Work Text:
MUSUTAFU WAS ALWAYS A BUSY CITY. Regardless of the time of day, you can always find three or four stragglers preening themselves, the occasional homeless scouting out potential sleeping spots, and a businessman or two chattering like brightly colored toucans. They would take particular interest in the streets, which were clean and waxy due to the morning rains, to hunt their prey of old chained bicycles, subway entrances, and benches beneath dry arches. This constant movement that was the ecosystem of Musutafu was comforting.
It was an exceptionally hot morning in May when a man emerged from the doorway of his downtown apartment. The apartment itself wasn’t shabby nor particularly pretentious, but the man himself was quite different than what his living space would suggest.
He was awfully angular, made up of wacky shapes and fun colors. His hair, a loud yellow, swooped back like a cockatiel’s crest against his rosy cheeked face where it remained unwavering and annoying despite the efforts of the wind.
Several pigeons flocked to telephone wires to watch this man strangely. Every morning he would move like clockwork: he would stand for a moment to soak the brilliance of the day in, whether it truly was a brilliant day or not, then head North along the sidewalk whistling a tune he had heard on the radio last night. Often, he would be greeted by cheery passersby. He would wave, shoot finger guns, and throw himself back and forth as if he was in an eternal state of unbalance. Then, with a small hop, he would take a left at the busy intersection into a cafe.
Today, due to the unbearable heat, the strange man burst through the doors with an expression of the most profound unpleasantness he was able to muster. The knots of his leather jacket had withered away in the sun, and the smell, the bustling, the crowds, the dust all about him, that special Musutafu stench-- all destroyed any possibility of a subtle entrance. However, only a meager few gazes curiously shifted to him before they returned to their original subject: a dinky old radio.
It was an old thing, as the aesthetic of the cafe was. Every so often, it would hack out dust like a smoker, choke on guttural breaths before returning to its original scheduled programming of whichever station the people were idly listening to, but the sleepy atmosphere that the wavy fans overhead always stirred was strangely absent. Instead, the regulars gathered like grizzled scavengers around the radio.
“Oui, oui, oui, what’s the audience about?” the strange man said, spilling his presence to the register where practically all the patrons sat. They barely acknowledged his explosive words, his voice far too loud in the quiet static that was the radio. Someone shushed him.
“Oh, good morning, Mic!” A woman of cheery smiles said. Her face was as round and tiny as a button. As she scurried up to him from behind the counter, she batted down an apron splattered with creams and coffee, muttering, “Sorry for everyone’s attitudes today. Apparently there’s been some big hero scandal or something, I don’t really know, but everyone’s been tuning in, so ah, my boss told me that I should tell you to-- uhm... keep it down .” She nibbled at her finger, tense and nervous.
Ah, so that was the issue. Being loud was always his forte, but of course, there were times to roar one’s passions, boiling and heavy, to the sky! -- and there were times where one had to be silent. “Not to worry.” Mic whispered, with an eased smile to assuage her, “Listening to civilians, that’s what heros do!”
She clasped her fingers together, jittery with relief. “Thank you! Do you want your regular or are you feeling experimental?”
“Just the regular-- you know exactly how I like it!”
She uttered the same order he has given for the three consecutive years he has blasted through the cafe’s doors, her slim fingers working his yen into the cash register slot. As her timid form retreated to the back to rifle through the bottles and blenders, Mic turned an ear to whatever the mass media lied about this time.
“-- the guardians of the victim claimed that after she was told to go home by the hero, she wasn’t quite the same. She barely spoke. She didn’t eat. Even the smallest of noises would startle her and render her petrified. Despite the concerned contact of her friends and family, she refused to leave her room, only coming out for basic necessities… These symptoms are common to people with PTSD. Doctors, after analyzing the claims of this case, state that it would have been incredibly surprising if she didn’t show any intense signs of mental trauma after being kidnapped and chained in a basement for three years. The pro hero situated to raid the kidnapper’s home, an underground hero known as Eraserhead, had initially met the basic requirements of his job: entering through the window and safely taking out the villain, but when he found the victim, he checked only for physical injuries. She had little, merely shallow cuts on her wrists, enough for him to apply minimal first aid. To Eraserhead, a simple glance over was apparently all that he needed to do to send her back home. Could it be possible that her suicide was caused by such a lack of concern from him? How can we trust our heroes if they can’t be thorough enough to check stability in not only our physical health or mental health? Eraserhead currently faces a lawsuit by the guardians of the young girl. When asked to comment on his state of affairs, he gave no reply. A sign of uncaring? Maybe guilt? People speculate--”
“Here’s the usual! Don’t know how you can handle all that sugar, must be a hero thing! Ha ha-- Oh? Are you all right?” the woman said, returning to the counter with her fingers clutched finely around the order. Every so often she would glance this way and that to touch her cheek nervously.
Mic had his shoulders pulled erect against his neck, and as he reached to pluck his order from her, his hands trembled and shook. His face was indescribable, closed and confused like a child’s, brow lined with silent fury. If only the radio could shut off with merely a glower.
Spluttering, the radio continued to hack out more lies like foul sludge. The reporter’s voice, poised and proper, continued to milk every inch of the story they could until Mic nearly reached out to shut it off himself. Instead, he shoved one hand in his pocket and took a sip of his coffee. He made no movement.
The woman behind the register stood at attention, watching his movement with a silent mouth. Her eyes crinkled and creased. She worked her fingers into her apron. “Mic?”
“Do people really believe this?”
She listened quietly.
“I mean it’s all the media. You know how they love exaggeration, flair, dramatics, all that. Now, Eraser isn’t the most emotional guy, I know, but spinning him to be heartless, that’s evil.”
Someone shushed him again.
It would be so simple to pretend to spill his coffee on the whole lot, but seeing the woman’s timid watchfulness, the way she would search his aggravation with panicked stutters, waiting for things to just go wrong, he merely muttered a thank you and shoved out of the cafe where the wheezes of the radio were no longer audible.
…
Mic had busied himself with his work in furious contemplation. Already, several large stacks of papers had collected on his desk, dog-eared and disorganized. They were pages upon pages of half-hearted essays that required the heavy-handed discipline of his grading, never mind the composition worksheets he had assigned them… He couldn’t even remember which pile was which, and those words on the radio kept haunting him even in the ticking quiet of the office.
Heroes, police, doctors, public servants alike were no strangers to the possibilities of a lawsuit. Every single action was taken carefully, trained with this preciseness to prevent happenings in the first place, but nobody could truly do anything to stop charges being pressed. Hell, Mic had had his own case in the past, but it was so clear cut and simple that even the judge looked bothered when it was brought up. Yet, the issue Eraserhead would have to face was… a tough one. It was like a tangled knot, far too many loops and snags for one to completely straighten the story out. Any lawyer could easily get those spindly fingers between it and play cat’s cradle to their heart’s content.
Mic contemplated the case as he hemmed and hawed between giving a student a C or a F on this particular composition. He brusquely went for the F, suggestions for improvement slashing across the paper like police tape, before tossing it into the finished pile. He went to rub beneath his sunglasses with a heavy yawn. Seriously, did the kids even try? Just because they were in hero school didn’t mean they had to kick the bucket when something as domestic as English popped up.
A door opened and closed somewhere far down the hall. It was an awfully loud noise, a thunder roll in the clinical silence of the academy’s halls. The usual murmur of the students and the chatter of tongues were strangely absent today. Either they were taking a test or… bah, probably just a test. Mic checked his watch. Thirty minutes into the second period. It was a wonder why the staff office was so empty, usually some teacher would be around to share his free period. As he shifted to grab another composition for grading, a low voice floated up from down the hallway.
