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VOICEMAIL FROM: ENJI TODOROKI
RECEIVED: MONDAY, APRIL 3 rd , 11:02 P.M.
“Hawks. I...dammit, I should’ve thought this through more before I called. Wasn’t ready for it to send me to voicemail; you’re usually leaping on the line before the first ring’s even up. But I...I guess it’s late. What time even is—mm. Yes, it’s...it’s late. I’ll keep this brief.
“I heard the med staff finally sent you home. A step in the right direction, I guess. I hope you’re well, both the burns and...everything else. I can’t help but feel responsible for this. For all of it.
“Just...call me when you get the chance. Goodbye.”
MESSAGE ENDED. DO YOU WISH TO REPEAT IT?
On the day the bandages are set to come off, Hawks saves the ones on his face for last.
The bandages peel like wrapping paper, unveiling the gift of burn-bubbled skin and roughened maps of tissue. He makes a futile attempt to cheer himself up as he unwinds the wrappings from his ribs, accenting the effort with a “magical girl”-esque twirl, but all humor is lost when two wingless shoulder blades meet him in turn. With a heavy sigh, Hawks leans back toward the mirror. Strips free the last of the bandages, revealing a face so staggeringly not his own.
The body in the mirror is streaked with pink and red plumes of scarring. A foggy sunset clouds his left eye—a threat of impending nightfall on his identity, his career, his future. It’s a lot to carry on these scarred shoulders, so he wills the thought away and reaches for his toothbrush instead. A gob of toothpaste; hasty bristles scrub around his mouth. Minty foam grazes the corner of his wound.
As the seconds drag on, he can no longer stand the mirror. So he wanders his apartment for the remaining two minutes. Opts to spit into the kitchen sink instead.
He still drifts from room to room, more phantom than bird, now; some wingless thing ghosting halls he’d scarcely found the time to haunt before. He picks out a shirt with shoulder blade slits that he no longer needs. The air conditioning kicks in somewhere, the loud thump of a chilled heart within the ribs of his apartment, and Hawks pulls the top on tiredly as the hum fills his ears.
Arms in sleeves. Head through collar. The cold whispers at the bare slots at his back; two matching gashes, raw skin bleeding ice.
VOICEMAIL FROM: RUMI USAGIYAMA
RECEIVED: TUESDAY, APRIL 4 th , 10:37 A.M.
“Hey, Hawksie! Don’t tell me you’re still sleeping in this late, else I’ll have to show up at your place and sock you one! Real talk though, I...uh...I just wanted to check up on you. I shouldn’t be worried though. You’ve always been a trooper, a little fire n’ brimstone ain’t gonna change that...Hey, an-and neither is a bit of bad press, got that? Seriously, anybody actin’ like...I dunno...fuckin’ Frankenstein’s monster has more credibility than you do? Well, they’re gonna get a face full of foot from yours truly!
...Joking aside, take care, Hawks. If anyone’s got this, it’s you, m’kay? So, yeah...see you back on the streets real soon, birdbrain.”
MESSAGE ENDED. DO YOU WISH TO REPEAT IT?
There’s a static buzzing down his spine. The feeling materializes as he flips through stations, a screen full of black-and-white snow on the channels his plan doesn’t cover. With the money he makes, he supposes he could’ve ordered a wider cable package—but he’d never been the type with time to just sit around and watch TV. Not until now.
A click of the remote. The prattling of a sports announcer. The sensation in his back has started spreading, termites buried under thick bark of scarring, gnawing at his wounds with growing urgency. He contorts an aching arm to scratch the best he can. He isn’t used to the lack of feathers against his skin; the absence makes the wriggling pain burrow straight into his blood.
Hawks groans, abandoning his efforts to scratch and instead rolling his shoulders against the tension. The pain ripples across the muscles of his back, knotted and gnarled, and Hawks tries his best to return to the TV. He always pictured blindness as pitch-black, nothing more—but in his one scorched eye, the reality swims instead in sickly colors, muddled and incomprehensible. In his good eye, the distance blurs, like a camera lens struggling to focus. The strain in his head joins the strain in his back.
Some Olympic athlete is on the screen, being interviewed about a recent shoulder injury. When the interviewer speaks, it’s that spotlight-soaked excitement that Hawks is so used to, the tongue of cue cards and starstruck awe. There’s a comforting familiarity to it, despite the muddy lapses in focus, and with one last roll of his shoulders, Hawks settles back on the couch. Speaks aloud in response as if this interview is his own, trying to let himself indulge.
“...But I see you here today, and I know I’m not alone in being just...so impressed by how quickly you’ve recovered.”
“Speed’s literally my trademark,” Hawks quips, speaking over the athlete on the screen. “So it’d be pretty embarrassing if I chose now to start dragging my ass. They’d probably cut my brand deal with that one sportswear place...Which they’re probably gonna cut anyway since I just said ‘ass’ on live TV.”
