Work Text:
Shigaraki crouches, body tensed, feeling the chill of the night air against his bare face, awaiting Machia’s next attack.
There it is—he ricochets off one arm thick as a tree trunk and about as yielding. He lands on his feet. It’s been weeks, weeks of this madness.
But who cares? They’d been lost, unable to reproduce the quirk bullets, without Kurogiri to warp them, always on the run and drained of the last of Sensei’s funds. He’d spent those nights thinking, always thinking, foot propped up on whatever ratty couch they’d managed to scrounge up, tapping one index finger to the other, then the middle, the ring, the pinkies. Repeating the pattern. And then, Kurogiri—incomunicado though he remained—delivered on his promise. He’d brought them Gigantomachia, he’d brought them the Doctor, the promise of the power to tip the scales in their favor. Game start. Found again.
His comrades were free to go, as far as he’d been concerned. To rest and pick up at the next scene. He’d had no problem with Dabi skulking off on his own mission. Better, if something came of it, to bring reinforcements if he succeeded.
Shigaraki hadn’t ordered the rest of the League to stay, didn’t ask. But night after night they remain at his side, taking shifts, perhaps curious to see where all this running, fighting, and scheming will carry them. He’s gotten better at it, but he’s still not one to show gratitude with words. So instead, he’ll make good on his promise. He’ll bring them that dark and beautiful future. Once again, he grins, knows he must look half-mad. More than usual anyway. His grin splits open even wider at the thought. His eyes stay fixed on Machia, who almost seems to rend the earth from itself in his pursuit.
He remembers how his master’s hulking servant is rendered docile, purring, at a tinny recording of his voice. It’s too bad Toga’d never been granted All for One’s blood. A dirty trick to use on so loyal a servant, one his master would’ve approved of, he imagines.
He isn’t Sensei.
So then who is he? the Doctor asks, dangling the prize in front of them. Who are they, the League of Villains? Does it matter, Shigaraki wonders, dodging another blow, trying to draw that giant lump of rock out into the open. He’s used to that disbelief, that doubt. The Doctor’s jovial sneer burns in his mind. The maddening itch, never gone for long, starts back up again, never sated.
Lunging at Machia from above, he remembers Sensei’s capture. How it had left him cold and alone, like the child he remembers being in his few half-filled memories from before. Unmoored without his master’s guidance from the shadows, quicksilver rage always at his fingertips, but never fully in his grasp. Big enough to fill the world, or tear it down. Even more than the beloved master who nurtured it, that nameless fury had been his most faithful companion for as long as he could remember. It did not speak its secrets to him then, on those interminable nights.
Yet right now, fighting for his life, none of that matters. For his purpose—for their purpose—he must stay alive, and win this battle.
Their collective fighting skills are a poor match for Gigantomachia’s endless strength, but if it’s a war of attrition they’re fighting, they’ll chip away until they conquer him. Shigaraki is sure of this without understanding why, recognizes the burning light of the opportunity before him, through the pain and exhaustion.
And that? It’s no big deal.
What does he have if not a tolerance for pain? What else has he done his whole life, besides enduring, running, besides veering off course at the last possible moment to aim a deadly strike? He’s lithe, carrying no weight he doesn’t need—no bulky muscle to damn him with its inertia on the wind-up. A means to an end. A weapon to use, like the power the League is fighting to gain. Conquering Machia, earning the Doctor’s support and tech—that’s the goal. It’d feel good to prove them all wrong, but it’s not the point.
Shigaraki remembers how Sensei’s eyes would seem to shine as he told his young ward about the wonderful quirks he’d amassed like so many glittering trinkets. He doesn’t delight in power the way his master does. He’d hated his own once, after all. Hands clenched into fists when he slept, holding everything he dared to touch as carefully, delicately, as possible. It’s been years and years since he’d decayed anything without it being exactly on purpose.
His mind has become clear in this crawling darkness, reflexes sharpened and re-forged by the hunger and lack of sleep, buzzing with an electric, quiet mania. It’s gradual, but he can feel himself getting ever closer to the prize, old doubts falling away like so much ash. Though to him the world beyond remains a writhing, sickening mass of hypocrisy and confusion, its few points of light appear as he thinks of his comrades. If they will follow him there, to the end of this foolish society, he will take vengeance for them, protect them. He can’t answer the Doctor’s question, but this mission he can fulfill.
Yes, what’s left is simply the quest in front of him. That much at least is clear. He’s almost enjoying himself, almost wants to laugh as he positions himself for his next strike. He can be patient now. He thinks Kurogiri might’ve been impressed.
Spinner appears in the corner of his eye, blades glinting, caked in grime. He utters a piercing battle cry and leaps into the dusty air. He manages to nick one of Gigantomachia’s gnarled forearms but is forced to roll out of the way of the other fist as it smashes into the ground where he’d been standing a fraction of a second earlier. Spinner spits, curses.
Shigaraki takes advantage of the momentary distraction to attack again, though Machia never loses track of him—not really. As he sprints forward he catches Spinner’s eyes with his own.
“Watch him,” he warns, and Spinner nods, a look of grim determination on his face. He sinks into a fighting stance to cover Shigaraki as his leader surges forward, tattered coat shadowing his movements.
They’re next, after all.