Chapter Text
After hours of sitting in uncomfortable train car seats, Izuku’s mother’s voice a balm to the anxiety fluttering in his heart.
"… are you sure you're safe?"
“Yes, Mom," Izuku repeats. She sighs—a long, drawn out thing that speaks to her resignation. Izuku winces, leaning forward until his forehead lightly thuds against the phone booth wall.
This is hard for both of them, to know that he's not telling the full truth. But he couldn't not call her.
"Well," her voice comes after a moment of quiet, seeming to resonate in the narrow space, "at least promise you'll keep in touch. I just… I just have to know you're safe, sweetheart, and not knowing where you are is…" Her breath hitches. "Contact me, okay? Every twenty-four hours?"
“Every twelve," Izuku promises. "We're just here for another day or so while classes are out. How much can happen in two days?"
"You're right. It's just two days, and—you swear you're not in danger?"
"On my life.”
"Then—that's all right, then."
The silence is louder now. Heavier. A weight bearing on it, something unspoken in its midst. Izuku swallows.
It's not that he wants to lie to his mom, but—he’d promised his friends he wouldn’t say anything. It’s not like Yokohama’s dangerous.
Besides, his mom said that she trusts him to protect himself. When I look at your face now, I feel relieved, she had told him on New Year's Eve, eyes glassy with tears.
They both know that he’s safe. That he’s no longer that Quirkless kid he once was—destined to be a punching bag, no defense, no support. That, if it comes down to it, he can fight his way past whatever danger would have kept Quirkless Deku down. In the privacy of the phone booth, he allows his power to surge through to his fingertips, flexing them in front of him as a kaleidoscope runs down their length. The energy is always there, he's come to realize, even when he's not summoning it. It tosses restlessly somewhere deep in his chest, waiting to be expelled.
He never imaged that Quirks were like that, before. He knew on some level that it was harder for some people to contain their Quirks—that's why schools are legally required to provide Quirk counseling—but he hadn't realized that they were a constant presence. They're not sentient, though—not quite. Just a muscle that falls asleep sometimes and begs you to flex it.
(The same can not be said for the other part of his Quirk, but the other part of his Quirk isn't all that normal.)
"… you swear you'll call me the moment you think you might be in danger?"
I promise, he opens his mouth to say, except—
—in the distance, an explosion ripples. Even from half-way across the station it's deafening, and enveloping, and more than anything familiar.
"Kacchan?" Izuku mutters beneath his breath, turning his head to look over his shoulder as if that will allow him to see what's happening. There's no more sound from where they left the others, but even then Izuku can't keep his hands from curling into fists, setting his foot back in a more action-ready stance. If something's wrong—if his friends are in danger—
"Izuku? What's going on? What was that noise?"
"It was just—Kacchan was pulling a prank, haha, so funny!" he rushes out. The lie comes unbidden after years of hiding Kacchan's more—aggressive tendencies, and before he can correct himself, his mom is sighing in relief.
"Oh, don't worry about me, I'll let you get back to your friends! I love you so much, sweetheart."
"I love you too, Mom, but—"
The line cuts out before he can finish. Izuku blinks as the phone chimes the disconnection message, and then rehangs it on its hook.
Kacchan is generally volatile. Maybe it really is nothing; maybe it's a joke, or a jab, or maybe Kaminari riled him up again. Izuku will just check on him and the rest of Class 1-A, and then go to find wherever the rest of friends ran off to in search of snacks.
He steps out of the box, turns the corner, and immediately runs into a wall. A person?
"Oof!" Izuku topples to the cold, concrete floor, landing on his behind with a thump. Immediately, he opens his mouth to apologize—starts scrambling up to his feet to bow and beg forgiveness for his clumsiness, God, you idiot, you're training to be a Hero, you have to be more coordinated than that—
The muzzle of a gun presses against his forehead.
"Don't move."
The person is a boy.
He's taller than Izuku—of course he's taller than Izuku, Izuku is on his hands and knees on a train station floor, but even then the boy towers. He must be almost as tall as Shoji. Thin, green-wire eyeglasses perch on his hooked nose, encircling his narrow green-grey eyes. His skin is pale and clear save for a pink, barely noticeable scar cutting horizontally across his smooth chin and faint red marks across two of his right knuckles and all four on his left. An elastic holds back his light brown hair in a loose half-up half-down style, the shoulder-length locks inexplicably mixed with an obnoxious pink.
