Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

You.

The fear clings to him like the thousand hands of the ghost devil. It pulls on his clothes, tugs at his hair, grabs onto the soft, fleshy parts of himself that he’s always tried to hide. It feels like the first cigarette he ever smoked. (It feels like it might be his last.) 

And Power.

Aki doesn’t know what to do, staring out the window of his bedroom, as he gazes into all that ever was and will be, with certainty in spades. The veritable hand of god stares at him with six eyes, and Aki feels no fear for himself, only for the two kids snoring through the wall. 

Will be brutally killed.

It isn’t like Aki is unaccustomed to sleepless nights. 

By Denji. 

Aki tries to tune out the future, closes his eyes, presses his head to the mattress and covers his other ear with his hands. He tries to breathe, to open the window, to sit outside and watch the hair on his arms stand on end. He reaches for his phone, hoping to find something—anything to listen to—but he can't remember the last time he heard a song that he bothered to keep the title to. 

And after that.

Breathing out smoke and condensation breath doesn’t help, nor does scrolling through the news feed, so Aki turns to desperate measures. He presses tired, flat feet to the wood that’s now gone frigid and turns on the light. Paper upon report upon debrief awaits him on his desk. The closer he gets to the chair, the more he feels like running—throwing open the front door and just taking off down the street and never looking back. He rests a single hand on the chair, but the fabric feels like it’s burning him. 

The devil that is feared by all devils.

Aki turns away and is once again faced by the future. He can feel sweat pooling at the waistband to his pants, sliding through his eyebrows, kissing his hairline. Gnarled limbs and a glee that doesn’t need a smile to be felt welcomes him. The pressure in his head is growing (when did that start?). It feels as if his eye is trying to crawl out of his skull, or perhaps, entrench itself in him more. Turning on the light was a bad idea—it pierces into his skull like something fierce, like Darkness. 

Shall appear.

Aki reaches out a hand and presses it against knots of wood and flesh and pushes with all his might. Nothing, of course, happens because the arm he used exists in the same way that the future devil does: in his mind. Nowhere to be found in the physical world. Gone. The loss is a lighter flame licking too close to his fingers. It is controlled and wicked and glaring and utterly unavoidable for a chain-smoking lunatic like himself. 

All of the pain that Aki has ever felt has been something of his own doing, and now is no exception. 

He has gone soft enough to care about the filthy devils that make his life nothing but chaos, he has grown to care for the angel that is more helpless than even him, he misses the woman that led him down the primrose lined path of death. (More privately, he misses his family. He misses them so much it hurts. And what hurts even more is that he’s gone and replaced them with devils of all things.)

And he doesn’t regret it. (It is for that reason that he deserves all of this and then some, but for whatever foul reason he is human, and that makes him regretlesly selfish.) 

“And then what?” Aki finds himself saying. 

The future eyes him at that, seems to size him up. 

Aki cannot move a single muscle, his body pushed to the brink in an attempt to keep him from dissolving into a pile of heaving tears. He strains against himself to be strong—to look whole, despite his very obvious asymmetry. He cannot meet the future’s eyes, his gaze locked on the low hanging moon. 

Wood creaks as the future gets close enough to breathe against his cheek. 

“Why do you want to know?”

It draws a bark of laughter, something so sudden Aki thought he might have thrown it up. “Because you didn’t tell me shit.”

Aki’s eye waters as a bead of sweat leaks into it, but he does not move to wipe it. 

“Your future will end by Chainsaw’s hand, there is nothing more to know.”

“Liar,” Aki hisses, and suddenly there are three sets of eyes nose to nose with his own. 

“What do you mean?”

There is something to be said about the beautiful stupidity of mortals, and Future is probably its number one admirer. She loves seeing the passions of man brought out and laid before her, she likes the clarity, the honesty that it has. And Aki, of all the humans she had ever dealt with, is the most dishonest, cloudy, and all around malcontented person she has ever had the displeasure of experiencing. 

From the outside, that is. 

Nestled in his eye, curled around neurons and whispers within his own mind, Aki is plainly tragic. He’s beautiful. She wants to understand him like a scientist with a specimen. She wants to see the world as clearly and preciously as he, and what he is doing is uncharacteristic. It is brash, and bold, and so utterly un-Aki that she wonders if maybe he has cracked—his humanity leaking from all the places it shouldn’t. 

“You didn’t tell me when Power gets reincarnated, or what happens when Denji finds her after Hell. You didn’t tell me about Denji—if he’s, if he’s okay— what happens to him. After.”

The Future is taken aback by the ice in his tone. His whole body is trembling under the weight of the admission, muscles unable to relax or lay right. 

“You are a liar,” Aki says plainly. “There is plenty to know after my death.” 

And for being all of most of a filthy, imperfect, impulsive human, Aki is speaking her language. Everything, in a sense, will happen after him—has already happened after him. People don’t tend to care what happens in the face of their death, they always beg for ways to avoid it. The Future knows that it is inevitable, and has learned the hard way that it is better to indulge in the fantasies of desperate men rather than tell them the truth. 

But Aki…

And that is the thought. But Aki has always been different. But his future, when she touched the weft of fate, was delicate, as if one wrong move would have threads unraveling beneath her palms. A nudge, even a breath, might push him off course and send him wildly careening into a different direction. She could look and see what happens afterwards, or she could make the choice herself. 

A bead of sweat kisses Aki’s chin before splashing on the floor. The poor boy hasn’t so much as blinked. 

Future howls with laughter like she has never done before, joy and elation and every human emotion bubbling up between her roots. 

“You’re right!” she cries. “The Future is best, and you ought to see it!”

Chapter Text

When Denji wakes up to the sun slanting through the fucked up window shade, he has a bad taste in his mouth. And it’s not because Power and Meowy’s hair is stuck in his teeth—the cretins. 

Denji never had much when it came to bad feelings or intuition and things like that. He got the heebie jeebies and it always made him sick to his stomach. It left a bad taste in his mouth, of ash and rot and metal. It didn’t just taste bad though, it was wrong. He’d had plenty of years to taste the worst of what the world had to offer, and vomit, devils, and whatever the fuck Power cooked were sitting solidly at the top—but the jeebies? Beat all of those out easily. 

Chewing through bone and fluid and viscera was terrible, but it was something that was expected. Denji could look at the sad sap in front of him, no matter how gross, and know that he was going to take a hunk out of them. He could see it, envision it, and in turn, stomach it. 

The heebie jeebies weren’t like that. There was no reason that they crept up, no logic, nothing. They tasted like nothing. Like the aftertaste of whatever he last eaten had simply been wiped from his mind, his tongue scraped clean, and suddenly the only thing he could process was a gaping nothing. And so today Denji woke up with Nothing eating him from the inside out, and the scent of tea with cigarettes coming from the kitchen. 

After getting called into the Bureau out of the blue, and whatever was going on with Aki the day before, the fact that he was up so early only made the nothingness grow larger. As Denji moved Power’s limbs out of the way, he slid himself off the mattress and stared at the door. He spared a single glance back at Power’s sleeping form, praying to every god that she didn’t wake up without him and assume the Darkness devil had swallowed him up. He took one last breath of smoke and steam before turning the knob. 

His breath left him like a sigh at the sight of Aki’s form at the kitchen table. He was dressed for work, though his hair was down, and his hand was idly stirring his tea. 

Breakfast—how Denji hadn’t managed to smell it—was laid out on the table. A pile of toast, and enough condiments to form a small wall between Denji’s place setting and the rest of the table waited for him. Power’s plate had a few pieces of seaweed and a pile of raw meat, allowing her to make her favorite imitation sushi rolls. 

Aki didn’t move, even when Denji stepped on the creaky floorboard. 

(That was probably the most worrisome thing yet. Aki hated that floorboard—practically threw a fit every time someone walked on it because he swore it didn’t creak before Denji and Power had moved in, and was convinced that Denji and Power would destroy his apartment board by board). 

Denji made his way to the table, feet carrying himself over to his spot. Aki still didn’t look up, though Denji could see what he was actually looking at now. 

A letter. 

It was tucked in on itself, unopened, and not even wrinkled. No text on the outside—though it wasn’t like Denji would have been able to read it. It was all just so strange. Wrong. The heebie jeebies.  

When Denji pulled his chair away from the table, Aki stirred. He looked up at Denji with surprise on his face, as well as a paleness that reminded the blonde of when Aki had been stabbed in the eternity hotel. Now being watched, Denji sat down as casually as he could. 

He knew Aki had issues—like, duh— they all had fucking issues, but Aki’s didn’t ever really show in the same way that Denji’s or Power’s did. He didn’t wake up screaming at every hour of the day, and he didn’t have trouble sounding words or picking out clothes, but Denji had started to notice. The cigarettes were a vice, but it was so common that it practically melted into the background. Yet after Himeno’s death, Denji picked up on the acrid smell more often than not. Nowadays Aki reeked of it, and always had a light and a carton on him. Denji and Power weren’t allowed to mess with them under any circumstances. 

(Except for the one time they’d bugged Aki enough, and he’d finally acquiesced enough to teach them how to smoke. They were both horrible at it—Denji doing better but still hacked up a lung, and Power just swallowing the thing. Aki had almost-smiled then, and Denji got the distinct feeling that something good had happened in that moment, even if he didn’t quite understand it. Even if every other time they so much as got within three feet of an errant cigarette, Aki threatened to liberate them of their hands in an all too serious way.)

Aki had his cigarettes, cigarettes, cigarettes, and letters. 

None unlike the one sitting before him on the table. 

Denji had snooped around Aki’s room once and found them. A shoebox in the back corner of his closet. There were a few childish drawings with crazy lines and big smiley faces, and there were a handful that were simply ripped right down the middle. Those were all at the bottom though, because the ones on top seemed to be newer, and they were the ones that were less than conspicuously water damaged and tattering at the folds. 

Denji could barely read, but he’d made a great effort to remember everyone’s names. All of them were addressed to a name that Denji didn’t know, but they were all signed by one he didn’t tend to see any more. Himeno, Himeno, Himeno. And on every other line, Aki’s name stared back at him. 

The dates on the—what had to be—hundreds of letters spanned years. Himeno had been writing about Aki for as long as they’d known each other it seemed, and Denji got the feeling Aki had only read these after her death. 

He didn’t know why the dumb box of paper was important, but it clearly was. After getting his hands on it, he started to notice them everywhere. The cramped script started popping up everywhere—he’d see Aki place a paper down on the desk at work while he made small talk, he’d see it getting folded up and placed inside Aki’s jacket pocket before a mission, he’d see it scattered across the table in Aki’s room late at night when no one could sleep. 

Denji had thought Himeno cool. Pretty. D-cup, he later learned. Her Ghost was hard to fend off, and she had a good attitude. Yeah, she was Aki’s like, mentor, or senior?—however that worked—and was pretty inoffensive. She let him down a bit by puking in his mouth, but after getting shit-faced himself, he wasn’t so angry. In short, Denji had liked her. 

Had. 

And he didn’t have half the history she and Aki apparently had. 

(Denji hadn’t said anything on their trip to Hokkaido, but it wasn’t like he was blind. Aki cared about things and people, despite hardly showing it. He wondered how much he had cared about his mentor.)

Which was what brought the both of them here. Breakfast on a Tuesday, staring at each other like they were strangers, and neither knowing which foot to step with first. It was never supposed to be this hard between them.

“Oh, good morning, Denji,” Aki said absentmindedly, as if he just realized he was still stirring his tea. “You’re up early.”

Denji pointedly looked at the clock in the kitchen, telling him it was after ten. 

“If you say so.”

When Aki took a sip of his tea, and glanced towards the kitchen, he didn’t even cringe. Didn’t make an excuse either. Denji just picked up one of the slices of toast, surprised to find it entirely cold. It crumbled beneath his fingers, and was displeasingly hard. He grabbed a jar of room-temperature jam, and avoided looking in Aki’s direction. 

“Long night?”

Aki huffed a laugh, which had Denji peeking his way. 

“Yeah. You could say that.” 

He placed his cup (of what had to be ice cold tea, not steaming how he always drank it) on the table, before tsking at the cigarette on the table that was nothing but ash. 

“I have to go into work today,” he added. “I just need to drop something off, and then the three of us will be going off to a training excursion.”

Mouth half filled with sad bread, Denji said, “What?”

“You heard me. We’ve been instructed to meet in the city with a couple of new hires.”

Aki spoke like it was normal, though Denji supposed it was. Master Kishibe was one of the best, and he’d trained them, so it made sense they’d pass on their teachings. The three of them, by default of surviving Hell, Darkness, and Santa Claus, were technically high ranking members. 

Weird. 

And Denji said as much. 

“That’s fucking crazy, don’t they know who we are?”

Aki almost not-smiled at that, as he tucked the envelope into his jacket. “I don’t think they could forget, even if they wanted to. We’re just that good.” He got to his feet, abandoning the dishes and the table. 

“Now come help me with my shoes and my hair.” 

Denji groaned as he shoved the rest of the toast in his mouth, not caring that it smeared across his cheeks. He grumbled into the kitchen, muttering curse under his voice as he rinsed his hands and dried them. Without his arm, Aki had trouble doing a lot of the things he used to—namely, tying up his hair, and tying his shoes. Considering Aki was the one to brush Power’s hair more often than not, it fell to Denji to try and get the elastic right. (and if Power couldn’t be trusted to brush her hair, teaching her how to tie knots would have been worse, so shoe tying fell to Denji as well.)

Aki was seated by the front door when Denji left the kitchen, his shoes on his feet already, and a ponytail between his fingers. They’d done this song and dance before. 

He showed his hands to Aki, growling, “Look, nice and clean. Now your dumb topknot won’t be tasty.”

Aki cracked a smile at that (or rather, Denji’s unwilling help). They were manaces—all three of them, but especially Aki. He had a mean streak in him that no one else seemed to recognize, outside of Power and himself. It wasn’t fair. 

But he still did Aki’s stupid hair, and still tried his best to make the right parts of his hair lay flat instead of bumpy. He still tied the bastard’s shoes as tight as he could, because he’d seen how Aki had refused to ask anyone else for help, and simply tucked the laces back into the body of his shoe. 

Denji was not a sentimental person, really, but that didn’t make him sadistic. 

They all cared about each other in some kind of fucked up way, and if they didn’t talk about it, that was fine too, so long as they were there when they needed to be. (Even when it was mostly Aki being there for the two of them, Denji tried to do it too. He wasn’t very good at it, but tying shoes?—he could do. He’d do the best damn bunny ears the world had ever seen!)

But sometimes it didn’t seem like enough. Not on days like today, where the smoke seemed thickest, and the jeebies were still crawling up his spine. When Aki looked more tired than usual, despite last night being one of the first evenings without Power’s night terrors. (Something disgusting curled in his guts when Denji thought about how Aki was fading, just like Himeno had. First the arm… then… and then.)

“I’ll be back at noon,” Aki said quietly as he got to his feet. “Make sure Power eats her breakfast, and that she feeds Meowy before I’m home. We’ll leave when I get back, so be dressed.”

Denji knew they were friends, and so did Aki. Denji knew that Aki was the one who was calling the shots, and Aki knew that too. 

So why did it feel like Denji was missing something here?

Denji didn’t respond, but Aki turned and opened the door anyway, trusting him to handle Power. 

“Should I be worried about whatever dumb thing you’re about to do?” Denji asked, eyes narrowed. 

Aki shook his head, but tapped the pocket he’d placed the envelope into. “Just some paperwork, no need to worry. What, you turning into Power now?” 

Denji just scoffed, though it was more relief than anger. “Oh, fuck off.”

Aki not-smiled, stilled for a moment, before truly smiling, and shutting the door. Denji didn’t know how long he’d stared at the door before Power came stumbling out of their room. 

“Where’s Topknot?” she stumbled as Meowy weaved between her legs. 

“Just eat your damn breakfast,” Denji responded, settling back in front of his pile of half eaten toast. 

Aki walked into the West Okubodaira City Hospital like he deserved to be there. 

Which he most certainly did, and no one had challenged that, but for some reason Aki felt like he needed his presence to be unquestioned. 

It wasn’t like Aki was some big wig that demanded the respect of every room he entered, he simply needed to get through this day with the least amount of roadblocks. No questions, no unnecessary conversations, nothing to raise red flags in the minds of people whose eyes and ears weren’t their own. Aki was expected to act a certain way, and so he needed to make people think that’s what he was doing. 

His head hurt. Grandly, in fact. 

It didn’t help that Future was rolling around in his eye, vibrating with excitement and chirping here and there to warn him of upcoming people (or as he had dubbed them: problems). Were Aki any less of a man—of a hardened devil hunter only hours from facing the Gun Devil in all its glory—Aki would have been trembling. In fact, he just might have been, but no one noticed, not even himself, so he considered it a success. 

Getting to Angel’s room was painless, a simple flash of his credentials at the front desk had the receptionist blanching, and waving him through in the hope that he’d simply disappear (and take the devil along with him). She didn’t say it, and would probably have taken offense that Aki thought she felt that way, but it was written on her face. Aki, for the lack of emotions he tended to show, had been surrounded by the disgustingly contorting faces of others, and Aki did not bend himself out of shape for the comfort of others (no matter how they teased him and hated him for it). 

But Aki wasn’t dumb either—he knew when he needed to give a little. Like now, and needing to hide in plain sight. 

Like needing to walk into Angel’s room. (Like needing to say goodbye.)

You can’t stay out here for much longer, Aki, Future hissed. Someone’s coming. Seven seconds! Just go!

The door opened, because of course, Aki opened it, but he didn’t feel like the one that was doing it. Future couldn’t do it, so it had to be Aki, right? 

Right. 

But he was in Angel’s room now, and Angel was looking at him, and Aki was sitting in the chair that only he had ever occupied. No one else had ever visited Angel, and they likely never would. (But Aki had visited him before, you see, which was in-line—he wasn’t acting out of the ordinary by doing this, because he had ordinarily done it before.)

Angel didn’t say a word, but suddenly they were falling from Aki’s lips. Everything he hadn’t had the guts to tell Denji or Power, or anyone besides himself and Future was now sitting between them. 

“You and the blood fiend will be killed by chainsaw, and the future can’t be changed?” Angel mused. “I see.”

Aki said nothing, even as Angel turned himself to look at Aki more comfortably. 

“So what do you want me to do about it? Especially with no hands.”

Aki simply shook his head, eyes unwilling to rise from the floor. “Nothing. You can’t do anything—but that’s not why I'm here. I’m here to talk about after my death.”

He reached into his jacket and pulled out the pristine envelope, allowing Angel to follow it to where it now rested on the bedside table. Aki knew that Angel was aware of his uselessness, that he’d probably be put out of his misery sooner rather than later. 

“This is a letter of recommendation,” Aki spoke. “From me and Master Kishibe. It advocates on your behalf to keep you alive, so that you could make contracts with hunters like Future or Fox.” 

Angel didn’t smile out of joy—it was more self deprecating than that. “Well aren't you nice?”

Aki wasn’t, actually, though that was Angel’s point. He was cruel and selfish enough to condemn Angel to a life that he didn’t want, and it would be one that Aki wouldn’t be around to see. (He was also going to be dragging Power and Denji into his mess, but wasn’t going to risk Angel. If Aki’s plan worked—they’d live—if it failed—they’d die—and that was honestly all Angel could have wanted. Aki couldn’t bring Angel along though, that’s how “nice” he was.)

“My nurse said that of all the Public Safety’s devil hunters, Hayakawa Aki hates devils the most. You’re different from what they say about you.”

Aki said nothing, because Angel hadn’t asked a question, but the two locked eyes nonetheless. There were words hanging off of his tongue, things he wanted to ask, a million possible gestures he could think of, but Aki chose his next words wisely. 

Future pressed against the back of his iris. 

“I am leaving soon,” Aki said quietly, as if he were sharing a secret. “This may be the last time we see each other. And I hope… that maybe someday we’ll see each other again.” 

“Wait.” Before Aki could rise to his feet, Angel was sitting himself up in bed. 

The devil looked as if he’d been turned down for ice cream by one of his old handlers. He worried his lip between his teeth. 

“Sometimes the people that I kill with my power end up in my dreams. Blaming me. If I just let you die you’ll surely start haunting me. I want to help you live.” Angel swung his legs over the edge of the bed, pulling the blankets off with him. “Makima would know what to do, we should bring this to her.”

(Inside Aki’s eye, Future growled.)

Instead of stiffening up, or recalling the image of himself that Future had shared—of metal protruding from his skull, of limbs being pulled together by muscle fiber floss—Aki allowed himself one of Angel’s patented pitiful smiles. Maybe he truly looked tired enough to pull it off, because Angel recoiled. 

“Thank you,” Aki whispered. “But I think that maybe haunting you wouldn’t be so bad. I’m different from what they say, after all. Who knows, it might be fun.”

Angel’s face contorts in a way that Aki had only seen when he’d touched the other’s skin. 

Red hair shook as eyes pleaded. “Don’t say that.” 

“I’m tired, Angel. And I want to see you again someday.”

“You will!” Angel blurted. “Only if you promise not to die.”

“I can’t promise that forever, I’m still human. But I can promise that I won’t give up.”

Silence reigned while Future counted seconds in his head, rattling off nonsensical numbers—out of order and without pattern—until she hummed. Aki did not have to wait long before Angel nodded his head once, eyes on his lap. “Okay,” he whispered. “It’s a deal.”

Future was impressed to say the least. Oh, you clever boy.

“I’ll see you around,” Aki grinned. 

And suddenly he was walking home, fighting back the urge to throw up directly on the sidewalk. Despite the summer sun beating down upon him, Aki was cold, and for once, he felt eyes follow him along the roads. 

We’ve started mixing things up, Future sang. She’s starting to notice.

Aki didn’t dare speak out loud, but he didn’t need to do so for Future to sense his unspoken question. 

You’re a threat now, Aki. She’s been pulling your strings for long enough that she thought she understood you, and now that you’ve deviated from the path she set, she’s gotta keep an eye out. Or better yet, correct the error. 

Aki was only a few blocks from home when a car door slammed a block behind him, and his heart crawled up his throat. 

Makima does not take kindly to errors, Aki. You know that!

In his panic to get up the stairs and block the growing sound of shoes on concrete, Aki spoke out loud. “Fuck.”

Fuck, indeed.  

When Aki slammed the front door open, the dirty dishes were still on the table, but Denji and Power were clothed and watching the news. Meowy ran up to Aki at the door frame and yowled in confusion. Aki was dripping with sweat and fighting for breath—as if he’d just run up the seven flights of stairs to their apartment. 

