Chapter Text
It feels rout, like Chizome's merely going through the motions.
Barely anyone spares him a glance, scurrying along like mechanical pieces to society's great machine. They don't understand. Don't want to understand, and it just makes the disgust crawling under his skin worse. The Pro Hero system has become an ugly and insidious industry, and yet it's such a simple thing to turn a blind eye, to look the other way. It's going to chew up and spit out shining beacons like All Might, and leave the unworthy, the impure and greedy, to fill in the left behind space. It's going to shatter the foundations built on the broken backs of vigilantes and underground heroes alike if nothing's done about it, and then where will they be?
“—it's a plague upon our morals, our duty to each other, to purposely allow the flashiness, the usefulness of a quirk blind us to the faults in a person's character,” he says, voice carrying, hands splayed. People shuffle past him, heads carefully turned away. “We cannot allow the insincere and conceited to share the same pedestal that which All Might stands upon. We must purge our society of those who would claim to be Heroes and dare not to embody the purest of virtues—”
Beneath his feet, the crate jerks, and Chizome stumbles off of it with a bitten off curse.
“Don't you have anything better to do then preach stupid shit, man?” taunts a voice, and Chizome turns, hands drawing to fists. The riftraft laugh, and the ringleader nods with a smug grin full of pin needle teeth. “I swear, you're here every other day—get a life!”
This is nothing new. Everywhere, there are people who find fault with being called out, who get angry and offended. Always at the messenger, never at the problem. His lip threatens to curl, an ugly draw to his face, but Chizome holds it, and merely stares, eyes lidded, until they scuttle off like cockroaches to a sudden burst of light, unnerved.
Weak willed and abhorrent; sheep being lead before the slaughter. He watches them go, frowning, before straightening up his box. It's always nice when the prey wanders right up to him, unknowing and stupid. But, that's for later.
“—and see them cast from society for their transgressions,” Chizome continues, stepping back up. “Today, we have grown complacent and overly tolerant—we deserve a just world, and poisoning our line of defense, willfully and gainfully, is not sustainable. Societal collapse is inevitable, but what will rise from the ashes—”
It doesn't take long, after, for someone to decide to do away with him. The overcast afternoon has slid away to a wet and dreary almost evening when Chizome spots a man speaking to a police officer. The man points, the woman in uniform following, and Chizome trails off, lips twisting.
Time to go, he thinks, hopping down. He gives the downtown plaza a purposeful look, and promises, See you tomorrow.
Rome wasn't built in a day, and it didn't fall in one either.
“Sir—” starts a voice, but Chizome ignores it, flipping the crate over and scooping up his bag. Both in hand, he spins on his heel— “ Sir! ”
It's pitiful how easy he loses her, twisting down a back alley and then scaling a fire escape. She walks right under him, muttering, and disappears back onto the main street, none the wiser. Soon, he'll need to move on; they're getting used to him, and that's a problem. Saitama's quiet, at least. Phony heroes left and right, like anywhere, but at least the streets are more organized than Shiga. It's almost an all out war zone in Shiga; once a beautiful tourist attraction, or so Chizome’s heard, now a violent and seething cesspool of near constant turf wars.
Saitama is completely tame, compared to it. Or at least, it is now.
The trek back to his current bolthole is damp and slow. It's not much more condemned than it’s falling to ruin, but the abandoned apartment complex keeps Chizome out of the rain and relatively warm. He's been through this prefecture before, but not this specific forgotten corner. It's been making a name for itself in the seedier circles, whispered amongst the… malcontent.
They're not necessarily the lowest of the low, not necessarily something he might need to poke his nose into. Not yet, anyway. It's not like the majority of them have a quirk to abuse, if the rumors are to be believed.
Chizome passes boarded up and broken windows, soft trash flattening under foot, and wonders about it still as he climbs up a set of stairs. He jiggles open the door to his chosen apartment, and bolts it shut without much care. Whoever lived here last had a cat, if the smell is anything to go by, but the floor is stable and the windows firm.
With a yawn, he dumps his bag, the crate, and it takes no time at all before he beds for the evening. In the darkness, Chizome feels alone and yet beholden to his purpose, the floor hard beneath his raggedy bedroll and thin pillow. He wonders disgustingly if he's actually making a difference.
The cracks in the ceiling offer no answers, merely drip water and spider web across the moldy plaster. He closes his eyes—
And, soon enough, sunlight filters weak through the sagging plastic shades. Chizome’s cracks an eye open, sitting up with a somewhat painful wince. One more night, that’s all, then he’s cleaning house and moving on. To hopefully a paying gig, and somewhere where he can really make more of a difference.
He eats cold leftover cup ramen, brushes his teeth with a mostly clean finger, and puts on a more rugged set of clothing, more worn and patched but loose enough it hides the thick padding underneath. Considers his swords for a moment before palming a trench knife instead, and running a hand through his loose hair. The knots catch on his fingers, but he tugs through them despite the pain before packing up.
It's earlier than he really likes to attend to his soapbox, but Chizome returns to the plaza just shy of noon to shake things up a bit for the lunch crowd. Already, he's caught a pair of rolled eyes, and smirks beneath his mask as he settles the crate down and stuffs his bag beneath it.
Can't get rid of me that easily, he thinks, stepping up, and spreads his hands.