In one hand is a leather notebook with the word 理想 written on it—Ideals. In the other is the gun that is pressed to Izuku’s forehead.
Izuku’s mouth snaps shut.
“Good,” the boy says. “Now get up. Slowly! And—and keep your hands where I can see them!”
The world slows down.
Izuku’s attacker is holding the gun in his right hand and leading with his right foot. He could be ambidextrous, but the swelling patterns of his knuckles indicate a lack of familiarity with left-hand punching. When Izuku and his classmates were doing basic battle training with All Might, half of Izuku’s friends—including Izuku himself—ended up with the same wound types, as they punched with their whole non-dominant hand rather than the first two knuckles. Izuku’s attacker must be right-handed, then.
Furthermore, his stance indicates training in martial arts, but a different style than Aizawa-sensei uses. It more so resembles something he’s seen from Gun Head—solid, with a heavy focus on offense. But Izuku’s attacker is obviously less experienced than Gun Head, and it shows in the tense line of his shoulders. It’s like when Mount Lady made her first public appearance: despite the bravado all over her face, her body couldn’t hide her insecurity.
This gives Izuku two benefits: one, he knows to focus his initial attacks on the right side to weaken it before taking a more opportunistic approach; and two, Izuku’s attacker won’t know how to respond to less by-the-books methods.
But Izuku doesn’t know his attacker’s Quirk, and Izuku’s attacker doesn’t know Izuku’s. They’re both going in blind.
Izuku stands slowly, keeping his hands up and not loosing eye contact with the boy. Then, once he’s almost to his feet—
He lunges, tackling the boy around the middle. The boy is solid, heavy, but Izuku is more dense than his height would suggest, and so the boy topples to the ground. His gun skids out to their right, the notebook tearing through the air and landing a meter to their left. Izuku stays pinned on top of him, but the boy is already moving, lifting himself up on his haunches to buck Izuku off. Izuku falls forward and catches himself in a roll, just barely dodging the boy's arm as it reaches out to grab Izuku's ankle.
As Izuku settles into a low crouch, the boy flips himself from his back to his front in a push up position. His eyes tick on the gun abandoned on the ground between them—and instinctively Izuku darts toward it. There isn't enough space to use his Quirk—not without significant damage to both the train station and Izuku's body—but still he manages to grab it and toss it aside before the other boy even moves from his place.
Except—
Oh.
The boy hadn't gone for the gun like Izuku thought he would. Instead, he had pushed himself onto his knees and grabbed that leather notebook. Izuku spins on his heel, sending just 10% of One For All coursing through his legs, but it's too late. The boy flips the notebook open and, turning to the middle, tears off a page. At the same time, he yells, “Doppo Poet: Taser Gun!”
Izuku has seen a lot of Quirks in his life. He made a sport of it, really, being a Quirkless kid in the middle of Musutafu, a city with a Quirkless rate of less than two percent. His nearly twenty-two volumes stuffed to the brim with Quirk analysis can attest to that.
But none of that prepares him for the pure extravagance of this boy’s Quirk.
At the boy’s words, a flush of pale green light floods from his palms, his notebook, his mouth, everywhere. It takes Izuku by such surprise that he has to blink a few times to reorient himself, and by then the light has slower enough from its rapid spinning for Izuku to see it.
Words.
Words upon words upon words, each written incredibly neatly and in such an a small font that Izuku can barely make them out from each other—words like culture and independence and duty. They pulsate in place, concentrated now around the boy’s leather notebook and the torn out piece of paper in his other hand. The paper glows a muted gold.
The words vanish. The glow vanishes. The paper vanishes.
In its place is a small, gray taser gun.
Instinctually, Izuku leaps out of the way—and just in time, because the boy is on his feet and launching himself toward where Izuku had been just a heartbeat before. The boy catches himself in a roll, his splotchily-dyed half-updo coming undone as he whips his head up. But this time, Izuku is ready; when the boy braces his haunches to leap at him again, arm already swinging around in a swift, powerful jab, Izuku jumps not away, but up.