“Hello? Yes,” the speaker mumbled, lazy in their linking of words and even lazier in their verboseness. “When is the hearing?” Silence for a moment. Then, a low huff. “I already told you what happened, my story isn’t different… No… I’ll ‘try again’ since you’re so insistent, but not now. Next time, don’t call me at work… Okay. Goodbye.” A click sounded somewhere far away, followed by a sigh.
Mic had read the same sentence seven times already by the time the owner of the voice shuffled into the room, a tall man dressed down in black clothing, Eraserhead. Eraserhead had a vague air of scruffiness to him, and a constant neutral expression that suggested he was more interested in the prospect of sleep rather than whatever activities he was to be tormented with during the day.
Mic had underlined some things, had scribbled notes that weren’t entirely legible, had just pretended as Eraserhead texted to some mysterious third party with one hand while the other held onto several recent test scores (no doubt containing some expulsion notices for a couple unlucky students). They pretended the other didn’t exist for a moment, until finally, Eraserhead shut his phone and set upon entering grades into the computer. That’s when Mic spoke up.
“Heard about the lawsuit this mornin’,” he said, an inappropriate air of casualty staining such heavy words. There was a light rustle of papers as he flipped the essay over.
Eraserhead merely grunted in reply. His body sagged like a deflated trash bag. “And?”
“And… what are you going to do about it? About the media? They were bad mouthing you like crazy, you know.”
“Deal with it later."
“Later? You serious?”
“Does it look like I’m joking?” Eraserhead did not move, did not swivel in his seat to give one of those famous hardset looks that he was known for, both as a friend and a teacher. Instead, he merely ran a hand over bleary raccoon eyes. The consistent clack of the computer keys went quiet, and then it started up again a moment later.
“If you’ve got trouble, I’ve got some really great lawyers to call! All great people, they’re fun to work with, actually do things right, not crooked-- What? Don’t give me that look. Hamasaki-san, she really knows how to work with the courts, and Tatsumi-san, he’s one real fighter, could’ve probably been a hero if he put that passion in the right places-- Are you listening to me?”
Mic’s fevered ramblings zipped close as Eraserhead pulled a particular test score from the pile. “Should I expel Hanamura-kun?” Eraserhead asked bluntly.
“Hanamura-kun? That Hanamura-kun? First year kid who’s way too nice for his own good and keeps getting the golden medals in my class?”
“Yes. He flunked my test despite several extra lessons I’ve had with him.”
The two settled for a civil conversation, starting with the heated debate of Hanamura-kun’s fate, and ending with mutually disinterested chatter about climate change. The lawsuit remained unapproached for the rest of the period, and when the bell rang to signal the beginning of the next one, they both fled the office for their classes.
It was only when Mic preened before entering his third period class that he realized his lack of achievement in attempting to speak to Eraserhead about the lawsuit issue. Distractible. That was what his teachers in high school had labelled him.
Mic had cursed for a moment with the oncoming realization, paced back and forth with a thumb hooked beneath his chin, and attempted to reorient his goals for later today. But would Eraserhead even appreciate his meddling? Of course not. Eraserhead never did.
Eraserhead was a capable man. He didn’t require someone to babysit him.
Mic nodded. There was no need to attempt to ‘fix’ the other’s situation. Eraserhead could handle it.
With this final assessment in place, Mic pushed open the door to his third period class, and promptly exploded in a cloud of brilliant yellow fireworks. “ALL RIGHT, CLASS 2-B! ARE WE READY TO LEARN?”
The door slid shut behind, but it did little to stifle his bellowing voice.
…
It has been a week since the lawsuit was first brought up, and every single morning, where Mic would stumble into the cool dimness of his usual cafe to get a cup of coffee, there was that damn radio. It was always reclining, singing a story of another nefarious deed Eraserhead had done as its audience gathered around like headless chickens. The cashier there, the one with the round face and timid smile, would babble an apology and claim she couldn’t do anything because the radio kept customers there. Keeping his temper in check became more and more difficult with each passing minute he’s spent under the coffee perfumed air and whirling fans. So much so that he stopped coming back. He was just one customer after all, they wouldn’t mind his lack of presence.
As for Eraserhead himself, well, he appeared to just get worse and worse. He was always a scruffy man: a scruffy toddler, a scruffy youth, a scruffy hero, but now it appeared the recent issues had begun to take its toll. Already, he had to juggle two jobs, and no doubt the extra pressure was bound to break him soon… yet, Eraserhead continued to persist. Piles of coffee cups, used tissues, and half eaten meals wasted away on his desk, and if it weren’t for Mic’s secretive cleaning, it would have turned into a health hazard. Eraserhead’s space, always holding just the bare minimum, too became a mess of papers. There was just about anything: grade records, printed out worksheets, notes that still needed to be delivered to students, but primarily there were legal documents. Many many legal documents that just about covered every morsel of blankness the workspace had left.
Mic hadn’t pressed the issue. He was, in fact, determined to play keep away and allow Eraserhead to handle it independently. However, that didn’t mean Mic couldn’t brighten up the other’s day a bit with the usual snippets of conversation. Conversations that always danced around a dangerous subject, but never broached the line. They were easy to speak about, easy to feel good about, and there was little thought one had to put into it. It seemed to work. At least, Eraserhead could tolerate Mic’s presence more with these soft-handed topics.
But all Mic’s qualms about whether or not to step in were immediately silenced when Eraserhead had shuffled into work on a Saturday morning, looking, smelling, and sounding like death. His hair, while always matted and untamed, was absolutely shoddy with uneven cuts, as if someone had replaced his scissors with a chainsaw, and the stench that trailed after him seemed to be some filthy concoction of sweat, dust, coffee, and microwavable dinners. Even Cementoss wore an unpleasant expression, and Mic wasn’t certain if he had nostrils.
“You don’t look so hot,” Mic said once Eraserhead sat down.
“I wasn’t aware it was that obvious,” Eraserhead snorted sarcastically.
“Yeah, ‘cause coming in here smelling like you’ve been living in a trash dump for twenty-eight years isn’t obvious. A story’s coming up already: ‘DEAR LISTENERS, YOU WON’T BELIEVE WHAT HAPPENED TO ME YESTERDAY! A STRANGE HOMELESS MAN HAD ILLOGICALLY (YET POSSIBLY IDIOTICALLY?) GOTTEN PAST U.A.’S IMPECCABLY INVINCIBLE DEFENSES, WHHHHYYYY, EVEN PRINCIPAL NEZU HIMSELF IS STUMPED!’”
There was no reply. No witty discussion to be had, no dry humored exchange that was often so expected with a well placed jab, not even a little huff of amusement. Instead, Eraserhead just looked tired.
What could Mic even do? Since Oboro had kicked the bucket, he was the one that was there to attempt to fill the gap. A trio turned into a duo. At first, it was manageable. Mic, as a youth and as an adult, excelled at cheering others up, putting the correct spot of sunshine in one’s day to revive a lonely soul. He was the one who could coax laughter from even the most closed off of characters, and Eraserhead was no exception.
Yes, Mic was supposed to be the pleasant one. But, as he watched Eraserhead shift through the mess, looking worse and worse for wear, he feared how well he was doing his job. ‘Leave it alone,’ he had promised himself. He didn’t have the jurisdiction to bust into these things and ‘help’ out, that was Oboro’s field. All he had to do was flash a television-toothed smile, say a couple of things with a flippant flash of his sunglasses, and Eraserhead would feel just a little bit better.
Yet, he’s been doing just that for the last week, and nothing. The same secluded hallways, the same empty ticking of the clock, and the same gravelly voice that would answer to another lawyer’s call during work hours.
And, just like he has done for the last thirteen years, Mic once again cursed Oboro’s lack of presence.
Eraserhead wouldn’t like it, but Mic had to do something.
After all, what were heroes for?
“Hey, Eraser, wanna get lunch?” Mic whistled.
“I need to make a call at lunch,” Eraserhead replied, far too easily.