From her spot on the floor, Power’s face wrinkled. “What’s up with you?”

Aki wasted no time locking the door behind him and going to every window and latching it. He didn’t respond, which had Power and Denji sharing a look of what the fucking fuck? (Because they had never seen Aki so frantic, so out of sorts that he didn’t even scold them for the state of the kitchen table, or that they were getting unsanctioned tv time.)

“Are you just going to ignore me? Me?” Power cried, disbelief and anger sneaking into her words. “I’ll have you know, I was the one to wake Denji up this morning and got him ready for training! You could at least show some respect.”

Aki lowered the shade on the kitchen window without a backwards glance. 

Denji had thought that maybe he was feeling weird after a few nights without Power’s screaming, that maybe he hadn’t actually had the heebie jeebies this morning, but this had proved him spectacularly wrong. Denji slammed his hand on the ground, tv forgotten, as he shouted. 

“Aki, what the fuck is going on?”

When the elder turned to face the both of them, Denji saw just how afraid he was. Aki’s mouth opened, closed, but not a sound came out. 

Something was wrong, and not in the usual sense. Denji had seen Aki stabbed, bleeding out, mourning, and in pain—but fear, fear on Aki was new. It was something that made Denji want to reach inside his chest and make sure that Pochita was still there, maybe take him out and give him a hug—just for good measure. There was something emptying about seeing one of the strongest, craziest, and most stoic people you know absolutely losing their shit. 

Denji was on his feet, teetering over to where Aki was sucking wind. Panic oozed from the lines of Aki’s form, from his eyes, from his collar, disrupting the perfect face he always showed. The closer Denji got, the more clear it became that Aki was so far beyond panicked and so thoroughly into the territory of holy fuck should I be calling a hospital. Behind him, Power started to rise. 

Aki’s back was pressed against the slider, the blinds crinkling behind him and leaving slants of light across the floor. Denji grabbed Aki by the shoulders, not even wincing at the fact that only one of them was there. Aki was shaking—honest to god, shaking—his body taut and barely standing. (Denji wondered how he’d missed all of this earlier. How couldn’t he see it?)

“What the fuck is happening?” Denji whispered. He didn’t think he’d ever been so serious in his life, not when he’d agreed to run away with Reze. Not even with Makima. 

Aki blinked. Dozens of feet began thundering up the complex’s stairs. 

A bead of sweat, or what Denji, at this point, could have believed was a tear, slid down Aki’s chin. The squeal of tires came from the street. A tear landed on Denji’s bare wrist. 

“Do you trust me?” Aki blinked. “Promise?”

Denji was nodding, bewildered, but nodding. “Yeah but what does that have to do with—”

“Power, get over here.”

She appeared on Denji’s left, Meowy slung over her shoulder, as she cocked her head to the side. “Why’re you so upset?”

Aki’s left eye was watering, overflowing in a way that tears didn’t do. He looked like he was in pain. Denji was pretty sure that he himself was careening wildly towards freaking out as well. Aki clearly knew what was going on, but he wouldn’t (or couldn’t?) say. 

(He absentmindedly remembered Himeno, shaking as she rushed to Aki’s bleeding side—a fracture in her mask of cool and put-togethered-ness. Denji wondered if he and Power meant the same thing to Aki as Aki did to Himeno, and wondered just what could have him acting like this. They were a Devilman and a Fiend: what could hurt them in that way?)

A solitary knock sounded from the front door. 

Denji and Power met each other’s eyes as they looked its way. 

In his soul, a chainsaw revved. (Don’t open the door, Denji.)

Several things happened at once:

Denji looked back at Aki when silence rang true. The flood of tears leaking from his left eye had turned to blood, and it stained his entire face. Aki lunged forward, wrapping his arm around Denji and Power’s necks in some kind of awkward one-armed side-hug while the door was kicked in. 

Denji couldn’t see who was there, but Aki did.

Makima was grinning softly, her default expression greeting him with all the kindness of a sledgehammer. As if the words were spoken by someone else, Aki’s lips moved, but the sound echoed in someplace that wasn’t their ears. 

The Future rules.

Makima was unable to speak a single word before the trio blinked out of existence. 

The apartment was empty. 

On a street not unlike the one the three had been standing stories above, several bodies popped out of thin air and landed on the sidewalk. The people passing by did not pay much attention to such a thing, as it wasn’t particularly strange. At most, people stared, maybe muttered a complaint about being disrespectful in the street, and at the least, they simply stepped out of the way. 

On September twelfth, 1997, at 3:14pm, Hayakawa Aki, Denji, and Power disappeared. 

On September twelfth at 3:14pm, some time in twenty second century, Hayakawa Aki, Denji, and Power reappeared. 

This was of note to several people. 

A man received a call, interest piqued by the strange arrival of several very interesting individuals. 

Another received the link to a video, showcasing what he quickly realized was an unregistered teleportation quirk.

A teenager found that very same post and began taking note of the peoples’ appearances, unclear about which individual’s quirk had activated, yet interested in pursuing their existence. 

Humanity changed over time, that was evident. But not all of its changes were visible. Humanity had learned many things, adapted language, advanced technology, and had ultimately grown more knowledgeable about the world that they lived in. But not all changes were good—sometimes humanity forgot things. 

The hardship of a life without modern amenities. 

Where they left their keys. 

What fear actually, truly meant. 

(What it created.)

Humanity was always capable of change though, and it could most certainly remember. At half past three pm on a Tuesday, humanity began to remember, and that memory sounded like a chainsaw. 

Chapter Text

When Denji came back to himself, he thought he’d died again. 

He had tried explaining the feeling to Power once before, and despite how hard she’d tried to understand, she simply hadn’t felt it before. It was one thing to talk about, to know that it had happened, that dying felt a certain way, but it was impersonal. Amidst the panic of well, fuck, I don’t think Pochita can fix it this time, Denji almost felt vindicated that Power would finally get it. 

There was something specific about dying that Denji had a hard time putting into words. It was like forgetting, if that made any sense. One moment everything was normal, and between then and the next, normal suddenly meant I can’t feel my legs. And that thought was usually very distressing, so normal would change again to legs? What legs? I’ve never had those. Until there was nothing left.

It was frenzying because there was that one part of you that remembered—that was screaming that something was wrong, your chest hurt, you can’t feel your fingers, there’s too much blood—but the rest of you was just so goddamn loud and tired that that little voice was drowned out. Dying was forgetting what existed, and Denji hated it. 

He wasn’t dead though! That was the silver lining! 

Denji had forgotten he had eyes, but the moment they blinked, his soul or whatever was slamming back into his body. In the back of his mind he could tell that something was wrong but when it was taking all of his mental strength to check for ten fingers and toes, he didn’t have the time to ruminate over whatever the hell else was going on. 

It was loud where he was, he realized belatedly, with lots of people milling about, and avoiding knocking into him. They were city folk—the kind he was supposed to protect—but had always secretly hated for the way that they looked down on him. Laid out on his hands and knees in the middle of the sidewalk, Denji could think of half a dozen copies of the instance, except he was eleven, thirteen, nine, and starving, and no one gave a shit. 

(They still didn’t, never would. Not until they saw the chainsa—)

“Denji?” 

Power’s voice cut through the din, and Denji was dragging himself across the ground to where she lay in a half curled ball. Meowy was pawing at her hair, and only succeeding in needlessly tangling his paw between the tresses. When Denji crouched over her, Power’s eyes were dazed and slipping closed every few seconds, no matter how he shaked her.

“We’re not ‘n Hell are we?” she slurred. 

When Denji looked to the sky he was met by the sun, which was a really good sign, but the people that surrounded them weren’t. They looked all kinds of fucked up—weird skin colors, animal features, odd shapes—Denji would’ve thought them Devils if not for the fact that they didn’t look too fucked up. Most Devils were grotesque in the way the Bat and Eternity had been, and there was no way there were enough Fiends and Devilmen to fill the street they were on. 

“S’ not Hell, I don’t think,” Denji drawled. “But I have no clue where we are.”

At that Power seemed to perk up, pulling herself into a seated position, and scrutinizing the crowd that had formed around them. When Meowy yowled at being ignored, Power scooped him up and pressed him to her chest possessively, now wary of the bystanders. 

Denji was mostly taken aback by how quickly she’d come around. The concern that had started to build in his chest left in an instant, the situation dawning on him. 

“You were just faking it because you thought Darkness was coming, weren’t you?” Denji frowned. 

As if it weren’t the most obvious fact in the world, Power cried “Of course not! I defeated Darkness once already and I could do it again! Power hides from no one!”

Denji scoffed, but at least it was familiar. They could be anywhere (except Hell itself) and Power would lie so blatantly it almost felt like home. She always had the innate ability to bring just a little extra craziness to everything, and it really said something when Denji would have fought tooth and nail for her chaos instead of… whatever they were dealing with at the moment. 

For the first time, Denji and Power sat shoulder to shoulder and took a moment to really, really look at what was happening around them, and it only gave them more questions. High-rises scraped the clouds, neon screens blinked and cars honked, and if Denji hadn’t been to Tokyo only a few days ago, he would’ve thought they were in the heart of the city. The people were entirely too different, all Not-Devils and apathetic concern. Everything just seemed so much larger than life, especially the crowd that was getting thicker as the seconds went by. A blue-skinned Not-Devil broke from the throng slightly, stepping closer with all the hesitance of someone approaching a wild animal. 

Denji would’ve taken offense to that, but he was currently next to Power, so he didn’t blame the lady. Her hair seemed to float above her head, but was fastened to her skull with clips and elaborate knots. She wore a similar outfit to what Aki always wore, a collared shirt, dark skirt with a matching jacket, and—oh, shit. 

Aki.

Denji was knocking Power’s shoulder to grab her attention before looking behind them. Aki was clearly the reason a ring of people had gathered around their small heap, because he was currently on his side and still knocked out. His eyes were closed, but the left was still sluggishly bleeding and starting to pool on the ground under his cheek. 

“Are you alright?”

When Denji turned back towards the blue-woman she was far closer than he’d expected, crouching just a few feet away from them. She smiled in a way that he assumed was supposed to be comforting, but it had Denji trying to push Power behind him. The kind ones, he had learned, always spelled trouble. Kindness was not something freely given—it was an exchange—and you never knew what they’d want in return for their decency. With Aki still down, and Power only now starting to bare her fangs, Denji had to be the one ready to fight. 

(He was always ready to fight though, right? Just a dog for the Public Safety Commission to be let off its leash and wreak havoc upon Devils when they so desired it. He was only allowed to live because he had to fight—it was the law of life. He thought he’d have gotten used to it by now.)

“Do you kids need help?” the blue woman asked. 

Denji’s first instinct was to tell her to fuck off, his second was to say I’m not a kid, and his third was to tell her to fuck off. 

It was a downright miracle that he did none of those things. 

Power sneered from over his shoulder. “What’s it to you?”

That seemed to make the woman take pause, obviously not expecting the two of them to be so hostile. They did just fall out of the sky into a brand new area and everyone was a little fucked up, but that didn’t mean Power and Denji were more fucked up than usual. Frankly, after looking at the people crowding them, Denji was pretty sure that the three of them were the most normal. 

The blue woman grimaced. When Denji didn’t so much as twitch in response to her shift in mood, she turned to someone standing around them and uttered the most deranged set of words that Denji had heard in a while. 

“You there, yes—you. Call the local heroes for me? And the police too. At least one of them will be necessary.”

If Denji wasn’t already on guard, that would have had him freaking the fuck out, because it wasn’t the smart ones or the strong ones, or even the really scary guys you had to look out for—it was the batshit crazy ones, and Denji was one of them enough to know. When you had no idea what was coming next, it meant everything you could think of and then some was possible. The white fabric of his shirt crinkled under his hand as he reached for the pull-cord, worry growing with every passing second. 

Someone, probably the guy that the blue lady had called out, if he had to guess, was chatting away on their phone, while the strange three-way staring contest continued between Power, Denji, and the woman. Meowy was surprisingly silent throughout the affair for being a cat that was so in tune to Power’s emotions. The damn thing had always been a better indicator of the girl’s moods than anything else—let alone herself. Purring was contentment, the zoomies meant restlessness or something wrong, but for once Meowy sat silent and still in Power’s lap. 

Denji was starting to slip his fingers through the gap between the buttons, when a moan split the silence. No matter how badly Denji wanted to turn and help Aki, something told him that he couldn’t let his guard down. There was too much weird shit for him to consider being vulnerable, so he sucked his teeth and swallowed the disappointment. 

“Go check on him,” Denji whispered. “Check his eye an’ I don’t know, make it stop fuckin’ bleeding.”

“That’s hard and you know it,” she hissed, but nonetheless left his side. Denji kept his vigil, not letting his eyes stray from the woman before him for even a moment. Call him paranoid, but he was missing something here. Denji knew he wasn’t all book smart like Aki or Miss            , but he wasn’t blind. These people were obviously humoring them—faking pity because absolutely none of them actually gave a shit—posing for their stupid pictures and acting all “humanitarian” and giving. They were pitying and foul and the scum of the earth that didn’t deserve half of what they had. 

Maybe it was the street rat in him talking, but people were always bad news. Kids were fine, but anyone older than himself was a threat. 

(A small part of him whispered that Aki was older, but he didn’t count. Aki had tried to sacrifice himself for Denji at the eternity hotel, and had even tried to get them off the Gun Devil case. It was misguided, but loyal, and ultimately worrying.)

So much worry—too much. 

Denji was Chainsaw Man, he didn’t ever need to worry. He could let loose right now and get back at these snobs for daring to make them into a sideshow. Flesh met unforgiving metal, and for a single shining moment, Denji thought maybe he’d be able to fix things. 

Don’t open the door, Denji.

It felt like there was a hand on his shoulder, wide and heavy. Calloused. Old. 

This wasn’t Pochita’s usual warning, and for all of his frantic worry, the delusion didn’t sound like Aki either. 

Don’t do it.  

This wasn’t real. His father’s favorite kind of booze could be on no one’s breath but his own. 

Distantly, Denji saw a light shine from underneath the door from his dreams. Eviction notices still plastered the wood, and the hallway was still full of garbage and filth, but the entirely blocked out bottom now had a gap. When he pressed his face into the carpet, nose tickled by the frayed fibers, he could see the distinct shadow of a pair of shoes, as well as bare feet. 

Suddenly there was blood seeping through the gap, and Denji gagged when it smeared onto his face. 

He flinched back hard enough that instead of being on his knees like he had been, he landed straight on his ass with his hands on the ground behind him to prevent him from pushing himself back farther. The blue woman, who hadn’t so much as moved an inch closer the entire interaction, took a half step back. He must have scared her as much as he’d spooked himself. 

A police siren split through the midday noise, and it put Denji’s teeth on edge despite the sighs of relief that echoed from the crowd. 

Power, for all of her incredible talents and wondrous stores of wisdom, was not particularly good at what Aki liked to call being careful. He often told her she did things too forcefully, and didn’t care about whatever it was that she was doing. He wasn’t wrong—Power rarely cared about the things she was asked to do—but she wasn’t incapable of gentleness, of care. 

Meowy had stuck around, and loved her very dearly (more than Pochita loved Denji, but it’d make Denji upset if she said that, so she routinely kept it to herself. You’re welcome, Aki!). 

But the same motions of care for a cat were not suitable for caring for a person, or even herself. Power thought it was plainly absurd, but she humored them. Like the silly little buttons on her shirt, despite how much she (didn’t) struggle to line them up correctly, Meowy liked to bat at them, so she kept wearing them. He’d headbut her horns and chew on her hair, and Power didn’t ever want the world to change. She liked her life and the things that she cared about.

She hated change. 

And like it or not, Aki dying would be a change. A big one. A really, really titanically fucking big change that made her chest tight just thinking about it. Who would make her breakfast, or help pick out her clothes? Who would brush her hair in the morning and make her warm blood when she couldn’t sleep? Denji didn’t know the kind of cat food that Meowy liked, and Power couldn’t read the label, so Aki was the only one who could. Her place setting was always absent of chopsticks after she;d complained about how hard they were to use, and there were always little signs of Aki’s unobtrusive existence within their home. 

As Power crawled over to where Aki was groaning, she realized that the sight of blood—his blood—did not excite her. Usually any and all kinds of blood made her giddy, even if it was Denji’s or some poor devil hunter, but seeing the twisted expression on his face brought her no joy. Meowy wriggled out of her arms, and instantly curled up against Aki’s midsection, preventing him from turning himself entirely into a ball. 

Power grabbed his shoulder and tried to get him to lay on his back. “Topknot!” she grumbled. “What’s wrong? Is there something in your eye? D’you need me to pull it out?”

Aki whined instead of answering, trying to shake off her hand and press his face farther into the ground. 

“Stop that!” she cried, pulling on him harder, and even wedging her other hand below him. She clutched the fabric of his jacket and yarded on it until the back of his skull rested on the concrete. 

He cried out weakly, voice thin as he tried to push her off. 

“Get away,” Aki rasped. He struck out blindly, arms shaking. “You can’t have ‘em.”

Power pressed his shoulders to the ground and hung her face over his own. She noted that his eyes were still closed, which seemed weird. Aki was always watching everyone—hated when they didn’t pay attention to even the smallest detail. It sucked to be on the other end of his nagging, but it felt worse to see him reduced to this. 

He tried to buck her off, but he was clearly still disoriented, and put up even less of a fight than Kobeni on a bad day. By the time he stopped resisting, he was breathing hard, and his face was too pale. 

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” she asked, though it didn’t have the bite she thought it would. 

In her frenzy, Power didn’t notice that Aki had fought back against her with not one arm but two. 

The cry of a police siren stopped any other kind of interaction between the two, because Denji was crawling over to her. He looked pale and unhappy, but that was how their day was going, so she didn’t blame him. 

“So?” he asked, oblivious to the fact that Power was still having to restrain Aki.

“He’s not actually bleeding any more, if that’s what you’re asking,” Power huffed. 

Don’t ask her how she knew, but it was something she could feel. She didn’t sniff it out, like when she was looking for a particular kind of blood (usually Meowy’s, though sometimes it was Denji or Aki’s), nor was it strong enough to taste in the air (like a mortal wound, or one that just hurt), this was more of a sensation. Between all the bodies surrounding her, and all the blood flowing beneath tissue paper veins, Power could feel when and where things went wrong.

Like how Denji’s knees were skinned, but scabbed over. How the man with the starkly yellow hair had a healing gut injury. Like how Aki’s eye was swollen and hot and pressing against the inside of his skull, but wasn’t punctured. Some of the blood vessels were damaged in the sclera of it, but they weren’t weeping any more, so it wasn’t like a huge problem. Humans could lose a good amount of blood before they had to start worrying, right? So, maybe a couple gallons?

This isn’t nearly that bad, she thought. Aki will be just fine.  

“That’s a lot of blood though.” Denji was worrying a lip between chipped teeth. 

Okay, so maybe it was worse than she thought. She was an expert on a good many subjects, though human anatomy was one of the few that managed to escape her. 

“He’ll be fine,” Power snarled. “He’s just having a bad dream and won’t wake up.”

Denji scoffed, but leaned over Aki’s face to get a closer look. The ravenette was still weakly trying to free himself, but Denji didn’t seem to take notice of that. He was squinting at Aki, much like Power had earlier. The blonde was shaking his head though.

“Something’s wrong,” he spoke. “But I can’t tell what.”

“I’ll tell you what! He’s napping when he’s supposed to be our watcher—or whatever. The cops are gonna be here and want to talk to him, but they’ll find out he’s snoozing on the job!”

Denji was going to snap something, face reading annoyance, but some lady beat him to it. 

“Look, if you two just stay put, they’ll be able to get help for your brother.” 

There was simply too much going on, and Power did not need someone else butting in. 

She bared her fangs and hissed, subconsciously loosening her hold on Aki’s arms, and leaning towards the woman. “Stay out of it, peasant!”

The following events happened, perhaps not in this order, Aki was unsure, but they happened. 

                  opened the door to their apartment and Aki called out to Future. 

For a moment of time (one that was far, far smaller than a tenth of a second, or anything human maths or minds could number) Aki saw the world melt away. People were not meant to see time the way that he had: all flattened and compressed, and simply all-at-once. For a freeze-frame second, Aki stepped out of time, and it was almost too much to bear. 

He saw his death—dozens of them—happening all-at-once, overlayed and repeated from a dozen angles and different by only by inches or seconds. He saw every birth, every death, every asteroid and great human achievement. 

It is beautiful, isn’t it? Future purred. 

Aki couldn’t respond, because he wasn’t sure he had a mouth at this point, or even air to breathe. Everything was everything and also somehow One, but also somehow None. 

This is how I see the world. Be grateful that I have taken an interest in you, Hayakawa Aki. 

Were the supposed-person known by Future as the name Hayakawa Aki capable of nodding, he would have. 

To pull this off, I will extend beyond the bounds of our Contract. To go so far into the future requires a greater payment. Will you accept?

If the entity that sat audience to the great organizing principle of Time had lungs, he would have asked “how much?” but was unable to. This was not a problem, as it had already happened, and was bound to happen, and was always being waited upon. It was already known. 

Two years, Time trilled. I know you haven’t much of it to spare, but I’m offering you the bargain of the universe here! You ought to take it, but you didn’t hear that from me.

If Aki were a weaker person, anything other than the obstinate human that he was—with two devil shaped thorns in his side—he may have given up. After experiencing It All for eternity and None, it wasn’t actually so bad. One could get used to it. But Aki was something of an anomaly among men, and inching closer and closer to a Thing That Had Been Forgotten By Humanity, but wasn’t close enough. 

(But being close was enough. It set him apart just enough to make sense. To make him into something special. Risky. Novel.)

So, 

Aki Hayakawa, 

former squad leader of the Fourth Division of Devil Hunters from Japan’s Public Safety Commission,

turned his head to the Future 

and nodded.

He spoke calmly, as if he had thought long and hard about his answer,

and

said:

“I accept.”

Future trilled like a creature Aki had not personally met, but had seen, and the world shifted.

None and All came together, and suddenly Aki was One. 

And then it was all so fucking loud. And bright. And jesus christ, if he wasn’t going to kill Power for rough housing with him when he had a migraine like this. 

He blinked, and he saw Power and Denji’s faces swimming above his own. 

He blinked, and saw Power being blown to bits.

He blinked, and Denji was hanging himself with his own guts.

He blinked, and Darkness was hanging over him, to the marimba of bullet casings on wood. 

