with all this tofu,” the old man laughed. He was bent over slightly, his back hunched and knotted.

“It’s my friend over here who keeps requesting it, actually,” Dazai began, a mischievous smile beginning to stretch his lips. Chuuya shook his head, as subtly as he could, but the damage had been done.

“This is Chuuya.”

Mr. Watanabe waved, peering over the wooden beam that supported his stall.

“So it is. Hello, Chuuya-kun,” he said.

“Good afternoon, Sir.”

The old man laughed. He turned back to Dazai.

“Giving gifts to the people you love is the best use of all worldly currencies.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” Dazai chirped. He sounded light and easy, but sincere. As sincere as he could be, anyway, when a lot of his personality was based on the illusions he created for himself.

Chuuya felt his cheeks heat up a little. He looked away.

Dazai and Mr. Watanabe chatted a little more about tofu size and firmness and whatnot (they were all exactly the f*cking same) before coming to a satisfactory decision.

They waved goodbye as they left the stall. Chuuya felt happy, somehow. Fulfilled.

When they arrived home, Chuuya dropped the bags in the kitchen and scurried off to his bedroom.

He was surprised to see a small package left just in front of the door. Brown tissue paper wrapped a compact, soft form. He picked it up, entering his room before beginning to tear at the wrapping.

Shaking out the item, he could barely stifle his gasp.

It was the green waistcoat. Tailored and embroidered just as he remembered it.

f*ck. Chuuya was beaming.

—

Class 1A and their teacher were attacked by the ‘League of Villains’ in a failed attempt to detain All Might.

The screen flashed with a call a moment later.

Dazai and Chuuya were sitting on the lime sofa, the latter’s phone resting on the coffee table. Nothing in the scene appeared to be amiss, but tension permeated the air.

Chuuya accepted the call, switching it to speaker.

“Tell me everything.”

Mori’s voice was a bit of a shock after going so long without hearing it. Endlessly smooth and authoritative. Chuuya couldn’t help but obey.

So he talked, step-by-step, through the whole event. From their first moments of awe inside the USJ, to their fight with Kurogiri.

“Dazai was able to use No Longer Human, and- well. It was insane. Nothing happened. Either Kurogiri is immune to nullification, or the black mist isn’t actually his quirk. It’s literally part of him.”

Mori hummed on the other side of the phone, voice heavy with static. Then it took on a more menacing tone.

“And during this fight of yours, you didn’t break cover?”

Instantly, Chuuya understood his boss’s train of thought. It would be catastrophic if someone saw them fight on a level so far above that of normal first year students, hero or otherwise.

“No one saw us,” Chuuya replied, as firmly as he could.

A pause.

“Dazai-kun?”

Dazai was yet to say a word the entire phone call. But now, he sighed softly.

“No one saw us,” he repeated.

Then Chuuya described the aftermath. The pro heroes appearing, with All Might saving the day and their battered teacher and classmates. How he fought ‘Shigaraki Tomura’ and the genetically engineered Nomu. (Kurogiri may well have been of the same stock, Chuuya pointed out). And with a wince, how Kurogiri had fled after Dazai had discovered his secret, and then re-emerged to warp what was left of the League of Villains away from the USJ.

“There was another villain too, likely affiliated with the League, but our information on him is practically negligible. All we know is his quirk- the ability to manipulate his coat at will, adding tensile strength and the like.”

Mori stayed silent for a second or two, as the pair held their breath on the couch.

Then a voice sounded over the phone, crackling but still so in control.

“I owe the two of you an apology. I withheld information from you because I didn’t think it would be relevant. It seems I have made a grave misjudgement of the situation.”

Dazai folded his arms over his chest. He didn’t like that tone. And he didn’t like the mind games that stemmed from beating around the bush.

“Your mission has two objectives. Number one is to gain information on All Might. A source has made it clear to us that his quirk, One For All, is not as simple as it seems to be. Voices in the underworld believe that it can be passed down from holder to holder at will.”

”What?” Chuuya felt his eyes widen at the news. He had never heard of such a possibility before. It was outlandish. Practically unthinkable. He wrung his hands in his lap, nerves overtaking him.

“Your second objective relates to this. The League of Villains aim to capture All Might. The ground members of this organisation likely believe in a larger, noble cause to do with the dismantling of the hero based society. However, the creator of the League has an ulterior motive.”

A second of silence passed.

“They want to gain access to One For All.” It was a guess, but it felt right on his tongue.

“It’s a strong possibility and our current assumption. But we lack information on this creator- even their name is unknown. They’re… illusive, at best.”

Dazai cut in, then. Voice still serious in a way that Chuuya wasn’t accustomed to.

“So what. Why should we get involved in the business between heroes and villains? You always say that Yokohama is a world away from that stuff.”

“The sudden increased presence of the League of Villains and this Creator- as it were- is causing a stir in the underworld. The police and heroes are tightening their control in cities, which is really only worsening the commotion.”

Chuuya nodded, convinced.

“Rather than this being a mission for the good of the Port Mafia, think of it as a fight for the freedom of all of Yokohama.”

Dazai laughed then, openly.

“Is there an issue, Dazai-kun?” Mori asked. A hint of annoyance clouded his tone.

“You’re amongst friends here, you can be honest,” Dazai practically sung. “You just want All Might’s power for yourself, don’t you?” His lips were still moulded into the shape of a grin.

No voice responded for a little while. Its silence was measured and careful.

“If you would like honesty from me, then such an outcome wouldn’t be unwelcome.”

Dazai chuckled again, but his face was gradually darkening. Chuuya watched the spark fade from his eyes, and the solemn coldness return. He was reminded of his judgement from earlier. One could never really pin down Dazai Osamu.

“Thank you for your boundless honesty, Mori-san. With that being the case, I may well have some information that can help you.”

Dazai lowered his voice into a whisper.

“But it should probably remain, you know, off the record.”

“I’ll send an operative in the area to meet you. Date and time will be forthcoming.”

Dazai clapped his hands, standing up from his position.

“Well that sounds just wonderful! Now if you don’t mind, Chuuya and I really are quite busy. Good night!”

He hung up. It seemed wrong to simply hang up on the boss of the Port Mafia, but Chuuya didn’t comment on it. Dazai was obviously not in the mood for an argument.

—

Mori Ougai and the Attack on the USJ

“ C all the Executives. The situation has changed.”

Mori Ougai drummed his fingers against the arm of his chair in a rare moment of solitude. He had sent Elise out in preparation for the meeting, and the messengers were long gone. A silence had enveloped the room- the first in a long time. But it was too loaded, too painful to be enjoyable. Like the silence before the shot of a bullet.

The League of Villains were far more volatile than he could have expected. For once, Mori didn’t know how this game was going to play itself out. It was exhilarating.

“Soon, All Might. Soon I’ll know it all.”

Chapter 5: Vigilante

Chapter Text

Dazai Osamu and the PM Operative

I t was satisfying, in a way. To finally know. To finally see through the mist and the fog to the heart of the storm. To what Mori really wanted from this whole, doomed mission.

Or at least, that’s what Dazai told himself as he walked towards the meeting point Mori had set for him. Five minutes late, naturally.

The location was table seven at a Parisian style cafe near his apartment called ‘Wood Chip’. Popular amongst the locals, Wood Chip predominantly provided its customers with coffee and fresh bakery items. Nestled on the corner of the highway, it shared a block with the local grocers and an art equipment supplier. Table seven was a wooden outdoors set. A couple of white roses in a vase and a menu decorated the top, painting a quaint scene.

Someone was already at the table when he approached, full, steaming mug in front of them. They were sitting, unmoving and patient, as their eyes wondered down the menu.

Dazai’s eyes lit up in recognition.

“Kyouka-chan! Long time no see,” he said, sliding into the chair opposite her.

“It’s been a while, Dazai-san,” Kyouka replied, stoic as ever.

Kyouka was a twelve year old girl who had been a trusted member of the Port Mafia ever since Mori’s takeover. The boss liked her for a multitude of reasons, he had once confessed to Dazai. The power that Mori held over her quirk made her endlessly obedient, and so he never had to question where Kyouka’s loyalties lay.

She was quiet and serious by nature, so Mori didn’t worry that she’d let important intel leak unintentionally. And apart from her general competence, Kyouka was young. Young enough not to have developed a full understanding of the underground, and the true meanings of the words that they all threw about.

She was the perfect messenger, in that sense, for the movement of high security information. Most of what was said was unintelligible to her- all she had to do was repeat it back later.

“I didn’t know you’d been sent over here. How are you liking the area?”

“It’s lovely,” she said. Monotone as usual, but sincere.

Dazai reached over to ruffle the top of her sleek, black hair. Kyouka took it without so much as a reaction.

“I suppose we should get down to business.”

Taking a sip of her drink, Kyouka nodded slightly. It must have tasted good, because a small smile pulled at the edges of her lips. She wiped it off, quickly.

“You have information regarding One For All,” she stated. Honestly, Dazai was a little surprised that she had been told even that much.

“I do,” he confirmed. “Do you know anything about quirk biology, Kyouka-chan?”

She hesitated, before shaking her head. Fiddling with the buttons on his black coat, Dazai continued, leisurely. (He really needed to get a more fashionable jacket at some point).

“Boiled down to its simplest form, people’s quirks are gained from their parents through DNA and the process of genetic inheritance. Many top scientists in the field believe this is the only way that a quirk can be obtained. However, a research journal was published almost thirty years ago on an experiment that proves the opposite. Proves that quirks can be passed on via asexual methods such as the ingestion of a quirk holder’s DNA in specific circ*mstances. This was called the Quirk Transference Experiment.”

Glancing up at Kyouka, he was glad to see that she was still listening intently. The slight pinch to her eyebrows, however, suggested that she understood very little. Good. The less she knew, the safer.

Dazai would easily wager his life on Mori’s incredible, paranoia-fuelled security (not that Dazai wagering his life was so uncommon), and his own observational powers weren’t too shabby either. He still had to actively repress the urge to scan the cafe for threats, though. It was all far too delicate for the dozens of eyes and ears around them.

“It was originally going to be conducted by researchers at the University of Tokyo, but they ended up bowing out. Rather than dropping it completely, the inventor, Dr. S.T, completed it by themselves and wrote that the experiment was successful. You’d expect this big scientific news to cause some sort of a splash, but instead, it was swept under the rug and ignored like it had been some sort of shameful failure. The information was never released to the general public.”

Dazai held out a finger. “That’s the first strange thing. The second is the untimely death of another researcher in the area, Dr. Shigaraki Yoichi, in a similar timeframe. I only mention this because of a possible connection to Shigaraki Tomura.”

Sighing, Dazai lent back in his seat. Such a lovely day- sunny but frosty- for such dirty dealings.

“My current theory is something like this. All Might’s quirk, One For All, works using the mechanisms tested in the QTE. The hero commission didn’t want this out in the open, so they limited access to the results. The Creator of the League Of Villains somehow gains knowledge of this, and wants to use it to bring down All Might for their lofty ideals. Shigaraki Tomura gets on board. Because of his connection to Yoichi, he has an interest in the matter. And here we are.”

Kyouka eyed him. “You don’t look convinced.”

“There are too many holes, Kyouka-chan. I’m missing things. I’m sure of it,” Dazai whined. He dropped his head into his hands.

“Mori-san is going to get such a kick when he hears-”

“Dazai-san?”

A voice cut through the general buzz of the cafe. He and Kyouka whipped towards it, and Dazai resisted the urge to buy a coffee and then spike it with arsenic before drinking.

“Good morning, Atsushi-kun,” he tried for cheerful.

Atsushi seemed to buy it, because he waved, and started weaving through mismatched tables towards the pair. He was wearing a white shirt and jeans, holding a takeaway latte in his left hand. Dragging a chair from an empty table, he took a seat beside Dazai, admiring the view of the bustling highway opposite them.

“Hello! I’m Atsushi, a friend of Dazai-san’s from school. What’s your name?” Kindly, he smiled to Kyouka. She did not return the gesture, but Atsushi didn’t look too put off.

Sparing a confirmative glance for Dazai, she replied, evenly.

“Izumi Kyouka.”

“She’s my cousin,” Dazai cut in. “And like the wonderful cousin I am, I was just treating her to some delicious local cuisine at this fine, gastronomical establishment.”

Atsushi laughed.

“Have you shown her around the area yet? There’s a mall down the road, and a cinema pretty close to here.”

Kyouka looked mortified at the prospect. He was about to decline the offer when Atsushi interrupted with a snap.

“Plus, the petting zoo that opened the other day.”

She looked as if the holy lord had smiled down on her. Then she looked as if she was wondering why a trained assassin was quite so excited by the mention of a petting zoo. Dazai grinned.

“You know what, that sounds fun!”

Kyouka looked at him, bewildered.

“But,” she started, “my dad is waiting for me.”

“Your dad can wait a little longer. If he asks, say a small but pesky ginger rodent bit you, and we had to go to the hospital to check for rabies.”

Kyouka giggled, then. Actually giggled. Dazai felt pride fill him up like a hearty meal. She nodded, still reluctant, as Atsushi began to stand, looking perplexed but pleased.

“Wait, Atsushi-kun. You come, too.”

Honestly, Dazai liked Kyouka. She was sweet and intelligent, and her work spoke for itself. He felt a sort of camaraderie towards her and the other kids of the Mafia. A part of him that he sometimes felt he had little connection to, but that existed nonetheless.

Dazai liked Kyouka. And he respected her. But he didn’t know her.

There was always an underlying current of tension in work conversations, and Dazai didn’t want her growing up with no reprise from it. He himself had been wild enough to seek freedom from the confines of the mafia when he needed it. And Chuuya had only joined recently. Kyouka had none of that.

“Me?”

And if there was one person whose very presence put others at ease. Who- for reasons that no one could quite explain- was able to peel away layers of tension and awkwardness from a conversation like they were oddly placed plasters, it was Atsushi.

“Yes, you.”

Maybe his gaze showed a hint of his desperation, because Atsushi gave in without too much argument.

To Dazai’s surprise, it was Kyouka who spoke next.

“Do you think there’ll be rabbits?”

—

As it turned out, there were- in fact- rabbits. Not to mention a family of hamsters (or maybe guineau pigs, Dazai couldn’t be sure), various wandering cats, an excitable group of dogs, several ferrets and a somewhat out of place snake.

The petting zoo wasn’t huge or particularly busy, and seemed quite impermanent. It was set up inside a large white tent that had been pitched on a field that the locals lovingly referred to as the ‘green’. Most of the customers were families with young children, but smiling hoards of teenagers also hung around, and a sweet elderly couple seemed to be enjoying the snake’s antics immensely.

Kyouka and Atsushi clicked well, racing from enclosure to enclosure to spend time with each of the animals. Dazai found himself following from a short distance behind. He was focussed on snapping pictures to spam Chuuya with. If only there had been some sheep at this zoo, it could have been marvellous.

Instead, he settled for a shot of Atsushi being drowned under a wave of cats (they must have sensed the tiger in him) and Kyouka laughing at the side.

He briefly considered sending it to Mori too (the boss hated to see people enjoying themselves, after all), but decided against it. He couldn’t be sure exactly how Mori would react to it. Plus, the moment seemed quite pure, somehow. Quite sacred. Mori’s eyes on the scene would deface it, in a way.

As time marched forwards and the sky darkened overhead, Dazai eventually decided that he couldn’t reasonably extend their day any longer. Sending Kyouka back to Mori was an inevitable evil, and delaying it would not change that.

She accepted it without argument when Dazai told the others that it was time to go, but disappointment twisted her features, clear as day. He and Atsushi allowed her off to circle by each animal once more before they left.

“She’s a lovely kid,” Atsushi said, conversationally. But something about his tone seemed a little off kilter. And his eyes were glassy, as if he wasn’t quite there. Something was on his mind.

“Trust me, I know. Now spill.”

Atsushi looked surprised at Dazai’s forwardness, but gave in quickly with a self deprecating smile.

“I met someone, recently. Someone who’s very angry at the world, I think.”

Atsushi stared out across the interior of the tent.

“Seeing all these animals in cages kind of reminded me of them,” he murmured. Then, his voice came out stronger, thick with resolve.

“I want to help them.”

For a moment, Dazai simply took in Atsushi’s form. He was determined, and had steeled himself in a way that reminded Dazai of their first meeting.

He was embarrassed to admit that in that instance, he was almost swept up by the other’s innocent idealism. He almost wanted to close his eyes to years of experience, and nod his head like the bright, young thing he was pretending to be.

Instead, he placed a hand on Atsushi’s shoulder.

“I’ve found in the past that when people are angry at the world, they’re generally right to be. If this person is willing to be saved, then by all means, save them.”

Atsushi co*cked his head.

“And if not?”

“If not, that anger is probably all they have left. You shouldn’t try to take that away from them.”

—

Nakahara Chuuya and the Vigilante

Chuuya was someone who, by nature, was not often surprised. He had lived more different lives in more different places by fifteen than most people ever found the time to. He had met so many people- heroes, villains and everything in between- and seen so many scenes play out. Both moments of wonderful kindness, and atrocities that he could barely believe stained the records of history.

But, yeah, the vigilante in the park surprised him.

The clock had just ticked over to midnight when Chuuya rose. Something inside him was scratching. Clawing and biting at the chains that kept it confined, a troglodytic kind of savagery about it.

Dazai had long returned from his exploits at the petting zoo, happily scrolling through pictures of rabbits and hamsters, and Atsushi being buried alive in cats. Chuuya hadn’t had the energy or will to stop him. The other had disappeared into his room at some point after that, as he had a tendency to do.

Chuuya crept past on his way to the front door. He couldn’t hear anything from inside- Dazai was probably asleep.

He slipped on his boots and an almost mattress like beige coat before unlocking the door, wincing at the clanging noises he couldn’t seem to stifle.

Before he knew it, his legs were guiding him towards the Memorial park.

It was tranquil, in the night. Silent and still. Lines of glowing lampposts took on the role of a sky of stars. Meandering paths etched patterns into the grass. Mr. Watanabe must have packed up for the night, because his usual stall was nowhere to be seen.

Looking around one last time to ensure that he was truly, completely alone, Chuuya walked into the centre of the park; the trees formed a sort of barrier between him and the quietened city around him.

He closed his eyes, concentrated.

For some reason, that he had never truly figured out, Arahabaki became stronger on certain nights. Perhaps it was the passage of time gradually wearing on his control until he rebuilt it, like water eroding a dam. Or maybe it was something else entirely. Rather than question it, he had learnt to simply deal with it.

Meditation was usually the way forwards. Silencing the mind and sharpening the senses. Forging and melding those chains once again. Link by link if he had to.

The Memorial park just seemed like an ideal place for it.

Inhaling tightly, Chuuya searched within himself. For where the monster resided. It was a deep, dark corner of somewhere quite unnamable, and Chuuya hadn’t missed its cold air across his face.

Arahabaki seemed aggressive, Chuuya thought, as he watched from the outside. Observed it like an animal in the petting zoo Dazai had been so adamantly keen on.

It was worse than usual, though. That much was definitely true. More active, scraping at him as if in retaliation.

Chuuya tried his best to seal it in. Repair the bonds. He really did. But he didn’t think, as he grounded himself back on earth, that he’d done a great job. He could still hear a snarl or a growl every now and then, if he listened really closely, coming from that undetectable prison.

Opening his eyes, Chuuya checked the time on his phone. It had only been a few minutes since his arrival, but he felt utterly wiped out. More than ready to go home and sleep it off. A sudden noise behind him crushed that plan like a mere pipe dream.

He acted without hesitation. Power surged through him, and he directed it towards a fallen branch, sitting amongst the undergrowth. Whipping around, he flung it at where the sound had come from. A figure darted away from the hurtling log, silhouette an inexplicable mesh of shapes, and into the circle of illumination of a nearby lamppost.

“Please calm down. I’m not a threat.”

Chuuya looked the man in front of him up and down.

Chuuya was someone who, by nature, was not often surprised. He had lived more different lives in more different places by fifteen than most people ever found the time to. He had met so many people- heroes, villains and everything in between- and seen so many scenes play out. Both moments of wonderful kindness, and atrocities that he could barely believe stained the records of history.

But, yeah, the vigilante in the park surprised him.

It was Arthur Rimbaud. Arthur f*cking Rimbaud.

The eternally wintery ensemble of a grey trench coat and striped scarf. The river of hair paired with frankly iconic earmuffs. There was no doubt about it. And Chuuya was astonished.

“Arthur Rimbaud?”

The aforementioned slouched in relief, seeming to believe that any danger had dissipated.

“It’s not often that people recognise me these days,” he mused, tone a little brittle. “Especially not young people.”

“I haven’t heard anything about you for years,” Chuuya replied. He sounded earnest to his own ears, and sealed his lips in distaste.

“One might argue that’s because I’m very good at my job,” he shrugged. “But really, it’s because I’m getting older.”

Barely ten years ago, Arthur Rimbaud had been the most active and capable vigilante in Tokyo. He had been skilled and just, daring to adventure where heroes never would, and challenging the tasks that others left to fester. Chuuya had been somewhat obsessed with him at a time- he was embarrassed to admit.

It was an old but well-loved story amongst the Sheep that Arthur Rimbaud had been their founder. Whether it was really true or not was another matter, but it hadn’t seemed that important at the time. He was their icon. Their role model to act in the glorious name of.

He remembered, briefly, hunching down over a library computer with Shirase, scrolling through blurry images. The first that had been in a high enough resolution to properly view was the one that stuck in his head most thoroughly. Arthur Rimbaud, perhaps a little more spritely and youthful, but certainly the same man that was now in front of him.

“What are you doing out here at night?” Arthur asked, moving towards him. He didn’t sound accusatory, just curious.

“I could ask you the same question.”

Arthur nodded, accepting the lack of an answer without follow up. He reached Chuuya’s side then, staring out to the city behind the trees with glazed eyes.

“I’ve been detecting a strange presence in this area lately. I’m trying to figure out what it could be.”

Chuuya nodded. He was glad not to be the only one feeling on edge.

It did register in his mind how strange the situation was. Here his childhood idol was, standing beside him and talking to him like they were old acquaintances. He wondered if he should ask whether Arthur had any connection to the Sheep or if it was all just a myth. Shirase certainly would have been begging to know.

He pushed the thought down. After all, the Sheep just weren’t his people anymore.

Arthur ploughed on, ignorant to his internal debate.

“I’m worried that it could be related to the attack on those UA students the other day.” He turned to Chuuya. “Have you heard about it? It’s all over the news.”

“I’ve more than heard about it,” Chuuya grumbled. A phantom pain travelled down his spine.

Arthur sent him a look of immense understanding. The wind swept through his locks, then, blowing strands into the air with thousands of rustling leaves.

“It pays to be careful,” Arthur recounted, simply. He seemed lost in thought, after that.

It felt like the end of the conversation. It probably was. But a part of Chuuya felt like he couldn’t leave it at that. Couldn’t let this opportunity slip. Couldn’t lose the man that he had, in many ways, modelled so much of his life after.

“Thank you,” he said, after a second. Arthur turned towards him. “Thank you for everything you’ve done. I could never really understand heroes, but I think that I can understand you.”

It didn’t mean anything, really. It was just a sequence of words that Chuuya had chosen to explain something. Or create something. Or maybe to end something. But he felt good after saying them. Clean. Even Arahabaki seemed to have calmed inside him.

“An odd predicament for a UA hero student,” Arthur said, smiling.

“I guess we can’t really justify our deepest desires,” Chuuya replied. The words tasted like honey on his lips. Fuller than he’d ever expected them to.

Arthur left shortly after, leaping into the night. Parting from familiar footsteps, Chuuya turned on his heel and walked away.

—

Dazai Osamu and the Two Strangers (Part 2)

M onday bought with it an undeniable underlying chaos. What with Eraserhead being wrapped head to toe in bandages (it felt like looking in the mirror), and the aftermath of the USJ incident on everyone’s minds, classes were encompassed in a slightly frantic atmosphere. Then, the announcement of the swiftly oncoming Sports Festival only served to heighten tensions. Aizawa explained how the Sports Festival eventually led to hero internships, and encouraged them each to train hard. It was all very sudden.

“The sports festival, huh?” Atsushi mumbled from his seat, leaning back dangerously close to the point of toppling.

Only Dazai’s own mismatched group of- well, friends and a couple of stragglers were left in the classroom at the beginning of lunch break. Midoriya was laughing as Atsushi dropped his head onto the table, defeated.

“Aren’t you looking forward to it?” He asked. “I want to show everyone what I can do.”

Midoriya’s relentless optimism was both disgusting and admirable, but Dazai did have to admit to a slight curiosity about the whole event.

“Same. Soon everyone will know that I can do very little indeed.”

With that, they filed out into the corridor. Dazai felt a gaze on his back as he did, but chose to ignore it. Todoroki Shouto, still at his desk in the classroom, was unreadable at the best of times. If he had chosen to stare at Dazai, there wasn’t much that could be done until he came out with the reason himself or stopped entirely.

“I’m super excited for it,” Uraraka said. “It’s an awesome chance to get our names out there amongst the big hero agencies. And it looks like so much fun on TV every year.”

Pushing his glasses further up his nose, Iida spoke from beside her.

“Apologies for asking so brazenly, but I’m curious to know, Uraraka-san. Why exactly do you want to be a hero?”

They were nearing the lunch hall, but the sudden inquisition stopped Uraraka in her tracks. She tugged at the sleeve of her jacket awkwardly as one by one, the others slowed in response. They looked back, questions written across their faces.

“Of course, there is absolutely no obligation to answer if you don’t wish to,” Iida rushed to rectify himself.

“No, I’m happy to answer.”

Appearing to steel herself, she took a deep breath and let a grin widen her mouth.

“I want to be a hero for the money.”

A moment of silence.

“T-the money?” A hint of uncertainty darkened Midoriya’s tone.

Honestly, Dazai applauded her for her answer. It was no secret that the top one hundred or so heroes lived in comfort. That much could be proven by the luxurious and sprawling estates of heroes like Endeavour and Best Jeanist. Money seemed like as good a motivating factor as any. Maybe even better than the blatant flinging around of lofty ideals such as ‘I want to help people’ or ‘I want to pursue justice.’

Uraraka sighed, looking a little disappointed. “My parents own a construction company, but business has been slow recently, what with quirks like Cementoss’s about. We’ve really been struggling. I want to become a hero and make lots of money, so that I can support them and let them retire without worrying about the costs.”

When she finished, she sounded fully resolved and committed to her dream. As Dazai glanced around at the others, he found that to some extent, her resolve had spread to each of them.

“That’s actually,” Atsushi began, “the best reason for becoming a hero that I’ve heard yet.”

Shocked by the reaction, Uraraka stared at him. A laugh sounded from somewhere within their group.

“I couldn’t agree more. To give back to one’s family is a truly noble goal.”

They continued their approach to the cafeteria in high spirits. It lit a spark of hope in Dazai’s heart to see that even the most hero-obsessed demographic in this society weren’t complete hypocrites.

The quiet tension that had been suffocating the class ever since the USJ incident was basically extinguished.

It was when All Might came up to them, requesting that Midoriya join him for lunch, that Dazai felt a sting of curiosity run up his spine.

Spinning out a half baked excuse, he strolled after the two, trying to emulate his usual casual demeanour.

They seemed to be heading towards the staff room, conversing in hushed tones that Dazai was unable to quite pick up on.

Watching All Might and Midoriya walk side by side was actually quite laughable. The somewhat clashing combination of gold and green, as well as the stark (to say the least) contrast in height and bulk. They made a funny pair. The ‘Midoriya is All Might’s son’ theory that Dazai had taken a liking to was looking less and less reasonable as time went on.

It was as All Might twisted the golden handle to the staff room that his cover was blown. It wasn’t even his own fault- not really. Because there, in the middle of the corridor with eyes fixed on his own, was Sakaguchi Ango.

“Dazai-kun?” Ango said, words ricocheting around the otherwise empty corridor noticeably.

Dazai winced.

Two pairs of eyes spun towards him. Green ones were lit in surprise, blue in something more akin to contemplation. He hurried to rectify the situation.

“Ango-kun, what a completely planned and totally expected meeting this is!”

He willed Ango to play along.

The other raised an eyebrow, but seemed to pick up on his unasked question.

“Indeed,” he sighed. He shot an annoyed glance at Dazai before turned to All Might, bowing apologetically.

“I’m sorry for interrupting your conversation. Dazai-kun and I were planning to meet here, but I didn’t notice him approaching, and was shocked to see him suddenly.”

Waving a hand, All Might smiled. His voice, however, sounded a little tight as he spoke. “Not a problem, young man.”

Midoriya was looking at the hero, seeming almost concerned.

“You see, after I kindly allowed Dazai-kun to stay in the library after closing hours, and even check out a book, I was disappointed to find that it is now overdue.”

Dazai chanced a look at Ango. He had initially been lying, smoothly, through his teeth. This was truthful, though. That sort of passive anger just couldn’t be faked.

“In the future, Young Dazai, please ensure that you respect the rules of the-”, All Might coughed into his hand, “library. A true hero should not burden others with their own downfalls.”

“Of course. Sorry, All Might,” Dazai chirped, as All Might and Midoriya hurriedly disappeared into the staff room.

Then it was just him and Ango. The latter was staring at the now firmly shut door to the staff room, concentrated. Dazai jogged over to him, whispering his next words into Ango’s ear.

“New theory. All Might is illiterate. Did you hear how disgusted he sounded when he said the word ‘library’?”

Ango choked on air.

“Did you just accuse the number one hero of being illiterate?”

They began to walk down the hall, side-by-side, back in the direction that Ango seemed to have come from. (Dazai wondered, briefly, where Ango had been going to. Only the staff offices and hero course classrooms were in this direction. He supposed that as Ango had just done him something of a favour, he wouldn’t ask. Although he had only needed a favour because Ango had put him in an awkward situation to begin with).

“You don’t become number one hero by reading books all day. You become number one hero by drinking a sh*t ton of protein shakes.”

“Obviously,” Ango deadpanned, shaking his head.

They kept walking, and the grey walls of the hallways began to merge into a familiar dark blue.

“Where are we going?” Dazai asked, although he was pretty sure he already knew the answer.

“I,” Ango emphasised, “am going to the library.”

“Guess that makes two of us,” Dazai replied, cheerily.

Entering the library for only the second time, Dazai followed Ango through the aisles. Perhaps surprisingly, Ango didn’t comment on it, and instead continued in his weaving towards the front desk.

“By the way, is the book seriously overdue already?”

“Yes. Please bring it back as soon as possible.”

“But it’s only been, like, four days.”

Ango turned to him, donning a slight smirk as he took a seat at his rolling chair.

“As the head student librarian, I decided that the borrowing system should be based on a meritocracy.” He glanced Dazai up and down. “I am yet to see your merit, so you don’t get extended ownership of the goods.”

Gasping, Dazai plonked himself down on the wooden desk, very narrowly avoiding toppling the computer.

“That’s just discrimination.”

Ango busied himself with the piles of books that had been left on various surfaces. He scanned each barcode carefully, and Dazai was briefly struck by the thought that Ango would make a very good full time librarian.

“Can’t you even read a book in four days? If not, you have even less merit than I thought.”

Dazai spluttered.

“I can! I just didn’t think I’d have to.”

That was when a familiar voice drifted past the cabinets, deep and resonant.

“Sakaguchi-kun, do you know if the sequel I ordered has arrived yet?”

Appearing from behind a row of books, Oda stopped short at the sight of the pair in front of him.

“Dazai-kun,” he said in way of greeting.

“Hi, Odasaku,” Dazai replied. His smile was genuine, he found, as he watched Oda approach the desk.

Even though they’d only met once before, Oda felt like an old friend. He supposed that feeling extended to Ango, too, an acquired taste though he was.

“I heard about the USJ incident on the news. Are you alright?”

Dazai almost laughed in response. It wasn’t often that people asked him something so simple. Something so off the bat with no ulterior motives.

“Oh, I’m great.”

When Oda’s eyes strayed to the scrape across his cheekbone from a shard of shattered glass, he just shrugged.

“You should’ve seen the other guy.”

Oda nodded slowly, leaning against the sturdy cabinet beside him. Ango appeared slightly uncomfortable; he refused to meet Dazai’s eyes, busily tapping at the computer keyboard. He had voiced his disdain towards hero students before, but Dazai felt that this time, it was Ango’s inherent awkwardness that made him seem a little cold. He decided, mercifully, not to mention it.

“Forget the USJ.” He sprawled out over the entire table, knocking a stack of books plain off. Ango protested loudly, and Dazai happily ignored him. “The sports festival is what it’s all about.”

“If you want to talk about the sports festival, you’ve probably chosen the worst audience in the school,” Ango said, wryly.

“Sounds like there’s a story somewhere in there,” Dazai prodded.

“Not really,” Ango said. “Your book hasn’t arrived just yet, Oda-san,” he added, as a side thought.

“Come on. You can’t just throw out such a cryptic statement and then pretend it never happened.”

Oda looked on from his spot, mildly amused. Ango scoffed in response.

“If you must know, I hate the sports festival. It’s a stupid publicity stunt aimed at keeping the attention of the fickle pro heroes and the fickle sponsors that pour money into this school like it’s worth nothing.”

Dazai whistled.

“Not to mention humiliating. I understand, to an extent, that this whole set up could- debatably- benefit the hero course pupils, but what about everyone else? Asking us normal students to run around like hooligans won’t achieve anything except pissing us all off.”

“Sakaguchi-kun doesn’t like the sports festival,” Oda supplied, helpfully.

Honestly, Dazai could see his point. Especially this year, directly following the USJ Incident (which could only have been the fault of UA’s lacking security), the Sports Festival was closer to a publicity stunt than it had ever been before. A desperate attempt to gain back support and show that UA was not a school to be trifled with.

His other argument was reasonable too. What exactly the general studies, business course and in some cases, support equipment students gained from the Sports Festival was yet to be seen. More likely than not, they were there to make the hero students look good in comparison. Maybe occasionally one would excel and create a nice underdog narrative for the school to capitalise on. To some extent, it amazed Dazai that no one else was willing to pick UA up on these things.

He felt a seed of respect blossom for Ango, then. Perhaps they were more alike than he had previously thought.

“And you, Odasaku? What do you think about this heartless, capitalist conspiracy?”

Ango mumbled something unintelligible under his breath, but had at least given up on his facade of working. Now his attention was clearly on the conversation at hand.

“I have no strong opinions on it,” he said. “Although I’d prefer not to have to fight, if possible.”

Dazai laughed. That was such an incredibly Oda response.

“Easy for you to say,” Ango groaned. “You could win the whole damn thing if you wanted to.”

Now that piqued Dazai’s interest. He pulled himself into a sitting position from his slouch over the table. But even after scrutinising him, Dazai couldn’t detect a hint of sarcasm in Ango’s words. It had just been a statement- pure and simple. A fact.

Dazai turned a pen he had found on the desk over between his fingers as he observed Oda’s reaction. There wasn’t much of one to observe, really. Just a slight shift in his stance, and a raising of the eyebrow.

“You overestimate me. I could probably pass the first few stages without too much trouble, but winning the UA sports festival is a pretty big deal. Especially in third year.”

“Did I accidentally befriend UA’s secret powerhouse?” Dazai joked.

Finally, Oda gave in to his silent pleas.

“My quirk is called Flawless,” he began. “It allows me to see five seconds into the future whenever I’m in danger, or in a high stakes situation.”

Nodding slowly, Dazai pondered over it for a moment. At first glance, Flawless didn’t sound like anything particularly groundbreaking. Time travel quirks were rare, but not as unusual as they had once been. And Flawless had a five second limit attached to it, making it quite a reactionary power.

Consider the implications, however, of fighting someone with such an ability, and Flawless appeared in a whole new light.

Spars are fast-paced and intense; that is the very nature of the things. Unless one was using a long, drawn out kind of strategy, no single action would take longer than five seconds to perform. This ultimately gave Oda a perfect understanding of any battle. With even a tenth of the martial arts training of his opponent, he could likely use Flawless to take down anyone.

“That quirk is…” Dazai trailed off.

“I know,” Ango concurred, propelling his spinning chair away from the desk with his legs. “Anyone else would have used it as a one way ticket to the hero course years ago.”

