Chapter Text
He takes his time going down the stairs. The creaky noises, vibrations coming from the ring, and uneven steps jostle him. Sero’s grateful he took the fucking painkillers. He wants to thank Rook too. Even if the guy said it was for a favor, he still dragged Sero’s ass all the way home and made sure he didn’t bleed onto his pillow (wanting to stay on good terms because the man now knows his home address definitely plays no part in this decision). Making the final turn, he expects to see Rook standing at the door.
No one is at the door.
Sero’s eyebrows draw together in confusion. Approaching the door cautiously, wary of some sort of trap, he observes the rest of the hallway. There’s only one other, which sits inconspicuously to the left of the main one. It doesn’t catch Sero’s eye for any reason and he continues forward, turning to walk backwards to make sure no one creeps up behind him. He can feel the ground shaking slightly underneath, enough so that the soles of his sneakers pulse.
Yeah, real fuckin’ grateful for the painkillers.
He tests the doorknob of the maroon, sticker-covered door, and finds it turns just fine. Twisting it open, he’s hit with loud cheering noises and the heavy sound of a falling body. Sero flinches back, remembering how the dumb article said he was supposed to avoid loud noises too.
Too late now.
Entering the space, Sero lets the door shut at his back.
His body jolts forward and his head contorts back—there is nothing going for his neck.
He stands there for a moment, unsure of where he should move to. Sero scans the crowd for any of the faces he’s met in the past couple of days. He sees a few of the people who were a part of the group from Friday night, hanging out in the same area as last time; he doesn’t find Rook anywhere, nor Catch for that matter.
Shifting over to the side, conscious that the painkillers are kicking in for his ribs at least a little bit now, he gets out of the way of the door. Sero’s not quite sure what his next move should be, the only people he could safely consider walking up to are not visible. Huffing a bit, he scouts out the rest of the room, skimming over the platform Catch showed him last time he was here, and then over to the row of doors on the left.
It’s plausible to assume Sero’s acquaintances are behind one of them, but he’d rather not go test a random fucking door when the percentage that he walks into somewhere that he really shouldn’t supremely outweigh the chances of finding the only two fucking people he actually knows.
With that, Sero’s left standing awkwardly to the side. He debates crossing his arms, which would hopefully give off the air that he doesn’t want to talk to anyone, but if he did that he’d be one foot against the wall away from looking like a total douche.
With his fingers tucking away into his pockets, he comes to the conclusion that he might as well enjoy the show.
There are two large figures in the ring, both bulkier and barefoot, only clad in short sleeves and shorts. He watches as the one further from him, in a neon orange shirt, throws a punch to the other's face. The other fighter in green blocks with a forearm, then twists their hand around to clutch Orange-shirts fist in their fingers.
Orange-shirt unsuccessfully yanks his hand out of the grip and kicks a foot up to wrap around the thigh of Green-shirt.
Orange-shirt manages to slip Green-shirts leg out from underneath him, and sends him to the mat on a knee. The clutch on Orange-shirts fist is gone, and with their loss of handicap, they send their fist smashing into the side of their opponent's head.
Sero watches as the fist goes into the temple of Green-shirts head, sending small ripples across the surrounding skin. Green-shirt is propelled to the mat, head bouncing a bit as hits the floor. Orange-shirts fist pulls back, a couple of knuckles split and blooming red. Blood starts to leak out of the horizontal fighter's side, a wound Sero suspects they sustained just before he arrived.
There’s a few cheers as Orange-shirt makes their way over to Green-shirt, who has their eyes closed with a small puddle underneath them and is taking deep breaths against the mat. Orange-shirt then grips both of his opponent's hands and slowly pulls them to a stand. Placing a hand on their waist, Green-shirt is herded out of the ring and into the pit-area, where a woman whose mouth is pressed into a thin line is standing.
Green-shirt leans back as the woman pokes fingers into their side. Sero can see the flinches and read the ‘don’t fucking press on it’ coming out of their mouth from across the room. The woman smiles a bit as she presses another fingernail into their side, Sero thinks into where the blood is coming out of, and is met with another grimace.
She huffs after a short conversation with the fighters, then dips her hand into the breast pocket of her blazer.
Her hand pulls back out, this time a small tin rectangle is clutched between two fingers. She hands them over to Green-shirt and they punch out a few circles, pills, Sero realizes, then hands them back to the woman. She tucks them back away then lets her palm hover above the wound.
After a few seconds, she pulls her hand away and the fighter straightens up a bit. Sero thinks she grasps the fighter's hand next, but can’t tell from his current angle.
Another few seconds of conversation and she steps away, pulling a handkerchief out of a different pocket to wipe down her fingers. She turns around and walks into the crowd, heading to the back area.
Suddenly, Sero understands. Oh shit, that must be the medic.
She had the pills, and a quick glance at the recent loser reveals them to be standing up straight without assistance.
Someone by the two fighters yells as they head over, clapping the winner on the back. The sudden loud noise makes Sero wince, a flare rising up in the back of his head.
Oh shit, he could use a medic.
Then Sero’s off, speeding into the mass of people trying to chase after a person who he thinks is at least the acting healer.
