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At first, Skeptic assumed Shigaraki was dragging a body through the front lobby. It said a lot about the PLF’s new leader that Skeptic would see the man hauling something long and thin and think first that it was a corpse tucked inside a casket. But no, this was no impromptu murder scene. Instead, Shigaraki was towing what looked to be a travel trunk—a heavy wooden chest, stained and nicked from years of use, too big for one person to manage handily. Which was unfortunate, because handily was Shigaraki’s default mode.
“You wanna maybe… have me make a goon for you?” Skeptic asked.
“No one touches my stuff.”
Shigaraki didn’t even turn to look at him. He was too busy wrestling with the chest, trying to get it over the little bump of the doorframe all while keeping his pinkies in the air. Skeptic had been here most of the morning, observing the rest of the so-called League moving into the tower, acting like they owned the place. It rankled him that they were right. These ragtag creatures had claim to this place now, which meant Skeptic was a helpless bystander observing Shigaraki carve deep gouges in the marble floor as he dragged his chest along.
Several stops and starts and thousands of dollars of damage later, Shigaraki let the trunk thump to the floor, come to rest unceremoniously at the entrance to the elevator. He leaned against it, panting for breath. The man had the muscle density of a greyhound; heavy manual labor wasn't a task he took to easily.
"Better make sure nothing in here is broken," he muttered to himself. "Those idiots drove that truck like it was the final lap in Mario Kart."
Shigaraki cracked the lid, swinging it back with a sound like a banshee's shriek. Despite himself, Skeptic couldn't quell his curiosity. What would a man like Shigaraki consider precious? He moved to get a better look.
He expected something trivial. Juvenile, even. Perhaps a collection of comics or a hoard of game systems.
Shigaraki's treasure trove looked like it belonged to someone else. Skeptic's sharp mind ran through the possibilities, listing theoretical sources in his head. He deduced that theft was the most likely origin of the items before him. That, or perhaps it was a collection of trophies from his victims. Failing that, some sort of inheritance.
There was the glitter of flamboyant wealth. Luxury watches, diamond studded cufflinks— perhaps not a fortune’s worth, but certainly enough to not justify living in squalor. Surely these could have been pawned for room and board rather than living in the woods. Skeptic assumed perhaps there was some sort of sentimental value attached to them that prevented Shigaraki from getting rid of them. But then he looked back over that scaly man, lips stratified with open sores, and could not reconcile any notion of sentimentality with that visage.
Beneath the topmost crust of glitz, there were other things. Thick tomes— physical books, in this day and age—nestled amongst expensive-looking suits and satin ties that threw back the light softly. Not everything inside was harmless high society. Skeptic also saw the mahogany handle of a machete, a bandolier carrying kunai. It wasn’t cheap cosplay kunai either, like that reptile of theirs carried, but the kind sharp enough to whistle when thrown, literally cutting the air around them.
Upon viewing this strange cocktail of goods, Skeptic’s natural response was, “Why do you have all this junk?”
“Memories,” Shigaraki replied. “This is all the stuff Sensei gave me.”
A smile cracked across his face (literally cracked, as the chapped skin parted to allow the unfamiliar contortion) at what an onlooker could only deduce was fond recollection. Frankly, it creeped Skeptic out.
“Sensei used to give me gifts when I did well,” Shigaraki explained. Reaching into the chest, he plucked out a canteen, holding it aloft by the strap so that it swung a slow pendulum between his fingers. “I remember this. This was my reward for finally clearing a training course he set up for me.”
“Quite the reward,” Skeptic said. Compared to the other items in the chest, it was notably ordinary. Then again, someone like Shigaraki had no use for half the loot in there, so perhaps there was no distinction to him.
“I’d gone three days without water. No food either. He said it was my punishment for not clearing it on the first try, and that I’d get a canteen of water when I finally finished. Never really noticed what water tasted like before that. When he gave this to me, I drained the contents so fast that I got sick and puked everywhere. Heh. Didn’t taste so good the second time.”