“How about dinner?”
“I’ve got an appointment.”
“Tomorrow lunch?”
“Don’t you have anything better to do?” He drew around to give him a deadened stare.
Usually, Mic would have evaded the subject with practiced ease. Turned it into a sarcastic joke, or laughed and shot one of his high energy finger guns, but today, he crossed his arms and said, “Nope.” It was a lie. Hours and hours of work were imminent: ungraded compositions, unread emails, unfinished bills, and a half chalked up program for Friday night’s radio that still needed attending. “One lunch. One dinner, even one breakfast! Hell, I don’t care. Just give me a time you’re free.”
Eraserhead’s face took on a severe expression.
“You know I’ll keep bothering you.”
Silence for a moment, then a grumbled, “Sunday afternoon.”
“Allll riiiight! It’s a date!”
…
In vapid listlessness, Mic leaned his head against the wall, closing his eyes with some grandiose hope it would ease the pounding in his head. He had much work to catch up on if he were to spend a full afternoon idling about, even if it were with a friend, and that meant shifting through dozens upon dozens of emails, some from his colleagues, others from fans responding to Friday’s sessions, and a meager few that told stories about one, Solomon Odonkoh, who wanted to ship gold across the Midwest. His eyes came to a close, stifling the florescent light of the computer screen; but they only had rested five minutes when his phone vibrated across the tabletop.
His phone was a gaudy piece of work. Well, that’s what Eraserhead had called it anyway, as it was speckled with little bits of trifles, little golden rings, fake spikes, all of the sort. He flipped it open, nestling it between the crook of his neck as he worked nimble fingers across the keyboard, responding to yet another ping of a message: this one telling him of possible changes to his patrol route in the following week.
“YOOOO, it’s Yamada!” Mic chirped, his hands coming up with a simple enough reply in hopes of a minimal clacking of keys.
The voice on the other line sounded exhausted. “I don’t think I can make it today.”
The typing came to a stop. Then, it began once more, albeit with a more sadistic force. “AIZAWA! C’mon! You’re not ditching me are you? And I thought we were friends!”
“I’m really sorry, Yamada. Something’s come up with the… lawsuit.”
“HA HA HA, don’t worry about it! I think I am freeeeeee-- Tuesday, after work! How about then?”
“Okay.” Silence. “And… again, I’m sorry.”
The dial tone drilled holes into Mic’s cranium. He set it down, clicked it shut once more, and sighed. Another vibration. He eagerly flipped it back open, perhaps expecting a text from Eraserhead to recertify their plans, but it was just another standard alert from the usual social media hell.
Tomorrow. It was just one more day… After all, he was a hero! Heroes didn’t get disappointed so easily like children were. He waved the idea off flippantly, returning to answer the email.
Still, thoughts continued to creep up on him, digging hooked feet into the back of his shirt.
Eraserhead didn’t have to cancel so suddenly, so rudely, so cheaply.
But, he was dealing with far more issues than Mic was. It made sense!
Groaning, he rubbed at stinging eyes. A nap would be the most positive course of action, after all, he had his afternoon free now! Mic left his computer whirling, swiveling back in his seat to grab his futon off its position by the mantle. A nap. He could handle that easy enough.
…
“ERASER--”
“Lower your voice.”
“-- Hey, buddy, old pal, my listener! You ready to go?”
It was Tuesday, 15:20. Students and teachers alike dispelled the obtrusive nature of that afternoon’s work, whether it be grading or homework, to mingle about in little clusters in doorways or as sparse groups on the grounds. As for Mic and Eraserhead, they both went about packing their things and initiating the idle banter they’ve had since youth. Occasionally, passerbys would hear a particularly good joke, followed by a sound of amusement that could have either been made by a trumpet or a bassoon.
Eraserhead nodded to Mic’s question, hauling his bag strap to his shoulder. His expression was relaxed today, merry and full of light hearted ease, a welcome change from the grueling look he’s been sporting for the past week and a half. As he was about to push in his chair, there was the telltale sound of a vibrating phone. The standard ring tone. Mic always said that particular tone was dull and suggested absolutely zero personality. Eraserhead had just shrugged.
Then, a flash of concern tainted his face. Mic examined him closely as he answered the call.
“Eraserhead.” His grip tightened around his bag strap, fiddling and running his fingers against the scratchy material. “What is it, Tanaka-san?”
Whatever answer the person on the other line had relayed, it certainly subjected Eraserhead to a number of emotions. His face had changed rapidly, one moment a steady surprise, the other one of plaintive uncertainty. “Why didn’t you call me earlier… You could have sent a message... It doesn’t matter, I’m coming right away... Yes... Goodbye.” He flipped the phone closed, turning to look at Mic.
Mic grinned, the same famous grin that he had sported in high school with its upturned curves and its shine like tinfoil. It was the same grin that had teachers level him with only a disapproving glare than a detention notice. It was the same grin that had civilians comforted in a time of crisis. It was the same grin that allowed Eraserhead, Oboro, and him to be crowded on that rooftop in the first place.
Yet, when Eraserhead looked to face Mic, his expression was of the grimmest neutrality, like that of a doctor informing one’s family about a death: It was an unpleasant message, but it had to be done. Mic deflated.
“Eraser, you-- you’ve gotta be kidding me--” Mic started.
“Just for today. I’m sorry, Mic.”
The same message as Sunday afternoon, only with a meager few words swapped out. The same message, or was it simply a shabby excuse? He knew what Oboro would do in such a situation: most likely demand to accompany Eraserhead, give a cheery smile and an assurance that everything , absolutely everything would be all right! Then, somehow, he’ll be able to truly convince the other permanently. Mic didn’t know how he did it.
Mic wasn’t Oboro, had no knowledge of the first step to be him, so Mic just laughed heartily.
“Don’t worry about it!” he said. “It’s gotta be super important if the great Eraserhead has to drop everything! Go, save someone’s life! Haha, I won’t hold you back, that’ll be villainous, and I don’t think I’m a villain!”
Eraserhead parted his lips, waiting, looking for some words to pop up, but after a moment, he nodded and fled from the office. The door to the stairway banged open and shut somewhere far away, and Mic sighed.
What was he doing! Eraserhead required his help, or at least just a little bit of reassurance. He should have offered to accompany the other, should have done this, should have done that. He understood how narrow minded he could be during particular situations, and dealing with this one where consequences were imminent was frightening. Damn it. He hated this. Doing nothing, saying nothing. Present Mic was a hero of action, constantly on the move! Yet, here he was, standing and absolutely frozen. He was a hero, wasn’t he? Heroes were supposed to help those who needed it, and from the way Eraserhead had stumbled into work the last week, skin papery with illness, Eraserhead needed help.
Tomorrow.
There was little time to cower, Present Mic will be the hero he should be tomorrow...
…
Within Class 3A, half of the students were asleep. They were pooled over their desk or the back of their head rested against their chair, and they were absolutely bored out of their mind. Ties were rumpled, jackets were falling from snoring bodies, and Mic continued scratching several words on the chalkboard, a workbook tucked under his elbow.
He understood their boredom. Learning English was a rough sock in comparison to the adrenaline charged enthusiasm that hero training offered, but it was little excuse to be half asleep. He finished his little diagram up with a dusty flourish and turned back to his drowsy students. Tsk, tsk, tsk, shouldn’t third years learn by now not to fall asleep in his class?
He sucked in a breath. The kids who were attentive enough to notice covered their ears. Smart move.
“WAAAAAAAAKE UUUUUUP!!!” his voice boomed over the classroom, and the students startled with anguished cries, scrabbling from their seats before they could fall entirely. He shut his mouth with perverse glee, witnessing the absolute comatose that can occur with just a little oomph of his voice. Those that were asleep slammed open their workbooks and dutifully pretended they had been listening the entire time. Cheap.
