Chapter Text
The Hero Public Safety Commission has always run like a well-oiled machine; every cog and gear has its place, does its share, and gets rewarded for its effort. Sometimes the reward is money, fame, or acknowledgment in all of the right circles. Power, a finger in every pie and an eye on every deal. And sometimes, when those things aren’t enough or aren’t desired, the reward is being a part in something greater, something well-defined and sturdy.
That part means a steady trajectory through life, a certain path to follow- the best one, the right one. One currently forged in blood and assumptions and quirk-bias, but one that keeps the streets a little bit safer for the citizens. Something temporary. A placeholder, well-traveled and carefully maintained. It’s not always fair, a lot of people fall through the deep and jagged cracks, but nothing is fair or even in life- Hawks has known that, has never lost too much sleep over it or broken down in the middle of the street and cried.
It’s unfortunate, but that doesn’t make it not true.
Life isn’t particularly kind to anybody, there just seems to be a worldwide agreement for everyone to grit their teeth and power through. Hawks is a Pro Hero, he can’t afford to be blind to what goes on in the world around him; he knows it’s not just about Villain attacks, about the loud and flashy domestic terrorism that certain groups afflict. He knows that the world’s morality is going to shit, something rotting it down to its blackened core and spreading violence through homes like diseases- he’d experienced it himself with his upbringing before the Commission, and he’s only seen more of the ugliness since becoming a Pro.
The world isn’t great right now, it isn’t going to get better, and it rarely gives the free handouts that its people need to survive. But the government agencies do- the Hero Public Safety Commission does, when it suits their tastes; not something as direct as a physical handout, but an opportunity. A path.
Hawks is too far down his own narrow path to change his mind now- not that he would. His choices are firmly cemented in place by blood and sacrifice, pictures from the press and cosmetic surgeries. Being a Hero isn’t something he had to work for, necessarily, but it’s something he has to fight tooth and nail to keep. He has to, because it’s all he has and everything he’s ever worked towards- he’s trained for his position since he was a starry-eyed kid in the worst part of town.
Hawks wasn’t anything special, coming from a nothing background with miserable parents, but he’s been shaped and molded into something more- something special. Where people used to sneer or avoid eye-contact before, they trample and beg for his attention now; he was a drain on their hemorrhaging society, and now he’s a pillar of it. He's one of the lucky few to have had the opportunity to be something fall into his lap at such a young age. The Commission and all that it offers, the life that he lives- it’s everything to him.
And if he does his job well enough, he’ll never have to lose it.
He knows that the system is fucked in more ways than one, that some might think it would be better to trash the whole thing and start from scratch. There comes a point where an evil outweighs its necessity and all that. But deep down, under the simpering bravado and martyr tendencies, he’s selfish like every other man on earth; the Commission may not always have been kind with their methods of raising him, but they raised him. The Commission has given him everything that his parents couldn’t- that his mom was too sick to give, if he’s honest with himself.
Stability. Guidance. A guaranteed meal.
Hawks has killed, spilled blood and not cared because it meant having somewhere to come back to. Somewhere safe to nurse his bruises and a stomach that doesn’t ache from hunger pangs every day. Stability. The Commission had offered him a place in the world that day in the market, something he didn’t think he’d actually get- where all he has to do is his job, and there’s nothing else expected of him, and people like him just for being good at what he does. Everything is fitted neatly and compactly into a contract signed with a seven year old’s shaky signature, every clause irontight. It’s easy. He doesn’t need to think, or go out of what he’s good at doing, and he gets to save people and they love him for it and rarely ask what he’s done to preserve their safety.
The blood on his hands doesn’t matter because they don’t know about it, and the Hero Public Safety Commission has gone to great lengths to keep it that way. Hawks isn’t sure that the public would even want to know, beyond maybe a sort of morbid curiosity.
It used to bother him more, when he was newer to the Commission and what it takes to be a Hero, a Pro in a world of Heroes and Villains. He hadn’t wanted to hurt anyone; he’d thought it would be like the time he saved that lady’s stroller from rolling into traffic- small heroic acts that made people smile and like him more. But it wasn’t- it was work.
Hawks remembers his tears and the punishments for them, his very embarrassing lack of understanding prompting the contract to be brought in front of him over and over again, the old Handler gently pointing to words on papers he didn’t understand, despite his scratchy name at the bottom. That specific Handler had been far too gentle for the job, and had been removed from his position quickly, but Hawks still remembers the look on the guy’s face when he’d burst into tears and admitted he actually couldn’t read.