Any sponsor would be mortified by him now. Hawks saw his raw wounds once, on the first hospital day, reflected in a nearby window as the nurse changed his dressings: his back was a pomegranate sliced open, seeds of blisters oozing, nestled deep in yellow-red flesh.
“You know, many of your fans feared you’d never be able to compete again.”
“Well, my wings have always grown back before,” Hawks forces out, ignoring the growing prickle still crackling through his spine. “Real dense of Dabi to think they wouldn’t this time. Clip ‘em, shoot ‘em, burn ‘em, who cares, they’re gonna grow back. Who knows? Maybe my quirk’s actually Starfish.”
His wings aren’t growing back. All that’s left now is razed, ravaged flesh, open stripes of shirt yawning against a skin-scraping couch—and his wings are never growing back.
“Well, I’m relieved to hear it. You really are an inspiration. In fact...”
The ache in his back is ceaseless, and with a wince Hawks sheds the shirt, hoping the absence of scratchy fabric might give him some relief. Nothing noticeable. So he just picks mindlessly at his teeth, prodding for something that might not even be there; perhaps stabbing at his gums will lessen the stabbing at his spine. “Why, thank you, nameless interviewer,” he garbles, not even sure what’s being said anymore.
“...That said, when are you looking to return?”
White nail sinks into pink gums, and he jolts back, already feeling the crimson bubbling in his saliva. Hawks swallows down the metallic twinge, half-seared vision drifting back to the TV screen. He stares as the actual interview subject answers for him.
Hawks has no answer.
So he laughs. Laughs like he always does, a scoff into a chuckle, breaths dancing forward desperately to fill the space, bridge the gap of silence. But this time is different, and he can’t stop it; the laughter bubbles like magma from his throat, thick and loud and untameable. For a moment, the wild laughter sounds just like Dabi’s—and it’s like something in him bursts. Matchstick memories strike across his back, eating away at wings that aren’t even there, but he can feel them— dammit, he can feel them—sparks popping against his skin, blood boiling beneath his flesh, and he’s on the ground now, just laughing .
Blood-tinged spit speckles the hardwood—the laughter’s turned to yelling, fist pounding against the ground as the pain refuses to cease. The other hand wrings into his hair, gripping like a child to its blanket, desperate to fend off the monsters lurking under the bed. But they’re all around him now, surging smoke into his screaming lungs, screeching laughter in his ears, stomping hissing boots across his back until he wishes his spine would snap.
And above him, phantom wings flap in a surreal absence, desperate for escape. They stay grounded by their own unreality; tethered deep in muscles, nerves, memory.
He cannot see them. He knows he never will again. But indeed, what hell it is to feel.
VOICEMAIL FROM: YOKUMIRU MERA
RECEIVED: TUESDAY, APRIL 4 th , 4:39 P.M.
“Look, I’m just gonna cut to the chase, Hawks...The commission needs to talk with you. About our plans moving forward.
“Call us back ASAP. Goodbye.”
MESSAGE ENDED. DO YO—
It’s an idiotic choice of snack, popcorn. His misstep doesn’t register until the kernels start popping, firecrackers bursting in his microwave and his mind, and Hawks is forced to leave the kitchen for his sanity. He returns to a bag of blackened puffs that he’s too ashamed to throw away. So he sits alone and eats, charred flavor slicking ash across his tongue, the scent of burnt butter still tainting the air.
The barstool at his kitchen island is his new favorite seat; every other chair has been a bitter reminder of his state, backrests of sticky leather or frigid wood nipping at his scars. It’s skin that was never meant to be touched by anything but feathers. Never built to be bare.
One hand lies in his near-empty popcorn bowl, and the other scrolls mindlessly through his phone, a sea of missed calls crashing in half-hazed waves before him. He clicks one of the more recent notifications—his stomach drops as Endeavor’s voice echoes through his speakerphone.
The voicemail is brief. Murmured. He’s never heard Enji this broken, and the nausea bubbles up from Hawks’s stomach to his battered ribs. His thumb jabs at another timestamp.
Mirko now, chipper as he’d expect, and having just lost an arm, no less. He pictures her back in the field as she sends this, phone pressed against one scarred shoulder, feet thumping across the concrete like they’d never stopped. It’s what she expects from him, what they all expect from him, and now his heart is pounding like soles against concrete ribs, until he can almost feel them cracking under the weight—
—He jabs another voicemail so hard his nail knocks the screen.
And then that damned private number; that damned exhausted voice. Mera’s few sentences play out like some horrid orchestra, endlessly tuning in his ears, never actually granting him the relief of a song. Plans moving forward. Plans to disown him? Strip his license? Leave him retired young and discarded against his will?
His wings burn. His face burns. And then...his phone is burning too, vibrating in his hand with a number he doesn’t recognize. He punches the ANSWER button on reflex—cursing quietly, he has no choice but to bring the phone to his ear.
“Hawks.” It’s a familiar voice, but the last he expected to reach out in a phone call.