He blinked, and he was having tea with                 in the living room, Power’s cold body laying atop the squeaky board in such a way that the only thing he felt was anger at her deliberate pushing on the wood. 

He blinked, and his brother was gone.

Aki blinked, but in fact, his eyes weren’t open, and he was in agony. 

When he was actually able to peel the lids off of his eyes, he immediately turned on his side and upended his breakfast. Whoever was holding him steady pulled away, and the people around him erupted in… what could have been disgust or worry, he couldn’t quite tell. When he didn’t feel like he was drowning in his own vomit, he opened his eyes and lurched into an upright position. 

Denji and Power were immediately helping him stay sitting up, despite the cries of the public around them. A woman was on her knees only a few feet away, clearly distressed by the fact that Aki had just thrown up. Or maybe it was because she had finally caught sight of the blood staining his face and chest. (Aki was, admittedly, a bit concerned about that as well.)

“Aki!” Denji’s voice was almost as piercing as the police siren. “Topknot!” Power’s voice was uncharacteristically happy—as if he’d surprised her. 

“What the fuck just happened?”

It could have been either of them that said it, but Aki didn’t quite know how to respond. 

Aki blinked, and Denji was cutting a police officer in two, while Power fished around in her gut for a bullet. 

Aki blinked, before grabbing Power and Denji by their collars, and trying to pull himself to his feet. The blue-woman—which he was honestly ignoring at this point, because who had the fucking mental power to deal with whatever was actually going on?—lurched forward in an attempt to motion him to sit back down. From over her shoulder, Aki could spy a cruiser pulling up to the curb. 

“We gotta go,” he rasped. “Now—we need—no cops. Gotta run.”

Denji was on his feet between one heartbeat and the next, and was pulling Aki to his feet, while Power picked up Meowy. 

“Where to?” the blonde bristled.

For lack of anything better to say, Aki simply said “away.” 

It was not a great idea to leave the directions up to Denji and Power, but he was having trouble putting one foot in front of the other. His breaths were coming out all wrong, and almost every other step was a stumble. Aki felt awkward and uncomfortable, like on one of the occasions he’d been drugged. The things he wanted his body to do were not relayed right, and for a moment, he wondered if he was dying—if Future had taken his last moments, and this was what it was like when your body gave out on you.

Don’t be so dramatic, Future hissed. You’ll know it when you feel it.

As disquieting as it was, it had a layer of comfort. 

After falling to his knees for the third time, Denji tsked and grabbed him by the arm while they ran. The blonde kept him from toppling over after every corner they cut, while Power parted through crowds of businessmen and midday traffic like they were nothing but waves. It felt like hours, and it very well could have been, before they stopped. The police sirens were long gone, and not a single one of them knew where they currently were. 

Aki and Denji were drenched in sweat, clothes sticking to their skin, and dry heaving into the alley. Power was red-faced, but largely unruffled, though Meowy’s fur looked rather tangled. Their moment of reprieve lasted for all of six minutes before it was broken. 

By Power of all people (though some part of Aki had learned to never doubt the disruptive powers of the fiend).

“What was all that?” she chirped. “I, of course, already know, I just want to hear your thoughts on the matter.” 

Denji was nodding, eyes not giving Aki the room to breathe. 

But he did just that, closed his eyes too, and slid down the wall until he was sitting. 

“It’s a long story,” he says raggedly. “Not sure you’ll be able to listen through the whole thing.” 

Power was already sitting knee-to-knee with him, rising to the challenge he’d laid for her. Denji gave him a hard look before sitting as well. “We’re all ears.”

Aki opened his eyes and spoke—he told them everything. 

He told them what Future had shown him, everything that Aki had seen. He described only the most gruesome death of Power’s he could remember from his foray into Time, and whispered plans that hadn’t been made known to anyone yet. 

That she wanted The Chainsaw, not Denji.

That she was the cause of Power and Aki’s deaths. 

That she orchestrated everything from the very beginning, that she was a devil, and liar, and a manipulative piece of shit that wanted to remake the world in her image. 

“I didn’t want that,” Aki whispered. “I couldn’t just… leave you guys behind like that. I—thought that if we went to a different time, that maybe we’d be safe. She found out I was planning something though, and that’s why everything happened so quickly.”

The sun had slipped from the sky over the course of Aki’s speech, and soon the alley would be bathed in shadows.

“Are you telling me you saved our lives and your own?” Denji said slowly. “And you did that by flinging us to some random time in the future?”

Aki nodded. 

“So then why are we small? Why would going to the future make us all—” Power waved a hand “—weird?”

Aki looked to Denji to see if he was equally as confused, but Denji was already staring at him intently. It was apparent that Denji knew what Power was talking about, and was resolute that there was something wrong with Aki himself. 

“What are you talking about, Power?” he asked. 

She scoffed, haughty as ever—and for the first time, probably right. 

“Well, I mean. Denji’s small—like really small, and I’m taller than him now, even though my hair’s shorter than it should be.”

When Aki turned to look at Denji, he found that Power was right. Denji did seem smaller—in fact, he looked younger. The face looking back at him was definitely Denji, but it wasn’t quite the same face that Aki had gotten to know only months ago. His hair was a bit longer, and a lot less clean, and if Aki were a betting man, he would have said this was how Denji looked prior to getting a meal, clothes, and a shower from Public Safety. 

Where childish fat should have clung to cheeks, Denji was hollow and thin. Muscle wrapped around bones, under shrinkwrapped skin. Faintly, he could remember feeling hard calluses on the hand that had held him steady. 

The same could be said when he looked at Power. Not the thinness and malnutrition, but the young-ness. She had pouty cheeks and hair that curled at her shoulders—clearly styled and washed and well loved (likely by the girl who’d lived in the body before Power took it up). She wore a bright colored pair of shorts with a tank top and sneakers that were covered in drawings and stickers, her hair was even tucked behind her ears in the same way he’d done it for their trip to Hokkaido. 

Aki was speechless. 

“But you don’t look all that different,” Denji squinted. “Your face is pretty much the same. Why didn’t you change?” 

It was impossible to answer, considering Aki couldn’t see himself. But he brought his hands to his face—felt his ears, which twinged with the pain of brand new piercings—and took note of the lack of a ponytail in his short (too short) hair. His fingers trailed over his skull, touching where he used to do hai hair daily, only for ice to pool in his gut. 

“They touched,” he whispered, almost afraid to look.

The devils’ face scrunched in confusion. “What ‘re you talking about?”

Slowly, more carefully than he’d done anything all day, Aki dropped his hands from his head, and stared down at his palms. Where there should have been a lack—an almost, should-have-been-there, after-image dancing—the real thing sat. There was no empty sleeve fluttering at his side, nor did he feel the empty pangs that would assault non-existent nerves when he thought about it too much. 

A flesh and blood hand, capable of feeling things and flexing its fingers, was shaking before him. He could barely tear his eyes away from it. 

“My arm,” Aki choked. “It’s, it’s back.”

Both devils half gasped, realization coming to them slower, but no less powerfully. Denji was by his side, pulling on the limb, awe and amazement overtaking his face—even as he practically pulled it from its socket. 

(A terrible part of Aki was sick, though. It worried that if Denji pulled too hard it would simply fall off like it had in Hell—that all of this was just some thinly veiled illusion they were sharing, that if he blinked it would all simply melt away.)

He didn’t realize he was smiling until Denji tackled him into something of a side-hug, knocking him on his side and whooping something unintelligible. 

“I don’t have to tie your shoes any more!” he howled. 

Aki laughed along with his antics, wrapping a very real, very warm arm around where Denji lay on top of him.

“No more topknots!” Denji screamed. 

Power’s face lit up before she threw herself atop the two of them. “No more topknots!” she joined. 

In a pile of knobby limbs and crusty sweat, Aki had never felt more elated. He opened his mouth and instead of trying to push the others (the kids, his mind now supplied) off, he laughed.

For the first time in what felt like years, Aki laughed, and he meant it. 

Every tear of joy and anxiety that left his eyes was more genuine than anything he had dared to let himself feel since he’d lost his family all those years ago. Holding Denji close, and feeling Power’s horns through her hair—Aki realized that he hadn’t had this for so long. 

Family, a traitorous part of himself whispered. You’re finally a brother again. 

His cheeks hurt, once his laughter died down, but he couldn’t get the smile to fall from his face. Aki was not one to declare victory early or get cocky, but he had a feeling that maybe he’d managed to win—just this once. 

When he finally managed to shoo Denji and Power off of him, Power continued to stare at him. 

“What?” Aki teased. “Still not used to the second arm?”

She shook her head. “So can, like, all humans do that? And is it just arms, or can people grow more legs?”

Denji broke into stifled laughter that had Power reaching his way to pull his hair and tousle, while Aki sighed (without a single iota of fondness, mind you). 

“No,” he said loudly, hoping to at least pause their fight. “Humans can’t just grow back more limbs. I think this happened because of the new deal I made with Future to get us here.” 

What had merely been a ceasefire melted away into concern. 

“What new deal?” Denji asked seriously. “What did you give?”

Aki could feel Future chirping with delight as they talked about her, if the pressure in his eye was anything to go by. 

“Three years,” he nodded. “Three years from each of us. Which—I don’t pretend to know why—seems to have taken us back three years in age. I think.” 

A particularly shrill creak meant he was correct. 

I am the Future Devil, said Future. I could have taken the last few years of your life, Aki, but that’s no fun. So I took the last three years of your future. All of the moments that brought you to where you were—they’re mine now. You’ll never be the person you were before, that future belongs to me. 

“Oh,” Denji said. “Why would the Future Devil want the past?”

Instead of trying to relay the barely comprehensible explanation Future had given him, Aki simply shrugged. 

“Devils, man.”

That got sympathetic nods from everyone present. 

Sitting in a random alley in a version of Japan they didn’t know, Aki stared at the light polluted sky and felt comforted by the sight of the one thing that hadn’t managed to change. He would need to figure out how they were going to live now, in this strange world without any identification, money, or a clue as to what they needed to know. It wouldn’t be impossible, but it also wouldn’t be easy. They (or namely, Aki) would need food and water soon, but it could wait until tomorrow. 

Despite being a hardened devil hunter, Aki had always had a home and place to belong. He had inheritance from his family, and a school to feed him lunch. He had never had nothing before—he didn’t know how to live like that. 

(Denji did, he realized with a pange of pity, this was Denji’s life before Public Safety. If Denji was able to survive to sixteen, the three of them would make it work.)

But that could wait until tomorrow. 

“All in favor of sleeping in the alley tonight, and getting our shit sorted tomorrow?” Aki yawned. 

The response was more enthusiastic than he was expecting, and he honestly wasn’t expecting it to be a yes.  

“It’s a pretty good alley,” Denji complimented. “Nice job finding it.”

Power preened, despite already being curled up with Meowy. “Of course! I’m a master navigator after all!” 

Aki didn’t normally laugh, but he did, a short huff of something. By the time he rolled onto his side, Aki’s eyes were slipping closed, and he was just now realizing how exhausted he was. 

“Goodnight,” he told the sky, and he received two well wishes, and a meow in response. 

(He could not have been happier.)

As Tuesday rolled into Wednesday, despite being caked in vomit, blood, and sweat, Aki couldn’t help but feel like this was the future he had wanted forever—that it didn’t matter if it wasn’t Hiro and his parents—that he and his family would be safe. 

Finding a single individual amidst a city as large as Musutafu was difficult. Finding three people should have been easier.

Shouta should have known better though, to assume that anything would go his way. 

Hazashi had sent him a shaky-cam video, taken by a bystander, filmed earlier in the day. It started with a girl posing in front of an intersection, likely a tourist just going about their day, when there was a sonorous crack that resulted in three individuals popping out of thin air. They landed in a heap behind the girl, at which point the cameraperson abandoned her, and started walking closer to the group. 

It didn’t take a genius to see the three kids were in various stages of worse-for-wear. The girl looked largely fine, despite being incredibly pale (which could have simply been a quirk thing, or shock), while the two boys were a bit more worrisome. 

The blonde was rail thin, shoeless, and practically swimming in the clothes he wore. Surprisingly he was the first to stir, and when he did, he simply looked around. Bewilderment was evident on his face, which was turning up in some bastardized version of disgust and confusion. If Shouta were to guess, he would’ve pinned the teleportation quirk on the blonde. Based on the kid’s reaction, Shouta would’ve bet money he teleported him and his friends to the wrong place. 

The video showed him helping the girl sit up as they spoke. There was too much background noise to be able to hear what they were saying, but with enough analysis (and maybe a hearing quirk of two) they’d be able to figure it out. The bureaucracy was slow with this kind of thing, and Shouta imagined it’d be another week before he heard back about whether his request for the help of a quirked officer was approved or denied. 

The third boy, the eldest, was the one that had Shouta worried. He was bleeding from the face in a nasty way, and was clearly knocked clean out—as opposed to his friends. If left alone for too long, that eye of his would get infected. As someone who was rather fond of their eyes, it made Shouta wince at the thought of losing one. 

He’d made it a point to check all the hospitals in the area every night he left the agency, hoping to see a crown of black. But, of course, Shouta came up empty-handed.  

The rest of the video was rather uneventful. The blonde one kept anyone from getting too close to the three of them, while the horned girl tried to rouse the injured one. When the sirens were loud enough to signal a squad car, the black hair boy managed to sit up. In record time, and lacking all finesse, the three were taking off down the sidewalk (with the addition of a cat that absolutely must have belonged to one of them). 

The video follows the kids down the street until they cut a corner, and suddenly there is a police officer stepping into frame. The group of civilians point down the street, and the officer is off like a shot. When he finally disappeared from the frame, the video ended. 

Damn, hope those kids are okay, is what the camera person says before it cuts to black. The video player asks Shouta if he wants to replay the video. 

The video had gone viral over the last few days, which was probably why it had made it onto Hizashi’s radar. Clearly Hizashi wanted him to take up the case, now that he was cleared for doing deskwork, and it seemed like something they pros liked to call “combat light.” 

Best case scenario: it was a couple of runaway kids, leaving their shitty family or bullies behind. Worst case scenario: they were villain escapees, and Shouta wasn’t the only one looking for them. The one thread that tied both scenarios together was that those kids were hurt and scared, and Shouta was going to do something about that. Call him a softie for his students, but seeing kids around their age getting into trouble like this left a bad taste in his mouth. 

It had been nearly a month since that video had been taken, and Shouta’s agency was ready to give him a new case—file this one as low priority and cold, and get Shouta doing something a bit more immediate. He was putting up as much of a fight as he could, but his agency would win out in the end. (he just needed to heal a little faster, and maybe he’d be able to get them some results!)

The only thing he’d had to show for his searching was the girl’s skirt—drenched in blood and practically in tatters, but it matched the one in the video. 

To his delight, though, the police did lend him a specialist, who listened over the recording a few times before writing out a script for the incident. There were a few nonsensical comments, things about power and darkness and hell, which Shouta wasn’t enthusiastic about—but he kept them in the back of his mind and always kept an ear out for the names of new villain hangouts and street drugs. It wasn’t much, but it was something. 

And even better, he’d gotten two of their names. 

The blondie was Denji, according to the girl, while the eldest was Aki or Topknot depending on which of the runaways were asked. 

(And that was what Shouta had taken to calling them, much to Hizashi’s delight. 

“You know what that means, don’t you?” the blonde had cooed. 

After another long day of teaching, Shouta was in no mood to guess. “No.”

“Your little pet project,” he emphasized, like it explained anything. “You’ve given them a name. You can’t get rid of them now.”

Shouta scoffed in response, and simply rolled over. He was not in the mood to unpack that, nor interrogate the truth behind it.)

The sport’s festival was impending—only a few more days now—and soon after he’d undergo another round of treatment that would clear him for light field excursions. It couldn’t come sooner, he thought. There was never enough time in the day. 

For as much optimism Aki had when he’d curled up in the alley and slept more soundly than ever before, living on the street was much harder than he thought it’d be. Denji was good at figuring out what to do, but less good at explaining why his way was better than another. 

Denji was great at nicking things—lithe fingers could pluck cigarettes right out of people’s hands, and they never even noticed. He could walk through a crowd and net them at least two wallets, he was a natural. The only hang up Denji had was that he hated doing so. 

“People are bad news,” he’d say, like they could understand where he was coming from. “We’d be better off on our own. Sticking our noses into other peoples’ business is the quickest way to get fucked up.” 

After Power tried her hand at pickpocketing and was unceremoniously chased four blocks (to which Aki forced her to surrender the wallet back to the very large, and very drunk man. For a moment, it seemed like he was going to give them a piece of his mind, but Denji crawled out from behind a dumpster. He’d been woken up by the commotion, and both he and Meowy were puffed up in annoyance. The man took one look at Denji’s admittedly haggard state, and left with a grumble of damn gutter brats and something along the lines of pathetic.

“Why can’t I just kill ‘im?” Denji drawled. “It’s not like anyone will miss him.”

Aki sighed, defeated by having to have had this conversation for the sixth time. “We’re being low profile, remember? And that means no killing.”

“Why don’t we just become villains, then?” Power grumbled. 

“Yeah, we’d at least have a place to stay!”

“No,” Aki spoke. “No villainy, at least until we figure out more about heroes. I don’t want us getting wrapped in something we don’t understand.”

The not again was unspoken, but apparent. It ended the conversation, much like it had the last six times.)

After that, Power was barred from anything requiring a modicum of stealth—which was why she made the world’s greatest distraction. All she had to do was go somewhere public and start wailing. People would flock to her, and instantly became easy pickings. Having her cry because she couldn’t find her brother, or her cat got away were their most popular gimmicks, and they almost always worked. 

Granted, they’d change locations multiple times a day, but it never hurt anyone to play it safe. 

And Aki? As the only holder of general common sense, and the ability to guilt trip people to hell and back, he tended to be the one who got them places. A well placed plead to a bus driver would get them across town, and a sheepish grin at the closing shift girl at the bakery got them artisanal bread. He asked to borrow phones to look up the nearest homeless shelter, junkyard, soup kitchen, church, you name it. It covered them for most nights of the week, but there were always a couple of nights they showed up and all the vacancies were full. 

(The park located between the local middle school and elementary school was a particularly excellent place to spend the night, they found. There was a massive section with an awning over it which kept them dry, and they were practically the only people who frequented it.)

Despite knowing that they would be fine, that no one was really looking for them, Aki was still paranoid that someone would catch onto them. He tried to frequent places with no regularity, planning weeks ahead as a way to avoid appearing in one place too much. Aki was dedicated to the fact that his lack of vigilance would not be the reason they were caught. But there was one place that they (dangerously) visited daily.

The bakery on the corner of 25th West and 6th North.

It was an expensive place to shop at, every item at least a couple thousand yen above anything they were willing to spend. They’d made a habit of picking through the dumpster—one of Denji’s favorite activities—and eating the “spoiled” pastries and breads. They were warned to grab their food and run, that getting caught by business owners was bad news, a term Aki was learning meant beat up or scared off. (It was less scary, knowing that any one of them could probably take down any person that tried to fight them, but it was the principle of the thing. Denji hated doing things that meant bad news , so they avoided them when they could.)

They were caught though, several times. 

The first time, the girl sounded scandalized. “What are you doing?” The trio were gone in an instant, sprinting down the alley, crusts squished beneath their palms. 

The second time, Power realized that they were being watched when Meowy yowled at the business’s back door. The same girl was there, watching through the crack. Everyone froze, and by the time she’d pushed the door open any more, they were gone. 

The third time, the girl was waiting for them, a mixing bowl of milk by the dumpster for Meowy. She was waiting there for them, and as they approached the dumpster—and more accurately her—the world’s most awkward staring contest was underway. 

“If you guys want to eat our stuff so bad, you could’a just said so,” the worker said lightly. 

“We don’t have any money,” Denji responded. “Just taking the trash.”

The girl was short, and had skin coated in a thin layer of fur. She cocked her head to the side as Denji leaned over the dumpster. 

“That’s silly,” she spoke. “I’ll leave the left overs in a box for you guys, so it doesn’t have to fish it out from all the gross stuff.” 

The bakery worker—Fujiko, as she insisted they call her—was actually their godsend. She was the daughter of the baker, and without fail, every single evening, left a box of baked goods outside the shop. When it rained, she stayed late to personally hand over the goods to assure they didn’t get soggy. 

“You don’t have to do all of this for us,” Aki said one evening, while Denji and Power were chasing Meowy around the alley. 

Fujiko laughed at him. “What, you want me to stop?”

When the color drained from Aki’s face, she only laughed harder. 

“I’m joking, I’m joking! God, you worry too much.”

“Can’t help it,” he winced, though it looked more like a smile. 

Her expression turned wistful as she looked him over, eyes trailing up the side of his face, and taking in every stain that stretched from his skin to his clothes. 

She shook her head. “No, I imagine you can’t.”

Instead of getting up and shuffling off like Aki expected her to, she handed him that morning’s newspaper. 

“If you ever want to pass as a normal person in society, you better read up,” she said not unkindly. “And hit a library too, you know? I can only tell you so much about the general stuff.”

He accepted the paper with little more than a bereft nod. 

“You can get papers faked,” Fujiko added. “You just need to know what the hell you’re talking about when you register your quirks.” 

That almost made him laugh, remembering the hour-long debate they’d waged against her when she tried to explain to them what quirks were and how they worked. It had ended with Denji being categorized under “composite,” while he and Power were brushed under “emitter.” 

When Fujiko none-too-shyly asked what their quirks were, Denji pulled his ripcord and allowed one of the chainsaws in his hand to come out. Denji was more than pleased to transform for the first time in weeks, and Fujiko seemed to regret having asked, since she was starting to turn pale. It took a moment before Aki realized she’d probably never seen so much blood before, and belatedly, that he’d need to get Denji new clothes. 

When Power howled with laughter, and launched a blood spear in Denji’s direction, Aki realized how quickly this would get out of hand. 

“Quit it!” he barked. “She gets it. You’re Chainsaw and you’re the Blood Fiend.”

The two grumbled and yipped at each other for a bit longer, almost coming to blows again when Denji revved his blade next to Power, spraying her with his blood. 

(Make that two new outfits.)

Still pale, but smiling again, Fujiko turned her gaze to Aki. “And what do you do?”

His mouth opened to reply, but he couldn’t really find an answer. There was no succinct or reasonable way for him to say a Devil lived in his eye, but Power beat him to it. 

“It’s complicated,” she pouted. “And he doesn’t use it any more.” 

“You mean them,” Denji corrected. 

“Uh? No? Didn’t Fox leave?”

“Yeah, but Future and Curse are still there.”