It was a critical failing on his part, something he’d hidden from them on purpose so they wouldn’t lose interest. He'd been so desperate to keep the chance given that he'd lied. In hindsight, Hawks isn’t even sure what his plan for hiding illiteracy was- just that he knew it made adults disappointed, and that it made him more work. He’d expected to be dropped, to be sent back to a mother who didn’t care for him beyond what his feathers could potentially steal for her. Maybe killed if she wouldn’t take him back, because she didn't even want him and no one else did either. That didn’t happen, though.
The Commission’s President, instead of finding a more intelligent protege to train into someone who saves lives, simply explained that he didn’t have to hide bad things about him- she told him how, if he’s honest with them, the Commission can get rid of all of the bad parts and make him better. Teach him to be good- all he’d ever wanted to be. Hawks had broken down, cried like a baby while she help him and promised safety, growth. She’d then had him resign the contract after a thick section of schooling was added to the stack of paper. Schooling, something so out of reach before, was more than he ever could have hoped for. It was based in the Commission itself, yeah, but it was more than anyone else had ever offered him before- and it was where he met Touya, where he became someone’s friend for the first time. He’d felt normal, and he’d known right then that he would kill to keep that feeling.
Hawks is sure that if he went out and looked hard enough, he could still find small burns on the old tree they trained under; Touya was rebellious, destructive and angry with Commission property, and could be flat-out mean when he wanted to be. But Hawks never held anything against him, never shied away when Touya was done- and his friend let him stay closer than anyone else in return, like the lack of fear was all he’d been waiting on. A school, a scarred tree, a heavy stack of papers, his entire life- It’s all in the same sprawling building, just different sections and courtyards and halls.
It’s all gone now- burning to the ground around him while he chokes on the smoke of it.
Someone targeting the Commission isn’t anything new, with them being such a large pillar in society that promotes Heroes; occasionally, they have to replace the windows or lawn if an attack is bad enough. Maybe hire a few staff members to replace lower-ranking employees who did nothing but show up to work that day. A building can be rebuilt, new people hired, and money had never been an issue to the HPSC with all of the public support it gets. But this isn’t that, it isn’t just a matter of replacing some glass or buying new trees- the Commission is currently more like an active demolition zone than a proud government building.
This isn’t just a targeted attack, it's angry- furious even, a wrath proven right and twice as deadly for it. This attack is a message.
Hawks and the rest of the country had all gotten the same alert across their screens this morning, temporarily blocking every other program available so early; an emergency broadcast, something tense in the lines of the reporters’ faces as they read from the scripts given.
There were accusations, at first wildly unbelievable, and then the undeniable evidence followed immediately after and everything fell apart. Information that never should’ve left meetings, never should’ve been taken out of the dusty storage bins, had been shared live to thousands. All of it tied in blood to the Commission, the President, his past and present Handlers, everyone and anyone who's ever received a check from them. Hawks’ own name had been mentioned twice before he could manage to get his shaking hands to work the remote.
Then he’d followed protocol.
He’d breathed in deeply, gotten up from his couch, and headed to the Commission to await further instructions. As expected, like they trained him to do in the event of a media-leak, he did not answer either of his phones while they vibrated holes in his pockets- he didn’t even check them to see the public’s plummeting opinion. It had been a quick flight, with the urgency of the situation pressing at his nerves; landing was a whole other problem, with many protesters blocking his usual touch-down spots. Hawks had ducked past a dozen reporters on his way in, wordless and cold despite their shouted questions and his usual laidback attitude.
It wouldn’t have mattered if he’d smiled or not.
Not even twenty feet down the first hallway, the world had erupted into shattered glass and spitting flames; picking himself up from the now-gritty tile flooring had sucked, but none of the pain could beat out the sheer panic that gripped his chest and squeezed like a vice. The damage wasn’t catastrophic, but it was worse than the Commission had taken in years- the direct hit to the building from the inside caused the infrastructure to weaken and crumble like a bad house of cards. Lights flickered and died, then the power had gotten picked up by the backup generator- which promptly also died and plunged the building into darkness.
The chaos was immediate, but nothing Hawks hadn’t been trained for; most of his feathers had been deployed without a second thought, locating injured survivors and depositing them outside as best he could. It was darker in the halls, where there are less windows, but the sprouting fires made up for it.
The second detonation had thrown him through the wall next to him, the blast seemingly happening more towards the front of the building. Some screams got louder, more desperate, while some cut horrifically short- Hawks sent what he could before he focused on getting to his feet again, much more slowly and painfully. The majority of the feathers burned without his usual focus on them, a special kind of pain on top of everything else.