“I’m a pacifist,” Oda stated, simply.

That was when the bell rung, reminding Dazai that lessons did, in fact, exist and were, in fact, compulsory.

Dazai hopped up from the table, and the three began to make their way out of the library.

“Funny that ‘pacifist’ contains the word ‘fist’.”

His friends laughed, at that, and Dazai couldn’t even find it within himself to be disappointed at missing lunch.

—

Those Who Are Watching

In the case of Mori Ougai:

T he sun was shining in Yokohama on the opening day of the UA Sports Festival. Its rays reflected off gleaming windows and glass towers, creating gorgeous patterns and broken rainbows of colour.

It was almost a shame, Mori thought, that the city looked so divine when, for the first time in months, he was venturing out of it.

Sliding into the plush leather seat of his car, Mori let one of his men shut the door behind him. Kouyou was already seated, elegantly, beside him. She was nursing a cup of tea. Not a drop spilled over the side as the car rumbled to life, the driver smoothly pulling out into the road.

“You must be excited to see your protégé in action,” Kouyou said, almost bitterly, before taking a sip of her steaming beverage. A silk kimono fanned out over legs.

“And you as well. Chuuya-kun has been flourishing under your care.”

Kouyou frowned a little, at that.

“Remind me why exactly we’re travelling into Tokyo for this. Risking not only ourselves, but the covers of these very so-called ‘protégés’?”

Mori laughed. “I take actions that I pertain will contribute to our triumph. And I believe that meeting this old acquaintance of mine may be the difference between victory and defeat.”

In the case of Shigaraki Tomura:

T he television was staticky again. And no matter how much Kurogiri adjusted the antenna, it wasn’t making any difference.

“Perhaps I could try?” Akutagawa offered, expression neutral.

“No, you could not try. You’re the reason we don’t have a f*cking flatscreen anymore,” Shigaraki replied, bitterly.

The last time Akutagawa had attempted to fix the television, he had only succeeded in proving that he had absolutely no understanding of modern technology. And that was a kind way of putting it. He had just blasted a hole through the thing with his stupid coat and then stood looking vaguely proud of himself.

Back then, they’d had a sleek, flatscreen TV set up on the wall above the bar. Now they were stuck with this eighteenth century looking relic.

Finally, with a delicate shake, the monitor jolted into life. The broadcast was already well into the pre-festival adverts; a grinning little boy holding an All Might action figure flickered across the screen.

“Glad to see we didn’t miss anything important,” Shigaraki grumbled. He took a sip of the apple juice Kurogiri had served him (in a shot glass).

“It seems not,” Kurogiri agreed, although he appeared to have taken quite an interest in the shampoo advertisem*nt playing on the screen.

It was a few minutes later that the actual show began, and Shigaraki was suddenly confronted with the opening scenes of the first year UA Sports Festival. He leant against the bar, eyes narrowed as he watched the broadcast flash through various pixelated images.

“These two f*ckers that you’re so obsessed with better blow my mind, Kurogiri,” he said. “Sensei won’t be happy if you were found out by a couple of blazing idiots.”

“You will understand when you see them, Shigaraki Tomura,” Kurogiri replied, casually, as he wiped down the surface of the bar. “They remind me of him in some ways; they are different from the rest.”

In the case of f*ckuzawa Yukichi:

T he air at UA was fresh. Clean- for the city- and rejuvenating. f*ckuzawa wasn’t generally someone who believed in any superstitions, but the crisp wind made him feel positive, nonetheless.

The UA Sports Festival was a significant date on the communal wall calendar in the break room at the Armed Detective Agency. For most of his subordinates, this was because it provided a company-paid opportunity to sightsee in central Tokyo. For f*ckuzawa, it was the only time he could reach outside of Yokohama in his recruitment efforts. UA’s internship program was popular amongst all heroics agencies, and his own was no exception. Plus, his attempts at increasing the agency’s numbers within Yokohama had not been fruitful.

He came to a stop in front of the imposing form of the sports arena. It was an Olympic-sized monster, casting a dark shadow over the crowded entranceway.

“UA, huh?” Yosano breathed out. “How nostalgic.”

“You say that every year,” Ranpo laughed. He was never all that interested in the proceedings of the Sports Festival, and usually had to be bribed with sweets to sit through the whole thing. f*ckuzawa kept him close at hand anyway. One never knows when something important may be churning away under the surface. A level at which only the agency’s top detective could see.

“It’s huge,” Tanizaki gasped, in awe. f*ckuzawa supposed it was a fair reaction for a child from the local public school, which was not nearly as extravagant as any capital city institution. Let alone the prestigious UA, of all places.

He had opted to leave Kunikida in charge of the agency and its remaining members back home.

A part of him did regret this decision. After all, things simply seemed to run smoother with Kunikida around. He was something of a grounding presence, compared to the other members. This group in particular (with the exception of Tanizaki, who just looked happy to be here) could be a miraculous or dangerous mix.

f*ckuzawa sighed. Too late to turn back now.

“My only order for you all is to search through what will surely be a wonderful pool of talent for those who best suit our agency and values. These may not be the obvious choices, but they will certainly be there.”

He approached the looming doors of the arena.

“Let’s go.”

In the case of Arthur Rimbaud:

I t was an old shop, out of place on the modern highway it resided in. One of those places that never seemed to have any customers, but had effortlessly stood the test of time against all the odds.

Peering through a stained window, Arthur could make out a row of televisions. They were playing a variety of channels- one showed home cooking, and another an action movie. But Arthur had his eyes fixed on the screen in the centre of the display. It was, after all, playing the only show worth watching at this time of year.

The UA Sports Festival was a little bittersweet for Arthur. At times, he detested the hero world with such an intensity that it felt like a physical ache; he bathed in the knowledge that he had always stayed far away from it. But at other times, a little twinge of regret would well up inside him. Like a single drop of blood from the prick of a needle. It was a sort of greed and longing that he could never truly repress.

Hoping to catch a glimpse of the distinctive red hair from that night in the park, Arthur continued to watch as the introductory announcements played. Unfortunately, it didn’t look like they’d be getting to the sports anytime soon. He began to slink away from the shopfront, disappointed.

A flash of colour caught his eye on one of the monitors, and he paused. The offending video was showing the news channel. An image, blurry to the point of unrecognisable, took up most of the screen, and a headline ran underneath in a vivid blue.

Vigilante Turned Villain: Stain the Hero Killer Sighted in Tokyo.

Arthur let out a breathy laugh. Between Stain the Hero Killer and the League of Villains, the world really had become a dangerous place.

Chapter 6: The Sports Festival: Round One

Chapter Text

“Some situations call for a certain level of casual detachment.”

The scalpel was a slick crimson in his hand. He spun it on one finger as if handling a child’s toy and not a murder weapon.

“A detachment I believe that you alone possess.”

Bed sheets that were once pure as snow became bloodied. A low gargling started up in the dead man’s throat. Seconds later, all sound had ceased.

“Spare me the flattery,” he yawned. “You needed a short term accomplice, and I have an expiry date. Who better than the kid who wants to kill himself?”

Mori smiled. It was truly a wicked thing. More so than anything Dazai had ever witnessed before.

“Perhaps. But if you were to consider the situation in another way, you are my most indispensable ally. In an organisation such as this one, people will pounce at the chance to grab power the second an opening makes itself clear. You are my sole witness. The gates of heaven that will hold back floods of cynics.”

Sighing, Dazai folded his arms. Mori’s mind games were too convoluted for him to bother sifting through. Instead, he stared at the doctor and the corpse before him.

“What exactly do you aim to achieve with all this, Mori-san? The Port Mafia is yours. What are you going to do with it?”

“If you’re asking for some grand plans, you’re going to be wildly disappointed,” Mori laughed. “I have no concern for either heroes or villains. I have no desire to protect or revolt against this society. All that matters to me lives in this city.”

He rose from his stool, slowly. His white, unmarred doctor’s coat fanned out behind him as he turned towards the door.

“The rest of the world can burn.”

When Mori left the room to claim his winnings, Dazai set his gaze upon the haggard old man in the bed. The shell of a human that had been left behind. The former boss had never exactly been larger than life, but he had been their leader, once. Dazai’s leader. And something else, too.

Now he was dead, and Dazai wondered if he would be better for it.

—

Nakahara Chuuya and the Opening Ceremony

U A sometimes felt less like a school and more like a self-contained city. This was one of those times. The main sports arena alone was host to an entire structure of underground rooms and passages, and sets of double doors spilled out onto the surrounding fields. Although at present, they were kept tightly locked.

Chuuya and the rest of class 1A were waiting in a spacious room just off the huge field on which the opening ceremony would begin. Announcements by the teachers were already blaring over an extensive sound system. Chatter and the thumping of people approaching their seats were insistent, and barely muffled by the walls.

In a way, Chuuya was thankful for the noise. Without it, their waiting room would have been deafeningly silent.

Some of his classmates were anxious, others anticipating. They all seemed hyper aware, Chuuya noticed, of the reputation that their class had come to acquire. What with not only their own increased experience with real villains, but also the public’s knowledge of this. Usually, the first year Sports Festival was far less attended than the second and third years’. This time, the gap had narrowed massively. People were interested in them. Invested in them. People expected them to do well.

He couldn’t forget the events of just a few days prior. Students from all across the first year (from hero class 1B, to a couple of stray general studies kids) had crowded around outside their classroom door. Perhaps to psyche them out, or perhaps simply to take their own readings. Either way, it had really drummed the message into his classmates’ heads:

There was a difference between them and their contemporaries.

They had fought real villains, and more importantly, lived to tell the tale. But what might have felt like something of an advantage before was becoming more like an unnecessary weight on their shoulders as the days ticked by.

If you’d asked Chuuya to bet on who would muster up the courage to break the silence first, he might have had to ponder over it.

It certainly wouldn’t be him- that much he could say for certain. He was lounging on a comfortable recliner in a corner of the room, sipping strawberry juice from a carton. That was, perhaps, his favourite thing about this whole situation: the vending machine.

Wasn’t looking like it would be Dazai, either, though he was usually a safe choice for these things. Midoriya had his head in a book. Even Bakugou was staring at his own hands, distracted, instead of blowing up all slightly flammable objects in the vicinity.

“Bakugou-kun, Nakahara-kun.”

It took Chuuya a moment to recognise the voice. A low, smooth timbre that he barely remembered hearing since the beginning of school. Swivelling in his chair, he turned to scan for the cause. And found it pretty immediately.

Todoroki Shouto was standing right in the centre of the room. His distinctive (and yes, slightly ridiculous) hair was like a beacon of light in a thunderstorm. Chuuya briefly wondered if he’d ever been invited on any stealth missions by his hotshot father; if not, he understood why.

“f*cking what?” Bakugou snapped in reply. He had calmed down considerably since the start of term, and it became especially noticeable when he used his words rather than his fists.

Acting as if he hadn’t heard Bakugou at all, Todoroki continued. “And everyone else as well,” he said, raising his voice slightly while sending an array of pointed glares around the room. “I have no plans to hold back just because you’re my classmates. I will beat all of you, with only the power of my right side.”

Kaminari leaned over from his perch next to Chuuya.

“So he kind of is holding back? He just wants us to know that it’s not for our sakes.”

“Please don’t harbour any resentment against me following the festival. That is all.”

Then, Todoroki turned towards the doorway and walked out into the corridor. There was something rather moving about the scene. A single figure emerging from the silence, alone. From this angle, Todoroki really did seem like the hero who could win the whole thing.

Whispering again, Kaminari continued: “he just pulled the ‘don’t hate me ‘cos you ain’t me’ card.”

Chuuya choked on his juice carton, very subtly. Bakugou was less subtle, in that lovable way of his.

“That arrogant f*cking- let me at him!”

He thrashed around in the hardened grasp of Kirishima, who only appeared mildly unimpressed.

“That was quite the declaration of war,” Dazai said, coyly, from across the room. His next words were thrown into open air, undirected and without a target. Still, Chuuya somehow felt that they had been meant for him and him alone.

“I wonder how you’ll respond to it.”

Dazai wasn’t the only one. Chuuya himself had felt somewhat disturbed by the words- not because he was particularly worried. If anything, he felt excited by a challenge from a potentially worthy adversary. But mere moments ago, Chuuya had been the proud owner of a game plan. A method that would place him perfectly among his classmates. High enough for them not to question it, but low enough to blend in amongst the masses of hero students. The last thing he needed was for an interested party to dig into his background. Mori’s instructions had made that clear.

Still, Chuuya was nothing if not yearning for a fight. The God of Calamity’s shouts resonated through his body to his very core, no matter how definitively he liked to ignore them. So the offer of a duel was tempting. Something to dwell over, certainly.

The fact that Todoroki thought he could face Chuuya in combat- withholding his more plainly destructive powers, at that- was either very stupid or incredibly thrilling.

“I’m going to take that Elsa bitch down a couple of notches,” Bakugou mumbled. He had calmed down a little since Todoroki’s departure, but a palpable rage still burned under his skin.

It wasn’t long afterwards that Midnight entered the room, leather catsuit on and dangerous smile at the ready. She herded them out of the safety of the waiting room and into a long, dingy tunnel. Todoroki was already stationed there, propped up against a curving wall.

Small but blinding, a glint of light shone at the end of the path. They approached it in near silence.

Midnight paused in front of them, the bright light from outside painting her in blackness. She remained an almost ethereal silhouette against the surreal atmosphere engulfing them.

“Are you ready?”

And then they were out. Chuuya had to squint against the harsh rays of the sun, at first. He held an arm over his eyes, baggy fabric of the UA issued sports kit blocking the glare. That was when the cheering started- so loud it was deafening. It resounded through his skull with jerking vibrations, even drowning out the welcoming shouts of Present Mic over the speakers.

“This is insane,” Kirishima murmured from beside him. Mina could only nod her head dumbly, speechless for once.

Every seat was filled with spectators, all of them staring out into the pitch. Other first year students from various classes were channelling in as well, but Chuuya noticed that the cameras were vehemently fixed on class 1A. He wondered who was watching now. His colleagues in the Port Mafia? The pro heroes of the world? Maybe even his old comrades in the Sheep.

He couldn’t quite erase that last thought from his mind, even as the roar from the audience began to die down and Midnight took to a haphazardly constructed stage. Those memories: Yuan gushing about heroes in the alley, Shirase gazing adoringly at pictures of a vigilante, reading action stories to the younger kids and training the older ones for battle. Even in Yokohama, a city that had thoroughly rejected quirk culture and its consequences, there were simple moments like these. Ones that reflected humanity’s soul-deep need for the triumph of good over evil. To be here, to be part of it all. To be on the other side.

Maybe it was just the clear enthusiasm of the onlookers, but Chuuya felt pride claw its way up his throat like something about to bloom.

For a split second, maybe two, Chuuya let himself wonder. Let himself dream of what kind of life he could have led.

Dream of the people he could have saved. Of the way that his fans would have looked at him- adoring and humbled.

This was something, a small part of Chuuya was screaming, that he did not want to lose.

Taking a deep breath, Chuuya steeled himself. He looked back up to where Midnight was giving an overview of the festival.

“Have you got a script, Chuuya-kun?”

That was Kirishima again, speaking in hushed tones.

“A script?”

“For your speech.”

“For my speech?”

“Jesus Christ is there an echo in here or something?” Bakugo grumbled from behind them. He raked a hand through his hair, sighing. “You came top in the entrance exam, dumbass. You have to give the stupid first year address.”

Chuuya blanked. Beating up a smoky entity with a superiority complex was one thing, but talking in front of literally the entire pro hero world. That was a whole other story. And it made Chuuya feel vaguely sick.

Mina must have seen the look on his face, because she punched his side, gently.

“Don’t look so nervous, Mr. Just-call-me-Chuuya. You’re going to ad-lib the living sh*t out of this speech.”

Nodding, Chuuya tried to loosen the grim expression that was pasted on his face. The ‘your son has just fallen into heavy gambling debt and bankruptcy’ face.

“Thanks for that, Miss Just-call-me-Mina. I said call me Mina. Call me Mina or I’ll acidify you.”

Scowling, Mina punched him again. Harder.

“Why did no one tell me this, though?” he groaned. And then quieter, “my hair looks a fright.”

At that moment, he locked eyes with Dazai, who was standing further forward in the crowd. His eyes were glistening with mischief, and Chuuya knew immediately and without a trace of doubt, that the bastard had, as usual, been the cause of all his issues. f*cking Dazai.

“I think I’ve been blabbering on for long enough,” Midnight’s strong voice slashed through his thoughts like a knife. “For the final event of the opening ceremony, we’ll be hearing an address from the class 1A hero student who scored highest in the entrance exam. Please give it up for Nakahara Chuuya.”

The crowd bounded to life, clapping wildly at the call of his name. Familiar voices and well-wishes from his classmates were similarly raucous. That was any desperate hope at clinging to his anonymity gone then. A pathway formed through the crowd of students, and he began making his way through it, almost hazily. The back of his throat felt dry and sandy.

“Good luck,” Yaoyorozu said as he passed her. He tried to fix a smile onto his face in reply.

When he reached the stage, the clatter from the audience quietened. Gradually, an encompassing silence filled the arena. Everyone, every camera, was focused on him. Waiting for what the best of the elite class 1A would have to say. Were they expecting a typical vow to try one’s hardest? Or a competitive stance? The first push for a win?

Even if they were expecting such things, what they really wanted eluded Chuuya. He had no clue what people were searching for within their heroes. Whether they anticipated a spark of inspiration, or a steady reliability. There was, Chuuya concluded, no way for him to give the address that the crowd was waiting with bated breath for.

Again, his eyes were magnetised to Dazai’s in the group of students before him. There was still that undeniable shimmer of mischief, but it had been joined by something else. A kind of a open curiosity. It made the other look almost childlike. He thought back to Dazai’s words in the waiting room- I wonder how you’ll respond to it - and supposed that they could refer to more than just Todoroki’s arbitrary declarations. Chuuya was being given the chance to truly and outwardly express himself. Even harbouring the secret of his own identity, and in this twisted, dishonest situation. This was a moment in which he could respond in a way that felt important and sincere.

He thought of the eyes of the Sheep on him from somewhere far, far away. Thought about what exactly he wanted to show them of himself. Thought of Arthur and of All Might and of all the other pro heroes that had ever meant anything to him. He thought of the God inside him.

Turning his attention to the spectators in the arena, Chuuya felt a sudden coldness crawl up his spine. A certain occupied seat seemed to sing out to him. It was identical to all the other ones around it, bar the man settled there. Chuuya met pale, frosty eyes with his own. What exactly Mori Ougai was doing in the UA stands, Chuuya couldn’t say. His very presence was an anomaly. A stain on the squeaky clean visage of the event. He averted his gaze, quickly. Now wasn’t the time to think about Mori.

Kouyou was sat next to him, the picture of grace, and Chuuya felt himself relax instantly. She looked like she wanted him to say something, he thought. She looked like she was willing him on.

And then, of course, there was Dazai. There was meeting the expectations that his partner had so clearly laid out between them, no holds barred. Soukoku was a relationship based off of moments like these, he supposed. He picked up the microphone.

“My name is-” he cleared his throat. “My name is Nakahara Chuuya, and I got first place in the UA entrance exam this year. Not by doing anything particularly smart or skilful, and certainly not by saving anyone,” he said, laughing slightly.

The audience seemed a little bemused, but they weren’t actively booing yet. So Chuuya continued.

“I came in first place- well, drew, in fact- because I have a strong, flashy quirk that’sreally great for meaningless destruction. Which is pretty much what the entrance exam entailed.”

A couple of mutters passed through the rows of onlookers.

“Heroics is all about people. It came about because of our desire to help people, to save people from all sorts of things. Anything, really. It was never invented; it just evolved. It’s so innate: heroism. And it’s not just about crushing robots using fancy abilities. Although that’s pretty important, too.”

A few laughs.

“What I’m trying to say is, I may have placed first in the entrance exam, but that doesn’t prove anything about what kind of a hero I am. During this sports festival, I think we’ll all do our best to fight with everything we have. Whoever comes out on top after that- they’ll be the true hero.”

He looked into the eyes of the students in front of him. All steely and determined.

“I’ll show you the limits of my power. I expect the same treatment in return.”

Slowly, Chuuya lowered the microphone back into its stand. It had become warm in his grip. He walked to the stairs of the stage in utter silence. His whole body felt shaky, tension entrapped every limb. That… that had been something.

Then, someone started clapping. Just one person, from way up in the stalls somewhere. And they were joined by another person. And another. A scattering of applause could be heard in the arena. Next, someone whistled, and then all hell broke loose. A standing ovation. Cheers and yells in a show of unity. For what? Heroism? UA? Him? He didn’t know. But it felt good.A kaleidoscopic experience.

He thought back to his words all those years ago and realised that yeah, he didn’t want to lose this.

“Where the hell did you pull out that motivational speaking ability from?”

“That was super manly, dude!”

Classmates were congratulating him from all sides. And he felt a laugh bubble up in his throat.

“Probably best that I didn’t give that sh*tty speech,” Bakugou proclaimed from his left. “I would have just told all these extras that I’ll win the whole f*cking thing and left it at that.”

“That wouldn’t have gone down well,” Sero chuckled, although he looked slightly sickened by the thought.

Midnight continued talking, after that. Introducing a four kilometre obstacle race in the name of a preliminary round. Chuuya tried to listen, he really did, but his senses were still ramped up to the maximum following his pledge. Perhaps that was why he could feel a pair of eyes pinned on him. Even from dozens of metres away.

Mori was watching him, more contemplatively than anything else. Suddenly, Chuuya felt a twinge of regret eat at him. At the time, his speech had felt sincere on his tongue. Meaningful, somehow. But now he looked at himself from an outside perspective. Really, the whole thing just looked like a big ‘f*ck you’ to his boss. Great. That’s exactly what he needed.

The moment was over when the starting signal sounded. A sea of navy uniforms gushed past him, and Chuuya prepared himself.

With no time for second thoughts, the UA Sports Festival had begun.

—

Dazai Osamu and the Obstacle Race

T he moment that the smoke signal was launched up into the sky and an accompanying klaxon rung out, Dazai ran. He assumed a comfortable pace amongst crowds of students, and was funnelled down a narrow tunnel, not dissimilar to the one they had used to enter the main arena.

“And they’re off! I wonder how this pack of students will spread out when they emerge from the tunnel. Any favourites, Eraserhead?”

Following the endlessly energetic commentating of Present Mic, Dazai’s own teacher sounded even more exhausted than usual.

“It’s too early to tell.”

Qualifying for the next round was a must. But taking first place would simply be unnecessary. Dazai needed to find the boundary between expectation and over achievement, and sit perfectly atop of it. So nothing too difficult, then.

He probably needed to stay within the top twenty to solidify his chance at qualifying, he calculated, and subsequently sped up his pace minutely. Uraraka was running next to him, and she sent him a quick wink.

“Bet I’ll beat you, Dazai-kun,” she laughed, grinning.

“Yeah bet you will, gorgeous.”

She groaned. “You take all the fun out of winning.”

Only another few seconds passed before the ground was shaking under him. Something sharp and hard shot along the concrete- ice, he realised, looking down. Uraraka was up in the air in a flash, floating over the slippery sheets of ice like they were simple puddles and not huge slipping hazards. Seriously, someone should get some space heaters in here.

“See you round, handsome!” And off she floated.

Dazai sighed, trying to keep up his pace. That failed immediately. His leg flew out from under him, and he fell on the floor. Ice was- he noted- very cold and very painful when you were flung onto it. Generally unpleasant, kind of like Todoroki’s personality thus far. Because really, who else could have been the cause?

(He wished, not for the first time, that his quirk could nullify the physical products of other’s abilities too. Oh what he would give to make that dream a reality).

“Todoroki Shouto has taken an early lead,” Present Mic confirmed, “with that massive display of power. He’s wiped a couple of contenders out, but a healthy number are still right on his tail. Coming up in in second is Nakahara Chuuya, who’s bypassed the icy ground completely using his gravity manipulation.”

He scrambled up, keeping a hand against the wall as he went. God, Mori was never going to let him forget this. He could only hope that Chuuya didn't watch the festival back, or he’d be even more insufferable.

With the end of the tunnel came the end of the impromptu skating rink. Dazai had never been happier to see solid tarmac below him.

“And the front runners are approaching the second obstacle. Robots! Let’s see how they handle this one.”

He kept running, admiring the open fields that spanned out around him. UA was one big place.

“Todoroki-kun has dispatched of the first robot with ease. Looks like he’s used the carcass as a barrier to temporarily block other students. What a competitive spirit he has.”

That was a nice way to put it.

“Nakahara-kun has no trouble getting around that blockage, though. Bakugou Katsuki is steaming right through as well. A whole group of students are fighting tooth and nail.”

Distantly, Dazai heard what sounded like a gunshot. Or something even more powerful and resonant: a cannon?

Smoke was beginning to swirl at the edges of his vision, and the occasional piece of debris littered the side of the path.

“Yaoyorozu Momo has disposed of the last of the robots with her incredible quirk. Your students are really dominating this round, Eraserhead.”

A cross between a superior snort and a huff of laughter echoed around the arena.

“Well, of course.”

Dazai glanced around. He was currently stuck in a mass of students that he didn’t know. They were weaving between the fallen corpses of giant robots. Blasted to bits though they were, Dazai recognised them as the very same giants he had fought during the entrance exam. He could only thank the stars above that Yaoyorozu had dealt with them already, because he had no desire for a second face off.

A part of him was a little worried about his position; he must have been running at around the top quarter placement. Ahead of all the general studies and business kids, but at the back of the hero course runners. He had never been the most athletic, but being affiliated with the mafia meant that he could pull out some physical ability when necessary.

Speeding up, he tensed the muscles in his calves. Pumped his arms faster. He wove and ducked past tiring competitors in his approach to the next obstacle.

He could see the crowds of people ahead of him. Which was a good sign in that he was catching up, and a bad one in that something was causing them all a lot of trouble.

“Todoroki-kun has cleared The Fall, but his lead has all but disappeared. After a short squabble with Bakugou-kun, Nakahara-kun is soaring past our tightropes and has also reached the final obstacle.”

Dazai scowled. It felt like this whole course was devised with Chuuya’s strengths in mind. Few and far between though they were.

“Talking of Bakugo-kun, he’s hot on Nakahara-kun’s heels, using his explosions to propel himself over the canyon! Not to mention a thrilling presentation of talent from one of our support students.”

Dazai ground to a halt as he reached a steep drop. More of his own classmates could be seen now, carefully making their way along fragile lengths of rope.

He spotted Atsushi a few metres away in human form. He looked like he was ready to cross, but nerves were getting the better of him. A reluctant foot was extended towards the too-narrow twine.

Then, an idea popped into Dazai’s head.

“Atsushi-kun,” he called over the general calamity.

“Dazai-san?”

The aforementioned jogged over to where Atsushi was watching him, somewhere between confused and relived.

“Do you trust me?”

“Yes.” Atsushi replied firmly and without hesitation. Dazai didn’t let himself linger on that. He smiled.

“Then I need your claws.”

—

“An intense brawl is going on in the Land Mine Field. Todoroki-kun, Nakahara-kun and Bakugou-kun are all caught up in the battle for first place! Who’s going to come out on top? What a display of passion! Doesn’t this make you miss the burning fires of youth, Eraserhead?”

“No.”

“So negative. They’re only a third of the way up the field, but-”

Present Mic cut himself off, startled.

“What’s this? There’s a bit of a commotion going on only a little further back at The Fall.”

“Is that…” Eraserhead trailed off. Then an expression of unadulterated fatigue contorted his features.

“W-was fighting wild animals part of the obstacle course?” Present Mic cried.

“That’s just my student, Nakajima Atsushi, using his tiger transformation quirk. He seems to be cutting the tightrope,” Eraserhead narrated dutifully. He narrowed his eyes at the monitor in front of him as it zoomed in on the white beast.

“Even though he hasn’t crossed it himself yet? I understand that as a sabotage tactic to stop others from getting across, but this seems rather self destructive.”

Eraserhead stayed silent.

He watched as the final fibres holding the rope together gave way. It began to swing, detached from its hold, but was grabbed firmly by another student.

“It looks like Dazai Osamu is also involved in this mystery plan,” Present Mic continued, always one for building up the dramatics.

The cameras cut away to the front pack. The fight for first place was still raging on as his students reached the half way point on the field of land mines. Slightly obscured due to countless smoky explosions, the scene had devolved into pure chaos.

When the visuals returned to The Fall, Eraserhead could only shake his head (hurt though it did due to the injuries he sustained during the USJ Incident). Present Mic, on the other hand, seemed delighted.

“They’re swinging! Nakajima-kun and Dazai-kun are holding onto the rope for dear life as they swing across the cavern. A bit of a rough landing, but they’re over the side of the cliff and have sped onto the last trial.”

—

The feeling of flying through the air was a good one, Dazai thought. He understood why Chuuya was so obsessed with it.

Although having a were tiger hanging onto you like a very insistent piece of clingfilm and screaming the whole time took away from the joy slightly.

Leaving Atsushi to recover by their makeshift vehicle, Dazai turned towards the site of the final obstacle.

Already, the field was muddied and partially hidden by clouds of smoke. As well as the vague shape of the front pack, several other figures were picking their way past the mines in an intricate step sequence. One silhouette intrigued him greatly, and he felt his legs pull him over to a mop of green hair. Midoriya Izuku was digging.

“Is this really the time for gardening, Midoriya-kun?”

“No silly competition is more important than my hydrangeas,” Midoriya joked, but didn’t look up from his work. He was deadly focused on his task- collecting all the land mines in the area and piling them up. When Dazai caught sight of the other’s metal shield, he felt he had a good grasp on Midoriya’s plan.

In all honesty, such an explosion was not something he wanted to get caught up in. He stepped back a bit, more than content with watching the fallout.

“Todoroki-kun, Nakahara-kun and Bakugou-kun seem to have stalled in the centre of the field! I can’t even begin to guess who’s going to emerge from their battle victorious. Can you, Eraserhead?”

“Whoever it is may have won the battle, but perhaps they should look behind them if they want to win the war.”

And that was all the queue Midoriya needed.

With a ginormous bang, he thrust his metal plate against the mountain of bombs he had so carefully prepared. With a physical shockwave, they exploded. The board was flung into the sky, and Midoriya was sent rocketing over the field of mines. He was just a blur over the heads of the fighting students.

Dazai stood back, watching with thinly veiled interest. The plan itself was majestic, and Midoriya had executed it wonderfully. He gave his friend an internal round of applause, before beginning to pick his own way through the field. Other students were starting to catch up.

“Midoriya Izuku has come out of nowhere and sailed into the lead!” Present Mic was practically out of breath. Anyone would think he had been running the obstacle course. “But can he keep it? The others have prematurely stopped their brawl to catch up with Midoriya-kun! Can they run fast enough?”

As Dazai dodged past clearly tampered with patches of earth (he was a member of the Port Mafia, of course he had seen a hidden bomb before), he caught a glimpse of all-too-familiar strands of red.

Chuuya. He was sprinting like his life depended on it, gaining ground on Midoriya’s metal contraption.

Gritting his teeth, Dazai sped up. Finally, when he was within touching distance, he stretched his hand towards Chuuya’s elbow as it swung back. They made contact. The blue shimmer of No Longer Human merged with the smoke around them, forming a plethora of beautiful patterns.

Chuuya stumbled forwards momentarily, shocked by the loss of his quirk, but caught himself. Then he turned to Dazai, frown pulling at his lips. Already regaining his stride. Dazai only tightened his grip.

“What the f*ck, Dazai? I don’t have time for some sick game right now,” he spat out.

And yeah, maybe that touched a nerve a little bit (playing games with people was so disgustingly Mori, after all) but Chuuya had always been competitive. Dazai had expected some form of backlash. He was prepared for it, too. This was a necessity, whether Chuuya understood that or not.

He heard more announcements faintly in the background as he opened his mouth to reply.

“It looks like Midoriya-kun has hit another land mine to increase his momentum. He’s stopped the other competitors in their tracks, and is now dashing towards the finish line!”

He focused back in.

“So fast, Chuuya. Too fast, in fact. What did we say about coming in first?”

Chuuya at least had the decency to look a little guilty. But it was obvious that his sights were still set on the finish line. His gaze kept flickering back towards it.

Heaving a sigh, Dazai dropped his hand. Chuuya’s eyebrows shot up at the gesture, disbelieving.

“Fine. If it’ll make you happy, then run for it like the dog that you are.”

And Chuuya was off, a smile gracing his lips. Dazai wasn’t sure why- the delay had definitely kept him out of first place. He did feel a little mean, but some things just needed to be done. The entire pro hero world had their eyes on the UA Sports Festival; making too much of a splash could only spell trouble. And it was bad enough that Chuuya had given the opening pledge.

With a little digging and some well-selected informants, their identities could be exposed in seconds. Being Port Mafia in Yokohama was one thing, but venturing out of the city held a very different set of consequences. And maybe Dazai had never been one for the whole ‘carpe diem’ lifestyle, but he certainly didn’t want to rot in a jail cell for the next twenty years.

“Now for a thirty metre sprint. They’re neck and neck with only a few steps left!”

Out of the tunnel opposite the entrance, a figure emerged. The sun was glaring down with such enthusiasm that at first, the audience couldn’t quite place who it was. They collectively tipped forwards to the edge of their seats.

The boy looked up, then. He beamed, like this was the best thing in the world. Maybe to him, it was. The applause was thunderous.

“The winner of the preliminary round is Midoriya Izuku!” Present Mic positively yelled the words into his microphone.

Midoriya was joined only moments later.

“Taking second is the unruffled Todoroki Shouto. In third is Bakugou Katsuki, but he doesn’t look too happy about it,” Present Mic drastically understated.

“Next up is Nakahara Chuuya.”

Dazai jogged the final stretch, letting students overtake him as they ran in a thin steam.

By the time he exited the mouth of the tunnel, Present Mic had all but given up announcing each individual name and was leaving the placements up to the huge screens above a section of the stands.

His own name was plastered diligently beside ‘16’. He had halfheartedly skimmed through recordings of the previous Sports Festivals in what had proved to be a much easier hunt for information than his attempts for the entrance exam. Only a sixth of students qualifying for the competition from the preliminary round had been the limiting value, and even that had sparked some online debate. Not even the entire hero faction progressing to the next stage had just seemed downright unfair; the other students had no chance. Finishing inside the top twenty was all he needed.

Wondering through the crowd of students that was beginning to form on the field, Dazai glanced around for familiar faces. There was, of course, Midoriya. He was the centre of everyone’s attention, and dusted in red as he accepted gushing compliments. All Might’s beam, Dazai couldn’t help but notice, appeared to be even more radiant than usual.

If Midoriya was a glowing spot of happiness, then Todoroki was quite the opposite. Something of a rain cloud amongst the festivities, even with his nearly flawless performance.

Chuuya was chatting to his friends in a group, all of them ignoring Bakugou’s face as it burned with anger.

There were a couple of people he didn’t know well scattered around the field as well. Both with class 1B steadily pouring in, and some oddly coloured heads of hair from other classes.

One particular haircut was all too recognisable, though. (He was very much considering giving his infamous unexpected nighttime chop to a certain someone).

“Seventh place, huh?” Dazai marvelled. “Very respectable.”

Atsushi grinned back at him in reply.

“I couldn’t have done it without you,” he conceded. “I probably would have keeled over while attempting to walk that tightrope and plummeted down the cavern until the end of the universe as we know it.”

Another voice chipped in, then.

“UA have some insanely big grounds, but I refuse to believe that those caverns are endless.”

It was Uraraka, bob bouncing against her cheeks as she walked.

“Uraraka-san, you were amazing,” Atsushi babbled, eyes glinting with pride. “Sixth place out of all these people!”

She blushed, slightly. “Thanks, Atsushi-kun, you were pretty cool yourself.”

She reoriented herself to point at Dazai.

“You, however, were less cool. What was that at the end? You practically stopped running.”

Dazai grinned, sheepishly. He was somewhat impressed. Clearly, Uraraka hadn’t been so drawn in by the race that she was unable to observe her surroundings, like the majority of her peers.