“Oui, oui, oui, finals are coming soon and you want to sleep-- HEAD UP, SATO-CHAN! -- I get if you’re tired, everyone is, but that’s no excuse not to listen, and judging from last semester’s grades, I wouldn’t be so confident.”
The class seemed suddenly interested in looking everywhere but at the podium.
“Now, let’s get ourselves up and pumpin’, 3A! Would be a shame if the first years beat you in English exams, (‘cause it’s really starting to look like they will) wouldn’t it? Alll riiiiight! Now, Sato-chan, tell me indefinite pronoun agreement for the word ‘everybody’ -- AND NO ASKING HANAMURA-KUN FOR HELP!”
The girl, face like a fatty plum, looked timid and unsure. She peered behind him at the board, but oh, it would offer no answers. Several seconds passed, and as everyone observed her moment of public embarrassment, she opened her mouth to say--
The bell rang. Lunchtime.
The girl looked as if she would pass out in relief, and somehow, before Mic could even manage to get another word out, she had everything packed up and had escaped from the crime scene. The rest of the class followed suit, determined to wriggle from the confines of the classroom, thickly packed with the dull nonsense of everyday schooling. Within the very same amount of time a butterfly could have flapped its wings, the classroom was empty. Mic was aghast.
The papers were collected, shuffled into several neat piles, the classroom was overlooked for any possible left over items (Mic had unearthed a pencil and had tucked it on the chalkboard holder for the owner to later find), and finally, the lights were flicked off and the door was clicked closed. Mic stood outside the classroom as he positioned his lesson plan under one leather clad arm. The hallway seemed to expand before him.
He knew where Eraserhead would be. In fact, he knew exactly what the image would entail. Just several paces forward, then up the stairs, and a meager few paces to the left, Eraserhead would sit, crowded around plastic wrappers, various documents, and empty coffee cans. He would be leaning humpbacked, tired eyes darting over one of his many pieces of work, with a smell so putridly clingy it would deter even the most determined of students to even take a whiff in his direction. Within several minutes, Mic passed the threshold to the office to witness this exact image.
This time, he did not explode in a series of sequins. He did not throw himself across the room as if he was forcibly punched in such a manner. Instead, he merely dropped all his folders and documents on his desk, checked his calendar briefly, and sidled up along Eraserhead’s chair, examining him behind tinted sunglasses. It was silent.
“What do you want, Mic?” Eraserhead sighed, throwing feigned ignorance out the window.
“Clean your desk for starters. What even is this-- eugh! How old is this supposed to be?”
“Don’t know. Don’t care.”
“Found our first problem. Next, maybe we can do something about your outfit, your whole style, I’m not really feeling drab and gloomy...”
“Thanks.”
“Anytime.”
“So... what did you actually want to talk about?”
Ah, damn it. Did it again. Reorient himself, he was Present Mic, the Voice Hero! He could do this. He shoved his hands into his pockets to stop their incessant fidgeting. “What are you doing right now?”
“I can’t go out for lunch, I’m too busy.”
“It isn’t lunch… I need help.”
“Help?” The ever persistent scratch of Eraserhead’s pen paused for a moment, and Mic finally met the dead sunken eyes that had been hidden behind matted hair for so long. God, Eraserhead really did look terrible.
“I have this issue I need to solve down at Meiji. Think you got a sec?”
“Is it important?”
“Of course, I don’t ask help for just anything, y’know?”
Eraserhead snorted. “You don’t usually ask my help for cases without advertising it in waving banners and terrible announcements in your agency first.”
“Who said I couldn’t change?” Mic hummed.
“I would say I do, but I don’t. I’ll be--” he yawned “-- there in five minutes. Meet me at the U.A. gates.”
“Whatever you say, Energy Saver!”
“Shut up, J-Wave.”
Mic had suspected Eraserhead would attempt to skim out, or somehow, by fate’s heavy hand, would have another appointment to rush to, so he was pleasantly surprised to see the hero himself trudging towards him down the school’s steps.
“Let’s go,” Eraserhead said, already bypassing Mic to leave. Not to be one upped, Mic skittered after, straightening his collar with a suave movement.
“So, we can take the subway, then pick up some lunch at Sawamura, and then head to Meiji… How’s that sound?”
Eraserhead made a noncommittal noise. He was not one for details; in fact, it would be fortunate he would bother himself to even have a rough itinerary. Far too used to this course of action, Mic accepted the lacklustre answer as is.
Sure enough, the trip to Meiji was redundant, but a rather comfortable one that made Mic considerably more light hearted, and with the occasional smirks that Eraserhead sported, the feeling was most likely mutual. The subway was half full, bustling with activity from lunch goers and businessmen in suits returning home from a harrowing night shift. As for picking up a simple snack of takoyaki and onigiri from the little outlet of Sawamura they frequented far too often as children, it was a mostly quiet affair. The store was completely renovated. Where before it was warm, full of memories of them shoving through the doors in their school uniforms, attempting to find an escape from the humidity, now the countertops were sleek and dully modern, like the gray end of a knife. The area where they would pick up sandwiches and the likes was replaced with a large shelf announcing the presence of American-imported junk food. Even Oboro’s favorite stand, a little corner where an ever beaming hag would sell her ripe apples and pears, was obliterated in favor of more American trifles: a hot dog machine with greasy gray sausages and something for dispensing soda.
It was odd how different everything was.
After five minutes, the two had left Sawamura behind and were walking to their location along the sidewalk. Mic was skillfully relaying some one-off anecdote while Eraserhead listened, rice in one cheek. To be perfectly truthful, Mic had forgotten the reason they were here, half a mile from U.A.. Old routines had a strange way of distracting. After all, this was a street they had walked along a million times, whether it was heading towards the subway or sprinting to Sawamura in the rain.
But, instead of basking in familiarity, it too was changed. Before it was a thin strip, maybe with the ability to harbor one car at most. If anything, it was used as a civilian pass, where couples and children could play, jog, or simply loiter on the street without worry. There wasn’t even a sidewalk back then. But now, industrialization has spoiled the trees that had hung over the road. The cherry blossoms were hacked down to make way for the sidewalk, the street was widened in favor of further travel, and instead of inhaling clean air, one inhaled putrid smoke and car fumes. It was a mini city packed into one place.
Strangely enough, Eraserhead didn’t look bothered. Even through the cacophony of the annoying honks from the constant traffic, the gossiping housewives who stood in doorways and fanned at their sweaty faces, and the roar of motorcycles driven by bald men in wife beaters, he wore a neutral expression. It was steady and focused, with the simplicity of a forward moving truck. Mic was envious of such stability.
A radio hacked somewhere, once more telling a story of the villainous hero who had killed a teenage girl in its nasally voice. They walked faster. Left down the intersection, a bit further and...
“What’s the issue?” Eraserhead mumbled. They were now standing in one of the few areas that had remained untouched in the district. The houses became more rural here, but nonetheless, still apartments, apartments, and apartments. But, on a positive note, some green winked among the gray of the concrete jungle.
“Uh… I’ll tell you in a sec, it’s very very important, trust me,” Mic answered, disposing his food wrappers.
A noise of unconvinced acceptance, and Mic led the way, weaving along the cracked pathways till they reached a small alleyway, a sliver crushed between two apartment complexes. Apart from several garbage bags, it was uninhabited, and the alley dipped away to a dead end. Just a large stone wall crawling with ivy.
“Mic, what are you trying to do?” Eraserhead once more spoke up.
Mic made a chittering noise, approaching the wall and examining the footholds. It was exactly how they left it.
“I thought you said we had something important to do. This isn’t important,” Eraserhead said.
Mic tugged at a strand of ivy.
“Mic.”
It was with great hesitation that Mic finally turned, bearing a disgruntled grin. “I didn’t know any other way for you to come out...”
