Chapter Text
Hitoshi has a problem.
He has a lot of problems, really. He’d forgotten to refill the food bowl for his foster mothers’ dog and got scolded for it. He received a test grade back and knew he’d get scolded again for the low B (even though Hitoshi didn’t consider an 86 to be ‘low’)—but his foster mother was of the opinion that a grade less than an A was failing. They might have his internet privileges taken away, so he could “focus” on his studies. He also forgot to wash his hair that morning.
So.
A lot of problems, he has.
“. . . Shinsou Hitoshi-chan?” called the secretary, placid smile never leaving. “Your testing site is ready for you, now.”
Ah, yes.
The test of doom, as other Littles call it.
It’s a simple exam, really. It’s meant to classify a Little in their proper headspace, and provide them with information on the care they’d need. Hitoshi wouldn’t mind the exam if not for the consequences that followed.
He lived in an oh-so wonderful society where tracking and identifying devices were utilized. People with official classifications (i.e., Caregivers, Littles, and Neutrals) were legally required to wear a government-coded wristband once presented. Those who hadn’t presented yet were kindly referenced as Blanks.
Hitoshi thought it resembled more of a shackle than a wristband.
Even without his knowledge of dystopian fiction, the wristband system was extremely suspicious. It functioned as both a tracker and a personalized ID tag. It beeped quietly whenever you entered and exited through a door, internally cataloging ones’ movements. It could be scanned at train stations and the like, acting as a ticket of sorts.
Hitoshi had read a variety of conspiracy theories over its’ origins and reasons for why the system exists.
They gave a grace period to wear said bands; only required after one turned twenty, but Hitoshi had the “fortunate” opportunity to live in a foster home with parents who were . . . enthusiastic about maintaining the status quo.
So when his foster sister found his hidden stash of scent patches (they weren’t illegal, per se, but highly frowned upon) and snitched like the annoying older sibling she was, Hitoshi wasn’t surprised when his foster parents told him he would miss a day of classes due to the exam.
At least, he didn’t have a test that day.
“Let’s go, Hitoshi-kun,” says his foster mother. Her dark green Neutral-band glinted beneath the fluorescent lights. “It will be over before you know it.”
If not for the grip his foster mother has on his wrist, Hitoshi wouldn’t have moved. He might’ve left the testing center, even though he knew they’d send a Caregiver staff member to retrieve him.
(And Hitoshi did not want to be picked up and carried back to the testing center, either. He had seen it happen to another Little that attempted escape. He’d die from embarrassment alone.)
Overall, the exam doesn’t last more than four hours. There are moments where Hitoshi forgets he’s even taking an exam. It’s mostly when he’s in their playroom-slash-nursery, surrounded by other Littles taking the exam.
“That went well,” his foster mother says as they leave the center. Hitoshi will be receiving his results and wristband within the week. “Let’s celebrate!”
Hitoshi raises an eyebrow.
“It’s an exciting step of your youth, Hitoshi-kun,” she responds to the silent question. The Fukuda’s hadn’t verbally forbidden him from asking questions, but that didn’t mean Hitoshi missed their looks whenever he opened his mouth. “A coming of age!”
Hitoshi wants to vomit.
He’s called back to the center three days later. He has to miss class again—apparently, there’s some orientation to go through.
Fun.
By the end of it all, Hitoshi receives his wristband with the rest of the Littles he’d tested with. Most of them wear his expression: a resigned grimace at the sight of the pillow the wristbands sit on.
It’s custom for a Caregiver to place the wristband on a Little. Hitoshi doesn’t know why, and doesn’t care to know. He remains blank-faced as one of the Caregiver workers snaps the wristband on, soft voice explaining the functions and what his color means.
It’s a soft, silvery blue, clamped snug and comfortable against his wrist. It gives a gentle chime whenever he walks through a door. It doesn’t budge when he tries to take it off—and he tries. For hours.
Hitoshi hates it.
People stare on the train.
Well—that’s not entirely correct. People have stared at Hitoshi all weekend. They stared when he walked into the store with his foster sibling to grocery shop. They stared when he went on a short errand for his foster mother. They stared when he picked up the mail.
Point is: everyone stared at Hitoshi.
It’s as if no one has seen a Little as tiny as he is. It’s likely true, unfortunately. Most Littles in his headspace range were at home, sleeping to their hearts’ content.
(Most Littles in his range were recommended to be in headspace for twenty-four hours, himself included.
Hitoshi had tuned out the explanations for why. He didn’t need a powerpoint to point out how traumatized he was.)
Hitoshi wishes it were him, but he doesn’t dare take a nap on the train. One of those pesky Caregivers might get concerned.
He tries to hide the wristband with his uniform sleeves when he approaches UA, but it doesn’t work. Clothes are designed to have wristbands front and center, one of the first things one sees about a stranger. He crosses his arms over his chest, but slivers of the wristband peek out.
He hates it.
His skin crawls.
There’s a soft noise as he crosses the gate. He grimaces sharply enough that an upperclassmen sends him a worried look.
Please don’t ask.
Hitoshi approaches Class A, swallowing at the voices he hears. He takes a breath and steps through. The soft beep is smothered by Iida’s bright, “Good morning, Shinsou-kun!”
He hums in response. He can’t muster the energy to reply as he shuffles toward his desk.
Please don’t ask.
Aizawa notices it first; not that Hitoshi expected otherwise. He stares at the wristband, at the soft color. Hitoshi’s stomach is melted. Quiet descends the classroom. Hitoshi has one foot out the door.
Please don’t—
“Holy shit,” Kaminari bursts out, eyes trained on Hitoshi’s wrist. “You’re an infant?”
Hitoshi gives him a dry stare. “Good morning to you too, Kaminari.”
Kaminari flushes, chuckling sheepishly. “Ah . . . sorry, Shinsou.”
“It’s fine,” Hitoshi sighs, remembering how his foster siblings reacted to his wristband—and the neighbors. Hitoshi thought Mrs. Segawa would never stop pinching his cheeks. “You’re not the first person to call me an infant.”
Kaminari tilts his head, pondering. “Is it an insult if it’s true . . .?”
“I don’t care if it’ll look like I’m having a tantrum,” Hitoshi says in a low voice—though he did because Aizawa was right there, still staring at his wristband, and Hitoshi doesn’t want to see if his mentor would swat him. “But I will hit you.”
Kaminari laughs.
Because life despised him, Hitoshi is the only classified Little in Class A. In his year, he’s one of twenty-two—and the youngest, headspace wise, but Hitoshi isn’t going to dwell on that in public. Five of the twenty-two are in Class B, and they drag Hitoshi to their table during lunch.
“Welcome to hell,” says the mushroom-quirk girl. “Call me Kinoko!”
“Damn, you’re like . . . little Little,” says another; Hitoshi thinks his name is Manga. “Is this what being an older sibling feels like?”
“In your dreams,” Hitoshi says around the food in his mouth. He isn’t in the mood to care about table manners.
Iida is, though. “Shinsou-kun!”
Hitoshi groans; the legendary eyesight of Emergency Exit is back at it again.
“Please chew with your mouth closed,” Iida lightly scolds, soft lilac wristband for all to see.
Hitoshi pouts around his chopsticks. Why did he have to be in a class full of Caregivers and Blanks?