Chapter Text
Should one choose to begin their grand journey, as every human does, they should know at least these three things:
Regardless of incentive, the friends made along the way or other hippie bull-crap, one will always feel an unquenchable desire to return to their anchor. Whatever rooting point began their adventures, whether it be friends, family or lover, will inevitably be their destination as well. This is the essence of the thrill of journey outweighing the promise of finality, for the king’s treasure is just a façade: true joy comes with the return to the little house in the forgotten hamlet and whoever remains there. It begs the question: Is it mature to cry over the lost? Arguably it is the most mature thing; the recognition of foundation; of hope; and determination is an honourable thing.
The person may choose their footsteps and conscience, but Fate pulls the precious strings of morals that guide or return. Failure: in this case, is not being crushed by the cruel machinations of Fate’s decision, nor is it failing to lift one’s head from the squalid ground and press eagerly ever-onward in Lord McGuffin’s quest. No; the one unforgivable sin of fate is to fail to recognize defeat, to cut more lives than losses. Whatever else failure may imply, at least at the human perspective, is irrelevant; know only that continuous failure serves as a reminder that the puppet’s strings are being tangled, and you are not the puppet-master. Perseverance is not a virtue; it is an affliction so delicately wound by the devilish abominations beneath and within our soles and souls.
Victory is fleeting; it is the golden ray of hope that sparks through the dappled forest leaves on a cloudy day and warms the malnourished bones and skin of death living. The precious golden ambrosia of satisfaction and pride must be locked and protected, for the aging tannin turning eagerly in the caskets of mind only betters their taste when enjoyed with other delicacies. Let not the savagery of rage taint the brew; wine turns worthless once opened and all joys feel worse in a bad day. So victory must be protected; the little joys; the fleeting moments of happiness must be locked away, never to see the spark of sun or moon and hidden beneath the arras of front, side, back, head and extremities. Make oneself a cellar; keep disposition simple and cold; metallic to the touch, dead except internally. Of course, this isn’t an option to you; the process of experience and age will do so automatically.
The rules of these journey’s always follow through, regardless of whether it’s the years passing into adulthood or the simple motions of tying a noose. For the child will return home as the noose’s head does, the twisted lines of direction so closely parallel the churning knots of rope, and the fleeting drops of Nike’s liquor would have been run dry through the neck and sinew.
So what of the innocent, pure and unprepared souls venturing beyond the teats of their mother; one moment suckling beneath a sheltered gown and the next freezing at the corner of a gas station? They will die.
Their lives are a tragedy, of course, but one incomparable and servile to the true test of the opposite. The evil; the sinners; seeking a new path through the brambles with the aid of the pure. Perhaps an inspiration, perhaps a mentor, perhaps oneself.
Or in Kaminari’s case, a lover.
But cruel fate decides, and no matter how hard Jirou tried to drag Kaminari from the thorns and brambles of avarice and malice, Fate pulled harder from the beyond. And so fate claimed Kaminari, dragging him back to his origin within the lands of sin.
Jirou refused to release his hand.
And was dragged into the sharpened thorns of sin.
And torn to pieces.
Kaminari felt her blood splatter his skin.
He felt a single tear roll down his cheek.
He felt his heart break.
And so it started like this:
Kaminari was the traitor; a spy placed by the League of villains to gain intelligence of U.A’s current standing situation. He had done his job well: Eliminating the communications at USJ, alerting Tomura of the Quirk Training Camp, gathering information on all future hero candidates.
He would have been prepared to move onto the final step of his orders and seal U.A’s coffin with his actions. To kill the students. He would have been totally fine with it too, none of his classmates had drawn his interest or appreciation for the majority of the semester.
Except for one.
He understood why he was attracted to Jirou; beside being physically attractive, her hobbies overlapped so commonly that he could at points feel genuine affection towards her.
He could not understand why she never left his conscience. Kaminari assumed his infatuation was a simple crush; his teenage hormones had previously hindered his abilities as an assassin. He continued to brush her off his mind and made an honest effort to avoid her company.
But she would not go away.
Whenever he ate lunch, he would subconsciously peek over to her eating absentmindedly at the adjacent table.
Whenever he pretended to study, his mind would flitter over to her beautiful being.
Whenever he slept, scenes of Jirou decorated his dreamscape and more often than not his lascivious desires played through with her.
And they talked. They were good friends, maybe something more. They flirted, they shared secret kisses, they told each other secrets under the pale moonlight like a duo in a bad romantic comedy.
He was a wreck.
His avoidance of her company did ease his thoughts slightly, but it made his situation worse when she began following him, actively seeking out his company for conversation, bodily pleasures or the simple joy of proximity.
And he obliged. Time and time again, with every request, he could not deny her. He loved her. This wasn’t some fruitless childhood love; their lines of fate were bound together, two puppets with tied strings.