Eraserhead sighed, gripping his face in his palm. His breaths were labored, blown from frustrated lungs. “I have work, and you wanted to waste my time for… what? What did you think would happen coming here?”
Here. This particular spot could have been considered sacred in their youth. They had found it one day when Oboro was horsing around. He had this shiny new ball and was adamant on playing Kemari with it, but rather than an average game, he claimed:
[ ... ]
“Let’s play Kemari, but with our Quirks!”
The ball spun on the fingertip of a fiery boy. Oboro had fiery hair, a fiery smile, and a fiery reputation to the apparent point of everyone knowing his name. He had the grin that suggested devilish mischief yet somehow balanced it with neighborhood sheepishness, one that reduced students in the top hero academy in Japan into giggly schoolgirls. It was this charm that somehow had pulled the rooftop trio together.
Aizawa’s expression, always drowsily bored or noticeably irritated, took on the latter. “That’s a terrible idea.”
“Yoooo, that sounds fun, let’s do it!” Yamada cawed.
School had been let out roughly half an hour ago, and within that time, they had squeezed past the busy subway station and now idled among the Meiji district, having bought the usual afterschool snacks and drinks from Sawamura down the street. At most, they would find a shady tree they could sit under and finish their homework, or they’ll just walk further and see if they could ambush any stores. This was a first where they truly stopped and did something in particular, but at the same time, never had any of them sported a ball, and a ball to teenage boys might as well have been the epitome of amusement.
“Number one, we’re not licensed. Number two, only Shirakumo’s Quirk will work, and number three, Yamada, you don’t have your speakers,” Aizawa listed off.
However, it seemed his opinions fell on deaf ears as Shirakumo punted the ball into the air with a grin. “Don’t worry, Shouta! No one’s around, ‘sides it’s just like a training exercise,” he laughed as it began to spiral downward. “Let’s see who can get it the highest!” His hair flapped in his face like a white flame, and as he squatted to prepare for the next serve, he narrowed in on the little spinning circle of white among the blue.
Yamada hopped back, eyeing the ball with a triangle smirk. “I GOT IT! I GOT IT!” Up it went from a particularly well aimed knee, and surprisingly, he didn’t yell. Only observed.
It went like this for a moment, back and forth, back and forth, without one Quirk in play. Apparently, Aizawa got to them. But, it was in that precise moment, the world began to end.
“GO LONG, OBORO!” Yamada yelled, spiking the ball with a sharp kick, courtesy of his scuffed sneaker. It should have been unfeasible for a boy like him, whose leg resembled the same thickness and flexibility of a twig, to have kicked a ball that far, but it still flew high and it spiralled farther and farther away. For a moment, everyone stood, stunned; as if they were onlookers witnessing a bomb fall. It was Oboro who recovered first, and he jumped on the challenge easily. Laughing as he ran, it took him a good two seconds to realize how impossible it was for him to actually catch it. Much less keep the game of Kemari going. It would take a damn good movement Quirk if he were to even have a chance at succeeding; but, at the same time, there was no U.A. student that could ever be considered a quitter.
Oboro summoned one of his patented clouds. It was a logical assumption he was either attempting to stop the ball midair and then punt it back towards Yamada and Aizawa, or simply using the cloud to deliver it back. However, the question would never be answered, as when Oboro sprinted to the ball that fell too many paces away, his feet became tangled in a garbage bag along the curb. He tripped gracefully, but his cloud was less so. In fact, it reared like a whipped horse. The ball was suddenly launched by its shaky wild movements, and the ball zipped into the sky once more, before plopping behind a large stone wall with a resounding thud.
“Guess I didn’t go long,” Oboro mumbled, sitting dazed on the curb and massaging a knee.
Unlike Oboro, Aizawa was a bit more irritated. “I knew we shouldn’t have played-- I knew it,” he said. He stood tense and still. “We’re going to get in trouble.”
“YOU’RE OVERREACTING, AIZAWA!” chimed Yamada, the ever positive one. “We’ll just climb over it, grab the ball, and go! They’ll never ever even know we were there! Plus, we’ll have a cool story to tell when we get back.”
Aizawa kicked at a leaf blankly. “That’s trespassing, Yamada. We’ll get into even more trouble if they find out.”
“If they find out,” Yamada said innocently as he helped Oboro to his feet. “It’s just a little trespassing, Aizawa! Nothing to be afraid of, kids do it all the time. ‘S not like we’re going in there to-- I dunno-- burn the house down or something.”
“If I say no, are you still going to go?”
“Yes, and that’s the J-Wave guarantee!”
With reluctant admittance, Aizawa joined Yamada and Oboro, and they all trudged into the alley to examine the wall. It was awfully high, but it appeared stable enough to hold the weight of three teenagers without crumbling. As Yamada’s hand ran over the scuffing, it got tangled in thick branches of ivy. He pulled at them, testing their give with a small frown.
“They’re too weak to use them to climb up. We gotta find another way…” he trailed off.
“Maybe we can toss Aizawa up there, then he can grab it and come back,” Oboro suggested.
Yamada dismissed the idea with a click of his tongue. “How’ll Aizawa even get back? It doesn’t even look like we can get him over it unless we had a catapult…”
Meanwhile, Aizawa rubbed dirt off his sneaker into the concrete floor. At this sudden notion, he grumbled, “You are not putting me in a catapult.”
That’s when Yamada cried with all of the enthusiasm of a chiming clock. “I GOT IT! Oboro, all you need to do is lift us up with your cloud and set us down! It’ll be super easy! We’ll be in and out in two minutes tops!”
There was hurried agreement and much scrambling as another cloud formed beneath their feet.
Oboro grinned. “Attention, this is your captain speaking. Please keep your arms and legs in the vehicle at all times, and have a safe flight!”
Aizawa snorted in disbelief, but nonetheless, the cloud shifted up. It was a peculiar feeling, riding a cloud. For there were no walls, no airtight seal, just a cottony pillow beneath criss crossed legs and the gentle sensation of rising. Yamada kept crowing with unbridled excitement.
They touched down within seconds on the other side, and the cloud dispersed into shallow puffs. “Now!” Oboro exclaimed proudly. “That’s how you do it!”
[ ... ]
The memory extinguished on an uncertain smile.
Mic fiddled idly with a tendril of ivy. “You need a getaway-- Nope, don’t try to correct me-- and I thought what better idea than… here... ha ha...” It was a lame finishing of his sentence, something that was entirely unconvincing. It made him feel silly. It made him feel stupid. And he hated it, every single minute second of it. “Besides, you’d never come out any other way. Tried twice, and nothing.”
Eraserhead’s scrutinizing glare was inescapable. Mic nearly wilted beneath it, but he had to keep tapping his finger on his wrist and remind himself: he was Present Mic. He was a hero. Eraserhead needed help, and that was what Mic would give him.
“We… just need to talk it out, ‘kay?” Mic added hollowly. “I’m not as good as Oboro with that or anything, but LET’S DO IT! Y’know? We’re here anyway, we’ll just be wasting time if we go back--”
“Okay.”
“--COME ON! I KNOW YOU DON’T WANT TO DO IT BUT-- What did you say?”
While the frown never left Eraserhead’s face, he conceded to give a little clumsy dip of the head. “I said okay.” His vacant eyes trailed from Mic’s face to the wall, perhaps struggling to scrape up an image of their childhood playground. “As you said… it’ll be a waste of time, and I’ve been unreliable lately. Let’s get this over with.”
The two stood beneath the wall, searching for a way up. If they were fortunate enough, there will be some small crevice to dig a boot in, or a strong enough tendril of ivy to pull… but nothing. Before, Oboro was their ticket to overriding the wall, but now, they couldn’t expect him to come with his Quirk. They’ll have to find another way.