“I was tired. The most I ever run usually is, like, three metres from the bed to the fridge.”

“That’s not very hero-in-training of you.”

“You called me lame. That’s not very hero-in-training of you.”

“I didn’t same ‘lame’, I said ‘not cool’. I hope you know that by misquoting me today, you’re perpetuating the erasure of women in history.”

“Are you suggesting that you- Uraraka Ochako- hold even a modicum of historical significance?”

Thankfully, Midoriya made an appearance soon after that. He was high on giddiness, but there was still something switched on about him. Alert. Already focused on the next stage. Dazai knew that he needed to do the same. He did, after all, have a couple of aims that needed to be achieved by the end of the Sports Festival. The earlier he began, the better.

—

Mori Ougai and the Headmaster

T he passages sounded like memories.

They were soundproofed to such an extent, anyway. The cacophonous cheers from above were muffled and dulled to a level that made them sound hazy and dreamlike. So, even though Mori had never set foot in the sports arena of UA before this day, he felt rather nostalgic.

Kouyou was trailing along beside him, her sharp eyes taking equal interest in his navigation and the carefully blank look poised on his features.

“It’s not like you to be so wound up over a meeting. With an ‘old acquaintance’, nonetheless.”

She had always been too observant for her own good. And she voiced her gleanings in such a way that she never once crossed the boundary between respectfully curious and nosy. Kouyou was a master tightrope walker, he supposed. He almost laughed at such an idea’s relevance to the obstacle course that they had just witnessed.

He recalled the words he had spoken to her years ago, when they first met:

“All fine things were made with you in mind.”

He continued walking, taking a left turn. He was a single corner from his destination.

“This acquaintance is someone who- perhaps contrary to first impressions- it would not be wise to underestimate.”

The final turn. And there he was, just as planned. Leaning against the wall of the corridor as the Sports Festival went on far away. The headmaster of UA: Principal Nedzu.

Mori savoured the rare look of shock that pulled at Kouyou’s delicate features as she first set eyes on the small, bear-human hybrid that was considered the fearsome and talented leader of the most prestigious hero school in the nation.

“Good morning, Mori-san,” he greeted, polite as ever. “Although it’s lovely to meet a colleague of yours, I feel that it is somewhat hypocritical to bring someone along after making quite clear that I shouldn’t.”

The way that Nedzu talked to him had always intrigued Mori. The bear was cordial to a fault, and even when an old foe was the recipient, Nedzu made no exception. He was truly a superior being- never letting anger get the best of him and take away his rationality.

“Apologies, Nedzu-san. You must understand that I had to exercise caution while distinctly far from my own territory.”

Nedzu nodded, curtly. He straightened out his tie casually, though his eyes never strayed from Mori.

“Indeed,” he said. Then he paused. Let the tension sink in for a moment. “Why exactly are you here, Mori-san. It’s been years.”

“Yes, wonderful years,” Mori concurred. “And I would have loved to increase the number of those years, but something has come to my attention recently that I fear may cause our paths to cross again very soon.”

Nedzu raised an eyebrow.

“The League of Villains and their creator are on the move, Nedzu-san. And that’s bad news for the both of us.”

The bear sounded tired as he began to pace the corridor. Still, his back never completely turned on those behind him.

“I have confidence that my institution in partnership with the hero commission can handle this situation.”

“That’s a bluff.”

Mori was guessing, but he made sure to inject certainty into his words. He made them strong and infallible, pumped them full until they resembled the truth.

“What I’m offering you,” he continued, “is a helping hand against a common enemy.”

Nedzu turned to Mori, abruptly. His eyes were narrowed to slits.

“And what do you gain from this arrangement?”

“Other than a reunion with old friends?” Mori laughed. Nedzu, on the other hand, did not look amused.

“A deal. Yokohama is off limits,” he said, simply.

And- he didn’t say- when All Might inevitably falls, so much more.

Chapter 7: The Sports Festival: Round Two

Chapter Text

Dazai Osamu and the Cavalry Battle

H e had chosen his teammates right from the get-go. Although that wasn’t saying much, his selection pool was somewhat narrow anyway.

Midnight’s explanation of the Cavalry battle had been lengthy and packed to the brim with discrepancies that would never come into practical use.

For example, she emphasised that quirks shouldn’t be used to harm other teams or knock them out of the air. But really, how could even a trained eye differentiate malicious intent from a strategic attack targeting a points band? Already, it was clear to Dazai that the Cavalry battle was going to be full of red herrings.

Perhaps they were constructed to test one’s lateral thinking, or perhaps they were entirely accidental. Either way, Dazai was going to grab hold of every opportunity with both hands.

The basic rules of the match were simple: collect as many points as possible by stealing the headbands of other teams. Teams were made up of two to four people, and had to consist of one ‘rider’ who wore all the headbands and at least one ‘carrier’. The rider was completely prohibited from touching the ground. To add some additional spice, the values of the headbands were weighted exponentially, with first place in the obstacle course (Midoriya’s) being worth 10 million points.

When Midnight called for them to begin the fifteen minute team selection period, he looked out onto the field of students milling about. The highest 42 from across the year had qualified, putting him well within the top half. He didn’t have the perilous first position tag, but still held a decent number of points to his name. He was somewhat desirable, in a sense.

Of course, Dazai couldn’t really partner up with any emitter quirk users. If he were to accidentally brush against them, erasing their ability in combat, the results could be disastrous. Instead, he should focus on his mutation quirk holding classmates.

The person who immediately came to mind was Hagakure. Not only was his ability ineffective against her own invisibility- she had begged him to try mere days into the term- but she was simply perfect for the challenge. Endlessly stealthy. Able to faultlessly slip under the radar.

Dazai searched for her from his position, scanning the faces for a slight displacement. For the wave of distortion that signalled her presence. Then, he tracked her decapitated sports kit as she lapped the arena. She appeared to be a little lost amongst the quickly forming teams and spirited crowd of teens. She was, you see, rather easy to ignore when one was busy or frantic.

“Hagakure-san,” he called, cheerfully.

The empty space that he was focused on seemed to shift slightly, then. Change before his eyes like the rippling of air in intense heat. Her gloves flung about side to side, as she looked around for the owner of the voice. Funny that she couldn’t see him.

He jogged over to her form, making no attempt to hide his waves.

“Want to team up with me?”

She jolted slightly, a surprised tension enveloping the lines of her body.

“You want to team up with me?” She asked, sounding significantly more excited than Dazai had expected her to.

“Who doesn’t want to team up with you?”

“Everyone,” she exclaimed, throwing her arms out in dismay. She was very expressive with her gestures, Dazai noted. Probably overcompensation born out of the inability to send facial queues.

“Good thing I’m not everyone. I’m Dazai.”

He stuck out a hand.

“And I will be on your team, Dazai-kun.”

She shook it.

That was one down. He could only hope that the rest of his recruitment plan would go as smoothly.

He’d left a number of routes open, but key players were being poached as he stood, so now was certainly the time to act. Gesturing with his head, he began to walk towards his next victim- umm comrade. A mountain amongst the other students, but somehow lacking the presence they all held so intrinsically.

He seemed stoic amongst the commotion, but the slight squirming in his arms gave away his discomfort. Shouji Mezou was second to be reaped.

Dazai bent down onto the gravelly floor, picking up a small stone. It wasn’t sharp. Just a blunt, discoloured pebble, really.

He tossed it in the air once, catching it leisurely as Hagakure watched on from nearby. He assumed she was confused (although it was hard to tell) so he sent her a quick wink. Then, upon grabbing the pebble from its spinning path, he lobbed it at Shouji.

“Think quick!”

Barely a nanosecond passed before one of Shouji’s spare arms was curling itself around the hurtling stone. It deposited the thing right back onto the ground, before retracting again.

He had certainly grabbed Shouji’s attention- that much was obvious. A slightly pissed off, accusative form of attention though it may be.

“Yeah, that was pretty quick,” he conceded, smiling hopefully.

“Is there an issue, Dazai-kun?”

His voice remained impassive, but the line of his jaw beneath his fabric mask gave away hints of his annoyance. A shock of silver hair shielded his eyes.

“There is,” he replied, mournfully. “The issue of you not being on our team for the cavalry battle yet! But don’t worry, that can easily be rectified.”

At his words, Shouji looked a little surprised. His uncovered eye widened, raking over Dazai’s face, searching for any sign of deception.

“Are you proposing that I join your team?”

“Yep! I’m not getting down on one knee, though. That’d be embarrassing.”

“When has embarrassment ever stopped you before?” Hagakure heckled from beside him.

Shouji seemed skeptical. Hesitant to accept a deal offered quite so suddenly and inexplicably. Dazai had never really attempted any communication with Shouji before, and the boy himself was notoriously quiet in the rowdy class 1A.

“Look,” Dazai sighed, far from giving up. “You’re intelligent, Shouji-kun. That much is clear from the way you conduct yourself in practical lessons. You’re analytical, and think through the situations you’ve been presented with.”

Dazai let his eyes stray to Hahakure at his side.

“As such, I’m certain that you already know why you should join our team.”

Shouji quirked a brow.

“Is that so?”

“It is,” Dazai confirmed.

About three seconds passed in silence. Then, slowly, Shouji nodded. The dip was so light it was almost imperceptible, but Dazai experienced it with the force of a wave of relief.

He clapped his hands together, smiling. Seven minutes were remaining on the clock displayed on the screens above the arena. Plenty of time to persuade their final player.

“Onto the grand finale then.”

Striding away from the patch of classmates he had found himself surrounded by, Dazai inspected the faces around him once more. He heard bouncing footsteps, and felt a touch against his arm.

(It was a strange sensation, in some ways. His quirk tended to make people rather hesitant about physical contact with him. Which was fine. It just meant that friendly bumps were somewhat novel. They were nice, he supposed).

“Who’s our fourth member?”

They were approaching the edge of the pitch now, where a group of four figures stood. One was lazing against the sideboard, while the other three waited stiffly, backs ramrod straight. If Dazai were to approach them, he was sure that their eyes would be ever so slightly glazed over.

Shouji answered then, the very same words that swum the oceans of Dazai’s mind flooding onto his tongue.

“Shinsou Hitoshi.”

Dazai nodded.

“Who?”

“He’s a general studies kid in our year. And he’s absolutely perfect for what we need.”

Hagakure still seemed reluctant to venture out of the realms of their classmates.

“How do you even know about this guy?”

—

Two days before the Sports Festival:

Private messages, 04:12

Me: Odasaku

Me: Odasaku

Me: Odasaku

Me: O

Me: da

Me: sa

Odasaku: Good morning?

Me: ku

Me: good morning!

Odasaku: Why are you awake at four in the morning?

Me: why ISNT everyone else?

Odasaku: Getting eight hours of sleep each day is key for development of the mind and body.

Me: getting sleep in the day is easy. it’s the night that’s an issue

Me: anyway~~

Me: how well do u know the first years in the general course?

Odasaku: I know a few of them from the STEM mentorship program.

Me: I love Social Topography Emulation Magic

Odasaku: Interesting though that sounds, it holds no relation to science, technology, engineering and maths.

Me: im shocked and appalled

Me: but tell me, do any of these kids you know want to join the hero program?

Me: Odasakuuu

Me: you’re such a slow typer it’s been like, three years

Odasaku: Realistically, there are very few who don’t. People apply for UA because they want to get a foothold in the hero world. In the business and support courses, they’ve already achieved their objectives, but the general course could just as easily be taken in any other school. Students in the general classes tend to be searching for opportunities to slip into the hero ones.

Me: what about you?

Odasaku: A man I admired very much used to attend UA.

Me: I see

Me: but that’s off topic! do you think that any of your mentees actually have a chance at the hero course?

Odasaku: Who am I to decide that?

Me: ill make it worth your time

Me: ill buy u all the curry

Odasaku: Well there’s one who comes to mind.

Me: that was so quick ashfjsk

Me: what’s their name??

Odasaku: Shinsou Hitoshi.

—

Oda had gone on to explain the workings of Shinsou’s quirk. How he used it only when necessary and never for personal gain. Ambitious, but not volatile by any means.

He would make a wonderful addition to their ragtag team- that much was clear. So clear that Shouji had easily picked up on such a line of reasoning. He’d explained that he had done some digging into the other after Shinsou had shown up at their classroom before the festival. The general studies student had all but led the interrogation, so he was bound to pique some interest.

There was, however, something of an ulterior motive to Dazai’s interest in Shinsou. Naturally, his teammates couldn’t know about this one. It’s not like it would harm them; in fact, it may well be beneficial to their procession through the festival.

Shinsou was going to be the star of the Cavalry battle, and Dazai was going to orchestrate the show from behind the scenes. A puppet master in the shadows. (A method, he knew, that was eerily similar to Mori’s whims).

Everyone would be invested in the underdog from the general department’s moment of triumph at the elite Sports Festival. But such a storyline enticed no one more than Midoriya Izuku. Someone who- from his humble demeanour and Bakugou’s vague references- had clearly once been the prey himself. Someone who had shot from the middle school bullying victim to one of the most respected figures in class 1A in a matter of weeks.

Shinsou was going to snatch that ten million point band right from under his nose. And that would be enough. Enough off a downhill to get the ball rolling. It’d pick up speed, accelerate and accelerate, until eventually, it would send itself into a frenzy.

By the end of the UA Sports Festival, Dazai would find out everything about One For All. He was committed to it.

One step at a time, though. First was recruiting his carefully crafted protagonist.

“Don’t respond to him until he’s agreed to join us, you two,” Dazai murmured to his teammates, tone serious. “He has a brainwashing quirk that can take effect if you reply to him.”

They nodded. Then, the three of them approached the pack with cautious steps.

Dazai boldly called over to the four when he was within conversational proximity.

“Your strategy is solid, but it’s a bit villainous,wouldn’t you say?”

Purple waves were thrown back as Shinsou snapped his head towards Dazai. He was scowling deeply, eye bags weighing down his skin like anvils.

He saw Shouji put his head in (some of) his hands in his peripheral vision. This was accompanied by a mutter of something like: “why must you antagonise everyone?”

“What strategy? I’m simply waiting for the round to begin with my teammates.”

His facade of innocence was poor, even in comparison to Shouji’s masked frustration. His posture was bored and easy, but his locked muscles said otherwise. Distinctly on edge.

If anything, Dazai was pleased to see it. Shinsou must have felt guilty about brainwashing other students to build his team. It suggested that he was just about heroic enough to sell Dazai’s plan without it being overly unbelievable.

“Oh yeah? Well, I personally think you brainwashed the wrong guys.”

Shinsou’s uninterested glare faltered, then. Just for a second. His eyebrows furrowed, a look of worry passing over his features like a storm cloud.

He wiped it off quickly, pasting on a smile of superiority. Still, that one crack in the walls was all Dazai needed to peer inside.

“It won’t matter what you think when I-”

“Yeah, yeah,” Dazai said, waving his hand flippantly, “brainwash me already and then we can start talking seriously.”

He glanced over at the clock absently. Only five minutes left. It’d be tight, but he’d make it.

When he turned back, Shinsou was staring at him, pale.

“You finished?”

“Why doesn’t it work on you?”

Dazai laughed, breathily.

“For someone who talks so big about winning the festival and taking your ‘rightful’ place in the hero course, you’re pretty lazy.”

Shinsou’s mouth was curling downwards, almost violently. He looked ready to interject, but Dazai didn’t let him.

He walked closer, taking his time.

“You know, Shouji-kun here went right to the quirk registry and searched for your name after you came and proclaimed it outside our classroom the other day. And if you knew anything about the effort that some of my classmates put into their heroics, this wouldn’t even come as a hint of a surprise.”

Shinsou was speechless. In a subversive way, it almost appeared as if he himself had been brainwashed. He was staring at Shouji, considering, as the other lurked a metre or so away.

Continuing with the walk that Chuuya had always described as ‘predatory’, Dazai went to inspect his three, waiting classmates.

“And you chose your teammates pretty poorly, Shinsou-kun. I thought someone so ambitious would have to be smart, but I’m beginning to question that,” he mused.

That was something of a half lie; no one in the hero department could be described as ‘weak’ as such, but there were certainly more skilled choices still left out of teams. In a more rational mindset, Shinsou would probably have argued that trying to brainwash stronger students could have led to him being discovered and his plan being stopped. However, he wasn’t in a rational mindset- anger and bitterness were a mesh cover surrounding his thoughts.

“Are you only here to taunt me?” Shinsou sneered.

“Nope, I’m mainly here to taunt you,” Dazai chirped. “I’m also here to extend an offer.”

Shinsou was silent, distrustful.

“Join our team.”

All the frustration was swept away by a tide of shock- if Shinsou’s face was anything to go by.

“What?”

“Join our team,” he repeated, firmly.

Shinsou’s lips pulled into a frown, but before he could begin to refuse, as he undoubtedly would, Dazai cut in.

“I know that I’ve been insulting you for the past two minutes-”

“Three and a half,” Hagakure muttered.

“But you can’t let your pride get in the way of your goal. You want to join the hero course? Then this is the way to do it.”

He gestured at the board still displaying each student’s name and position in the obstacle race. Shinsou’s eyes followed his movement.

“First of all, your three losers over there-”, Dazai pointed at Shinsou’s brainwashed teammates, “don’t have enough points between them to bring you into the top four. With your points added on, however, our team will be starting in fourth place.”

It was a significant argument. Only four groups out of a dozen would pass the Cavalry battle round. Starting in a high position was a huge strategic advantage.

“Second, I can only imagine how much effort it takes to control three people at once. Even worse, I’d assume that you can’t simply command them to ‘get the ten million point headband’. Instead, you probably have to decide each of their movements individually. ‘Attack with your quirk’, or ‘protect the front’, right?”

Shinsou nodded, although his eyes were fixed on the ground a little way from Dazai’s feet. He was coming around, slowly but surely. Still, with one minute left on the clock, they didn’t have time for slowly.

If he was ever going to play his final card, it would have to be now.

Dazai sighed. He turned to face both Shinsou and his current teammates, keeping a vice-like grip on their attention. He lowered his voice.

“I don’t think any of you understand quite how perfect this team is. We could win this round, you know.”

Silence for a second. A hopeful, loaded kind of silence. Then, a small, hesitant voice. Almost daring to believe him.

“We could?” It was Hagakure.

“I’m sure of it. You’d be our rider, Hagakure-san, and wear the headbands around your neck. That way, it’ll be difficult for anyone to steal them away. And Shouji-kun is-”

“Is it really alright to talk about this in front of me? I’m not your teammate,” Shinsou piped up. He didn’t look angry anymore, just a little uncomfortable.

“Details, details,” Dazai said, waving him away. “As I was saying, Shouji-kun will be on espionage; no surprise attacks will defeat us. I’ll be the decoy, and Shinsou-kun is on the offensive.”

“Hold up, I’m on the offensive?” Shinsou was clearly bemused.

Shouji stepped in to answer.

“Everyone in our class knows Dazai-kun’s quirk and are probably going to be mindful of it. That means they’ll stay away from his radius of contact, making it easier for us to predict their movements and corner them.”

Dazai clapped. “Exactly, Shouji-kun. Have I ever said that you’re my favourite?”

Shouji shook his head.

“Well I have now.” His tone became somber again. “While I’m something of a known variable, Shinsou is an unknown one to at least half of 1A and most of 1B. All you’ll have to do is ask them for their headbands nicely. They’ll have no way to resist you.”

Unfortunately, there was a massive issue lying in this plan that Dazai was desperately hoping Shinsou wouldn’t see. The issue lay in Shinsou’s own future.

Considering his quirk, it would be ideal for him to keep his ability as close to a secret as possible for as long as possible (or at least the mechanism by which it worked). Otherwise, it could be easily countered. Both the plan that Dazai presented to his team and the plot that he had been carefully weaving used Shinsou’s quirk thoroughly and without hesitance. It required him to become a shooting star, burning hot and fast before fizzling out just as quickly.

Dazai glanced at Shinsou. He still looked a little weary, but largely convinced. Dazai heaved a quiet sigh of relief.

“I’m only going to suggest this because I have confidence that this team can pull it off,” he began, “but I think that we can aim to achieve the hidden goal behind this exam.”

Uncertainty flashed through his friends’ eyes, but Dazai couldn’t back out. He motioned to where teams were formed and preparing in the main field.

“This round may seem like a survival round, an ‘obtain as many points as possible and defend yourself’ round, but it’s actually quite the opposite. We should think of ourselves as the attackers in that who we target is our own choice and not predetermined.”

“So?” Hagakure asked, kicking at the gravel on the ground.

“So, we need to set ourselves up for the future and improve our chances of winning the entire festival rather than just this round. If the next challenge is some form of one-on-one combat, which it statistically tends to be, none of us would be well suited to it. We need to use this opportunity to eliminate as many big players as possible.”

There was a glow in their eyes, at that. The clock was counting down from ten seconds.

“f*ck,” Shinsou said, under his breath. Then, a smirk curled at his lips. “I guess I’m in.”

—

The Cavalry battle started as it meant to go on- rapid, intense and without a second of reprieve.

They had formulated a more precise strategy for their offensive plan. Rather than aiming to eliminate all of the class’s more talented players, they could focus on one big threat and funnel their resources into trying to annihilate that specific person.

Midoriya had immediately been a no-go for this, because he was far too well-liked by practically everyone involved. Dazai had strongly advocated for Chuuya, but somehow, he had ended up on the same team as Todoroki. This wouldn’t have been a problem, but Hagakure hadn’t wanted to scheme against someone tall, good looking and mysterious (which certain parts of Dazai couldn’t disagree with). So they had ultimately settled on trying to eliminate Bakugou, who was not quite handsome enough and not even nearly well-liked enough to save himself.

The other half of their method had surfaced in the decision to protect weaker teams when possible. By fortifying the scores of opponents that would be easier to defeat in the future, they could improve their chances at the podium drastically.

They were playing God- or at least the examiner- to determine the results themselves. Dazai only hoped his unorthodox plan paid off.

When the starting signal rung out, it was instant pandemonium. Explosions, sheaths of ice and an assortment of other attacks cut towards the owner of the precious ten million point headband. All of them were evaded, although not without struggle, and team Midoriya soared up into the air using the inventions of the support student among their ranks.

Bakugou and his group of Kirishima, Mina and Sero were already following, Sero using his tape to stay connected to Bakugou even as the latter blasted up above his teammates.

“Now,” Dazai said.

His team began to charge forward- Shouji taking Hagakure’s weight with Dazai and Shinsou flanking the sides.

It was no surprise that Bakugou was completely focused on the ten million point headband and by extension, Midoriya. He hadn’t tried to keep his vendetta a secret, after all.

“We’ll keep them between us and the sideboard. Ideally, we want a situation where they can’t easily escape.”

They ran down the middle of the field as Bakugou was reeled back in by Sero’s quirk, keeping the other team on the left by Dazai.

“Alright, commence Plan Diversion.”

Closing in on team Bakugou was a challenge- they were quick and unpredictable in their movements. By the time they were within reaching distance, the two teams had travelled further out into the centre of the battlefield than Dazai would have liked.

“We need to be on their right side!” Mina shouted, black eyes darting around the field. She was clearly aware of the threat Dazai posed in this kind of game.

As Bakugou’s team swung around in an arc, they began their attack. They had been running at a fast pace in a guise of cutting off Bakugou’s escape route, but abruptly skidded to a halt. Dazai used their momentum to swing himself around, stretching a hand out and grabbing onto Mina’s arm. She jolted towards them with a yelp, causing their carefully built formation to shake.

“f*ck,” Bakugou cursed, wobbling atop his mount. He let an explosion rip from his hand, but it wasn’t aimed quite right. Clearly, he was trying to avoid harming his own teammate.

“f*cking pathetic,” Shinsou sneered.

“I don’t want to hear that from a-”

And then, Bakugou stopped. As if in a trance.

Shinsou scoffed.

“Hand me your headbands. Quickly.”

At that, Bakugou yanked the fabric from around his neck, pulling it up over his spiky locks. His teammates shouted at him, bewildered and panicked, but he didn’t hesitate.

Hands reached towards Bakugou. Shinsou dived towards the bands being held outstretched, but Sero had already sent out an arrow-like length of tape to retrieve them. Both were inches away from the prize.

“I’ll take that, thank you.”

Dazai felt his head jerk towards the unexpected sound.

The voice came from behind Bakugou. Positioned at such an angle that its owner was completely shielded from Shouji’s observing arms.

It was a class 1B kid- hair golden and smiling widely. Monoma Neito, Dazai recognised.

Monoma’s fingers grazed the handful of bands. Then wrapped around them, grabbing them, fuelled by only a ferocious desire. He pulled them out of the air with a victorious shout.

He and his team darted away from the fray almost as quickly as they’d arrived.

Shinsou seemed shocked by the intrusion, and his grip on Bakugou loosened.

“I’ll f*cking kill you!” The other screamed as he was released. Kirishima immediately held him back, patient but firm.

“We need to get our headbands back. We’re on zero, man, this isn’t a revenge tirade.”

They were sprinting off after Monoma soon after. Dazai’s team backed away to the side.

No overall gain or loss- their first attempt had left them breaking even.

Surveying the field and leaderboard, Dazai nodded to himself. Four minutes in and a quarter of teams were already completely devoid of points. Midoriya had defended his lead admirably, but Todoroki had also amassed quite a sum. Class 1A were controlling the top positions comfortably.

“We were too far into the centre,” Shinsou mumbled. “We can’t have people coming in from behind and swooping up our points.”

Dazai nodded. Besides, with every use, Shinsou’s power became less effective. One could even argue that testing it twice on the same person was a waste of time.

“We were almost there, though. We’ll keep trying,” Hagakure chipped in, determined.

That was when a loud crash burst through the arena.

“Todoroki-kun at three O’clock,” Shouji informed them.

“Let’s go. Now is the perfect time to act.”

“But I thought we agreed to target Bakugou-kun,” Shinsou said as they began to intercept the fallen Todoroki team.

They seemed to have been knocked out of the sky by Midoriya, and were still recovering their bearings. Yaoyorozu and Kaminari formed the sides of their makeshift carriage, with Chuuya keeping them afloat from below and Todoroki riding atop. They were a formidable team, but currently at their weakest state.

Dazai’s group forged a straight path towards them, but were interrupted by stray attacks slicing through the air. Hagakure had to nimbly lean back to avoid a leafy vine stretching towards her while Shouji used his tentacles to bat spinning tops away.

They reached Todoroki’s team just as Chuuya began to lift them off the ground.

“Your hat looks like a plant pot,” Shinsou called halfheartedly in their general direction.

“How dare-”

And with that, Chuuya was brainwashed.

“I can’t believe that actually worked,” Shinsou mumbled, before ordering him to drop them to the ground.

Their opponents fell with a harsh thud, confusion evident on their faces. When Yaoyorozu caught sight of the shock of purple hair, though, she seemed to grasp the situation.

“Don’t answer him! He has a brainwashing quirk.”

But it was too late. Hagakure was bringing up a transparent arm to grab at Todoroki’s headbands.

He reacted immediately, reaching over awkwardly in order to use his right side. A wave of ice shot at her, but she retracted her arm quickly. And Todoroki’s unfortunate angle meant that his aim had been poor. Dazai noted the potential weakness down for use later.

They circled round again. This time Shouji made a grab at the headbands, but Kaminari caught a tentacle. He sent electricity down it forcefully, and Shouji drew back with a yelp.

Team Todoroki began to retreat, pelting attacks behind them. Still, Dazai had one last trick.

“On their left!” He yelled. They sped towards the other team, shards of jagged ice raining down on them. Shouji was deflecting quirks from passing groups as they went. Chuuya was still within Shinsou’s radius of command and refused to lift off the ground.

They were travelling directly towards a wall of the arena, and would undoubtedly have to make a turn sooner or later.

At the last second before reaching the border and with a final burst of speed, Dazai’s team pulled up besides Todoroki. An expression of horror pulled at his features. He didn’t attack, though. His left side was kept firmly ability-free and tensed.

Desperately, the team veered to the right, but that was exactly what Dazai had been expecting. Shinsou was already waiting there, and with all his might, he yanked a headband from around Todoroki’s neck.

The other gasped, but couldn’t quite react in time as Shinsou managed to wrench the top one free. Fingers tight around the fabric as if it would slip from his grasp at any second. It remained closed in his fist even as Dazai’s team all bashed painfully into the sidewall.

Todoroki’s team hurtled off to the side.

It felt as though at that very moment, an all encompassing quiet overtook the arena.

It was only worth 95 points, the headband that flapped in Shinsou’s raised fist, but it felt endlessly meaningful. Like a beacon of hope. Eyes were drawn to it- the competitors’ and spectators’ alike.

Endeavour’s overwhelmingly powerful son bested by a general studies student. What a story. The hero looked about ready to combust.

Whispers of his name were racing around the audience already, and even Midoriya was gazing down at the scene from above.

Dazai grinned. Perfect.

Time began again when their team appeared back on the leaderboard, careening into fourth. Shinsou shoved the headband towards Hagakure, who dutifully pulled it around her neck.

It was then that the half time alert flashed over the screens.

Shinsou was smirking, seemingly just as aware of the attention as Dazai had been.

“Now it’s getting real.”

“We need to move,” Shouji said, “before they come back to retaliate.”

And he was right; team Todoroki looked infuriated at their loss, Chuuya having snapped out of his state.

Gathering themselves, they fled to the other side of the arena.

“That was quick,” Shinsou mused. “People don’t usually break through the barrier that my quirk creates until I forcibly remove it or after several hours of being out of contact with me. That guy got over it in a few minutes.”

If Dazai had to guess, it was probably the hidden part of Chuuya’s quirk and very being making its move. He couldn’t imagine that Arahabaki liked having its modicum of control ripped away from it, after all.

The next few minutes were occupied with scuffles against less prominent teams. They aimed to defend rather than attack in these, Shouji’s tentacles coming in handy. Hagakure was able to dodge any attempts that somehow crossed their front line, and Dazai nullified any pesky quirks he came across. Shinsou looked like he was trying to keep his quirk use to a minimum. Perhaps for the best.

Dazai kept an eye on the leaderboard, which was shuffling and reshuffling constantly. He was sure that the onlookers were on the edge of their seats. His team were holding onto fourth position for now, but it was by no means certain that they could keep it up until the end of the round.

The four of them were tiring, Shinsou especially. They had to attack decisively. End it once and for all. Of course, there was only one headband that could constitute a decisive victory.

He scanned the field for a mop of green hair, and found it hovering in the air. The king, tucked safely away from the battle. But trapped by its own castle- its own row of unwaveringly defending pawns.

“We’re moving into the final phase,” Dazai said, shortly, in a rare moment of quiet.

“Already? There’s still just under five minutes left.”

“Already.”

They began to cut a straight line through the field, gliding down the most efficient diagonal with fluidity and ease. The queen of the board, going in for the kill.

Naturally, things were never that easy. As they moved towards their target location, a commotion a little way away caught Dazai’s attention.

Bakugou’s team were fighting a concoction of Atsushi, who was in tiger form, Tsuyu, Iida and class 1B’s Shiozaki. The latter team was putting up a valiant effort, but the pure offensive power of Bakugou’s explosions was proving a lot to handle.

Tsuyu was acting as the rider, and from what Dazai could see, she had a decent number of points concentrated around her neck. Probably enough to keep them in sixth or seventh position.

“Let’s make a detour.”

Shouji must have been on the same wavelength, because they were quickly steering over to the battle. They rode from directly behind Bakugou, in the same way Monoma had done previously. Dazai reached out a finger.

Just a touch. Just a touch was all he managed, but it was enough. Bakugou held up his hands to form blasts, but was left completely helpless.

A well timed dart from Tsuyu’s muscular tongue picked a couple of headbands from Bakugou’s stock. Including his original one, which he must have won back from Monoma at some point.

Bakugou’s team rapidly dropped off the leaderboard, being replaced by Tsuyu’s name.

Time was getting tight, Dazai found as he glanced at the clock, for the final attack. Two minutes remained.

They powered away from the scene, but team Bakugou raced behind them, seething with anger and shouting obscenities into the abyss.

The rook making a desperate attempt to ensnare them, even as they managed to escape further with each move.

Their real aim was reaching the point at which Midoriya’s team would make contact with the ground. Their support items were still rudimentary at best, and couldn’t reliably be used for long periods of time. From the data Shouji had been collecting, Midoriya would touch down every one and a half minutes. Finding where his downwards trajectory would take him was the key to a successful ambush.

“Twenty degrees east,” Shouji confirmed, and they turned as a pack. Solid and united. Unfortunately, Bakugou’s team swiftly followed, hot on their tail.

A shadow was cast over them as Todoroki’s team also loomed ever closer. A huge pipe swung from behind, of Yaoyorozu’s making, and Shouji took a painful hit to the back. He wasn’t shaken though, and they continued on.

On as one minute remained.

The enemy queen, abrupt and out of nowhere. Its line of attack was broad and violent, but it was, in a way, too powerful for its own good. Its vast stockpile of points stopped it from simply attacking at will. Care was its first priority.

“Shinsou-kun, aim for Chuuya again,” Dazai gasped out as they sprinted.

“Again?”

“Trust me.”

Sighing, Shinsou called over his shoulder as he narrowly avoided a frantically swung blade of ice:

“Your hairstyle is stupid!”

Probably not the best insult in the world, but it did the job.

“I won’t tolerate-”

“No!” Yaoyorozu yelled, her voice hoarse, but it was too late.

Yet again, Chuuya was brainwashed.

“Stop,” Shinsou commanded and Chuuya braked instantly. It threw the whole team off balance, Kaminari falling to his knees to get purchase on the earth below. The queen, crumbling in on its own foundations.

But something was wrong. Some alarm inside of Dazai was ringing its shrill warning bell. He had no choice but to take notice. So rather than turning his back on their fallen enemy, Dazai adjusted himself to view them head on.

That was when he saw it. Curling and flickering like a dying thing. But alive. Scarily, noticeably alive.

Fire.

It was burning and smoking in the palm of Todoroki’s left hand, metres away from them.

“We need to move,” he said, urgently. But it was too late. The flame grew larger, until it was engulfing all of Todoroki’s left arm.

An ability he’d never witnessed before, and had completely failed to factor into his calculations.

Dazai braced himself for the hit. For the searing heat of fire against skin. But it never came.

In seconds, the golden flames had dissipated completely, leaving only smoke in their wake. Todoroki was caught in a display of the most emotion Dazai had ever seen from him.

And then they ran.

Team Dazai had escaped Todoroki’s vengeful thunder, but Bakugou was still hot on their heels.

Thirty seconds as Midoriya, Uraraka, Tokoyami and the support student landed on the stony ground out of bare necessity.

Only two headbands remained around Midoriya’s neck, a low value strip and the ten million gem.

The king out in the open. With its queen stolen from the board and its rook halfway up the rows.

They charged onwards as the seconds ticked down, dodging explosions using Shouji’s vision of the field.

They collided with Midoriya just as Uraraka’s foot touched down on stone.

Both teams were sent skidding outwards, but stayed firmly in formation.

“Defend!” Midoriya shouted, his emerald eyes locked onto his opponents.

He was tense atop his perch, teeth gritted tightly.

They charged, then, in the final few seconds. Things seemed to happen in slow motion.

Shouji sent a barrage of tentacles at the headbands, each of which were neutralised by a floundering dark shadow. Dazai planted a hand on Uraraka’s arm, blocking off their escape route into the sky.

Bakugou had pushed away from his teammates, the blast throwing them to the ground. Shooting down the black and white columns towards them. Even as he soared through the air, Dazai could see that he’d be too late.

With that, it was Shinsou’s turn. He thrust his arm towards the bands, fingers clenching around the soft material.

Left with no other options at such close range, Midoriya could only retaliate, grabbing the bands from Hagakure’s neck as well.

Their queen had been taken at the last minute, but perhaps that didn’t matter. Perhaps a knight, a bishop, or even the most unlikely of pawns, had secured a checkmate.

Both sets of bands were removed as the timer presented a bold zero, and the ending whistle blew.

The leaderboard made one final change, the kanji shifting before his very eyes.

The excited voice of Present Mic blared out across the stadium.

“And with that, the cavalry battle has reached a conclusion! Please give it up for the shocking victors, with ten million and ten points, Team Hagakure!”