He’s trying his best not to push people, but they don’t fucking move, so he ends up elbowing a few of the watchers in the side and moving onto the next before they get the chance to yell at him. He can barely see the straight line of her shoulders as he weaves his way towards the edge of her crowd. Sero’s eyes are locked in front as he is almost in the clear, watching as she nears the last door before the bathroom. He almost gets out of the crowd, but a weird feeling snags his ankle and he tilts forward.
He tips over and stumbles a few feet, but manages to keep himself on his feet. Fuck, he wraps an arm around his sides as it pulses.
Turning around to face whoever’s foot he got caught on, the offender speaks first.
“Oh shit, guy-who-fought-Rappa, that you?”
Sero, annoyance quickly turning to embarrassment, rubs the back of his neck for a second and is grateful for the lighting to hide his blush. Seriously, the first time he’s recognized for a fight and it’s from the ring is when he lost.
“Yeah…” He’s not sure how else to respond. They start snapping their fingers a few times.
“It starts with an ‘S,’ right?” Sero realizes he didn’t put the tag on, as he wasn’t planning on fighting.
“It’s Scotch,” he supplies. Their face lights up a bit.
“Yeah, Scotch! The whole quirk-trick where you pulled yourself back into the ring was cool as hell!”
“Oh, thanks a lot. It helped in the moment, but I never really had a chance anyway.” Rook's words pound back into his head like a sledgehammer, Rappa normally kills his opponents.
Rappa grinds the metal plates together, sparks flying off in all directions. He grows taller and taller and “this isn’t ov—
He suppresses a shudder.
The person chuckles, then continues.
“Yeah… Rappa’s been in the game for a while now,” Sero’s interest visibly piques, “his quirk really comes in handy to get that reach,” Sero remembers how it shouldn’t have been physically possible for Rappa’s shoulders to wind back and peel Sero off his back, “he’s been shuffling around all the locations but keeps getting kicked for killing all the contenders.”
He lets out a shaky exhale.
“Huh,” Sero mumbles, “guess I am lucky then.” What an awful fucking thing to be lucky at, not dying.
The person waves him off for a second and then seems to remember the reason for the confrontation.
“Oh shit, sorry about that,” they gesture towards his feet.
“No worries,” Sero returns with a smile.
Fuck. The medic.
Sero waves a goodbye and spins around, trying not to look too eager as he rushes towards the door the woman walked through.
Making his way past a few randoms, the guy's words turn over in his head. Rappa’s quirk had to do with his mobility, specifically that of his shoulders. That ability, combined with his already impressive physique, makes him two notches above fucking terrifying in Sero’s book.
Yeah, definitely stay the fuck away from him.
Sero’s not sure whether to knock or not. The one time he had to go to Recovery Girl’s office he did, but he doesn’t think the same rules apply.
He knocks anyway, but doesn’t wait for a holler to open the door. Twisting the knob, he’s greeted with the sight of the medic collecting bandages and who Sero assumes to be a previous fighter is sitting in a chair on the left with a black eye and busted lip.
The room isn’t extremely large, with a few foldable chairs, where the person is sitting, and then a mattress further back with a towel draped over a milk crate. The right side of the space is one long counter, with a small sink and cabinets lining it (full of what Sero assumes are different sorts of medical supplies).
The woman gives him a flat look as she collects the items in her hand and then turns back to the person sitting in the chair.
“Thanks,” they say, “Shizuko.”
Shizuko. He wonders for a second if that’s her real name since it’s not one of the weird-ass nicknames like Catch or Rook. Shizuko’s awfully common though, and it could’ve been picked for that reason. If that is her real name, does that mean she simply doesn’t care for confidentiality between the ring life and real life? Or does that mean that this is her only life?
The woman nods, shoving the bandage into the fighter's hand, then points a sharp fingernail to the exit.
They shuffle out, brushing past Sero and into the main area. The medic turns her attention towards him.
“Is there something you need?” Her hand falls back to the counter, nails clicking against the top. She stares him down then lets her gaze fall, eyes roving over his body, and then quickly rising back up to his face.
She’s intimidating. Sero shifts side-to-side on his feet, trying to work out what exactly he’s supposed to say now that he has an actual medical personnel who is able to give him somewhat proper medical assistance.
“I… fought a few days ago…I’m Scotch. I got kind of messed up and was wonderin— it was the one against Rappa,” he interjects himself, hoping that might provide a better explanation.
She clicks her tongue and, unexpectedly, the corner of her mouth tugs up. There’s something in her eyes.
“Rappa does enjoy the more personal, bloodier, aspects that this style of fighting caters to,” she motions with her hands and ushers Sero into the chair, “I’m not a hypocrite, however, I can see the appeal.”
Sero’s back straightens. The appeal. What the fuck.
She snaps in his face, making him jerk back with a hiss and raise a hand to his head.
She hums, “the head,” then narrows her eyes and tilts her head to the side, “I, unfortunately, wasn’t able to attend, where else did you sustain injuries?”
For a split second he’s flat against a door, face turned sideways as salmon-colored hair sways into his vision.
She increased his headache and has the same interests as Rappa, Sero doesn’t know if he wants to tell her where else his injuries are.
“My sides, I think my ribs are… bruised? Not completely sure, but they hurt real bad.”