The boy stumbles over himself in shock, blinking up at the sky as Izuku plummets back down—three meters behind him. Izuku's landing isn't quiet, but it doesn't matter because Izuku is too quick for the boy to fully dodge at this distance, All For One fueling his movements, the energy coursing through him. He shouldn't risk Full Cowling—not when he doesn't know the boy's durability—so he settles at 5%. Enough to temporarily disable, but not enough for any real damage.
The boy whips around, eyes huge and then narrowed, and—
Izuku feels his own eyes widen.
He had forgotten about the taser.
The electrodes spring out, catching Izuku in the chest. Electricity surges through him, hot and cold all at once. He can hear his heart in his throat, his lungs in his feet, but he's still moving even as the world splutters gray and turns sideways. It's far from the worst pain Izuku has felt in his life, but certainly not pleasant.
It almost feels like Kacchan, if the nitroglycerin explosions were to have been delocalized and spread throughout Izuku's body.
Without thinking—without comprehending—Izuku increases his output to 20%. Refocuses his power from his whole body to just his arm, just his fist, going in and in and in, and the boy is right there, right in front of him, and he won’t—can’t—hurt Izuku again after this. All For One won’t win, and All Might will be proud of Izuku, and he can stop lying to his mother, and…
With a sickening crunch, Izuku’s fist slams into the boy’s shoulder. The punch knocks the boy back a good five meters before he lands on the floor with a tumble and a sharp, wet yelp. “Shit,” the boy hisses. He jerks his head up to glare at Izuku with a new, almost appraising look in his eye, grunting as he cradles his fractured shoulder.
Had the boy not managed to dodge ever so slightly, it would be the tender bones in his face broken.
To his credit, the boy doesn’t dwell on the injury long, using his abdominal muscles to push himself up into a more upright position and abandoning the wound to reach into the waistband of his trousers—where at some point he had tucked that fascinating notebook.
Still reeling from the electricity, Izuku isn’t quick enough to do anything but stumble vaguely in the boy’s direction, clutching his chest where the electrodes hit. They’ll definitely bruise, Izuku thinks, and guiltily glances over the other boy’s broken shoulder.
“Doppo Poet: Pistol!”
Only to find that there is once more a gun aimed at him.
The boy’s hand is shaking slightly as he trains the gun on Izuku’s chest. It’s in his left hand, non-dominant, and suddenly Izuku doesn’t feel quite so guilty about breaking his shoulder. “Don’t move,” the boy growls.
“Look,” Izuku says. He’s too far away to disarm the gun again, and too close to dodge an actual attempt at his life. “I’m not sure why you’re trying to—”
“Shut up! I don’t listen to criminals. Save it for the cops—or, if you’re unlucky, the president.”
Criminals?
“Wait, hold on.” Izuku painstakingly raises his arms above his head. The boy, at least, relaxes a little at the movement, though his gun barely lowers. “You think I’m a criminal?”
“I won’t let you trick me.” The boy scowls. “I know that you’re one of the jewel smugglers meeting here tonight, even if I don’t know whether you’re Port Mafia or one of those South Korean geondal mafiosos. I know that you didn’t come here alone. I know that whichever organization you are, the other organization won’t be far behind.”
“I—what? Jewel smuggler?”
“Save it! As a member of the Armed—“
The boy’s front pocket rings.
His face turns cherry red, which conflicts horridly with the bright pink of his hair. He clenches his jaw tight and stays frozen as the phone rings again, and again, and again, and then stops.
And then starts anew.
The boy attempts to reach with his bad arm, but stops rather quickly with a mangled grunt. Izuku winces in sympathy.
“I can stay here if you need to get that,” Izuku says.
The boy levels him with a glare. “As if I’d—“
The phone rings once more, tauntingly.
“… if you move, I will shoot you.”
Then, with one last considering glance, the boy shoved the gun into his waistband just long enough to leverage his phone between his ear and good shoulder. Izuku stays still through it all, even when the boy jerks the gun back up at him, careful not to dislodge his phone.
“Katai! Where are you? I found—”
A voice on the other end—Izuku has to strain slightly to even pick it up. The boy’s eyebrows raise and then narrow.
“What do you mean, ‘hostage’? Couldn’t it just be… we both know the Port Mafia has never shied away from recruiting kids, despicable scum that they are. Who’s to say—the president? But that would mean…”
The frantic voice picks up again. The boy draws in a breath, quick, quiet, and then, with great deliberation, tells the voice on the other end: “I’ll call you back, Katai.”