“I mean you can stand on my shoulders and climb up from there, and then help me up, but that isn’t efficient...” Mic suggested. As he peered up to examine the environment, Eraserhead responded with an agreeable sound. It was certainly a difficult problem, but every single problem had a solution.
The walls of the alley rose high above. They crowded the pair and shadowed the landscape with a great blanket of black. There were windows along those walls, however they were dusty and splattered with cicada and mosquito carcasses, and judging from the shut blinds, there would be no curious faces peering through. It was worrisome, being caught. When the trio had come back, they had to struggle with inquisitive adults, do look outs, wait for eyes to turn away and blinds to shut, before scrambling over to the other side. It was an exhilarating memory. But now, it was as if the apartments bordering the stone wall were abandoned. Besides a radio’s muffled murmuring, there was merely silence.
Mic scoured a bit along the higher ground. If he was to label one thing that Mustafu, and every other cityscape was absolutely over saturated with, it had to be telephone poles. However, they were dangerous, and meddling with them was a torturous game of Russian roulette. With a hum, he searched for the next option and found it on the roof. It was a row of black bars lined above, a fence on top of the building that was to prevent the apartment citizens from falling to an unpleasant demise. It was the most ideal solution thus far. With a little elbowing, Mic asked Eraserhead with an inquisitive little noise if he could hook his capture weapon along the fence.
Those long tendrils of white shot up from the alleyway and wrapped around it neatly, and Eraserhead stood below, blinking with an ease that suggested he merely wrapped the bow of a present than threw a heavy scarf several stories up. He tested the give before beginning a slow ascension, using his capture weapon as a rope and climbing up. Soon, he was sitting on the stone wall and eyeing Mic below with a pleased grin. “Coming up?”
“Sheesh, calm down. In a minute,” he replied brusquely. The capture weapon was firm in his fingers, pliant yet not completely elastic. It could provide just enough give to make logical sense of the rubberbanding along the roof tops Eraserhead seemed to enjoy, but whatever strange alloy it was built from worked together seamlessly to remain stable in use. He gave a nod of affirmation and tightened his grip on the fabric. Up he labored, grinding his boots against the brick of the apartment complex. Eraserhead smirked mirthfully as Mic finished his harrowing climb, breathing hard and gripping his jacket front.
Eraserhead merely watched as he tugged his capture weapon loose from the fence, the long fabric coming to rest around his shoulders like a snake. Once more, half of his face was swallowed from view. “You should improve your upper body strength,” he jested flippantly. “I think my students could do it in half the time you took.”
After Mic finished his brief panting session, he released his collar with a smirk. Back to the familiar territory of banter. “Ahhh, but your students aren’t like me! I don’t see any fashionably styled hair, any witty announcers, any kids that can yell so loud they can shake entire buildings. Can you believe my class bores them that much? Me! PRESENT MIC, VOOOOOICE HERO AND RADIO HOST! Boring them?”
Eraserhead gave a loose lipped chuckle. A sound that was now so treasured in the recent weeks. “I can believe it.” His gaze strayed to their destination, the world behind the stone wall. “Come on, let’s go.”
The two touched down on the other side.
[...]
“Woah,” was the first word out of Oboro’s mouth. The trio stood still, witnessing what secrets the wall had shielded from their view.
It shouldn’t have been impressive, but it was. In the urbaness that was Mustafu, an expanse of green was rare, much less one story single family homes. Thus, the three were mere foreigners for a moment, bearing witness to some strange place that must have been from some quaint rural town unbeknownst to them.
There was a patch of land before them, the size of a small backyard. It has long since been overgrown, bursting with clovers, ragweeds, and scratchy dandelion tufts. The ivy that had run along the wall had first appeared weak and wispy, but now as they stood on the other side, they could see it thicken, coiling along the backend like a giant green cobra.
The three trudged through the crabgrass, Oboro kicking at any bugs that lingered for too long on plant stalks. Who knew what Yamada would do if he were to catch sight of any insects? Fortunately for the group, the bugs were non threatening: little ladybugs fanning their wings out and butterflies fluttering among the milkmaids.
The location was a wonder all by itself. On all four sides, apartment complexes rose up, casting the yard in partial shadow. Perhaps this little place was lost during the tides of urban arrival. A small patch of land that was swallowed by the skyscrapers around, someplace completely inaccessible without climbing over walls or jumping from roofs. Who knew who this secret oasis belonged to? Or if it even belonged to anybody.
For half a minute, the trio merely stood and marvelled at the sight. It was only when Aizawa cleared his throat and reminded the rest of them about their lost ball that they creaked to action. Oboro had located it first, the white circle that was now splattered with bits of grass and mud was nestled between a little dip of the land and the wall of a small house. He picked it up, wiped the debris away, and began curiously inquiring about this sudden little cottage among the apartments.
“What?” Aizawa said. He scrutinized the peeling paint of the house, unimpressed.
Oboro’s face was alight with fresh enthusiasm. Something softer and more innocent than the mischievous suggestion of Kemari he had made earlier.
“Yeah!” he said. “I wonder who lives in this kinda place. It’s really weird, why not live in an apartment or something? Probably cheaper.”
Yamada, who had since been investigating the far side of the house, shouted as he wiped the grime off a window, “About that, Oboro... I don’t think anyone lives here! Looks WAAAAAY too abandoned. No furniture ‘sides some leftover chairs, no nothing. Just a lotta dust.” He sneezed to illustrate his point.
The house itself was a shabby thing. It leaned on its foundation like a humpbacked crone, and its skin shedded into little shrapnels along the overgrown grass. However old it was, it certainly existed before their time. Its quaintness certainly wasn’t possible in the concrete jungle that Mustafu was: where the stragglers preened, the homeless rested, and the business men chattered.
“I’M GOING INSIDE!” Yamada announced with his usual lack of nuance.
As Oboro scrambled to join him, Aizawa began shaking his head fitfully. “I thought we said we’re just going to get the ball and leave! If we’re caught, this is going on our permanent record-- What are you doing?”
Yamada and Oboro had scouted out the premises before finally finding the entrance: a wooden door. It was pathetically weak, as all Yamada had to do was give it a good yank before it loosened from its hinges and dropped to the ground in death. The pungent smell of mildew had the two gagging and rearing back, but it did little to perturb them from their initial goal.
Into the darkness they plunged. Aizawa lingered behind, desperately unsure. He had worked far too hard and far too long to transfer into the Heroes course. If he was to be swapped back to General, or worse, expelled, he might serve his own death sentence. But, there were no immediate threats around, and even he had to admit his own curiosity. So, he too entered the house, amidst the cobwebs and dusty chairs.
The interior was just as bland as the outside. Apart from scattered papers on the floor and whitewashed walls, it was absolutely barren. Occasionally, he could see a chair or a table here and there, but previous furniture has long since collapsed, lost among the thick swathes of dust. It could have fit the scene of a haunted house splendidly, but it appeared only Aizawa and somewhat Yamada had these qualms. Instead, Oboro barreled through the three-room house with an idiotic bravery.
It was certainly small. Quaint would be a great word to describe it if it weren’t for the lack of cleanliness. Aizawa had muttered some note about getting sick if they stayed too long in here, and in response, the windows were cracked open. It did little to help the mass airflow of dust. But, Oboro had managed to solve that issue with his clouds, allowing them to sweep across the floor like a puffy white broom and shoot the dust out of the window. Within a minute or so, the floor was once again visible and the air was just a bit clearer.
The last room of the house was the most bountiful of all of them. There was a fireplace along one side, a pantry with various spoils that leaked maggots and silverfish (Yamada was out of the house in a second) to the other, and a little set out table with three mats along the middle. Apart from that, a polite clutter of pots and pans were shoved on the top of an oven-stove combo, the latter of which was (unsurprisingly) not in working condition. There was even a small radio tossed in a corner. It too appeared unrevivable, but once Yamada was coaxed back inside, he claimed that it could be fixed up with just a little bit of work and some support course students.