She nods and lets a hand rest on his left side. Sero doesn’t know exactly what she’s planning, considering he’s still got his shirt and hoodie layers on. It’s not long before he remembers watching her dig into Green-shirts bloody wound.
Her fingers curl and those fucking fingernails poke through the fabric.
Sero takes a sharp inhale at the short lance of pain, straightening up in his seat and slightly curling over to get the hand off of him.
“They don’t seem to be causing you the amount of pain they should be,” she levels her eyes back at his, “I’m familiar with Rappa’s victims, what measures have you already taken?”
“I’ve kept ice on ‘em for the better part of the past few days, stayed away from painkillers for my head, the first twenty-four hours, and tried to limit my movement as much as possible?” he answers her, hoping she’ll stop making it worse now and get to the part where Sero thinks she’s supposed to help him. You know, as the medic.
Her eyes widen the slightest bit, “not bad,” she smiles a little, that something’s back in her eye, “not bad at all. ”
She takes a step back and leans against the counter, hands folding into the pockets of her jacket.
“You’re a recent addition, correct?”
Sero nods. So when is she actually gonna do her fucking job?
“Were you a part of a previous ring, or any other form of consistent physical ventures?”
Sero tries to hide his freezing up by relaxing into the chair. Lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, li—
“Not really,” he shrugs, trying to subtly get the topic away from his experience in getting injuries, “I just used the internet to figure out how to take care of it, but some of what it said was contradictory, so I tried my best.”
“Regardless,” she rolls her shoulders back, “I can appreciate someone following semi-faulty medical advice. It’s aggravating to watch someone whose shoulder I reset get yanked out a day later… While I do enjoy a little project every now and again, competency is extremely useful.”
Sero doesn’t know where she’s going with this.
“Would you be interested in working under me for, say, a week or so? Just a few lessons, I have other matters to divide my attention amongst, and injuries are the name of the game here. It would be valuable to have someone else on-hand who knows how to set fingers and properly disinfect and dress a wound.” She gives him another look that he can’t figure out. “The price of muscle happens to be brains around here.”
He pauses. What the fuck is he supposed to say? He knows what he should say. But then again, Sero hasn’t really been doing the things that he should be, recently. This could definitely be useful in the long-term, looking at it from a career standpoint. Sero would be useful to his classmates, who sometimes pull the dumbest fucking shit. Useful or not, though, he’s not sure if he should study under Shizuko. While she seems to know what she’s doing, she’s also a little bloodthirsty for Sero’s tastes.
But isn’t everyone here? Including himself, Sero supposes. He came here looking for a fight, too.
“Alright, just a few lessons,” dumb, dumb, dumb, “I’ve got other business as well.” That last part rushes out and he regrets saying it the second he processes it. Can he make it any more obvious that he doesn’t know what he’s doing?
She gives him a weird grin, which Sero thinks might be as pleasant as she’ll get.
“Glad to hear it, shall I get started with you now?”
Sero nods, mindful of his head and feeling a little off-kilter at her wording. She steps over to stand in front of him and bends down, letting one hand hover above his head and the other lightly press into his side. He doesn’t know exactly what her quirk is, she hasn’t mentioned it, but he starts to feel some of the pain alleviate. It’s almost as if she stuck tubes into his body, and is sucking the pain out in tendrils. He feels good.
Well, not good, but better than he has been for the past forty-eight hours.
Sero doesn’t think it was a numbing quirk, but it somehow was able to pull a portion of the pain out, seemingly replacing it with a strange hazy sensation. He tries to keep his eyes focused on her, but it’s as if she’s blending into the background. Sero rocks a bit in his chair, fuzzy and unsteady.
“Perfect.”
Sero, halfway out of it, gives her a smile, “dope.”
He settles further onto his cloud, barely noticing the red-tinged glow encasing her hands as she turns around, sliding open a drawer and pulling something out with a clink. She turns back around to him, knife in hand.
“Let’s start your first lesson.” She reaches out to his arm, rolling up the sleeve, and Sero doesn’t process what she’s doing until she tightly grips his forearm with those fucking fingernails and presses the tip of the knife into his skin.
What. The. Fuck.
Sero doesn’t want to risk shaking her off with an arm she’s got locked down, so he tries to put his other one to use, but once he’s got a lock on her wrist he doesn’t have the strength to wrench her off.
There should be alarms going off in his head, blaring loud noises and his fight-or-flight should be setting. But there’s nothing.
Whatever she did to take away most of the pain and leave him feeling drugged, fucking take it back.
She presses the knife down into his flesh, halting that movement once she draws blood, and then starts dragging it diagonally towards his palm from the inner side of his arm.
Whatthefuckwhatthefuck—
He feels like he’s watching a movie. It’s his arm, but all Sero can feel is the slim edge of pressure slicing down his skin and the pricking of her nails. He maintains his hold on her wrist, unable to do much past it.
It’s strange, watching his flesh open up. Dark blood pools in the slit the knife leaves behind, curling down his skin and dripping onto the floor. His state of mind removes the pain and leaves only curiosity. The cut is clean, almost like she zipped open his arm, except instead of opening up into a shirt, as a jacket would, it opens up the pale meat of his arm to the dark red layer of skin that he doesn’t remember the technical term for.