Things got a little hazy after the third explosion, which had resulted in a pinned wing and some digging through the rubble to free himself. It was probably the closest to his position, if he’d had to guess.
It’s chaos- not a mission gone awry, or a villain he can fight, or even a bomb he can disable. It’s already happened. It’s the aftermath- the bloody, smoking aftermath that he’s stuck in right now.
Hawks desperately wipes the ash from his vision, visor long-gone in one of the blasts, but clearing his eyes doesn’t change anything. The building is beyond a few repairs, beyond saving at all with the way that it’s crumbled into nothing under the force of the explosions. Despite that, he continues his self-imposed role of damage control and throws himself deeper into the fray. There are still people inside, hurt or trapped or both, and he’s the only Hero on the scene.
The heat is sinking into his bones, deadly and uncontrolled while those who can still run get out on their own. Hawks helps where he can, shoving them towards the edges where the doors and blown-out windows are. Not every exit is safe, or even still there at all, but the chaos is less deadly around the edges and he trusts the workers who can move to find a way out. Hawks’ main concern is finding anyone who can’t walk or who's lost consciousness, and getting them out before the casualty number climbs any higher.
Only needing to check one section of the building makes things slightly easier, at least; with the media-leak needing to be discussed, the building had been on lockdown aside from the front-left section. The rest of it may still be burning to the ground, but it’s empty. He starts along the west side of it, moving the opposite direction of those escaping. Odds are that everyone was mostly together when the bombs went off, waiting for him to arrive before they started the meeting. Guilt churns tightly in his stomach, shockingly cold compared to the heat around him.
Hawks picks up his pace just a little bit more, going as fast as he reasonably can in the situation and peering into every room he passes. The damage gets steadily worse as he gets closer to where one of the bombs must have been planted- in one of the empty conference rooms down the hall. Again it feels targeted, too close to be a coincidence- it’s not where someone would place a bomb to bring down a building, too close to the edge to really damage the structure like the other two.
It's where someone one would be to take out as many people as possible, if they had the right information-
Hawks jerks out of his head when he hears more screaming, closer and inside and desperate. He has other things to focus on right now- he can think later. Plotting a clear path to an exit, he finally stumbles to a stop outside of the only in-use conference room. The wall between it and the hall is collapsed, and on the other side he can see people still gathering themselves from the floor or pinned by rubble. He quickly tends to them, lifting and pulling and applying pressure or mindless reassurance- but he can only move a few at a time. Some are lucid, able to assist when he drags them to an exit, some too injured to move themselves- some are already dead by the time he finds them. Crushed, burned, scattered-
Hawks leaves them, unwilling to split his time.
(What’s a dead body to a beating heart? It’s a numbers game, Hawks, do whatever keeps your numbers higher, their approval sweeter-)
He catches sporadic bursts of cleaner air in between trips, but he’s sure that everything in a two-mile radius is blanketed in a smoky haze. The good news is that there weren’t many people coming to the building today, a mercy to his lungs and throat- only those higher up in the ladder would have been let into such an important meeting. Only people affected by the leak, which has to be less than twenty if Hawks is remembering it right. He’s already gotten fifteen out and located three dead, but his nerves jitter at the thought of leaving someone still breathing behind.
Stupidly, even though he’s choking more and more, Hawks continues his search of the section. Every room he comes across is destroyed, on fire, crumbling- but thankfully empty of people. There are oil paintings melting in the halls, familial scenes of hands of his shoulders and proud smiles dripping into growing fires.
Eventually, he has to give up the search to move towards safety himself; he’s out of time, pained, dizzy with smoke inhalation. But getting out is much harder than he thought it would be. It’s tedious; most safe paths are quickly becoming dangerous as the building continues to be under stress, and Hawks finds that backtracking is not an option. He ends up needing to go around, already a very long process, but moving too quickly through the unsteady halls only makes more debris fall- Hawks can’t run. Flying is out of the question as well- his wings are only stubs now. Highly flammable, useless-in-combat-or-evacuation stubs. And even if he could run or fly, there’s still not a clear path and he’d end up more than lightly singed. Probably dead, with the kindling on his back.
He progresses in small intervals, finding more fire than he does pathways and acquiring fresh scrapes and burns.
