Chapter Text
It’s coming down hard in a back alley in a nondescript part of Tokyo you know you shouldn’t frequent but do. There’s a family-owned convenience store at the mouth of the alleyway. It’s your destination. The room in the back is where you exchange information with other vigilantes and the occasional underground hero who knows how to keep their mouth shut.
The entrance to the store is unassuming, a typical small storefront. Inside is much the same; a few aisles of cheap convenience goods. Instant noodles, discount bags of rice, matcha sweets.
The woman who runs the front of the store, Saeko, waves at you as you enter. She stands behind the counter with a genuine smile, tucking a lock of brown hair behind one ear. She’s chipper in a way you, at first, thought was meant to help cover up the deals that are made in the back. But you’ve come to learn that’s really just how Saeko is—a little bit happier than the rest of you.
You wave back with a small smile of your own, though you’re not sure how visible the slight pull of your lips is from under your mask. Saeko always seems to know you mean well, though.
You slip wordlessly through the back door, not sparing a glance at the looming presence beside you as you enter. You don’t know his name, but the same man has stood guard by the door for at least as long as you’ve been coming here to broker information. You assume he’s supposed to stop anybody he doesn’t recognise, but you’ve never actually seen that happen.
Most of the time, you come by to get a tip for a new job. A new small-time criminal startup to dismantle, or some villain too strong or cunning to be caught by police, but not villain enough for heroes. Anything along those lines.
This time, though, you’re looking for information on an underground hero.
Brokering information on heroes is uncommon in this circle. You’re an establishment of criminals, and it’s your shared capacity for moral ambiguity that keeps you all silent. But most of you are vigilantes with some sense of justice, however fractured. Providing or searching for information on heroes is, in general, frowned upon.
Unless you have the attention of one. And you, throughout the course of the last week, have been tailed by a hero.
You know a few things about your pursuer. He’s male. He tails you from eleven at night until you inevitably give him the runaround and shake him sometime after three. He has to know you’re aware of him, to some degree, given the tentative routine you’ve both established.
He hasn’t approached, but you know from his general manner that he isn’t criminal. You know criminal life, and you know its unprofessional, scrappy way of being. He’s well trained in flying under the radar, but you know heroism, too, and you see it in him.
Still, you’re pretty sure he’s underground—he doesn’t reek of the trademark supercilious pride of the rest of them. He’s treating you with some degree of respect, a shred of humanity not afforded to people like you by most heroes.
He also wears a white scarf. It’s the strangest thing. Sure, it’s dull, and from the distant, sneaky glances you’ve caught of him, it seems to be dirty, greying. But really, a white scarf? It sticks out like a sore thumb against the rest of his all-black ensemble. Especially in the dead of night, when he’s caught by the beacon of an errant streetlight. You can’t decide if it’s clumsy, a break from the rest of his expert conduct, or just straight-up arrogant.
You need to know who he is, and why he’s tailing you.
The back room of the convenience store is meant to look like a semi-legal gambling space. Not so suspicious as to draw attention, but downtrodden enough to warrant the company it keeps.
There’s a round table in the centre of the room, with that tacky green felt they use for card tables. Parts of it have been marred by stains or nicked by knives. The ever-buzzing overhead light above the table is the sole light source, which leaves the small private bar to the side of the room cast in shadow.
There are a few small fold-out tables along the opposite wall. Places for ‘private’ conversation, with old wooden chairs pulled up. A dartboard on one wall. An old-timey record player in the corner that always plays classical music.
Every pair of eyes turns to watch you when you enter. You make a show of removing your phone from your pocket and holding it up before setting it down on a side table beside the record player. There are several other phones scattered there. It’s the agreement. Any devices that could potentially be used to record are put on that table. The cost of entry.
You slide onto a stool at the bar.
‘Juro,’ you nod at the bartender. It’s a fake name, almost certainly. You all use them here, in some form. Yours comes in the form of your vigilante name, which Juro turns to address you by, in short.
‘Sine.’
Sine Nomine. The only people who don’t regularly use this name for you these days are the mother and son duo who live a few doors down from you at the apartment building you call home.
Juro is a muscular man, tall and dark, from his skin to his clothes; shaved bare head and deep brown eyes. His expression is not unkind, but it is measured as he gives you a once-over.
He likely already has some idea of why you’re here. If you wanted to exchange information about the criminal network, or something more illegal, you’d go to the card table. Information exchange is conducted through lightly coded games of poker, with more than a little room for misinterpretation.
You only come to Juro if you want information on a hero. Suffice to say, the back room’s patrons don’t usually make use of the bar stools.
‘Price?’ you murmur, pulling your wallet from inside your jacket.
‘A drink.’ His voice is deep, gruff. He places a glass in front of you.
It’s the standard response. Another subtle code. You place three-thousand yen on the counter.
As he takes it and stashes it behind the bar, you sniff the glass. You set it down and frown at him. Maybe it’s petulant, but really? Sure, you’re not actually paying for the drink, but three-thousand yen for a glass of water?
He huffs a single-syllable laugh at your glare. ‘You’re what, thirteen? I don’t serve minors.’
‘Seventeen,’ you grumble, refusing to look at him as you take a swig from the glass. Another frown. You’re pretty sure it’s straight from the tap, too. Cheapskate.