He barely catches that the reddish tint of her hands is almost gone too, almost like it relocated onto his arm. Sero thinks that he should be freaking out a lot more over this, but he can’t. He remains almost slack in the plastic chair until Shizuko stops her slow carving. The pressure of the knife lifts, and she takes a step back to toss it in the sink.
Her hand is still curled around his forearm, out of reach of the pooling blood that slides down, but keeping it parallel to the floor.
Sero’s gaze stays on the wound. The cut is crisp, which he guesses he should be thankful for, and his skin opens up like an eye socket, widening as it goes down then being pulled back together. That’s his inside exposed. Sero’s unsure of where this is going, as the supposed medic just sliced him open. He hopes she doesn’t dig those fucking fingernails into his body and yank it out of his arm.
What does he say now. What the fuck is he supposed to say now.
She drops her hold and his forearm rests on his thigh. He looks up at her, blinking, he wants to be angry, but he can’t and he doesn’t know why.
Shizuko snags a rag off the counter and balls it up. Pressing it into his open wound, she reaches out to his free hand and places it on top of the cloth. Sero’s slow-functioning brain picks up on what she’s doing and takes over, keeping a steady compress. He can’t do anything about the blood that’s already dribbled over, but he lets no other drops leak over. She swivels back to her cabinets and opens one of them, pulling a small container out.
“First lesson,” she snaps open the kit and pulls something wire-thin out, “stitches.”
Sero blinks and shifts his left hand. The previously muffled pain sets in for a second, and he hisses out. He looks down at his arm with a grimace, pushing the rag down.
“We’ll need to work quickly, before the numbing wears off.”
He doesn’t have the brainpower to work himself into a fit over this; he simply nods, letting the pressure off his wound at her prompting.
She juts her chin down, “the rag is unused, cut is fresh, tweezers were disinfected previously, and the thread is clean. Is it necessary to apply any other sort of agent onto the wound?”
It takes Sero a second of staring off, then meeting her eyes, to realize that the question wasn’t rhetorical.
“No? No…” he peers past her into the open cabinet, “wouldn’t that just be wasteful?”
“Yes,” she confirms, “if the chance of infection is small, it’s better to go with the risk than waste the supplies.”
Go with the risk? Don’t people die from infections, like all the time ? Sero doesn’t think Recovery Girl would approve.
Fuck—stop comparing UA to The Green Lemur, the same rules obviously don’t fuckin’ apply, dipshit.
Standard medical procedure normally involves going to a hospital, going to a qualified individual, when you think you’ve sustained a serious injury. Standard medical procedure here is hoping you hit harder than the other guy, and if you don’t, you take what you can get afterwards. Sero needs to learn this, he needs to remember this.
She pulls out a set of tweezers and positions herself in front of him. Lifting his hand off the rag, she deposits it in the sink and looks him in the eye. There’s a quick snap, that Sero doesn’t feel the need to recoil at, in front of his eyes.
“Pay attention.”
Shizuko lifts up the tweezers first, making sure he follows along then brings them along the gnarly wound, squeezing one side of his skin. It still feels unreal. There're still some crevices lined with blood, but it’s not a fountain, and Sero guesses those are a part of the stitchable/unstitchable guidelines.
The tweezer pinches his skin.
“Watch, Scotch.” She speaks coldly, moving the thread down to his opened flesh.
He observes the thread, which has a curved metal piece on the end, get plunged into his skin. Sero thinks that the weird numbing she talked about previously is starting to wear off. He can feel the poking, the puncturing, the slimy sensation as she pulls the strand through him.
He’s sitting in one of the back rooms of a fighting ring, in a foldable chair getting his arm stitched up by the medical personnel who gave him the wound in the first place.
She pokes it through the other side of his skin, then tugs. The starting point of his wound is now slightly shut, but the overall wound is still gaping open. He waits a beat for her to continue, and is confused when she doesn’t. Sero’s eyebrows draw in and they make eye contact.
“Your turn.”
Sero pauses.
She nods at his unemployed arm.
He doesn’t argue, doesn’t let himself freak out, just tries to control the trembling in his left hand as he reaches over to grab the thread from her.
Once Sero has it pressed between his pointer and thumb it’s as if everything he just watched her do tumbles out his brain.
You just stick it through the skin and pull, right?
They were supposed to cover first-aid already, at school, but scheduling issues caused the unit to be pushed back. But these are only stitches, there isn’t much to them besides pulling an open wound close. Sero still feels a little hazy, and looking at the string in his hand makes him feel unconfident. The panic that should be settling into his bones is prodding at the weird walls surrounding his brain.
Some fumbling occurs, as Shizuko shifts her grip on the tweezers to get out of his way.
“It’s unfortunate that you’ll only be able to use one hand, but you can make do.”
She holds his skin steady, and Sero lets his hand descend.
He messes up immediately, hitting metal tweezers instead of skin. Sero expects a comment, some sort of reprimand for already fucking it up, but is met with silence. He uses the second to take a breath, clearing some of the fog away from his head and unintentionally letting the pain start to settle in. Warmth, cutting down the lines of the wound, and pinching, from cold metal.
Sero needs to get this done, now.
He pushes his way through the flesh, relying on his unresponsive nerves. Blood leaks out around the puncture, pooling around that which has already crusted over. It oozes and smells and Sero pulls the thread through, crossing over the opened portion to where Shizuko is already holding his skin still.