Their faces flashed over the main screens. Recordings of their best moments, and side by side comparisons of Shinsou grasping the headbands from Todoroki and then Midoriya.

A quiet voice sounded from beside him, from amongst the cheers of victory. The cold silence of failure.

“I can’t believe it.”

It was Bakugou, his eyes on the leaderboard as if transfixed.

Team Bakugou- fifth place.

Just out of qualification position.

—

The aftermath was a bit of a blur, actually. His teammates were charged with positive energy, sparks running through their veins.

Dazai almost forgot to listen to the rest of the announcement in the excitement, but kept an ear out for Present Mic’s commentary anyway.

“Taking second place is team Todoroki,” he cried, to more applause. “In third is team Asui.”

They looked thrilled to have qualified.

“Sneaking into the qualification table with fourth place is team Midoriya.”

He didn’t catch any more after that. Hagakure was squeezing him into the tightest hug he had ever received.

“We did it. We actually did it,” she whispered. It was almost drowned out by the roars of victory and defeat flooding in from around them, but just about trickled to the surface.

“My quirk is,” she began, but wavered. A self deprecating chord laced through her voice. “It’s not really a quirk, is it? Not a useful one like everyone else’s. I didn’t think I’d win anything.”

“Well, you just did,” Shinsou interjected. He was beaming.

When Shouji held out a tentacle for him to high-five, he took it without hesitation.

“I guess I did,” Hagakure agreed, slightly wetly. “Thank you, Dazai-kun. And Shinsou-kun. And Shouji-kun. Without you, this would never have been possible.”

She released him from her hold then, and he felt normal. Empty and normal, he supposed. But there was a small spot of light inside him. Very small, and dim, that was pulsating like crazy. Stimulated in a way that it never had been before.

It distracted him, he won’t lie, from what perhaps would have been his main focuses otherwise.

Murmurs of an unexpected name drifted through the audience. Calls in support of the brave and talented general studies student who’d fought against the hero faction and won.

A pair of green eyes, worried and intrigued in equal measure, digging into the boy beside him like he was an ancient artefact.

Todoroki, with his left fist clenched and shaking. With sweat rolling down his skin and an expression of pure resolve.

And of course, Bakugou. Devastated. The anger seemed to have leaked out of his body; an air of untold hatred overwhelmed him.

It was only after a lunch break and intermission was announced that the first move was played.

Todoroki Shouto cut a straight path through the crowd, ignoring the unanswered calls of his teammates. He walked until he stood face-to-face with Dazai.

The latter had, of course, been preparing to grab some sustenance with his newfound teammates. Instead, he shooed them away, reassuring them when they lingered.

Even as the crowd weaved and threaded around them, the two remained a point of stillness in the general movement.

“I need to talk to you.”

The feeling of Todoroki’s eyes on him, hyper focused, was somewhat disconcerting. Maybe it shouldn’t have been. Dazai had, after all, been subject to Mori’s scrutiny for years. Still, this gaze was something he had never come across before.

“Be my guest,” Dazai replied, lightly.

“Alone.”

Simultaneously, on the other side of the field, two figures were crouched on the ground. A small group were loitering a respectful distance away, trying their best to make it look as if they weren’t eavesdropping.

“This is f*cking ridiculous. I refuse to believe that those motherf*ckers beat me,” Bakugou’s voice was low and gruff. His eyes wide with rage.

“It’s over now. You lost. It happens,” Chuuya tried.

“It doesn’t happen to me!” Bakugou replied, his voice raising in volume like thunder as it drew nearer. “Those assholes think that they can beat me? I’m the strongest person here. They can’t f*cking touch me.”

Letting out a sigh, Chuuya rubbed at his temples. His head felt like sh*t, and he didn’t have the patience for this. That was why they left Kirishima to do the Bakugou related maintenance tasks. (He’d never ask that of the other right now, though. The entirety of team Bakugou looked heartbroken, even as they tried to conceal their disappointment, faces to the sky).

“For God’s sake,” Chuuya mumbled, before grabbing Bakugou’s upper arm like a vice and pulling him to his feet. A bombardment of complaints and curses were spewed at him, but he took no notice.

Instead, he dragged Bakugou through the crowds of students heading to lunch. A lunch he’d probably never get, Chuuya silently lamented.

Turning down a series of passages, the walls plain and lights darkened, he finally stopped at an arbitrary door. A changing room, it seemed. He shoved them both inside.

Bakugou must have exhausted his volley of threats at some point. For now, silence reigned between them.

—

Shigaraki Tomura on ‘Falsity’

A t first glance, it would appear clear to anyone that Shinsou Hitoshi had won the Cavalry battle for his team. Had taken the initiative, filled the role handed to him and so much more.

“What an unlikely hero,” Kurogiri mused from beside him. He didn’t reply.

The boy wasn’t a hero- he was a front. A false back, as it were, placed there only in order to hide a treasure trove of secrets. He was a deception, manipulated and moulded into his role with such a degree of precision that Shigaraki determined the boy didn’t even know himself. And if he didn’t, how the hell would the rest of the pro hero world?

In many ways, he would be perfect for their plan. The rising star of the heroics world that everyone had their eye on. Capture him and you’ve captured the attention of the nation.

But Shigaraki’s own attention was captured by someone else entirely. By the boy pulling the strings, the woodworker behind the fake back. Surely, he was the owner of the hidden secrets. Secrets precious enough to require such secure protection. Shigaraki couldn’t begin to imagine what they could be. And it thrilled him.

Pushing off from his metallic bar stool, Shigaraki approached a cabinet situated in the corner of the room.

With Kurogiri polishing glasses and Akutagawa’s gaze fixed on the screen, no one watched him flick through documents and files until his hand paused on one.

Their informant had done a good job acquiring all the heroics department’s documents. His contributions to the League remained consequential, even without his physical presence at their hideout.

Pulling a manilla envelope from the draw with restless fingers, Shigaraki scanned the label on the top.

‘Dazai Osamu’

This boy was his puppet master. And- by that very definition- was about as far from a typical heroics student as anyone could appear to be.

He paced back to his comrades. Kurogiri was picking up a wine flute while Akutagawa was murmuring at the flickering broadcast with a sneer.

“That Were-tiger hasn’t changed at all.”

He cleared his throat to get their attention, having decided already on his course of action. They had already laid out a general plan, but one dilemma had been left unattended to.

“We need more people.”

Chapter 8: The Sports Festival: Intermission

Chapter Text

Dazai Osamu and The Boy Who Was Born With Everything

‘ A lone’ hadn’t been an overstatement.

Two sets of footsteps echoed around the chasms that constituted corridors. They walked deeper and deeper, towards the heart of what seemed to be a maze of tunnels and passages that lay under the arena. Although, describing the labyrinth as anything other than a still, silent wasteland (let alone a beating heart) was simply not accurate.

The last person they had come across had passed them a couple of minutes ago without a second glance. A tired, haggard man who appeared to work for the cleaning staff.

Only now, deep beneath the soil upon which the arena was built and immersed in a consuming silence, did Todoroki slow to a halt.

He was nervous. That much was clear; his usual impassive expression showed hints of emotion that had never seeped through before. Dazai wasn’t sure what this was about, but didn’t say anything. Todoroki seemed to be battling against himself, lips trembling in the plight to form words.

When he finally forced stuttered sounds out, they were far from what Dazai had been expecting. A series of unintelligible shapes that, in their togetherness, painted a truly revolting scene.

“Have you ever heard of a quirk marriage?”

—

Nakahara Chuuya and the Promise

C huuya shut the heavy door of the room behind them. He switched on the fluorescent, orange lamps that illuminated the room, giving his vision a chance to adjust following the darkness of the tunnels. In all honestly, he had no way of remembering the precise combination of underground routes the pair had travelled to reach this location, but shoved the thought to the back of his mind. He could figure that out later.

Flopping onto a wooden bench, Chuuya surveyed the space around him. A changing room which shared a number of similarities with the area in which class 1A had waited for the opening ceremony to begin. Perhaps slightly less luxurious, though. Tinged with the lingering odour of sweat and littered with unattended belongings. God, Chuuya knew that the festival had only started hours ago, but it felt like days had passed.

His entire body was creaking with exhaustion. Unfortunately, as much as he would have loved to take this time to refuel and rest, there were more immediate matters to attend to. And he wasn’t planning to just shirk them off onto the next poor soul in the vicinity.

Those matters came in the form of Bakugou Katsuki.

Raising his head slightly from his slouched position on the seat, Chuuya simply observed the other boy. He was leaning against a column of lockers, legs crossed and arms folded. Even considering his defensive body language, he would have appeared casual to the untrained eye. Chuuya knew better.

It was the eyes that had tipped Chuuya off. Crimson, as usual, but saturated by a raw, boiling anger. The likes of which he had never witnessed before, even on Bakugou.

Chuuya groaned, dropping his head into his waiting palms. This was going to be difficult.

A moment passed.

“Bakugou-”

“Don’t. I don’t want to hear sh*t from you right now.”

Bakugou’s tone was calm. Dangerously so.

He prowled over to where Chuuya was sat, hands stuffed in his pockets and head lowered. Then, he stopped abruptly, halfway to the bench and beside a mobile water fountain.

“Bakugou-kun?”

Only a small, easily dismissed flinch warned Chuuya that Bakugou was about to act.

Letting out a gut wrenching roar, he slammed his leg into the base of the water fountain. Again, and again. Kicking it with as much strength as he could. A strangled noise crawled up from his throat.

Chuuya winced as he watched on- that was going to leave a bruise.

When Bakugou finally tired, slumping heavily down on the bench beside Chuuya, shimmering tracks cut lines across his cheeks. Chuuya didn’t mention it.

“Feel better?” Chuuya chanced.

“No,” Bakugou replied, biting out a wet laugh. “Even that sh*tty nerd beat me.”

Chuuya understood that Bakugou was upset and angry. Probably not in his most rational state of mind. But his words still rubbed Chuuya up the wrong way.

For such an intelligent, complex person, Bakugou had an unbelievable lack of compassion, sometimes. It seemed to Chuuya that he couldn’t quite grasp the gravity of his own actions. Of the situation he had balanced himself in so precariously.

“Stop calling him that.”

“sh*tty nerd? The f*ck else would I call him?”

Chuuya responded with an unceremonious glare.

“You can’t keep doing this, Bakugou-kun,” Chuuya breathed words out on an elongated exhale. “This isn’t a game. You’re not just here to f*ck around with your quirk and play with robot simulations.”

“I know that,” Bakugou interjected, defensive.

“Do you?” Chuuya asked. If he had been weary previously, the talons of a righteous anger gripped onto him now. Filled him with the burning desire to act like that familiar injection of adrenaline. “Heroes are supposed to save people. To inspire the next generation. But they also have the power to cause so much suffering and harm. To be a hero is to be the most selfless version of yourself you can be. To commit yourself to a cause outside of your personal interest time and time again. Acting like this… it’s just not good enough.”

Chuuya sighed. He turned to look at Bakugou in the eye.

“You’re not good enough.”

“Huh?” Bakugou snarled, neutrality dissolving into rage. “Say that again, bastard.”

“You’re not good enough, and I’m glad that you lost the cavalry battle.”

Bakugou shot up from his seated position. His hands fisted into the fabric of Chuuya’s clothes, yanking him up as well. They radiated an unpleasant heat, searing through the uniform. The latter didn’t contend with Bakugou’s grip on him, even as he watched carefully for any stray sparks beginning to build.

“Heroes can’t make mistakes, Bakugou-kun. They can’t be a little cruel or a little childish, or there’ll be real, genuine consequences, and people will die.”

Bakugou was tensed, but listening.

“We’ve been lucky, having All Might as number one for basically our entire lives,” Chuuya said, laughing lowly. “He practically embodies heroism. But he’s getting old. And frankly, if his successor is as callous as you, then I fear for the future.”

He hadn’t meant it as an insult, as such. Just as the truth. Motivation, maybe. Chuuya had only expressed these things, driven an undeniably difficult point home, because he respected Bakugou. Because he believed in him enough to genuinely imagine that Bakugou could make those changes to himself.

A loaded few seconds passed, Bakugou’s eyes darting around Chuuya’s face. Searching for a hint of who knows what. Chuuya kept his lips pulled into a neutral line and his chin raised up.

With a bitter chuckle, Bakugou dropped the folds of Chuuya’s gym kit, falling back onto the unforgiving wood of the bench. Chuuya followed suit a moment later.

“You can be such a downer sometimes, hat f*cker,” Bakugou grumbled. “All Might’s still got a few years in him yet.”

Chuuya snorted.

Another silence descended on them, then. But this one wasn’t so charged. Wasn’t desperately repelling its surroundings.

“Once I win the sports festival,” Chuuya began (a forceful elbow to his side halted him for a second or two), “we’ll fight. All out. No holds barred. That way, you can’t complain about being short changed and losing out on your victory unfairly for the rest of eternity.”

Bakugou seemed appeased by that. He stretched out, relaxed, dropping his head on the wall behind them and letting his legs straighten out.

“I’ll take you up on that.”

Then, his expression turned serious.

“But you have to fight me with everything you have. To the very best of your ability.”

“When do I not?” Chuuya joked. Bakugou didn’t laugh, though. Instead, his eyebrows pinched together.

“You never f*cking do. I don’t know why, and I can’t quite place my finger on what you’re missing, but I know that you’re holding back. You have been since day one.”

Chuuya wanted to laugh it off- he really did. But there was something endlessly unnerving about having your own thoughts, thoughts that you assumed were untraceably hidden, pulled into the limelight by someone else entirely. It felt like a stun. Quick but blunt.

“I promise I will,” his lips were saying before his brain could even catch up.

Bakugou nodded once, satisfied.

It was a short while later that they decided they had been cowering long enough. Chuuya stood up, holding a hand out to Bakugou, who pulled himself off the bench as well.

It took about three minutes of Chuuya insisting that it was definitely, definitely this tunnel that led to surface level before he admitted that he was lost.

“Maybe if we just keep taking right turns,” Chuuya pondered, hopefully.

Having come to a choice between taking a left or right passage, they were staring into the identical abysses that seemed to lie at the end of each path. Chuuya squinted his eyes, as if he’d be able to see past the unending darkness and plot out a route to the cafeteria. He was really hungry.

“The arena is round; that’ll take us in a circle, idiot,” Bakugou argued. “We should alternate between left and right, then we’ll reach a point on the circumference.”

Listen, Chuuya may have been a delightful person and friend, but he was by no means a pushover. The mix of his frustration at the unfortunate loss of his break and just general Bakugou-related annoyance was getting to him. If he wanted to be petty about escaping this absolute f*cking maze, then be damn well would be.

“This isn’t a geometry class. The paths won’t all split in the same places or even in the same directions. Don’t act as if this is some easy maths problem. We’re going right.”

He grabbed Bakugou’s arm, who let out a guttural growl, and pulled them both down the passage on the righthand side.

The mouth from which they had entered was bathed in shadow, but it brightened out quickly afterwards. An orange glow illuminated the tunnel- and surprisingly- what appeared to be two figures within it. Chuuya had never been more thankful to see another person. He was about to call out when a hand wrapped around his mouth. Only a muffled gasp escaped his lips.

He looked over to the culprit, Bakugou, who was shaking his head, expression grim. When he had pulled the hand away, Chuuya turned his attention to the newcomers.

Properly looking at them, he recognised both with ease. He wasn’t entirely sure as to why Bakugou wanted to eavesdrop, but he agreed that the situation seemed rather tense. As if a significant moment was playing out right before their eyes.

Staying silent and in the shadows, Chuuya listened.

“I think that you’d be surprised, Todoroki-kun, by the number of people that hate their quirks.”

—

Dazai Osamu and The Boy Who Was Born With Everything

I t was a strange experience. To hear something so raw and true and personal.

Dazai had met all sorts of people in the Mafia. People from a thousand different backgrounds, who had lived through experiences that Dazai could barely imagine. Had only read about in books. But even amongst allies who had seen so much, Dazai had never listened to someone like this. Listened to someone spill details with such emotion, such a real connection to their own memories. Perhaps they had all been desensitised by the bloodshed.

When Todoroki had finished, Dazai pondered over his next words. In a way that he didn’t usually have to.

Todoroki had seen through him during the Cavalry battle. Figured out that he was the one plotting from the shadows. And so, he had conjectured that it had been Dazai who had spurred him to use his left side. The fire that he so resented. The fire that his father had forced upon him.

He was clearly mistrustful of Dazai; he had been for a while, from Dazai’s observations. This was the perfect opportunity to turn that distrust into camaraderie.

“I think that you’d be surprised, Todoroki-kun, by the number of people that hate their quirks.”

Todoroki didn’t reply. Instead, his hand ghosted across his scar, the touch light and fleeting.

“Atsushi-kun hasn’t always maintained a semblance of peace with his ability. He treated it more as a separate entity rather than an extension of himself, and the tiger inherited that mentality as well.”

Sending a silent apology to Atsushi for exposing him, Dazai settled on the route he’d take through the winding roads of conversation.

“Shinsou-kun has always been told that his quirk is villainous, and it’s stopped him from achieving his dream. But he’s fighting against that, with everything he has.”

Todoroki frowned, turning his face away.

“It’s not the same.”

“No, it’s not the same,” Dazai agreed immediately. “You’ve been through hell, and you’re still going. It’s not a fight to live or anything so poetic; it’s a fight to survive.”

Nodding shallowly, Todoroki crossed his arms in front of him.

“You don’t even have the option to forget, because you’ll look in the mirror everyday for the rest of your life, and see him in front of you.”

Dazai knew that he had hit the nail on the head with that one. The passage was enveloped in silence, only the groans and creaks of the plumbing and buzzing of the lighting filtered in from around them.

“There’s someone very special to me who hates his quirk,” Dazai begun. “There’s something locked up inside of him, and he’s always thought it made him a monster. No longer human, as it were.”

Dazai angled his head up to the ceiling, the single lamp dangling above them haphazardly.

“But it doesn’t. It’s just a part of him. Everything is a part of us, really.”

“My father is not a part of me,” Todoroki snapped.

“He is,” Dazai stated.

He looked into Todoroki’s eyes then. One grey, one a clear blue. And he felt a corner of him pull. A corner that he didn’t like to think about too often. The words were forming, unbidden, before he could question them.

“Mine was a part of me, too. I kept denying it, though, and now he’s dead.” Dazai laughed, dryly. “And I don’t think I’m any better for it.”

Todoroki was visibly shocked.

“H-how did he die?” Todoroki stammered.

“Illness,” Dazai lied, shrugging. Well, more like half-lied. This conjured deception was more widely believed than the truth was. Ever would be. At what point did an uncontested perception simply become reality? “It was chronic and fatal. His doctor was there with us when he died, so we never really got to talk. I ended up crushing the parts of me that belonged to him, and never properly filling the holes they left.”

Todoroki said nothing.

“Endeavour is not a hero, but you still can be. You just have to take that part of yourself and mould it into something new.”

Seeming to consider these words for a moment, Todoroki tilted his head to the side.

“Like what?”

That, Dazai could answer. He flung his arms out into the air.

“Sky’s the limit!”

Without warning, a crash echoed through the passage, jolting them both to attention. Dazai cursed. Someone was there. Someone heard them. They must have. Heard more than Dazai was ready to tell. That inch of control slipped from between his fingers like grains of sand. Sure, Dazai had been a little exposed, a little shaky, but he still shouldn’t have missed the signs of an intruder. How the hell had he missed them?

“Who’s there?” Todoroki yelled, frost creeping up his right arm in rapidly climbing tendrils.

A silhouette emerged at one end of the tunnel.

—

Midoriya Izuku and an Intersection

O ne thing to remember about Midoriya Izuku was that he did things with only the very best of intentions.

After the Cavalry battle, a bewildering concoction of emotions were swirling around in his mind. Like potions in a cauldron, sparking and reacting as they mixed. It was nothing quite so scientific as a chemistry experiment, more a mess of clashing aromas and colours.

There had been relief in there, somewhere. A part of Midoriya had been certain that with the ten million point target secured to his back, he’d be defeated during the brutal second stage. All Might would have been so disappointed in him. He wouldn’t have voiced it, but the sadness would have been evident in his gleaming blue eyes.

Midoriya sighed. The scenario hadn’t quite played out that way, but it had been a close thing.

Maybe All Might should have given the important role of being his successor to someone else. Someone more qualified. Someone who was skilled with their quirk and certain of themselves. Like Todoroki, or Chuuya, or Dazai.

He shook his head, violently, banishing the thought for now.

He could speculate all he wanted, but it wouldn’t matter. All Might had chosen him, and who was he to question All Might?

Kacchan’s elimination from the Sports Festival was another weight on his shoulders. It felt wrong to be living this dream without him. This shared dream that they had both nurtured and cultivated through their childhoods. Maybe Kacchan had never thought of it that way, but to Midoriya, the goal of becoming a hero was the only thing that held them together anymore.

When he had watched Chuuya make a beeline for Kacchan following the announcement, envy had coloured his thoughts green. He had to physically turn away from the scene. He knew that he had never really been Kacchan’s best friend, not since they were too young to remember, but the bond between them still existed. Weak and fraying as it was.

It should have been him.

That was another thing he was trying to push away as he shovelled a nutrient packed lunch into his mouth. Not really tasting any of it.

What he should really be focusing on was how to win this Sports Festival. How to make All Might proud.

It was a puzzle he had been trying to solve since the festival was first announced just days after the USJ incident. He had holed himself up in his bedroom, hero merchandise surrounding him on all sides, and watched recording after recording of past first year festivals. He could say with a reasonable amount of certainty that the next would round would contain one-on-one fights, and slightly less certainty that he was adequately prepared.

Forming a general plan had been easy: use a burst of speed at the beginning to reach his opponent’s radius of contact, and then fight at a close distance, which often gave him the advantage. He could strategise on a more individual basis depending on the student. Still, it wasn’t exactly a foolproof formula, and it relied upon his bones not simply breaking apart. (Recovery Girl had already warned him of the perils of continuously straining them).

He supposed it was good that Kacchan had been disqualified, because then he wouldn’t have to fight such a strong opponent. But other powerhouses graced every corner of the hero course. And God, he hadn’t even considered the rest of the year. He’d made the stupid, stupid assumption that they wouldn’t pose any threat. That myth had been thoroughly debunked, he bemoaned, as scenes of Shinsou’s fingers grasping the ten million point headband played and replayed in his head.

A general studies course student rising up above all the odds like that was truly remarkable. More like something out of a story than a real life event.

Shinsou was a huge disruption in any plan of battle he’d had. Midoriya’s knowledge of his quirk was solid but not extensive; while he’d read up on the majority of his competitors, he hadn’t believed Shinsou to be too high a hurdle to overcome. To truly create a plan to deal with the general studies student, he’d need more information.

But who could he ask? Obviously not Shinsou himself, who wouldn’t want to give away anything. Naturally, his classmates who knew him best would feel the same. The only other people that Midoriya knew for sure he had fraternised with were… his Cavalry battle team! A team comprised entirely of his own friends- one of whom had an incredibly analytical mind.

Abruptly, he stood from his seat at the lunch table.

“Midoriya-kun?” Uraraka queried.

“Do you know where Dazai-kun is?”

“Todoroki-kun pulled him off to talk. Into the creepy underground part.”

Leaving his meal unfinished and swinging his bag over his shoulder, Midoriya jogged away from the table.

“Thanks,” he called behind him.

The passage system was far more expansive than he had expected. Part of him was in awe at the complicated twists and turns of the tunnels, fascinated by the structure. He walked down corridor after corridor, each one enclosed with arched walls and ceilings. There was no sign of Dazai in the earlier tunnels, though. He had either left completely, or ventured deeper in. As Midoriya hadn’t seen him since the Cavalry battle, he assumed it was the latter.

After a little while, Midoriya heard the timbre of a familiar voice. Dazai. He smiled in relief- half of him had been convinced that he’d be trapped in those tunnels forever.

Dazai wasn’t alone. He and another figure were standing a metre or so apart on a branch with its opening perpendicular to Midoriya’s position. That must have been Todoroki, then.

If they were still talking, he didn’t want to rudely interrupt. He could bide his time and wait his turn easily enough.

“I think that you’d be surprised, Todoroki-kun, by the number of people that hate their quirks.”

Then again, it didn’t sound like the kind of conversation they’d want people listening in on. He could reveal himself, but wouldn’t doing so be an even more intrusive extension of that? He should leave now.

With under twenty minutes of lunch break left, though, it was absolutely imperative that he consulted Dazai some time soon.

It took him another few minutes of debate to come up with an answer: he would stay and wait. With only the best intentions, of course.

(Perhaps a little voice in him begged to hear what was being said. By both the overtly mysterious Todoroki, and the somehow unknowable Dazai).

He honestly couldn’t say whether he regretted the choice, in hindsight.

On one hand, what he heard had greatly impacted his future relationship with Todoroki. And maybe his other classmates, too. It had felt like a turning point: the moment he had truly dived past surface level. Seen something usually concealed.

However, it had also been like a spanner thrown in the works. The idea of Endeavour, the number two hero, being an abuser? It was insane. The man had never been as warm and gentle as say, All Might, but he had been just and moral and fought for the good of the people. Or at least, that’s what Midoriya had once thought.

The vague hints towards Endeavour’s true nature that the two had been sparsely alluding to were enough to completely wipe any such image of the man. Replace it with a much less pleasant picture.

The conversation left him drained. Even as a bystander, he had felt the pain and anger laced through unsuspecting words.

He closed his eyes, slouching against the wall behind him, letting his bones go limp.

However, he had allowed an important piece of information to slip from his mind. On his back was his rucksack- the one he had ordered specifically for UA. It was water resistant and large enough for all his folders, and it was secured across his shoulder by strong straps with buckles. Metal buckles that, as they made contact with the unpainted wall behind him, produced a horrific sound. A terribly audible clatter. A spear of dread shot through him.

It hadn’t been loud, not really, but in the near-silence of the passage, it ricocheted like a bullet.

“Who’s there?” Todoroki was shouting, already prepared to attack.

Damn. He may have had good intentions, but this didn’t look great.

Scrambling away from the wall and out into the harsh lamplight, Midoriya held his hands up placatingly.

“It’s me! It’s just me. Midoriya! Izuku, obviously,” he shouted, trailing off as Todoroki’s ice melted away and the threat of demise became less imminent.

Once all parties had released a relieved puff of air, silence dawned on the group again. Midoriya cringed at the tension that had permeated the atmosphere. Then promptly remembered that it was largely his own fault.

“How long have you been listening?”

Todoroki had reverted to his usual blank facade. Familiar though it was, the neutrality seemed unnatural. Incoherent with respect to the expressions Midoriya had imagined might grace his features after such a revelation.

“Not for long,” he started, hurriedly. “Just- umm- just a few minutes. Maybe five.”

Not giving anything away, Todoroki nodded. Dazai was silent and still.

“I wanted to talk to Dazai-kun. And everyone said he’d come down here with you, Todoroki-kun,” Midoriya said, witheringly, to an unreceptive audience. “So I came to find you. I’m so sorry.”

He bowed deeply, then.

Todoroki scowled before kicking off the wall behind him. He began walking down the passage without another word.

“Todoroki-kun,” Midoriya said, stopping the other as he passed.

“I- I never knew my father well, so I can’t emphasise with how you must feel towards him, but I agree with Dazai-kun. Your quirk is a part of you, no matter where it comes from.”

Todoroki was staring at him, head co*cked, and Midoriya wondered whether his words had gotten through.

“I thought All Might was your father.”

Midoriya promptly choked on his own spit.

—

“I feel so bad for Midoriya-kun,” Chuuya laughed, hand on forehead as he and Bakugou wondered towards the lunch hall; they’d made a quick escape after the shock appearance of the third party.

“Better him than us.” Bakugou shrugged.

He was largely back to his usual self, Chuuya observed, but a certain morose air lingered around him. It would vanish with time, he was sure.

It wasn’t until the beginning of the third round that Chuuya saw Dazai again. He was reminded of all the things he had heard in the tunnel. A part of him wondered whether they had been real, or just a fabrication conjured up to earn Todoroki’s trust by a master illusionist.

He supposed the only way to know would be straight from Dazai himself.

—

Finally getting Dazai alone was a weight off Midoriya’s shoulders.

“What’s the problem, Midoriya-kun?” Dazai asked, chirpily. He sounded relatively normal, but slightly more subdued. As if he was putting on a front, and the gleaming surface had been left unpolished for too long.

“Rather than a problem, it’s more of a request,” he said, sheepishly. “It’s about Shinsou Hitsoshi.”

“Request away,” Dazai said vaguely, throwing his hands about in a gesture of a meaning that was up for interpretation.

“You were on a team with him during the cavalry battle,” Midoriya began, “so I was wondering if you could clarify some information about his quirk for me.”

“Anything specific?”

“Yes. How exactly he gains control over someone, as well as what level of influence that control has. I’d also like to know if there’s a way to break out of his control once you’re under it.”

The truth?

In actual fact, Shinsou’s quirk was quite simple. A brainwashing ability that stemmed from an opponent answering one of his questions or comments. It usually maintained for a period of hours or less if it was released manually, and was generally impossible to break from the victim’s side. As for Shinsou’s level of control, and from what Dazai had gleaned from his own observations, it seemed that any given command that was both physically possible and impersonal would be executed.

For example, if Shinsou ordered someone to run to the Eiffel Tower and back in ten minutes, this task would be deemed impossible and would not be executed (unless they happened to be conducting this experiment in Paris). However, asking them to run a lap of the main field in five minutes would be considered doable and completed.

Additionally, Shinsou could tell someone to repeat the sentence ‘All Might is the number one hero’, but not ask ‘who is the number one hero?’. This would come from personal knowledge that Shinsou did not have access to.

(This also meant that he couldn’t sidle up to someone and ask ‘what is your most embarrassing secret?’, unfortunately).

A lie:

“All of that depends on the functions of your own quirk, actually,” Dazai supplied.

Well, it wasn’t a total lie, but it couldn’t be considered the succinct truth that Midoriya was searching for either. The whole purpose of his plan to place Shinsou in a threatening position was to have this very conversation. The stakes were high- he couldn’t change his strategy now.

“My quirk?”

“As I’m sure you know, different varieties of ability impact different areas of the brain and body. While I assume your strength enhancement congregates in certain muscles, the cells that generate my quirk effect my whole body, and flow in my blood.”

Midoriya nodded in understanding. Considering his fascination with quirks, it wasn’t too surprising to see him follow along without issue.

“Shinsou can generally gain control easily enough by engaging in conversation. Two factors affect both his ability to maintain that control, and your ability to resist it. These are the areas that your quirk affects, and the number of quirk generating cells in your body.”

This was where Dazai’s information gathering attempts would begin.

“I’m sure that when you were a kid, your parents got your quirk cells counted, right? I mean, it’s recommended that everyone with a quirk gets one.”

“Of course,” Midoriya cut in, his voice suddenly high-pitched and tight, “I- umm- I have a number but it’s kind of… an estimate.”

“An estimate?”

Midoriya sighed.

“You know when I was a kid, I had no control over my quirk. In all honesty, I’ve only been acknowledging it for the past few months.”

“Just months?” Dazai was shocked. To have acquired the strength that Midoriya had in mere months was an astonishing feat.

“I’d been preparing my body for the strength of my ability for about a year, but I started directly training my quirk a couple of weeks before the entrance exam.”

So One For All had been transferred to Midoriya just days before the entrance test? Dazai tried not to appear too impressed as Midoriya continued.

“Only kids really get their quirk cells counted, so Recovery Girl did an estimate for me.”

“What are we talking?”

“About two million per micro litre of blood,” Midoriya said, cheeks flushing red.

“That’s high,” Dazai said, considering. And it was. Such a number implied that Midoriya had half as many quirk cells as red blood cells. It was amazing, to say the least. Midoriya was incredibly powerful.

“You’ll be more naturally resistant to his brainwashing, then, if there are more quirk cells for his ability to bind to.”

Midoriya nodded as it that made sense. As if he hadn’t created that explanation on the spot and out of thin air.

“The other factor I mentioned is the anatomy affected by your quirk.”

“I’m not entirely sure, to be honest,” Midoriya said, embarrassed. “It just feels like it washes over me, sometimes.”

“Do you switch it on and off yourself, or does it simply activate itself?”

Midoriya answered without hesitation:

“I definitely control it. Will power is very significant for my quirk. I guess what I mean is that rather than it only being concentrated in muscles, it exists all over my body.”

That was a useful piece of information- the will power comment. It probably meant that simply ingesting the holder’s DNA wasn’t enough to transfer One For All. It would have to be the current owner’s will for it to be passed on.

(This was bad because it became massively more difficult to obtain such a quirk. It was good, however, because Mori wouldn’t set him up with the task of plucking and eating a strand of his friend’s hair).

Dazai wrapped up the conversation shortly after that, spewing out less real, factual biology than a physics textbook. Midoriya had given him more than enough to go on for now.

As they walked, side by side, away from the maze of tunnels, Dazai found himself wondering what he planned to do if he ever managed to gain the power of One For All.

Passing it straight to Mori would be the easy route out, and a one way track to wealth and status beyond belief. But something about that path didn’t sit right with him.

He’d have to think it over.

—

Dazai Osamu and the Encounter

“ Y ou’re really amazing, you know that?”

It was nice to be appreciated, Dazai found. Although that compliment had probably been a bit of an overkill; even after winning the Cavalry battle, he had managed to stay under the radar. Shinsou was, after all, soaking up all the attention like a sponge. A part of Dazai was happy for him, actually.

“Thank you,” Dazai said, smiling. “You should have seen my classmates, though.” He injected a dose of humility in an almost formulaic way.

He had been scouring the options in one of the infrequently placed vending machines when his company had come along. They seemed to have had the same initial interest in a snack, but had displayed a casually veiled curiosity regarding Dazai, as well.

His acquaintance had arrived in the form of a young man, although he was clearly older than Dazai. Other than his somewhat eccentric attire, something about him struck Dazai as familiar. Not his features specifically, or the timbre of his voice. Just the manner in which he existed. How he stood, moved and even spoke to an extent. They each held a quality that was recognisable to Dazai. Like the precise locations of a mark or scratch on the glossy sheen of a photograph.

The man ignored him, slouching into the side of the vending machine as Dazai inserted his coins.

“It all went according to your plan. Absolutely everything.”

He didn’t react, but an alarm inside of Dazai was beginning to ring. Quietly, at first. He forcefully didn’t take his eyes off the vending process as a bottle of ice tea was plucked from the machine and deposited in the box.

“I’m sorry?”

Gripping the beverage with steady fingers, he turned towards the other. He felt tense, impossibly on edge from the sudden barrage out of nowhere.

From an outsider’s view, it should have been impossible to know that he was the one calling the shots. Todoroki was one thing- he had experienced the Cavalry battle first hand. But a member of the audience? Not even a recognisable pro hero, at that. No one should have been able to tell.

He let his eyes skim over the man as smoothly as he could make them. An outlandish outfit- brown overcoat and oddly shaped hat. Hair that had slightly outgrown its initial style, and a tie so loose that it rivalled Dazai’s own attempts at the UA school uniform.

And again- that undeniable aura of familiarity.

If the man had been casual- friendly- up until now, it was as if someone had hit a switch. The change in atmosphere was palpable. His voice had turned somber.

“It’s not often that I give out pieces of advice, so listen carefully.”

The man pushed off from the side of the vending machine, rounding its body to reach the front. He input a code, letting the whirring noises of the machine veil his words from any passerby.

“A lot of aims and alliances and circ*mstances are running in parallel right now, and soon, they’re all going to tangle together, and implode.”

He leant down to pick up a box of chocolates. Opening the box, he took a carefully wrapped piece out. Then, he threw it at Dazai, who caught it gracefully, eyes still locked onto the man before him.

“You need to join the Armed Detective Agency.”

Dazai stilled.

“What?”

But it was too late. The thickened mingle of air and sap that he had been breathing in was thinning down again. The man was waking away, like none of it had ever happened.

Dazai was left holding a single chocolate and facing an unattended vending machine.

He looked down at the iridescent plastic that was folded around the sphere of chocolate in his palm. ‘Salted caramel’ was spelled out over the wrapping in swirling calligraphy.

