Chapter Text
It's almost as if the world trembles under foot, the air alive with the rise and cry of thousands upon thousands of voices tied together; the space swells and quells with words and the step of worn feet and tired concrete. Birds take flight, and the sun shines down bright and untethered by clouds.
Shouto’s never seen this many people all at once before. His breath shivers, lungs rattling with the noise, almost as if he's beneath raving lights and the thunderboom of blaring speakers and thrown arms. Let it be said, he enjoy the occasional wild party under the cover of night, that too loud space where it's quiet enough to think and observe and just be. Yes. They're nice once in awhile to bleed off coiled and taut energy, loosen the tense line he holds his shoulders under that man’s cruel and scathing eyes. Shouto always gets something after, a cold or otherwise, but it's worth it.
Totally worth it, he thinks, face carefully bland as the blocks long crowd suddenly quiets, turning as if one to the figure who scampers up higher on parliament's steps.
It's a scarce few feet from the line of police and quietly placed Pro Heroes marking the line that which the crowd may not cross. Shouto squints against the sun reflecting back from an unfortunately placed window, and side steps to the left just as the figure lifts their bullhorn. The hush feels strange, like their words have been given a life of their own, and he can still hear it.
¡No Pasarán!
They shall not pass! if he remembers right, Spanish, and Bakugou had been the one to offer up that tidbit of information. It'd been something of a surreal day at the office, and so Shouto hadn't questioned that odd insight to the current political climate. Enough careers have already been ruined as it is, and Bakugou will always skate that thin line, so no need for Shouto to give anyone the incentive to drag him off for possible untoward political leanings.
With a crackle, the bullhorn comes alive, and the figure takes a breath. Shouto doesn't necessarily tune it out, but the words wash over him in a half unheard way as he looks out over the crowd. He spots Cellophane to the far left, Suneater and Earphone Jack not too far away. The later two are conversing with a few officers, but it seems in hand so Shouto lets his gaze drift away. The relative peace of the rally ripples with a sharp shout, and it draws his attention. He distantly notices the way the crowd shifts before he spots the scuffle at the fringe by Fat Gum and.
Ah. Speak of the Devil. Fat Gum holds two offenders off the ground, an older woman and young boy, who flail ineffectively in the wake of his quirk, and Kamui Woods tugs back an irate Bakugou. Why the hell would he even come within a mile of a rally like this? Shouto despairs, because he can only do so much damage control with his reputation. He remembers it being quietly, but forcefully insisted that Bakugou not be anywhere near here today, and yet. And yet . His fellow hero is easily shuffled out of sight, the woman and possibly her child set down and corralled in another direction. It almost feels too easy, but that might be his highschool years creeping up on him. Things can be resolved nice and orderly without a constant thrum of terror and Plus Ultra! beating his heart like a drum. It may or may not be a little hard to leave it behind given the acute trauma Shouto’s acquired over the years.
Thank you, Endeavour and assorted villains , he thinks, wryly.
“Say No!” suddenly picks up, and it rouses him from his thoughts enough to see that the crowd has pushed forward a little, that people are sitting amongst their signs and each other. The figure from before is no longer an individual, having disappeared into the deluge. Shouto tenses in anticipation, just a little, but.
Nothing comes of it and, again, it seems as if it's much too easy. For obvious reasons, Shouto's never been to one, but he's heard enough about the ones that descend into molotov cocktails through windows and flying rocks against riot shields. But, then again, the source was never very credible or unbiased since not a small amount took offense at Endeavour’s own agency. Rowdy Twenty is an apt name, however, unconcerned with not being a bother, but he doesn't think the organization has a history of being violent. Well. Not especially violent, anyway. That counter protester last month did deserve being knocked on his ass, in Shouto’s well hidden opinion.
Quirk Marriages, eugenics, a very subtle and nuanced call for what would amount to genocide, to name just a few things, yeah, he's pretty sure the guy had it coming.
Shouto’ll never admit it, but he does enjoy the memes Kaminari still sends to the 1-A group chat, especially of that moment. He'd save it to his phone if the very legislation being protested at the moment didn't give him pause of his own. He wouldn't put it past Endeavour to have someone check in on his phone every now and then, to see what Shouto’s up to in the one sphere of influence that he can't get a firm hold of easily. It’s with fondness that Shouto remembers the one video he and his former classmates put online. Sure, they blurred Shouto’s face, but it's not like it was particularly hard to tell it was him holding the I Wanna Be A Fireman When I Grow Up because if given half a chance, who’s to say Shouto wouldn't douse Endeavour with a fire hose, right? It'd merely been a lifestyle class assignment, but you couldn't prove it to the number one Hero that there’s no harm and such no foul.