The angle is awkward, with his forearm resting limply on his thigh, but she steadfastly ignores it and leaves him to his shaky threading.
Sero doesn’t think as he turns the metal head around, just pushes it back into his skin and pulls it through; crossing the wound, sinking into the opposing flesh, and pulling. He desperately holds onto the clouds that he was wishing away minutes ago. Finish this.
The final loop is made, the last tug commenced, and his skin is pulled shut. Shizuko takes the thread out of his hand, ties up the end of the strand in some fashion Sero can’t bother to pay attention to, and it’s done.
It’s ugly.
The stitches look disgusting, with fluid secreting along the edges. They zig-zag across his forearm and contrast starkly with his skin.
Shizuko hums, “this’ll do, for a first time.”
Sero’s too busy looking at his arm to notice the wet paper towel dropped into his hand. He grabs it the second he realizes what it’s for, and wraps it around his finger to start cleaning up the bloodied edges.
His head feels almost cleared now, the throbbing pain residing in his forearm setting in. It hurts, but not as much as Sero thinks that it should. The pain in his sides and head is still dulled from before.
Sero hears the creaking of the cabinets and looks up to see Shizuko with a tube thrust out towards him. He lets the wet paper rest on his arm and reaches out. She pulls back the second he gets a fingertip on it.
“Thin layer,” she says menacingly. Dropping it into his hand, she then pulls back to rest against the counter, observing him.
Sero brings the half-empty ointment to his side, twisting the cap off with his open hand and resting it on his thigh. Obeying her words, he squeezes out barely enough to cover half his fingertip.
He pushes the gel into the corners of the stitches, where the skin looks raw. Sero does his best to ignore the stinging.
He wipes off the last of it, and starts to twist the cap back on.
“My quirk isn’t healing,” Sero looks up, halted with a closed tube resting in his palm, “it works as a pain transaction.” She snatches up the ointment and turns around, placing it back on a shelf. “Pain can’t be removed, but it can be interspersed throughout the body. I lessened the degree of injury on your head and ribs, and displaced it to your forearm.”
She traded a low-grade concussion and bruised ribs for a knife wound. Sero wishes she just told him what she was doing in the first place.
He doesn’t respond, not sure how he feels. He thinks he’s supposed to be mad, she did turn a knife on him. But, looking down at the amateur stitches, he doesn’t know if he can be angry. He wouldn’t say she made it worse (her quirk distributes pain, after all, the feeling from his arm came from his head and abdomen), but he wouldn’t say she helped either.
Sero looks up, and decides to not say anything at all.
There’s a ripping sound, and a strip of gauze falls into his palm. Sero tucks it between his forearm and leg, then wraps it around his limb. He pulls it tight and slips the end between the folds, then moves to pull his sleeve down.
It’s thick and annoying to fit underneath his layers.
“This isn’t a priority, and we’re almost out of bandages,” Shizuko says, as a way of explanation, “there’ll be a supply run in a few weeks.”
Sero starts to get up.
“I expect you,” her eyes flit over to the calendar hanging on the door, “on Tuesday.”
He nods as he gets to his feet.
Tuesday.
There’s wobbling as he shuffles his way over to the door at the dismissal. He keeps his arm straight, close to his side; it still doesn’t feel like how Sero thinks it should.
He ducks past her, entering back into the main area. The crowd is booming and the pounding on the mat sends vibrations down into his bones. He thought he got used to them by now, but they rock him and leave him stumbling over to the wall for purchase.
His back hits the wall and his tilts his chin up. Sucking in a deep breath, he tunes into nearby laughter, one of which is familiar.
“Hey, Scotch!”
Sero peels his eyes open to find Catch saddling up next to him.
“Yo,” she scans his expression with a grin, “the fuck happened to you?”
“I just met Shizuko,” he says dryly, watching as she immediately rolls her eyes.
“Sheesh, you’re stupid,” Catch sighs, resting her palm on her forehead.
And if that isn’t the running theme of this past week then Sero doesn’t know what is.
“I told you that you were better off not seeing her.” Sero does remember Catch’s warning, now that he thinks about it. Whatever.
“Yeah, yeah,” Sero pushes off the wall to stand upright, “I just wished she, you know, told me what she was doing before she did it.” He’s a little more bitter than he thought.
Catch’s brows furrow, “you got her to fix up the Rappa stuff?”
“Yeah,” the Rappa stuff, that you didn’t fucking warn me about, either. He can’t help the bits of anger that seep into his voice.
She laughs.
“Sorry about that, by the way, there was no one else and, you know, the show must go on.” Catch turns sideways and gestures towards Sero, leading him to one of the doors along the wall.
“A little warning would’ve been nice,” he doesn’t let himself yell at her. She falters at the door coated in dark green.
“My bad,” she brushes it off. “If you’ve got nothing better to do right now, you should stick around for a bit.”
She opens the door and Sero dips his head in. A training room.
There’s some weights lining a wall, with a few machines and plastic tables on either side. Oddly enough, there’s a hammock on one of the walls. Two chains hang down from the ceiling, with a long rainbow cloth dipping between them. There’s a collection of pillows too, scattered and stained yellow. Sero’s always liked hammocks, if he had the space for one, he’d ditch a small couch for one in a heartbeat.
