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The fighting lasted for an eternity. Villains fell, heroes screamed, blood spilled across cracked pavement and splattered on crumbling buildings.
The Hell Class of UA had gotten such a small taste of war compared to this. The hospital was nothing compared to the ash and smoke and general taste of death in the air (ferrous touched the back of their tongue, and yet they could never be sure if it was from themselves, from split lips and bleeding noses, or from another that lay almost comatose to the side.)
Compared to before, this battle (they could sense it, taste it in the air, this was it, they knew that much so clear. Even with Shigaraki - or All for One, whatever he was now - still unseen, they just knew this was going to be it) held much, much more in it's slippery, fracturing palms, cradling the world and tilting every which way.
Only, Class 1-A held no Earth-shattering fear in their too small hearts.
Perhaps they'd grown desensitized to it all over the years. Training and fighting and bleeding for a brighter tomorrow where they could all smile.
They couldn't afford to stay stagnant, couldn't afford to freeze in the face of a new enemy, a new quirk, something two inches from their face and two seconds from killing them.
'Child soldiers,' they'd heard time and time again. And yes, at first, there was no argument. The Commission sending them out, forcing their hands and their quirks when they were still weak-kneed and terrified of the prospect of a death they were forced to face. Back then, they were textbook.
But then they decided to face it head on by choice. Putting on their costumes even when the pros told them otherwise (for the safety of a child's innocence, a good reason, if nothing else. Only, the pros couldn't afford to miss such powerful, trained quirks. They all knew that.) And they fight. Tooth and nail, all bloodied teeth and feral smiles, something Toga was quick to gush over, meeting Ochako and Tsuyu head on in glee.
They could stand there, confident and feral and unafraid because there was a voice. Even at a distance, the words could be heard, even through the thundering of powerful quirks, of starburst explosions and cries of rage, they could hear it.
Sometimes, it was a word coded, other times, a name - a hero's name - shouted to the wind with a clear command.
And for how young and bright-eyed the mastermind had once been (and would always be, in times of peace, or so they needed to hope,) in the middle of war, it's a commanding voice that reverberates over shattering Earth.
"Shoto! Wall!"
No hesitance, only a chill that explodes between buildings, saving civilians from whatever had exploded on the other side. They scream but Shoto stays stone-faced, palm flat towards the threat.
It doesn't break through, just like Deku knew it wouldn't.
Because Deku became the mastermind he was always destined to be. And in their final battle, he tugs the strings of his puppets, sending out friends alongside pros with quick, clean commands. Orders they all follow without hesitancy nor fear.
They all move in the singular unit under Deku. Even Bakugo.
Even Lord Dynamight himself.
Bakugo didn't shout back or fight Deku for control. He'd gotten over that long before his apology, worked on it over the time when he was privy to every little secret the nerd had to keep. When he could stay smug behind the backs of friends with the knowledge that only he knew the truth.
And what a heavy truth it was.
Because it wasn't truly smugness, wasn't some honor Bakugo had the pleasure to bear. It was a curse. A curse Deku had been left to carry without prior knowledge. One he'd trudged along with, alone, with too-thin shoulders and knees that just barely didn't buckle under the pressure.
(Or so Bakugo liked to think. It made him feel better, like he was doing more than sitting on in meetings and pushing Deku forward, helpless helpless helpless. A mere spectator for something so much bigger than himself.)
And who could help him? All Might, who had lost his power, or those All Might had trusted with his secret?
These people were few and far between, and all for the retired pro, none for Deku himself.
None except Bakugo. And Bakugo was never one to back down from a fight, so he latches onto Deku somewhat like a parasite, sucking away any of those little doubts that would get in the way of his growth, leaving him with the confidence he needed.
And sure, it had been infuriating at first, how Deku slowly came to hold Class 1-A in the palm of his hand. Even Bakugo's own separate clique had been drawn into Deku's allure. That innocent, sweet, powerful, stubborn, unrelenting allure. It was the strength of someone who, without fail, would always aim to do the right thing.
And even Todoroki, in his hurt, stubborn ways, adamant to avoid relationships that were sure to crumble under his own icy touch, could not stay far from Deku.
Then came Iida, and even Aizawa, and All Might could never quite scold his protege, and Shinsou fell, too. All of them, begrudgingly or not, had to respect Deku. And they all learned to listen, a sentiment that spread across the ranks of heroism and landed Deku a position he was destined to hold.
And he takes it in his iron grip, using all the tools he's been given, handed, quirks he's analyzed time and time again being put to perfect use. Erasure positioned perfectly - away from his students but right where he needs to be - and Gang Orca following his orders to the 'T.'
It was shocking - it was exhilarating - how perfect and smooth a battlefield could feel.
For each hero to obey the whims of a child, trusting him in their entirety and Deku, in turn, never leading them astray.
When Deku pauses, there's no question as to 'why.' He takes a step, the next, green lightening crackles around him, the third is left unseen, a thunderous crack the only evidence that he'd left, a crater with his metallic sole forever imprinted in the center.
He blazes across the sky, float holding him steady and black whip splaying out
In the distance, a building crumbles, a plume of dust billowing down the streets and a laugh heard above it all, something deranged, from a mouth too wide and lips too chapped.
Deku leaps into the fray and everything changes.
They watch, mostly from afar but ready to move at a moments notice.
They're never called upon. And the two clash. Powerful, each attack sending wave after wave, some of which chip at buildings, others leaving craters in Earth and stone.
There's laughter and there are righteous shouts, something growled and indiscernible.
Unmistakable.
The first coherent thing he yells isn't a heroes name, nor is it Shigaraki's.
"Kacchan!"
It's a screech, and nothing follows. No direct command, no explanation. What follows are confident peppered explosions, something that throws Dynamight into the air, soaring closer to the battle, up and above it, a smile stretched across his sweaty face, eyes bright and lips tense.
He hits Shigaraki right in the face and Deku had gotten out of the way seconds before.
Because while Deku had risen up, not from ashes but as if he'd been dropped, an angel, perhaps, with crooked wings, Bakugo was born with wings unfurled. They were bright, white, untainted.
What he had never realized was that while his wings were white, Deku's were gold. He was destined for greatness, for a crown of quirks and everything he'd ever deserved, everything he'd earn in life, and Bakugo was a mere winged beast.
One quick to betray that broken doll. One quick to replace his own halo with horns and an innocent smile with something fanged. Feathers for scales and chubby cheeks for something gaunt with the potential for betrayal.
And betray he did.
But this God among men - because that's what Deku had become, within a matter of two years he was holding the world in his hand - had forgiven his own personal demon. And in turn, Bakugo - his own Lucifer, someone he had once considered a friend, who had once stabbed him in the back - was the only person that he could trust.
This Lucifer knew that quite well and so perfectly acted as that God's foothold, boosting him towards victory. He didn't need a specific command, didn't even need his name to be called. Because only he would just know what Deku needed.
He was the only one Deku could trust in such a way. With calloused palms of caramel that had equally scarred and saved, he throws himself bodily into the fray.
And so they dance. Avoiding the attacks of that faux-God in All for One while acting as their own entity, something too powerful and, at times, with Deku, too merciful. Yet all the same, merciless. Unrelenting. A certain refusal to lose a second time.
Because they can't lose, they won't.
And so, this God, filled with the hope of all people watching from their safe houses, through cracked screens and a tension built from months of fear, he wins.
Bloody and bruised and scarred, with red muscle stinging in the open air and cracked skin, he wins.
And off to the side, panting, arms straining and hands all too hot, Lucifer smiles.