Chapter Text
Chaos, Arlecchino decided, was universal.
It did not belong to any one nation, any one era, any one world. It followed her the way blood followed a wound—inevitable, clinging, familiar.
The scream came first.
Sharp and high.
It cut through the city’s noise like a blade, raw panic tearing free of someone who had realized—too late—that no one was coming to help them.
Arlecchino’s head snapped toward the sound before she could stop herself.
Instinct was a difficult thing to unlearn.
Across the street, the crowd broke apart in a wave of movement that was almost graceful in its cowardice. People scattered like startled birds, bodies colliding, shoes skidding uselessly against the pavement. A woman stumbled and was hauled upright by a stranger who did not slow down. Someone shouted incoherently. Someone else laughed—nervous, sharp, hysterical.
And from between two buildings, something oozed into the open.
It was wrong in a way that was immediately offensive.
A thick, viscous mass dragged itself forward, dark and glistening, its surface rippling like something alive that did not understand the shape it was meant to hold. It stretched, collapsed, then stretched again, leaving wet streaks along the concrete. The sound it made was nauseating—like choking, like drowning, like something trying to breathe through a mouth it did not have.
The thing lunged.
It wrapped itself around a body that was too small.
Sandy blond hair flashed briefly in the light before disappearing beneath the sludge.
Arlecchino’s lip curled.
Possession-type entity. Crude. Inelegant.
She scanned it automatically, senses reaching out for something—anything—familiar.
No elemental signature.
No Abyssal distortion.
No divine residue.
It wasn’t magic.
It wasn’t Abyssal either.
How… disappointing.
She took a step forward without thinking.
Her weight shifted. Her heel lifted.
Then she stopped.
The thought came a half-second too late.
This isn’t your world.
The reminder settled heavily in her chest, unwelcome but necessary. Intervention here—direct intervention—would draw attention. Questions. Consequences she had not yet measured.
And yet—
Her gaze tracked the struggle with cold precision.
The sludge tightened.
The boy inside it thrashed violently, arms pinned, legs kicking uselessly against empty air. He screamed again, voice hoarse with fury and fear.
“Let go of me!” he shouted. “Get the hell off—!”
A second figure stumbled into view.
Green hair. Freckled face. Too young.
He skidded to a stop at the edge of the chaos, breath coming in sharp, uneven gasps. His hands shook at his sides, fingers twitching as if he didn’t know what to do with them. His eyes were wide, fixed helplessly on the scene in front of him.
Fear.
Real, unfiltered fear.
Good.
At least some of them understood danger.
The sludge constricted again, muffling the blond boy’s voice.
Arlecchino frowned.
Children.
Always children.
She shifted forward again, muscles tensing.
Then she noticed something that made her pause.
The crowd hadn’t surged in.
They hadn’t rushed forward screaming or thrown themselves recklessly at the threat. No one tried to grab the boy. No one attempted to pull him free.
They stood back.
They waited.
A woman clutched a small rectangular device with both hands, its screen glowing as she aimed it toward the chaos. A man pulled his child close, shielding her eyes—but not turning away. Someone whispered frantically into another device, words tumbling over each other too fast to make sense of.
“Someone call—”
“Is this real?”
“Heroes will handle it.”
Heroes.
The word drifted through the air like a promise.
Arlecchino felt something cold and sharp settle in her stomach.
Ah.
So this was the kind of world this was.
A world that taught its people to stand still while children suffocated.
Repulsion curled in her chest, bitter and familiar.
It reminded her of home.
Not the House of the Hearth as it was now, but what it had been before she tore it apart. Back when suffering was allowed to linger just long enough to justify intervention. Back when cruelty was tolerated because it came wrapped in authority.
“Heroes are on the way!” someone yelled, voice bright with relief.
Heroes.
The word tasted foul.
Arlecchino watched as the air itself seemed to shift.
A sudden gust tore through the street, violent and abrupt, ripping at loose papers and whipping coats around startled bodies. The sludge creature shrieked—a wet, distorted sound—before its mass was torn apart, flung aside as if struck by an invisible fist.
A tall figure landed with impossible force.
The ground cracked beneath his feet.
Arlecchino recognized him instantly.
Not because of the costume—though it was ridiculous, loud colors and exaggerated lines meant to be seen from a distance—but because of the posture.
Concrete fractured beneath his boots, spiderweb cracks racing outward as if the ground itself had flinched. Dust burst into the air, catching the light. The crowd gasped in unison.
The man straightened slowly.
The stance was wide and dramatic, body angled just enough to ensure visibility from every direction. His chest was pushed out, shoulders squared, fists clenched at his sides like punctuation marks. Even still, even silent, he commanded attention. His expression was fierce—yes—but carefully calibrated, softened at the edges into something reassuring.
Not rage.
Not urgency.
Arlecchino’s gaze flicked over him with surgical precision.
Then—
—All Might.
The voice slid into her mind without warning. It did not echo or reverberate. It simply was, as though the word had always been there and she had only just noticed it. Her breath did not hitch. Her expression did not change.
But her eyes narrowed, just slightly.
She did not look away from the man.
The sludge creature shrieked as it was torn apart by sheer force, its mass flung aside like discarded waste. The boy fell free, collapsing hard against the pavement, coughing violently as air finally filled his lungs.
Cheers erupted.
The name followed.
“All Might!”
“All Might!”
“He’s here!”
“We’re saved!”
The voice did not repeat itself.
Arlecchino watched the man move.