There’s other miscellaneous objects, but Sero skims over them to look at someone standing against the back wall, water bottle in hand.
So there’s where Rook went.
The man spits water into a nearby trash bin, then gives Sero a flat look.
“…thanks, for Friday,” Sero calls out, as he walks into the room.
“There is no fuckin’ way you should be fine now,” Rook says gruffly, bending over to drop the bottle.
“He just took a trip over to Shizuko’s office.” Catch pipes up, moving past Sero.
“Yikes.”
Sero waves a hand, “it wasn’t too bad, she also said she wanted to teach me some stuff.” He shifts over to the wall and leans back.
“Making yourself useful, huh?” Rook says back, wiping palms on his pants and walking towards the center of the room.
“Alright,” Catch interrupts, “I brought Scotch over to learn how to not get knocked down,” wait, what, “not blabber.”
“Yeah,” Rook snorts a bit, “he is pretty shit at that.”
“Hey!” Sero calls out, sliding down to sit on the mat, “You said I wasn’t that bad. What’s this about learning not to get knocked down?”
“Never said you were good either,” Catch sings back, ignoring his question and moving forward to meet Rook.
A huff escapes Sero, but he keeps his post on the floor. He lets a small smile pull at his lips as he watches the two figures start to circle around each other.
“Watch, Scotch.” Catch announces to him.
Then, they move.
Slowly.
Sero’s confused as he watches them mime movements, careful jabs instead of fast punches. Catch chuckles when her eyes dart over to Sero’s expression.
“It’s easier to determine your next move when you already know your opponents. Start slow, and figure it out as you go. Telegraphing is your best fucking friend right now.” Rook’s foot sweeps up in a steady arc, and Catch twists to first block, then grabs his ankle.
They dance around each other some more, maintaining the slow back-and-forth.
Rook steps back, “ya wanna give it a go?”
Sero hesitates. Replaying the events of his fights with that first guy and Rappa has him realizing that he starts strong, following a plan that typically works for the first few moves. Only the first few moves though, after that it typically goes to shit.
“Yeah, sure,” he tugs his hoodie off, keeping the bandage covered with his sleeve, and moves into the center of the room.
Catch walks out, leaving him facing Rook. He slides a foot back and stills, waiting for the first move to be made.
Rook starts with a slow fist aimed at his stomach. Sero shifts a foot back, then forward once the fist retracts. There’s a few seconds where Sero thinks that maybe it’s his turn, is there even turns, but Rook jerks forward.
He watches as Rook crouches over, looking ready to tackle Sero. Sero tilts his shoulder back, walking out of the way.
It’s awkward and weird, but neither Rook or Catch are saying anything, so he won’t either.
They keep going for a bit, slow swipes that are mostly initiated by Rook, with Sero catching onto a pattern and starting to hesitate less.
Rook pulls back from Sero’s attempted uppercut and holds up a hand.
“This is alright, but it won’t mean shit if you can’t keep up at a normal speed. First to land a hit wins—no such thing as a cheap shot.”
Sero really wants to argue the no such thing as a cheap shot, but Rook’s already in motion.
The right hook grazes the top of his ponytail, and Sero doesn’t remember ducking. He’s developing his instincts.
Well, that’s cool as shit.
Feeling confident, Sero bolts forward. He thrusts his palm up, intent on shoving it in the underside of Rook’s chin.
Rook’s quick though, he slides a foot back and shifts his balance. Sero recognizes what’s about to happen, fuck yeah, he recognizes it, as the man twists his side to send up a kick. Sero doesn’t think and sends up a forearm to block, the forearm that he just got stitched up.
The momentum of the kick and pain cause Sero’s forearm to slide down uselessly. He’s sent skidding a foot away, but remains on his feet.
He has enough time to take a breath, but Rook’s already back and Sero’s been tackled to the floor.
Rook stands back up and walks over to where he was originally, not bothering to offer a hand. Sero huffs and sits up from his spot on the mat.
“Foundation’s there,” Catch speaks up as she crosses the floor, “kinda pathetic though.”
“You really have a way with words.”
“I do, don’t I?” She gives him a toothy smile. “But we—“
“We?” Rook speaks with disbelief.
“—we can help you out a bit. People didn’t hate you and so far you haven’t spilled much blood, I appreciate not having to clean that up.”
“Alright, then,” Sero says hesitantly. It’s just help with fighting, something a hero has to do all the time, he’d be stupid to turn down the offer. Catch and Rook aren’t Shizuko either. He doesn’t think they’d jab a knife into his arm without warning.
“Don’t worry, Scotch.” She gives him double thumbs up. “Rook ‘nd I will get you winning all your matches in no time!”
“Stop including me,” Rook’s voice is drowned out.
“First things first,” she claps her hands together, “you happen to get knocked out easily. You need to either learn how to take a hit or get fast enough that you won’t have to.”
“Just don’t get punched,” Sero says mockingly, “you make it sound so easy.”
“Catch,” Rook interrupts, “time check.”
“Shit,” she hisses, walking over to a bag and pulling something out. She turns back to Sero, “continue on a later date?”
He nods.
Rook grabs his bag and starts making his way over.
“I never said I was helping,” Rook argues with Catch.