That sounded like the sort of anecdote one was expected to comment on. After a moment observing the grinning man in mute horror, all Skeptic could think to say was, “That explains a lot.”
Scoffing, Shigaraki replied, “I wouldn’t expect a normie like you to understand.”
He dropped the dangler, and it landed with a hollow plunk on top of a leatherbound journal.
Skeptic had never been described as a “normie” before. It seemed an odd epithet to attach to a man like himself, what with his scarecrow proportions and Sadako Yamamura haircut. However, his brain was caught on more pressing illogicalities.
“Why do you carry around a trunk full of bad memories?” he asked. “You’d probably be better off, emotionally speaking, if you threw that stuff in the trash.”
Shigaraki looked at him for a moment. It was like a cow contemplating the slow orbit of the universe: absolutely uncomprehending.
“This is my stuff,” he said.
“I can see that. But isn’t being constantly reminded of—I don’t know—being starved half to death an inconvenient burden to have to lug everywhere?”
“It’s my stuff,” Shigaraki said again. It was as if the idea of loosening this millstone from around his neck had never occurred to him—incompatible with his very person. “This is everything Sensei wanted me to have. I can’t just get rid of it.”
Skeptic’s quota for asinine tomfoolery had been filled for the day, so he seized on the opportunity to excuse himself from the conversation.
“I have work that needs to be done,” he said, turning to go. As he left, he called over his shoulder, “That elevator is broken, by the way. You’ll have to take the stairs.”
Shigaraki’s face contorted with ire, expletives distilling from his lips as he realized that yes, he had no choice but to summit the stairs with his luggage. He was in the penthouse suite. It was a very long climb.
With sputtering rage in his engine, Shigaraki snapped the trunk closed. Like Sisyphus with his boulder, he began the trek upstairs. After minutes of toiling, he had ascended to the first landing. He had 25 flights to go.
A tapping echoed down the stairs towards him, the sound of people descending. With his trunk, Shigaraki took up a fair amount of space in the stairwell, and he wasn’t about to change that. If people had a problem, they were more than welcome to jump and take the speedrun route down the rest of the way.
“Whatcha got there, boss man?”
Toga’s dulcet voice reached him, and he craned up to see her peeking down at him from several floors up.
“It sounds like you’re dragging a sack of rocks.”
Joining the bright-eyed bloodlust of teenage psychopath was the patchwork glower of the League’s most absentee member: Dabi. Shigarki glared at them both, simultaneously furious that anyone had seen him struggle and relieved that it wasn’t someone worse like Re-Destro.
“I’m busy,” Shigaraki said. “Go do whatever it is you do when you aren’t being useful.”
“Dabs here promised to hang out with me—”
“I said no such thing. I told you I would show you where the closest pharmacy was so you could stock up on syringes.”
“—and it would be fun if you came with!”
Her smile stretched ear to ear, and it might have been charming if it wasn’t quite so pointed and dangerous. Toga had the kind of smile a shark gave, all edge and ill-intent.
“Kinda busy,” Shigaraki replied.
Then, because he knew better than to assume that these two fuckwads would actually leave, he turned around and resumed his labor. Another heave, an embarrassing amount of struggling, and the trunk thumped up another step. Struggle. Thump. Struggle. Thump.
“Do you need any help?” Toga called.
“Yeah. You seem kinda like you’re… not good at that.”
“I. Am. Fine.”
He could feel their eyes on him. Shigaraki wasn’t the type to get self-conscious. He lived his life with a sort of belligerent disregard for social norms and the silent judgement of others. However, knowing he’d have to sweatily lug the trunk past them if those two didn’t bug off soon made him even more irritated at his current life state.
Slowly and in stops and starts, he made it to the next landing, where he had to take a moment to reunite his lungs with oxygen. He heard the soft tapping of Toga descending the stairs and the slower plodding of Dabi following after.
“What’s in the box?”