“Oh. Curse is still around? But he doesn’t have the nail?”

It didn’t seem like Fujiko was understanding a word of what was being spoken, and despite getting everything, Aki sympathized with her. 

“Let’s just leave it at it’s a long story,” he offered. 

She agreed. 

Future simply cackles at him the whole evening, but she was easily drowned out by pleasant conversation. 

It was not all sunshine and rainbows, though. 

The more interested in the new world that Aki became, the more his paranoia grew. From living on the street, the less than savory became acquainted with them, and with time they began to coexist. Aki learned of the whispered horrors of the Hero Commission, of what became of villains when the public stopped hearing about them. At times, it felt like they’d left behind one hell for a different, cookie cutter version. 

Adjusting to quirks took a bit of effort, but after the first month, they hardly flinched. After all, Devils were much uglier, and they were already used to seeing them. It was merely the quantity that the trio needed to adjust to. 

The news talked of vigilantes, of heroes murdered in broad daylight, of classrooms of kids being taken prisoner, of hero-killers. 

It also talked of sports festivals and All Might and hero rankings, but Aki was less interested in that. He felt vindicated when they ran into Stain, like his paranoia was finally paying off. 

He was about to turn the corner on one of their favorite shortcuts to the park when a blade was pinning Aki to the wall. He cried in tandem with the ignition of a chainsaw, and watched in horror as Denji stepped in front of him. Stain was mid battle with a hero, and clearly winning, if the hero’s sagging form was anything to go by. 

Aki pulled on the knife, despite the gut wrenching pain it brought, and by the time he looked up, Denji was on the ground, paralyzed. Power was sweating, eyes wide and staring at the man, unwilling or unable to move. A flash of metal on metal sparked so bright that 

Aki blinked, and stopped so hard he nearly fell backwards. Power and Denji were by his side in a moment, as a knife embedded itself in the wall where Aki should have been standing. Instead of tempting fate, Aki ushered them in the other direction, and they took the long way to the park. 

The next morning’s news heralded the death of an up and coming hero, Airbrush, who’d been slain. 

(From that moment forward, Aki felt a pang of guilt every time he saw the man’s name. 

It’s the risk of the business, he told himself. You knew the risks of being a Devil hunter and you did it. Don’t pity the dead, and certainly no the dumb.

He had a point, but the traitorous part of himself pointed out that were Future in any less of a giving mood, that would have been him. He tries not to think about it.)

Things were—and he hesitated to say this—pretty good. For a long time. 

Shit only started going sideways after the sports fest, and as such, started Aki’s long line of personal grievances to be taken up against UA when he had the patience and the lawyer to do so.

Chapter Text

Getting up and going to class was as easy as it had ever been. Maybe even easier, with the added excitement of going to his internship. 

To say that Izuku was a morning bird would have been a disservice to other morning birds—whatever the hell he actually was didn’t have a name, and everyone in class thought he was crazier for it. After all, most of his classmates didn’t wake up before the sunrise to work out before school (or their internships), nor did they make their meals, nor did they travel half the city to get where they needed to. 

Izuku’s chipper attitude, and unending energy was severely off putting for everyone except himself. (And maybe his mom, who always looked a little too pleased to see him flitting around as if nothing was wrong.)

The walk to the train station was practiced and quick. One of only the handful of people waiting for a train so early, Izuku breathed a sigh of utter contentment. He’d managed to work One For All yesterday! If only for a moment! And the elation from that exercise had carried him since. 

With progress still sweet on his tongue, Izuku could do nothing besides grin in anticipation. Today would be better than the last, and tomorrow would be more of the same. It was an endless cycle of improvement, and for the first time in a grueling couple of weeks, it felt like Izuku could be hopeful. 

Things were not perfect—no, not nearly—but it felt like things weren’t getting worse. 

With what happened at the USJ, the rather unsettling facts revealed by Todokori during the sports festival, the attack of Iida’s brother, and (no matter how much Kacchan could pretend it didn’t happen) what they did to him on the podium, were all things that made it feel like the world was running away from him. 

That wasn’t to say that Izuku had fully moved on from what had happened, but he was doing better. He didn’t flinch at high fives any more, no longer seeing the phantom image of Asui turning to ash, or Aizawa smeared against the concrete. Shadows no longer lurked around corners specifically to haunt him, nor were hands a sign of hostility. 

Things were getting better, if only marginally. 

So when Izuku sighed, and the familiar sensation of dread crawled up his spine, he did his utmost to tamp it down. This, he knew, has no real grounding. It felt like someone was standing right behind him, close enough to touch, to breathe on, to flutter open eyelashes against the back of his skull—but there couldn’t have been anyone there. No footsteps lead to his side of the track, and the light behind him casted a shadow forward, meaning he would have seen if someone was approaching him from behind. 

( They could be invisible, a part of him sang, intangible, even. You don’t know everything. Quirks are far more specialized than any meager guess you could come up with in a panicked moment’s notice.)

Izuku closed his eyes, took a steadying breath, and turned around. 

Sitting in the dark was not a person, but a cat. A wildly furry one, with splotches of colors here and there, but above all else, a mischievous grin. Cat’s couldn’t smile, but seemed more like a troublemaker than others—it looked downright rambunctious. It merely stood a few feet behind Izuku, watching lazily.

The boy could’ve laughed. If only Aizawa could see me now. Scared because of a cat of all things!

Upon closer inspection, what Izuku had thought were patches of colored fur, were actually mud. That, combined with how it was regarding him, made Izuku realize that it must have been feral—or at least abandoned. It didn’t look too skinny, but no one in their right mind would let their cat get this dirty. 

“Where do you live?” he asked the cat. “Are you hungry?”

The cat merely twitched its ears, as if thinking about the boy’s questions. It ultimately did nothing else, staring at him impassively. 

“Hmm. That’s no good, huh? You don’t have a collar hiding under all that fur, do you?” 

When Izuku stepped forward, hand extended so it could sniff, the cat took a defensive step back. They matched each other one for one, Izuku not giving up, but the cat not yet running away. 

“Oh, come on. I just wanted to see if you had a name. It’d make finding your owners easier”

The cat flicked it’s ears once again, but this time it meowed at him, a great yawning sound that was far louder than he expected. Izuku was ready to take another step forward when a business woman spoke up, breaking the strangely tense aura.

“Go on.” She shooed at the cat. “If you’re not going to play nice, leave the poor boy alone.”

Both the cat and Izuku looked her way, and ultimately, the cat got up and sauntered off. 

He couldn’t help but feel a pang of disappointment as he watched the cat go, but he knew there wasn’t anything he could do about it (at least, not right now). 

“Oh, don’t mope,” the business lady leered. “Meows is a menace. He likes to rub fur all over our suits and scream at us if we ignore him. The fact that he’s not too keen on you oughta be a blessing.”

Izuku nodded once, before checking the clock to see when his train would arrive. “I see.” 

It was poetic that it took the death of quite literally everyone for either of them to learn common sense. Sometimes stupidity transcended time , Aki surmised. And he was stuck with the two stupidest fools to walk the earth.

He did not acknowledge the fact that he didn’t begrudge them for it, nor that he was happy—imagine him admitting that, to himself no less!—happy they were there.

Aki merely pushed the thought away, and dunked his head into the bird bath before him. As he scrubbed his hair, short as it was, he could still hear Denji and Power snarking behind him. They could bicker twenty four hours a day about everything they could (and couldn’t) conceive of, and never tire. As Aki wrung out his hair, he turned and watched the duo.

Denji was sitting at the bottom of a slide, though he was facing it the wrong way, as he animatedly yelled at Power—who was sitting at the mouth of the slide, looking all of two seconds away from sliding down and attacking the former. 

Aki could see them tousling on the floor and bumping into everything in the house (including that godforsaken floorboard). 

“Take a fucking shower! You smell like a corpse!”

“In case your puny human mind forgot—I am one! And so are you! Revel, weakling, in the scent of Power!”

Instead of breaking them up, Aki would watch on, impassive as they pulled at hair, and even when Denji sent him looks that begged for help. It was only minor revenge, after all. He was just giving Denji a taste of his own medicine.  

“What’s up with your face?” Power was staring at him from her perch on the slide, head cocked to the side and glaring. 

“What do you mean?” 

“You’re smiling,” she said. “What did you do?”

As Aki watched Denji wave at a group of high school girls walking by, while Power kicked her feet atop the play structure, he felt a strange bloom of pride. Confidence, even. He didn’t care that he was smiling, or that he hadn’t even noticed it until Power pointed it out—the fact that the both of them were here at all (that Power was not a smear on a wall, coating the inside of a dumpster, and that Aki himself wasn’t a corpse split a hundred different ways to separate the remains of the Gun Fiend) Aki felt the emotion all the more clearly. 

In lieu of any meaningful answer, Aki shrugged. “The right thing, I guess.” 

Power’s face wrinkled, but she didn’t press on. Instead, she redirected her energy towards Denji. As one girl from the parade of high schoolers returned Denji’s wave, Power decided to finally go down the slide—completely wiping out Denji, and send them both into the mulch as a tangle of limbs. At the same time a lurid stream of curses fell from Denji’s lips as he tried to push Power off of him, the girls passing by broke out into a fit of half-hushed laughter that had Denji going red in the face. 

“You’re ruining my chances!” Denji hissed. “Fuck off!”

Power feigned disappointment. “Lies! You’re just too dumb to see that I’m helping you.”

As the struggle between the two of them grew in intensity, Aki stopped them before they got too caked in dirt. While Aki could hypothetically wash their clothes again, he’d like to avoid it as best he could. 

He clapped his hands a couple times, trying to catch their attention. 

“Alright, alright. Enough. We’ve got to get going.”

Power groaned, upset by the fact that she wouldn’t be able to just do whatever she wanted, while Denji took the opportunity to throw her off of him while her guard was down. 

The fact that the both of them were acting like pouting children, and finally looked the part as well, almost made Aki think their predicament was some form of cosmic irony. Based on the pressuring building in his eye, Future seemed to think it was either funny, or just a little too close to the truth. It was hard to tell which it was when Future wasn’t talkative, but at the very least Aki could tell that he was onto something. 

“Do we really have to?” Power whined. “I don’t want to. I’m hungry too, and I can’t eat anything at the cafe.”

Aki rifled through his bag, not even sparing her a glance. “Eat a squirrel or something. There’s plenty of stray dogs around here.”

“Yeah,” Denji piped up. “Get your own food if you don’t want the shit that costs money. That just means more for us.” 

The duo grumbled back and forth at one another for a few more minutes, until Meowy strolled up to where they’d been camping in the park. Power was immediately satisfied, as she busied herself with picking up Meowy and bombarding the poor thing with a million questions.

The trio left shortly after, threading their way through the city’s streets. Modest houses turned into businesses, five story buildings, and eventually skyscrapers. Their walk to and from the park and the cafe was longer than Aki would have liked, but having taken it dozens of times, they’d been able to learn a good amount of the city’s roads.

They reached the alley that led to the bakery, and without searching through the dumpster, the trio walked right into the back of the restaurant. Denji and Power made a b-line for the front of the store where the customers sat, while Aki searched for where his apron and name tag would be hanging today.

It was left on the edge of the counter in the back, where Fujiko’s father was busy making custom orders, and the bulk orders they sometimes got. He was a quiet man with a rather severe face, but he’d taken one look at Aki and his two “siblings” in that alley, and hadn’t hesitated to let Aki work for him. 

“None of us have… papers,” Aki had told him. 

The old man just huffed. “I didn’t expect you to.”

An apron was thrown in Aki’s direction, which he caught with slight bewilderment. 

“Whatever tips you make are yours, and you lot can eat for free. I’ll see you on Monday.”

And that had been that. 

Today, he merely nodded in Aki’s direction, and went back to piping the cupcake he was working on. He slid the apron over his head, readjusted his nametag, and stepped out onto the cafe floor. 

For as paranoid as Aki had been when they first arrived in the future, through frequent and loud reminders from Power and Denji, the suspicion he wanted them to have wasn’t sustainable. They couldn’t sleep somewhere new every night and hope to build up their possessions. They couldn’t avoid going to the same areas, and they couldn’t rely on pickpocketing for the rest of their lives. 

After they’d found out the farmer’s market they’d been to a couple of times was on high alert for them, they held an intervention. 

Denji insisted that they needed to settle somewhere discreet, and Power insisted they make some money. (While Denji wanted them to live in a condemned building, and Power wanted them to become mercenaries, Aki could only acquiesce to so much.)

So they lived in the park on the edge of the city. No one really went to it—let alone at night. It had a forest to one side, with a creek, and plenty of creatures for Power and Meowy to hunt, and a relatively straight shot to the bakery. It was close enough to the city that when people saw a couple of homeless kids, they didn’t bother to call the cops, but it was just far enough outside of it that they didn’t need to worry too badly about getting jumped, or ending up in a villain attack. 

And Aki got a job at Fujiko’s cafe. 

It was strangely, foreignly domestic, in a way. It reminded Aki of when he was actually seventeen, and was forced to hold a second job because he wasn’t skilled enough to be a full time devil hunter. 

Denji got to eat pastries that put ultimate toast to shame, and Power got to nap in the sun with Meowy. Aki could afford to wash their clothes and buy them new ones when their old ones finally wore through. They could shower at bath houses, and even buy sweets in the stores. 

They’d snuck into a movie once too, which Denji had talked about for days after. 

They were still homeless and things weren’t good by any stretch—but Aki couldn’t help but feel like maybe things were going okay. 

Halfway through the day, Denji and Power left with a few handfuls of yen in their pockets, and instructions to spend it on something useful. Aki knew they were going to the arcade a few blocks away, but if it kept them busy (and happy) who was he to stop them? He couldn't very well keep them locked in the cafe all day, but when the duo took off without him, it left him with a bad taste in his mouth. 

He shook it off though, as Fujiko caught his attention and gestured to the table of girls he’d delivered food to earlier. Usually he brought out the food, and Fujiko cleaned the tables because (despite the fact that Aki was for all intents and purposes a trained assassin, and probably the deadliest thing for blocks,) he had butterfingers, as his coworker liked to tease. 

So when she insisted that he clear the table, he couldn’t help but think something was afoot (and maybe pray, just a little, that he didn’t drop another plate). 

Aki started with their plates first, stacking them in one hand, while trying not to show that he was off-put by the whole ordeal. The blonde one, whose plate he’d just picked up, was watching him a bit intently, and just as he’d turned to leave, she sheepishly grabbed his attention and asked if he could split the table’s checks. The moment he turned his back on the table, they broke into giggles, whispers, and half-concealed bickering. 

He met Fujiko in the kitchen area of the cafe, where she was smugly waiting by the dirty dish cart. Her smile was as devious as Aki’s face was grave. 

“Why did you make me do that?” he huffed. “You are lucky I didn’t drop one of these on their heads out of spite.”

He none too kindly dropped off the plates, trying to ignore the feeling that maybe—just maybe—his face was starting to redden. 

“Oh come on,” Fujiko cooed. “Those girls were super into you. One of them is going to try and give you their number, I’d put money on it.” 

At Aki’s raised eyebrow, she held her hands up in surrender. “You’re everyone’s favorite server, you know. You bring in all the old grannies that miss their grandkids, and all the highschoolers looking for one of those aloof cold prince types to date.” 

“What did any of those words mean?” Aki sputtered. 

Fujiko just laughed—a tad too maniacally for Aki’s tastes—as she went to split the tables’ check. “You sweet summer child.”

When she returned with the four separate checks, Aki was none the wiser, and in fact, was even more clueless. Fujiko subtly motioned for him to look back towards the table. “I’m going to try and teach you the tricks of the trade, so try and get it the first time.”

“What are you even t—”

“—The blonde one, with the pigtails? She’s been making heart eyes at you the entire time. And the other with the pointy ears, she’s been reapplying her make-up every time you come over. Both of them are like, hoping you’ll ask for their numbers, while their friends are hyping them up.”

Aki blinked at Fujiko before trying to comprehend what she was saying. 

“But I don't get it,” he spoke. “Why is this important?”

Fujiko slapped the receipts into his hand with a bloodthirsty grin. 

“If they think they’ve got a chance with you, they’ll tip better, and probably come back too.”

“But they don’t have a chance?” he said, though it came out more like a question. 

As if she were talking to an idiot, she slapped her forehead in frustration. “You are hopeless, Aki. Hopeless! Just go out there and give them their checks, and like, I don’t know, smile or something? They’ll all keel over and die, and you’ll get extra money to spend on Power and Denji.” 

None too kindly, she shoved him from behind, forcing him back into the front of the shop. 

He took an unsteady step, and shot her the nastiest sneer he could, before he made his way over to the girls. Aki handed each one of them their receipts, and was about to leave them once again when the one with pointed ears asked if he was a new server. 

“I guess?” he settled on. “I started about a month ago, so I’m new but it’s not my first week or anything.” 

He could feel Fujiko’s eyes boring into his back, practically hearing her thoughts of sell it, Hayakawa!

“Are you a regular?” he added. 

Every eye at the table was leveled on the long eared girl, her friends’ gazes laced with anticipation and excitement. Clearly, they were expecting the girl to keep talking.

“I come by every once and a while. It’d been just Fujiko for so long that I just assumed.”

The blonde haired girl, before he could reply, handed him her receipt and card, which seemed to kill the strange momentum that had been building, and begrudgingly forced the other girls to do the same. This time when Aki walked away, her friends were clearly chastising her. 

Aki charged each of their cards with an all too smug Fujiko hanging over his shoulder. All her attempts to heckle him were ignored, especially when she started improving what the girls were saying (and it did not make Aki bite his tongue—no it did not). 

A stage whispered go get ‘em tiger! was what followed him back to the table. 

Receipts and cards returned, Aki bowed his head slightly, and half smiled. “Nice to meet you all. Hope you come back soon.”

When Aki returned to Fujiko, she was practically howling with laughter. When he rolled his eyes, she waved her hand, like she could bat away his sass. “You’re a natural!” she cried. Immediately, Aki shushed her, appalled at the fact she was being so loud. 

“They’re still here!” he hissed. 

Fujiko just beamed. “I can’t believe you. Playing this whole ‘I don’t get it—’” she mocked his voice, “attitude, and you go out there in less than two minutes tops absolutely pit those two girls against each other, and make the other one short circuit.”

Aki stared at her dumbly. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Fujiko just reveled in his misery. 

(If when Aki and Fujiko went to clean the table after the girls left, they found an exorbitantly high tip, with two phone numbers on napkins, Aki could only wither slightly at the other’s laughter. 

“Dude, you look like you’re straight out of a manga. All tired and reserved. You probably haven’t noticed, but every girl that’s come through here has been swooning.”

“Liar.”

“A little gratitude would be nice.”

“Absolutely not. That was mortifying.”)

With his students doing their internships, Shouta was finally able to devote all of his time to hero work, with no distractions. While his agency was sending him back on regular field work and patrols, he always kept those three kids in the back of his mind. 

Finding the girl’s bloody skirt had been disheartening, but Shouta hadn’t given up on the other two. The injured one seemed quite a few years older than the others, and if no one else, would probably survive the longest—but finding a kid with black hair and earrings amongst the population of Mustafu was practically impossible. 

It wasn’t until he got a call from a UA grad in the police department. 

“You’re the one on that missing persons case right? With the three kids that just popped up on the street?”

“Yes, why?”

“I think I got a lead on two of those kids. The girl and the blonde one. Two kids meeting their description just got kicked out of an arcade on North 6th, and apparently they raised quite a fuss.”

“How closely did they match the description?”

On the other end of the line, the former student laughed. “Their clothes were different, but a girl with short hair and straight red horns from the top of her head was accompanied by a blonde boy of similar age named Denji. The arcade owner said the girl claimed her name was Power.” 

Shouta’s eyes widened. 

“What did you say that address was, again?”

Surely, his agency could manage without him doing paperwork for one day. 

When Denji and Power returned to the cafe later in the afternoon than Aki was expecting, and with sour attitudes, he placed cups of ice cream in front of them, and sat down with the air of a tired parent. 

“What happened?”

Both having stuffed their faces immediately, they shook their heads no.

“You’re both upset. What did you do?”

Denji seemed to curl up in his chair, grumbling something under his breath. 

“Denji tried to get a girlfriend at the arcade and he failed. Horribly.”

“Hey!” Denji’s indignant cry split the air. “That is not true!”

When the duo were immediately at each other’s necks again, Aki felt something akin to relief. As much as he’d promised to stop worrying so much, the worry never really left—it just took a back seat. It simmered on low, everpresent, and always one minute thing away from exploding. 

“At least it wasn’t anything new,” Aki teased. 

After throwing elbows and insults for a few minutes, the trio finally settled down. Chomping away at their food, Aki could tell the other two were restless in spite of Aki’s own tiredness. He supposed that they were usually freer to do whatever they wanted—be it killing or wandering—Aki had a feeling they’d be excited by his news. 

“Fujiko gave us an extra job this evening,” he started. “They have a shipment of flour and stuff to pick up from Hosu.”

Immediately he raised his hand to silence the wave of questions clear on Denji and Power’s faces. 

“Yes, we will get to ride the train, yes, we will get to do this every couple of weeks, and no, Power, you are not allowed to eat the stuff yet.”

Denji and Power both blinked at him, surprised that he’d accurately guessed all of their questions. When Fujiko came out of the back with three train passes, and expressed that they ought to get going if they wanted to make it back before too late, Denji and Power were buzzing with excitement. 

As Aki was herding them out the door, Fujiko gave them a word of advice. 

“Be careful. Hosu is a little… dicey, at the moment.”

Denji, as confident as ever, simply preened. “Nothing bad’ll happen while I’m around!”

To which Power had to add, “Especially because Denji’s so weak compared to me. No one will mess with us while the Great Power is around!”

By the time the whirlwind that was the Hayakawa siblings had poured out the front door, Fujiko couldn’t help but grin.

“See you soon.”

It wasn’t that they were trouble magnets, or that fate hated them. He swore it. 

Everything was going, like, really good too. The train was cool, even though Denji had been in a train before—the trip to Hokkaido was way longer—but the weird future trains were just different enough to feel new. 

The people weren’t too different though. Even though they looked like devils with their wings and horns and… their general everything, they were still people. Snooty, weak, annoying people. When an old woman—who wasn’t even sitting in their row, for fuck’s sake!—came over and asked why Meowy wasn’t leashed and crated, Denji felt affronted on the little guy’s behalf. He had half a mind to try and keep Power from ripping the woman’s throat from her neck, but that half was the smaller half, and Denji merely turned wide eyes in the fiend’s direction. 