He lowers the gun, keeping his eyes on Izuku the whole time, even as he double checks that the call has ended and lets the phone fall back into his pocket. Although he doesn’t move the aim of the gun from Izuku’s feet, the boy doesn’t raise it again.
“My name is Kunikida Doppo,” he says with pursed lips, expression rigid, “and you're coming with me.”
Izuku swallows. "You just tried to kill me," he reminds the boy—Kunikida. "Why would I come with you?"
Kunikida's shoulders broaden, even as his expression grows terser from the pain. "Because I am a member of the Armed Detective Agency of Yokohama," he declares, "and if you are who I think you are, your friends may be in grave danger."
Izuku keels over and throws up on his shoes.
______
"So," says Mori Ougai, "why is the ever-so-highly-esteemed Yuuei visiting me today?"
Shouta eyes the closed door behind them warily. Hirotsu's presence had been inexplicably comforting—murderer though he likely is, Hirotsu carried about him a certain air. A reliability; a dependence. Now that he's left, Mori's looming seems to fill the room, a statue of unapproachable precision.
But then Mori slumps back down into his seat, and suddenly he looks like any other scruffy pharmacist. The image would fit if Shouta didn't know of Mori's long list of crimes, most of them swept under the rug by the Yokohaman government but easily accessible to anyone looking. All things considered, the crimes aren't as bad as Shouta would suspect for a mafia boss: less than twenty counts of fraud, two or three counts to accessory to murder, and six counts of malpractice.
Certainly enough to put Mori Ougai away for a long time.
It makes the disconnect even more disconcerting.
Silently, Shouta raises his guard.
As if he can see the tension in his shoulders, Mori's eyes flicker to him. A grin that's almost bashful breaks out across his face, but his cheeks remain undimpled and his eyes ice cold. "Oh, forgive me for my rudeness! Did Hirotsu-san take care of you all right?"
Nemuri recovers her wits first. "Oh, he was a gem," she purrs. "I must ask, why doesn't such a highly esteemed man rank more highly in the, ah, organization?"
"Already fishing for Mafia secrets? You'll have to be more sly than that," Mori says. He doesn't seem bothered by it. "In any case, there's no need for deception! We are partnering with each other, are we not? I'm sure your boss told you all about me, which means you also know this: I never lie during negotiations. I'm the leader of a small organization, not a conman."
It's Mic who responds this time. "Uh, we meant no offense," he says, shooting Nemuri a look. "But, if you don't mind answering, how does this organization actually work?"
"This organization has a fairly simple hierarchy: there's me, the boss, and under me are five executives. I'm sure you'll meet them all eventually. They each manage one or two subexecutives of their own, who largely act as squad leaders. These squads, of course, are jointly managed by the executives and subexecutives."
"Where does that little girl fall on the hierarchy?" Shouta didn't mean to speak, but the words come unbidden. He only barely manages to curb the judgement in his voice.
Mori's eyes twinkle. "Oh, Elise-chan? She has nothing to do with all of this. She's merely my darling."
"Oh, like, your daughter? Is she adopted?" says Mic.
Mori smiles wryly. He doesn't answer the question.
"Let's get to the matter at hand," Shouta says. They need to stay on topic. "Yuuei is willing to cooperate with the Yokohaman government in order to capture the escaped convict known as All For One. As All For One escaped with the help of one of your deserters, we thought it best for the both of us to work together in their recapture."
"Well put," Mori hums. Props his cheek with a closed fist as he observes Shouta with squinted eyes. "It really is a simple deal, isn't it? There's still a few complications, though. For one, how can I be sure that this isn't some elaborate ruse to arrest the members of my little organization?"
Nemuri shakes her head. "Yuuei has no jurisdiction in Yokohama. We couldn't arrest you if we wanted to. Also, I'm sure you saw the fight that led to All For One's initial capture a few months ago?"
"We don't typically receive news from outside Yokohama, but yes, an acquaintance gave me a call."
"Then you know that we can't capture All For One again without assistance. All Might, All For One's primary opponent, fell during the battle. He was our only chance at beating All For One. If we tried to turn on you guys, it would be spelling out our own defeat."