“No you didn’t, I did.” She retorts. They continue a back-and-forth, progressing to bickering over nothing.
“You’re so grouchy today, grandpa.”
“Oh, fuck off. You’re not even that much younger than—”
“Yeah, yeah,” Catch ignores the protests with a wave of her hand. “We know your prehistoric ass was besties with the dinosaurs, no need to lie.”
Rook lets out a choked sound as Catch tugs him over to Sero.
“It’ll be fun!…I’ll stop bothering you about the name tag!”
Rook jerks back and gives her a ‘are you serious’ look. At her confirmation he huffs, crossing his arms over his chest.
“Pretty please,” Sero tries an encouraging smile.
“…Fine.”
Catch looks between Sero and Rook excitedly, “okay, you should have some way to contact both of us, in case of emergency or something.”
“You mean when you lose your phone for the hundredth fucking time,” Rook says exasperatedly.
Catch scowls at him.
Sero whips his cell out and Rook looks reluctant to give up his number, but just sighs and lists off the digits.
Sero hesitates for a second at the contact name, then remembers what he wrote for Catch.
Rook peers over his shoulder, noticing the side-by-side contacts of Bishop and Throw.
“So you think you’re funny?” Rook says, scowling at the names.
“Very,” Sero responds, toothy smile setting in. His arm still throbs, but the anger-fear caused by Shizuko is replaced with content.
Catch laughs and the three of them shift to the door, ready to head out.
“Shit, wait,” Rook looks at Sero and snaps his fingers, “there was something…”
“Oh, yeah!” Catch chimes in, swinging open the door, “someone wants to meet you. They’re over by the bar.”
“Wait, what? Who? Where?” Sero looks at them confused, stopping at the doorway.
“Right next to Shizuko’s space, the last door,” Catch answers one of his questions.
Sero turns to Rook for a better answer but the man is already gone, heading over to resume his post at the door.
Sero turns back, reaching his hand out.
“Catch, wait!”
“Last door!” She’s off, weaving past the crowd to hold up a bloody hand and announce a winner.
Sero huffs and absentmindedly prods his fingertips into his bandage. He stands back against the door to the training room. Looking over to his left, he stares down the last door.
Someone wants to meet him. A surge of panic wells up. It could be anyone. Sero’s brain immediately pictures Aizawa and fuck, that’d be bad.
Sero makes his way down the hall, trying to calm himself because really, this is his third time coming to the ring, there’s no way that he’s already done for.
He gets his hand on the doorknob and doesn’t let himself stop and agonize over it. He twists it open and is greeted with a room illuminated by the same, dimmed green lanterns.
There’s a sleek counter off to the left, where a bartender is currently cleaning a glass. They look up at Sero for a second, but their expression doesn’t change and they resume their polishing. There’s tables and chairs scattered, one in the corner has a few occupants with cards in their hands and cigars in their mouths. Some other people are chatting, but the overall ambiance is calm with some light jazz pouring out of dispersed speakers.
“Scotch!” A deep voice calls out for him and his attention is drawn to the end of the room. Sero immediately notes that it’s not Aizawa, and lets out a relieved sigh. The man motions him over and Sero walks to the very back table.
His heart starts picking up because yeah, he’s happy it’s not Aizawa, but he’s never seen this guy in his life.
The man’s smiling as he gestures Sero over, who notes the silver-grey hair, pink irises, and a cigarette dangling off his bottom lip.
“Please, sit.” He waves a hand to the chair across from him. “I’ve been meaning to meet you for the past few days,” he plucks the cigarette out of his mouth, “the name’s Giran.”
Sero nods. The man’s silent, as if expecting a sort of reaction. It’s unnerving, and Sero’s heart is still beating a few notches above normal. He’s unsure of why this guy wants to meet him, especially enough to ask Catch and Rook to make sure it happens.
His fingers are drumming against his thighs and he needs to get a fucking grip. He feels like there’s a huge red arrow over his head that says ‘DUMB TEENAGER.’
Sero clasps his hands over his lap and relaxes back in the seat, an easy grin playing at his lips. He’s trying to seem like he knows what he’s doing, an imitation of intimidation, because while he actually really fucking doesn’t, this man, Giran, doesn’t need to know that.
“Well here I am, what can I do for you?” Giran’s grin goes wider and Sero does not get scared.
They’ve barely gotten into situational tells in class, but Giran ticks off every box.
The way his eyes are narrowed, the way he’s looking at Sero like a fucking predator. The way he clearly feels at home here, slouching in his chair. This guy, who’s clearly very involved in this area, has a specific reason that he needed to meet Sero.
“I just wanted to welcome you to the ring,” bullshit, “seeing as you’re the newest fighter.” He takes a slow drag and exhales from the corner of his mouth. “It’s hard being the new guy, there’s not a lot of accommodating people around here. I’m impressed though, with how you've been able to integrate yourself among the regulars. However, I’ve also seen that you’ve been having some trouble with the other contenders, and I’d like to extend some help.”
Giran has only been talking for a minute, but it already sounds like a fucking sales pitch. Sero gets the vibe that he's one of those guys who stand outside the train with his clipboard, trying to lure civilians over to his flyer-covered table.