Every dead end only adds to his rising frustration, and part of him wonders if he’s supposed to burn here, like the rest of his life is- if maybe that’s best for everyone. No more emergency broadcasts as more dirt comes to light, as his ugly life is dragged into the light. The President would be furious that he’d wasted her time, but they’ve both always known that it was a possible outcome. She took a significant gamble on him, there was always a chance he wouldn’t be able to pay it off; it’s a dark thought, but the President isn’t here and can’t read his mind
Hawks watches a supporting beam of the building crash down with a sinking, heavy feeling in his gut, narrowly managing to shield his face from the resulting spray of dust and heat. A connected wall groans and buckles slightly, and he forces himself to move again. It’s slower than he wants it to be, miserable and horrifying as he chokes on his stress; he has plenty of time to think now, unfortunately, as he picks his way around fires and shards and chunks.
Somewhere outside of the fire and rubble, people are yelling screaming crying; for help, to let it burn, if anyone’s seen-
It doesn’t matter, he tunes it out and continues to carefully pick his way out of the flaming used-to-be-a-building. He’s had extensive training for these kinds of situations, which helps him avoid making rookie mistakes like hot doorknobs; the Commission had seen his weakness to fire, to being without feathers, and they’d started training him for it young so it wouldn’t be as jarring when he got older. Supposedly, it was the same with most of his training- Hawks wouldn’t know, it’s more muscle memory than actual-memory at this point.
It reminds him of that thing that people say, about old dogs and tricks.
Either way, it’s coming in handy once again as he finally recognizes the destroyed lobby through the haze of thick, black smoke. It’s getting harder to breathe, and he’s sure his lungs look like a chain smoker’s by now. But this is an area he walks through almost every day; a cough wracks his frame as he tries to get a good look through the haze.
Holding his breath in intervals would have been a great fucking idea if he’s had it before he inhaled half of a building.
Knowing the layout of a flaming room filled with smoke is basically fucking useless, unfortunately; he can’t go straight through, and most easy routes seem to have been taken over by either rubble or fire. Some of the furniture that hasn’t been burned can be used to get over fiery obstacles, but as the fire eats away there’s less of it to help him- he ends up running through a few of the smaller fires, getting burned every time and cursing the sheer size of the lobby but getting closer-
The entrance is encased in fire, almost burning to the ceiling, but the windows beside it are slightly easier to get to. He makes a beeline for one, sidestepping a piece of the welcome desk.
Hawks chokes on a draft of cleaner air that comes through the broken window nearby, kicking himself for losing his visor as his eyes sting and his vision blurs. The coughing fit folds him in half, stopping his progress and popping his ears sharply- he hadn’t even noticed they were clogged. The difference in sound is stark, paralyzing in its intensity; there are mostly just empty holes where the windows used to be, allowing fresh air to carry in every pained scream and siren-wail through from the outside to pierce his ears. There are so many noises, all fighting for dominance and all losing miserably, only becoming a distraction. Tuning it out it almost makes it sound like one distant noise, like it’s far off or underwater- not real, not happening. Easier to manage.
His gloves bump along the frame clumsily, scraping glass away from his chosen exit; shards still being stuck in the frame is the least of his concerns, but he's being careful. Hawks can't see glass without his visor, not well enough to avoid it in time- he's not sure if this will end in a scratch or stitches, if the shards are large and jagged or even if they're even there at all. Before he can decide if it's safe, something else catches his attention.
There's a lot of frantic movement, flashes of familiar faces in the crowds, bright lights and protest signs. He recognizes some of the Heroes as ones he’s teamed with in the past, and he’s pretty sure some of the Undergrounds are present too; rare for just a burning building, even one as large as the Commission. But they're here on the scene.
Any relief Hawks might have felt dies when he notices that nothing is being done- nobody is moving to put out the fire, or to do anything beyond keep it contained. The crowd seems perfectly content to watch the Commission burn.
They aren’t even going inside to check if everyone is out- the Heroes outside wouldn’t have known how many to look for, where to look, who to look for first-
(The entire building could have come down at any moment, could have crushed his bones to powder and buried him better than any grave.)
Hawks would feel more betrayed, but he’s too busy watching the President of the Hero Public Safety Commission get wrested to the ground by an officer of the police force. Other employees are detained behind her, going quietly into cuffs- she’s screaming words he’s never heard her say, completely missing her usual careful control and poise. Her suit is dirty and creased in a way that he’s never seen before- she’s always seemed so polished, untouchable.
This is-
Impossible.
It’s a spectacle, one he can’t look away from or move towards. Hawks stands in the collapsing building, fire hot against his back and glass against his gloves, and he watches from the broken windows as someone who’s always embodied power gets stripped of it. She still fights and claws after they get the cuffs on her, every action like the animal she so proudly trained him not to be. When one officer holding the President freezes, two more take their place; her quirk is rendered useless in large groups, only able to hold one person perfectly still at a time, and she doesn’t have the training to make up the difference.