She was baring her fangs, eyes downright murderous. Before she could launch forward, Aki was bowing, saying something or other about an emotional support pet and never been on a train before, and a bunch of other bullshit. 

It was clearly an answer the old woman couldn’t put up a fuss about, but the nausea that’d overtaken her face at Power’s expression was rewarding. No one else would willingly bother them after that. 

It left a sour taste in his mouth though, Aki just rolling over like that and having to bow to shitbags like her. Old people liked to flaunt their power of kids—and as much as they weren’t, they looked the part. 

“Why’d you do that?” Denji said lowly. 

Aki just looked at him like he didn’t understand the question. “I stopped the problem. She left.”

The blonde just sighed. “You don’t gotta put yourself down like that. You’re supposed to be the cool one and stuff. I’m the crazy hot, powerful one, and Power’s just the crazy one. The one with the pet.” Denji crossed his arms as he settled back into his seat. “You can’t be cool if you’re licking people’s boots and shit, man.” 

After Aki didn’t reply, he turned to find Aki’s face cracking into a smile. 

“What’s so funny?”

Aki let out a half aborted, ugly snort. “Nothing! Nothing. Just that I’m the cool one.”  

It was strange, seeing the older one actually grinning. He’d been doing that more, and at first it was creepy, Denji had started realizing how sad it kind of was. He had seen the shits of the shits—had fought his way from nothing, one heart, one job, one cigarette at a time, and he still felt it easy to grin. Hell, he smiled all the time! Power too, and she wasn’t even human!

Aki’s kinda scary, dude, Violence had once commented. I don’t know how you live with him. He doesn’t have any emotions, I swear. Never seen the guy smile, let alone sweat. 

But that was bullshit. He’d seen Aki afraid, armless, bleeding out, pale with fever, sobbing with joy, and pissed as hell. It just felt like Aki forgot how to show it, sometimes. 

Maybe his face was broken?

No, it was working now. Or maybe he’d fixed it? His young guy face probably wasn’t as broken as his old one, and that’s why he smiled more now.

Yeah, that was it. (No other reason.)

“You’re thinking awfully hard for someone without a brain,” Power snarked. 

Before Denji could respond, Aki was saying they were getting off at the next stop, leaving Denji to mouth to Power you’re dead. She laughed like she hadn’t just been threatened, and soon they were being ushered off the train. The moment Power got outside, Meowy perched on her shoulder, she jumped through the station until she was standing on the sidewalk outside. 

For some reason she looked disappointed. 

“What?”

“I thought it would look different, like last time. It’s still city.”

“That’s because we went to Hikkaido last time, smart ass,” Denji shook his head. “We were also on the train for, like, hours last time.”

Power just huffed, crossing her arms as she looked around. 

“Can we go back?” she asked. “To Hokkaido?”

Money questions were Aki questions, so when he looked Aki’s way, he was confused to see such a pinched expression. 

“I mean, we could. But why?”

The longer he rolled the elder’s expression around in his brain, the more confused he became. Aki took them there last time because he wanted to. Why would that suddenly change? His family was still dead, it’s not like they wouldn’t be there any more. 

Or would they?

Who knew what could’ve happened in the—what, million? Trillion?—years that had gone by. He suddenly understood why Aki didn’t want to go any more. If Denji looked down at his chest and didn’t see Pochita’s ripcord, he’d probably freak out too. 

“The snow was nice,” Power nodded. “And it was quiet.” 

Aki scoffed. “You just liked the train, didn’t you?”

The affronted howl told the boys all they needed to know about her actual reasoning. 

Aki looked at some writing scrawled on the back of his train ticket—reminding Denji of secondhand letters the boy used to treat with equal reverence—before pointing in the direction they needed to head off in. 

They hadn’t crossed even two streets when it happened. 

The walking signal counted down, number by number, but Denji was frozen.

The heebie-jeebies.

It was like a bucket of ice water getting thrown on him—all he could do was stand there and take it. Power had stilled at his side too, undoubtedly picking up on whatever the fuck was going on. When Aki realized they weren’t walking any more, he followed their line of sight to the top of a building. 

He couldn’t make out anything, and neither could Denji, but something about it made him want to itch. 

The light must have changed too, because cars were honking at them. Aki stepped closer to them, grabbing a hand in each of his. 

“C’mon, get out of the street before they run you over.” 

Aki’d hardly finished the last word when a mass of pale flesh cannonballed off the roof, and cratered against the crosswalk on the other side of the intersection. Another one took flight, screeching like something just a little too human to be devil. 

Aki pulled harder on his arm, but Denji didn’t let himself be swayed. 

The heebie-jeebies were because of whatever that thing was, and somehow Denji knew they wouldn’t go away until that thing was dead. When it unfurled, all of seven feet and fucked nine ways to Sunday, Denji let out a breath he’d been holding since they arrived in the future. 

(They weren’t cursed, Denji knew it. Curse was dead. Aki couldn’t summon it, and their deal was off. They couldn’t have been cursed.)

Don’t open the door, Denji, a part of himself whispered. 

As a finger hooked around his ripcord, he told himself I know. I won't. I’ll just take a peek. There’s no harm in seeing what I can from under it. 

The creature howled, but the sound was swallowed by the revving of a chainsaw.

Chapter Text

The thing that fell off the building was ugly, Power thought. Not repulsive, not handsome, not passable—but something somewhere in between Eternity and some of the more fucked up looking people these days, because if she wasn’t mistaken (and Power was never mistaken) that thing was wearing pants. 

Whatever this thing was, it was something less-than-human trying to be human-like. 

At first thought, that wasn’t really a bad thing. Humans were weak and fleshy, and oh so easily scared. Most humans pulled apart like clay and tasted yummy to boot, so monsters trying to be human didn’t seem so bad. The weaker they were, the easier it was to feed.

But then Power thought of herself—how she was more dangerous now that the humans didn’t fear her. She donned her clothes, had gone to her human job, and learned the way that humans acted. All the silly little humans that passed her on the street did not cower in fear of Power-as-she-truly-was, but walked on by because they saw Power-as-she-appeared . She pulled off being human so well that they accepted her. It meant that Power had outsmarted them.

(She thought of a wan smile and a red braid. Everything about the woman had seemed meaty and weak, but the longer Power thought about it, it was her eyes that gave her away. Maybe if               had been a better human, Aki would not have figured her out in time.)

That woman had had everyone fooled. 

And so trying to become human was dangerous.

(Danger made Power hungry.)

She did not need to look at Denji to know that he was feeling the same thing that she was—that inkling that maybe something isn’t quite right here, and I’m about to do something about it. Meowy shifted in her arms, wriggling until she let him drop down to the concrete. Her most devoted follower was battle weary these days, after being swallowed by Bat and teleported to the future or whatever, he had finally grown tired of the theater. He always made his way back home though, so he was free to roam, and Power would never demean him enough to put him in a cage. 

As the mass of gray flesh started to unwind, pulling itself up onto spindly legs, Power felt something inside of her sing.  

Aki was tugging on her shirt, trying to get her to move on, but she was hungry.

She’d been so hungry lately. 

“We need to go,” Aki ordered.

(Power knows he ordered it because he used the tone of voice that always came up when he meant something. He spoke like that a lot at the start, but after Hell, he got softer. He didn’t order them with that voice anymore—he used the nicer one that sometimes made her stomach churn when she didn’t listen. In some ways he was worse now than before, but being Ordered nowadays felt like a slap to the face.)

Power growled in response, tugging her arm free from his grip. 

The gray thing tilted its head towards the people nearest to it and stared. 

“That thing’s bad news.” Denji stepped into a ready stance. 

Though the blonde’s words were hushed, the creature zeroed in on them, shoulders rising in anticipation. 

Power got the sense that Aki was going to say something, but suddenly the creature was yelling, and Denji was revving up, and somewhere in all that mess, Power pulled out a spear of blood. 

When the gray thing jumped towards them in a spray of concrete and rage, Denji was the first to make a move. He transformed in a haze of blood, metal sprouting from his neck, and blades slicing through his flesh. Denji threw out an arm, the chains splitting from his blade, and sliced the creature into three clean pieces. The meat slapped onto the road, splashing the trio with fresh blood, and sliding until one of the cross-sections kissed Denji’s shoe. 

Power was not ashamed to say that she opened her mouth, anticipating this end. She delighted in the taste as she smelled the thing die, pulsing with life for only a few seconds more before petering out. If she cared more, she might have shrugged, but instead she stabbed her spear into its chest and pulled out a line of viscera. The bite of guts and blood that Power had was unusual.

It was tasty! Don’t get her wrong! 

But it was strange. It tasted of a few too many people to be a person—in fact, it tasted more like devils did, in that they tasted of the people they’d eaten. 

But this guy was definitely human. 

He was a single-human that tasted of many-humans, something that Topknot and Denji had told her countless times was the highest form of not-allowed: illegal. But the longer she sniffed, and the more of the—what was she eating? Oh, right—intestine that she ate, the more she found it to be true. This guy totally ate other people, and so did his flying friend, and the guy with the exposed brain. 

Power turned to her boys, guts hanging from her mouth like the fruit roll-ups Denji loved. “This guy is illegal,” she spoke. “He eats other humans.” 

Denji hummed in interest, leaning over the corpse to look at it better, like he could tell the difference between human-meat and monster-meat. In comparison to what Power was capable of, Denji was functionally blind. He didn’t smell things the way devils were supposed to, and like a good leader, she had to lead him by the hand to every answer devils ought to know. 

When Power chewed to the stiffer part of the organ, she let it flop into the rest of the gut soup that had pooled at their feet. Above them, the winged monster howled, and farther away, the dark monster turned and ran. The feeling of excitement was still there, but a part of Power was disappointed in the fact that the skirmish had ended so quickly. These guys were small fries, not even worthy of the pursuit of the great blood fiend, Power!

Dissolving her spear, Power turned to the all too quiet member of their group. 

Topknot was painfully blank as he stared at the corpse of the not-devil. He looked only slightly disappointed—which was normal—and held Meowy safely within his arms. He was covered in the most blood spatter of the three of them, but it didn’t seem to phase him like it usually did. He and that Angel devil were always so clean, she would’ve thought he’d be throwing a fit about it by now. He always hated when they got their clothes dirty, especially if it was blood.

“We are so fucked,” Aki sighed. 

Power disagreed. 

“Lighten up!” she cried. “Now I’ve got food for a couple of days, free of charge! No need to count the money coins you always worry about.”

Topknot seemed annoyed when he said, “Power, we can’t just kill people in broad daylight.”

“Of course we can! We used to do it all the time. And it was due force. He attacked me first, which was why I had to put him down!”

Aki’s patience seemed to wane the longer they talked, but Power couldn’t really figure out why. 

Standing in the middle of the street, people edging away from them—even the angry driver that had been honking at them had crept out of his car—Power didn’t see the issue. They’d stopped the bad guy, no one got hurt, and she could have dinner. It seemed like they’d done a real bang-up job if she was being honest. The night could be all peaceful, and they could all go back to minding their own business. 

As Topknot loved to say: it was a win-win. 

The winged thing dove from the sky, picking up a civilian and dropping them from a few stories up. She screamed like a whistle until she splattered across the sidewalk. An explosion sounded farther down the road, followed by a cloud of smoke, and a cacophony of voices.

She stared at Aki as he watched it all happen. “We are so fucked,” Aki whispered. 

He shook his head once before meeting her eyes, and glancing at where Denji was crouched over the body. 

“We don’t really have any losses left to cut, do we?”

Denji made a sound of surprise, though it didn’t sound unwelcome. She knew him well enough to hear the smile in his words, and the raw excitement that seemed to ring. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?” 

Topknot looked at where Denji was crouched by the dead thing, then to herself. The sadness that never seemed to leave him had begun to return, but it abated—if only for a moment. Mischievousness, or fondness as Denji had called it once, peeked through the haze. 

“Power, make me a sword.”

Sorahiko felt like he was losing his fucking mind. 

First, Hosu city—the kind and sleepy place he was taking his student—was on fire. 

Second, the streets were filled with blood. 

Third, there was a distinct lack of heroes. 

The moment he jetted off the train, it seemed as if he had stepped into a parallel universe. He followed the demonic howling, bringing him to where the battle was currently unfolding. A creature with pitch skin was hurling debris and people, at the small form of someone with a chainsaw quirk. The smaller form seemed menacing in its own right, being drenched in blood and revving steadily—but was clearly not the villain at hand. Behind them, several civilians had gathered, and were cowering in fear from the true villain. As Sorahiko readied himself to attack the villain, the chainsaw civilian attacked. 

In one of the most brutal displays of power and savagery—rivaled only by All For One himself—the civilian leapt into the villain’s open arms. When the villain tried to crush them, the civilian’s arms and legs sprouted blades, and systematically turned the villain into ground beef. 

Sorahiko was baffled. 

Killing someone—let alone in public—was one thing, a villain willingly doing it, another, but a civilian? A do-gooder trying to protect people? The retired hero had a feeling he’d stumbled upon the heart of something depraved, and wasn’t sure what to do about it. 

The civilian, who had clearly just murdered that man—who should probably have been labeled a villain at this point—howled in frustration. As they stumbled back, the formerly dead villain began to reassemble itself.

Heroes were supposed to, should the conditions allow it, save the citizens first and subdue the villain second. Though the order was often switched (and heroes had sidekicks, or backup), preventing loss of life, injury, and property damage always came first. In this case, the chainsaw civilian was exactly that—a civilian—yet at the same time, they were holding their own against the villain. 

“Are you fucking kidding me?” the civilian screamed. “You’re worse than the fucking katana guy!” 

Sorahiko ignored everything about the shouted statement. 

That was the contradiction of heroism: somehow Sorahiko needed to save the person that was doing the protecting, save the rest of the civilians, and subdue the villain all at once. He loved his job, but the logistics of it was a nightmare. Sorahiko steeled himself, making the unpopular decision, and touched down behind the chainsaw man. The group of people shuddered at his entrance, a few even muffling cries of fear, but they quickly realized that he was a hero. It was embarrassing, taking advantage of the civilian’s cover, but he had a duty to these people. 

And something wasn’t right here, Sorahiko could feel it. 

As he grabbed shaking hands and hauled people to their feet, pointing away from the battle, and half-carrying some of the injured, he quickly realized what was wrong. 

It was quiet. 

Not a single one of the civilians had spoken.

There were no shouts of other heroes.

The sound of wider chaos had seemingly muted. 

The only thing he could hear was the lazy motor of the man’s chainsaw quirk, and the sharp echo of his voice. 

Even as the villain pulled itself into a sinewy mass of meat and skin, the chainsaw didn’t stutter. Sorahiko could admit that his stomach churned at the sight, that this entire evening seemed to set him on edge, yet the chainsaw man was unaffected. 

Just who the hell was this guy?

Sorahiko approached the civilian from the side, though he was coming from behind. The possibility that he might scare the person crossed his mind, and based on what he’d seen earlier, he certainly wanted to avoid spooking him. (Sorahiko could dodge his hits though, but he’d rather the guy not rack up more charges on top of his intensely violent vigilantism.) 

“I’m a hero: Gran Torino,” he shouted. “Everyone’s been evacuated, now it’s your turn.”

The civilian turned his head, domino mask meeting headlight-eyes, and the man scoffed. 

“Beat it old timer! I don’t protect bags of bones.” 

Sorahiko was beside himself—kids these days were disrespectful, but this was a new level altogether. He was dumbfounded, mouth parted, but no words to offer. The black creature’s skin started to creep over its muscles with a wet, meaty sound. The chainsaw still didn’t flinch.

“I’m the hero here, you’re breaking the law.”

This pulled a sharp expression from the person, his engine shifting up a gear or two with how it grew in speed. 

“Issa dumb fucking law then. In case you already forgot, I saved all those people. Not you.”

And it was something about the way that the person said it—maybe it was the way the first words ran together, or maybe it was the petulant way he reacted to being scolded—but it struck Sorahiko all at once that the person before him was a child. They were small enough, saws dwarfing their limbs, legs twiggish and just a bit too long for the rest of him. 

The chainsaw man—boy, the boy— was still gangly and waspish. He was truly just a kid—certainly no older than his student. 

The sudden halt in their conversation made the boy turn back to him, eyes narrowed in suspicion and mistrust. He didn’t move any closer to the hero, but he didn’t move away either. It seemed like they were at a draw, even when the villain shuddered, and put one putty-foot to the ground to stand. The boy didn’t take his eyes off of Sorahiko though, as if knowing the villain would be unable to support itself and fall to the ground. 

“What?” the boy asked, tilting his head like a dog. 

Without hesitation, Sorahiko stepped closer. “You’re just a child.”

The boy seemed to deflate, exhaust leaving his mouth like a sigh. He opened his mouth, presumably to snark back, but he was interrupted by a wall of fire so wide and hot that Sorahiko could feet it from dozens of yards away. It hit the villain directly, burning it with a dull roar. 

Endeavor stepped out from behind the cover of a neighboring building, eyes focussed intently on the target of his flames. By the time the flames hissed away, the boy at his side had surrendered his blades.

Pale features were lighted by the dying flames, as he stared at them in a distressingly intent manner. And the longer Sorahiko looked, the more his heart seemed to twist in his chest. The kid was even younger than Midoriya. Though he was painted in blood—every inch of his clothing dripping with it—his face was clean, with cheeks clinging to baby fat. Cracked lips parted to reveal crooked and jagged teeth, likely a side-effect of his quirk. (Or worse, an indication of a lack of care.)

Sorahiko shook himself. 

This was a child with an incredibly powerful quirk, who had attempted to kill a villain—and would have killed them, had they not had such a comprehensive regeneration quirk—who exhibited physical prowess, a lack of knowledge about basic laws, and distrusted heroes. Though the child didn’t seem inherently violent towards Sorahiko, or even the people he’d protected, every sign was pointing towards this child being villainous in some way. People did not end up like this without a reason. 

Endeavor surveyed his handiwork, gathering that the villain truly seemed down for the count, before looking up to Sorahiko and the child. Endeavor’s low rumble of a voice seemed to break the silence. “What’s the situation with this one?” He gestured to the now weaponless boy. 

“Violent vigilantism, and disregarding orders from a hero in an emergency situation,” the elder responded. Something like hurt flashed across the blonde child’s face, only to be schooled into a sneer. 

Endeavor strided forward, booming, “Young man, you are under arrest for—”

“—Denji!”

A brick (or some other kind of rocky debris) nailed Endeavor in the back of the head hard enough to send him to his knees as a boy cried out. Now visible from behind Endeavor’s felled form was a teenage boy, breathing hard, and clearly the brick throwing culprit. He was spattered with blood, as was the cat that sat on his shoulder, and the sword he held seemed to be caked with it. 

“Hey!” Sorahiko cried. 

At his reaction, the dark haired boy jumped, and immediately turned on his heel and ran. 

Torn between chasing after him and checking on Endeavor—who still hadn’t gotten to his feet—he ended up rushing to his fellow hero’s side. The redhead was hissing, hand cupping the back of his head as he tried to stand. Blue eyes blinked rapidly, opening wide, but shutting quickly after. Endeavor was in a knock-down, drag-out fight to stay conscious, and the addition of a brightly clad hero seemed to keep his focus. 

“You’re concussed,” Sorahiko said bluntly. “From some teen who clearly had it out for you.”

Endeavor did not nod his head, but he seemed to understand. “An accomplice?” he winced. 

“For the boy?”

Sorahiko had forgotten about him in the moment, and when he looked up, the boy had vanished entirely. If it weren’t for the gashes in the concrete from chainsaw chains, and negative silhouettes in blood, it would’ve been like the child was never even there. 

“I don’t know.” Sorahiko sighed. “Probably. Dammit. Let’s get this concussion of yours taken care of—they’re both probably long gone.”

Endeavor brushed him off, cold unlike his flames. “No, there’s somewhere I need to be. My son is here, he gave me an address.” 

“You are not fit for any more action tonight. Where is it? I’ll gather the other pros in the area and head over.”

Endeavor looked like he was going to turn Sorahiko down again, but age had made him wise.

“Your son doesn’t need to see you killed in action because you were too prideful to let the pros do their goddamn jobs.” 

And the conversation ended. With an address no less. 

While the events in Hosu were not isolated, so to speak, the rest of the surrounding metropolitan area was unaware of the chaos unfolding only a few miles away. The younger Fujiko puttered around the shop, idly cleaning tables and menus as she glanced at the clock. She had no reason to worry. With how responsible Aki was, she wouldn’t be surprised if he walked in twenty minutes from now—somehow early—and with more stock than they were expecting. Power and Denji would come scuttling in behind him, probably covered from head to toe in flower, mud, and old newspapers, but full of excitement and pride at a job well done. 

She had no reason to worry, and yet…she did. 

A knock on the front door startled her out of her thoughts. When the person outside noticed that she’d looked up, they knocked a few more times. Aiko considered ignoring him and just escaping to the back, but she heard her dad in the back of her mind. Greet everyone with kindness, he’d told her. Followed by but the moment you know they’re bad news, clock ‘em.

She plastered on her weariest customer service smile, and unlocked the door. It dinged as she opened it, grin pulled tight enough to creak.

“Sorry sir, but we are closed for the evening. We will be open for business at seven sharp tomorrow morning!”

The man seemed to anticipate her answer, and extended a license in her direction. A hero license. 

“Excuse me,” the apparent pro hero said slowly. “But do you have a minute to answer a few questions?”

Fujiko was taken aback. Literally. 

“Oh,” she spoke. “Let me get my father. It’s not for anything bad is it? Is something going on?” 

The man—or Eraserhead, as his license had proclaimed—tucked his ID back into his pocket, shaking his head. “I’m asking every business in the area if they’ve seen any suspicious activity. Nothing to be worried about.” 

“I see.”

Aiko allowed the man in, but shut the door behind him rather swiftly. It seemed as if the hero was equally as unused to the situation as she was, because he was merely standing in the middle of the facade—rather awkwardly, she thought. Though the terrible feeling she’d been harboring since her friends had left only seemed to grow stronger, she took pity on the man. 

“Just sit wherever. The tables are clean.”

With measured steps (that Aiko was trying to play off as completely and utterly normal—but not too normal because she should be a little frazzled right now), she turned on her heel and disappeared into the kitchen. Her father was halfway through the door by the time she got to it, bearing a rolling pin in one hand, and a bread knife in the other. 

“I heard voices,” he whispered. 

“Dad,” Aiko grimaced. “There’s a hero here. He’s got some questions about if we’ve seen anything suspicious lately.”