And everything came together.

The salt of the sea water that had lapped at the port of Yokohama. The man’s feeling of incomprehensible familiarity. The recognisable posture, stride and lilts of his voice. And most of all, his firm words.

He was from Yokohama. More than that, from the Armed Detective Agency itself.

Dazai whipped back in the direction that the man had disappeared in, but no one was there.

—

Arthur Rimbaud and the Trailblazer (Part 1)

A s always, the bar was packed when Arthur arrived.

Even so, his usual stool at the counter was left unoccupied. He slid onto it, hat pulled low over his face. Signalling to the bartender, he let his hands fall to rest across the varnished wooden surface.

It was a high quality place, all things considered- the Trailblazer. Popular for a number of reasons. The bar emulated a certain finesse and refinement that one couldn’t find with ease around this end of the city. It boasted a broad selection of aged wines and other such beverages, as well.

After ordering a vermouth and soda, Arthur simply sat back and allowed the atmosphere to wash over him. It was jovial, as always, and lighthearted. Although the place was frequented by various gang members and criminals, patrons tended to keep their disputes outside of the bar. Sometimes, Arthur almost forgot that he visited the Trailblazer entirely for work related purposes.

Someone perched themselves on the stool beside him, then, interrupting his train of thought as it steamed along.

“Whisky on the rocks,” he called to the bartender. His usual, then.

“Giran-san,” Arthur greeted, politely.

An information broker in the Tokyo circles, Giran had been a source of intel for Arthur for years. Their relationship relied on mutual benefit and equally unpleasant consequences for both parties if one were to ever sell the other out. It wasn’t a comfortable balance by any means, but it was a valuable one.

“Evening, Arthur-san.”

Staying silent momentarily, the pair waited as the bartender approached with a crystal glass. Almost unintelligible piano notes mingled with the buzz of background chatter. Melodic jazz wove through the clinking of glasses with grace.

Giran took a long sip of his drink, sighing as he gulped it down. When he finished, he replaced his glass on the countertop.

“So, what’ll it be today?”

“Stain, please.”

Gitan looked intrigued, which was never a good sign. The corners of his lips were twitching, his eyes surveying Arthur’s face carefully.

“Stain, you say.”

“The hero killer,” Arthur clarified, although he was sure his companion already knew exactly who he was referring to.

“What are you hunting him for? He’s no threat to you. The hero killer, not the vigilante killer,” Giran said, chuckling as if he’d said something immensely funny.

Readjusting his spectacles, Giran reached for his glass again. His jacket sleeves shone violet under the light of the lamp above the bar.

“Well, I can only hope he holds to that name,” Arthur mumbled. “What do you have on him?” Arthur asked, louder.

Giran must have been curious about Arthur’s decision to chase the notorious hero killer, but wisely kept his mouth shut. They had avoided thousands of disagreements and disparities in character over the years through the simple method of not asking. Not digging too deep. There was no need to change such an ingrained rule in their relationship now.

“Let me see,” Giran began. “He’s been active for almost ten years without ever being apprehended. Used to operate as a vigilante up in the North- no one knows by what alias- but has been moving about ever since his views became more… extreme. Quirk is unknown but he uses a katana to fight, so current thinking is it’s something to do with that.”

Pausing for a swig of whisky, Giran threw his head back. Arthur waited, trying not to let his impatience show.

“His first attack in Tokyo was four days ago. He killed the Tornado hero Storm and fled the scene.”

Arthur waited a few moments, but Giran didn’t continue.

“That’s it? I could have gotten all that from the news.”

“He’s a secretive bastard,” Giran shrugged. “That’s all I have on him. Unless, of course, you want to pay premium.”

Arthur was not planning on gambling away all his life savings for a smidgen of information that may not even amount to anything. When he said as much, Giran laughed.

“Suit yourself.” He stood up from his stool. “Because you’re such a valued customer, I’ll throw you a bone here. See those two?”

He gestured towards a couple of figures sat in a booth just off to the left. A young man and woman were conversing quietly, but Arthur couldn’t make out much more detail from the distance.

“They’re big fans of Stain; the guy has a whole devoted club, you know. Anyway, they’re looking to join an organisation that I have a position in, so I invited them here today. Go have a chat with them, maybe they’ll believe you’re another Stain fanatic and tell you something.”

Feeling a little unsure, Arthur tried to squint at them through the crowd.

“Won’t they recognise me?”

Patting his shoulder, Giran laughed. “No one under the age of forty recognises you, Arthur-san.”

Only a week ago, he would have agreed with that statement sincerely.

After thanking Giran, Arthur battled through the masses, glass in hand, to the aforementioned booth.

When he arrived, he took in the two people there. An obviously young, blonde girl with a dangerous spark in her eye that Arthur was sure he couldn’t replicate. Didn’t want to. And a man with discoloured patches of skin attached with what appeared to be staples to his remaining flesh.

Arthur prayed, as he stood before them, that he wasn’t making a very bad decision.

Chapter 9: The Sports Festival: Round Three (Part One)

Chapter Text

Nakahara Chuuya and the Final Round

S tanding amongst the sixteen finalists of the UA Sports Festival was an odd experience. Not because he felt he didn’t belong among the elite- such a notion hadn’t even occurred to him. Simply because Midnight kept referring to them as the ‘pupils’ or the ‘finalists’ and Chuuya had heard a member of the audience ask the woman beside her, ‘which one of them do you think will win?’. Suddenly and without his consent, Chuuya had become a part of this established group. Of this class and this category.

And he wasn’t sure exactly how he felt about that.

He certainly wasn’t as repulsed as he’d expected upon being allocated the infiltration mission in the first place. The order had initially been given almost two months ago, now. Clearly, those sixty odd days had led to unprecedented change.

Midnight had been explaining the rules of the final one-on-one tournament style round. Either knock out your opponent or push them onto the ground over the boundary line of the ring to triumph. The audience seemed restless with excitement, Chuuya noticed as he observed the stands. Whispers rippled up and down the rows, creating an almost anxious energy in the arena.

Only when the screens across the stadium flashed did the onlookers quieten. They darkened before switching back on and revealing a stark, black diagram.

Quickly, Chuuya realised what it represented. A tournament bracket. Hypothetically, if one were to proceed to the final of the festival, they would fight a total of four battles. There would also be a battle for third and fourth place, but Chuuya had no plans of being involved in it.

Scanning the screen, Chuuya picked his name out among the mass of characters. His battle would be fifth in the first pass of fights. Against his classmate, Shouji.

His gaze met Shouji’s in the crowd, a cool pair of eyes staring back at him. At the risk of sounding conceited, Chuuya didn’t think the other would pose too much of an issue.

When he became the victor of that fight, he was up against either Tokoyami or Yaoyorozu. A part of him hoped, through a faint sense of camaraderie remaining from their first practical lesson, that it would be the latter.

After that: Dazai. Assuming the other played to win, that is. From what Chuuya had seen and heard of him throughout the tournament, though, it wasn’t a sure thing.

“Please can the first participants report to the waiting rooms. All other finalists can head to their designated viewing box.”

Reading the bracket again, Chuuya found that Midoriya was the first competitor to fight. Against Shinsou, even.

The general studies student himself appeared remarkably calm. Hands casually in his pockets, he slunk off towards one of the waiting rooms. In a weird subversion of the expected, Midoriya was slightly pale. His shoulders were tensed, and when Chuuya wished him good luck on his way past, he seemed violently surprised.

Chuuya had no idea what cruel and twisted mind games Dazai had been playing during their conversation, but it must have been having the desired effect. When Chuuya spotted brown waves bouncing up and down a few bodies away from him, he found them to be as chirpy and unaffected as ever.

“Who do you think will win?” Chuuya asked as he edged past chairs in the 1A viewing box towards his bundle of friends. As most of them had been on Bakugou’s team in the Cavalry battle, they were already mid discussion when he arrived.

“Deku,” Bakugou said, not an ounce of hesitation colouring his tone.

Chuuya almost smirked, but repressed it. He didn’t think that Bakugou was the type to appreciate some good natured teasing. Mina clearly didn’t get the memo, though.

“Your faith in your boyfriend is admirable,” she practically purred. Then narrowly dodged a flaming fist.

“He’s not my f*cking boyfriend! That sh*tty-” he cut himself off with a grunt. “That nerd is barely a sentient f*cking being.”

“Dude, you speak almost entirely in growls and blow up anything that moves,” Kirishima snorted. “Who’s not a sentient being now?”

Bakugou growled in response.

To his credit, though, he was right. Midoriya did win the match- although not in quite as straightforward a way as he might have.

Maybe he felt pity for the general studies student trying desperately to get a foothold in the hero world. Or maybe he simply couldn’t stop himself from replying to Shinsou’s taunts. Either way, after Midoriya had fallen into his opponent’s trap, things were looking bleak.

“The f*ck is he doing?”

“He’s- he’s walking out of the ring?”

A moment of silence and a collective realisation.

“Shinsou Hitoshi.”

It was clear, in hindsight. Once under his control, there wasn’t much one could do to escape it. Midoriya had been brainwashed, and now he was seconds away from ending his Sports Festival career.

To Chuuya’s slight surprise, most of the audience was cheering. He had thought that after the stunt Midoriya pulled during the obstacle race, he’d be a fan favourite. Turns out Shinsou’s zero to hero story had overshadowed his wits.

When Midoriya paused- barely a step from the painted white line- it felt like a miracle. Chuuya sucked in a breath as his classmate hovered there. An internal war must have been raging in his mind. The fearsome fight for control within the outer battle that everyone else was witnessing. Chuuya had more of an understanding of such a fight than most others, he felt.

Then, Midoriya lowered his leg, and Chuuya had been all but ready to lament his defeat. It cast a dark shadow over the white ruled line. Hung over the top of it. And landed… just within it?

Midoriya pivoted to face his competitor, whose features were contorted in blatant astonishment.

“Deku,” Bakugou had said beside him, tone a million times smaller than it had ever been before.

The battle was more like a comedy sketch of poor-taste from there. Midoriya wiped the floor with Shinsou, leaving the audience to speculate what exactly had snapped him out of his trance by themselves.

“Midoriya-kun, so cool!” That was Mina, her whole body flung precariously at the railings to cheer.

Sero looked, reasonably, nervous as she hung over the sides of their box. His tape was at the ready for a quick intervention in his palms.

“Breaking out of a brainwashing quirk using only the power of your mind is so manly,” Kirishima joined in. Chuuya did get the feeling that most of it was lost to the wind, though. His other classmates looked equally jovial, sitting in the rows around them.

“Took him long enough,” Bakugou grumbled.

“All this hot and cold sh*t. Who are you? Todoroki-kun?”

(Chuuya only felt safe making such a joke because Todoroki had already waded out to the waiting room in preparation for his own match).

Following the conclusion of Midoriya’s battle, it was Todoroki versus Tsuyu. Although the battle was less of a battle and more of a one sided massacre.

It was over in seconds.

Blades of ice erupted. They immersed Tsuyu before she had the chance to make her first move, towering around her like a fortress. Ice is, by its very nature, ephemeral. It melts when touched by even a single ray of heat, unable to hold its nerve. Reassembles itself into something quite unfamiliar, as if it had never been there at all.

In that sense, Todoroki’s ice did not feel like ice. It felt like something much more solid. Immovable.

A number of heat quirk users were bought in to remove of the resulting wall of ice. As they hurried around in the main field, the audience was left to their own discussions. From what Chuuya could make out, the general sentiment was that Todoroki had gone too far, and harmed his classmate to an unnecessary extent.

He was sure that he could pick out some quietly approving voices in the crowd, however. The show of pure power had been immense.

Seeming to echo these opinions, his classmates were talking amongst themselves in hushed tones. Outwardly, they proclaimed that Todoroki’s use of force had been extreme, but inwardly, they each must have admired him. He had demonstrated the gaping chasm that lay between their abilities beautifully.

“You can say what you want about that half-and-half bastard, but he’s damn strong.”

Chuuya shrugged in reply. Simply unleashing one’s quirk without restrictions was relatively easy for anyone with training. Natural, even. It was fine control that took skill.

As was nicely demonstrated in the match up of Kaminari against Shiozaki.

Grinning brightly and bursting with enthusiasm, Kaminari had trooped off to his fight. Promptly, he had released his maximum capacity of electricity and gone into his patented stupid mode.

(Chuuya refused to believe that was caused entirely by the boy’s quirk; natural evolution simply wouldn’t allow such a defect. There was clearly some psychological issue there).

Well, perhaps he was being a little unfair. Kaminari had actually fought a decent spar before deploying his ‘killer’ final move. Although the only person the move had seemed to detriment was himself.

He had held up his side long enough for Midoriya and Todoroki to return to the viewing box. They picked their way to chairs by Midoriya’s friends, who welcomed them. If Todoroki noticed the few slightly disdainful looks being sent his way, he ignored them valiantly. In fact, he looked like he was having a better time than ever, Midoriya chatting to him from his side.

For his part, Bakugou seemed invested in the pair. He was staring at them with an unreadable expression. By the time Chuuya could pull his gaze away from Bakugou, Kaminari had been defeated.

“Don’t worry about it too much,” someone yelled from behind him.

“Yeah! There was definitely a manly bit somewhere in there!” That was Kirishima, supportive as ever.

The fourth battle came in the form of a one-woman-circus and her performing monkey. Their class representative had kindly agreed to showcase the support equipment that his opponent had invented and engineered. And showcase he did. Their battle became something of a comedy as the audience watched the effervescent Hatsume Mei demonstrate her creations. Iida was very good natured about it all, even as he got flung around the ring like a rag doll.

Chuuya only regretted that he couldn’t stay to watch the whole event. Too quickly, his friends were ushering him out of their box and towards the waiting room in preparation for his own fight. Shouji had already made his way to the exit, and Hatsume’s show and tell was in its final stages.

“Kick his ass,” Bakugou huffed, making his contribution to the surrounding noise.

Sending a thumbs up in reply, Chuuya walked off towards the staircase.

“You got this, Chuuya-kun,” Kirishima shouted. His classmates joined in with words of encouragement.

At the door, a hand brushed against his arm. Dazai.

“f*ck Mori. Fight in a way that you won’t regret.”

Nodding once, Chuuya walked towards the battlefield.

—

Chuuya wasn’t sure what exactly he’d been planning to do before. Throw the match and drive away the spotlight? Or push towards the final in order to avoid a shock elimination?

Whatever it had been, Dazai’s words solidified around it in his mind, encasing it in an icy grave. Just like the very frost it resided in, Chuuya watched it melt away. Disappear as the sun rose on his first round debut. He would fight in a way he wouldn’t regret- and he would win.

The taste of victory coated his tongue even as Midnight announced the beginning of their match. It must have shown on his face, because Shouji was backing up instantly. He was a defensive, strategic fighter to Chuuya’s brash impulsivity. In normal circ*mstances, it would have been an unfortunate pairing for the latter, but Chuuya had sheer force on his size. Mountains more power and training than most of his classmates could currently imagine.

And that was all he needed.

“These two are so evenly matched! What a treat to watch such skilled sparring,” Present Mic narrated. Chuuya tried to block his chirpy voice out, focusing instead on the opponent directly before him.

Shouji, unsurprisingly, relied largely on his tentacles for fighting. As Chuuya himself battled mainly using kicks, it made for an interesting matchup. Chuuya was forced to throw his arms into a block more often than he’d have liked in the first few minutes of the fight. They had begun with a straight forward spar, sizing each other up without any dramatic action taking place.

One thing that worried Chuuya, as the battle gradually increased in intensity, was the height that Shouji had over him. He hated to admit it, but he was noticeably dwarfed by the form in front of him. (He could almost hear Dazai cackling from the stands). This paired with the power and agility of Shouji’s limbs left him quite the force to be reckoned with.

Chuuya absolutely had to neutralise those tentacles. It was the only way forwards.

The problem was, with six arms, it was very difficult for Chuuya to find any opening. When he kicked with the power of gravity behind him, Shouji could catch himself on the ground and guard against more attacks simultaneously. The fight was beginning to drag when an idea finally illuminated Chuuya’s mind.

Rather than waiting for Shouji to make a move or defend to proliferate his attacks, he had to create a chance when Shouji’s tentacles were busy with other tasks.

But how could he occupy all of them simultaneously?

Chuuya skidded back to give himself a moment to think, friction stopping him before he could reach the white boundary. His shoes dug into the ground, the distinctive crackle of gravel tapping at the soles.

Gravel.

And not just gravel, but stones of all shapes and sizes covering the floor of the arena. He felt a grin overwhelming his face. Perfect.

Wasting no time, Chuuya charged at Shouji, a battle cry ripping out of his throat. He had to sell this properly if he wanted his plan to work; Shouji was observant. His attack was deflected instantly- Shouji used a muscular arm to grab his leg, throwing him onto the ground. He slid back a couple of metres, the rough texture of the field scraping at his clothes and heat burning exposed skin. He took his opportunity, though.

Scooping up a handful of soil covered pebbles, Chuuya scrambled up. Shouji was running at him, grasping the chance that had presented itself with all his hands. He was dangerously close to the boundary, Chuuya noted, so there was no room for error. His attack would have to be swift and precise.

“It looks like Nakahara-kun’s reckless move has cost him,” Present Mic called. For once, Chuuya appreciated his commentating. It was playing nicely into the narrative he had been crafting. “Shouji-kun is going in for the kill.”

When Shouji was barely a metre or two in front of him, Chuuya took action. He activated his quirk, letting its grounding sensation overtake his body. Immediately, he manipulated the gravity around him, the force growing stronger and stronger. But rather than pulling the bodies in its field towards the earth, it tugged them towards his enemy. Then, he let go of the rocks.

They hurtled towards Shouji.

From any other enemy, a bunch of stones would have been a last-ditch distraction technique. Realistically, one could continue their attack and let the pebbles bounce off them harmlessly. From Chuuya, each stone packed the force of a bullet shot from close range. They plunged towards Shouji like missiles, and his eyes widened when he saw them.

In a split second, his arms shot out.

Again, as with bullets, an ordinary, rational human would make no attempt to catch them. But Shouji was no ordinary human. His many hands were reinforced with strong, calloused skin. So when he moved to catch the projectiles on instinct, Chuuya knew he had won.

Lithely, he switched the direction of gravity just as the gravel nestled in Shouji’s palms. Downwards, and with more power than before. Suddenly, the stones that couldn’t have been heavier than coins weighed more than bricks.

Caught by surprise, each of Shouji’s tentacles were pulled downwards by the weight. He was open. Completely open, and momentarily trapped.

“Amazing! Nakahara-kun used his gravity manipulation quirk to completely disarm his opponent.”

It was easy, after that. One kick and Shouji was flying the diameter of the circle, passing the white border and hitting the wall of the stands with a thud.

The crowd burst into cheers. Midnight’s smooth tone cut through like a blade.

“Nakahara Chuuya is the victor.”

Looking at the ground, Chuuya let a small smile bloom across his lips. It sure was nice to be noticed and cheered for. Addictive, almost. For once, it was a feeling that he wanted to get used to. A feeling that he wanted to settle within him. He couldn’t hear Arahabaki over the roars of the audience.

Jogging over to where Shouji was picking himself up off the field, Chuuya allowed Present Mic’s commentary to wash over him.

“What a creative plan. And executed so smoothly, too. That’s another one of your students through to the next pass of battles, Eraserhead. Are you impressed with their performances?”

“I’m very proud of all of them. They only started their journeys as UA pupils a month ago, but they’ve each made so much progress. In the case of Nakahara-kun, he used to be somewhat more volatile, and charged into fights without considering all his options. It’s great to see him planning and using his surroundings to his advantage.”

Chuuya felt something warm blossom in his chest.

“Thank you for the match,” Shouji said when Chuuya had finally reached him. He extended a tentacle.

“You too,” Chuuya replied, shaking it. And he meant it. Shouji had been a tougher opponent than he had expected, and had put up a good fight in return for Chuuya’s own efforts.

It’s not that he managed to pick Dazai out of the crowd or anything quite so impressive as he headed towards the exit. More that he felt the other’s gaze on him. Examining him. Or perhaps simply recording the scene for future reference. Chuuya had made a decision, and it showed in the outcome of this battle. He would have chances to overturn that decision in the results of his next few fights, but for now, his message was loud and clear.

No matter what Mori wanted, Chuuya would prioritise his own desires. Most of him felt an overwhelming loyalty to the Port Mafia and the people there- that couldn’t be denied. Some of him, however, felt a loyalty to something else. Someone else. The bright blonde hair and vivid blue eyes that had changed his life so long ago. The warmth and kindness that had illuminated his image of a hero ever since.

He let his eyes wonder to the seats that Mori and Kouyou had been occupying, and found them empty. It felt telling, somehow.

—

The battle between Yaoyorozu and Tokoyami was another that was swift and abrupt.

He had been greeted with congratulations and hands outstretched for high-fives as he and Shouji returned to the class 1A viewing box. He took a couple of them on his way back to his original seat.

“Chuuya!” Mina was springing onto him as soon as he had lowered himself onto the surface. “You were awesome.”

Naturally, his friends (barring Bakugou) agreed heartily. He thanked them, but was really more interested in the fight taking place below them. Whoever was triumphant in this battle would be his next opponent- he had to watch carefully.

Following the practical lesson class 1A had undergone at the very beginning of the school term, Chuuya had gotten a decent handle on Yaoyorozu’s strengths and weaknesses. Her quirk was very powerful, and could grow to be unstoppable, but her usage of it had never been creative.

Even now, only a shield was protruding from her arm as Dark Shadow reared against her. Chuuya acknowledged that her ability was more complicated than it seemed as she required a deep, molecular understanding of an object before she could produce it herself. Still, she had only scratched the surface of possible uses for such a power.

Her other major downfall was her insecurity. Yaoyorozu was intelligent, undoubtedly, and well-educated to top it off. Chuuya knew that if she had the self-confidence to attempt them, her schemes would be legendary. Unfortunately, though, they remained a mystery for the time being.

Tokoyami, on the other hand, was still something of an unknown to Chuuya. The other was quiet in normal lessons and didn’t like to draw attention to himself in hero classes. His appearance and quirk were both ostentatious by nature, but he somehow edged out of the spotlight time and time again.

Watching him now, Chuuya felt he was quite the force to be reckoned with. Dark Shadow was pushing Yaoyorozu gradually towards the boundary of the ring, although she barely seemed to notice her minute movements herself.

“He’s aiming for the shield,” a voice behind him mumbled.

“What?”

He swivelled around, only to see Midoriya perched on a chair. Blushing red, he hurried to explain himself.

“Tokoyami-kun is aiming for Yaoyorozu-san’s shield. I think he wants to avoid hurting her.”

Nodding almost to himself, Chuuya turned back to watch the fight continue. It finished soon after, though. Yaoyorozu had been herded gently over the boundary.

That decided Chuuya’s next matchup, then. He supposed that the most fearsome enemies were those that could afford to hold back.

The penultimate battle of the first stage was an unpredictable matchup. Atsushi against Hagakure. Based on pure fire power, it was clear that Atsushi came out on top. But Hagakure knew better than anyone how to get creative, and her stamina was incredible. Chuuya wondered what kind of moves she’d deploy.

“Now I know this may be difficult to believe, but there are in fact two participants down in the rink,” Present Mic’s voice sounded around the arena.

“And they’re both humans,” Sero joined in from beside him.

Considering the tiger and the disembodied clothing circling the edge of the field, Chuuya would have to disagree.

Atsushi made a couple of swings at his classmate, but they seemed half hearted, and Hagakure nimbly dodged out of the way. Atsushi was too kind. The idea of hurting another for such a superficial reason must have seemed preposterous to him.

They continued dancing around each other for another few moments.

“Hagakure-san is very brave,” Midoriya commented from his seat, appreciatively.

“Right?” Chuuya agreed. “I’d be scared to physically fight a tiger and I have an offensive quirk.”

“I wouldn’t be,” Bakugou quipped to a chorus of groans.

Then, Present Mic’s excitable shrieks ripped his attention away, back to the main field.

“The invisible girl seems to be on the floor! She’s still within the ring, but it doesn’t look like the tiger will let that continue.”

And it was as he said, Hagakure (or at least the uniform that constituted her body) was sprawled out on the ground inches from the painted boundary line. Chuuya had looked away for less than a second and missed it completely; she must have simply tripped as she ran.

Naturally, Atsushi was joyfully taking the opportunity to go in for an easy win. He could simply push her out of limits without leaving a scratch. He bounded towards her as she scrambled for purchase on the terrain.

“What on earth did she trip over?”

Mina looked bewildered, her lips drawn into a tight frown. Her question was answered in a breezy tone instantly afterwards.

“She didn’t.”

Heads snapped to the far side of the viewing box at the words. Chuuya just caught sight of brown, wavy locks and a knowing smile before the speaker had disappeared down the stairwell. Probably in preparation for his own match.

Chuuya wasn’t left to wonder what Dazai had meant for long.

Only as Atsushi pounced on the form on the ground did it all become clear. Gasps rose from the spectators. The school uniform languishing by the barrier was just that- a school uniform. Hagakure herself must have slipped out of it, ruffling it in such a way that it appeared to be in use.

Chuuya desperately tried not to consider the implications of such a plan.

“As expected of Hagakure-san,” Sato cheered. “How the hell didn’t Atsushi notice that there was no body inside the clothes, though?”

“Tigers have pretty good eyesight,” Ojiro said, shrugging. “But it’s less detailed than ours in the daytime. It’s conceivable that he just didn’t see.”

Once Atsushi had landed on top of the fabric, there was nothing he could do. All of his momentum and weight was pulling him down and hindering any quick evasive movements. He could only turn, as if in slow motion, as Hagakure’s gloves appeared from behind him. With an all mighty shove, Atsushi was thrown outside of the ring.

Not unlike a beast, the onlookers roared their amazement. The fact that such a huge, dominant foe had been overpowered by a school girl who was- by many accounts- unarmed was a sight to behold.

“Hold on a moment, what’s happening?”

Chuuya’s focus snapped back to the match, his hair whipping around his neck.

“Nakajima-kun has leapt through the air- he hasn’t touched the ground yet!”

And indeed it was true. Just as Hagakure pushed him from the battlefield, Atsushi must have used his back legs to propel him upwards. He was soaring away from the carefully ruled pitch and towards the stands, but more due to his own actions than Hagakure’s.

“Why-”

Whatever question his classmate had been about to pose was answered moments later.

Taking advantage of the solid boards that acted as railings between the field and the seating of the arena, Atsushi switched directions. He sprung off one such board that wobbled dangerously against his weight.

“Incredible. Nakajima-kun is making full use of the rules we explained earlier. Only when one touches the ground outside the ring have they been defeated.”

Present Mic gave the shocked audience a rundown of the scene unfolding before them. Even Hagakure appeared paralysed as Atsushi flew towards her.

When he landed back in the bounds, the match was as good as over. He easily forced Hagakure out of the battlefield, lesson thoroughly learnt.

Having announced the victor, Midnight wasted no time ushering in the final first stage match.

Dazai and Uraraka stood motionless on the field. How would Dazai play it?

—

Dazai Osamu and the Final Round

B y the time Dazai noticed the boulders cumulating above his head, his options had severely depleted.

Rewind to five minutes ago, and Dazai had only just begun his fight. A fight he entered with the intention of losing.

“Let’s do our best,” Uraraka whispered to him as Midnight hurried them to their places.

He nodded in response, the knowledge that ‘doing his best’ would result in an instant and delicious victory ensnaring his mind. His first mistake had been underestimating his opponent.

To begin with, he tried to replicate the format of the previous fights he had witnessed. This was only a first stage battle, after all. As long as nothing extraordinary occurred, no one would remember any detail of it except the winner’s name.

And that name, he had decided, would be Uraraka Ochako.

Unfortunately, Uraraka was making the initiation of a close-quarters fight incredibly difficult. He supposed it was reasonable that she’d aim to avoid contact with him. There was, after all, very little he could do if she was constantly escaping to the other side of the ring.

Dazai’s only chance seemed to be in the counter attack. He sighed. This would be more effort than it was worth.

Moving to take up a stance in the centre of the bound circle, Dazai kept his eyes fixed on Uraraka’s form. He could tell by the tensing of her left thigh when she was planning to run in, but let it go as if he couldn’t.

She was employing a sort of hit and run tactic- a decent strategic move. He threw in a few of the unpolished blocks he had seen his classmates practise in the past few weeks, fumbling a couple. He must have looked pretty pathetic, being tossed around like this. He groaned- not at the pain of being knocked over, but because Chuuya was surely enjoying the show.

He had about decided that it was time to let this one-sided pulverising finish already when Uraraka came to a dead stop by the side of the boundary. She was staring at him, eyes saturated with an unreadable gleam.

“Why are you letting me win?”

She spoke quietly. Quietly enough that the sound was eaten up by the background noise before passing out of the field.

Ahh, he knew what that gleam was now. He had seen it plenty in the past, after all. Disappointment.

Clearly he hadn’t been subtle enough in this fight. Or perhaps his classmates had too high an expectation of the entire persona he had crafted for himself. Either way, he needed to be careful in how he handled this conversation. Other than Uraraka herself, Jirou and the rest of his classmates may well be listening in.

“Letting you win?” He went with anger. The kind of below-surface frustration that welled up inside your gut like venom. He painted it across his face with precise brushstrokes. “I’m flattered that you think I can afford to take it so easy, but this- this- is me doing my best.”

She looked conflicted, at that. Her mouth pulled down in one corner, eyes narrowing. As if her mind had been persuaded, but soul-deep, she felt an intrinsic weariness.

“I know I’ve only known you for a month, but I consider you one of my closest friends, Dazai-kun.”

He tried not to wince at that.

“And that’s why I need you to make this make sense. To make you make sense.”

That was when something caught Dazai’s eye. A shadow. A faint, large one, created by something either very big or very far away. Considering the position of the sun, the shadow couldn’t have been formed due to the shape of the arena, nor himself or Uraraka. So what could it be?

He couldn’t chance a glance up; if Uraraka knew he had spotted whatever it was she was planning, it would only end badly. Keeping one’s knowledge to themselves was instrumental in a battle.

(But really, was that why Uraraka was questioning him? To buy herself time to prepare her strategy? Perhaps she hadn’t seen through him at all. Perhaps it was just a distraction technique. He didn’t know. He didn’t know, and it was putting him on edge).

“Just because I don’t make sense to you, doesn’t mean I don’t make sense,” Dazai replied, seamlessly. He tried to match the casual tone of his usual conversation, to pretend that nothing had changed.

Uraraka covered her eyes with a hand, squinting against a gleam of light reflecting off the metal railing. She was doing a good job of hiding her background work. Her gaze didn’t flicker upwards even once.

And then it came to Dazai: reflection!

Scanning the crowd for a certain group, he locked onto the area of the stalls just behind Uraraka. There they were, in all their glory. The pro heroes. Naturally, they had all come decked out in their usual gear. Endeavour in his navy blue, Lady Giant in her spandex suit, and countless others. The one that Dazai focused on, though, was Ingenium. The hero known for his strong moral compass and incredible speed. This speed came, of course, from the motors in his legs, that boasted a shiny metal exterior. His entire hero costume was fashioned out of similar textures and colours.

Armour that acted as a mirror.

Looking at Ingenium’s suit, Dazai understood. A pile of boulders. Uraraka must have been using her hit and run attacks to momentarily distract him, and pay a rock or two into her overarching strategy. It was a wonderful scheme. Dazai took a moment to appreciate it.

“I saw you at the entrance exam, Dazai-kun. With Atsushi-kun.”

Dazai blanched.

“Then on our first battle trial, when you predicted the result of one of the groups, and figured out how to beat Midoriya-kun. Not to mention the cavalry battle just now.”

Uraraka was moving towards him, he noticed, her fist clenched tight by her side. She was probably getting ready to execute the final stage of her plan. Show him his hopeless situation, and force him to surrender. She was a hero student, after all. Dropping the boulders on him first and talking later simply wasn’t an option.

“You’re made up of all these contradictions and puzzles. Look at you word by word and each angle seems to have meaning, but piece you together and the sentence is nonsense.”

At that moment, Dazai made a choice. The best one he could, cornered on all sides.

He could no longer just accept defeat easily. Uraraka was suspicious of him already, and being plainly incompetent didn’t fit with his image thus far.

But he couldn’t suddenly turn the tables and claim victory. His main objective in the match was not to stand out, and attempting such a manoeuvre was as show-stealing as it came.

Both options seemed undesirable, so Dazai was endlessly thankful for the third.

The thing about battles such as these in a high-stakes environment, awash with heightened emotions, is that they tend to narrow one’s vision. Often down to only the extremes- the victory and the defeat. That’s why Dazai kept a cool head, and viewed the whole picture from a distance.

Between the beginning and end was the middle. That was where Dazai was headed.

He let a smile lick at his lips. Dangerous and barbed.

“Did I ever tell you about my hometown, Uraraka-san?”

She paused. Her eyebrows quirked down, bemused. “What?”

“It’s a lovely place,” he continued. “The buildings are beautiful- modern skyscrapers and old, red brick architecture stand side by side. There’s a port, a huge one, and a harbour connected to it. Not to mention a population of truly uncommon people.”

Uraraka still appeared perplexed. So Dazai pushed a little harder, as he was often guilty of doing.

“The place I grew up in is different to Tokyo. To anywhere in Japan, really. It sees things more clearly. Without the rose coloured glasses, and the vision altering lenses.”

Something clicked for her, then. Her eyes widened.

“Yokohama,” she breathed, voice half a whisper.

Dazai nodded once.

Then, he lunged. Darted towards her. She only seemed to realise what was happening when it was too late. The dazzling blue of No Longer Human was enveloping her, even as her eyes widened in horror. Uraraka was only able to gasp before the rocks began to fall. A mountain of debris tumbling down on the two of them from her forcibly released hold.

It was perfect. The exact middle ground he had been searching for. This way, Dazai stuck to both the characters he was playing. Uraraka’s capable strategist who fought to win, and the audience’s unremarkable hero student.

No one would know that he had seen through Uraraka’s trap. It appeared like he had just wanted to fight his opponent in a more advantageous way, and so nullified her ability.

In reality, a draw was the ideal compromise. And seeing as Uraraka could be healed by Recovery Girl where Dazai couldn’t, she’d progress to the next round. It was flawless.

Or at least, it felt flawless as he watched the rocks begin to shower down on them. And then less flawless when they began to hit. When he felt Uraraka’s hands clasping his own. And when it all went black.

—

Arthur Rimbaud and the Trailblazer (Part 2)

“ Y ou selling sh*t?”

Arthur Rimbaud had been in the line of action for twenty odd years. He had fought villains and criminals. Some of whom had the persevering intent to kill. And yet somehow, the piercing, azure gaze of this particular young man intimidated him like no other.

In fairness to Arthur, the guy did literally have staples holding his face together. Bruised, burnt skin attached to the rest of his visage with a wobbly line of the metal clasps. He was dressed in a worn leather coat, and his hair was soot.

Arthur opened his mouth to reply, but was interrupted.

“She’s a minor, you know,” the young man snapped, gesturing at the girl who occupied the space on his right.

And she looked like a minor- clearly younger than him, and wearing a stylishly oversized school uniform. Her blonde hair was messily secured in two space buns that were reminiscent of a small child’s. She shone with an air of innocence amongst the crowd at the Trailblazer, pink phone grasped in her hands. Until you looked a little closer, that was.

She was grinning at him, but her eyes were sharp and cunning. The fraying ends of the sleeves that fell over her hands were spotted with red.

“You can’t offer sh*t to a minor. That’s not cool. I don’t care what price you say, we aren’t taking it. Got that?”

Shaking off his disorientation, Arthur tried to get a word in. “Yes, but-”

“No f*cking buts,” he retorted. “But if you were still trying to push your stock, even after what I told you, how much would you be asking for?”

“I don’t-”

“You’re a tough one to crack,” staples boy said, sounding as if he had come across a very bewildering puzzle. “Usually, you shove ethics in someone’s face and they get all weird about it. Nothing drops the costs faster than some good old fashioned guilt tripping, you know?”

Silence, for a second. It seemed as if the man had finally finished talking, which was a relief.