It’s startling, almost, to see her go down so easily.
The cops and Heros scattered around treat any other resisting employees the same way, shoving those who can stand into armored cars and tagging along in the ambulances for the ones who can’t. One of his Handlers from years ago is cuffed to a stretcher, his right leg very obviously bent the wrong way- Eraserhead doesn’t seem to hold any sympathy as he slips into the ambulance. His current Handler is staring into the wreckage, face impassive and fists clenched while another Hero- Present Mic- tries to question him.
Hawks fully realizes, for the first time, what that emergency broadcast meant; it’s not just the building coming down around him.
It’s the entire Hero Public Safety Commission.
The emergency broadcast had turned things around; the Commission isn't going to be given the chance to defend itself before its charged. And while Hawks didn’t found the organization, he is its fucking posterchild-Hero; he’s spilled enough blood while on its payroll, benefited too much from the corruption, to think that this is going to end well for him. Slowly, he sinks back into the smoke and heat to look for a less obvious exit. Preferably one that doesn’t get him wrested to the ground and shoved into a pair of quirk-suppressant cuffs.
Everything else can go on the back burner, he can deal with it later, just-
Hawks is very aware of how vulnerable he is, hiding in a building as the flames get higher around him. His hands are shaking, gloves torn and singed, and the rest of his body and outfit aren’t faring much better. All of the feathers he’d sent out are gone, having been reused for rescue until they burned completely. His feet protest taking his weight, forcing him to lean on debris as he limps his way towards a side entrance.
Sitting down would be fucking amazing right now, with the way nausea is churning in his gut while his life continues to burn down around him, but he can’t. The fires are only getting higher as they feed on busted furniture and torn curtains, and the building is getting less and less stable. He should’ve already been out.
Time isn’t on his side here, and if Hawks sits down he knows he’s not going to get back up; if he gives in to his exhaustion now, he dies. If he doesn’t get a fucking move on, he dies. If he breathes in too much more smoke he’s likely to die anyway, but that’s not his choice.
Moving is.
Getting out of the rubble unseen has to be his number one priority, his number two being to get the fuck out of the blast zone entirely in case there are still more detonations to come- literally and figuratively. Until he crosses those off, he’s shit out of luck for a safe space to check his injuries or rest, and he's unable to take his time.
Hawks briefly considers testing his luck by attempting to find the medical wing on his way out, just to see if anything there can be salvaged for his own wounds; he’ll need his own supplies if the Commission is down, no one else is going to help him without turning him in. The burns on his skin are only growing, and he’s definitely got some sort of headwound happening because he keeps having to wipe blood from over his right eye. But seeing as it was on the third floor and the Commission is now one level he’s not sure it would be worth the trouble; it's unlikely that anything of value survived the damage- he needs to get out, get somewhere safe, and figure out what the fuck happened beyond a media scandal and a few bombs.
He keeps moving, fire following his trail like a hunting dog and burning brighter with every patch of carpet it consumes. Some of it burns a startling blue at the base while it eats away at the furniture, but it’s not enough of a difference for it to be Dabi’s fire. It’s unlikely that the League managed to pull something like this off without Hawks catching on, anyway; it’s more their style to gloat beforehand, to rub his face in it immediately afterwards, to be on the fucking scene.
The door to the side entrance is somehow still intact and wedged into the frame enough that he has to pull at it to get it open. It takes a few tries, because his gloves are basically useless and he can’t grip the fucking knob to even turn it. A flaming rug lies to his left where he’d kicked it, but it’s not far enough away to not hurt him the longer he takes. He makes several frustrated, desperate noises that he’ll never let himself make again if he could just get a fucking grip-
It opens and Hawks falls into the light, stumbling like someone who doesn’t know how to use his body. Which is fair, as he can’t really feel anything anymore beyond the pulsing in his head and the ache in his chest. A decorative pot takes his weight for him while he makes sure he’s not actually on fire, just heavily singed. Clean air slips down his throat again, burning worse than the smoke and making his eyes water. It takes a lot of effort to not immediately collapse and cough his lungs onto the pavement, but Hawks manages it. Barely.
There’s still chaos happening around the front of the building, but it’s slowly dying down and a better distraction isn’t going to fall out of the sky; every second he wastes here, without the cover of the flames and smoke, his odds of being found increase. No one is going to listen to him, not while the scandal is fresh; maybe eventually, if his public opinion survives, he can work to rebuild. Evidence can be forged, no matter how big a lie it is, and his training can help him until then.