Yuuei might have been something of a bad influence.
Shouto settles back into position, and slowly but surely the sun crosses the sky and dips far beyond the horizon.
It's a very long night, the summer air falling to an agreeable temperature. People mill about through the hours, stretching their legs or every few ticks of the clock rising once more into chant. Shouto’s relieved of his post two hours past midnight by Midnight herself, and he graciously drags himself off to the nearest Denny’s, determined to eat something worthwhile for the first time in weeks. Being on loan to Endeavour’s agency requires something of a… plain diet, least he find he no longer has anything resembling a lunch remaining in the breakroom fridge. He'd ice his bento shut if it could handle it.
Of course his agency isn't without lunch thieves, Shouto muses to himself. Every day his view of the agency reaches a new low.
With a sigh, he steps into the Denny’s, and luckily finds it not terribly full. There isn't much of a line, but he is asked to wait, which he doesn't mind despite how much the hostess seems to think’s a tragedy. Shouto doesn't have next shift unless parliament can't reach a conclusion by noon, and so he doesn't actually care.
“—god, it really is him. Oh my god—”
Great. Shouto doesn't turn his head, but in the corner of his eye, it's apparent he's being stared at in awe. God, he just wants to eat in peace.
“—course they have him here. His quirk is great for crowd control if used right, and oh my god, we have more impact than we thought to get Shouto as crowd control, oh my god, I have to tell—”
He stiffens without meaning to at the words, and the guy falls silent. Sometimes Shouto hates fans because he just wants to eat, but if there's a crowd imminent it must not have been meant to be. And here, he was looking forward to a Hawaiian meal. Ugh. It's not so easy to go out and eat without Yaoyorozu’s disguises. Another thing he misses about high school.
The young man shifts, and Shouto can just see him put his phone back into his pocket. Oh. Well. Surprised, Shouto tries to stifle the relief he feels at not having to run by a convenience store after all. Already, Fuyumi’s disapproving gaze lifts from the back of his neck.
“I, um, wasn't gonna tag your, your location, Shouto-san,” he says, sheepish, and Shouto turns a little more in his direction at the direct contact. Green eyes flicker from his to the ground. “I'm sorry for bothering you… you're just very… interesting.”
Weird choice of words, but Shouto remembers being a similar way about All Might. Working in the industry disillusions everyone over time, desensitized to famous coworkers. Sometimes he forgets he's a famous coworker, but then a starry eyed kid or intern will scamper up and ask for an autograph, and that'll be the end of that.
Shouto shrugs, and then does a quick once over of the civilian. Black-green hair, wide eyes and hopefully an honest face. Ratty shoes but clean, loose clothes, including a frayed black bandana around his neck. Shouto pauses, squinting. Huh. A Rowdy Twenty-er.
“Oh, um,” he starts, and grips nervously at the bandana, the simple 20% pin folding under his palm, “I'm just getting a bite to eat…”
This. This seems to be an opportunity. While information gathering isn't Shouto’s forte, suddenly he wants to know a little more about the movement. Bakugou’s going to be lucky if he's only raked over the coals once, and maybe Shouto should see why he'd risk it, risk the career he's had to work harder than anyone else for. That's what he’ll tell Toyomitsu if he gets called on this, anyway. All a happy coincidence, honest. Shouto’s at most going to get a slap on the wrist, and he can live with that.
Yuuei was such a bad influence.
And so, with that thought, Shouto frowns. “I didn't mean to imply anything,” he apologizes, “I just realized I don't know much about your cause and how it relates to the protest happening right now…”
He brightens immediately, still a little unsure. “Oh, well, I mean, not many do outside of our campaigning for Quirkless peoples rights,” he says, and the smile transforms his face, the certainty in his knowledge at the prospect of an interested listener. “I'm, I'm Midoriya Izuku, and I'm Quirkless.”
The hostess gasps, clearly eavesdropping, and Shouto sends her his best impression of a very disappointed Fuyumi. By her ashamed look, it's successful.
“Shouto,” he returns, clearly no need for anything else. “Mind if I apologize with food?”
Not so surprisingly, Shouto’s called up first despite entering after Midoriya. Clearly the word has already spread amongst the staff by their distasteful looks, but when Shouto nods at Midoriya, he steps up to join him, and they quell beneath an icy look, hah. Their seats are middling in respect, but Shouto’s sure they would have sat Midoriya somewhere near the bathrooms if at all possible. Too many people have a desire for Denny’s though, so saved by the bell, and all that. After ordering, it's not hard to coach Midoriya into talking about the Rowdy Twenty. What's hard is getting him to stay on topic.