Lowering his weapons, Aiko stepped out of the way to let her father see Eraserhead. 

“I checked his license,” she said lowly. 

Her father nodded. He seemed to take it in stride. “Suspicious like what?” he boomed. 

Eraserhead fished his phone out of his clothes while the duo came to join him at the table. 

“I’ve been on a case,” he said casually. “It’s a missing persons case that’s a few months old. Three kids were reported missing, and it’s been slow going trying to find them.”

When he found what he was looking for, he handed his phone to her father first. 

“You can swipe through those photos there. There’s not much to see.” 

Her dad’s eyebrows wrinkled, before handing the phone to her. Her stomach sank.

The picture was a bit grainy, but sure enough, Denji and Power were snarking at each other. They were wearing clothes that she’d never seen before, and they were sprawled out across the sidewalk. When she swiped to the right, she was met by Aki. He was being held up by Power, Meowy pawing at his front, and the entire left side of his face coated in blood. (And he looked scared too, as he peered at something beyond the camera.)

The final photo was in fact not a photograph. It was a video. Aiko was frozen as she watched it focus on a stranger in the foreground, only to zoom in over their shoulder as three bodies appeared out of thin air. The video was clearly cut to be shorter than it truly was, and the sound had been removed, but Aiko knew those three anywhere.  

She wanted to know what happened next. Who helped them?

(She knew the answer: no one, until her. And even that was hard fought.)

“Missing kids?” she said softly. “It looks like they’ve run away.”

Eraserhead accepted the phone back with a tinge of Something about him. 

“They’re clearly running from something, I’ve just got to get to them before that Whatever-Else does. Two of them—the blonde and the girl with the horns—were seen a few blocks over. Do the names Denji, Power, or Aki ring any bells?”

Aiko wondered if her heartbeat could give her away. 

Power was having a wonderful evening, full of slaughter, blood, battle, and more blood.

Denji had gone after the larger Human-but-not-man, while she herself had gone after the trickier prey—the winged one. Topknot chased after Denji, since he was more likely to get trounced by his enemy. As much as Power tried to teach Denji about being a devil, he just never seemed to get the memo—he’d need good ole Topknot to watch his back. Even if Topknot was probably safer being with Denji than being off on his own. 

She had reservations about that damn Future devil, and she had a hunch that the devil didn’t have Aki’s—and by extension Power’s—best interests at heart. Fox had left Aki long ago, and even if his contract with Curse was still active, he’d lost his nail and the ability to consult Curse about his remaining lifespan. It was as good as void, and that left him as a regular human. It wasn’t necessarily a terrible thing. If anything, Topknot was her favorite human.

But now he was weak, like all the rest of them. That was the real problem. 

And Power had already gone out of her way to try and protect him—her blood shed in the form of a sword. It helped that she could feel his heartbeat against the tool, assuring her that Topknot was still kicking, but it was a thin consolation. Especially when she’d lost track of the winged monster. 

She could still smell the swell of human bodies, including the creature, but she could no longer see it. Power knew it was nearby in some respect, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on it. The longer she thought about it, the more it reminded her of bird hunting with Meowy back when times were simple. It felt like a lifetime ago, learning to walk silently over leaves, and sneaking silently through woods. Meowy was such a good hunter, he’d taught her precision without using her blood—just pure freedom and talent. If she cared for such frivolity, she’d want to kick off her shoes, shed her jacket, and return to what she seemed to know best, but her talents in tracking and hunting would do nothing in the city. 

She’d waste her clothes for no reason—or at least that’s what Topknot would complain—and she’d have to deal with him being all grumpy later. (Who was she kidding, he was always upset about something. Nothing she did could ever make him un-upset, so it was better just to have fun with it.)

The longer Power followed the monster’s scent, the quieter the chaos became. The man-creature was dragging her away from the fight, and it was hard to tell if it thought it had a better chance of defeating her (which it wouldn’t) or if it was truly retreating (in which Power would find its home and massacre everyone who was waiting for its return). 

A win-win. 

It was as her steps started to become frantic with excitement that she heard something strange. It came from slightly behind her, and a building or two out of the way. For as dedicated to her mission of deboning the monster like a chicken, she may have stumbled upon a side quest. Denji always said they were important when he played video games, but getting a bountiful feast from the family of man-monsters was enticing. 

She considered her options carefully. 

While whatever was causing a ruckus nearby could be a drag, dinner surely awaited her should she follow the beast. But the beast’s scent would remain for hours and who knew how long things would be staying fun over here. She sighed, but came to a stop. As she stood in the center of the street, several overlapping scents—tinged with fear no less—greeted her. There was really only one decision to make. 

Power turned around, and ducked into the alley she’d just passed. 

As Izuku threw up his fists, body burning with fear and conviction, he wholeheartedly believed that he could do it. If he doubted his ability to fight, he’d end up beaten before he’d even begun. Stain lifted his sword with a wicked kind of glee, as if motioning Izuku to make the first move. 

Making the first move was in Izuku’s favor—that was clear. People who were confident liked to survey their competition. Getting shoved into lockers, and watching villain fight, after villain fight, after illicit livestream, after the next taught him as much. A paralysis quirk that was probably worth all the confidence, plus his fighting skills, Stain was a serious threat. 

(Izuku knew this much from watching the news, but standing before him—his friend and a hero relying on him—the word threat took on a whole new meaning.)

Getting in close to prevent any sweeping attacks with his blade would be the safest move, especially with how Izuku’s speed had improved. And that was exactly what Izuku did.

He took a breath, clenched his fists, and shot forward with the intent of sliding right under Stain’s arm. Stain lifted his blade to strike, but it stalled on the upswing, indicative of him focusing on something else. As Izuku grew closer, Stain brandished a knife in the other hand, which had Izuku dodging outside of either blade’s strike zone: he went up. 

Clearing the height of Stain’s sword, Izuku let the power of One for All course through his veins. He didn’t need to think of the egg in the microwave anymore, as the heat swam through his muscles, and ignited something in his blood that he never knew he had. 

As he punched Stain in the back of the head, dodging another swipe of his knife, Izuku wondered what that sensation was exactly. 

Skidding across the ground, back to Iida and Native, he prepared to attack again. By the time Izuku’s legs were coiling, Stain had already brought his knife in between them again. Instead of—say, throwing the knife? brandishing it? making a threat with it?—Stain licked the edge. Instead of leaping forward, which was what he thought he’d told his body to do, he collapsed face-first into the dust. 

With his head craned towards Iida, Izuku could only watch in horror as the Hero Killer merely walked passed him, words of false praise going stale before they even reached his ears. 

(He hadn’t felt this way since there was a hand closing in on the face of another, since Aizawa was ragdolled across the USJ, since, since, since—)

A flash of blue at the end of the alley caught his eye. 

That girl was going to get herself killed.

Stain seemed to notice her too, pausing where he stood above Iida’s prone form. With all eyes on her, she narrowed her eyes and crossed her arms over a bloodied chest. 

“Is this your doing?” she cried. 

Stain, lofting a sword over the body of a child, the only one standing in an alley full of downed heroes, seemed taken aback by the accusation. (As was Izuku, but that was clearly less important.)

At least the duo weren’t working together. (Probably. Maybe? Hopefully not.)

Instead of deigning the girl with a response, Stain made to stab Iida.

Izuku wasn’t sure if he screamed or not, but he was sick. He saw Stain’s arms drop, saw a splash of blood, saw Iida stiffen. Every thought that he’d ever had seemed to pale in comparison to the all encompassing fear—the drop of his stomach, the hollowing out of his bones—that overtook him in that moment. He was ashamed to say he stopped caring about the girl, he forgot Native, he even forgot Stain. It was as if a part of him that had never seen the sun was now flayed for the world to see.

(Being told by All Might that he couldn’t be a hero hadn’t hurt nearly this bad.) 

The white that was narrowing in on his vision told him that maybe he was dying. (Iida is—was—dying. It was selfish of Izuku to compare what was happening to that.)

When Stain jumped backwards, Izuku didn’t realize what was happening. He was in shock, logically, but that did nothing to make the world right. Stain had all but retreated from Iida—damn near dodged— after committing the deed. Except he hadn’t committed the deed, and Iida was still alive. 

Except the girl was standing over Iida, enraged, howling something or other, and wielding a scythe of something that looked shockingly like blood. 

“How dare you!” she cried. “All this blood, and you’ve spoilt it! ‘Tis unacceptable!”

Stain seemed to be in as much shock as Izuku, but he was recovering quicker. “You’re just a civilian, what’s it to you?”

The girl gawked, leveling her scythe at the man with animosity. “How dare you speak to me like that. Don’t you know who I am? I declare you treasonous! I’m the prime minister!” 

It didn’t matter that the girl was spouting nonsense, because as selfish as it was, she was buying them time. Gran Torino would find him soon enough—or maybe one of his classmates, whom he had messaged earlier—would arrive. It was a tossup whether or not Stain would kill an innocent, after all, he was called the Hero Killer, and hadn’t been noted to have harmed civilians. As much as Izuku wanted her to run away, she was probably the safest person out of all of them. 

(That was, if Izuku was right.)

“Don’t let him cut you!” he rasped instead. “If he gets your blood, he can paralyze you! That’s what happened to us.”

She tilted her head towards him, and of all things, sniffed the air. Her eyes narrowed as she really looked around the alley, before settling her gaze back on Stain. 

“I’m going to be honest. I don’t care about any of these people. Or you for that matter.”

“Then why are you interfering?” Stain barked. 

“You are foolish to think you can sully blood in the presence of its Fiend.”

The vigilante shook his head, not believing, or even caring about her words, it seemed. He thought she was crazy, that much was clear. Before Izuku could yell at her to run away, a blade had sunken itself into her thigh. Stain immediately made a move to try and get around her, to finally reach Iida, but he was unsuccessful. 

The girl grunted, but pulled the blade out of her leg like it was nothing. When Stain was within reach, she swung both her scythe and the knife. 

The knife missed its mark entirely, but the scythe managed to shear the fabric of his mask and costume. The two glared at one another, both standing their ground. The girl did not move from her position in front of Iida, yet Stain’s stance promised more bloodshed. 

“I don’t like to hurt civilians,” Stain growled. “But you’re in my way. And this ought to make things easier.” 

When the Hero Killer raised his hand—one covered in blood from what must have been her leg—he licked it with glee. When his tongue made contact with his hand, instead of the girl crying out or collapsing like Izuku himself had, she made a noise of confusion that quickly turned into a howl of pure rage. 

“You’re dead!”

With agility she had yet to exhibit, she bolted forward with a slash. 

Stain wasn’t easily taken off-guard, though he did seem concerned as to why his quirk didn’t activate. They traded blows, the girl slashing Stain enough times for him to put distance between the two, and Stain clipping her in turn—which only fueled her anger. It wasn’t until a particularly vicious swing of the Hero Killer’s katana had one of the girl’s arms severed at the elbow. 

Izuku felt his fingers twitch in sympathy. 

The girl howled in pain, but without missing a beat, returned the blow. The hand that gripped the katana fell to the floor with a thud, as the two broke from the exchange and panted. 

“What are you?” Stain hissed. “Why doesn’t my quirk work on you?”

The girl scoffed. 

“I already told you—I’m the blood Fiend. Your pathetic little human tricks are no match for me.”

With ease, she grabbed her arm, lined up the cross sections, and simply stuck the limb back together. She flexed the hand, wiggling her fingers and twisting her forearm until she was satisfied. 

Izuku’s entire hand jumped.

From the seam where her skin hadn’t quite meshed together, blood poured out and coated her hand, building until she had a gauntlet in the shape of a fist. Her single step forward, no matter how she swayed with it, was threatening enough to make Stain take one in reverse. He couldn’t see the man, but Izuku could hear the scrape of his shoes on the concrete. 

“You say that like you’re not human.”

The girl lets out a laugh that would haunt Izuku in his dreams— and worst of all he believed her.

“I’m a Fiend.”

What the girl did next was out of sight, veritably jumping over Izuku to reach Stain, but he didn’t need to see what she was doing to understand that Stain was dying. The Hero Killer, by a tangle of fate, and messing with the wrong person, was going to die this evening. Though Izuku could now make a fist, there was nothing he could do to stop it. 

Stain cried out in pain, at first. But when the sound of breaking bones eclipsed his voice, Izuku merely shut his eyes, and tried to tell himself that he wasn’t crying. When his body could finally move, muscles shaking as he dragged himself over to Iida, he did not spare a glance backwards. He didn’t need to see what the unending squelching was—or why the girl had gone quiet. He didn’t need to see the twitching forms of Iida and Native to know that Stain was dead, and could no longer activate his quirk. 

Iida’s eyes were locked over Izuku’s shoulder, horror written across his face, even as Izuku grabbed either side of his head to focus his gaze. 

“We need to go,” Izuku whispered. “Can you stand?”

Iida nodded his head, not quite focusing on what Izuku was saying, but instead tried to look through him to go back to what the girl was doing. Native, from where he was leaning against the wall, motioned for Izuku to get the hell out of there, and Izuku couldn’t have agreed more. Iida was heavy in his hero costume, but once they started putting one foot in front of the other it got easier. By the time all three spilled out onto the street, Izuku could see Todoroki making his way towards them. 

Izuku couldn’t react until Native screamed to Todoroki. “Run away! Get help!” 

Whether he actually left because the pro told him to, or if the lack of a visible threat let him think the fight was over, Todoroki did as he was told, and disappeared around the edge of a building. Izuku was hardly able to have a breath before footsteps crept up through the alley. Both he and Native turned in attention (and by extension, Iida too), as the girl emerged.

Her pink hair was dyed red, as were her skin and clothes. Each step painted the road with the soles of her shoes as she traipsed past them. She brandished no weapon, and frankly, didn’t even seem to notice them—that is, until she sniffed the air again. 

Once again, Izuku met her oddly patterned eyes, and said nothing. 

If she tried to attack, of course Izuku would fight, but based on the quick work she made of Stain, he and his comrades stood no chance. Instead of skewering them all and cleaning the muscles from their bones, she nodded her head in acknowledgement. 

“You’re welcome,” she said succinctly. 

Crosshair pupils tracked each one of them head to toe once more, before she nodded. Clearly turning to leave, Izuku was shocked to hear Native speak up. 

“Why?”

The look she gave him reminded Izuku of teachers who liked to make children feel stupid.

“Because he was sickening you. Whatever his quirk-–” she spoke the word like it tasted bad, “—was, made your blood rancid. He also dared to not only taste my blood, but try to control it too. No one is allowed to live after attempting to humiliate me like that.” 

She said it like it was a fact. 

“And you lot are clearly heroes. I’m not supposed to get involved in villainy, so helping the heroes ought to be better than letting you die. Though my grasp of human-morality could be better, I think that I’m right, am I not?”

When she was met with stony silence, she grinned devilishly. 

“As I predicted!”

With laughter, the girl sauntered off, and not a single one of the trio felt it worthwhile to go after her. Backup arrived a handful of minutes later, but she was long gone by then, as Gran Torino covered the ten nearest blocks and came up empty handed. EMTs took Iida first, while Native and Izuku himself were tended to. In the bustle of cops and heroes and paramedics, Izuku didn’t realize he’d looked down the alley until he was doubling over. Bile burned his throat as he gagged, his entire body shuddering with the force of it. 

Things got less linear after that, as gloved hands dragged him away and people spoke over his head. By the time he was loaded into the ambulance, he’d lost track of time so frequently that he wasn’t sure if Native had gone before him, or if the scene had been cleared. 

As the ambulance door closed, a cop leaned over where he was secured in the gurney. 

“What did she look like?”

It took Izuku a moment to realize who he was talking about, and even a moment longer to realize that Native must have already informed the police of what happened. The look in his eyes must have conveyed something to the officer, because he seemed to soften. 

(Pity, the ugly part of himself whispered. You will always be pitied because of your weakness, your inability to act. You’re pathetic. He knows it. She knows it. Stain knew it.)

The image was burned onto the back of his eyes. 

Red horns. Pink hair. Pale skin. Jagged teeth. His age.

(So much red that he vomited on the spot. Stain was nothing more than that—and explosion of the color to widespread, Izuku didn’t know where his body lay. Guts were hanging from the fire escape, and peels of skin contrasted like snow. He had been eviscerated and dissected in only minutes.)

And the longer Izuku thought about it, the more he felt like he’d recognized her from somewhere. 

After giving Pro hero number two, Endeavor, the slip, Aki was on edge. He kept Denji a bit closer than strictly necessary, much to the blonde’s chagrin, but it eased Aki’s nerves by a fraction. They crept around buildings, blended with crowds, and hid from heroes as they searched for Power. Denji was growing restless because of their slow pace—unconcerned with being seen, or arrested like he almost had been. Meowy began to squirm after a solid hour of searching, yowling until Aki dropped him, and then he was off like a shot. 

One small feline chase later and a bloodsoaked Power met them with nothing but smiles. Though they only had to duck into a building once to avoid getting spotted by a hero (the same bastard that had cornered Denji earlier in the evening), it was slow going to get to the food warehouse. 

He’d decided that their best chance at playing their… less than put-together appearance was to show up ‘shaking and afraid’ to the building’s doorstep and beg for kindness. Power grumbled about having to act like she was weak, the plan went off without a hitch. One shaky cellphone was passed to Aki as the trio was given privacy for Power to change into one of the worker’s extra sets of clothes. 

Aki, are you all okay?

Fujiko’s voice was frantic on the other end of the line. “Yeah. Yeah—more or less. Nobody was hurt.”

You get your asses back here this instant, do you hear me? Forget the pick-up, my dad can do it tomorrow. It’s not safe!

“There’s plenty of heroes,” Aki found himself saying. “And one of the workers offered to drive us. We’ll be fine.”

I’m going to kill you when you get here.

“See you tomorrow, Fujiko- san.”

Her outraged cry of what do you mean tomor— was cut off by the dial tone. 

Aki handed the phone back to the man he’d borrowed it from, and ultimately ended up being driven to the park by that very same man. He didn’t like that Aki had requested he drop them off at the park, but when Aki held firm, it would’ve been weird had the man continued to press, so he left. 

If there was one thing Aki’s years in bureaucracy had granted him, it was weaponizing social conventions. (Especially when he decided to abide by them, instead of just letting his mouth run the way it was born to do.)

It was oddly quiet as the trio crawled up the play structure, laying themselves out side-by-side. The moment Aki stopped moving—stopped having to pretend—he nearly fell asleep. The strings that had been pulling him all day had finally been cut, and he was nothing more than an aching pile of limbs and exhaustion. Were Aki any less accustomed to sleeping with Denji and Power, he would’ve been unaware of the way that each of them navigated intimacy, but he was oh-so painfully aware. He knew that the way Denji was shifting was out of nerves, and expectant in a way. 

When the boy finally settled, Aki turned his head to the left, and cracked open his eyes. Denji was curled into his side, scowling only inches from his own tired features. 

“What?” Aki croaked. 

“Jus’ spit it out already,” Denji lamented. “Go on and yell at us about how bad we did, and how we’re all gonna die now.” 

Power shifted on his other side, clearly invested in the conversation. 

A thousand retorts sat on the edge of his teeth, but Aki couldn’t bring himself to say them. 

I’m not worried about you, Denji. It’s Power we’ll have to hide from now on.

We need to go. Now. They’ll find us—it’s only a matter of time. 

I haven’t felt this powerless since I saw my future. 

I’m tired.

You say that like I hate you both. 

If my worrying about our safety bothers you so much, you can go get yourselves killed without me. 

I just wanted you to do something fun for once. 

By the time I die, I hope you’ll have learned how to read. 

Every single moment feels like our last.

Instead of spilling his guts—instead of burdening them with the unrepentant mess that he was—Aki sighed. 

“I’m just glad you’re both okay.” 

“Yuck, you’re getting sappy.”

“At least he’s not mad at us.”

You have no idea, Aki thought. 

(And Future was unnervingly silent.)

Shouta had been staring at his laptop's screen for too long. Hizashi's email, the subject line merely reading 'the plot thickens,' contained another video and several files. A firsthand recording of the Hosu incident was not only the most sought after information at the moment, but it also showed a certain group of individuals. The fucking kids. One of them had clearly killed that Nomu without a second thought, which was worrying, but the video ended there. The files included pre-redacted police reports (by his number one problem child, no less) detailing a crazed cannibal that matched Power's description. Midoriya was not prone to embellishment, which was worrying. 

He had a feeling he ought to pay that Fujiko bakery another visit, but not before the arcade. If they were as clever as they had been, they'd lay low for a few days. And Shouta could wait. The Lord only knew if they could.

This chapter's fanart: courtesy of Bearpuppy

Chapter Text

When the sun rose the next morning, Aki was awake. 

It wasn’t that the sun had woken him, or that an errant kick from Denji or Power had roused him early. Aki, despite how tired he was, never fell asleep.

Every moment sleep reached out her hand, Aki found himself turning away from it. Hands reached out, almost taking hers in his, but the moment before fingers touched, Aki was turning to make sure that Power was still tucked against his side, and that the warmth to his left was truly Denji. He would laugh at himself, because of course they were still there, and settle back into place. Sleep would stand above him, hand extended. And the cycle would start again.

It didn’t help that Future chirped every few minutes, wondering out loud why Aki wouldn’t rest—what, like it was hard? He’d need his energy in the morning, surely, and especially with how upset Fujiko would be. 

He stiffened at the prospect of getting fired, and losing the only kindness they could rely on (as well as a more than gracious stream of income). 

“What will happen?” he asked Future.

The Devil trilled something of a laugh before falling silent. She continued to count minutes in his head, but wouldn’t budge.

“I thought you were supposed to let me see into the future?”

You misremember. I agreed to allow you a few seconds. Tomorrow’s morning is far too many of those to be considered ‘a few.’ I’m not feeling particularly generous. 

Feeling chastised, and foolish for having let the phrasing of their contract slip his mind, Aki waved his chances at sleeping goodbye. There was too much happening for him to settle long enough without worry. 

(Someone had to be awake, after all. What if the heroes found them? What if the distribution worker ratted them out to the cops? What if they were seen? What if someone finally got tired of seeing them sleep in the park, and did something about it? Couldn’t villains and Stain supporters try to find them? The Nomu were one thing, but Stain was beloved by his followers. They were in so much potential danger that it was paralyzing.)

Aki had had sleepless nights in the past though, and now wouldn’t be much different. 