"Very good points, all around!" Mori says, and in a shockingly quick turnaround, continues, "All right, you've convinced me. Hitotsu-san?"
Hirotsu levies open the large door just enough to peek his head inside. "Yes, Boss?"
Mori beams. "Ah, I knew you wouldn't go far. You never do." To Shouta, he says sotto-voice, "You see, Hirotsu here is one of my most loyal followers. When my predecessor died—God rest his soul, and all that—Hirotsu was one of the first to support me in the midst of all the chaos that comes with such a significant change in staff. He is a rather good judge of character; aren't you, Hirotsu-san?"
"I don't think of myself in that way, but I suppose one could say that," Hirotsu says, stepping into the room fully as the door shuts behind him. He really mustn’t have gone far, Shouta thinks, or at the very least he had hurried back. It’s entirely possible—likely, even—that Hirotsu had just stood the whole time with his ear against the door, waiting for his cue.
“One certainly could,” says Mori. Then: “As for our guests—they are to be treated with the utmost respect and formality. We’re businessmen, not monsters.”
“Of course, Boss.”
“Off you pop, then! Steer clear of the upper echelons, but the lower are free rein.”
Hirotsu's jaw shuts audibly.
Discomfort and resignation war on his face. "Are... are you sure, Boss? I mean no disrespect, but... well, you know how certain members of this organization can be, and I'd hate to come across something, ah, unsavory."
Mori dismisses the concerns with a wave of his hand, expression still trapped in that calm, unsettling smile. "It'll be fine," he says. He doesn't elaborate.
"Alright, then," Hirotsu hurries. Glancing with poorly disguised nervousness at Shouta, Nemuri, and Mic: "Follow me, then. I'll, ah, give the grand tour. Ahem." He shepherds them out of the room, carefully filing out after them and pulling the doors shut.
As they leave, Shouta spares a peek over his shoulder at the closing doors. Mori, he sees, in the twelve seconds since they'd begun their unceremonious exit, has pulled out a cellphone. He presses a button and holds the phone up to his ear. His smile gains a sharp aspect to it.
"Dazai-kun," he says into the phone, "It's time to get to work."
The doors shut, and Mori's face disappears behind them.
Shouta feels a hesitant pull on his arm. "Aizawa? You good?"
Shouta tears his gaze away. Something about that man—about these people, about that cut off conversation—feels off, and Shouta hasn't lived this long by ignoring his instincts.
Still, though. He can share his mistrust when he, Mic, and Nemuri are alone in their nice, comfortable hotel room.
"Yes," he tells Mic, "everything is fine."
Mic's eyebrows raise—he's always been horribly expressive with his face, and Shouta can see the disbelief coming as much as he can hear it on the tip of Mic's tongue. Later, he tries to say with his eyes, but Mic's mouth is already opening, and bless his heart, but Mic's never been all that good at letting things drop quietly—
"So," Hirotsu interrupts, "are you ready for your tour?"
______
Dazai's footsteps are quiet.
Dazai's footsteps are always quiet. It's something he has made a point of; where characters like Chuuya are loud and threatening and take up the presence of a shooting star, Dazai deflects that attention. He sinks into shadows, into darkness, and when the darkness spits him out he swallows up all the light around him until he once more blends in.
It's not something he does intentionally so much as the natural consequence of his inherent lack of substance. He may not be invisible like that Hagakure girl, but that doesn't mean he can't hide in plain sight like she can.
A skill that he intentionally levies as he drifts through the narrow streets to the meeting point.
He hugs Mori’s dark coat closer to his shoulders. He had opted to leave his crutches back at his shipping container—such a blatant weakness would belie the strength that he intends to convey. Better a limp than an aid. Although he knows that the choice was the correct one, a part of him regrets it, if only for the sharp pain that jars up through his knee at every stuttered footfall.
Dazai grits his teeth.
It’s almost half past four in the afternoon.
The agreed upon time is five thirty, and while Dazai can and often does make “fashionably late” work, he much prefers to be early. Scan the surrounding area for exits, escapes, bugs, anything and everything that could hurt an operation. (As is the duty of the leader of Mori’s secret guerrilla squad—not that Dazai cares much for duty, or for leading, or even for Mori.)