Did Shouto know that Quirkless people only make up twenty percent of the global population? Yet, they make up a steep part of the homeless population? Have some of the highest suicide rates? Did he know that Quirkless people are effectively barred from certain jobs due to safety reasons? That in New Zealand they're treated almost as if second class citizens? That it only gets worse going down other social and cultural checklists? Did Shouto know that the new legislation included cuts to government funding to welfare programs? That children with non-combative and niche quirks are twice as likely not to be accepted to Heroic schools? That thirty percent of Quirkless diagnoses are just late bloomers but the damage has already been done? That Quirk Marriages are on the rise once more? Did Shouto know? Did he?
No. Shouto didn't, not really. Bakugou got in on a quirk, and. And that one kid, in their year but in General Education, Shouto thinks he's still in prison, will still be in prison by the time Shouto can retire. He cuts, dazed, into his pancakes, and misses the segway into—
“—your fire?”
The sweet macadamia turns to literal dust on his tongue, and Shouto’s embarrassed to admit he chokes on it. “E-Excuse me?” he stumbles, pressing a napkin to his mouth. He hasn't done that since. Since. Damn. “What?”
Midoriya’s gaze is newly intense, less enthusiastic and excited, more serious and… brittle. Well. It is a two way street. Happy coincidence. “I really like Heroes, I do,” he says, and pushes at a bit of western style egg, “but if it's too personal you don't have to answer... It's just always confused me on why you don't use your fire?”
A good number of people forget he can even use fire. Shouto swallows down a mouth of water before answering, a little more frazzled than he'd like to be. “I rather think you'd have to be a level five friend to unlock the secrets of my past,” he deadpans, slightly waspish. Ash has never tasted good. “Sorry.”
“No, no, I overstepped,” Midoriya allows, and ducks his head, mutters, “Good job, Deku…”
Worthless…?
The air runs a little stilted, but after their plates are cleared away and Shouto’s lava cake arrives, he bites the bullet. “My life is pretty much public knowledge, but what about you? How did you get in with the Rowdy Twenty?”
Midoriya had talked a good game about statistics, no doubt backed up by experience, but Shouto hadn't heard a word about his own life. Time to press if Midoriya's going to take his own stab in the dark.
“I'm not, not a founding member, but I've been involved since the beginning, really,” he admits, and scoops off the whipped cream of his milkshake to just. Eat. Suddenly, Shouto can hear Satou pitching a fit over the cheap sugar. “My mom didn't have a lot of resources, but she managed to pull some stuff together and then, well, networked with other Quirkless people, and, over a decade later, here we are?”
Maybe Shouto needs to be a level five friend to unlock more information, but this is enough to understand what Bakugou might be looking for. Despite his prickly and irate exterior, Bakugou’s only human.
At least he won't be able to say Shouto’s never did anything for him.
“How does one get involved then? Can only Quirkless be members or pitch in, or,” Shouto presses.
With a blink, Midoriya’s hand snakes over to the red pepper flakes, and, as he stirs them in, Shouto actually considers bolting for a second. Kindred souls, Midoriya and Bakugou. “Oh, well, there are plenty of community organized outreach programs. Plenty of people have managed to do very well, and they give back, but volunteers or political organizing are most needed… Think we have a center in every prefecture now,” he says, almost absently. “A lot of people need help, not just those who are Quirkless, and this legislation is going to make things harder.”
Shouto doesn't have anything to refute that, politically useless. He's been costing on some privilege, untouchable, and it leaves a bitter taste to have that laid out so clearly. “Are there meetings someone can attend?”
There's a long pause.
“Are you asking because you really want to know and help or just so you can file this away in some report somewhere?”
Well. If they're going to be frank about it. “Both,” Shouto says, and Midoriya’s eyes dart up in surprise.
He gives a breathless little laugh. “Why?” he asks, and then takes a long drag of his… milkshake. This is a story to share in the group chat later, Uraraka should get a kick out if it.
“I know someone who would benefit from some shared experience,” is all Shouto says. Or, that's all he means to say, but, a little lower, adds, “Plus, I think I agree with enough to help, if only monetarily.”
He's swiped Endeavour’s credits cards enough times before to buy dumb shit for Kirishima or Aoyoma, food for Uraraka or Satou, so what's another actual good cause, right? Legalese is Ashido’s specialty nowadays, and Shouto's pretty sure he has more a claim over the money now anyway. He wasn't going to touch the stuff, but. There's more than near enough for Endeavour to dismiss easily.