Shigaraki made a guttural sound in his throat. He was still a bit wanting for breath, so it was the most eloquent he could manage. She circled him, steps light as if she was dancing.
“Come on, you’ve gotta tell me or I’ll be thinking about it all day!”
Normally he might humor her, since it was usually the swifter option in the long-term than putting up with her truly inexhaustible curiosity, but he was fresh from his encounter with Skeptic. The memory still stung, the man’s sharp dismissiveness, the way he had treated Shigaraki’s precious things like garbage.
“Don’t really feel like sharing,” he said, leaning protectively over his chest.
This was the wrong reaction—or rather, it was the right reaction to signal to Dabi that this was a sore point that could be prodded.
“Hey now,” the man said, leaning forward, “we’re all friends here. No need to be embarrassed. What’s in here, your porn collection?”
Shigaraki raised a hand in threat. Unfortunately, he had locked himself into a ‘boy who cried wolf’ situation with Dabi. By now, the other man had learned that he didn’t really mean harm to any of his companions; he was more like an old dog that growled by way of greeting.
“Hey, we can help ya carry this if you want,” Toga suggested. “I bet it would be way easier with us helping.”
“Don’t volunteer me without asking first.”
While the two bickered back and forth, Shigaraki looked up through the long corridor of stairs, up to the top. It was still a ways to go, and ideally he’d like to make it there by some time tonight.
“Fine,” he interrupted, “you can help. Just don’t make me regret this.”
Toga cheered and gave a jump. The girl had a short fuse for everything from murder to celebration, and it didn’t take much to make her positively manic with helpfulness. She set upon her portion of the trunk, heaving it up with an energy that wasn’t going to last beyond a few steps. Then, she turned her eyes on Dabi, eyes slitting into something that was between a threat and a pout.
“Ain’t ya gonna help?”
“Fine. But only because I want to see what’s inside.”
Shigaraki had never agreed to those conditions, but he wasn’t in a position to barter so he kept his mouth shut and figured he’d renege later.
Even with three people, the trunk was heavy. It was also cumbersome, not easily navigated up the looping flights of stairs. They managed it somehow though, and in a fraction of the time it would have taken if it was just Shigaraki struggling on his lonesome.
They stumbled into his room like a three-legged crab, plunking the trunk down on the plush rug in the center. All took a moment to pant, during which time three sets of eyes took in the penthouse suite.
Dabi let out a low whistle. “Pretty swanky. Got a feeling someone like you won’t appreciate this place.”
Shigaraki definitely wouldn’t. What need did he have for a marble tub and walk-in closet? The television was large and positioned in front of the bed, where he would no doubt pass what little time he spent in this place. Still, it was his place, and he realized that this was the first room of his own he’d ever had that hadn’t been given to him by Sensei. It was a space devoid of the presence and influence of his former mentor, save for the recent delivery of mementos currently crouched in the center of his floor.
“So do we get to see what’s inside?” Toga asked.
Shigaraki looked at her wide hopeful eyes, then to the wooden trunk. Everything Sensei had ever given him was inside there. It felt nice to keep the past quarantined, give himself a fresh start on this new stage of life.
“I’m gonna keep that closed for a while,” he said.
Toga whined, but ultimately she fell in line. Dabi was a bit slower on the uptake.
“If you aren’t even gonna use it, why did we haul it all the way up here? I can just burn the damn thing if you want to get rid of it.”
“I’m not getting rid of it,” Shigaraki shot back. “At least not yet. Maybe not ever, but… For now, it can go under the bed.”
With a sigh and a groan, his two companions helped him push the chest out of sight. Like this, it would almost be like Sensei was gone completely. Maybe another day, when Shigaraki wasn’t so weighed down with the woes of leadership, he’d find a way to fit these disparate elements into his life. For now, he could enjoy the distance.
“Sooooo, are you gonna come with us like you promised?” Toga asked.
“I never promised anything.”
However, he followed along after them. Why not? He could save the unpacking for later—when he was ready.