Here was he, the heartless killer, the assassin credited with thousands to his name, trained to be emotionless and deadly, sparked to love by an ordinary schoolgirl.
He would have chosen this life if given a choice, to live a peaceful life with Jirou at his side. He wanted to forsake the cursed brambles and thorns for Jirou’s embrace. He tried to quit.
But all those feeble and hopeless dreams never saw the light of day. Because fate is cruel and lets not mortals stray from servitude of its will. Once the light of nostalgia fades from rose tinted eyes, all that remains is the present.
Kaminari’s footsteps crunched on the crisp, dying grass outside of U.A. He wasn’t welcome anymore, but the security walls often proved more effective against the media than, say, intelligent and highly trained super villains aiming to kill people. Kind of an oversight on their part, actually.
Before he had attempted to infiltrate the school grounds, he had carefully shorted out the electric grid system and dispatched the few security guards stationed around the facility.
Sure enough, the supposedly well protected gates of U.A fell before bare minimum effort from a competent mind and Kaminari granted himself access to the building.
He wasn’t there to kill anyone, of course. He wouldn’t disrespect Jirou’s memory with such heinous intent. Kaminari simply needed access to the area behind the school where Jirou’s grave was so constructed.
Kaminari wished it could have been different. Perhaps, in a different world, they could have been together. But perhaps are simply regrets disguised as possibilities, and Kaminari wasn’t one to enjoy dwelling on his past. However, his annual illegal visitation to Jirou’s grave invariably provoked the same set of memories leading to her demise and the opportunities he had to change history.
The flashbacks always began the same:
He began delaying his work; spending more time with Jirou. Progress began to fall behind and reports were suddenly misfiled. Kaminari’s employers grew more and more upset with him as his success continued to dwindle.
Kaminari was retrieved from his operation after his fifth consecutive failure to obey his superior’s commands. Shadowy figures, hidden behind fattened lips and minds, threatened him from the encroaching darkness.
“Kaminari Denki. Your recent status reports have been troubling.”
“Yes sir. Complications have arisen, and I request more time to complete my objectives.”
Kaminari stood before the collection of councilmen in the dark room, tall and unshaken despite their obvious malice.
“Must I remind you, Kaminari, that you have delayed our success for over FIVE MONTHS?”
His boss’ voice rose towards the end of his statement, shaking his triple chins and splattering saliva over his desk.
“Of course. And without me, your plans will never come to fruition.”
A flabby hand waved dismissively from the shadows and a different gruff voice rang out. “We have other agents, Kaminari. Think not that you hold importance.”
“Could they do as well as I could? Could ANY of you do what I could?” Sparks of blue lightning sparked through Kaminari’s body, illuminating the dark room and sending flickering shadows dancing behind him.
“Given your delays, boy, they would have done better.”
“THEY WOULD BE DEAD.” The lightning was beginning to spark dangerously, jumping onto nearby electrical devices and shorting them out. Kaminari’s heartbeat rang out through the air. “THE STUDENTS OUTMATCH THEM, EASILY.”
From the opposite side of the council, another voice called. “Ah, so the obstacle you face so constantly is a ‘classmate’? We could, given our resources, kill your suppressor for you.”
Rage boiled like a storm front inside Kaminari, manifesting in his stomach and bursting outwards in red tendrils of electric death.
“LEAVE KYOUKA OUT OF THIS!” Crackling electricity broke from his body in a wave, matching the red anger inside of him, shattering the floors and burning the wood inside the meeting room. The darkness was briefly banished by a wave of unrelenting light.
Then Kaminari realized what he said. The lightning sputtered immediately.
“Kyouka? Hmm…Does little Kaminari have a crush?”
Ugly laughter resonated around him. Kaminari fell to his knees, suddenly dizzy. He felt like throwing up. Ripples of laughter continued around him, pressing him into the ground with guilt and fear. His life with Jirou had been built so lovingly and with a great amount of trust over the course of months. Now, with the interference of these bastards, all of it would be torn to the ground.
And it would be all his fault.
“No…” Kaminari stared at the cold marble floor with desolate eyes, pools of tears forming on the bottom lid. He knew what the superiors were capable of. He didn’t want to see Jirou suffer.
“Rise, boy.”
Kaminari looked up from his place, eyes still threatening to burst.
“Boy, we admit to be reluctant to rid ourselves of you. You still have...potential.” The councilman stood from his seat and began to walk down to Kaminari’s level.
“You will not be granted another extension. You mission shall be completed in a week.”
The man squatted in front of Kaminari, tilting the boy’s chin upwards so they stared at one another. His dark, empty eyes gave no trace of warmth of humanity.
“Proceed to kill your classmates. And Kaminari…”
The mans’ eyes hardened into red orbs, glinting cruelly in the minimal light.
“Start with Kyouka.”