“Indeed,” Arthur agreed, cautiously. He didn’t know what exactly he had been accused of selling, and though he had his suspicions, he frankly didn’t want to.

“So,” the man said. He plucked his glass from the table, downing it in a swig. “What can we do for you?”

The girl was also sipping at her drink, watching Arthur intently. It was a thick crimson liquid. Probably just a Bloody Mary or a Shirley Temple, but its resemblance to something else entirely was uncanny. Arthur actively did not think about it. Instead, he considered how exactly to play this. How he would need to present himself in order to come out with the answers he desired.

“I head you two are followers of Stain’s ideology,” he began, picking his words carefully.

The girl seemed delighted. Her face split into a smile more purely gleeful than before.

“I’m his biggest fan,” she squealed. “Everyone is blinded by societal pressure. Only Stain-sama can see that the best way to live is by always doing whatever you want! I love how he kills his victims so slowly and painfully.”

She giggled. It was unnerving, to say the least.

By contrast, the man just shrugged. “He’s pretty cool.”

A positive reaction, all things considered. He decided to keep pushing.

“The true essence of heroism has been lost to society. Now, monsters in capes walk around, tempted by fame and adoration, and we enable them. His work is for the greater good.”

It wasn’t even a lie. Naturally, Arthur would never take the kind of hardline approach that Stain had, one that transformed the man into a villain himself. But the role of a vigilante was to see clearly through the haze and fog that misted most peoples’ visions. To lower themselves to the ground as the smoke ascended. It wasn’t clearcut or beautiful, but it was true.

Beaming, the girl patted the space beside her. It took Arthur a moment or two to realise that she was asking him to join her, but when he did, he carefully slid into their booth. He sat a respectful distance away as she burst into conversation.

“You’re so right, umm- what’s your name? I’m Toga. And this here is-”

She was cut off by mottled fingers curling around her mouth.

“Don’t just go telling my name to every random f*cker we see on the street.”

“But I don’t even know your real name,” she said through the hand.

“Why do you think Dabi isn’t my real name?”

“I refuse to believe that your mother named you Dabi.”

“Maybe I rolled out the womb and she was like ‘cremation for this bitch’.”

Arthur, who had been sitting rigidly through the conversation, cleared his throat.

“f*ck,” Dabi breathed. “Now everyone knows. Thanks a lot, psycho.”

Slouching back against the leather seat like a kid throwing a tantrum, Dabi folded his arms over his chest. Toga, to her credit, seemed unaffected and cheery as ever.

“My name is Nakamura,” Arthur proclaimed, but quickly moved on. “My dream is to meet Stain-sama in person. I want to hear his ideology straight from his mouth.”

Toga started gushing about her own twisted idolisation of the man instantly. Dabi, however, looked less convinced. He was eyeing Arthur suspiciously. Thankfully, he seemed to have resolved himself not to say another word, and so only sipped from the modest remnants of his drink aggressively.

“If you want to meet Stain-sama, though, that’s easy,” Toga said, almost absently.

She seemed wholly unconcerned about the topic, but Arthur felt every nerve in his body stand to attention. His roaming eyes snapped onto her.

(Dabi was practically vibrating with distress in his chair).

“Really?”

She nodded. “Everyone’s been saying he’s going to join the League of Villains. That’s why Dabi and I agreed to meet with them.”

“Do you want to tell him your mother’s maiden name and credit card pin as well?” Dabi grumbled.

It was too late, though. The possibility of the Hero Killer and the League of Villains becoming associated was news in itself. Very bad news, in fact.

Extracting himself from the conversation smoothly, Arthur left the booth after that. Sending a respectful nod to Giran, who was still at the bar, Arthur walked out of the bustling Trailblazer and headed into the night.

Usually, he was a firm believer in keeping one’s own business to themselves. On this occasion, he felt that such a method couldn’t quite be justified.

He steadied himself. After all, it wasn’t often that a vigilante like himself was spotted voluntarily traversing the halls of the Hero Commission.

Chapter 10: The Sports Festival: Round Three (Part Two)

Chapter Text

Dazai Osamu on Suspicion

S uspicion was a poisonous thing.

This was a fact that Dazai boasted first hand experience of. Towards the end of the former boss’s reign, the Mafia had been drowning in the stuff, after all. Most of all the boss himself. Time had not been kind to the man; it had left him nothing but the withering remains of greatness. Paranoia had consumed him, and in its wake came destruction.

Occasionally, Dazai remembered those times (he hadn’t been a fully fledged member of the Mafia yet, but had been entangled with the organisation, nonetheless) and was thankful that they had passed. Perhaps an iota of morbid curiosity had flourished within him back then. A vague interest in seeing how far things would fall before someone grounded them. But he had largely hated those dark months. Rather than showcasing the human will to live, they had encouraged the overwhelming desire to die.

The Mafia had been at war. And not just with outsiders, but even within itself. The suspicion had spread from their deteriorating boss through to the very roots of the mafia- like a contagious disease, airborne and silent. No one had even noticed it being transferred, but simply reaped the horrendous consequences of it afterwards.

Of course, none of the well-established members who had been in roles of significance during those bleak years liked to talk about it very much. In fact, silence on the subject could almost be considered an unspoken rule. The members probably thought that this was a rule of their own making. Realistically, it had been Mori who proliferated such an idea; if anyone were to examine the end of the old boss’s life too closely, they might find something untoward.

But suspicion was a poisonous thing, and Dazai knew a lot about it.

That’s why he could tell straight away when he saw her. Uraraka Ochako was not suspicious. Not anymore.

He came to on a firm, narrow bed. The sheets were pulled over him with a clinical precision, and the ceiling above him was coloured a soothing grey. Not a bad way to wake up- he had experienced much worse. Been flung into action without so much as a second’s reprieve.

It didn’t, however, take any longer than a second for the pain to make itself known.

He supposed he shouldn’t have been caught off guard. Being pounded by several kilograms of rocks did tend to have that effect on people. Still, he clenched his teeth to hold back a grimace.

The atmosphere in the room was tranquil. The low hum of an air conditioner was a welcome buffer against the piercing nature of silence. It harmonised with a muted commotion coming from tinny speakers.

Shifting his head to the side, Dazai took in his surroundings. Unoccupied beds identical to his own spanned the length of the little room, separated by loosely hanging curtains. A circular clock hung on the otherwise bare wall opposite him, and a table had been pushed up against the partition beside him, a television set perching on top. The volume was decreased to its lowest increment, but the cheering of a crowd was still audible. He recognised it immediately. It was the Sports Festival live broadcast

And it was being watched by the other person in the room. Uraraka. Her attention was half on the screen, half floating somewhere else entirely, unanchored. Sat on a chair by his bed, she was fiddling with restless fingers. It must have been his roving eyed that caught her attention, because her head was suddenly whipping towards him.

A strange concoction of emotions passed through her features as she looked at him. The subtle aromas of guilt, relief and uncertainty potent among them.

“Dazai-kun,” she said, simply.

Then, before he could get a word out in reply, she tilted forwards into a deep bow. Locks of hair hung over her face.

Dazai observed her, silently.

“I deeply, truly apologise.”

They stayed like that for a moment or two. But the silence between them was growing increasingly muddy, and Dazai felt the need to clear it.

“For dropping a Stonehenge-worth of rocks on my head?” he joked.

“No, not for that.”

Dazai pulled a face.

“This is a competition, Dazai-kun,” she sighed. “I’m not sorry for playing to win.”

The guilt clouding her expression suggested the opposite, but Dazai left it unmentioned.

Shifting under the sheets, he sat up to face her fully. It only felt right, when such a sincere apology was being offered to him like an outstretched hand.

“I’m sorry for casting any type of suspicion onto you, just because your upbringing was different to everyone else’s.”

Chuckling softly, Dazai nodded once.

“Apology accepted. You couldn’t have known. I’ve heard what people around here think of Yokohama- they consider it some modern wasteland- so I kept it to myself.”

Uraraka cut in, leaning forwards in her chair.

“Even so! I was comparing you to our classmates, and the second that I noticed your attitude and skills differing from theirs, I turned on you. That’s exactly how I expected people to react about my own reason for becoming a hero,” she said, solemnly.

Dazai thought back to the day that she had first explained herself to them, eyes hardened with resolve. It felt like years ago, now.

He supposed it all came down to the concept of ‘difference’, really. When someone showed a difference to others that were within the same category or group as them, it invited weariness and suspicion into the relationship. Only when that difference was accepted by others could the matter truly be put to rest.

“I guess so,” Dazai conceded. “In fairness, though, I wasn’t handling the situation all that well.”

He laughed.

“I was showing off by predicting the results of the fight back in the first week because that’s what I’m good at. But when it comes down to it, my physical abilities are still severely lacking. That contradiction is probably where the issue came from.”

Uraraka allowed a small smile to break through her somber mask. They shared in the silence for a moment or two after that, lightened by the weights they had been able to discard.

Focusing on the television screen, Dazai found that the next match was only just beginning. He couldn’t have been out for very long.

“Tell me about Yokohama then, Dazai-kun,” Uraraka called, almost teasingly. Probably an attempt to hide the genuine curiosity that leaked through her words.

On the Hero Commission’s orders, Yokohama was left largely uncovered in the news, and tourists were generally dissuaded from making trips there. Underhanded methods like spreading rumours (not all untrue) about the Port Mafia and radical citizens kept most people away. The increased border control and travelling costs repelled the rest. The city and the revolutionary nature that it represented had been cut off from the public, like the remnants of a contagious disease. It was only natural that an outsider would be interested in the place.

“What’s to tell? It’s like an edgier version of Tokyo. Buildings, people, water, heroes.”

“Heroes?”

“Well, hero posters. More specifically,” he lowered his voice, conspiratorially, “anti-hero propaganda.”

Her jaw dropped.

“Seriously?”

“No,” he snorted. “People from Yokohama have a charming subtlety about them. They mask their disdain rather than just destroying anything that annoys them and then waiting for a hero to turn up and arrest them.”

Uraraka huffed, turning her attention back to the screen. The slightly blurry figures of Midoriya and Todoroki were caught up in a flurry of ice and those distinctive green sparks, now. It looked like a fast-moving battle.

Without directing her gaze back to him, Uraraka asked another question. Her tone was quiet. Dazai couldn’t truthfully say he hadn’t been expecting the words.

“What about the Port Mafia? Do they…”

“Exist?”

Uraraka sighed. “Yeah.”

“They do,” he confirmed. He’d have to handle the situation carefully. No need to invoke Uraraka’s distrust again. “But as long as you stay out of their business, they’ll stay out of yours. They love Yokohama, and the ability they have to operate freely without heroes interfering. Because of that, they never do anything drastic that might create a need for intervention.”

Uraraka just nodded, her eyes still fixed on the screen.

Experimentally, Dazai twisted his shoulders left and right, and rolled his neck around in a circle. An aching pain seemed to accompany every movement.

This was the last time any of his plans would involve being pelted with boulders.

He was just about to voice this decision, when the double doors at the end of the room busted open, and thumped against the walls. The sudden disruption in the peaceful atmosphere was jarring. Dazai and Uraraka both whipped their heads around to catch a glimpse of its source. (Or maybe that was just the consequence of suspicion, nourished by the USJ and beyond).

Dazai almost smiled when he did. In all his small, angry glory: Chuuya.

“Chuuya! You do love me-”

Mere seconds after entering, Chuuya marched towards Dazai’s bed. He swung his arm back, and slapped Dazai right in the face. Hard.

Uraraka’s eyes were wide, astonished. Chuuya’s were filled with fury. Dazai simply laughed both off, prodding at his reddening cheek lightly.

“Don’t worry, Uraraka-san, that’s just his way of showing affection. He’s still rather primitive, you see.”

Chuuya sighed, wearily.

“I will not be taking insults from an invalid. A concussed one at that.”

“Who’s concussed? I’m not concussed. You’re concussed.”

Uraraka snorted. Both pairs of eyes darted towards her.

She smiled, almost overly sweetly, brushing a piece of hair away from her eyes.

“I should be going, then. See you later, you two!”

She kind of skipped away after that, looking undeniably amused by their conversation. And then they were alone.

Chuuya swung onto the chair Uraraka had vacated, dropping his head into his hands. Any pretence at joviality was abandoned. Silence rose around them, unfamiliar and awkward.

“Chuuya,” Dazai tried. The other shook his head.

“No, Dazai. You don’t get to pull this sh*t and then carry on as if it never happened.”

Dazai waited. There would be more.

“That was f*cking suicidal-”

“Believe me, I know,”

“It could have killed you! I don’t care about whatever stupid, extensive calculations you’ve done to control this whole situation. I don’t care about whatever conclusion you came to. I don’t give a single sh*t about completing the mission or maintaining our covers. You can’t put yourself at risk for any of that. It’s not f*cking worth it.”

The sounds of cheers roared from tinny speakers. The clock ticked witheringly opposite him.

“I made the best choice given the circ*mstances. I won’t apologise for that.”

His tone dripped with finality. Chuuya rubbed his temples.

“I know. And I’m not asking you to. I just want you to be more-” he paused. “Less f*cking stupid in the future.”

Dazai grinned.

“Whatever, whatever. I’d love an apology for your savage attack just now, though.”

Chuuya flipped him off. And Dazai laughed.

The air had cleared again. It was always so perfect with Chuuya at times like this. So easy. Parts locking into their rightful places. Leaning back against the headrest, Dazai turned his attention to the television.

“Thanks, Chuuya,” he mumbled. Only really to himself.

—

f*ckuzawa Yukichi’s Decision

“ W hat about the invisible girl? I liked her style.”

Tanizaki was sitting on his seat in a way more suited to a three year old than an adolescent. His shoes were planted on the top of the chair in front of him, and his back was slid halfway down his own. f*ckuzawa sighed.

“She was fine, but surely the tiger kid showed a bit more skill? He was agile, and clearly a quick thinker.”

That was Yosano. She was observing the battlefield with a sort of casual interest as rocks were cleared off it. UA was truly like a military operation at times. Their efficiency was remarkable as they geared up for the next round of matches. This was all orchestrated by a quirk user with some kind of earth-related ability. Her mind was clearly elsewhere, though. Probably on the various activities she wanted to get done in Tokyo when she was finally released from her recruitment duties. f*ckuzawa sighed again.

“If you want agile, then it’s got to be the gravity guy,” Tanizaki said, knowledgeably.

“You can say that again,” Yosano snorted. “The guy was a beast.”

f*ckuzawa glanced over to Ranpo, who was oddly silent. Well, not that oddly. He was stuffing an assortment of sweet treats into his mouth, after all, and looked relatively content. Still, he seemed to be keeping an ear out for their conversation.

“I personally liked the support girl. She was really cool.”

“She was incredibly talented, but is not well suited to the agency,” f*ckuzawa interjected sternly. He turned then, eyeing Ranpo’s form on the chair beside him.

“Anyone catch your eye, Ranpo?”

The other two detectives quietened as Ranpo hummed. Gently, he deposited his bag of snacks onto the armrest between them, and looked up. His eyes were wide open, and gleaming emerald.

“Do you trust me?”

Ranpo hadn’t addressed anyone in particular, but f*ckuzawa was certain that the question was meant for him. It was somehow a very un-Ranpo-like thing to say, which added a sort of weight to the words.

f*ckuzawa answered with as much gravity as he could interlace between syllables.

“I do.”

“Then we have to take Dazai Osamu.”

He said it without hesitation. Steadfast. Showcasing a kind of reliability that Ranpo didn’t often possess.

“Who?” Tanizaki asked after a moment of silence.

“He was the young man who simultaneously drew and lost the previous match.”

Tanizaki made a small noise of understanding, but his features scrunched up slightly.

“Why him?”

Knowingly, Yosano put a finger to her lips. She folded her arms, crossing one over the other elegantly.

“Ranpo-san sounds serious, don’t you think? It’s best to just trust him on these kinds of matters.”

Although he still seemed somewhat unconvinced, Tanizaki was happy to follow the group consensus. He nodded, ginger locks covering his eyes as he did.

f*ckuzawa himself considered the situation carefully before replying. His subordinate was correct in that Ranpo did sound more definite than usual. Worryingly so, in fact. f*ckuzawa was inclined to trust his deduction, but resolved himself to keep a close eye on the situation anyway. He didn’t want things getting out of hand.

“Dazai Osamu,” he hummed. “I will place my trust in you, Ranpo.”

He received a vibrant grin in return. All at once, Ranpo was back to his usual childlike jubilance. No trace of his former facade of sobriety remained. The contrast was jarring.

Yosano released a muted cheer at his agreement.

“Guess we’re done here, then,” she said, peppily, already gathering her bags.

“Not so fast,” f*ckuzawa cut in. “We may have selected one recruit, but each agency is free to make two offers under UA’s rules. We will continue watching until the end.”

Yosano slouched back down with a groan.

“Let’s just grab the tiger and be done with it.”

(After all, it’s not often you get the opportunity to dissect a wild animal).

—

Todoroki Shouto and the Final Round

I t felt kind of like falling apart. Or maybe it’d be more accurate to say tearing apart. Splitting down the middle with a visible crack. Each grain of material- each fibre of his very being- ripped painfully at its centre. That was how it felt.

He experienced the sensation like he experienced sun on his skin or wind against his cheeks. With such clarity that it was almost overwhelming. That it felt more physical than mental, although he knew rationally that it was the latter.

It was strange, though. He had identified this feeling. Pinned it down with adjectives and verbs until there was no room left for ambiguity. And yet its cause still eluded him. What exactly was pulling at him like this was horribly unclear. Perhaps because there were so many possibilities. His pathetic failures during the first two rounds, his frankly cruel use of power against Tsuyu, his father’s gaze on him or even Midoriya and Dazai’s words mere hours ago. (Not the fire. Everything fortified within him crumbled at the fire).

They replayed in his head like bullets ricocheting around.

“Endeavour is not a hero, but you still can be. You just have to take that part of yourself and mould it into something new.”

“Your quirk is a part of you, no matter where it comes from.”

He screwed his eyes shut. This wasn’t the time. Now, he had to be absolutely focused on the battle ahead.

Standing in position, Midoriya a few metres away and Midnight preparing the start signal, Todoroki felt adrenaline pump through his blood. A part of him longed for victory, desperately and primitively. Whether it was the Endeavour in him speaking, or his own deep, mangled desire, he couldn’t quite say.

For now, though, he cleared his mind. Everything would be channeled into this battle. Nothing else mattered.

In all honesty, he couldn’t have thought of anything except the fight once it started even if he’d wanted to. A single distraction and he would have been knocked out of the ring mercilessly. Midoriya was keeping up with his attacks admirably, even as he fired spear after spear of ice.

The other was fighting strategically- a dangerous match against Todoroki’s penchant for using huge amounts of power to dominate his opponent. He was funnelling his quirk carefully through his veins in an attempt to protect his fingers, although Todoroki didn’t think it was working all that well.

They fought back and fourth for a minute or two, several close calls leaving Todoroki on edge. Both psychologically and literally- he had been forced to use his ice as a barrier to stop himself from being flung out of the boundaries.

Midoriya was holding up against him well, yes, but it was never going to last. For years and years, Todoroki had suffered through torturous training and poured everything into his quirk. His father had made quite certain of that. Some inexperienced first year who lacked even fine motor control had no chance against him, realistically.

(Todoroki tried very hard to keep his eyes off his father in the crowd. It was more difficult a feat than he’d ever imagined).

Spreading a sheet of ice over the ground felt like laying freshly washed blankets over a bed. Endlessly satisfying. Midoriya didn’t take the attack lying down, though.

With a yell, he flicked a trembling finger. The strength in his flick created a high-pressure gust of wind. High pressure enough to cut straight through the thin layer of ice below them.

Todoroki scowled, but continued his volley of attacks without a pause.

He kept a close eye on Midoriya throughout it all. The other appeared to be in pain- teeth clenched and hands shaking at his sides. His grip on his quirk was still weak, but his resolve was fierce. A part of Todoroki looked at that steely determination and felt only bewilderment. He was up against a powerhouse, and looked to be in an increasingly worse position as the match continued. Midoriya had no reason to keep pushing himself and his body to the maximum. To the point of breaking. And yet, he did.

Todoroki couldn’t understand it. Couldn’t understand the desire to sacrifice everything like that. Watching someone else feel so strongly was like a kick to the stomach. Winding and painful. A reminder of the things he’d never be.

When Midoriya’s leg became encased in ice, Todoroki saw his chance. His chance for it all to end.

Except, it didn’t all end. Midoriya used the wind to break out of his cage, another flick tearing through the air. And Todoroki caught a glimpse of his opponent’s fingers up close. Of their bent, crippled forms and their blackened edges. The pain must have been unbearable, but he bore it anyway.

“You aren’t using it.”

Midoriya’s voice was a little hoarse, but somehow resounding. It seemed to almost echo around the stadium.

“What?” Todoroki replied, braced for an attack.

“You aren’t using it,” Midoriya repeated. “Your fire.”

Todoroki felt his lips curl into a sneer. Rather than dignifying Midoriya’s observation with a comment, he lunged forwards with another attack. The latter barely evaded it.

“You challenge your classmates for top spot but only fight with half your power. If you think that’s going to be sufficient, you’re kidding yourself.”

Midoriya looked as angry as he felt. As entirely withered and bunched up on the inside. Todoroki had no comeback for him, really. Perhaps he was right. Perhaps Dazai was. The resentment that he held for his father- that had defined him for years- suddenly seemed like mere teenage revolt in the face of this wisdom.

Todoroki watched, feeling like a bystander to his own match, as Midoriya curled his hand into a fist. Balled broken, jaunty digits into his palm forcefully and without a wince. The image before him (Midoriya, first raised) was sacred, somehow. Like a revelation.

“Fight me man to man. With everything you have.”

Todoroki almost had to look away. Midoriya appeared more like a bright light before him than a human. Like someone to be feared or praised.

There was definitely jealousy there, in the storm of emotions thundering in his gut. There was something else too, though. Admiration. Confusion. Fear and hatred, similar as they are. Todoroki latched onto the final one, thankfully. It was familiar to the touch, rough and worn. Hatred felt like a safe haven amongst the gathering clouds.

“Stop it,” he spat. “Stop trying to get me to use my left side.”

An idea came to him, suddenly. One that stretched every muscle in his body taut. “Did my father put you up to this?”

A new wave of fury cascaded over him at that. And maybe a little bit of fear. Few things scared Todoroki more than the possibility of his father’s wishes marring another surface of his life. Extending past the ‘home’ into whatever else existed.

The look of puzzlement twisting Midoriya’s features was as much an answer as anything else. Todoroki ignored it.

He charged.

He barrelled forwards, a newfound spurt of emotion fuelling him like gasoline. Releasing as many attacks as he could. Midoriya was knocked to the ground again and again, but always managed to scamper up and away, not unlike a mouse fleeing the advances of a cat. Of its natural predator.

(But under the surface, he was aware of something creeping up the walls of his veins and along the ridges of his spine. Something cold. Or maybe just the cold itself).

His next icicles were avoided with more ease than previously. The ones after that dodged even more swiftly. Todoroki could feel himself getting colder; the balance between heat and frost was tipping in an unnatural way. He’d have to end this quickly.

Or at least, that’s what Todoroki thought as he was struck by a huge gust of wind. He fell to the ground hard, bashing his head against the gravel upon impact. He let out a gasp of air. And finally, the fast paced match took a moment of rest.

He could feel more than see Midoriya looming over him. In as much pain as him, now, but still standing with that fire in his eyes. (They really were like fire- Todoroki almost winced just looking into them. Panic was a common enemy, he supposed).

The wave of ice that shot from him was more reflex than anything else. Reflexes honed from years of training. Years of ‘stand up’. Of ‘surely you’re not finished already’.

It was destroyed, though. With a careless gust of wind and a flick of the wrist. Even as Midoriya flinched in pain with every movement, his entire body aching, he still stood and fought.

“Why are you trying so hard?” Todoroki mumbled under his breath, more to himself than his opponent.

“Nakahara-kun was right, you know. Battling robots, running obstacle courses, or even winning the UA sports festival. None of these things make someone a true hero,” Midoriya said, posture straight and proud. His voice was firm and prickling with meaning.

Todoroki wanted to fire off another round of frosty pillars, then, but his own body worked against him. Patches of ice were clinging to his skin, searing into the tissue. He felt like he was tearing apart, and now he knew why. Todoroki Shouto was at war with himself.

“And in the same way,” Midoriya continued, “bloodline doesn’t either.”

Something jerked inside of him. An instinctual reaction to any mention of the memories he tried so desperately to repress. The visions of endless, painful hours in the training room, and the sensation of boiling water against delicate skin.

“Heroes are those who save people, and you’re here to become one. So save yourself, Todoroki-kun. Accept everything that you’re made of. Every part of you, no matter where it comes from.”

Then, the final words. The final straw. The breaking of a barrier that he had thought of as the limit of his world, but was really only the wall of his cage.

“It’s yours. Your quirk, not his.”

And the rest, they say, is history.

—

After the match was just as eventful as during. People had flocked to congratulate him on his win in the intense battle. He’d spent time receiving medical attention. He had even run into Endeavour- tensed every muscle in his body and treated him with all the warmth of a stranger.

(He felt proud, after that. He wondered if Midoriya and Dazai would have been impressed too).

He had considered waiting for Midoriya to finish his own treatment, but ultimately decided against it. Who knew how long it would take with injuries to that extent. Plus, he didn’t exactly think he’d be welcomed. After all, the pairing of himself and Midoriya’s innate stubbornness were the causes of said injuries.

He ended up settling in one of the waiting rooms dotted around the arena. He had no desire to visit his over energetic classmates just yet. Instead, he watched the matches continue on a large screen attached to the wall.

Iida and Shiozaki’s hadn’t been anything too special, with Iida securing a win using his advantageous speed. Present Mic seemed happy to babble on about it, though, jovially discussing the ongoing battle of nature against technology. His commentary was much harder to tune out without the thrum of a fight dancing through his veins.

He knew that in reality, he should have been analysing the battle for information on his next competitor. Searching for weak points, strategies, anything that could help him triumph. That’s what Endeavour would have wanted, anyway. But he found himself focusing on the television for other reasons. For admiring the lines of determination that were scrawled across the fighters’ faces. For considering how Iida’s acceleration had improved since the beginning of the school year.

It felt as though he had undergone some sort of metamorphosis. As if the world had shifted around him, or he had moved to accommodate the world.

Next up was the battle between Nakahara and Tokoyami.

It had been interesting in many ways, and he was sure that the people watching at home would enjoy it. Fast and furious and largely occurring in the sky. But to Todoroki, it had lacked the intrigue that some of the other matches boasted, if only because it seemed be decided from the beginning.

It wasn’t a quick or embarrassing defeat for Tokoyami by any means, but it never truly appeared as if Nakahara was struggling. It added an element of boredom to his experience, and he leant against his hand as he watched the images flash by.

As that battle ended and transitioned smoothly onto the following one, the door to his room opened, and a boy walked in. Bakugou- posture slouched and the usual disdainful expression clouding his features. When they met eyes, he froze in the doorway. Then made a kind of halfhearted turn back out, before eventually deciding to continue on his original trajectory.

He slumped on a bench at the back of the room, a couple of metres behind Todoroki. And proceeded to entirely ignore his presence.

For his part, Todoroki took the moment to appreciate Bakugou’s eyesight. Being able to sit all the way at the back of the room and still see the screen with lucidity was quite a feat. Then again, it was possible that the other couldn’t actually see, and he just really didn’t want to sit next to Todoroki. He shrugged it off.

After a couple of minutes with only the audio of the television breaking the silence, Todoroki spoke up.

“Who do you think will win?”

“Shut up.”

He didn’t.

“I think Nakajima-kun will win, because-”

“Shut.”

That time, he shutted.

It wasn’t long afterwards that the door opened for a second time. Somewhat meekly, as if he who entered was worried about interrupting something. He decidedly wasn’t.

Midoriya walked in, a little tired maybe but otherwise unharmed. Todoroki was genuinely glad to see it. The former smiled at him as he entered, and tried for a kind of smile-grimace hybrid towards the other occupant of the room.

Bakugou only scoffed in reply, sinking deeper into his hunched pose.

“How’s the match going?” Midoriya asked him, approaching a chair beside his.

“Nakajima-kun is winning,” Todoroki replied.

Midoriya nodded, looking a little disappointed, but perhaps not surprised by Atsushi’s success against Uraraka. The tiger’s regenerative abilities were really something. They’d give even the most dangerous opponent trouble.

The match finished uneventfully and largely as expected. A short break was announced in preparation for the semifinals, and Todoroki rose from his place in anticipation. His next fight would be against Iida. The other wasn’t considered overwhelmingly powerful as such, but came from a long line of heroes like Todoroki himself. For that reason, Todoroki hesitated to believe that his classmate would constitute an easy win.

“Do your best,” Midoriya called out to him as he went. Todoroki appreciated the phrasing the had used. Had Midoriya said ‘good luck’, it would have felt insincere considering his friendship with Iida.

(He still hadn’t decided whether he’d be utilising his left side in the coming fights. To do so felt almost heinous).

He nodded, stopping at the door.

Bakugou must have felt both pairs of eyes suddenly turn to him, because he let out a harsh sigh.

“Go Icy hot,” he cheered, sullenly. “Decimate that extra.”

—

Arthur Rimbaud and the Trailblazer (Part 3)

A rthur Rimbaud was not a strict upholder of the law. That much was made clear by the mountains of police reports his name featured in, and the stacks of false passports that he stored in his personal locker at the local train station.

He may, to a certain extent, work for the same side as his colleagues in the police force and various hero agencies, but his methods were undeniably different. They were efficient- cut through to the very core of the problem rather than messing around with the fat. He had no time for paperwork and lawyers and formalities. Justice had no time for them.

The police appreciated his work, even though they wouldn’t be caught saying it out loud. That was why they had never whole-heartedly attempted his capture. (He wasn’t arrogant enough to believe that he would still be running around freely if they had). And why they happily accepted all the criminals he sent cowering to the stations. Vigilantes like himself were endlessly valuable allies for the police.

But that was off topic. The point was: Arthur Rimbaud was not a strict upholder of the law. He would be the first to admit it. And yet attending the meeting set up by the Hero Commission felt more like committing a crime than battling villains on the street without so much as a provisional licence.

Perhaps it was the setting. A grimy alley hidden deep in the heart of the city. More his own turf than the Hero Commission’s, which he appreciated, but still quite unsuitable for conversation.

Packed dumpsters lined crumbling brick walls, spilling trash onto the concrete below. Arthur kicked at a dented can. He had ensured his prompt arrival; it seemed as though whoever the Commission had sent felt no need to display the same courtesy.

A part of him felt that rather than his surroundings, this whole situation that he himself had constructed was the issue. A vigilante involving himself with the Hero Commission. It was unnatural, amongst other things. Unheard of, and for a good reason.

Arthur considered turning back- he really did- but his fate was sealed when a figure approached from one end of the alley. As the form became larger and larger with each step, Arthur observed their lean physique, and their crisp black suit. An aid, probably. Dark sunglasses covered their eyes, and an ear piece was visible below cropped hair.

“Rimbaud-san,” a low, unremarkable voice greeted. It wasn’t really a question, but Arthur felt the need to answer anyway. He tipped his hat.

“I am he, yes. And you are?”

“Assistant Manager of Communications at the East Tokyo branch, at your service.”

The man bowed, coming to a stop just before Arthur. He carefully removed his official badge from his blazer pocket, allowing Arthur to inspect it before replacing it.

“I would appreciate if you could state the purpose of this meeting. You were rather brief in your previous overview.”

Arthur remembered speaking to a woman when he initially made contact with the Commission, but supposed he shouldn’t have been surprised. Knowing their paranoid nature, they’d probably documented his every word in excruciating detail. And this man had probably read through the statement in its entirety.

“Of course,” Arthur replied, standing up a little straighter to match his steadfast companion. “Recently, Stain the Hero Killer has been active in Tokyo- although I’m sure you don’t need me to tell you that.”

The man nodded. After all, the heroes were most affected by the presence of a ‘hero killer’.

“I have come by information that suggests he is or is planning to link up with the League of Villains. If this is the case, I fear his power and influence could grow exponentially.”

A heavy breath left the man’s lips- he seemed appropriately weighed down by the information. It kept Arthur himself up at night. He was by no means a pro-hero, but he shuddered to consider what kind of a future the rise of villainy could bring.

“Understood.”

The man was silent for a moment. Arthur was too. He repressed the desire to ask the man to remove his sunglasses; the inability to fully observe him made Arthur uncomfortable. He supposed that was the product of years on the field.

“May I ask you something, Rimbaud-san?”

Arthur looked up, sharply, from where his gaze had wondered. He felt his eyes narrow, waves of black hair shifting across his shoulders. The question was so innocently out of character. It piqued his attention immediately.

“You may.”

“Why exactly did you choose to report your information to the Hero Commission? Had you held onto it, you could have used it as blackmail on the league, or gone undercover and caught Stain yourself. It’s not often that vigilantes turn to heroes for assistance.”

Arthur almost laughed. The world had really become a funny place. At some point, doing things for the benefit of others rather than one’s self had become something to be questioned.

“It doesn’t take a doctor to see that I’m past my prime. I doubt that I could simply catch Stain myself like I might have been able to ten odd years ago,” Arthur said, chuckling. “As for the blackmail, there may well have been possibilities there. But I would certainly prefer for a villain to be off the streets, and for heroes to be able to do their jobs safely. Well, as safely as can be expected.”

The man seemed satisfied, and nodded. Glancing at a silver watch that was fastened around his wrist, he turned away from Arthur.

“If that is all, I will be departing. Please remain in this position for at least two minutes; it’d be preferable for us both if we aren’t seen together.”

Arthur had to agree with that, although a part of him seethed at being ordered about so flippantly. Being his own boss for the past few decades meant that he had lost the ability to submissively take corrections. Still, he forced himself to wait as the silhouette of the man disappeared down the alley. The Hero Commission was an organisation that Arthur felt no inclination to make an enemy of.

Perhaps if he had followed his intuition and ignored the demand posed as a suggestion, things would have turned out differently.

Only forty seconds must have passed before a shadow lingered at the opening of the passage. Briefly, Arthur wondered if the man had returned to check that he was indeed waiting. It seemed counterproductive, though.

Either way, any such deduction was quickly shelved when Arthur took a closer look at the form. It was shorter. Wider. And it held a presence about it- something like radiation, pouring out of it in waves.

It was, of course, just a human.

“Arthur Rimbaud,” the man said. Because it was a man. The name was called simply and honestly, no disdain nor delight colouring a monochromatic tone.

Still, Arthur felt uncomfortable in the man’s presence. His legs were sliding into a defensive stance against his will.

“It’s funny,” he continued. “To meet you in the flesh after all these years- you used to be something of an inspiration to me.”

A bit baffled, Arthur could only respond in a tentative voice. The man had stopped walking now, and his face was bathed in the shadows of the buildings ensnaring them. Another prickle of anxiety tugged at Arthur.

“I’m honoured. Could you tell me your name?”

The man shrugged.

“I’ve had a lot of names. One you might be familiar with is Stendhal.”

And Arthur was familiar with it, if only vaguely. Stendhal had been a notoriously mysterious vigilante that operated in the North several years ago. Never anyone Arthur had dealt with much, seeing as he himself didn’t frequent the area, but a colleague nonetheless. Before, of course, Stendhal had dropped off the face of the earth. This wasn’t too uncommon for those in his line of work, but something to note all the same.

Arthur shifted. Tension was still wrapping around him. This whole encounter was making him uneasy.

“I am. It’s a pleasure to meet you, but I must be going.”

Stendhal tilted his head.

“Are you working on a case?”

“Indeed,” he confirmed. A single thought was racing through Arthur’s mind: get out. “I’m currently on the trail of Stain the Hero Killer, and it is of the upmost urgency. So, if you’ll excuse me-”

Something interrupted him, then. A very quiet, unassuming sound. A single drop of liquid splashing against the concrete. Staining it a dark, murky colour.

Arthur let his eyes follow the path of the drop upwards. It had fallen around a metre in height, having dripped off a shape attached to Stendhal’s hip.