Of course, Dazai thinks as he carefully straightens his posture and polices his expression to be something less obviously empty and uncaring, that whole point is moot in a place like this. Henmi Hiniku, reads the neon-bright sign along the front. Its owner is an ability user who had been drafted in the Great War despite her less-than-impressive Skill. From what Dazai understood, she had been one of Mori's soldiers, and thus was in Mori's debt for his saving her life through the Butterfly Girl.
(Mori doesn't talk about the Butterfly Girl, but there are other ways of getting information. Even then, though, Dazai prefers not to think of it. Of them. Of Mori’s hand on her shoulder, tangled in her hair, his eyes glinting with love and affection as he watches her leave him.
Dazai isn’t jealous. He’s not. He hates Mori as much as a thing like him is capable of hatred.
It just… rankles, a bit. Nothing more.)
All of this to say—Dazai knows this place, and this place knows him. He will not be bothered, and he will not be trapped.
Still, though. It is better to be early. His business will certainly be early, at least.
Dazai doesn’t breath as sigh of relief when the building comes into view—he rarely expresses himself so physically when he is not putting on a show for those watching—but it is a near thing. Mori had, of course, offered to drive him, in that vaguely creepy but ultimately fond way that told Dazai that Mori knew he would be rejected. If his business associates saw him arrive in Mori’s mom-with-five-kids SUV, they would absolutely refuse to respect him, which is vital if Dazai wants this deal to go through.
Well, no. They would respect him. They just might not have enough blood to be conscious if Dazai has to earn that respect in… other ways.
The little bell on the door tingles when Dazai enters, a sharp, quiet little ting that nonetheless draws the attention of every person in the diner. Eyes shoot to him, and Dazai suppresses the itch that crawls up his spine at being seen, at being observed, and instead casually shifts his weight to his good leg, letting his coat open up a bit to reveal more of the white, collared shirt he is wearing beneath it. His tie, of course, is black and skinny—Chuuya had given him a whole arrangement of rather grotesquely colored and patterned ties the previous month (as Dazai refuses to tell anyone when his birthday is). “For variety,” he had said. In return, Dazai had broken into his apartment and replaced all of his white powdery cooking stuff with salt and then replaced the salt in his salt shaker with cocaine. For variety.
Dazai will keep his ties black, thank you.
His small, pleasant grin seems to dissuade the worst of the looks, and the diner quickly returns to its previous noise level. A young waitress—her gilded name tag reading Miki—approaches Dazai with a smile. “Donovan-dono. Follow me—we have your table ready right back here.”
He follows her, taking care to keep his steps even and soft. This diner doesn’t normally do reservations, but Dazai wouldn’t be who he is if he didn’t have sway. She posits a menu on a booth near the back, and Dazai nods to her, flashing a grin that he knows will make her heart melt. She can’t be too much older than him.
He orders a water and, after a brief consideration, some bourbon. She looks mildly concerned but ultimately acquiesces—it’d be fine if she hadn’t, though, as Dazai has six IDs currently on him, including one for Mr. Donovan, twenty-two years old with a rather young face and small stature.
The thought makes Dazai laugh. As if he’ll make it to twenty-two.
He peruses his options, keeping an eye on the other patrons. An elderly man and his wife holding hands over the table. A trio of preteens loudly debating the importance of the attack level compared to the health level. Two women all but inside each other’s pants near the door. A family of four hastily averting their eyes.
Miki is back. She sets his bourbon down gingerly, followed by his glass of water and a plain, plastic straw. The little bell rings, barely audible over the murmur of the diner. “And what may I get you to eat?”
“A side of hash browns, please,” Dazai says. “And—”
Her dark eyes dart to the door, widening. Dazai follows her gaze and almost immediately facepalms.
So much for subtlety.
Miki backs away slightly at the approaching figures, her shoulders shivering slightly as their footfalls grow louder. “I—I—”
“Get the gentleman a drink,” Dazai suggests. “And the lady, as well. Are you both fine with bourbon?”
Dabi and Himiko Toga offer matching, blade-sharp grins. “Sounds good to me,” the former says.
“Make mine a Bloody Mary,” says the latter.
They sit in the booth across from Dazai. Miki retreats with rapid breaths. The diner as a whole is still silent.
“So,” Dabi says with a wicked gleam in his vibrant, blue eyes, “let’s talk business.”