It didn’t matter that his insomnia was now caused by two troublesome kids instead of his family, or that his body was so exhausted to the point that his hand shook when he checked Power’s breathing. He wasn’t sick, like he had been in nights past, waking up in a certain hotel or a certain person beside him. 

Aki wanted a cigarette. He wanted every cigarette he’d ever had.

(He’d eat them, split the filter, peel the paper, chew the grit, anything to get this taste out of his mouth.)

And so by the time the sun rose, Aki was as rested as he could be. 

He stared at the brightening sky until a shaft of light shifted over his eyes, and he decided that it was late enough. Muscles protested as he sat himself up, bones cracking in tandem. Denji—so used to sleeping at Power’s side, and before that Pochita—had wrapped himself around Aki’s arm in an impressively complicated way, which took him almost five whole minutes to free himself from. Once that was done, Aki wiped the sleep from his face with a grimace. 

His eyes had tried to crust themselves shut, but he scratched at his lashes until they burned. (Maybe he’d slept with his eyes open?)

Aki’s hands were coated with flakes of dried blood, as was his shirt, and if he were a betting man, he’d say his hair too. With the help of the sun, he could see that Power’s hair was matted with it, and that Denji had patches of it here and there. They couldn’t go out in public like this, especially if they were trying not to get found. They looked like they’d just murdered someone (which they had. Multiple someones). 

It was still too early for pedestrians, and it’d been five whole minutes since the last car had driven by, which would have to be good enough. Aki sighed as he shook Power’s shoulder. She swatted at him, grumbled, and tried to sicc Meowy on him, to no avail. When she finally peeled her eyes open and bared her teeth, he put his fingers to his lips in a gentle shush. 

“Don’t wake Denji,” he whispered. 

The annoyance seemed to soften as she looked at Denji drooling through the holes in the play structure’s floor. When she met his eyes, it looked like she’d swallowed a lemon. 

“Why did you awaken me?” 

“You look like a murder scene. Your hair needs to be washed.” 

She hissed at him, before rolling onto her side and effectively ending the conversation. 

“No! I’m tired! I refuse to bathe! Leave me!”

Instead of growling something, like he would have a few months ago, he sighed. Aki pulled Meowy from her arms despite her squawk in protest, and began to dismount the play structure. He walked through the mulch until it turned to grass, and stood by the bird fountain. Meowy was warm in his arms, but splattered in blood, much like he was. 

Power hated anyone doing anything with Meowy if she wasn’t there, and Meowy needed to be cleaned. Surely cats couldn’t ingest too much human blood, right? He’d need to be washed? Holding the cat against his chest, he dunked a hand into the fountain, and began to rub the rusty spots on the cat’s fur. As the flakes melted and faded, Aki ran the bloodless parts of the hem of his shirt against them, effectively wiping away the gore. It was times like these where Aki thanked god and above that Meowy had short hair, and that he didn’t seem to hate water. Being raised by Power probably had something to do with it, but as it stood, the cat was preening under his attention and yawning every now and then. 

By the time he was finishing up, Power came stumbling over to them. She was venomous from being outsmarted, but now standing in front of their make-do bath, she had no excuses. 

“How kind of you to grace us with your presence,” Aki hummed, knowing she would take it as a compliment. 

“Of course. What do you take me for?”

Aki said nothing, besides extending Meowy in her direction. Once settled in Power’s arms, the cat yawned before purring loudly. 

Power’s clothes were clean, as one of the workers had offered her his extra set, but the rest of her was not. Aki surveyed her for a moment, cataloging everything that needed to be tended to. After a moment of thought, he gestured for her to sit down. “We can start with your hair.” 

She grunted, but did as she was asked. 

The bird fountain was shorter than the average—probably so it’d be short enough for the children to see on top of—which made it the perfect height to wash their hair in. It was a low-budget hair salon set up, but it worked. Power leaned her head into the bowl, and Aki went to work soaking each part and teasing through the knots. Luckily, most of what he thought were matts were actually pieces of meat, and were incredibly easy to pick out. The water was more red than pink when he finished and he’d used his shirt to wring out and dry her hair twice, but she looked acceptable. 

Using his half damp shirt, he crouched in front of her and started wiping at the lines of blood on her face. Despite Meowy’s purring and Aki’s ministrations, Power had fallen asleep again. He was able to clean up her face and neck pretty well, even peeled off quite a bit from her legs, but he woke her again when it was time to do her hands and arms. She didn’t hiss when he woke her, and a quiet I’ll put Meowy back to bed while you wash up, had her nodding along. 

The sky was a yellow-green-blue, the phase of pinks and reds long since past. 

He woke up Denji in the same way he’d done Power, and after wiping the drool from his face, the blonde nodded. Fully transforming the night before seemed to have taken a lot out of him—especially with how little blood he was actually able to ingest. While Power was overfull and unwilling to wake up, the glaze to Denji’s eyes made Aki wonder if he was sick. 

Instead of trying to press—which usually ended with snarking and a locked door—Aki just extended his hand and waited. Sitting criss-cross, and staring at Aki like he didn’t quite understand, it took Denji a few moments before he took the hand and pulled himself up. Finally on his feet, the blonde stumbled for a moment before righting himself. Denji was a pretty good actor, all things considered, but he was too obvious at times; if he did something embarrassing, he tended to overcorrect. With no acknowledgement or half-sheepish denial of ever having tripped in the first place, Aki wondered if he was too tired to have even noticed. 

(Especially when Denji did not let go of his hand right away, and gripped it tightly when they teetered down the steps.)

Power was waiting for them at the edge of the mulch, looking damp but socially acceptable. 

“You both look like shit.”

Aki knew Denji was looking a little worse for wear, but he hadn’t had a moment to glimpse himself yet. 

“We just need to get some food in us,” Aki nodded. “Not everyone gorged themselves like you did last night.” 

She crossed her arms as she passed, muttering something like a pity under her breath. 

In the short span of their conversation, Denji seemed to have woken up, and was stretching with an obscene groan. Despite the words of manners and aren’t you embarrassed sitting on his tongue, Aki didn’t have the heart to say anything. The time in which he would have simply felt like years ago. 

“Think you can wash up yourself?” Aki asked instead. 

Denji yawned, eyes watering and loud. 

“Yeah.” 

Aki nodded, before turning to leave him to it. 

“You really look like shit,” the blonde added. 

He could feel Denji’s eyes on the back of his head, but he didn’t turn to meet them. 

“I haven’t washed up yet. Don’t take too long.”

And that was that. 

While Denji splashed around in the water and Power curled in the sun with Meowy, Aki busied himself pulling their bags from the trees in the back of the park. He pulled out a change of clothes for himself and Denji, and stole an extra pair of socks from his own bag to give to Power. Her shoes and socks were the only things the worker’s extra uniform hadn’t swapped out, and considering Power’s shoes were red beforehand… he figured they could get away without washing them for a few days at least. 

He tossed the dry clothes at Denji when he returned, who was quietly chatting with Power. He got a small thanks in return before it was his turn to wash up. The shirt he’d been wearing was ruined at this point—soaking wet and bloodstained—and he could only worry how bad the rest of him looked. When he stared into the red basin, looking for dark patches on his face, he didn’t really see any. 

He dunked his face and head into the water, scratching and scrubbing every inch in an attempt to rid himself from whatever it was the other two had seen. Aki was just tired, is all. The whole thing felt too reminiscent of Before, when he would make breakfast for everyone, watch the sun rise from the balcony, clean their clothes, and wash his face. It made some distant, distinctly inner part of himself burn. It didn’t matter that they were homeless or in danger—they practically were before. They could make anything work.

(Because they were a family, part of him whispered.)

Maybe. 

Aki’s skin tingled by the time he’d finished scraping at his arms and legs. He told himself it was from the icy chill of the water. No other reason.

Power and Denji sat beside one another on the play structure as they watched Aki dunk his head into the birdbath, while he meticulously rinsed every part of his body, then his dirty clothes, and ultimately donning the clean ones. 

It was unnerving, how quiet Power was. 

Meowy pawed at Denji’s arm, selfish as he was, wanting to be scratched while Power was distracted. Denji obliged, but kept half an eye on the all too quiet girl. 

“Something happened to him,” she said quietly. “He’s different now.”

Denji blinked, before staring at the man’s back once again. 

“What do you mean? He’s injured?”

She shook her head. “No. Just… different. Weaker.”

Crosshair eyes met his own with a calmness he’d yet to see. 

“Softer.” 

Tucked into warm clothes, skin no longer itching, and hair finally clean, Denji could have said the same about the both of them. 

“That’s not a bad thing I don’t think,” he said. 

Meowy pawed at his hand, where it idled a few inches from his head. 

“No,” Power said. “Not necessarily. But it’s dangerous.” 

By the time Aki rejoined Denji and Power he could tell they’d argued about something, but it didn’t seem like anything that’d prevent them from doing what they needed to do. Aki let them be. If the argument was important enough, they’d come to him and beg him to pick which side was right. (The fact that most of the time neither of them were right was one thing, but at least they’d come to him eventually. He hoped.)

Though they were all a little more lethargic than usual and Aki had never seen Denji so excited to go to the bakery. Judging by how loud Denji’s stomach had growled on their walk over, Aki was hoping the Fujikos would at least let them have a last meal before they were told to get lost. When the trio reached the back entrance, Aki’s hand hesitated for just a moment before the handle. The disappointment would crush him, but it was something he—logically—needed to know as soon as possible. 

It was only a moment that he stalled, barely perceptible, but he’d done it nonetheless. 

(This was not Angel’s hospital room. It wasn’t Denji’s. I wasn’t the cell that Future lived in. It was not the Katana Man’s hole in the wall.)

Aki was through the threshold in the blink of an eye, Denji practically pushing in behind him, with Power having to throw the door open again. The moment Aki was more than a few steps into the building, he was greeted by the imposing voice of Fujiko’s father. 

“Aiko! They’re here!”

Clearly somewhere in the front, a comically long series of crashes and swearing heralded Fujiko’s arrival. It made him think of Kobeni for a moment—jesus, someone he’d forgotten to forget—as bittersweet as it was. 

Whatever had happened was keeping her, because her father approached them first. With all the tenderness of the gruffest man on earth, he looked down at the three of them and softened. 

“Are you three alright?”

Automatically, Aki said, “We’re fine.”

The man tsked, rolled his eyes even. “You barely look it. C’mon, get something to eat. You’re not putting on that damn apron until all three of you have had at least two servings.” 

Aki was going to try and wave him off—they didn’t need special treatment, they were fine!—but Denji was looking like a kid in a candy shop, and Aki thought that maybe it would be okay, just this once. Because Denji needed it, of course, he’d lost too much blood and he’d need a real amount of food before he was back to himself again. That’s why whatever his and Power’s argument this morning was so weird. 

(No other reason.)

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “Thank you.”

Before the older Fujiko could respond, the younger kicked open the door to the front. 

She stood in the doorway, staring for a moment, before she rushed forward and threw her arms around Aki and Denji, before giving a similar hug to Power and Meowy. The trio was taken entirely off guard, all stiff armed and confused glances. Aki knew the elder was laughing from the other side of the kitchen, but he didn’t dare ignore Fujiko. 

“Don’t you ever do that again!” she cried. “I was worried all night! Why didn’t you come here after? What if you were hurt?”

Denji shifted, unknowing what to do in a situation with an almost-stranger caring for his well-being. “s’ not like we did anything wrong?”

Which was clearly the wrong thing to say.

“You could have died!”

And oh, no, it looked like she just might start crying. Denji looked to Aki, bewildered. What do I do? his face screamed. Chicks are supposed to love me, not cry on me. Help. 

Aki sighed—as much as he liked seeing Denji squirm, it shouldn’t be at Fujiko’s expense—and placed his hand on the girl’s shoulder. 

“We’re okay, though,” he said slowly. “You know I’d never let anything happen to them. Thank you for looking out for us.” 

Red-faced, and sniffling, Fujiko punched him in the shoulder. 

“You suck, you know that right?”

Aki wouldn’t begrudge her attempt at preserving her ego. 

“Yeah, actually, I do.”

The practical exams were coming up, and instead of being at home—tucked into his favorite comforter—Shouta was at a police station. There was no normal reason for him to be in his second least favorite place to be (nestled right under interviews and press conferences, and comfortably above a jail cell) at this hour of the day, let alone when he wasn’t working. 

Instead he was watching problem child number one describe one of the most heinous instances of vigilantism—self-defense, or at this point was it villainy?—Shouta had heard of within the last couple of years. The both of them had been there all night, Midoriya’s mother now sleeping on the chair beside Shouta in the observation deck. The detective that had been interrogating Midoriya came in at Shouta’s late night phone call, since Shouta didn’t trust any of the officers on duty to be able to work with a kid that was not only in shock, but also likely traumatized. 

“I just don’t understand,” Midoriya had taken to saying. “She only cared about our blood. About her blood. She didn’t even know who Stain was.”

Every time he said it, the officer merely nodded in acknowledgement.

“Can you remember anything else of importance? Or anything at all.”

The boy bit his lip, as if it would help him remember, but ultimately shook his head. Now that the interrogation had naturally ended, it was Shouta’s time to do his job. He left the observation deck, and knocked until he was let into the room with Midoriya in it. The officer patted Shouta on the shoulder, imbuing him with just a little of the strength that he’d need to get through the next couple of weeks. It was Shouta’s turn to sit down across from the boy. 

Midoriya was mumbling to himself, gaze cast somewhere to the side, as he desperately tried to work something out. Shouta did not interrupt him. The teacher watched as the boy chastised himself for not being able to remember something, as he retraced movements and dialogue in his head. The boy’s muttering came to a natural conclusion, that ended with him staring at Shouta with a level of intentness he’d only seen during the sports festival. 

“I’d seen her before,” Midoriya spoke. “Online. I saw her in a video once.”

Though Shouta’s face revealed nothing, his interest was piqued. Inwardly, he was leaning forward, hands on the table, cards laid out. 

“Would you be able to pick her out of a crowd?” he asked instead. 

The viciousness of Midoriya’s nod likely meant he’d be seeing the girl in his nightmares for the next couple of years. Rubbing his eyes, as if doing so could put a dent in his endless fatigue, Shouta did something he wondered if he would regret. He grabbed his phone, opened his photos, and showed Midoriya the group shot of the three runaways. 

The poor kid’s expression told him before his words could. 

“Yes,” Midoriya nodded. “That’s her.”

In lieu of a response, Shout went to put his phone away, but Midoriya stopped him. 

“But wait. I’ve seen this before, where did you get this photo?” 

Though the original had been taken down, the video had been posted for a few days before anyone noticed. It didn’t surprise Shouta that Midoriya had managed to find it (nor did he think all traces of it had been erased, and that Midoriya wouldn’t go find it again if Shouta left him hanging.) 

(Midoriya didn’t need to get into any more trouble though.)

“It’s part of a pending investigation,” Shouta replied. “I can’t tell you any more.” 

As the problem child deflated at his words, Shouta hesitated to leave. He didn’t place a fatherly hand on his shoulder, nor did he offer sage words of advice—Shouta was hardly someone worthy of giving out life advice— but he was a teacher. 

As he pushed himself to his feet, careful not to react to the way the boy jumped at the action, Shouta leveled the boy his least judgemental gaze. 

“It’s been a long day, Midoriya. Get some sleep.”

And with that, he left. Eyes bored into his back, but it was hardly any different than walking the halls at school. He woke Inko gently, taking care to tell her that Izuku was free to go, and that there was a chance he would reach out again, but it was nothing that needed to be dealt with tonight. He bid her off with the same words he’d said to her son. 

Unlike him, she smiled gratefully. 

Laying at his desk in UA, Shouta wondered which was more frightening—the mother that could fake a smile so genuine, or the boy who had dropped all pretenses. 

He’d had an awful feeling when he saw Midoriya obliterate the zero-pointer, that unlike any of the years before, this one would be different. He wasn’t sure if it would be a bad weird or a truly weird weird, but he could definitively say that it was shaping up to be an exceptionally worrisome year. 

Shouta closed his eyes and tried to keep himself from thinking about how much worse everything could get. (It was illogical to expect only the worst outcome, but it was clever to be prepared for it.)

Aki had fallen asleep at the table, and had been knocked out for almost three hours straight now. Power had made one of her lamest jokes yet, and in response, Aki had slammed his head onto the table with a groan. And it had been a joke at first—Denji was sure—but it wasn’t anymore. 

He didn’t snore, didn’t twitch. Just closed his eyes and slept. 

He sleeps like the dead. 

His father had said something like that once. 

Whether it was the errant memory of his father or the prospect of Aki having died, Denji was overcome by a feeling of dread. He’d been settled at the table across from the other watching the television in a haze when the urge to check if Aki was still breathing hit him. Denji wanted to shake him awake so badly he really almost did it—but it’d take an idiot of Power’s level to not realize how down and out their eldest had been. 

He was always awake whenever Denji startled, always put together, always working, always planning: it was exhausting even thinking about it. (Taking care of himself when he was younger was no walk in the park, but it had only gotten more nerve wracking when Pochita came along. The pressure to not fail his friend, despite how much they loved and understood each other, sometimes closed his throat.)

(He wondered if it felt the same, or was twice as heavy having to take care of two different people.)

“We ought to create signage on his behalf,” Power spoke, startling Denji.

He gaped at her for a moment, trying to work out what she actually meant versus what she actually said. 

“You wanna make a sign?” 

“To warn the shoppers not to disturb him.”

Power’s eyes were trained on Aki’s form as she spoke, understanding finally reaching Denji. It didn’t matter that they’d settled to eat their breakfast-brunch-lunch-snack at the usual corner table, they were still in a very open, very busy business. Fujiko had cleared their plates an hour ago, stopping by every fifteen or twenty to refill their waters and laugh that Aki was sleeping through his shift—but she continued serving the other patrons. 

Since Power pointed it out, every too-loud laugh or video played out loud on some kid’s phone made Denji bristle. 

“Aki is getting sick,” she added, as she carefully sat next to Denji. “He needs to recuperate.”

“How do you know?”

She paused, probably trying to put it into words Denji could understand. “His blood.” 

When Power nodded once, clearly done with her explanation, Denji scoffed. “You might be a genius on this stuff, but I’m not. What’s wrong with his blood?”

Power made a face at him, but ultimately kept her voice down. “There’s nothing wrong with his blood itself, it’s the rest of him that’s sick. His body is too warm, so it’s making his blood warm enough that even I can tell. I don’t tend to burden myself with other people’s ails but… it is hard to ignore.”

Denji looked between the two with surprise—not only at Aki’s condition, but the fact that Power explained something that had to do with her powers in a way that he could understand, but also expressed genuine concern. First a chick cries on him, now Power was acting human: today was fucking weird. 

“I didn’t think he was that bad,” Denji mused. Though he supposed the fact that Aki was conked out on the table and not working was the lowest he’d ever seen him.

Power shrugged. “Or I could be wrong. Humans are so fickle, it’s hard to tell when something’s working right or wrong. You’re half Devil, and you hardly make any sense. Humans are lost on me.”

If it were Aki walking back on his concern, Denji would’ve ribbed him about it for hours, but since it was Power, he simply rolled his eyes. It didn’t take much more back and forth between the two for them to grow bored. Aki usually gave them money or chores and sent them off to do things while he worked, but now that he hadn’t, they were at a loss. It was funny at first, stage whispering and barely trying not to wake him, but it had grown almost sad. Boring. 

Power had curled into her chair, Meowy having jumped up and settled on her chest not too long ago. Denji yawned, despite how much he’d resisted the urge, and only Meowy repeated the action—he and Denji being the only two still awake. He’d gotten a full night’s sleep the day before, and even though he’d lost some blood, he couldn’t remember a time he had felt this tired. It wasn’t like he was going to pass out, but it wasn’t totally un-like that either. 

As much as he tried to rationalize it, the smaller, younger, nine-year-old part of himself hummed. It was warm in the shop, he’d just eaten so much he was sick, it smelled like sweets, he was with his friends, and Fujiko was there to wake them up if anything happened. For lack of a better word, he was safe. And that was as good an excuse as he’d ever get. 

He didn’t think twice about letting himself fall asleep, especially when he felt the familiar buzz of Pochita in his chest. Of course it was just an errant heartbeat, but he liked to think Pochita was agreeing with his decision. 

After all, Pochita had wanted to see Denji’s dreams come true. Even though his primary wish had always been getting a girl (Like Ms.            ) and copping a feel, there were some dreams that were so far-fetched he’d forgotten about them. When Ms.                 was there, he thought he’d be able to knock a couple wishes off his list, but now that she wasn’t, and now that he was free— which was new, and a little strange—his most impossible wish was within arm’s reach. 

(He had never lived a normal life before, and in this world of freaks and kind strangers, Denji thought he might be able to swing it.)

When Fujiko woke him, it was dark out. 

She’d shaken his shoulder gently, calling out his name until he realized there was a person speaking to him, and he blinked awake. She looked a bit sheepish to have woken him, but Denji couldn’t have cared less. 

“I packed you guys some food and stuff,” she whispered. “Tell Aki not to come in until he’s feeling better, alright? You guys are welcome to come get meals, but if he’s sick, he shouldn’t be stressing himself out any more than he has to. There’s some money in with the food too.”

Denji nodded slowly, still sluggish. His eyes found one of the bakery’s to-go boxes on the table in front of him—probably the package she’d been talking about—before he turned to meet her gaze. She was sifting between each foot, gaze flickering from him, to Power, to Aki, and the ceiling. 

She clearly wanted to say something. 

Ever the gentleman, Denji spoke. “Say what you wanna say. ‘S not like I’ll be offended.” 

Fujiko’s face crumpled at getting caught, but she focused on him with a breath. 

“If he gets worse, you have to promise to take him to a hospital, okay? If he’s—if he’s really sick, there won’t be anything we can do for him.”

Denji thought of coughed up blood, heart palpitations, and a grave he’d forgotten the name of. 

“I promise.”

Aki would not leave him in the same way. He wouldn’t.  

Fujiko smiled though—all big and relieved, and clearly unburdened. It almost— almost— pissed Denji off. What was she expecting? For him to say no? 

Oh, no, sorry lady, but Powy and I are just waiting until he kicks it, so we can steal his clothes and have one less mouth to share food with.

He knew they weren’t normal by any means, but they weren’t monsters! By the time Fujiko left him to wake the other two, any grogginess that he’d woken with had faded. As he silently fumed, he did a mental game of rock, paper, scissors to see who he’d wake first. When Aki was the winner, Denji’s expression soured. 

How the hell was he supposed to wake him up? 