But you’re not here for stale water.
‘Underground,’ you start. ‘He’s been tailing me for a week now, from just before midnight until I shake him around three. He’s careful, but he knows I’m aware of him. It’s deliberate.’ You try not to let on that it bothers you, the game your tail seems to be playing. ‘He wears a white scarf.’
Juro raises a single eyebrow at you. For a moment, he’s silent, and then: ‘Just how did you attract the attention of Eraserhead?’
You frown. Even in your generally broad knowledge of the underground, it’s not a name you’ve heard.
Juro sighs, as if doing his job is the most taxing thing ever. ‘He’s underground, you’re right about that. He’s also a teacher at Yuuei.’
Your frown persists. ‘His usual work?’
‘Bigger time than some petty teenage vigilante.’
You match his little smirk with a glare. ‘I’m not petty.’
Another raised eyebrow. ‘We’re all petty around here, kid. You’re not in the big leagues. Which is why I don’t know why Eraserhead would be interested in you.’ Juro sighs again, shaking his head as he dries a glass that almost definitely doesn’t need drying. ‘If you keep your head down for long enough, he’ll probably leave you be. Someone might’ve put him onto you, mentioned your name, but from what I’ve heard, he generally ignores vigilantism as long as it doesn’t get out of hand.’
Nothing surprising there. Most underground heroes know it’s in their favour to respect those who are, generally speaking, fighting the same fight as them, whatever the difference in means. Your trade is as good a source of information as any if they know how to toe the line.
‘His Quirk?’
‘Quirk erasure,’ Juro says, a small twitch to the rightmost corner of his lips as he stares down at the unnecessary drying job he’s performing. ‘Shouldn’t matter to you, since word has it you don’t rely on yours,’ he pauses, and you stare down his sly attempt at getting information out of you. You’re enigmatic for a reason.
Juro sighs. ‘Well, he erases people’s Quirks. Not sure how he does it. He’s skilled underground. Manages to keep the details under wraps—speaking of which, it’s not a scarf. It’s a capture weapon. Not sure what it’s made of, but he’s skilled with it.’
You’re mildly impressed with yourself for managing to maintain a poker face through his poor excuse for a pun. ‘Anything else?’
He shakes his head. ‘Like I said, he’s skilled. Knows how to keep a tight leash on information about him. He’s probably aware of exactly how much you might know, if I had to guess.’
‘You think he deliberately leaked his information to the trade?’
Juro shakes his head, dismissive but not a denial. ‘He’s got contacts. I don’t know who, but they’re tight, and I’d be willing to bet he knows exactly what information’s in circulation.’
You nod and down the rest of your water before sliding from the stool.
‘Be careful, Sine.’ You pause and look up at Juro. He’s staring down at you with the slightest furrow in his brow. Worry?
He slides the yen back over to you, not looking away from your face, or what little he can see of it. ‘He’s big-time underground. Least that’s the rumour. If he really is interested in you, or if he gets interested, you’re fucked.’
Strong words from Juro. He’s not the most cautious of men, at least in terms of this particular circle. You’re all overtly cautious to some degree.
You stare at the money for a long moment before taking it. You’ve always suspected Juro of having a soft spot for the younger of the back room’s patrons. If it were anyone else, you’d probably have left it. Not a good idea to be owing favours to anyone in this business. But your gut tells you Juro isn’t the type to keep score. You’ve never seen any evidence to the contrary.
‘Thanks for the vote of confidence,’ you drawl. But after you’ve retrieved your phone, you hesitate at the door, meeting his eyes once more. After a long moment, you settle on a quick nod. Gratitude? False confidence? He can interpret it however he likes.
You decide to put your tail—Eraserhead—to the test. So far, you haven’t done anything especially deserving of the label vigilantism, certainly nothing illegal, throughout the week of his tail. You’ve patrolled, an idle routine, but you’re between jobs, waiting for the next opportunity to present itself, as they’re wont to do.
Of course, as soon as you noticed him, you changed your day-to-day activities to a pre-planned, fake routine you’d mapped ahead of time in case of something like this. It would still look like you knew what you were doing, but he’d know less about you. Better.
So, if you do get up to some vigilante shenanigans, what will Eraserhead do? Will he step in, or will he continue as he has up until now, a silent observer?
You know how to make a situation present itself if you have to. You know the hot-spots, the locations where certain criminal situations or individuals are more frequent, more prone to a little sly engineering.
You’ve been chasing this lot around for the last three months. There’d been a rumour, the faintest whisper of the potential to rid people temporarily of their Quirks. Call it a carry-over from your adoptive father, but you struggle not to take those rumours personally. Anything to do with the abuse of a person’s Quirk and you’re all riled up. And being between jobs, well, it was as good a scent as any. So you’d followed it.
It was hard to find much, at first. But you had a moniker. Overhaul. And you knew a location where several members of his group had shown themselves. The Shie Hassaikai, the Yakuza organisation causing the very early gossamer whispers of Quirk abuse. It gave you a bad feeling back then, and it still does now.
So you deviate from your routine that night, when you’re sure he’s following you. Eraserhead. This will be your test for him.