“I’m sure everyone would appreciate knowing that we're not alone in this, that the younger generation of pros care,” he says, slow, before mumbling, eyes casting to the side with a sheepish look, “Not that that's a slight to Yagi-san or Gran-san, or anything…”
Shouto blinks. Yagi. Not too many people share that name. Not too many people know that name. “Yagi Toshinori,” he says, and Midoriya startles, paling.
He flails. “Ah, um, no?” he says, more of a question than any type of defense. It has to be very apparent how well that worked because he deflates and slowly lowers his arms from around his head. “Um, please don't tell anyone… he doesn't want to get swarmed at the center.”
After the capture of All for One, Sir Nighteye’s half retirement and Mirio’s disappearance, All Might retired completely and made himself scarce as well. Only a few even know that the skeletal frame of a man that taught Heroics for two years was the same person. Shouto found out by accident, and.
Wait.
He doesn't want to get swarmed at the center.
Shouto straightens. “You know, don't you?” That he's All Might?
Midoriya doesn't quite straighten in turn, but it's a coiled offense. He cares. “It was an accident,” he defends, “and he likes it there, so, um, really, please don't tell anyone.”
“I won't,” Shouto promises, and means it. That won't make its way into any report he has to make. Yagi deserves no less, but.
Any more conversation is cut short by a soft buzz in Shouto’s ear, and he turns away to take it. “Shouto,” he says, and winces at the roar of static that greets him, standing up from his chair in reflex. “Hello?”
The clatter of his own chair echoes just before the lights go out, and Shouto barely has a moment to register a dark shape as Midoriya bolting from the table. What? He jerks, as if to reach out but the yelps of people being pushed out of the way root him, cries of fear. Dine n’ Dash, can't dine n’ dash. “What's happening?” he hisses, receives no answer, and fumbles for the money in his pocket, uncaring of how much he slaps on the table, before taking off himself.
He doesn't get further than the sidewalk before being nearly bowled over, the rising sound of screams as people flee up the street. Shouto presses at his communicator, and pushes his way back to parliament on foot because there's too many people scattered and wild for him to ride ice to the rooftops. The closer he gets, the more people he sees downed, the roadways dark, and Shouto can feel the hair on his arms rise. Electricity. Someone took out the lights. Took out everything. He's jogging over to a cluster of two people when one detaches, standing, sure footed for a moment before staggering back a step.
“Sir, I'm a Hero, can you—" Shouto starts, and the figure startles, turns. The moon gives him enough light to recognize Midoriya’s pained face—“What? Midoriya-san, I need you to evacuate the—”
“Chargebolt,” he interrupts, and Shouto tenses as Midoriya grabs a handful of his own hair, looking near broken. “We, we sent in the tip, but... still they—”
“Tip?” Shouto echoes, chest filling with dread. That's why they had a few heroes mixed in with the civilians, the police. The tip had been credible, it made sense. They didn't turn all out, because. Because the Rowdy Twenty were there. It could have been them. And what could a bunch of Quirkless people do, anyway? “You sent—” No. Later. Prioritise, Shouto—“No, Chargebolt, what about him? What do you know?”
“Trigger,” he says, whispers, and.
The scent of ozone slams into Shouto, Midoriya's hair suddenly rising to attention, and between one blink and the next, light fills the space, an iridescent blue-yellow-white. Static buzzes and chirps like a thousand birds, and Midoriya’s eyes shine, pupils pinprick. Shouto whirls, the civilian at his back, and breathes a frosted breath.
Kaminari?
From the telephone poles, it looms, a living volt of electricity. Wild strands strike the ground, a newspaper box, and the lines pop and fry. A faint curl of burnt copper and rubber fills the air, and then burning flesh as a bolt strikes a downed civilain. They don't scream, and Shouto distantly hopes that they’re already dead. White noise rattles the space, and it sways like a serpent, ripples and stretches closer. Examining them. Assessing, and. He sees it then, a pulsing and jagged cord of black snaking down its length. God, Kaminari.
“He's not attacking,” Midoriya whispers as Shouto says, “Follow me, no sudden movements.”
Caging Midoriya with his left arm, drawing a fist into his shirt, Shouto shuffles them to the right, slowly. It tracks them, ripples with electricity, and they step on something, glass, paper, something, and it seizes.
Roars.
Shouto flings his right arm.
With a high pitched shriek, the explosion throws them off their feet, ice shards gleaming bullets that shoot off in every direction. Shouto’s barely able to twist, and create create a soft snow bank to fall into, not land on Midoriya despite it. The sound of frenzied birds becomes piercing, and he's solidifying and running the snow to ice and away before another bolt of lightning can strike them dead. He can't take it the way they came, but if there's any survivors, he can't just wade blindly back towards the National Diet. Up. That just leaves up.