“On his trail? The hero killer surely upholds many of the values of a noble vigilante such as yourself.”

There was something distinctly off about that liquid. The way it ran down the metal in a stream rather than individual droplets, only to pool up at the end. The way it left a mar on the ground, thick and viscous.

“Perhaps. But the way he chooses to act in regard to these values is villainous,” Arthur said, impatiently. He began to turn. “Now I really must-”

In that split second, the shadow in the alley vanished. Arthur stood still, eyes widened, and that moment of hesitance cost him dearly.

A cold, searing sensation was pressed up against his neck, slicing through the fabric of his scarf. Like that of a burning iron long after it had left the skin. Arthur stayed completely still.

Slowly, he turned his gaze down to the object at his neck, held firmly by an arm from behind him. The man, undoubtedly.

It was a sword. A katana, more specifically. Long and silver and gleaming, even in the relative darkness of the alley. The liquid running down it like water on the veins of a leaf was blood, its metallic smell permeating the air.

“They told me there would be a hero in this alley.”

A hero.

Suddenly, the gravity of the situation made itself known to Arthur with a potent clarity.

Stain the hero killer. It was him.

“You are no hero, but you are an enemy of mine. No one has the right to become my enemy except All Might himself. That was your first mistake.”

Arthur tensed, trying to pull himself away from the blade as it edged deeper and deeper.

“I will regret this, Arthur Rimbaud, because I looked up to you greatly, once. However, you are simply an obstacle in my path. A trial sent to hinder me on my way to achieve true heroism. To allow this rotten society to rejuvenate!”

Arthur ducked. He dropped under the swords, letting it graze his chin, and skidded back towards the other end of the alley.

He was reaching for his own gun when laughter sounded. It was maniacal. Entirely mangled and twisted. Arthur felt the need to cover his ears.

Stain took his sword to his lips, and licked it. His tongue ghosted along the edge of the blade, as if savouring the flavour, sweeping up the crimson river which flowed along it.

Arthur ignored the blood dripping from his own chin. Clearly, Stain or Stendhal or whoever had gone completely off the rails, and should be dealt with immediately. He had formulated a vague plan in his mind when his vision began to blur.

He blinked a couple of times, attempting to clear it, but to no avail. His sight was blackening, and his legs were trembling beneath him, and his arms weren’t pulling out his weapon like he had ordered them to.

Then he saw the manic smile of glee adorn Stain’s face.

And not even a minute later, Arthur Rimbaud was dead.

Chapter 11: The Sports Festival: Round Three (Part Three)

Chapter Text

Those Who Are Watching

In the case of Takami Keigo:

H awks could see pixels.

Iridescent against the screen of his phone as the broadcast switched from scene to scene. They formed a sort of half line spanning from the very top of the device to just above where the keyboard began, and were causing him no small amount of annoyance.

The opaque dots were, unsurprisingly, congregating around the point he had dropped it on the other day. Having slipped out of his pocket as he prepared to take flight, it had rocketed down towards the pavement, and crashed against the corner of a pathing stone. Funnily enough, there was no physical crack to be seen on the surface, but the fall must have taken its toll nonetheless. It had damaged something internal. Something more inherent than another scratch on the saturated screen protector.

One would think that after all these years, Hawks would have learnt to protect his belongings. But no. Instead, he was forced to bemoan his own stupidity in the shape of a second-rate viewing experience.

He could barely make out the faces of the two teenagers stoking it out for a position in the semifinals. One of them was a bird, so he naturally had Hawks’ support, but the other seemed to be a sky-dweller as well. And Hawks generally hesitated to pick sides, but in this case, the latter appeared to be heading towards a relatively comfortable victory.

Hawks allowed his eyes to wonder, and a hand to roam to the fraying fabric that upholstered his chair. Being inside the Hero Commission never failed to put him on edge. Even just waiting in his manager’s office like this, perched on the seat in front of his mahogany desk, staring fixedly at his phone. His phone with the pixel line splitting it in two. He’d have to buy a new one at some point.

By the time he glanced back at the video- a shakily filmed clip posted online (Hawks had missed the live broadcast)- the bird was plummeting to the ground outside the ring, and the ginger kid was grinning in triumph. Hawks made a mental note to extend his internship offers to those two this year. He didn’t have nearly enough time to partake in the extensive research some heroes liked to complete, so a couple of quick picks would do just fine. Honestly, anyone who could fly had the propensity to flourish at Hawks’ agency. That was his motto.

His video finished, Hawks took to scrolling through the news for entertainment. He hadn’t expected any big headlines, maybe just an article or two about politics or economic growth or a tabloid entry about Best Jeanist’s love life.

What he ultimately received was none of these things.

Arthur Rimbaud’s Final Face off Ends in Defeat

At 11:41 last night, a local police station received a noise complaint from a concerned member of the public. They dispatched two trainee officers to handle the situation- a brawl between intoxicated customers at a nearby club- and all seemed to have been attended to. Until the situation took a dark turn that no one could have expected.

Any readers who have taken an interest in the world of vigilantes over the last few decades will surely be familiar with the most highly regarded member of the underground. Arthur Rimbaud, known for his iconic winter accessories and nearly spotless record of public service. Although the underground hero has been out of the spotlight in recent years, he has still been admirably active in the vigilante scene.

Arthur Rimbaud’s body was discovered in an alley next door to the club. It is currently undergoing an autopsy to assist the investigation, but all evidence at present points in one very clear direction. The extent and categorisation of Rimbaud’s sustained injuries in conjuncture with an anonymous tip-off suggest that the murderer was none other than Stain the Hero Killer.

How did Rimbaud and the Hero Killer get into an altercation? This question is

Hawks closed the article. He hadn’t been a friend of Arthur’s, not exactly, but he had known the man in passing. A genuinely good soul. That was a rare phenomena in the world of heroics.

Shaking his head, Hawks leant back in his chair. What exactly a vigilante had been doing facing up to the notorious Hero Killer was completely lost on Hawks. It seemed to go against their entire worldly outlook. Perhaps one really should limit themselves to the extents constructed by their own abilities and ideals.

A knock on the door.

“Hawks-san?”

“Yep?” He chirped, happy for the distraction. The Hero Commission had never been a fun-packed place, so he was longing for the reason he was invited (read: summoned) to be disclosed.

“It has been requested that you proceed to meeting room one.”

As usual, Hawks did as told.

In the case of Shigaraki Tomura:

“ S o when you said Stain, you actually meant two of the most incompetent Stain fan girls that have ever walked these hallowed halls.”

Kurogiri coughed awkwardly.

“Negotiations with the Hero Killer are still currently-” he paused, searching for the word, “ongoing.”

Dropping his face into his hands, Shigaraki released a deeply troubled sigh.

When that foggy asshole had first propositioned a meeting with Stain, Shigaraki had known it was too good to be true. Instead, he was now saddled with a blonde lunatic and her weird, stapled boyfriend. Because having hands clinging to various parts of your body was one thing, but staples? I mean come on.

“Sensei has requested that you gain experience working with others, and you yourself hoped to expand the league.”

He supposed that much was true. Other members such as Spinner, Twice and Muscular had already joined up. A couple more wouldn’t hurt.

“I don’t trust them.”

Akutagawa seemed to be in a constantly foul mood, nowadays. Not that this was a particularly noticeable change from the usual. He spoke in a dismissive tone, his gaze unmoving from its focus on the newspaper in his hands.

“Is that so?” Shigaraki sighed. Sometimes, he felt as though the introduction of Akutagawa into the League had aged him by years.

Nodding, Akutagawa wafted the printed article in the air. Shigaraki snatched it from his grasp, pouring over it doggedly.

Arthur Rimbaud’s Final Face off Ends in Defeat

Scanning the paper, his interest quickly dissipated. He turned his attention back to Akutagawa.

“So what?”

“So what,” he huffed in response. “So Stain the Hero Killer is clearly not as steadfast in his ideals as we imagine him to be. Rimbaud was a just vigilante- his murder was entirely unnecessary.”

“Sometimes, we have to sacrifice for the greater good,” Shigaraki spat, letting the paper fall from his grip. Kurogiri rushed to pick it up.

“The story doesn’t add up,” Akutagawa continued, face twisting into a sneer similar to that of an ignored child. “When have you ever heard the Hero Killer to operate before midnight? And why has he suddenly appeared in East Tokyo when he was previously-”

“Akutagawa-kun.”

A familiar voice flowed through tinny speakers. Sensei’s.

“That’s enough.”

In the case of Nakahara Chuuya:

I t was good to know, Chuuya supposed, that he could still surprise himself. Because Nakahara Chuuya was someone who, by nature, was not often surprised.

Everything had started innocently enough; he and Dazai had been watching the first semifinal match progress, more out of obligation than interest. The winner could easily be predicted anyway. Rather than the victor themselves being the unknown variable, whether or not Todoroki would use his left side was a far more dangerous gamble.

“I think he’ll do it,” Chuuya stated, mid-way through the battle.

Nothing spectacular had occurred yet, just the back and fourth that could be witnessed over the course of any fight. Iida’s strongest move- Recipro Burst- knocked Todoroki to the ground through a speed enhanced kick. He got back up almost immediately, though, and was able to grab Iida’s swinging leg as it approached.

“Nope. He doesn’t want to, but more importantly, he doesn’t need to.”

Chuuya squinted at the screen to see what Dazai was hinting at. The pair seemed to have come in a full circle and were eyeing each other from opposite ends of the ring. As if waiting for the start signal to be blown once again.

“Why not?” It was a concession- an admission that he couldn’t figure it out through his own deduction.

In way of reply, Dazai simply pointed at the screen.

Chuuya returned his attention to it. Something had changed. And that something was Iida. Compared to his earlier agility, his suddenly tense and unmoving form was startling. To none more than the student himself, it seemed. A look of shock was etched across his face like blade marks on ice. Perhaps ironically. Because it was, in fact, ice that was causing him problems.

Spreading from within his motors, and climbing up the rest of his limbs, until a thin sheen of frost coated his entire body. Iida was frozen, in the most literal sense of the word.

Midnight called the match.

“When Todoroki-kun managed to touch Iida-kun’s leg, he iced over part of it. Such a small part that it was unnoticeable at first. He kept his connection to it through a thin stream of ice and kept pumping more in,” Dazai explained, as Present Mic’s unmissable screech suggested a similar theory over the broadcast. He leant back into his bed, satisfied.

“That’s one finalist confirmed, then.”

Nodding, Chuuya rose from his chair. A couple of shoulder rolls and a jump or two later, he felt ready to go. Energy surged through his body, and gravity felt easy and loose in his hands.

“Time for me to become the second one.”

“Impossible,” Dazai dismissed. “You refuse to throw punches and when you kick, you leave half your torso unguarded,” Dazai listed, merrily, to Chuuya’s growing frustration.

“The fact that you’ve survived until this point is only a testament to the inexperience of everyone else.”

“Says the guy who’s never beaten me in a fight in his life,” Chuuya argued, crossing his arms over his chest defensively. (He absolutely refused to admit that maybe there was a teeny, tiny bit of truth in Dazai’s assessment).

Reaching over to his beside table with gritted teeth (his right arm felt like a boulder had been dropped on it), Dazai fumbled for the television remote that was settled on the oak. Aiming it at the screen, he mashed some random buttons, letting the broadcast switch to an arbitrary channel. It was the news.

Dazai sighed.

“I’d rather watch the boring goings on of Tokyo than a tiger devour a shrimp alive.”

It was only after a few seconds went by without reply that Dazai glanced over to his companion. And noticed something off. Distinctly off. Noticed muscles locked firmly in place and lips pursed.

And then the voice from the television.

“-autopsy results suggest that the murder was committed yesterday in the late afternoon. Although- as you can see- the location is right next to the highway, there were no reports from members of the public about an altercation or calls for help. It’s possible that-”

“Is this seriously…”

Chuuya’s voice was a growl. Menacing and trembling simultaneously. His eyes were wide as he read and reread the words running along the bottom of the screen.

Vigilante Arthur Rimbaud found dead: is this the work of Stain the Hero Killer?

A couple of seconds passed.

“Chuuya-”

But he was already gone. At that moment, watching his partner’s back vanish through the double doors a room away from him, Dazai felt a sense of helplessness stronger than ever before.

—

Arthur Rimbaud’s death was like reaching the final chapter of a book, only to find the pages missing. An empty space where words should be.

Perhaps because he had never been real to begin with. Never been a physical entity as much as this character, this concept of justice that Chuuya had sown together with old news articles and blurry videos as thread. Arthur Rimbaud had been a man. A good man. And Chuuya had prodded and moulded him into the shape of a God.

Arthur Rimbaud’s death was like hard, undeniable proof that a faith, a belief, a way of life had been a lie from the very start.

And it hurt.

Chuuya had met Arthur Rimbaud only once. In a park at night. And in all honesty, the man had been nothing special. Nothing more than he claimed to be.

Walking down the passage towards the main field, Chuuya wondered if Arthur really had founded the Sheep. He supposed they’d be mourning in whichever abandoned Yokohama building their hideout was now. They had all idolised the vigilante. Shirase most of all.

The sun beamed down on him as he entered the ring. As if it had any right to burn so brightly. Cheers followed him. Atsushi waved from a few metres away.

Chuuya pondered whether, if he took a step back, he could differentiate all the emotions clouding his mind.

The grief. The loss that he’d never really had any right to. And then what? The anger towards the killer. The disappointment towards the victim. Chuuya knew that he was being unfair, but Arthur had been this pinnacle of verity. A truly immortal part of society. Without Arthur, what was even left?

He felt both shaky and impossibly still as Midnight f*cked around with the starting signal. As the commentators chatted over the speakers like nothing had changed. As Atsushi readied himself for a battle.

Things felt like they were building up inside of him. All these layers of confusion and expectation, reaching a crescendo. He was out of control, and he hated it. He needed it all out.

“Let the second and last match of the semifinals begin!”

And so he did. He let it all out.

A surge from his left palm. The force of gravity. The bending of space time itself. With a mighty yell, he pushed.

—

Dazai Osamu and the Good Doctors

M ori had a tendency of appearing where there were holes to be filled. Large, gaping vacancies in meaning. Whatever replaced such an abyss would become instrumental to the story as a whole. This was one of Mori’s greatest strengths- discovering these holes and drenching them with a purpose of his own.

“Smart of you to come when I’m literally a captive audience,” Dazai said, gesturing towards his fresh bandages, as Mori approached the seat beside his bed.

“Can I not check up on my subordinate after such a devastating injury was sustained at work?”

Mori must have secured this room to no end if he was confident enough to break cover freely. Dazai twisted slightly away from him, changing the channel back to the Sports Festival and keeping his gaze fixed on the screen. A desperate attempt to separate himself from reality.

Because this setup reminded him of a scene from long ago. Of a body enveloped in pure white sheets and a scalpel dripping crimson. A knot of discomfort was rapidly tightening in his gut.

Knowing Mori, he had probably seen the irony of situation as well, but was refusing to acknowledge it in that sad*stic way of his.

“Chuuya-kun must be feeling quite mixed right now,” Mori said, lightly. As if they were chatting about the weather rather than the anguish of an overpowered teenager.

Very little was happening on the screen. Chuuya and Atsushi were stood opposite one another, waiting for the start signal. The cameras were too far out for Dazai to make out any expressions, but the slouch of Chuuya’s shoulders left no room for guesswork. ‘Mixed’ was an understatement.

“And what do you plan to do about it?”

“Do?” He laced his fingers together on his lap. “I don’t plan to do anything. This is a turning point in Chuuya-kun’s life. In which direction he veers is his own decision.”

Dazai was obviously doubtful. It had become plain to see that Chuuya’s once unwavering loyalty towards the Port Mafia had been slipping lately. The consequence of being surrounded by heroics students constantly and maybe the gradual revelation of his own nature, Dazai supposed. It was clear during Chuuya’s opening speech and run of the obstacle course that he was seeing heroism in a new light. Something brighter than the dingy glow that Yokohama cast on such a profession.

Mori had gone to lengths outside of his usual limitations to acquire Chuuya as a certified Mafia member. The idea that he’d simply let him stray or stay as he pleased seemed unlikely. Perhaps it meant that Mori had no doubt that Chuuya would remain under him, and so had no reason to intervene. Or perhaps he was simply lying.

“You’ve always been so quick to judge, Dazai-kun,” Mori laughed without joy. “I’ve told you before, haven’t I? How I feel about talk of good and evil?”

“I have no concern for either heroes or villains. I have no desire to protect or revolt against this society. All that matters to me lives in this city.”

The reminder of their previous encounter by a patient’s bed was unwelcome. In all likelihood, Mori was enjoying watching him squirm.

“Whether Chuuya-kun sides with the Hero Commission or the League of Villains is entirely irrelevant to me. The Port Mafia- Yokohama itself- is an existence separate from such things.”

The starting gun shot rang out from the television. And it was over in a second.

Chuuya ended the fight (if it could be called a fight) in one attack. Sent Atsushi hurtling out of the ring with a single push. Just by looking, Dazai could tell that it wasn’t Arahabaki acting, but the sheer power Chuuya had used felt more divine than human.

The crowd and commentators alike were silenced for a moment by the overwhelming victory. Then the raucous clapping began and Dazai tuned out.

Mori was already standing to exit, dusting off his coat. Perhaps in preparation for Atsushi’s admission to the medical centre.

“This applies to you as well, Dazai-kun,” Mori said over his shoulder. “This point of change.”

Then he was gone.

It didn’t take long for his replacements to arrive. Atsushi on a stretcher. He hadn’t even had time to transform, and had been entirely unready for the decisive attack. Recovery Girl fussing about by his side. A kiss later and he was good as new.

She turned to him, afterwards.

“You’ll need a cast, you know,” she said, injecting as much force into her voice as possible while still speaking quietly. Atsushi was asleep a couple of beds away.

(It was strange to feel let alone admit, but Dazai trusted Recovery Girl. To a certain extent, anyway. She had seen his skin, covered in bandages and then completely bare. Neither of them mentioned it).

“Lucky me,” Dazai replied.

She furrowed her eyebrows.

“Not lucky you. Even though I try to dissuade them, your classmates are reckless with their health. They can get away with it because of my quirk. Do I have to remind you that it’s not the same for you?”

Dazai smiled, wryly.

“Don’t worry. Pain is the worst and one hundred percent not worth it. I won’t be forgetting that for the rest of my life.”

She snorted, beginning to approach the doors again.

“Good. Now do you feel well enough for visitors? Your friends have been pestering me incessantly, no matter how much I tell them ‘one at a time’.”

He hid his shock behind a friendly smile. Pretended that the news didn’t have him entirely taken aback.

“Okay.”

—

Nakahara Chuuya and the Final Match

C huuya had lived a life full of uncertainty.

Since his birth, in fact, nothing was stable. Nothing had a chance to settle down before being violently upturned. Either by him or by someone else.

As a child, his home had been a constant earthquake. Somewhere between shaky and fatal. A magnitude four gradually rising to something that couldn’t be ignored. At some point, they had all reached their limits. Things had cracked under the pressure, and everything changed under the gaze of blue eyes. But perhaps not in the way any of them had been expecting.

He had been on the streets for a bit, then. Flitting from alley to alley, Yokohama enveloping him whole. That was when the Sheep had found him. He had been a member, and then a leader. The King of the Sheep that all the kids looked up to. Idolised in a similar way to their idolisation of Arthur Rimbaud himself.

Again, everything had been turned on its head by the Port Mafia. Chuuya abandoned his old life and joined the most influential organisation in the city. He had thought, for a second, that maybe this was it. The unfaltering ground that he had been searching for. Something that would survive against all odds. Against the constant shifts and disturbances. Only to grow and flourish.

But no. Only hours earlier, even his connection to the underground had been called into question.

Maybe, Chuuya mused, darkness spanning out in front of him, it was time to accept that the problem had been him all along. He had gotten by blaming rocky circ*mstances and changing tides, but a theme was emerging that simply couldn’t be ignored. He was the conductor of his own mind and hence responsible for his own thoughts. For the sways back and fourth that accompanied them.

By his very nature, Chuuya was unbalanced. Pulling in one direction, thwarting whatever careful equilibrium had been created. Perhaps it was time to stop expecting stability. To stop resisting as the world formed and reformed around him.

In all honesty, Chuuya didn’t know. He didn’t know how to feel about Arthur’s death. About his own imminent opportunity to win the prestigious Sports Festival. About his partner’s hospitalisation or where exactly his loyalties lay.

He planted a hand on the cold, solid wall beside him. A passage into the main arena, caked with the grime sent on low, sweeping winds. He wasn’t sure about anything, but no one was going to wait for him to figure it out. For now, all he could do was his best.

He let those words circle his mind in their solitude. Cleared everything else with a deep breath and stepped out into the sunlight. He caught sight of Todoroki doing the same from the opposite side of the stadium.

Chuuya felt a little better now that the shock of the news had worn off, and he had released a lot of stress during his fight with Atsushi (he would imagine that the other had not experienced that same relief). Not good and not normal, but better.

For now, he would just have to focus on the things he knew rather than the things he didn’t.

The watchful gazes of the people right in front of him: civilians, pro heroes, his friends and even the boy standing opposite him. Familiar feelings like power surging through his veins, or wind against exposed flesh. Voices that penetrated the air.

“Before we begin the final match, I’d like to thank you all for being such a wonderful crowd,” Present Mic declared across the speakers. Aizawa-sensei made some non-committal hums of agreement as the audience politely clapped.

“I hope that you’ve enjoyed watching the wide range of skill and talent showcased by our first years students as much as I have. Please join me in giving all the participants a round of applause.”

When the attempts at pretending that ‘taking part is what matters’ were over, Midnight brandished her microphone once more.

“In the final event of the festival, we have a matchup between two fan favourites: Nakahara-kun and Todoroki-kun. Without further ado, let’s get the grand finale started!”

She raised her gun in the air slowly, a quiet sort of tension building with every upwards jerk. Maybe he shouldn’t have been, but Chuuya was feeling a little excited. Since the preliminary round, he had been looking forward to a fight against Todoroki, and now some of that initial exhilaration was on the rise.

The situation was weird and stupid and sh*tty, but here was something painfully normal amongst the confusion. Chuuya would grab it with both hands.

Bending down into a defensive stance- centre of gravity low- Chuuya couldn’t help but smile. Smile at movements that came as naturally to him as breathing.

And then the gun sounded.

Suddenly, there was fire.

Flaming tendrils encircling him, wild and untamed. He dodged back, jerkily, skidding across the pitch on his heels.

That- that was not what he had expected.

“Todoroki-kun makes the first move! And what a terrifying move it was.”

The inferno pulled back, but the smoke remained. Chuuya coughed into his hand as he surveyed the surroundings, eyeing the severely scorched ground of the spot on which he had just been standing.

From Chuuya’s understanding, Todoroki used his flames very infrequently, and lacked training as a result. You couldn’t tell. The blaze he set had been majestic and dangerous in equal measure, burning blue at the centre. Somehow, the uncontrollable advance of heat was even more fearsome than the shooting pillars of ice that Todoroki had become synonymous with. It felt less manageable, he supposed. Less confined.

Carefully observing the perpetrator, Chuuya drew back a couple of paces further. Perhaps he was instinctually wary of such raw power. Todoroki himself appeared surprised at his attack. A little unsteady, but still focused and with his head firmly in the game. He dragged a hand across his forehead, wiping beads of sweat away. Chuuya only hoped that such a mighty blast of firepower had left his opponent too worn out to attempt such a feat again.

(Endeavour, Chuuya couldn’t help but notice, looked thoroughly satisfied from his position in a viewing box).

Well he couldn’t let Todoroki have all the fun, could he? Calling on gravity like an old friend, Chuuya pushed off of the ground. He soared forwards, swinging his leg up into an enhanced kick. Todoroki tried to grab hold of it, but was forced backwards. An ice wall shot up behind him, keeping him safely inside the ring.

Chuuya took the opportunity of proximity to throw out another attack. A sweep, this time, aiming for his enemy’s ankles. Todoroki was more prepared now, though, and dodged with ease. He bounded backwards, putting distance between the pair again. They were back to square one.

“What an intense exchange. Todoroki-kun and Nakahara-kun are really showcasing why they’re the final two.”

A second or two passed in stillness. They each dared the other to make the first move, before Todoroki finally gave into the tension. He raised needles of ice from the ground, letting razor sharp points surge towards his enemy. Chuuya sidestepped nimbly. Weightlessly. This was a territory of pure instinct for him. He felt his lips curve into a smirk without pulling them.

Using a strengthened first to crush an icicle (largely just to hear the audience’s cheers of approval), Chuuya darted between seemingly endless waves of ice towards his opponent.

Todoroki wasn’t showing any signs of frostbite as of yet. The blast of blistering heat at the beginning must have been sufficient in balancing his body temperature. How long that would last in conjunction with Todoroki’s willingness to use his flames a second time may well be the deciding feature of this matchup.

With a cry, Chuuya threw himself at Todoroki, practically floating around the mountains of ice that rose to block his path. He circled behind Todoroki, using his shoulder to shove him forwards. The latter stumbled a couple of steps, but caught himself. Chuuya was already moving onto the next charge, leg extended for a roundhouse kick.

Todoroki gritted his teeth as a barrage of attacks were fired at him. Planting his foot on the ground, he grew a rapidly escalating wall of ice to separate the two. A move of desperation, Chuuya decided.

“Getting a bit cold?” Chuuya provoked.

He didn’t wait for an answer before gathering force at the soles of his feet. He slammed himself into the divider between them, shattering it into dozens of glistening pieces. Shards rained down on them, slicing at skin and cracking harshly as they made contact with the ground.

The perfect cover, Chuuya mused, for his next move.

Springing into the air amongst the chaos, Chuuya let himself tear down behind the flurry of white. He was dropping from a couple of metres up. By the time Todoroki noticed the disappearance of his opponent, Chuuya was already seconds from impact. When the other finally thought to raise his head, he was far too late.

Chuuya crashed into him, pinning him onto the ground with enormous weight.

Todoroki thrashed in his grip, but Chuuya held on tightly. The taste of victory dancing on his tongue, the latter pulled a fist back for a punch, but froze as he bought it down. A whiff of something thick and pungent floated past him. Smoke.

He looked down just in time to see Todoroki’s left hand flicker into a flame.

Chuuya sprung up. The force of his movement sent him sliding back a metre or so, a scowl etched across his features. He really needed to think of a way to deal with that pesky fire.

Todoroki had scrambled up from his position against the ground. And there they were. Standing opposite one another on the field again. Only this time, puddles of melting ice, blackened scorch marks and crumbling craters in the earth from Chuuya’s manipulation littered the area surrounding them.

“I can’t afford to lose,” Todoroki announced with a resonant sort of conviction. The blood pooling around scrapes and dirt marring his skin only added to his solemn appearance. He meant business. Although Chuuya imagined he must look quite similar.

“They seem to have come full circle,” Present Mic described, dutifully. “This has been an incredible battle so far, both fast-paced and strategic. I wonder what will come next.”

“The sentiment goes both ways,” Chuuya replied. (He tried to catch his breath as subtly as possible).

An inhale cut short was all the warning Chuuya received before Todoroki began to move. Creating a trail of ice with his right foot, he skated forwards. Strands of his hair flew back in the wind.

“Looks like their break was short lived. Todoroki-kun is approaching Nakahara-kun on a path of ice.”

Todoroki dove into action without hesitation. They sparred for a couple of minutes without much change in the situation. Chuuya thought that he was slightly more skilled, if only because of Todoroki’s occasional need to catch himself with an ice wall.

Using the force of gravity in battle was like an art form in itself. It had taken years of experience to reach the level of fluidity Chuuya had; using that strength felt like what he was born to do.

He dodged to the side as Todoroki swung a fist at him. His right one. Ice bloomed from it in stretching vines, and cut a jagged gash against Chuuya’s cheek, even as he leaped backwards.

Channeling the strength of gravity into his kick, he shattered the frosty branches emerging from Todoroki’s arm.

A smile formed on his opponent’s lips- that was exactly what he had wanted.

As the rubber sole of Chuuya’s shoe smashed through layers of ice, Todoroki shoved his free hand towards him. f*ck. Even as Chuuya watched its trajectory with steadily building horror, he couldn’t move in time to stop it.

Todoroki shoved his unguarded chest hard onto the ground. His back connected with earth, knocking the wind out of him.

Honestly? f*ck Dazai and his creepily accurate predictions.

“In a strange subversion of mere moments ago, Todoroki-kun has his opponent pinned to the ground.” If Present Mic’s commentary echoed in from far away, Todoroki’s was too close for comfort.

“Surrender now.”

Todoroki’s tone was low and dangerous. A voice that showed his instinctive desire for a win. His hunger for one. Chuuya could tell that such an edge was reflected in his own words as he spoke.

“You’re asking me to surrender?”

It sounded like a bluff. One last, desperate masquerade of confidence. The final spark of hope fizzling out before the end.

To Todoroki, it must have felt entirely like a bluff, too. There he was, leant over atop his opponent, a blade of ice rapidly forming in one hand. He had secured Chuuya’s arms at his sides with his knees, and was pressing the other’s body heavily into the ground.

His lips were set in a sort of undecided expression- turning up and down before cancelling out like superposing waves.

“I am,” he confirmed, deadly serious. “I used the power of my left side against you, which is something I thought I was never going to do.”

He breathed out, forcefully.

“If I can’t win like this, then how can I ever become the person I want to be?”

Really, people should know better than to ask Chuuya these questions by now. He really had lived a life full of uncertainty.

He responded in the only way he knew how to. With actions. Clearly, it hadn’t occurred to his opponent that Chuuya, for all his shortcomings, was incredibly skilled with his quirk. And as such, the ability to wield the power of gravity in parts of his body other than just his arms and legs had come to him rather naturally.

Buzzing with power, Chuuya wrenched his neck up and forwards. His head came into contact with Todoroki’s own, and sent the other flailing backwards. A look of alarm contorted his features as Chuuya stood, vision blurring painfully.

Todoroki began scrambling backwards, hindered by the patches of his own ice around him.

“You’re not a finished f*cking product, Todoroki-kun,” Chuuya said, bringing a hand to his aching temple.

Todoroki stopped in his tracks, wide eyes fixed on Chuuya.

“Just keep going, yeah?”

Then, with a final burst of power, he swung his leg in a perfect arc. An arc of finality, with all the dignity of an ending. Todoroki was sent over the line, too drained to raise one of his walls, Chuuya suspected. Or perhaps just too defeated. He hit the ground with an audible thud.

Turning in a single, slow circle, Chuuya clenched a fist, before hoisting it into the air. Characteristically, he didn’t know what it meant. Maybe it was for the people he was carrying with him, or himself, or maybe it didn’t mean anything. It didn’t really matter, he supposed.

The crowd was howling.

“And that marks the end of the first year UA sports festival. Please give it up for our winner, Nakahara Chuuya!”

—

Dazai Osamu and the Two Strangers (Part 3)

A loud thud.

“Guess who’s back?” A cheery voice called out.

A tired-looking student librarian emerged from the back room, repressing a smile with visible effort.

“And here I thought you’d perish during the sports festival and I’d be free of you.”

The visitor pouted, leaning against the solid, familiar wood of the counter. They carefully avoided putting weight on their right side, though, and the plaster cast and sling that enveloped one arm.

“Mean as usual, Ango-kun,” they drawled. And then: “even if you don’t care about me, maybe you’ll be happy to see my smuggled goods.”

They pushed forwards the item that had caused the initial ‘thud’. Thick, hardback and far more technical than the visitor could say they had the patience for. Significant nonetheless.

“Goodness,” the librarian- Ango- deadpanned, staring down at the leather cover. “This book is so overdue that I almost forgot it existed.”

He reached forwards to pull it towards him, but just as his outstretched fingers made contact with its rough edge, he froze. His joints went stiff.

“Ango-kun?” the visitor tried, after a second.

An imperceptible shift, and Ango was moving seamlessly again. As if he’d never hesitated.

“Tell me, Dazai-kun,” he began, a bespectacled gaze rising to meet inquisitive eyes, “did I just feel a drop of wetness?”

“Most people actually call it water, but-”

“Did you get my book wet?”

The visitor- Dazai- let his thoughts wonder to the peach juice in his bag. Fresh out of the refrigerator and dripping with condensation. He winced.

“No?”

Ango looked about ready to commit murder.

“Anyway,” Dazai emphasised, hopping up onto the desk between them. “Is Odasaku around?”

Continuing on with the checkin process of the book, Ango hummed. His hands moved deftly across the keyboard, before scanning the barcode.

“When isn’t he? The two of you are like leeches.”

As if summoned by the words, a final student breezed towards them.

“Great job on the sports festival, Dazai-kun,” he said. Not enthusiastically as such, but sincerely.

“Great job?” Ango sounded incredulous. “The idiot got himself crushed by falling rocks!”

Ango made a solid point. Which, as usual, was largely ignored.

“Thanks, Odasaku. It was a lot of fun. And now I’ve got this cool new cast, a sling, free rolls of bandages, and a wonderful way to make people do things for me.”

He waved his cast in the air before realising that it hurt and promptly stopping. The grey of the sling matched the UA uniform perfectly, but the clinical white of plaster felt like something of an eyesore. Naturally, Dazai had a plan to save himself from that ongoing agony.

“Aren’t you two forgetting an important, time honoured tradition here?”

Dazai pushed his injured arm into Ango’s face, who quickly pulled back, disdain colouring his features.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Can no one take a hint around here,” Dazai lamented. “I want you to sign my cast. Obviously.”

Both of his friends seemed to finally understand, realisation sharpening their gazes.

Oda patted at his pockets, before turning his attention to Ango.

“Are there pens in here, Sakaguchi-kun?”

Standing from the luxurious desk chair he had been enjoying with incredible regret, Ango nodded.

“There are some permanent markers in the back. I’ll go and get them.”

He swiped Dazai’s book from the table as he went, clutching it so tightly his knuckles began to whiten. Dazai observed this from his position, watching the darkened shape of Ango’s back disappear into the library office.

“Sakaguchi-kun won’t want to talk about the festival,” Oda said lowly once only the two of them remained. “But you did well. Really well. Don’t be disheartened by the result.”

Dazai felt something warm well up in his stomach. A pleasant, smooth sort of sap. He felt it upturn his lips in a smile.

Oda couldn’t have known his true objectives, or that his attempts at battle were anything less than genuine. His words designed to console Dazai after what could be described as a mediocre performance were sincere. They were nice.

“Disheartened? Me? Never.”

He waved the thought away with a flick of his (good) wrist.

“How was your final sports festival, Odasaku?” He let his tone become conversational.

Oda just shrugged in reply. “It felt like an ending.”

Ango came back soon after that, boasting a pack of black sharpies and with a distinct lack of the book. Dazai said nothing.

The two older students selected pens from within the plastic, and Dazai lowered his arm onto the table. He slid the sling off from his shoulder, revealing the shocking white of the plaster underneath.

Oda wrote with a light touch, but was clearly focused on his own strokes, each line careful. The end result was long and low, and had a tendency to swirl upwards in unexpected places. Perhaps due to his poor eyesight, Ango used one hand to brace himself and raise the plaster slightly closer to him, and the other to sign his name. His characters were neat and sharp, formed by a talented scribe.

Neither of them had written a message, or drawn a picture, but Dazai still looked down at his cast with a newfound satisfaction.

“Odasaku’s handwriting is so cool, and then…” he turned his gaze onto the other name.

“My handwriting,” Ango huffed, shoving the pens back into the packet with more force than was strictly necessary, “is tidy and practical.”

“Like a librarian’s,” Oda attested.

“Speaking of which, I feel like I never see Ango-kun outside of the library? Like, it’s usually a safe bet to assume Odasaku is eating in the cafeteria, but Ango-kun seems to exist only within this room.”

The accused spluttered at that. “We met in the corridor a week ago!”

“Okay, once.”

“It’s true,” Oda said, contemplatively. “Other than for lessons, you tend to stay in the library, Sakaguchi-kun.”

Ango folded his arms across his chest, pulling his features into a frown.

“Can you blame me? It’s got everything I need.”

“Nerd,” Dazai laughed. Like a six year old.