“Eraserhead?” Hawks forces a smile, one he hopes filters the defeat from his words. “That you, man? Damn, did someone leak my personal number again ?”
“I got it from one of Endeavor’s sidekicks,” Eraserhead says. “On Tokoyami’s behalf.”
“Oh, man, Tokoyami...” Hawks tips his popcorn bowl, watching shadow-black kernels flee back and forth. He shakes his head. Summons that smile yet again. “Hey, don’t let the little guy lose his head on my account. I’m right as rain.”
“...Mm.”
“That a grunt of agreement, or what? Sorry, buddy, I don’t speak Eraserhead.”
“That’s me not believing you for a second.”
“Heh...” Hawks props his elbow against the countertop, scars and statement both stabbing through him. “What, cause everyone knows my good ol’ dad’s a fucking fugitive? Real nice to know that suddenly makes me untrustworthy—”
“Tokoyami said your wings are gone.”
The smile strains. “They’ve grown back before!”
“And that Dabi burnt half your face.”
“Hey, I got another half. Plus, chicks dig the scarface look.”
“Stop. You’re just wasting breath.”
“Y’know,”—Hawks spits the word, expression verging on a sneer—“if you called to give me an inspirational speech, you sure do suck at ‘em.”
“I didn’t.”
“Ah, gotcha.” The fire crackles in his back again, and Hawks runs his fingers through sweat-plastered hair, still smiling, he has to smile , dammit. “Other way around, then, I’m such the inspiration, right? Well, I’m flattered—”
“Hawks.”
“—but rest assured, I got plenty of people in my corner who already told me—”
“ Hawks. ”
“—and they’re all counting on me to get back out there—”
“It’s shit.”
A slap of confusion, and the smile finally falls. “...Huh?”
“Not you. But everything that happened. And how the media’s expecting us to grin and bear it.”
Hawks agrees. His reputation doesn’t. Conflicted, he rolls his aching shoulders. “Heh, probably easy for an underground hero to say, but—"
“My leg’s gone from the knee down. I’m out one eye. I’ve got friends dead and so do you.” Eraserhead, blunt as ever, finally gets Hawks quiet. “I don’t care if you’re some nameless vigilante or All Might himself...You’re allowed to feel like shit.”
Hawks pauses. Breathes a smoke-twinged sigh.
“You...really think Tokoyami wants to hear that?” Hawks says. “He asks how I’m feeling, and you want me to tell him...it’s all gone to shit? You think anyone’s ready to hear that from the number two hero?”
“It’s your choice,” Eraserhead says. “But knowing Tokoyami, he can read right through false optimism.”
The room falls silent. Hawks swallows thickly.
“And so can I.”
His scarred face crumples slowly, painfully, and Hawks drops his head into his free hand. Salt and butter still smears his hand. Bites at ruined skin.
“...My wings hurt so fucking bad, Eraser,” he murmurs finally. “And they aren’t even there.”
“Mm.” Another grunt, but...a strangely sympathetic one. “I’ve had an itch on a foot that doesn’t exist for days on end. I know phantom pain’s inevitable in the long run. I’m sorry it’s hit you already.”
The shared experience hits something odd in his stomach, something comforting. Surprised, Hawks finally raises his head. “And my depth perception? Hell, if someone tried to throw me something I’d probably end up impaled.”
“Mic thought it funny to toss me my house keys yesterday. You can imagine how that went.”
Imagine he does, and it gets a chuckle out of him. Finally, he lets out another breath. “Man...what are they gonna do with us, huh?”
“Who cares what they do,” Eraserhead says simply. “Who the hell even are ‘they’? It’s my eye, and my leg. I decide how to handle this.”
A thought crosses Hawks’s mind, and he can’t stifle the snort that follows.
“What?”
“...You gonna take it...” —Hawks purses his lips— “...one step at a time?”
For a moment, Hawks is scared he’s offended him—but relief washes over as Eraserhead’s monotone snark bites back. “Beginning to think you have a death wish.”
A play-cringe from Hawks. “Too soon?”
“Please. Tensei Iida’s been making wheelchair puns since I was discharged. You’re not gonna beat any of those with a quip made...on the fly.”
“I—” Hawks slams a stunned hand against the counter, the smile on his face now real as can be. “Dammit, Eraserhead, that a wing pun?”
He can almost hear Eraserhead’s signature manic grin through the phone. “Too soon?”
And he’s laughing again, despite the pain in his spine and the blur in his eye and the phantom feathers still rustling in his ears. And as the words pour, what relief it is to vent, to relate, to feel . The conversation continues, and with every cackle, the ache in Hawks’s gut becomes the most welcome one. This whole body’s his; this beautiful, burnt, breathing thing, no matter what anyone expects of it. It’s his. And he’ll take all the damned time it needs.
And finally, his laughter’s no longer magma. It’s crisp air. A sparkle on his tongue. A mint in the mouth, fresh and cool, clearing the last wisps of smoke from his breath.