“That’s awfully considerate of you.” He doesn’t let his annoyance bleed through. If this guy wants to keep this exchange nice, then Sero will gladly not start a feud with some guy who definitely has more hold here than him.
“Oh, I should’ve explained myself a bit better,” he lets out a chuckle like this whole thing wasn’t pre-planned. “My trade is information, specifically on people.”
The world stops turning and all of a sudden Giran is so much worse than Aizawa.
People, he works with information gathering on people. Sero is a part of the group called people. He holds his breath for a second and thinks over his past three appearances in the ring, if there was anything that could identify him. Sero’s not stupid enough to think that everyone here tells the whole truth about themselves, but he’s fairly confident no one else here is a hero-in-training.
“I’ve been hanging around for a little while, and sometimes it makes people a bit more hesitant, which, you know, makes my job a bit harder.” Giran tilts his head a bit and studies Sero for a second, “I’d like to offer information on your future opponents in return for an ally.”
Sero doesn’t say anything, but his face is still frozen and fuck, this guy wants to make an accomplice out of him.
“These people want to see a good fight, and they think that you can give them that. It makes it easier to trust someone when they’re already giving you something.”
Not slick.
“They trust you, they tell you things…I’m willing to trade some facts, a bit of leverage, on your future opponents for those things.” Giran leans over to ash his cigarette on the tray, maintaining eye-contact from below his eyebrows.
Giran says he’s selling him information, but Sero knows there’s more. There’s something tingling in his brain saying that this isn’t a fair bargain, but he can’t figure out what it is that tips the scale in the man's favor.
He can figure out, though, what the right answer to this offer is.
“Sorry,” Sero gives him a polite smile, “I appreciate the generosity, but I’d rather win fights without some sort of one-up.” He tries not to make it sound snappish as he rises from his chair, “it makes it more fun.” Sero winks to keep it light-hearted, and fuck he hopes he hasn’t made an enemy.
He turns to leave, but Giran speaks up.
“Would you mind indulging my curiosity, at least?” Sero halts, and turns back.
“Of course,” he says, through gritted teeth. He has no reason to ignore an important man who has only extended a kind hand.
“You’re under no obligation to answer, but I noticed Catch pulling you into a room she typically doesn’t use for social hour, why was that?”
“Oh,” his hand comes up to rest at the back of his neck at the awkward change of subject, “her and Rook were just trying to show me some new strategies—helping me out. I’ve, uh… not been super lucky when it comes to staying on my feet.”
Giran chuckles.
“If you’re trying to learn physical tells, then I may actually be able to help you.”
Sero’s face scrunches up in confusion, didn’t they already do this?
“You’re uncomfortable with learning information prior to the match, but that doesn’t mean I can’t give you the tools to find it yourself. It’s obviously important to hold your ground, but getting a feel for the type of person you’re up against helps immensely.” Giran pauses to take another drag, exhaling into the space between them. “The aggressive ones tend to move first, always eager to prove themselves to the world. Learning how to pick up on this could prove useful if you’re trying to get yourself to a higher standing within the ring…If you were to tag along with me, then I’d be able to teach you how to do it on the fly…I’d even owe you one if you end up bein’ a great help.”
Sero doesn’t say anything, soaking in what Giran’s putting on the table. His issue was never about “cheating,” it’s that he doesn’t want to work with the man at all. Sero’s already trying to navigate the actual fighting, and now he has Shizuko’s shit for the next week or so. Sighing, he starts—
“I couldn’t find much on you,” the tone has changed, it’s gotten colder, “tried to ask around a bit.” Sero’s heart picks up again, he thought he was in the clear. “No one seems to know anything about you.” The smile on Giran’s face is long gone. “Granted, you only popped up less than a week ago, but I’d hate to overhear something particularly condemning. Curiosity, you know, it killed the cat—” he tilts his slightly and Sero’s thoughts scream danger “—but satisfaction brought it back.”
It’s a stupid proverb, overused as fuck, but it still does the job.
All the little people inside Sero’s head who control his brain functions have collectively stopped working. He thinks one of them may have hit the fire alarm and they all just left the building.
“I… I see.” The tiny amount of confidence in his voice is gone. ‘DUMB TEENAGER’ blinks bright red and Sero doesn’t know if he can take his chances anymore. The most Giran could find is a seconds-long clip from the Sports Festival, but seconds is still much and Sero doesn’t trust his luck.
The stitches that were put in his arm not even an hour ago start throbbing and he’s back in the ring and Rappa is grinding his metal-covered knuckles together and sparks are flying and it screeches—
“What will it be?” The corner of Giran’s mouth ticks up because he’s won, he won the second Sero sat down.
The bastard knows what it will be. There’s only one option where Sero keeps his much-needed confidentiality.
“I-I guess I could help out…a bit.” His voice gets smaller and the last part is mumbled, his fate is sealed.
“Wonderful.” Giran looks at him from over the bridge of his stupid glasses. He continues on, reiterating some of what he said earlier and gives a brief outline of what he’d like from Sero.
He wants Sero to act as a sort of partner, to accompany him to meetings where a younger and nonthreatening face will put people at ease.
Sero nods his understanding—and fuck, this was never what he planned for.
Giran flashes a missing-toothed grin, stubs the cigarette butt out onto the ashtray, and leans back. “Think of it as an internship.”