You are a shadow. Everything about you is black, the way you like it while you’re on the job. Your hair, beneath your hood, is dyed darker with cheap box dye you reapply every couple of weeks. Deep, near-black contacts cover your natural eye colour. You wear all-black clothing, form-fitting to suit the hand-to-hand combat you favour. In a pinch, though, you’re keenly accurate with the two throwing knives hidden beneath your clothes. They’re far from the only knives you have concealed.
Combat boots protect your feet from puddles as you march your way through back streets and alleyways towards your destination. The rain won’t let up. It’s the kind of thunderous downpour that drowns out sound just as well as it drenches clothes.
You don’t try to stay especially quiet. You can, for the most part, be silent if needed, but right now you are Sine, and Sine doesn’t mind drawing the occasional glance.
Your eyes wander, appraising, over every other person dotting the streets as you come nearer to territory you’d expect to house an ambush. Fewer and fewer people are on the streets at this time of night, especially in neighbourhoods like these, where the Shie Hassaikai have taken root. They know of you, you’re sure of it, and they know you’re interested in them. You’ve gotten into a few skirmishes with their main body of lower fighters. So far, none of them have put up a decent fight. You’ve left at least six of them indisposed awaiting arrest thanks to anonymous tips made from payphones.
You don’t venture carelessly into territory you know they consider theirs. Whether or not their actual base of operations is nearby, you have no clue, but an over-abundance of caution has never prompted a criminal syndicate to reveal its secrets to you before. Why would they start now?
And, well. You have a pro hero to test.
A small shuffle cuts through the torrential rain. You stop just before the mouth of an alley, cutting all sound. You keep your breathing light and slow, listening.
Footsteps. They’re quiet beneath the rain, but whoever they belong to isn’t doing a good enough job of keeping quiet—at least not good enough to surprise you. You let a knife slip from its holster on your wrist into your waiting hand.
As you step very quickly and very quietly behind a dumpster to wait, you glance at the dark glass of a windowed back door in the alleyway. You can just barely see the silhouette of Eraserhead on a rooftop high above in its reflection.
The footsteps are closer now, and they turn off the street and into the alley. Three paces, and you’ll pounce.
You tense, bending your knees ready to spring. Two paces.
A soft, slow breath. One pace. You lunge, swinging your knife to face your would-be attacker and reaching for their arm, ready to disarm them as you strike.
A screech halts you. It’s mangled by the rain, but desperately afraid. Something in your chest plummets, twists, bends all out of shape. You look down.
It’s a girl. You blink. That off-putting, foreign feeling, strangling you from the inside out, intensifies as your mind tries to make sense of the moment.
This girl, this child, falls to the ground in front of you. She’s tiny. She can’t possibly get more soaked in her loose, plain gown, even when she lands in a small puddle. She’s drenched through and has her hands raised over her head, cowering from you. Her eyes are clamped shut. She’s shaking. You’re not sure if it’s from fear or the cold. Probably both.
Her raised arms display a litany of scars that make your stomach flip over itself. Her legs are bandaged. It doesn’t take much to imagine that similar wounds are no doubt hidden beneath. A tiny horn peeks out on the top of her head, just before her hairline. Her hair, doused deeper by the rain, is a saturated silver-grey.
When you don’t strike her, her eyes peek open. Vivid, vermilion red stares up at you.
You watch each other for what feels like an eternity. Then you lower your knife, slowly, so you don’t scare her. You want to ask her what her name is.
That’s when the rest of them reach the alleyway.
Five of them. Two far more important-looking than the rest. You don’t know the identities of the higher-ups of the Shie Hassaikai, other than the moniker Overhaul, but you know their trademarks, and you know what some of them look like.
They are definitely members of the Shie Hassaikai. And you didn’t hear them coming. You let yourself get distracted.
And if they’re here…
You glance back down at the girl. Bandaged and sopping wet and staring up at you in terror. Red eyes look back towards the mouth of the alleyway and her lips shake as she lets out a despairing whimper. She’s pale with cold and fear.
Your heart shreds itself to pieces where you stand. You want to reach for her and it takes everything in you to keep your hands at your sides. You wish she was warm. And safe.
You’d wished you were warm and safe too, back then—but you extinguish the thought. It has no place here. Has no place anywhere.
You step closer to her, until your calf is touching hers where she sits, quivering on the asphalt. You keep your eyes trained on the five who, rather than giving chase as they had before, continue to meander, almost leisurely, into the alleyway.
The one with the full-face plague mask speaks first. His voice is ever-so-slightly muffled and it’s dull, nonchalant. ‘Sine Nomine,’ he says. You just barely manage to tamp down on the shiver that runs up your spine.
You incline your head slightly, feigning a confidence you’d usually have in droves. Confidence you lost to the tiny girl at your feet. ‘Lackey,’ you greet, complete with a mocking, deferential nod.
If he’s offended, he doesn’t show it. ‘That’s Overhaul’s,’ he states, gesturing to the girl.
You do your best not to openly bristle.
‘She’s a child,’ you say, raising your voice over the steady thrum of the rain. ‘I wasn’t aware children could be property.’
There’s a long pause. You can tell he’s contemplating you. Then, a question. ‘Are you not involved in the underground?’
‘I am,’ you say, ‘but not by choice.’ You clamp your teeth together, a furious cold racing through you all at once.