Hawks will be able to fix it, to keep everything, as long as he survives to do so- he’ll even take an underground position if nobody forgives him, he just-
(He still doesn’t even know what happened, but something like loss is worming its way under his skin. It settles uncomfortably, right next to the guilt.)
Hawks puts his training to good use, and he disappears.
Guilt sits heavy in his stomach, coiling around the hunger there like a snake. It’s not enough to snuff it out, not even close- all it does is make him nauseous. That’s not good, he can’t look dirty and sick- people like him even less when they think they’ll catch something. Keigo tries to distract himself from the uncomfortable feeling, standing a little taller to take the pressure of hunger away. The smell of spices and perfume are strong, making his nose itch while he watches the crowds of people pass by.
The food stand in front of him is cheap, but they still can’t afford it- but they need to eat today. And he has his feathers, even if he’s not very good with them yet. Her eyes are floating around somewhere over everyone’s heads, not good for taking what they need; she always tells him that they’re only good for watching bad-misbehaving-bratty-ungrateful-spoiled children who don’t do what they’re told.
Keigo can tell his mom knows he’s close to his breaking point, to just giving up and taking; she’s watching him from her spot against a wall with an excited look in her eyes, like she knows this is only going to be the first step if he takes it. She’s been begging for him to steal, to carry his own weight, to help her, and it’s not that Keigo doesn’t care, he just-
An older woman stops in front of him, and his hands clench at his sides. He wasn’t going to do anything, he isn’t caught, but he can feel his ears and face go red in shame; it doesn’t look good, some dirty kid quietly watching a stand. She waves her hand with a laugh like she’s reading his mind, golden jewelry still polished to shine in the bad lighting. The stand’s owner, who apparently knew Keigo was there, seems to relax slightly in her presence.
“Hello, Takami Keigo,” she purrs, face wrinkled but kind as she grabs and shakes his dirty hand without frowning. It’s not even wiped off, after, like most adults do when he touches them. She doesn’t treat him like he’s dirty, or gross- just like a stranger. Then she turns to the stand and wordlessly exchanges a few coins. A piece of chicken is pressed into his hands, still hot through the small napkin holding it. It almost hurts his fingers.
“I thought I might find you here. Is your mother around? I’d like to speak to her about something.”
Keigo peers up at her with wonder in his eyes as he nods gratefully, and leads her to the wall.
Hawks really wishes he’d thought this through more.
Which is, unfortunately, a feeling he’s very, very familiar with. It fits well with currently kicking himself for not just taking the time to look for leftover medical supplies, a nice theme to his misery and pain. It's not like he would've been worse-off for looking. The head wound is a pulsing nightmare, but he’s managed to at least stem the blood pouring from it with his sleeve. Headwounds always bleed like a hemophiliac bitch, but he’s still pretty concerned with what he knows are symptoms of a concussion. It’s mostly just the nausea and a migraine-like pain that’s tipping him off, but he also just knows.
Hawks knows a lot of symptoms, like most Hero’s do; experience is a very good teacher, if unforgiving. So long as he stays awake and relatively still, he should be fine.
It’s fine.
He’s found a decent spot to hole up in for the foreseeable future, an empty apartment in a bad area that was half-painted before whoever owned it gave up and left. They probably realized that the property value wouldn’t rise when another Villain-bar opened up down the street two years ago. Hawks isn’t mad about it- their financial loss is his life-saving gain, currently. It’s utterly devoid of anything actually useful; there’s no furniture to break into sharp points, no electricity, no water, and no food. Painter's cloth hangs everywhere, without rhyme or reason; it provides decent coverage, but Hawks can’t help but think that every small shift is a person coming to put him down like a feral dog.
Using the stained, dusty cloth for his injuries would be like politely asking for an infection, so he doesn’t bother- he might as well just hang himself with it at that point, to save his body the trouble.
Every window is dirty, covered in a filthy grime that almost gives them a frosted effect. It’s not enough to dim the light pouring in, like knives through his skull. Hawks’ head pounds from his corner, and he resolves to cover them with the painter’s cloth when he feels like he can move without coming apart. Or throwing up- which would be terrible in a place where he can’t brush his teeth.
Hawks has taken stock of himself and his resources, and it’s not looking great; angry bruises cover his ribs from where he’s been blown through the wall, small burns litter his legs and hands, and his head throbs anytime he even thinks of trying to get to his feet. And he didn’t think to grab anything from the apartment before everything went down- why would he have, when he thought he would be coming back?