The last windows were thrown open. In brilliant glory, sunlight streamed down in little ribbons to light the boring gray interior, and it was then that this huge happy smile rose to Oboro’s face. It was different from his devilish ones and his sheepish ones. No, this one suggested a smile that was filled with innocent ideas and tender care.
“Guys, what if this was our headquarters?” he had said.
Aizawa, and even Yamada, were pleasantly confused. They could only gape back dumbly for several moments, and it was in those several moments that Oboro tsked and made a little circuit around the living room.
“I’m serious! I know it doesn’t look like much, but we can come here everyday after school, clean it out, scrub everything down, and then have a whole house to ourselves! Think about it… We bring food from Sawamura, eat around the table, and we can do homework! Then, we can bring board games and some spare futons and camp out or something!” he rattled.
Aizawa loathed putting Oboro’s excited ramblings to an end, but the situation itself simply wasn’t logical. “We don’t even know if anybody owns this place or not. What if we come back, and we meet someone? I just don’t... think it’s a good idea, Shirakumo.”
And to Aizawa’s surprise, Yamada punctuated the statement with an abrupt nod. “Yeah, to be honest, Oboro, I’m with Aizawa. Believe me-- it’s a super duper cool idea! But, this isn’t just like sitting on the school roof or something. I’m pretty sure if we get caught, like, we’ll get jail time instead of detention.”
As Yamada continued to speak, Oboro began to deflate. He puttered out like a balloon and the excited smile he wore slipped from his face to clatter to the floor. Idly, his shoes came to scuff at the dust, kicking it up in small billowing sheets. “But…” he said lamely. “It’s abandoned. If nobody’s been here lately, I don’t think anyone’s gonna come here soon. This place needs someone to use it instead of just… rotting away here.”
Despite the more brash nature of the idea, Aizawa had to grudgingly admit that the concept did sound wonderful. They severely lacked a place to truly sit down and relax, and their own apartments were out of the question as either they were too far or their parents wouldn’t allow other company. So, this small area seemed perfect. Horsing around on the lawn, maybe setting up a garden so they could have sweet grapes to snack on during summer. and having a place to quietly sit and do their work while the fixed up radio buzzed in the back, all sounded so brilliantly enjoyable that his own words of objection stuck in his throat.
“We can even… I dunno, add some dummies here and train outside of school,” Oboro added.
It was then the mildly disappointed look that Oboro sported won Aizawa over. “Okay,” he had muttered then, low and subtly uncertain.
“What? Wow, Aizawa, didn’t think you’ll be the first to agree,” Yamada said.
“I said okay, but we’re going to lay some ground rules out first. We go here everyday for a week, if nothing happens, then it’ll be our ‘headquarters’. Does that sound good, Yamada?”
Yamada hemmed and hawed in return. It was with great thought, where he hooked his thumbs under his chin and murmured, that he finally consented with a nod.
“ALL RIGHT!” Oboro cheered, coming to pull Yamada and Aizawa into a withering group hug. “I can see it now! The headquarters of Oboro-Shouta-Hizashi!”
“You should think of a better name,” Aizawa responded, amused.
Yamada agreed hurriedly. With his position as the best namer of their friend group, he began to rapid-fire various ideas that were rejected or considered, but in the end, they had settled on something virtually simple.
“That’s it. I like that,” Oboro said. “Just you guys wait, after this week, the name’ll be hung over the fireplace in all of its named glory!”
[...]
Eraserhead yanked his capture weapon from where it was latched to the roof fence. It came pooling down, settling around his neck in these great wrappings, and as the dust cleared, he and Mic turned to observe their former headquarters.
Previously, all the areas where the grass was once trimmed with sloppy little scissors were overgrown again. Wildmadders, curly docks, and stinging nettles were plentiful, scratching at their legs like evil insects, and as Mic kicked at a particularly precarious clump of them, mumbling something about ardor and arbors, the buzz of cicadas grew. He squirmed uneasily in response.
On the east side of the lawn, there were once training dummies made crudely of pillows and fabrics, but now they were gone, washed away by rain and buried somewhere along the muck. Previous renovations they had made, a garden, set up targets, and a cardboard box of stored objects, were now missing. Perhaps they were stolen or lost, Mic didn’t want to put a label on it.
It was as if it had never been touched at all.
Since Oboro had passed away, the two of them never went back to this location. Leftover notebooks, wrapped up snacks, and splayed open game boards were left abandoned, awaiting owners that would never return. It was this state of rejection of coming to collect their clutter that had led to the deserted landscape before them.
Eraserhead observed the landscape with a steady eye. His gaze dipped below the weeds for a moment to resurface, taking a small circuit around the area before landing on the little broken house in the midst of it all. He tugged his capture weapon tighter around his neck before entering the home.
The windows were thrown open again, the dust once more shuffled and stuck to their boots, and Mic spent several minutes gripping his jacket in a clammy hand. They had swept out the bugs and other worldly creatures before, but once more they had found a safe haven in the dark. But even with the skittering of insects across tabletops, there was a deadened silence. It was this quiet that slaughtered Mic’s enthusiasm.
With the meager amount of investigation they did, it was evident that they were not the only ones who had been here before. Objects that neither of them owned had been tossed about: paper bags floated like ghosts in the air, empty spray cans made rackets against one another, and abandoned clothing littered the floor.
But, the most severe suggestion of encroachment was the last room. This was the place they had spent the most time. It was the place where there was always something playing, whether it was the sleepy murmur of a talk show or a cheery musical beat. It was the place where Oboro had snacked on rice crackers, talking with a full mouth and leaving crumbs all over the tabletop to Aizawa’s chagrin. It was the place where the three of them had written their names above the fireplace to solidify their home. However, what Mic now saw, standing on the threshold to the room, was evil.
Graffiti, these big red streaks of spittle, slashed through the walls like a chainsaw. It ate up at the peeling paint, tainted the floors, and swallowed what warmth this room had once had. The craggly doodles on the wall Yamada had made long ago were covered by the searing flesh of the spray paint, and what previous notes that Aizawa and Oboro had jokingly added were now lost among this visceral murder scene.
Finally, the fireplace where they had written their names was destroyed. Mic approached it with a trembled breath. There was still one, ‘Yamada Hizashi,’ written in his immature blocky font he had so often used in his youth. Next to it was a cramped ‘Aizawa Shouta,’ scrawled to the point the letters felt too close and too small. But, where there should have been a ‘Shirakumo Oboro’, big and apparent, there was a line of red tearing it. This line of red covered Oboro’s name in blood, and the only visible hint, the miniscule tail of the ‘S’, peaked out pathetically in sky blue ink.
If Eraserhead was at all bothered by this, he didn’t display it. Instead, he wore a vague expression that Mic couldn’t verbally place. But, despite Eraserhead’s apparent nonchalance, Mic was seething.
“Graffiti,” he spat hatefully. “Couldn’t keep their hands off this place, huh?”
“It’s normal for abandoned places to be graffitied, Mic. Don’t let that bother you.”
“And it doesn’t bother you? This is-- We were-- We’re heroes, can’t we do something about this?”
“Unless we want to admit we were illegally trespassing,” he spoke, eyes darting up to examine the rotting wood of the ceiling beams.
“This seriously doesn’t bother you, huh? Our place-- our headquarters -- and you don’t bat an eyelash even though it’s all… defamed!”
“You’re being emotional. It’s been ten years since we’ve come here.”
“Maybe I’m emotional, but you don’t care a bit!”
Eraserhead fell silent.