Truth Quirk. You know it immediately. You would never divulge even that much if it wasn’t. The words felt like your own, the decision to speak them yours, but they were not deliberate. Not in any sense of the word.
The man hums. ‘Tell me, Sine Nomine. What is your na—’
Your throwing knife halts his words as he whips his head to the side. Instead of striking true, the blade cuts into the side of his mask, a crack spreading from its epicentre. Questions, then. His Quirk probably works by asking questions.
You don’t look down at the girl, but you see her like an afterimage of the sun. Water dripping from the seams of an old gown. Muddy bandages. Scars and red eyes. A face of unadulterated terror.
You don’t give yourself time to think. Before the masked man can ask another question, you throw her over your shoulder and run.
She weighs almost nothing. She gasped when you grabbed her, but she’s silent as you dart through alleyways and avoid the busier streets. You can’t afford to be stopped by well-intentioned onlookers, not when you’re doing something this stupid. Because really, it’s beyond a terrible idea. Your Quirk is barely useful for fighting, and if any of them have speed or movement Quirks, you’re fucked. Not to mention you rely on close combat, which is far from ideal when you have somebody to protect and you’re significantly outnumbered.
A pair of tiny hands claw at the fabric of your clothes and you do your best to cast off your doubt. She’s a child. She’s just a child.
You were just a child, and nobody put up a fight for you. You’ll be damned if you don’t put up a fight for her.
You turn sharply around another corner, into another alleyway, not chancing a glance over your shoulder, until—
‘Fuck!’ you exclaim, coming to a stop at a dead-end, facing a looming wall of wet-darkened brick. You hadn’t been paying enough attention or you’d have mentally planned a route rather than aimlessly running. You can already hear them behind you. There’s no time for another plan, and no viable escape route.
Fighting will have to be it.
You set the girl down, gently as you can, and urge her towards the back corner of the alley.
‘I’ll protect you,’ you tell her, hoping your eyes alone, all that she can see, show her your sincerity. Then you glance down at the bandages. At the scars. ‘Are you hurt?’
Her eyes are a marred, gemstone red, staring at you. She shakes her head, hands balled into fists at her sides. You don’t really believe her. There’s no way she’s not hurting. But you don’t have a choice. She’s probably been carrying too much pain for far too long. You have to trust she can hold on just a little while longer.
You turn, drawing a knife for each hand, just as they appear in the mouth of the alleyway. Two of the underlings, and one of Overhaul’s main men. Not the one with the truth Quirk. As it sinks in that it’s three against one instead of five, hope flickers back to life somewhere inside you. You’ve won fights with worse odds, and mask-guy isn’t here to throw you off with his stupid truth Quirk. You don’t know what this other guy is capable of, but there’s a chance, and a chance is all you need.
One of the lesser Yakuza steps forward first, pulling out a knife of his own. You can already read his inexperience from the way he approaches; blustering, heavy footsteps. Overconfidence and a lack of discipline. He’s an easy mark. You’re well trained.
Two quick steps forward and a feint at his left side allows you to slice into his arm, redirecting the instinctual thrust of his blade with ease. He swears. His companion presses forward with a baton. You roll your eyes.
‘You brought a stick to a knife fight,’ you quip. You can’t help yourself. ‘Nice.’
An arrogant swipe with the baton opens him up for a slice to his inner wrist, shallow enough to cause pain without threat of deadly harm. You’ve got a clean track record for not quite killing anyone, and you intend to keep that, heritage be damned.
The guy wails and drops the baton. You kick it to the side, spinning to avoid the oncoming attack from Knife Guy.
You catch one of your knives by the handle between your teeth and grab his arm with your free hand in a fluid movement, yanking him down. It jars his momentum enough for you to swing a kick into the back of his knee. He crumples as you yank his arm behind him with enough force you hear a crack.
He howls.
You leave him kneeling as you turn and block a blow from the retrieved baton with your forearm. You swipe Baton Guy’s feet out from under him with a quick swipe of your leg, curling your fist and punching him square in the jaw. A part of you revels in the dull throb of your knuckles as he goes down. Throwing a punch, a clean punch, not enhanced by any Quirk or weapon, has always felt more satisfying than any other form of fighting could be.
You grab the knife from where it’s still clenched between your teeth.
A peal of laughter comes from the mouth of the alley and you look up at the last man, searching for any visible sign of a Quirk or a weapon. He’s probably somebody of higher standing in the Shie Hassaikai, unless they’ve suddenly started offering their creepy masks to the lower strata.
‘This is taking too long,’ he rolls his eyes, an exaggerated motion, opening his hands and shaking his head. Theatrical. Truly, one of the most irritating traits in a villain. ‘Can’t have Overhaul coming down on my ass for dawdling!’
Your knives are yanked from your hands by an unseen force, one followed by the other, both flying into his waiting hands. You clench your teeth to clamp down on your surprise. What the hell? Telekinesis, or something else? Your mind races as you reach for a third knife, but before you can, something comes down hard on your head and you hit the ground with your full weight.
Stupid, stupid, stupid! You’d been taken in for a second too long, startled by his Quirk. You’re smarter than that!