Hawks doesn’t even have his wallet on him.
The Commission-phone is trashed- the screen is shattered enough that anything on it is indecipherable, bars of color flickering across its surface without him even touching it. Which he isn’t- Hawks is strongly considering getting rid of it in case the trackers in it are compromised and used to hunt him down. Tossing it would be the smart thing to do. Hawks is still reluctant to do so; it’s now one of the only things he owns, and even though it’s become a paperweight he finds himself setting it off to the side like it still means anything.
His League-phone is fine, somehow, which at least means he has access to information without needing to move from cover for a while. In theory. Hawks hasn’t done anything other than turn it on to check its usefulness, too startled by the amount of missed messages and calls plaguing the home screen. Most were sent within the last three hours, presumably when the news hit that Hawks is no better than them- that he’s a liar, and a hypocrite, and every other thing that they’ve ever screamed in his face. Hawks would deserve it- and then after the bombing.
He doesn’t open any of them, just pulling up the search engine with intense single-minded focus and begins typing in his name. Hawks doesn’t get past the first few characters before it starts guessing what he wants-
Hawks news
Hawks emergency broadcast
Hawks commission bombing
Hawks hero public safety commission leak
Hawks hero?
Shakily, he finishes his name. Information comes up immediately, blocking out the page with links and capitalizations. So much of it that he has to take a second and close his eyes against the onslaught of flashing headlines.
Old missions. Childhood photos that turned into training updates and body-checks, areas circled where changes would be made. Notes on his healing processes. The price of his mother’s love, the shockingly low amount she was paid for him. Training failures. Mission failures. Undercover operations. Fucking quirk-traits, even the ones the Commission tried to eliminate early on.
None of it should be public.
But everything is. Every little habit or secret that was kept hidden from the public is now on display for them to tear apart. And the people are ripping into it like starving wolves, circling and lunging with teeth bared in anger. They’re demanding answers, more details, every gory bit of information is being discussed on every platform. Those same accusations are repeated over and over again, doubling their weight every time.
It’s not all about him, but enough of it is. And it’s all awful- not the kind of thing any corporation would be able to recover from. There’s too much anger, too much to cover up, too many people to appease. The Commission, if it ever exists again, will not be the same one that raised him.
Hawks cracks, pressed into the corner of an abandoned apartment, and then he breaks- uglier than he’s even been.
His entire worth, his life, has been pried open by something he can’t fight off or run from- something he can’t even name. He was handed everything he’s ever been able to claim he owns, and it’s all being ripped away faster than he can hold on. Everything he knows is shattering in front of him like the Commission’s windows, and there’s not a single soul who could piece it back to the way it was before. No one who will bother, with so much corruption rotting in the bones.
Everyone knows now, how far down on the morality-scale Hawks threw himself for a fucking bed at night. Something millions go without every day, and he willingly killed people he didn’t have to just to promote his own comfort. He conformed, did whatever was asked without needing a reason. It’s not the kind of thing that inspires trust, that wins people over, that protects them; it’s something much darker, heavier. Already, reports of arrests are rolling across his screen- open to the same damn news channel that broadcasted that morning. The police are rounding up the Commission employees who didn’t have clearance for the meeting, noticeably gentler.
Like they know that the people in charge were in the building when it collapsed into fire and ash.
(Like the harder fight is already won, and this is cleanup.)
Already, the Government is making statements to distance themselves from the Hero Public Safety Commission- promising an end, justice.
There hasn’t been a statement about him specifically yet, but he knows it’s coming; as soon as they round up the rest of the workers and anyone else involved, they’re probably going to look into finding him. And he can’t let that happen.
They aren’t going to understand- the President has always told him how different the Commission is, how special someone has to be to understand what’s necessary- to carry out the dirty work that no one wants to see. Hawks has been doing work so dirty it would make villains wince, and while he understands that someone has to fill those shoes, the rest of society won't see it that way.
Hawks isn’t in the position to fight or negotiate or defend himself, he still can hardly breathe without it sounding like a wheeze. His feathers are gone, even the two he keeps as swords were sent off to get people out of the fire- and into what, jail? Prison? Hawks had given them an express drop-off into a pair of handcuffs, which was probably the fastest way to cut any ties he had. He’s sure half of them are already on their way out with the connections he knows they have, but what happens then? If they’re out for revenge against him for basically aiding in their arrests he’s got nowhere to hide, no one to turn to. And if they just don’t care, if no one comes looking for him to come back-
What happens to Hawks?