“I don’t get it. This is our place, our spot, and you wanna act like you don’t belong to it. It’s like you’re just waltzing in on a crime scene, not like someone literally just painted over Oboro’s name! ”
The exclamation was infinitely astonishing for Eraserhead. It finally managed to rock a reaction as he turned, shoulders hitching up in an unkept fashion. “I don’t have time for this, Mic. You lied to me, and then you dragged me out here to not only waste my time, but so you can try to make me feel terrible. I know you’re an ignorant man, but do you have that much tunnel vision to realize I’ve got things to do, a lawsuit I need to handle?”
“You’re using it as a goddamn excuse! It can’t be ‘just the lawsuit’, I’ve had some before, and with a good lawyer, it’s more annoying than life changing… What’s with you, Eraser?”
The quiet that followed this declaration found voice in a simple movement: leaving. With a little trudge of the heel, Eraserhead had made for the exit of the home, kicking up dust in toxic clouds as he went. Mic watched him leave, still indignant, but the high of anger was fleeing fast. Dread settled.
Calling his name did little. The next option was movement, so Mic picked up the pace in pursuit, dodging lingering spiderwebs and dust bunnies with his frenzied gait. He threw himself out of the door, finally ripping Eraserhead to a stop with a gloved palm.
“Okay, I didn’t mean to be that harsh, but there’s clearly something wrong. Y’know, people other than Oboro can tell. Just, say whatever’s in your head,” Mic said.
For a brief moment, Eraserhead appeared ashamed. Whether it was due to guilt or some other factor was unclear, but he said little, only paused ghostly. Turning his face this way and that, all but avoiding the glower that was fixed on him, Eraserhead finally allowed himself to speak. “That girl is dead. I didn’t do my job.”
Guilt was the first thing that laid waste to Mic’s tongue. He had spoken harshly, became reckless and angry to a troubled man. In response, he could only linger like a stranger on the edge of Eraserhead’s sightline. Being tonguetied was terribly ironic for a person built entirely on the sound of their own voice, but as he stood there, lost and dumbfounded, he found solace in the humorless satire of it all. He opened his mouth to speak, but shut it once more. What would Oboro have said in this situation? With his beezy but well meaning attitude? When they were just children, he was always attuned with Aizawa in such a peculiarly wonderful way. Not for the first time, Mic wished Oboro was here to lend an ear.
“That… sounds terrible, Eraser,” Mic offered lamely. It sounded weak on his explosive tongue. “But, lemme tell you this: things ALWAYS get better, ha ha!”
Eraserhead’s response to his attempt was unsatisfactory. “I’m not a housewife calling into your show, Mic,” he muttered lowly as he reached up to unwrap his capture weapon from his shoulders, eyeing the apartment roofs.
In hesitant nerves, Mic fiddled with the collar of his jacket. Terrible, terrible, terrible. What could he say, what should he say? “I… am sorry. I know I’m no good with ‘this’, and I know I’m not the best bet to talk to-- but that’s what you’re getting, damn it! Eraser, don’t leave--”
The capture weapon came to sling on the roof fence. Eraserhead gave another experimental tug to it before saying, “I’ve got things I need to do.”
“Oboro’s dead.”
He paused. The capture weapon hung in his hands like a dangling corpse. “I’m… aware.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know… We know. It’s just, I also know I’m not him, but that doesn’t mean you can’t open up to me. Sure, Oboro always knew what to say, he’s smart in that way, and you always talked with him with this kinda stuff all the time and now that he’s gone-- I well, yeah. But, even though he’s not around, it doesn’t mean you gotta lock yourself up again. I can be a surprisingly good listener when given the chance! Hell, that’s part of my job. I can give advice, I can still hear you out, and I promise I won’t try to turn it into some big joke. So… how about it? You unloop your scarf thing, we can grab a chair in the living room back there, and then just talk it out. Ten minutes, that’s it.”
Eraserhead stood among the weeds, still holding onto the loops of his weapon’s fabric in his fingers. The cicadas buzzed, and somewhere in the distance, they could hear a dog barking.
“You can be the radio host, and I can be your listener?”
With a small tug, the capture weapon unravelled from where it was latched on the fence. He had it resettled around his neck as he turned to trudge through the overgrown lawn. “Okay,” he said then. Plain and neutral, his shortest word before the eventual lengthy exchange.
Relief racked Mic sore. He scampered to join Eraserhead, already pleasantly smiling but lacking in his arrogant jabber. They had left the outside buzz behind for the quiet vacancy of their old headquarters, plopping on dusty mats and sitting at their own subtle attentions. Eraserhead’s voice was low in the home, but it was filling. It seeped into the graffitied walls, weaved under the floorboards, and slipped up to lean against the counter. The silence that had been so permanent in their odd fixation was now replaced by rumpled mutterings, given by the quieter of the pair.
It was strange how similar it felt.
To the times where they had gathered about as children, talking about this trifle or that while the radio mumbled in its pleasant rumbles. Even though the radio now spoke hatefully, and favored places were quite a bit different, and their little table sat merely two instead of their three, the steady tranquility had survived the waning years.
When Eraserhead had finished speaking, Mic did his best to answer. He forgoed the soft cheeriness that Oboro always emanated, exchanging it for a fevered dispelling of facts and statistics. Advice dangled in the air like fresh ivy, and in return, Eraserhead hummed and nodded. After they finished, Eraserhead stood and thanked Mic, to which the other responded with a casual titter.
“We should come back here and clean the graffiti up,” Mic suggested, dusting his pants off. “I definitely can find something for the spray paint, but I’m not sure if it’ll clean the permanent marker we used.”
Eraserhead turned to examine the fireplace with a slow blink. He appeared significantly lighter than he had before, happy and content, even as he drew a hand to rub at where the graffiti had covered Oboro’s name. “I think that’s a good thing,” he said.
There was a brief agreement before a sudden cry of, “YO, YO, YO, ENERGY SAVER! Look what I got!” Mic produced a sharpie from one of his jacket pockets with a brilliant flourish.
Eraserhead stared at the object: so small and so terrifically common. A corner of his lip ticked up. “We’re actual heroes now, I don’t think we’re supposed to be graffitiing or trespassing.”
“NAH, no one’ll know!” With this reasoning in mind, Mic leaned forward to scribble over what he had written ten years ago. ‘YAMADA HIZASHI’, a name that had once been written so immaturely, but now was in a quick scrawl. It had lost that teetering blockiness with each letter crisp and cramped in pleasant cursive.
Beside him, Eraserhead snorted. The marker was plucked from his hand, and Eraserhead traced over his previous word with an ‘Aizawa Shouta.’ It was larger than it was before, still overbearingly simple, but it left a better impression upon the peeling paint.
As for ‘Shirakumo Oboro’, well, there was nothing to be adjusted. It would remain the same: same font, same color, same shape, till it was blown away by battered winds and rain erosion. However, despite the red of the graffiti, the subtler blue of the ‘S’ still peeked out from behind, visible if one searched enough.
They both stopped to examine their handiwork. Mic stood, with his arms akimbo, while Eraserhead leaned humpbacked along the wall. “Welp,” Mic whistled. “Goodbye, Oboro, see you!” Eraserhead nodded, sending a brief wave, and they left the home behind.
Out they were in the lawn, and the scene was back to normal: Mic jabbering on like a mockingbird as they trudged past the ladybugs who fanned their wings and the butterflies that fluttered about the milkmaids. They scaled the wall once more, and as they landed on the other side, Mic asked about having lunch together over the weekend.
Eraserhead paused in thought, his eyes circling the telephone poles. “Why not?” he relented.
“WOW! Thought Eraserhead, award winning pro hero, was going to skip out on me! Caaaan we hear that again for our adoring fans?”
“Tell your adoring fans to go away,” he snorted before continuing, “Lunch. Sunday. Got it?”
There was little hesitation as Mic slung an arm around Eraserhead’s shoulder, just a chattery, “A-okay!” that was punctuated by a huff to bury a perverse chuckle.
Then, Yamada and Aizawa left the alleyway.