You jump back to your feet a moment later, fighting dizziness from the blow. You’re just in time to parry a second swing from Baton Guy. This fucking baton! You cut a flat hand into the man’s neck, blocking his airway before grabbing the baton and smacking it over his head. He falls to the ground, groaning.
You turn to face Knife Guy. Disarming him should be easy enough, but he’s ready for your advance and parries you with a shoulder, knocking you off balance. He plunges the knife into your thigh.
You grit your teeth, snuffing the gasp that wants to tear loose. Showing that kind of weakness is against the rules. Your rules? His rules? It all gets a little blurry in the heat of a fight.
You whirl on Knife Guy, backhanding him across the face. It’s clumsy, but startles him just enough to let go of the knife, leaving it embedded in your thigh. At least you don’t have to risk bleeding out in the very immediate future. You follow up with a stumbled punch to his jaw. It’s enough force to send him down temporarily.
You’re running on anger alone. You can feel the heat of it under your skin. This has all hit too close to home. You’ve made too many mistakes. You feel like you’re in the past, running from the past, fighting some facade of Father himself. And all of it is a frenzied, fight-for-your-life, mistake-making kind of anger.
Is it for the girl, still curled in on herself, soaking in the corner of the alleyway? Is it for knowing you were in her place and couldn’t save yourself? For still bending to his will in so many ways, even though you’re out from under his immediate power?
What right do you have to think you could ever save yourself? Save this girl? And is that you, or his influence talking?
It makes your anger turn to a full-bodied fury. At him, at yourself, at your mother, at every hero who didn’t do a damn thing to help. It’s all red, hot, seethes over your damp skin and into your clenched jaw.
You’re ripped back into the present when you hear it. A tiny whimper. It makes all your fire go out in one breath. You look back at the girl. She’s staring past you.
You turn to find the masked man—the one with the truth Quirk—at the mouth of the alley. You’re breathing in smoke, you can taste it, but you know it’s just the past trying to pull you in and you have to shake it off. You have to do something.
You take a backwards step towards the girl. Are you shaking? You might be shaking.
You’ll shield her with your body if nothing else. If it’s all you can do, you’ll do it.
But a jarring kick to your injured leg makes you wince and fall to your knees. Another kick to your side and you’re staring up at them, lying on your back. Is it Knife Guy or Baton Guy? You don’t even fucking know.
You try to get back up, but he kicks again at your side and the force of it is enough to nearly break a rib. You wheeze, choking on more false smoke.
There’s a flicker of white, in the corner of your eye. A soaked little girl, standing up. She’s shaking. Definitely shaking.
She walks towards them.
It breaks your heart. It threatens to draw a screaming howl from you. Because you know her. You were her. You are her. You don’t even know her name. But you know what she’s doing, saving you at the expense of herself, and it destroys any hope you had of saving her. When she needs to be saved right now. Because no child should be where she is. Where you were. Where it sometimes still feels like you are.
‘I’ll find you,’ you whisper as she passes. It’s more of a wheeze. Can she even understand you?
She glances down at you and pauses, vermilion eyes wide. You think suddenly that nobody has ever made a promise to her they’ve kept. You know it. You’ve lived it. People only make promises to make it hurt. To give you hope they’ll eventually shatter to pieces, to keep you in line. Promises aren’t worth shit.
But it’s all you can give her. The pain in your leg is starting to flare, a burn creeping up the entire length of your body. You can almost feel the bruises forming on your side. You’ve lost three of your knives. Maybe if you can convince them not to kill you, then somehow, you can come back for her. Find her. You have to. You absolutely have to.
‘I promise,’ you say. ‘I will find you. I’ll save you. I promise.’
You can already see she doesn’t believe you. The aching resignation of always giving up. You’re not sure what hurts more, the burn in your leg or the ache in your chest.
‘Come!’ the masked man snaps, and the girl startles. She walks the rest of the way to him. Her footfalls are heavy, but they make no sound in the quieting patter of the rain.
As the masked man turns away, hand locked firmly on the girl’s arm to keep her from running, he barks the order.
‘Kill them.’
Lucky for you, fighting for your life is easier than fighting to protect someone. You don’t want to let the girl go. But you know if you have any chance of keeping your promise, you have to. For now. Just for now.
Fighting for your life, though, you can do.
You’re debating the merits, or lack thereof, of pulling out the knife to take them by surprise as you force yourself to your feet.
But then he’s there. You’d completely forgotten him in the mess.
He’d jumped down from the rooftop. You hadn’t even noticed. But he’s standing there, a barrier between you and them. You stare at his back; an expanse of black cloth, a shock of birds-nest black hair, the dull white of the capture weapon.
‘Hero,’ the masked man inclines his head. ‘I assure you this has been a misunderstanding.’
Eraserhead doesn’t speak.
‘The child’s father is waiting for her. She’s… prone to running away. Something we’re trying to encourage her not to do.’
You imagine his grip tightening on her arm as he says the last bit, and it makes some of your anger flare, but all you can see is Eraserhead’s silhouette.
‘I understand,’ Eraserhead says. His voice is a tired, rough drawl.
Nobody moves or speaks for a long moment.
‘Well then,’ you hear the masked man say, ‘we must be getting back. Can’t have you catching a cold, young miss.’ He says it like a demand.