His memories of before being a Hero are blurry and disjointed, worthless to turn to; the only life-lesson his mother ever taught him was how to let go. Hawks has never personally filed for anything or opened accounts; his groceries are delivered to the apartment for him. Any money he has is in his Hero account, which is probably under heavy watch now, if it’s still open at all.
Even if he wasn’t about to possibly be the most wanted man across the country, he doesn’t know how to be a normal person- not when every part of him is tied to the Commission.
He... doesn’t know what to do. Putting his head in his hands, Hawks rubs tiredly at the lingering smears of debris on his face and hisses when his fingers meet wet blood- he’d forgotten about the head thing. He probably looks horrible, dirty and pathetic and miserable in the aftermath of his fall from grace. Like a lost dog, trained and abandoned and unsure of where to go. There’s always a way out, he knows that, but it feels like his path has buckled under his feet and thrown him down into the dark- Hawks can’t think of a single person he hasn’t hurt who would help him in this situation without something in it for them.
Part of him doesn’t want help, even if no one is offering.
Hawks has never been trusting to begin with, not outside of Commission Officials and the President of the Hero Public Safety Commission- not outside of the people who raised him. Sure, he can trust other Heroes he’s teaming with to do their jobs, but he’s never been one to patch anyone up or put himself in that situation. Distrust runs rampant in Hero society, with the ranking system in place- needing help reflects badly on the Hero who asks, who isn’t strong enough to take care of it themselves. And falling in the ranks as a Commission-sponsored Pro Hero was always the worse option to any sketchy self-done medical care.
Working with the League of Villains didn’t change that; Hawks was very careful to not let any boundaries fall while on such an important mission. He didn’t overstay his welcome after meetings, didn’t let Toga attempt any kind of beauty rituals, and just generally tried not to give them anything to bite into. Even when it looked like they were calming down, becoming an actual League, when Shigaraki had split from All for One and begrudgingly dragged them all with him, Hawks never told them the truth. He’d even lied about his favorite color when Twice had asked, though it turned out to be for a harmless reason. There was always the chance that the next question won’t be so innocent, and if he got comfortable answering their questions with honesty-
Hawks doesn’t trust anybody because he can’t afford to, and that’s it.
His head hurts when he gently rests it back on the wall, but it’s not an alarming amount- not that he could do anything if it was. The sun is still coming through the windows with a soft glow, catching the dust hanging in the air; it would have been a really nice day, with the pleasant weather and warm temperature outside. A day spent relishing in the slight chill of a high altitude, maybe a chicken skewer from that one corner shop if he’d earned it.
It’s beautiful outside, on the other side of the dirty glass.
And something about that feels off, like it should be dark outside or at least storming on the day that everything falls apart for him. But the rest of the world doesn’t stop for anyone, it keeps moving; everyone on their own paths. A group of friends wearing matching school uniforms is huddled around a screen, faces grim and voices loud- Hawks wonders if his life coming down was enough of a reason to cancel classes.
The screen of the League-phone lights up from where it had gone dark beside him, buzzing with an energy that Hawks can’t hope to match. He’s not going to answer it, but he checks who the caller is anyway.
Shigaraki’s contact flashes across the screen a few more times before it goes dark again. Then it lights back up immediately with the same face- some embarrassing picture that Toga had insisted he take after she’d gotten her hands on her leader, who had threatened to dust Hawks but held still for the camera in his face. The villain's already pale face is slathered in a thick layer of beauty supplies, which completely clash with his hair and skin-tone; it's a funny picture, when he can separate the image from the criminal.
Hawks stares at the phone like its growing legs in front of him, sure that the concussion is messing with him, then he slowly and carefully flips the Villain’s face to the floor so he doesn’t have to squint against the flashing light and offensive makeup. The phone is only silent for a moment before it begins to vibrate again, and he turns it off completely in response. Like hell he’s picking up a call from the League of Villains right now; he’ll probably never take their calls again, now that the mission is completely compromised, and they know and he’s not-
He’s not the Commission’s Hero anymore, the only people who ever took a second glance at him are gone. Scattered. In cuffs. Actively cutting ties with the mess, if they’re smart.
The only reason the League of Villains would be calling is to rub his nose in everything, or maybe to get him to roll over easier for the hands or knife or fire they’d have ready. Hawks puts his head in his knees and curls into the wall like it might accept him if he conforms enough. His body still burns with mistreatment, with loss he doesn’t know how to process. Hawks knows he’s horrible, immoral, hypocritical, and in the deepest pile of shit he’s ever been in
He doesn’t want to hear it.