Every gesture was deliberate. Every step is measured. He placed himself between the civilians and the threat even after it was neutralized, broad back turned to the crowd like a living shield. Cameras flashed. Microphones surged forward. He smiled, wide, brilliant, impossibly confident.
The voice stirred again, faint as a breath against the inside of her skull.
—Symbol.
Her jaw tightened.
She ignored it.
Ignored the way the word settled unpleasantly in her chest. Ignored the subtle pressure behind her eyes, the sensation of something aligning pieces she had not yet asked to see.
She focused instead on the details.
The sludge was contained. The danger erased. The narrative complete.
‘All Might’ raised a fist into the air.
The crowd roared.
The voice did not speak again.
But it lingered.
More figures followed quickly—some leaping from rooftops, others arriving in vehicles that screamed to a halt. Their movements were coordinated, efficient. Containment tools snapped into place with practiced ease. The remains of the sludge were restrained, neutralized, and sealed away.
Packaged.
The blond boy was freed, collapsing to his knees as he coughed violently, rage and adrenaline bleeding out of him in sharp, furious bursts. The green-haired boy stared at the scene as if he had just witnessed divinity.
Arlecchino scoffed quietly.
As much as she disliked the Archons, even she knew that this was hardly a feat worthy of reverence.
The crowd erupted into cheers.
Applause thundered down the street, loud and ecstatic, washing over the heroes like a reward. Cameras flashed. Voices shouted names she didn’t recognize.
Something twisted sharply behind Arlecchino’s ribs.
Artificial care.
That was what this was.
Manufactured heroism. Controlled chaos. A system that waited for tragedy so it could parade solutions like gifts.
She had seen this pattern before.
Men who fed children just enough to keep them loyal. Nations that cultivated threats to justify their armies. Gods who let suffering fester—not because they were cruel, but because it reminded mortals that they were needed.
Heroes were no different.
Puppets in brighter colors.
She turned away before the applause could grate on her nerves any further.
—
The pawn shop was smaller than she expected.
Tucked between a laundromat and a restaurant that smelled aggressively of fried oil and salt, its sign flickered unevenly, one letter threatening to die entirely. The windows were smudged with grime, the interior dim and quiet in a way that felt almost reverent.
Better.
Inside, the air was stale and heavy with dust and old metal.
The man behind the counter looked up slowly.
He was thin, exhaustion etched deep into his face. Dark circles hung beneath his eyes like bruises. His clothes were wrinkled, his hair unkempt, as though he’d given up on appearances a long time ago. His gaze flicked over her—lingering a second too long on her face, on her eyes.
She hated that look.
Recognition without understanding.
She reached into her Vision and pulled out two coins.
Mora.
Except—
Her brow furrowed.
They were gold.
Pure. Untouched. Devoid of any elemental hum.
No resonance. No warmth. No subtle vibration beneath her skin.
Just metal.
Her grip tightened.
That shouldn’t be possible.
It was as if something had stripped them bare during her transition between worlds. As if the elemental energy had been absorbed—by the space between, or by her.
The man’s eyes widened.
“…Are those real gold?” he asked, already standing.
She placed the coins on the counter, watching him carefully.
“I wish to exchange them,” she said. “For local currency.”
He picked one up with reverence, turning it over in his hands. He raised it to his teeth, hesitated, then stopped himself, embarrassed.
His gaze flicked back to her.
“How did you get these?” he asked cautiously.
She tilted her head.
“Is that relevant?”
“…No,” he admitted. “No, not really.”
Good.
He disappeared into the back room.
When he returned, his hands were shaking.
“I can’t give you full value,” he said quickly. “I don’t have that kind of money. But for two coins—”
He slid a thick envelope across the counter.
Arlecchino picked it up, weighed it in her hand.
Paper. Numbers she didn’t recognize. Too many zeros.
She opened it.
Stopped.
Counted again.
“…This seems excessive,” she said flatly.
The man stared at her like she had lost her mind.
“That’s more than most people make in years,” he said hoarsely.
She blinked.
“…Is it?”
They stared at each other.
Something about this exchange felt absurd.
“This world’s currency,” she said slowly, “appears inflated.”
He made a sound that might have been a laugh.
She left without another word.
—
She found herself in a quiet alley not long after, sitting with her back against cool brick, the city’s noise dulled to distant sirens and muffled voices.
Heroes.
The word still tasted foul.
They wore their power openly. Sanctioned. Regulated. Idolized.
Children grew up dreaming of becoming weapons for the state.
Parents encouraged it.
They outsourced protection.
How lazy.
Her thoughts drifted, unbidden.
Small hands clutching her coat. Wide eyes watching her every move. Children who learned early that no one came to save them—that survival was not something promised, but something earned.
She had never told them she would keep them safe.
She had told them the truth.
That the world was cruel.
That love was not loud.
That care was not performative.
Care was making sure they ate.
Care was standing between them and the knife.
Care was blood on your hands so theirs stayed clean.
Heroes would never understand that.
Heroes arrived after the damage was done.
She had always arrived before.
Her fingers curled slowly.
This world worshipped symbols.
And symbols were fragile things.
She glanced at her hand again, at the faint warmth lingering beneath her skin.
No elemental trace.
She felt stronger.
Heavier. Fuller.
As if something had settled into her bones during the transition between worlds, quiet and waiting.
She didn’t understand it yet.
But she would.
Arlecchino rose to her feet.
If this world insisted on parading its false saviors—
Then she would watch.
And learn.
And decide what to do with them.