You hear them walking away, and it feels like your heart goes with them. You want to cry. You won’t, obviously.
It’s still coming down with rain.
‘Don’t take the knife out,’ is the first thing Eraserhead ever says to you.
You stand, ignoring the throb in your leg. ‘I’m not fucking stupid,’ you snap.
He turns to you, then, a single eyebrow raised. He’s full of condescension. You can’t see his eyes. They’re covered by a pair of yellow goggles. But you can see enough of his unkempt stubble and pale skin to get the gist. You wonder if his dishevelled, half-dead look is deliberate. Something to help him slip under the radar, or make villains underestimate him.
You might have stood there for too long in silence, because he heaves a dramatic, world-weary sigh. ‘I’m taking you to the hospital.’
You blanch. Not only would a hospital require being scrutinised by a bunch of different people, it would also open the doorway to questions about your scars. Specific scars, strange scars, scars clearly not made by any sort of weapon.
‘Nope,’ you say, popping the ‘p’.
That eyebrow shoots up again. ‘No?’ There’s a daring, there, an invitation for you to challenge him.
You do. ‘Nope.’ You pop the ‘p’ again, and emphasise it with a shake of your head.
He sighs again. ‘I won’t turn you in, but that’ll need stitches.’ He nods his head towards the knife sticking out of your thigh, in all its bleeding glory. ‘I’ll tell them you got caught on the wrong side of a fight.’
Huh. As much as things had all gone to shit, he’d apparently passed the test. Maybe? He could just be trying to lure you in until they inevitably cuff you to a hospital bed.
‘I have six more knives hidden in my clothes,’ you smile. It’s actually eight. ‘Nobody’s going to believe you.’
His eyebrow—it’s the left that keeps getting higher—is starting to get on your nerves. ‘I’ll take them.’
The weird thing, the thing that makes you frown, is that he doesn’t say it like a demand. He doesn’t say it like he expects you to give them to him. He says it like it’s a suggestion to some mutual problem you’re having, like there’s some sort of understanding between you. Some respect, or camaraderie. It makes you pause for a long time. Longer than you meant to.
You blink. ‘I’m not giving you my knives.’
‘Then don’t,’ he shrugs. ‘But you’re going to the hospital.’
You sigh. You’ll dodge him eventually, but you have to wait for your moment. For now, you set off towards the street, Pro-Hero Eraserhead in tow.
Shouta frowns as he watches the kid walk out of the alleyway. There’s a slight list to their step when he looks for it, but they don’t betray any significant measure of pain as they walk. He knows from experience how much a knife in the thigh hurts, and this kid—because from what he’s figured out so far, they are a child—is moving like nothing is particularly wrong.
‘Paramedics are on their way,’ he says, falling into step behind them.
Sine Nomine shrugs. ‘Sure. Figured we shouldn’t wait for them in an alley.’
Shouta nearly laughs. The kid has to know he’s prepared for them to attempt an escape. They’re not being subtle.
‘How old are you, kid?’
Sine turns to look at him. Dark, grey eyes meet his for a glance before they flick away.
‘That’s a rude question,’ they say, ‘How old are you?’ Shouta can see the slight ruffle of their mask betraying a smirk.
‘Thirty,’ he replies.
They blink. Probably not expecting such an easy answer, such an easy truth. They stop, suddenly, and turn to face him. They watch him for a moment, eyes narrowed and eyebrows pinched. ‘Why have you been following me?’
Shouta blinks slowly and shrugs. ‘Someone mentioned your name. I was curious.’
‘Someone?’
‘A colleague.’ Hizashi would probably cry, being demoted from husband to colleague, but what he’ll never know won’t kill him.
‘And? Why the curiosity?’ the kid presses.
Shouta closes his eyes and brings a hand up to rub over his forehead. He’s tired. But he’s always tired.
‘Wasted potential,’ he admits.
Hizashi had spoken of Sine Nomine as a competent but young vigilante who’d apparently been active for nearly a year—which, given just how young Shouta now suspects they are, only heightens his concern.
There was a news article, and a video clip of Sine busting open a small criminal organisation who’d been responsible for the distribution of drugs in several vulnerable populations. From Shouta’s understanding, the police and heroes alike had had no idea which organisation was responsible. And there was Sine, a child vigilante, dismembering the entire organisation without leaving anybody permanently injured or dead. They were left incapacitated for police to arrest without using any discernible Quirk. Just disturbing efficiency for somebody their age.
Maybe it was the teacher in him, but Shouta couldn’t let it go. More clips of Sine weren’t hard to find. They weren’t abundant, but they existed, and showcased similar skills. Information gathering, infiltration, and a significant display of discipline. He’d seen them take hits from people much larger than them and stand right back up to counter.
After tailing them for a few weeks, an idea had formed. Vigilantism was still criminal activity, but this kid had skills. And he’d always had a weakness for kids. Hizashi had teased him for it relentlessly, joked about how he’d eventually end up taking kids off the street like he did cats. But Hizashi had the very same instinct, and Shouta knew it.