“Hang on to me!” he yells, and pulls the civilian closer as they slide past a car. It erupts into sparks and tips over, floats for a split second before slamming into a street lamp. Behind them, Kaminari withers and howls. “Hang on!”
Wind sears at his eyes, his heart a steady beat in his ears, and then he tilts, then they're vertical, shooting high and straight to the sky. Arms wrap a brutal hold around his chest, freeing his hands, and Shouto takes a breath at that single moment as they plateau.
In the distance, human light glitters and sirens blare, but all around them for miles darkness reigns.
Fuck, Shouto thinks, and swerves to the left, rolling a steep curl.
With a cry, Kaminari flies past, a bent zag of light and death. Bigger, burning brighter, a bolt shoots out. Connects. Ice shatters, and it's a nauseating free fall before more ice can reach them, the impact sending jarring pain up Shouto’s legs. He can feel the shudder run through Midoriya, his face pressed into Shouto’s neck, but he doesn't cry out, merely tightens his hold. Shouto’d be equal parts impressed and suspicious in any other situation. Right now he's so scared he's moved right on to being pissed, the fury cold and burning, roiling beneath his skin.
He doesn't know what to do, and sooner rather than later, he's going to get struck and falls to pieces just like his ice. The cold’s beginning to overwhelm homeostasis, he can feel it. If Kaminari doesn't get him first, his own Quirk will, and splat goes Midoriya.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
The next dodge is a little shaky, too close, and seeking electricity snags his left arm. Pain crackles up the limb, and Shouto bites off a strangled shout, pins and needles. They wobble, and Midoriya yells something, but Shouto can't hear it, icing his own shoulder to disperse the electricity. There's a yelp, and then the ice melts, energy spent, soaking his sleeve and no doubt some of Midoriya. Bad. That's bad.
I can't get hit again.
Sound rushes back in, and halfway torn away by the wind, Shouto hears, “—tree tower!”
“What?” he yells, dodging lower. Light zaps overhead.
Midoriya presses closer to his ear, ragged breath hot and quick. “The Skytree Tower, it's a lightning rod!”
A lightning rod. A lightning rod. Shouto rides a circle, and there it is, the tallest spire in the distance. Over yellow and warm light, over people.
But there's no more time to think. Movement in the corner of Shouto’s eye, fire flickers red-orange-yellow- blue, and it washes over Kaminari. It screams, redirects, and drops from the sky. Shouto sucks down a breath, and Endeavour blasts another gout of flames at Kaminari, but it's merely cleaved in two by the diving bullet. Down goes the building, his father coasting out of range on flames, and Kaminari resurfaces bigger and near blinding, edges rippling and fraying.
Too much. It's still too much, expect instead of losing cognizance—
“You need to lead him away, he's going to explode,” Midoriya yells. “It's too much electricity!”
Shouto’s using his ice to move, higher than he's really practiced, and Winter encroaches at the edge of his vision, each breath, each movement painful now.
Kaminari shrieks, bird song and hell-fiends baying, and Shouto’s left arm twitches.
Breathe.
It hurts, God does it hurt, inner ice melting away and his body suffusing with hot and blistering heat. Fire blooms, and they swoop down, feet iced and anchored, right before teeth of light and cold fire.
A howl follows them back up into the air, ozone thick and clogging. Shouto can hear Endeavour yell something after them, but it's lost to the wind, and then distance, as they hurtle across the sky, Kaminari snapping at their heels with frustrated screams.
The Skytree Tower isn't that far, normally only about fifteen minutes by transit. It shouldn't take that long, but Shouto can feel himself flagging. Too heavy. He's not used to carrying more than himself either. Something to work on, he guesses, if he makes it out if this.
Kaminari has to hit the rod, after all, and it is so, so thin.
“Sorry, end of the line, ” Shouto says, and.
Midoriya yelps as he's dropped, arms plucked free, but Shouto can't spare a moment to look back, and spits a shaky stream of fire in Kaminari’s face as he shoots back up from the last of the darkened roof tops. At most he’ll have bruises, so Midoriya should be fine. He seems tough enough, anyway.
Shouto almost doesn't want to make it just to avoid the tragedy of awaiting daylight. Almost.
People scream below, but he flares more fire, thinks, Eyes on me, and he's almost there, almost, almost.
He can't slow down enough.
Shouto slams into the rod, and he can feel his shoulder dislocate as he pulls himself in to cling, momentum swinging him around, once, twice. There's another roar of birds, a triumphant yowl, and—
fire-cold-light-horror-cold-cold- cold
—breathe.