Tilting his head slightly, Oda appraised his friends. Then the shelves of books surrounding them.

“I think if I met Sakaguchi-kun outside of the library, it’d end in a catastrophic disaster.”

Dazai choked out a laugh that was more startled than anything else.

“A catastrophic disaster, huh,” he echoed. “I guess we’ll have to wait and see.”

—

The Assistant Manager of Communications and the Greater Good (Part 1)

“ S ometimes, we have to sacrifice for the greater good.”

The conference room was a pristine monochrome in palette. White walls, black marble tiles stretching across the length of the floor.

The current speaker, standing by a large screen at the front, was a very important person. You could tell by his perfectly ironed black suit. The tense, upright postures of those listening. The occasional nod and the silenced murmurs.

“This is just the beginning. Merely a demonstration of what is to come. The rise of All For One will leave this great nation in dire straights; we must fight back against this imminent danger. We must purge this country of threats- from villains to vigilantes.”

The Assistant Manager of Communications at the East Tokyo branch applauded. Because everyone did.

Leaving the meeting room, he could only comfort himself with flimsy words. Stepping out of the halls of the Hero Commission was a relief.

Chapter 12: Bakugou Versus Chuuya

Chapter Text

Before

“ W hen you said ‘battle’, this is not what I had in mind.”

Honestly, he thought he was being rather calm about the whole thing.

‘Battle’ did, of course, refer to the fight that Chuuya had challenged Bakugou to during the break of the UA Sports Festival that had concluded mere days prior.

Bakugou had, only seconds ago, walked into gym gamma, where their much-anticipated fight had been set to take place. He was dressed in his most fire resistant workout clothes- because there was going to be a lot of fire, he would make sure of that- and had completed a short warmup.

He was ready. Ready to take on Nakahara Chuuya. And not just take him on, but pummel the little sh*t back to the cold, hard ground. A fire (metaphorical, this time) had been burning inside him, leaving him to countdown the minutes, the very seconds before his explosions could make contact with flesh. Before he could attack and blast and feel the thrill that only ever makes itself known in the heat of a battle. Especially a battle against an opponent of a calibre equal to, perhaps even higher than, his own.

So you can probably imagine his disappointment upon walking into the gym. White lines sliced the wooden floor into sections, and two circular shapes were attached to the walls at each end of the hall. Hoops- he realised, belatedly.

Plus, a whole f*cking herd of extras were swanning around the place like they had any right to be there.

His eyes cut through the faces until he reached Chuuya’s.

The aforementioned just shrugged his shoulders in response to his unasked question. Namely, ‘what the f*ck?’.

“Po tay to, po tah to,” he mused, then smirked as if he’d said something immensely clever.

That elicited a boo from somewhere in the crowd.

“I never said what type of battle we’d be fighting,” he continued, looking significantly less pleased, “and besides, isn’t basketball the most passionate fight of all?”

Bakugou thought for a moment.

“No.”

“Anyway!” Chuuya shouted, gathering everyone’s wavering attention. “Let’s pick teams.”

“Teams?” Bakugou asked, like an idiot.

Chuuya rolled his eyes, gesturing at their classmates.

“Quirk basketball is five-on-five,” Chuuya stated, deadpan. “Here are your wonderful classmates who I have lovingly invited to help make up the numbers.”

And that’s what they were playing- quirk basketball. I won’t explain the rules because the clue is in the name. It’s basketball with quirks. Kind of like basketball without quirks, but over complicated.

“I f*cking know that sh*t,” Bakugou growled. “Let’s pick the f*cking teams already.”

“In a show of good sportsmanship, I’ll let you choose first.”

Nodding slowly, Bakugou surveyed the students around him. Properly, this time, noting each one of them before he spoke.

Kirishima was the obvious selection, and was practically walking towards him already, certain of his success. But really, battle or basketball, Bakugou was someone who constantly strived for victory. And what use was sh*tty hair in a game of quirk basketball? All he could do was curl up into rock form and to what end? Tripping someone over? He wasn’t exactly the most desirable teammate.

Bakugou made a split second decision.

“Bandage freak. Come here.”

Well, bandage and cast freak, to be more precise. Bakugou was regretting his choice already.

Dazai looked slightly shocked, as did Chuuya, but the former pranced his way over to Bakugou anyway.

“Bandage freak, huh?” he mumbled.

Surprisingly few people had actually bought up his bandages in polite conversation, so he had barely been registering them as of late.

Kirishima was standing on the far left. Clearly, the news of Bakugou’s betrayal was as painful for him as an arrow through the heart, and he was mortally wounded. An expression of incomparable despair was spread across his face. Bakugou winced a little.

“You’re on my team, Kirishima-kun,” Chuuya called out from a metre or so away. His tone was almost resigned.

Kirishima brightened considerably at that, bounding towards Chuuya.

“I wanted to be on Chuuya-kun’s team anyway,” he proclaimed. Something told Bakugou that Chuuya hadn’t necessarily wanted Kirishima on his team, though. Perhaps the slump of his shoulders and the gritted teeth. The hat f*cker was too empathetic for his own good.

“I was going to choose you next,” Bakugou grumbled. And yes, it was slightly a lie, but it seemed to placate Kirishima well enough.

“Why did you choose Dazai of all people? He can’t use one arm, which is pretty detrimental. Also, he’s just the worst.”

That had been Chuuya, voice inquisitive. The following ‘hey’ from Dazai was largely ignored.

Bakugou shrugged. “The f*cker knows how to get under your skin.”

“Now that I do.”

Chuuya huffed, spinning away from them.

Taking that as a sign to continue, Bakugou solidified his next choice.

“Nerd.”

Silence.

“What?”

The Nerd was a lot of things, and athletic was definitely one of them. Plus, how cool would it be to see the ball get f*cking punched right across the court?

(And no, absolutely no part of him whispered to take this chance. Share a common goal, a common desire with Midoriya once more. Like they had when they were young. No part of him at all looked at his childhood friend and remembered).

“I meant you, Deku, so get your arse over here or I’ll leave you to that pack of rabid hedgehogs and then pulverise you.”

That got him moving.

“Y-yes! Yes sir. I mean-”

“Kinky,” Dazai said from beside him.

Chuuya chose Uraraka after that. Some sh*t about getting the ball so high in the air that he wouldn’t get a touch on it. Nothing important. They high-fived as she approached; the start of a terrible friendship, he was sure.

The metaphorical ball was tossed back to him, and he caught it contemplatively.

Two more places on his team. If he really wanted the strongest five, then there was only one person for the job.

“Icy hot, you’re up.”

Todoroki, who had been silent up until then, murmured an affirmation and jogged over to Bakugou’s side. The nerd seemed happy about it, at least, and was welcoming him in.

Bakugou hadn’t chosen Todoroki for the basketball skills that he may or may not have possessed, but mainly for the guy’s raw power. Few things were more effective than just setting everything on fire.

“Tokoyami-kun for me then, please.”

Tokoyami seemed enthused by this, raising his head as if he had been first choice and not picked almost last.

“I will certainly defend your honour, Nakahara-san.”

He looked somewhat doubtful when he replied, “uhh yeah sure.”

Only two people were left remaining after that (minus Iida, who was planning to act as the official). They both looked a little upset about being picked last, but as were the highs and lows of high school basketball, Bakugou supposed.

One was Tsuyu, her hair pulled up into a high ponytail. The other was Ojiro and his lame-ass tail.

Really, Bakugo didn’t think that either would be much use. He picked semi randomly.

“Guess I’ll take tail on as a charity case.”

Chuuya released a breath.

“Thank f*ck I get Asui-san.”

Tail looked upset.

“Enough of that,” Iida yelled from the side, chopping his hands about as if swatting a fly. “Everyone on the court.”

—

During

P erhaps unfaithfully to his Mafia roots, Nakahara Chuuya was someone who didn’t like to lie.

That was why Chuuya had exchanged the real combat that part of him had been craving for a game of basketball. When Bakugou had told him to go all out, when he had vowed to, he had meant every word. But if he were to truly go all out in a fight- well, it could be fatal. For both of them. So offering up a solution in which they could compete all out without any casualties was the closest he could get to keeping his promise.

Bakugou did not seem equally impressed by his creative thinking as all ten players stood on the court. At one side, Iida was fumbling with his shiny red whistle in an attempt to begin the game.

Chuuya was pleased to see that, at least, the others seemed to be taking the match seriously. They were crouched low, eyes trained on where the toss up would take place in the centre.

Speaking of the centre, Chuuya watched the two players circling each other there. Deciding the positions had been a whole ordeal, unsurprisingly.

In the end, they had managed to divide up the roles based on decidedly irrelevant observations. Chuuya had forgotten- in all his excitement to play quirk basketball- that he didn’t actually know very much about quirk basketball.

Playing centre, they had ended up with Ojiro ‘this tail isn’t completely useless, I swear’ Mashirao versus Asui ‘I played basketball in middle school’ Tsuyu.

Designated power forwards were Midoriya ‘I will become number one basketball… guy’ Izuku against Tokoyami (not even his mother can read his thoughts from his expression) Fumikage.

In the much sought after shooting guard positions were Todoroki ‘I really hope someone will explain the rules soon’ Shouto and Uraraka ‘I would rather forfeit my life than lose this game’ Ochako.

Dazai ‘literally only have one arm but whatever’ Osamu and Kirishima ‘still to this day thinking of useful aspects to my quirk’ Ejirou were the point guards.

Chuuya locked eyes with the boy standing across from him. Bakugou ‘what the f*ck did I sign up for’ Katsuki had a dangerous air about him. Chuuya got the distinctive feeling that he was more excited about this than he was pretending to be. Chuuya was excited too. Being competitive was a constant curse and blessing. (And his chances were looking good- in terms of playing the small forward, he had a height advantage).

“Everyone ready?”

Iida received only nods in reply, all the players tensed and a fierce air permeating the room.

Silence.

Then, swinging his arm back, Iida catapulted the ball into the middle.

“Begin!”

The toss up was laughable at best. A tail and a tongue shot up to capture the ball in its arc. Unfortunately for Ojiro (but perhaps not surprisingly) his tail was simply no match for Tsuyu’s seemingly never ending tongue.

“f*cking hell, Tail!” Bakugou yelled. He wasn’t sure whether he was more annoyed by his teammate losing the ball or the fact that said ball would be slightly… slippery for the rest of the game now that Tsuyu had basically licked it.

“Sorry,” Ojiro replied, attempting to go in for the steal. However, by the time he had reached over, Tsuyu was long gone.

She was performing a complicated series of through-the-leg crossovers, tempo changes and mad sprinting to pass by each of Bakugou’s players in turn. As she reached the hoop she leapt up from the ground, soaring over Todoroki’s huge ice screen to score a perfect slam dunk.

Landing was a graceful affair. Not unlike a dandelion seed spiralling into a patch of grass.

“That was insane!”

Naturally, her teammates were overjoyed. They huddled around her in celebration.

“You’re amazing, Tsu-chan,” Uraraka gushed. “How come you never told us?”

Tsuyu swept a lock of hair away from her eyes, grimacing. Really, her classmates could be so self-absorbed sometimes.

“I did tell you,” she replied. “I played basketball in middle school, kero.”

“You told us that you played basketball in middle school, but you didn’t tell us you like, played basketball in middle school.”

Tsuyu co*cked her head. “I told you that I played basketball in middle school, kero.”

Kirishima waved his hands around, as if explaining something very important. “Yeah, but you didn’t tell us that you played basketball, you know?”

“But I told you that I-”

Meanwhile, the other team were currently soaking in a decidedly downtrodden aura. It had only been a two point play, but the first score of the game tended to have a significant effect on the flow.

“So, are we winning?” Todoroki asked earnestly into a moment of silence.

“No,” Midoriya said quietly. “We are not.”

“And although that may very clearly be a certain someone’s fault,” Dazai began, ignoring Bakugou’s fuming anger directed towards that certain someone, “it’s only two points! We can get that back easily.”

Picking up the ball from where it had landed on the ground, Midoriya rubbed it over his shirt tentatively.

“Dazai-kun is right. Let’s counter, before they have time to prepare themselves.”

Waiting for his teammates to spread out across the court, Midoriya took a deep breath and tossed the ball into the air. Green sparks circling him, he tracked the path of the falling target, as if in slow motion.

The other team scrambled to collect themselves, but it was too late.

“Massachusetts SMASH!”

The ball hurtled across the gym, trailing wisps of steam behind it.

It barely dropped an iota of speed as it flew, but Bakugou wasn’t intimidated. Grinding his heel into the floor, he leant into the spinning arc of the oncoming ball. Although it pushed him back a couple of steps, he managed to catch it.

With a characteristic yell and blasts of fire propelling him far over any defenders’ heads, he dunked the ball into the hoop as well. Levelling Tsuyu play for play.

“f*ck yeah!”

The grin on his face was only slightly infused with righteous fury, and only slightly aimed in Midoriya’s direction, but he took it as a win anyway. There was no time for celebration, though.

Dark Shadow was darting to scoop up the ball even as it dropped through the net. He delivered a quick bounce pass to Uraraka, who sent the ball floating into the air.

“Well now f*cking what,” Bakugou groaned as it leisurely meandered towards their hoop.

Before faltering in the air. And then crashing to the ground like a stone.

“Nice try,” Dazai smiled, uninjured hand clasping Uraraka’s outstretched wrist.

There were a couple more fast breaks from there, with Tsuyu showing off her impeccable gameplay and everyone else showing off their decidedly less impeccable gameplay. Ojiro didn’t show off sh*t.

“First quarter is over,” Iida yelled with a shrill toot of his whistle to punctuate.

Both teams trotted off court, eyeing the score board on their way past. It currently displayed Chuuya’s 18 to Bakugou’s 15. There was still everything to play for.

“Well,” Kirishima sighed, dropping onto a bench behind him. “Highlight of the game for me was when Midoriya-kun punched the ball into the hoop from half a court away.”

It had been a glorious moment. Midoriya pulverising the ball like it was his worst enemy with a mighty “The Commonwealth of Pennsylvania SMASH!”

“You know he’s on the other team, right?” Chuuya asked, tugging at the fabric of his shorts.

Meanwhile, Midoriya held a thoroughly dented ball to his chest, guiltily.

“I’m losing, all because you f*cking idiots can’t even stop one reptile,” Bakugou yelled, his voice cracking with anger.

“Amphibian,” Midoriya offered.

“What?”

“Frogs are amphibians.”

Thankfully, Iida called for the beginning of the second period before Bakugou could mutilate any of his teammates.

As they walked to the centre, Todoroki spoke quietly from beside Midoriya.

“I think I understand the game now.”

A very bad feeling began to form in Midoriya’s stomach.

The second quarter was similar to the first in that Tsuyu absolutely destroyed Bakugou’s team, but different to the first in that the rest of Chuuya’s team also destroyed them.

Dark Shadow was on a roll, dribbling past defenders at lightning speed before swiftly depositing the ball into the hoop. Uraraka’s ability was an obvious blessing, as was Chuuya’s. (Kirishima was the exception, but as long as they were winning, it didn’t really matter how much he did or didn’t contribute).

One of the main reasons for this total decimation was that Bakugou’s team was- all things considered- terribly selected. Especially for defence. Both Midoriya and Bakugou’s quirks were more offensive than could reasonably be deployed in a sports match. Todoroki’s grip on the rules was too loose to be of much help, and Ojiro was useless by nature. Dazai was- perhaps- their saving grace, but he couldn’t be everywhere at once. Man had a sling, for goodness sake. And a general repulsion towards movement.

It was with one minute left on the clock that the ball found itself grasped in Todoroki’s hands. He looked down at his charge, bright and orange like a flame in his palm. Then at the halfway line below him (he was throwing the ball on from an offside). Determination bubbled up in his gut. He wanted to prove his worth to his team. He was going to turn this game around.

Glancing up, he locked eyes with Dazai for a moment. Something in him reasoned that only he would be able to read Todoroki’s plan.

Then, he moved.

A bounce pass to Dazai gave him time to run into space. Perfect. He received the ball gracefully, Dazai having thrown it right back, as expected.

Lighting his entire left side up with a quietly crackling flame, Todoroki dribbled dutifully down the right side of the court.

None of the others could get near him.

“Todoroki-kun!”

It was Midoriya. The other was cheering for him with all his might, even as the clock showed only twenty seconds remaining. Todoroki absolutely had to make this shot.

Planting his feet just beyond what he had figured was the three point line, he raised his right hand. Smooth and stylish, an icy ramp rose up from the ground. It travelled right into the hoop, and Todoroki flung the ball up it.

“Todoroki-kun, wait!”

Multiple things happened simultaneously. The ball dropped into the hoop with a satisfying whoosh, the buzzer announced the end of the second quarter, and three points were added to the score of… the other team?

“You absolute f*cking-” Bakugou shouted, striding towards him.

An uneasy feeling began to twist in Todoroki’s gut.

“Great job on your three-pointer,” Midoriya said. He was trying for cheerful, but actually sounded rather pained.

“Yeah,” Bakugou growled. “In the wrong f*cking hoop.”

A fifteen minute break later and the third quarter was about to begin. The score sat at 44 to 21. Bakugou sneered as he looked at it. He refused to be defeated so easily.

“Hey Ojiro-kun,” Dazai said, tone airy. “Get the ball to me after toss up, okay?”

The other nodded, looking at him with interest.

Naturally, it took the tailed hero several attempts and some cheating to win the ball, by which time Chuuya’s team had already scored 4 more points. But when his lame tail finally got a touch, he batted it right over to Dazai, as promised.

Silently thanking him, Dazai took off dribbling the ball.

People seemed rather scared to attack him due to his arm, and for once he thanked his previous self-inflicted misfortune. A couple of halfhearted attempts left him still in possession of the ball halfway down the court.

About opposite where Iida was standing with his sharp eyes fixed on the game and his sharper whistle. And about a metre or so from where Chuuya was crouching in a defensive stance, arms spread out. If there was one person who wouldn’t be afraid to attack Dazai while he was down, it was Chuuya.

So Dazai charged forwards, shielding the ball with his cast and dribbling with the other hand. Chuuya lunged for the ball. His fingers were centimetres away when Dazai raised his injured arm protectively, feeling the force of the jab. Which, yeah, f*cking hurt but was also one hundred percent worth it.

“Oww,” Dazai said, with as much enthusiasm as he could muster.

The blow of a whistle cut through the clamour.

“Yellow card for Nakahara-kun.”

“Yellow card? This isn’t football that’s not how it works,” he spluttered, angrily.

“Another yellow card for questioning the ref,” Iida declared, noting the violations on his clipboard.

“It’s kind of like 1984-style dictatorship,” Uraraka mused from beside him, to which Dazai nodded.

The thing about Chuuya is that he was a righteous and predictable soul. It was easy enough to turn 2 fouls into 5, and he was fouled out of the game. Muttering and steaming all the way as Dazai accepted an enthusiastic myriad of high-fives.

They used the final 4 minutes of the quarter about as successfully as Dazai had hoped for. With the other team one player down (said player was slumped on their bench, head in his hands), they clearly dominated.

So much so that as the buzzer signalled the end of the third quarter, the scores had begun to even out. 48 to 37.

Even with the still entirely too noticeable gap in the points, the atmosphere of team Bakugou’s break was alight with excitement. The leader himself appeared especially fired up, explosions crackling menacingly in the palms of his hands.

Midoriya was observing the other team carefully, while Ojiro had draped himself over a bench and was breathing heavily.

“Alright f*ckers,” Bakugou cackled, “let’s end those losers.”

On the other side, it was a study in opposites.

Tsuyu was bouncing a ball at the side as the rest of her teammates quietly brooded.

“Don’t you guys know we’re still winning, kero?”

Uraraka smiled sadly in response. “Yeah, but this feels like the beginning of a downwards spiral.”

Standing up abruptly, Chuuya turned to face his teammates. He kept his head lowered so that no one could see the tears welling up in his eyes.

“I’m so sorry,” he said. “I allowed myself to get duped and deceived, and let you all down.”

He bowed deeply.

“Do not apologise, Nakahara-san,” Tokoyami replied. “It is myself and Dark Shadow who are at fault. As a team of two players, we should have been able to step into your shoes in your time of need.”

He, too, bowed. Then, Kirishima jumped up, having felt left out.

“I’m the one to blame. Bakugou-kun was right- I’m super useless and totally not manly at all. Sorry everyone.”

He also bowed.

Tsuyu sent Uraraka an awkward side eye, but was luckily saved from having to act by the call of the whistle.

“Prepare for the final quarter.”

Chuuya fist bumped each of his teammates as they advanced onto the playing field without him. He could only wish for their safe return.

The final ten minute quarter was absurd. The ball changed hands sacrilegiously, and three-pointers were shot from further and further out as the game progressed. Midoriya’s ‘State of Rhode Island and Providence Plantations SMASH!’ being at the forefront of this development.

However, with every step forwards made by Chuuya’s team, it seemed to be three for Bakugou’s.

As bright, red lines spelled 00:50 on the clock, the scores were neck and neck. Chuuya’s 63 to Bakugou’s 62.

Both teams were approaching the centre after an offside. This final play would decide the result of the entire match. Chuuya watched on, trembling in fear.

It started off with Tsuyu snatching the ball out of the air. She made a mad dash towards the hoop, but just as she jumped to score, she noticed an absence of the ball. Whipping around, she saw that Midoriya had tipped it out of her hands, and passed it on to Bakugou.

“Nice one,” Bakugou yelled, dribbling with explosions speeding him along.

Uraraka met him in the middle, arms outstretched. As Bakugou dived around her, he rammed right into a waiting Dark Shadow. Tutting happily (not unlike a horse), Dark Shadow sent the ball flying back to his partner.

Tokoyami had his hands out to receive it, but a figure blocked his path. Dazai. It had been clear who Dark Shadow would send the ball to amongst the frenzy, and Dazai had intercepted with ease.

20 seconds left. Dazai surveyed the area: Midoriya and Todoroki were being tightly marked. Ojiro wasn’t, but there was a reason for that. He sent a long pass back to Bakugou, who had run past Uraraka.

“Everyone stay on your marks,” Tsuyu shouted desperately, even as Bakugou broke into the enemy’s half. A feral smile was curling at his lips.

He looked towards the hoop before him, beginning to slow his pace for the shot. It was like a beacon of light, or a treasure trove of gold in the darkness. Truly, this final shot would be one to remember.

10 seconds left and Bakugou felt his right shin connect with something hard.

9, 8, and he flailed in the air, angling his head down to see what had happened.

On 7 he lost his balance completely, falling to the ground hard. Except, that wasn’t the ground. 6, 5. The thing below him was less like the flat, even surface that he had expected and more like a mound.

On 4, he figured out exactly what that mound was. Or should he say, ‘who’.

Spiky, red hair. Solid skin. An evil, toothy smile.

It was Kirishima.

Curled on the ground like a rock. A particularly f*cking annoying rock.

The buzzer went and the ball rolled weakly out of Bakugou’s grasp. He couldn’t believe it. They’d lost.

It was silent for a few moments before a noise permeated.

“Kirishima-kun, that was…”

“f*ckING AWESOME!”

His team gathered around him, cheering and celebrating.

“MVP is Kirishima-kun,” Midoriya laughed. Sure he had been on the other team, but he liked a celebration as much as the next guy.

Bakugou remained rolling on the ground. In humiliation? Maybe. Perhaps he was just bathing in the irony. Everyone was too scared to ask.

Standing a few metres away were Tsuyu and Ojiro. The former just looked tired, shaking her head.

“You know, you weren’t bad at all, Ojiro-kun, kero.”

Ojiro smiled with tight lips.

“Thanks. I played basketball in middle school.” He paused, correcting himself. “Well, I didn’t play basketball, like you did. I just played basketball.”

Tsuyu thought it was high time she returned to the swamp and never talked to these stupid f*ckers again.

—

After

M emorial Park looked gorgeous in the evening. Like another world entirely.

They walked along the winding path side by side. Leisurely in a way that was unusual for a pair of mafiosos. Maybe, having not truly and deeply appreciated his surroundings for so long (not since Yokohama), it all tasted a little sweeter now. Chuuya let the cool, crisp air fill his lungs.

Dazai was beside him, good arm brushing lightly against his own. The swing of his step was steady, like a heartbeat, and Chuuya felt himself melding to fit the rhythm involuntarily. That was why the minute catch in Dazai’s pace was painfully noticeable to him.

“Dazai?”

The aforementioned was squinting at a spot a little way in the distance. When Chuuya followed his gaze, he knew immediately what Dazai was focused on.

“Look, Chuuya,” he began, pointing to where movement could be seen in one corner of the park. “Mr. Watanabe is packing up for the day. Let’s go and say hi.”

Before Chuuya could really register the suggestion, Dazai was surging forwards. The buckled tail of his black coat flew out behind him, rippling on the wind. Locks of wavy brown accompanied it, and Chuuya took a moment to capture the image in his mind. Dazai’s form, blanketed in darkness, against the soft, faded hues of the park made for a delightful contrast.

He was, briefly, so tranfixed by the scene that he barely noticed a light, almost tingling sensation ghost across his palm. Then, make its presence known more firmly. (A blue shimmer surrounded him for a few moments, familiar and safe in that delicate way of its). And suddenly, he was being tugged along the uneven path, a hand encasing his own.

Practically stumbling over himself at the abrupt acceleration, Chuuya let Dazai guide him down towards the old, pine stall.

He couldn’t help but smile, a little.

As unexpectedly as he had grabbed Chuuya’s hand, Dazai released it. (Chuuya tried not to look like- well- like anything much at all).

They had clearly missed Mr. Watanabe’s departure from his stand. A part of Chuuya was disappointed that there was nothing for them to be running to anymore.

“You didn’t drop my hand.”

Chuuya co*cked his head.

“What?”

Standing opposite him, lips pulled into a pout that was more inquisitive than anything else, Dazai stared at him. The gleam in his eye was shining brightly.

“You didn’t drop my hand,” he repeated. “That’s statistically abnormal, you know.”

“Statistically ab-” Chuuya cut himself off, shaking his head. “You’re statistically abnormal. What the hell?”

Laughing, Dazai danced down the path, Chuuya following with a grimace.

“Most people don’t like to touch me. Because of my quirk.”

He shrugged.

Chuuya could see why that might be the case. Quirk nullification abilities were rare, meaning that people were entirely used to having full control over their own ability all the time. It was like a safety blanket of sorts. To have that blanket ripped away from you was unnerving, even for mere seconds at a time.

It wasn’t the same for Chuuya though- not even close. Dazai’s power was more like this ‘safety blanket’ than his own had ever been. When Arahabaki clawed its way into his head, it was No Longer Human that fought the God off.

Newton’s Third Law states that every action must have an equal and opposite reaction. Well, if Chuuya himself was the force of gravity, a beast dwelling inside of him, then Dazai was surely his counterpart. One who could erase his misdeeds with a single touch. As a pair, they were the most natural thing in the world. It didn’t always feel like it, but it was undoubtedly true.

Chuuya felt his lips twist.

Lifting his hand- suddenly cold- from where he had let it fall between them, he made his move. Darted out to catch his partner’s fingers with his own. Held on firmly, even as Dazai made a noise of surprise.

“Literally the only thing I like about you is your quirk.”

Dazai let out a kind of snort. With no warning, he harshly tugged Chuuya towards him. The latter stumbled slightly, catching himself with a couple of steps forwards.

“Hey!”

Chuuya’s angry yelling was, as usual, largely ignored.

“Chuuya! You should have just said that you were deeply in love with me.”

Spluttering, Chuuya tried to pull his hand away, but Dazai trapped it with more strength than he looked like he possessed. The almost mocking smile on his face was unwavering the entire time.

“You started this, asshole.”

Dazai tutted, to Chuuya’s ever increasing annoyance.

“It takes two to tango.”

They walked like that all the way home. (Begrudgingly. Very begrudgingly).

Chapter 13: Introduction to Work Studies

Chapter Text

Dazai Osamu and the Name Game

N ames are funny things. They’re assigned far too much value, and chosen with far too much consideration. But even for those who understand these simple facts, they are deliberated over and examined intensely before use.

Dazai Osamu was a perfect example.

He was, undoubtedly, someone who saw more clearly than others. Whose foresight could cut through the haze and force its way to the truth behind a matter. Choosing a name should have been a split second decision. A name- don’t forget- that would be entirely irrelevant to his life in mere months anyway. A hero name.

So why exactly his marker was hovering over his board, not a trace of ink marring the white, was a mystery to him.

The day had been strange since the beginning.

Stumbling into the kitchen, half-dressed, and ramming into the counter were his first delirious moments. Chuuya had been staring at his phone, already immaculately uniformed, as he filled his glass with orange juice. And then overfilled it. The liquid seeped down the sides, creating a stark copper puddle against the black surface below.

“Orange juice is pretty gross, but that seems like an extreme reaction,” Dazai had yawned on his way to the fridge (he was getting the apple juice). He didn’t turn back as Chuuya yelped, dropping his phone in an attempt to mop up the spilled overflow.

“f*cking concentrated juice,” Chuuya mumbled as he fumbled around with kitchen towel.

Chancing a glance down, Dazai caught sight of his partner’s phone, still face up on the ground. He watched images flash rapidly across Chuuya’s screen, a sense of detached interest enveloping him. The other was viewing the morning news broadcast; it currently showed a conference held by a prideful man- one who was all too aware of his own importance. Beside him was the number three hero, Hawks, lounging with his boots kicked up onto the table and wings stretched out in their full glory.

The snippets of audio he heard before Chuuya abruptly dropped to the ground, tugging the phone into his chest, were all he needed.

It had been the head of the Hero Commission. Outlining their plan to deal with the Hero Killer to the public for the first time. They had decided to put Hawks on the case.

Dazai spared a glance at his friend. Chuuya’s head was down, forcefully wiping up the spilled liquid, grasping his phone tightly in his other hand. There was clearly something there. A problem to be addressed. But there were also too many currently unknown variables for Dazai to do so. Or at least that’s what he decided, turning back to the interior of the fridge with a sigh.

What? Why? How? Should he care or not? And, depending on the answer to that question, should he pretend to care or not?

Chuuya pretended to be fine all morning and Dazai let him.

Then there was the text from Mori that had pinged into his mailbox just before they left the apartment. Nothing too groundbreaking, but annoying by nature.

Post Sports Festival adrenaline had been beginning to wear off at school, with students starting to look more and more to the future. A future, they said with palpable anticipation, that would contain their first bout of the famous UA work study programme.

It was a system that Nedzu had devised in order to get the annoying first years out of his hands long enough to drink a relaxing cup of tea. Although he would never admit it.

The work study programme actually described a one week internship that each first year student would undergo with a hero and their agency. Heroes used the Sports Festival to judge the strength of the candidates, and then made offers to a maximum of two pupils.

When Aizawa had initially entered the classroom, bandages off and limp largely hidden, the buzz had begun. A low, quiet but unmistakable kind of radiance. The combination of their teacher’s speedy recovery and the wonderful new opportunity being presented to them was its source.

Aizawa must have felt the underlying current too, because he immediately put an end to it.

Picking up a blunted piece of chalk, he pounded it against the board behind him.

Everyone hurried to their seats immediately.

“This morning, first period will be hero informatics.”

A collective groan sounded through the classroom. Their informatics course had been hardcore to say the least. Even Dazai would happily admit that words like ‘dissemination’ and ‘info-metrics’ were rapidly losing all meaning. If there was a test, he may be forced to simply end it all. Maybe he could even convince Chuuya to join him.

“You will be taking a huge leap into the world of heroics.” He let out a tired sigh. “Picking code names.”

And the class, unsurprisingly, erupted. Dazai had to hand it to them: it was pretty exciting. Of course he himself had no interest in such activities, but to a class of hero wannabes, this was one of the first steps to professional heroism. Choosing a name by which you’d be known- possibly for the rest of your life. Choosing an epicentre to build your image around. It was kind of important. Probably too important for a bunch of frankly maniacal teenagers, but it was happening nonetheless.

Earlier, Midoriya and Iida had been telling him about being recognised on their routes to school that morning. Members of the public congratulating them for a Sports Festival well done. (Naturally, Dazai had sleuthed his way to UA beside Chuuya, who soaked up all the attention like a sponge). Rather than entering the public eye as a group, like they had following the USJ, they were now being showcased as individuals. And like the group proclaimed the title of ‘1A’, the individuals also required some user friendly labels.

“Because,” Aizawa emphasised, raising his voice over the general cacophony. “As you all know, the work study programme will be starting very soon. And during this experience, you will be referred to as the alias that you choose today.”

‘So don’t pick a stupid one’ was left unsaid.

The class quietened again as Aizawa pressed a key on his computer, and a chart flashed up on the board behind him.

“Here we have the distribution of offers for each student. I’ve taken the liberty of including those from other classes as well.”

Dazai squinted his eyes, staring at the screen. The majority of his class had been silenced. The distribution was, after all, shockingly one sided.

Chuuya and Todoroki had decimated their classmates, each receiving thousands of offers. Many of the others had received hundreds, with Uraraka, Atsushi and interestingly, Shinsou at the top.

“Damn. That’s quite the gap,” Kaminari mumbled.

“Right? Although it’s not too crazy that Nakahara-kun and Todoroki-kun would be in the lead,” Jirou replied to murmurs of agreement.

“Congratulations, you two,” Yaoyorozu said, genuinely. Even after the defeat she had faced, she remained the picture of a perfect vice class rep.

“I can’t believe that purple extra beat me,” Bakugou seethed.

Scanning further down the list, Dazai found his name in the group second from the bottom. Which was only slightly a hit to his self esteem. He had obtained exactly one offer. And he already knew exactly who that offer had been extended by.

Below him were mainly those who had been knocked out in the Cavalry Battle (except Bakugou, who had managed to pull a few invitations through the obstacle race). The biggest shocker was the student in dead last.

“Sorry, but why didn’t Midoriya-kun receive a single offer?” Uraraka asked, perplexed. “He was amazing in the obstacle race, and fought valiantly in the final round too.”

“Thanks, Uraraka-san,” Midoriya began, sheepishly, “but I understand their hesitancy. I went kind of over the top during my match with Todoroki-kun.”

“‘Over the top’ is certainly one way to put it,” Tsuyu grumbled.

“Not many people want to fight with a suicidal partner.” That had been Chuuya, and it felt very targeted.

Aizawa leant back against the board, lazily. “Whether or not these conjectures are true, this is the final selection, like it or not. Even those of you without any offers will be completing the work study week with an agency. Those of you with some will be given a list of agencies to choose from.”

It was at that moment that three knocks could be heard from outside class 1A. As twenty odd heads turned towards the noise, the door slid open, revealing a figure adorned in familiar leather.

“Morning, kids.”

Midnight strolled into the classroom, throwing a lazy salute to Aizawa. The nation’s most popular PG-13 hero approached the front desk with characteristic ease. She was there, she explained, to make the final judgement on all names. And really drive in the importance of code names to the class; the alias by which both other heroes and the public would call them throughout their careers. So yeah. No pressure or anything.

And that was the sequence of events that led Dazai Osamu to his current dilemma.

For some reason, imagining fitting hero names had never really struck him before as an exercise. He supposed the combination of his experiences in Yokohama along with his less than normal upbringing and the general assumption that he’d die before having to deal with situations he wasn’t already equipped to deal with had kept him from ever seriously considering a super-persona.

Maybe Bandage Man. Bandage Boy? No, that would make him the nation’s second most popular PG-13 hero. Back to the literal drawing board.

Dazai considered himself a relatively creative guy, so his excruciating inability to come up with a half-decent, tolerable hero name was distressing. He decided to go and do something he was better at instead.

“Chuuya,” he called to a familiar head of hair amongst the chatter of his classmates, “please tell me you’re choosing ‘shrimp’.”

Huffing, Chuuya flipped his board to show a canvas just as blank as Dazai’s own. He supposed that their Yokohama roots were showing.

“I’d rather die.”

Having chanced a look over at them, it was Kirishima who commented on their shared issue first. He looked utterly and completely stumped by their failure, eyebrows pulling together in a deep V-shape. His voice carried across the classroom.

“Haven’t you guys ever thought about it? Like, imagining my life as a hero was pretty much the first thing I did when I got my UA acceptance letter.”