At first, when he’d presented the idea to Hizashi, it was a half-mumbled, semi-coherent murmur while dozing on their couch. His husband had been ecstatic. It was everything Shouta could do to dissuade Hizashi from marching into Nedzu’s office and demanding Shouta’s request be fulfilled, or else. Shouta was fairly confident, and rightly so, that Nedzu would agree—he’d always been fond of experiments. And though it had been Shouta’s idea, Hizashi’s desperate words as they lay awake in bed at night made him even more sure of the plan.
‘Just think of the kids we could help, Shouta, if we could make it an actual program at Yuuei!’
And so, here it was: if Shouta could convince Sine Nomine to take the upcoming Yuuei entrance exams and give up vigilantism, they would receive a place at the school and a pardon for their criminal activity on the condition that they graduated.
From his initial tail, Shouta knows they aren’t homeless. He hadn’t seen evidence of any parents or a guardian, but he and Nedzu had already discussed waiving tuition. All he had to do was convince them.
He takes the folded-up paper he’s been carrying with him ever since and offers it to a scowling Sine Nomine.
They must not have appreciated being referred to as wasted potential, even if it was just a fact.
Wasted potential? Wasted potential? Whatever he knows, Eraserhead does not know the half of your circumstances. To claim your potential has been wasted is bordering on one of the most insulting things you’ve ever heard.
As far as you’re concerned, you’ve done the very best you could with the cards you’ve been dealt. And they’re shit cards!
You scan the paper he handed you and stop short. You blink. Then blink again. A third time for good measure, but it really is an application form for Yuuei High School.
You blink once more, then level a suspicious glare his way. ‘What the fuck is this?’
He just shrugs. The nonchalance and world-weariness that are seeming less and less like an affectation are really starting to get on your nerves. Everything about this man is starting to. He doesn’t even give you an answer to your completely valid question!
You stare him down for a moment before you finally look back down at the paper, at the very official Yuuei logo stamped in the corner.
‘Why?’ the question feels hollow even as it leaves your lips. ‘Why’ has always felt hollow. There are a lot of ‘why’s about your life, and you know you’ll never get answers to any of them. At least not any answers that satisfy you.
He pauses for a moment. Considering his words? Then, finally, he says, ‘The girl.’
You feel your shoulders slump involuntarily. The weight of the last half hour hits you all over again.
The thing about running on anger is that it drains you. When the well is dried up, it leaves nothing but an absence, a nothingness where hope would be if you hadn’t used it all up years ago.
You don’t want to show this man, this pro hero, weakness. But honestly, your thigh really fucking hurts, and your failure, all those damn mistakes, are heavy on your chest. Truthfully, you know there was nothing more you could do. But the self-hatred of this fresh failure mixes with the last, and the last, and the one before that. It runs all the way back until you’re four years old again.
‘Even if you’d managed to get away,’ Eraserhead’s voice snaps you back to the present. ‘There’s a high chance they have custody of her, so you’d have been charged with kidnapping.’
It’s jarring. His voice is rough. And when you mull over his words, another scowl threatens to form over the first. As if you hadn’t already considered all of that. You told him you weren’t stupid.
Something hot flares inside of you. The last whispers of anger yet to be used up. You step towards him on your bad leg before you can think it through.
‘She was covered in scars,’ you hiss through the pain. ‘She was terrified. She was in pain. She was trying to get away.’
You were terrified. You were in pain. You were trying to get away.
You can’t see his eyes past his goggles. Somehow it infuriates you more.
‘They’re hurting her!’ you implore when he doesn’t speak up. ‘Wouldn’t you have done the same thing? Aren’t you supposed to be a fucking hero?!’ Your voice pitches louder at the end, and you refuse to acknowledge its break. It sounds about as shattered as you fucking feel.
‘The best-case scenario,’ Eraserhead says calmly, ‘is that you’d be arrested for kidnapping, they’d take her back, and you’d be behind bars without another chance to come back for her.’
He pauses, and somehow you know his eyes are sharp as he looks at you through the goggles. He doesn’t need to tell you the worst-case scenario—you’d nearly lived it. Nearly been killed.
No wonder he’s a fucking teacher.
‘You promised her.’
You shiver, all over, all at once. You didn’t realise he heard you. He knows the weight of what happened and he knows how much you care. And that in and of itself is a weakness you’ve let slip. A weakness he can exploit.
‘I did,’ you concede, shifting your weight back to your uninjured leg.
He speaks slowly, in a drawl. ‘If you attend starting the upcoming semester at Yuuei and graduate in three years’ time, you will receive a full pardon for your crimes, and your hero license.’
You almost stop breathing.
He continues. ‘As a hero, you can lawfully investigate the Shie Hassaikai and find just cause.’
You can keep your promise.
You hadn’t anticipated that he knew who they were, to some degree, but it does make sense. This must be an area at least partially within his jurisdiction, given that he followed you here.
You consider what he's offering. Three years is far, far too long to wait. But maybe you’d be able to gain information by earning his trust, the trust of heroes. You could turn tail and run later on. No harm, no foul, right?
You stamp down on the distant voice of some long gone version of you, whispers of actually following through, actually becoming a hero. You’re too far gone for that. If they knew who your adoptive father was, they’d never grant you a license.
But you could learn from them. You could get stronger. You could keep your promise. Not just to her, but other promises. Promises you’d made to yourself years ago. Access to a vengeance that had never felt in reach before.
You hear yourself say the words before you can think better of them, ‘I’ll think about it.’ Then you reach out, clasp his wrist, and grin at him through your mask. ‘But I’m not going to the hospital.’
Then you activate your Quirk.
He falls to one knee with a barely audible hiss. And you run.
It’s an awkward trek home. You end up removing your jacket to tie around your waist as you walk, if only to cover up the glaring knife in your thigh. You’re still covered in blood and drenched through, and it doesn’t stop the stares completely, but enough that nobody deigns to approach.
It’s not long before you’re back in your apartment, sitting in one of your dining chairs, stitching yourself up. It hurts like hell, sure, but isn’t altogether foreign to you. And it’s only then, mid-stitch, that you realise Eraserhead probably knows where you live. Something about the way he spoke to you, and what he’d offered you. You’re fairly certain, now, that he’s been tailing you for longer than you first thought.
After dressing your finished stitching job, you take the folded-up piece of paper from your pocket. It’s a little damp from the rain and your clothes, so you set it on the table to dry. You look at it, not really reading any of the words, for a long time.
When you finally tear your eyes away, you check the dressing on your leg. No blood spotting shows through, so you decide the job you’ve done is passable enough. It’s far from the best you can do, but given you’d had to stitch it yourself while very, very tired, and in a lot of pain to boot, you’d give yourself a gold fucking star.
Removing the knife had been the hardest part. It had been almost impossible to start stitching through the initial bout of dizziness that came with significant blood loss. Everything you’d used had been sterilised, though, so you’re pretty sure you’ll be fine with time.
Knowing you could sit all night if you let yourself dwell on it all, you clean the dining table of the supplies you’d used and force yourself into bed.
You listen idly to the soft sound of rain hitting your window. It takes a while for sleep to claim you, but claim you it does. And you dream.
You’re four years old. Your classmate falls down and grazes their knee, and when you take their hand to help them up, you take their pain for yourself. Your knee isn’t injured when you cry out and check, but your classmate doesn’t feel the pain.
You run home from school with a beaming smile and tell your mother you got your Quirk. You visit the Quirk doctor, who confirms it. Your mother is very proud of you and tells you there are lots of things you can do with your Quirk, if you want to use it.
‘But I know it hurts a lot, honey, so if you never want to use it, that’s okay too,’ she says as she kisses your head. She turns out the light.
You wake again to the sound of screaming. It’s really dark, but there’s a light coming from under the crack in the door.
You jump out of bed and open it. Orange flames lick the air around your face and you stumble back. The house is on fire. Your mother is screaming your name. You start to cry as you stumble towards the sound. The floorboards are hot on your bare feet. You feel sweat beading all over your face and arms. It’s so hot you almost feel cold.
You try to call for her, but it comes out in a harsh wheeze. You find her in the kitchen, with a wall of flame between you. Your cries descend into coughs as you double over.
You force yourself upright. The sounds around you are at a roar; crackling fire, something crumbling somewhere in the house. But your mother is suddenly silent.
She falls. You run to her. You scream for her. Her eyes are closed. Blood is pooling around her chest. You don’t know why. You try to stop it with your hands. You’re crying. You’re coughing. The fire closes in around you. It’s so hot.
And then you realise! Your Quirk! You can take her pain away so she can help you get out of here!
You clamp your hands down on one of hers. You try to activate your Quirk. Nothing happens. There’s blood between your hands. You’re finger-painting her skin with red. You try again. Nothing.
You sob, and it turns into a cough.
Someone hoists you up from behind. Pulls you away from her. You kick at them, try to claw their arms off you. You have to get back to her! You can still help her! You howl and beat your fists on the arm wrapped around your chest. You can help her! Why don’t they realise you can help her! Why won’t they let you go?!
When you wake again, you’re in a small room. It’s dim, and the walls are grey. You’re in a bed. The only other things in the room are a small wardrobe and a bedside table. Your throat hurts. You try to speak and wince when it stings your throat.
Then there’s a man. He kneels beside your bed. He’s broad-shouldered and has silver-white hair.
‘Ma… ma?’ The syllables are a herculean effort to force out. You just want your mother. You want the man to tell you it was all a bad dream.
But his face is grave. He sets a large hand over one of yours. ‘I’m sorry.’
You cry. You sob. He takes you in his arms. He’s solid. His arms encase your whole body. You feel safe in them. He whispers in your ear that it will be okay, that he will keep you safe, that you will stay with him.
You startle awake, choking on nothing. You’re sweating all over. You try to roll onto your side to dry heave into the trash bin you keep beside your bed. You swallow a swear when you roll onto your injured thigh.
Things always hurt most when you’re newly awake.
For a while, you just breathe. Will whatever semblance of calm you can into existence.
When you glance at the digital clock on your bedside table, you see it’s only been two hours.
You sigh, roll onto your back, and you cover your face with an arm. You will not cry. There is no point.
Eraserhead’s words come back to you. They echo like a ringing between your ears. You try to shut them out, but they persist. Over and over again.
As a hero, you can lawfully investigate the Shie Hassaikai and find just cause.
You grit your teeth, hoist yourself out of bed, and use the walls to support you as you shuffle into the kitchen. The Yuuei application form is still on the table.
You grab a pen, sit down, and start writing.