He was always the one to wake up Denji in the morning, and he hadn’t seen Aki so much as nap. Ever. When they used to wake him up in the old house, they tended to just kick the door in, but he couldn’t exactly do that now. 

“Oi, Topknot, wake up.” He shook the boy’s shoulder. 

It took a good couple of shakes before Aki stirred, and even then, Denji wasn’t sure he was really awake. (It didn’t matter that for a second Denji had thought he’d died—right there on the fucking table and he hadn’t noticed, had in fact just napped, and it was all his—) Aki peeled open an eyelid, but didn’t do much more than close it and groan. 

Waking up Power was easier, all he had to do was yell. 

“Let’s move out! C’mon! You can sleep more when we get back,” he shouted. 

Meowy startled awake, which meant he’d dug his claws into Power’s lap, which did a better job of waking the girl than any kind of poking or prodding, with the added bonus of not having to get attacked. Waking her up regularly led to fighting and scratching, whereas Meowy would always get amnesty from any alleged nap crimes. At the same time that Power sat up in startled wakefulness, Aki did something similar. He must have been out of it enough to not realize that Denji needed to wake Power too, and accidentally got scared. 

Oh well, nothing he could do about it now.

“The Fujikos are packin’ up shop for tonight, we gotta go.”

Power grumbled, and shifted to holding Meowy like a baby on his back, but got to her feet, while Aki stared into space. A hand clapped on his shoulder had Aki jumping to his feet, and a sick feeling curling in Denji’s gut. He would never be as bad as Aki—worrying all the time over dumb things that no one even cared about—but he might have been just a little worried. A smidge. 

No heebie-jeebies or anything like that, just a tinge of worry. 

With Meowy and the box of food secured, the three of them ventured out into the alley, and eventually back to the park. Aki seemed like he’d finally woken up, overtaking Denji on their walk back home, and even taking them on one of his meticulously maze-like routes. 

Denji laughed at himself then, embarrassed, relieved, and tired, at the fact that he’d even worried at all. Damn Topknot’s worrying was rubbing off, making him waste all this time and energy on something useless. Of course Aki was tired—who wouldn’t be? He didn’t get Devil regeneration, he worked all the time, and had probably never lived on the street like this before. Now that he thought about it, Denji should have been worried before he passed out like that. 

When all three of them settled onto their makeshift bed, sleeping bag as a mattress, and another as a blanket, he let himself rest easy. Aki was a little sick, but he’d get work off for the week, they’d still eat, and he’d be good as new by the end of the week. 

Maybe Denji was better at this being responsible for other people thing than he thought he was. 

Decidedly, he was not. 

And maybe, just maybe, he’d underestimated how sick Aki truly was. 

“ Stupid , shitty Topknot—he didn’t say anything last night!”

It was noon, or something near that. Aki still hadn’t woken up—didn’t even know he had work off—and wouldn’t wake up. 

Power knelt on the other side of Aki, looking a little queasy as she read his blood or whatever. 

“Denji he is very ill.”

“Yeah, I can fucking tell.”

She looked at him like she was disappointed, but wasn’t sure how to go about it. “What do you need to make him better?”

“What makes you think I know what to do? Even if I went to get him medicine, I wouldn’t be able to read the bottles—whatever I got him would probably end up killing him before it helped.”

Considering the way that Aki had completely sweat through his clothes, and could barely stay awake long enough to answer a simple question, he might just kick it before Denji made it back. Wrong meds or not, it seemed like nothing could really make him worse. The eldest hadn’t starting throwing up or coughing yet, and even if he did, Denji had serious concerns whether he’d actually be able to or not. 

“Ask the money person,” Power near shouted. “All shops have the money person, and they know everything.” 

The money Fujiko had given them burned in his pocket, as did her warning to take him to a hospital if things got too bad. It was bad, but not that bad right? 

“Okay,” Denji nodded. “I’ll ask the cashier. I won’t be gone long. Just make sure if he hurls he’s on his side. You’re in charge until I get back.” 

In the time it took for Power to crawl over to where Denji had been perched before, he’d already managed to lace his shoes and take off towards the sidewalk. 

It pissed him off, because the only reason he knew where the nearest pharmacy was was because of Aki. For the first month after they’d settled in the playground, he pointed out the pharmacies, grocery stores, and doctor’s offices on the streets they walked, every single time they passed by. It was like he fucking planned for all this! 

The thought stopped him in his tracks. Had Aki actually planned for this? Did he know he was sick for that long?

When he started walking again, Denji had picked up his pace. 

Aki couldn’t have known. Denji hardly knew when he was coming down with something until he’d already come down with it, and it’s not like the Fiend and the Devilman were going to need to hit the corner store at any point. 

But Future could’ve told him. Future could’ve shown him something. 

But that didn’t make any sense! Who just got so fucking sick—randomly—that they died? As helpful as Future had been up until now, she was still a Devil, and Denji didn’t trust her as easily as he could kill her. 

What kind of disease killed you in a couple of days? 

This entire thing had been fucked from the start, from Ms.               , to Reze, to Hell, to this whole mess, it felt like they were c—

No.

It couldn’t be Curse. 

Topknot had more time than this. He would’ve said something if he’d known. Wasn’t their contract voided? If Curse wasn’t still breathing down his neck, shouldn’t he be able to live longer? 

Aki would have told us, he reasoned. He’s just sick. He’s not dying.

He hadn’t realized he was standing inside the pharmacy until the kid behind the counter called out. “Can I, uh, help you with something?”

“Yeah… can you get me your best stuff for a fever?”

The kid looked at him weird, but ultimately nodded. He stepped out from behind the cash register and made her way into the pharmacy in the back, leaving Denji alone in the front of the store. The blonde shifted from foot to foot, trying to ignore the awful music being played over the speaker. He was so distracted, he didn’t even notice the lady enter the store behind him, until she was practically looming over him. 

“Excuse me, do you work here?”

At that moment, Denji wanted to change everything about himself that made her even think that he worked in a shithole like this place. “No.”

Tall, short haired, and well-endowed, if it were any other time, he probably would have been nicer to her. Maybe tried to do something and get a hug—but he didn’t really feel like he wanted to. Even if he’d managed to get in for a feel, it’d be ruined by fucking Topknot’s corpse hanging over his shoulder. 

All thoughts of attraction seemingly shattered when she spoke next. 

“Sorry to bother, then, but would you mind helping me find something?” She smiled, like the mobsters used to. “I don’t come here often, but you look like a local.” 

Once more, Denji said no.  

At that, the lady seemed taken aback. 

(Take that! Pochita seemed to cheer. We’re not your bitch anymore!)

The woman simply turned on her heel and disappeared into the nearest aisle, leaving Denji to continue ignoring the music, and waiting for the cashier to return. Though he wasn’t known for his patience, Denji felt like he’d been waiting for hours. He tapped his fingers against the counter at least a hundred times before he stormed off towards the pharmacy counter. Leaning over it, he couldn’t see the cashier, which was the final straw. 

“What’s taking so long, man? How hard is it to find a bottle of pills?” he shouted, slamming a hand on the counter. “I don’t have all day!” 

The same painful song played on the speaker, and the cashier didn’t show. 

“Are you kidding me?”

He sucked in a breath to yell something else, when it got caught in his throat. He coughed, tears instantly filling his eyes as he desperately tried to suck in a breath. After his third unsuccessful attempt, his vision started to spot. Denji’s brain bluescreened, turning into a mantra of oh shit, as he willed himself to breathe. 

All he could think about was Captain Kishibe choking the life out of him that first day they met—reliving the pain and panic of dying all over again. 

Denji was on the offensive against something, because this wasn’t normal. He wasn’t freaking out, or at least he wasn’t freaking out before. His vision was tunneling quickly, and his knees were starting to shake. In a last ditch attempt to do something—anything—he pushed away from the counter and tried to walk towards the store’s exit. 

He didn’t even make it halfway before his legs gave out from under him. He put one hand in front of the other, ignorant to the sweat rolling down his temples, and the disgusting sound of his throat closing in on itself. When Denji couldn’t make his limbs move besides a dull tremor, he lay on his stomach against the floor. 

When his vision disappeared, he finally lost control of his muscles, and died.

He heard her. 

“I’ve got the chainsaw one.”

When the sun set, and Denji hadn’t returned, Power knew something had happened. 

Nothing had blown up, there weren’t helicopters, and the playground hadn’t been raided, but something had happened. Meowy had curled up against Aki hours ago, and refused to move unless he moved too. 

Topknot woke up for a short time though, clearly still sick, but was well enough to realize Denji wasn’t there. He’s even asked about work, which Power had the express delight of telling him he did not have to attend. Despite it all, Aki tried to get dressed and go find Denji. 

“He shouldn’t be off on his own.”

To everything Power tried to say, Aki just repeated his previous statement. 

“Then I’ll go get him. We both can,” she reasoned. 

Power wasn’t expecting him to say yes, but he did, and she wasn’t going to fight him. After all, he wasn’t going to make it far. He needed to sit and pant when he dismounted the play structure—the eight or so steps having nearly wiped him out. When Topknot beckoned her over to help him walk, she played along. Watching humans do stupid things was always entertaining, and she was almost impressed at the distance he was covering, but the feeling quickly dissipated. 

When she felt grass under her feet, Topknot’s knees hit the ground, and he wretched for a long enough time that Power felt the need to crouch at his side. She knew he wouldn’t be making in to the pharmacy, since she couldn’t tell whether Aki left barefoot with her because he didn’t think he could lace his shoes, or if he hadn’t realized he’d forgotten them. The boy’s arms started to shake before long, and Power knew he’d collapse shortly. She merely looped her arms underneath his, and dragged him back towards the play structure. 

“You humans are so predictable,” she tutted. “You never know when to stop.” 

From then on, Topknot drifted in and out of consciousness. 

The next time he broke through, she managed to get him to drink some water, and the time after he was hungry. He seemed to forget that Denji was gone, but that was alright. She was in charge, and he wouldn’t go stumbling off while she stood watch. Even as night overtook the sky, Power stood vigil, hoping that Denji would come stumbling out of the forest, bloody but okay, and with a story for her to laugh at. But he didn’t. 

And his scent was starting to fade. And if something had happened to him, she was running out of time to be able to track him down. She knelt by Meowy, shaking Topknot until she could meet his eyes. 

“I’m going to find Denji,” she said slowly. “I will be back before morning, okay? You just sleep.”

He narrowed his eyes, as if he didn’t quite understand what she was saying. He nodded once before closing his eyes, and sleeping once again. 

Power sighed in disappointment, but continued nonetheless. She was saddened that he wouldn’t realize how incredible she was while she was in charge—saving Denji, getting his meds, and nursing him back to health—but she’d have all the time in the world to gloat about it later. Power ran down the list of things she needed to do before she left, taking care to do each one well. 

She put on clean socks before her sneakers, and laced them with two knots. She left the water and food by Topknot’s side, and even pushed his hair away from his face the way she’d seen Denji do earlier. Power was being clever too—just like Aki always told them to be. She took out one of Aki’s earrings, and replaced it with one made of her blood. This way she would know where he was if he crawled off somewhere while she was away. She’d also know if he got any worse. 

Despite what Denji would complain, Power was just as smart as the rest of them. Even moreso. Denji might’ve known more human things, but she knew how to survive better than any of them. She’d never needed people, and she didn’t now. 

When she started down the stairs, Meowy yowled at her, ears flicking in displeasure. 

“I know,” she whined. “But you can’t come with. I believe a battle awaits.”

Meowy perched on the edge of the step, his tail curling around his paws. He licked his chops. 

He was clearly displeased, but didn’t want to travel with her. He didn’t want her to go, and she couldn’t say she was excited to leave him behind. But they respected each other enough to let one another do what they needed. 

“You are in charge until I return. Take care of Topknot until Denji can do so again. The monster-men of this world are weak, should there be a battle, I will not be long.” 

Meowy sneezed, and Power stood to her full height. 

“We’ll show them that we’re the strongest and most responsible!”

With a deep breath, the fiend took off, and Meowy returned to Aki’s side.

He rubbed his cheek against the side of the boy’s face, but he did not stir. 

When Power traced Denji’s scent to the pharmacy, she was overtaken by the rotting smell of poison. While the store had been emptied of it, it clung to every surface like a membrane. Denji had been overpowered by the poison, evident by the way his smell was so strong. Power wasted no time, kicking in the door, and approaching the money-person behind the counter. 

He jumped, hands above his head in paltry surrender. 

“Please!” he cried, “Don’t hurt me!”

A wicked smile cracked across Power’s face as she stalked up to him, reveling in the unadulterated fear that leaked out of him. 

“Oh? Now isn’t this interesting,” she cooed. “I didn’t come in brandishing a weapon, yet you’re afraid.”

The boy began shaking in earnest, eyes growing shiny.

“So you must know who I am, and why I’m here.”

A bead of sweat, tears, or some other kind of human fluid dripped from his chin. Power leant over the counter, her face only inches away from where the boy had pressed himself against the wall. The laugh that left her lips was gentle—probably the gentlest thing she’d done since she arrived. 

“Where is he, and what did you do with him?” 

The boy’s face crumpled as he gasped between cries. “I-I just did what—what they said. He came in, an I, I called them. And I left. I don’t know. I didn’t to anything to him. I swear, please!”

She blinked once, twice, but didn’t think he’d lied. “Who is they, then?”

“The Hero Commission,” he whispered. “They went to every business. Please, just let me go. I’m begging you.”

At that, she pulled away. She had one knee on top of the counter, half-kneeling, half-climbed over, but settled back onto her haunches. “And where would I find this Heroics Commission?” 

“In town, I-I don’t know the, like, the address, but it’s over there. I’ve never been, I don’t really…” 

“You have been forthcoming, and you have groveled for your life well,” she decided. “Do not speak of me to anyone, or your death will be long and gruesome. Am I clear?” 

The boy nodded his head so sharply that he knocked it against the display behind him, which was hilarious in itself, but Power quickly realized that the display was holding cigarettes. The familiar blue box poked out from behind the boy’s head, and Power pounced. 

Despite not having been more than grazed, the boy collapsed on the floor with a wail, sobbing so hard that it vibrated through the floor. The Fiend just bellowed with laughter. Aki had not had his daily cigarette since they’d come here—no wonder he was so ill. Surely one of his favorite treats would put some life back in him. It felt like her plan was falling into place, that it was getting better with every moment. She ought to be responsible more often, it was entertaining! 

Power hopped over the counter and left, sniffing the air and pocketing the box. If things kept going her way, she’d be home before midnight, let alone daybreak. 

This is too easy!

When Aki came to, the sun was shining, his head was pounding, and Meowy was looking down at him. It wasn’t a herculean effort to sit up, but it was certainly harder than it had any right being. When he was finally settled the way he wanted to be, he nearly doubled over. A wave of sickness so cutting, and sudden had him almost doubled over. 

Power and Denji were gone. 

He pushed himself to his feet, looking over the edge of the playground, searching the trees, and the swingset, yet they weren’t there. He was at a complete loss. Bereft, and completely lost, he slid down the wall until he was sitting down again. 

Aki had been hit in the head quite a few times in his lengthy career as a devil hunter. He’d come out of it, ultimately, a lot better than most other hunters. If he disregarded the shortened lifespan, the one arm was nothing compared to most retirees. Most of them were ejected from the force, rather than retired, because they’d taken a few too many hits to the head. He’d also seen a few too many lose it. 

He felt like he was. 

Losing it—that is. And by it, he meant his mind, general sanity, and rationality. 

Because it was more than apparent that Power and Denji were gone. (But they would never just up and abandon him.)

There was no blood, no carnage, no SWAT team waiting for him, so they both had just walked away. (They wouldn’t leave him. Not without a word. They would gloat—or at least Power would. She would want him to suffer.)

Aki had lost time. He didn’t know how long it had been. (They could be dead already.)

Future, where are they?

He waited for a response, even pushed against where Future lived in his mind, yet the Devil didn’t budge. Didn’t laugh, didn’t even twitch. And Aki saw red. 

It didn’t matter that it was cold, that moving was an agony she was hoping to avoid, but she couldn’t help it. The raucous laughter that shook her frame, wet with blood as it was, warmed her more than any blanket or ray of light could have. 

“He’s awake,” she howled. “You lot’ll have Hell to pay!” 

In the observation deck, Keigo’s feathers ruffled. 

“What do you want done with them, ma’am?”

The president stared at the villain, unphased by the girl’s screamed threats. The president seemed almost disappointed. She tsked lightly before exiting the room. 

“Keep them alive. After all, we’re waiting on one more.” 

The door was shut cleanly behind her before he responded, but he still spoke the affirmative mechanically. 

The girl in the cold room continued to squeal in delight, humming here and there, and letting her voice bounce off the walls. “No mercy!”

Keigo had a feeling that the HPSC was in for more than they’d bargained for. But that was the job. He sighed. 

“Roger.”

Chapter Text

Aki could still remember the first person he saw someone die. It was not in public safety, and it was not his family. Not his mom, dad, or brother kind-of-family, but still technically, technically family. 

His grandmother had been old for as long as he had known her, all knobby knuckles and wrinkles and glasses—and had died early enough that Taiyo only knew her through photographs and stories. But Aki had known her when she was still herself, when she could still play cards like nobody’s business, and that even though she needed some help getting around, she could still sneak him treats after he’d brushed his teeth. 

Katsuri, for the eight or so years that Aki had spent summers at her house, had died in the hospital, silently, pleasantly, and all together uneventfully at the age of ninety six. 

Inarguably—least of all by her own words—it was her time to go. But Aki didn’t want her to. 

Though his parents had stepped out of her room to attend to an ever sickening Taiyo, Aki stayed by her side. Katsuri had motioned with her eyes that he ought to go with them, but Aki was just learning how to dig in his heels, and so he stayed. Somehow, she must have known she was going to die, because that was exactly what she did. She had tried her best to spare him the moment of loss, but there was nothing else she could have done. So she did it. 

Grandma Katsuri closed her eyes and passed away. 

It was at that moment that Aki figured he understood something. Something clicked into place—or maybe a new piece was added?—and Aki would let it fester. 

Katsuri had died in front of him, and instead of calling someone to help, or telling someone, Aki sat in silence and thought to himself I don’t care if it’s your time. I don’t care if you’re tired. I don’t want you to go. He sat patiently and waited until his father returned. 

This small, interesting little part of himself, it wasn’t broken. That was important. Quite possibly the most important thing to take away from all of this—that thing that Katsuri had given Aki was not broken. It was just different, and it was powerful. 

The Part was kind, yet sometimes not, but always told him new things. 

Taiyo is too sick to do anything. If you let him keep overdoing it to be close to you, you’ll just run his clock out faster. 

Aki shrugged, wiping sweat from his brow. Taiyo had collapsed so far behind him that Aki had lost sight, as he just kept running and running and running and runn—

Do you want him to die sooner?

Aki’s feet didn’t stop, but his mind was made up. He decided right then and there that he did not wish that his brother would die a quicker death, because he wanted the boy to be next to him. He did not want to be left alone again. 

By his parents who had other matters—other children to attend to.

By his grandma, who could not bear the pain of being present. 

By his brother, who couldn’t keep up. 

They aren’t leaving you, The Part tried to tell him. You’re all just going in different directions. It’s not their fault.

Aki’s foot caught on a spindly root, and he crashed onto the ground. Splayed out in the dirt, knees and hands bleeding, face covered in sweat soaked dust, Aki did not know what he was feeling. He could have yelled if he wanted to, a noise that was great and ugly, something that burned so deep his very guts wanted him to expel it. He could’ve cried, too—sobbed so hard he’d pass out from lack of air and choke to death on his own tears. It did not change the fact that Aki wanted to scratch at the itch that lined his insides and rid himself of the infernal buzzing that never seemed to leave him be. 

He wanted to get rid of it all, empty himself out, because it was all too much. Too fast, too bright, too loud, too Aki to survive. All Hayakawa Aki, all first of his class, perfect son, trouble maker, disappointment, terrible older brother, neglected child, angry, depressed, resentful, pitying, exhausted, manic, I need to get out of here before I freak out, if-I-so-much-as-move-the-walls-will-come-down-atop-me. 

“What direction am I going in?” he asked The Part. Which was really just himself. (Which was no one.)

Aki talked to no one but himself, asking the real questions, to which no one—which was himself—responded. 

No one ever responded. 

Especially, and most importantly, when the people you were asking were gone. 

Grandma Katsuri had never answered his question. (“Do you want me to close the shades?”)

Tanaka, the first rookie he had ever trained, did not respond to his walkie summons, because her lungs had been ripped out alongside her spine. (“Do you want to get ramen after our shift?”)

Himeno didn’t reply to any of the letters he never mailed her. (“Why didn’t you leave public safety for yourself?”)

Denji and power could not answer him, because they too were gone. (“Why did you go?”)

All of this sort of seemed to pool together as Aki confronted the fact that he was alone again. It was not the fact that he’d panicked so hard he threw up again, nor that his hands were so unsteady he was unable to pull his own hair back. No, the gasping, shaking, and chest-pulling fear didn’t get his shit together, The Part did. 

Rearing its ugly head from within him, it didn’t even speak. It did not point him towards an emotion, nor did it try to guide him. It merely took up its bedside vigil within him, and waited for him to connect the dots. It didn’t need words to get its point across. 

That Different feeling was back. The not-quite-selfishness, the not-stupidity-because-he-really-thought-he-could-do-it, the delusional thought that if he knew something to happen hard enough that it would was choking him. 

Aki knew that Power and Denji would not leave him—so they didn’t. They couldn’t have. They were taken. And the very fact that they’d been nabbed and hadn’t broken out and come back to him meant that this place (and its people) were packing some firepower. The Devilman and Fiend were virtually unkillable, and the only thing that would truly stop them would be their own bodies’ limits, which required people powerful enough to damage them. 

As clever as he was, Aki could not go up against power like that. The authorities were a no-go, as were the Fujikos, which just left Aki with interested third-parties. He’d be lucky to find enemies of whoever had captured Denji and Power, but as helpful as it’d be, he didn’t have the time to be building relationships or scouting groups. He needed results, now. 

Do it. Do something different.

He thought it like a prayer. A Novina. 

Aki clapped his hands twice, and pressed his forehead to the ground in the most reverent bow he could perform. 

“I would like to make a deal,” he spoke. “Take it or leave it, I would like to make a deal.”

Keigo had no fucking clue what to make of the two new additions to the HPSC’s high observation wing, which was a lot of fancy words for Private Government Prison, but hey, there was a reason he wasn’t in marketing. 

If their intel was accurate, the girl’s name was Power, and she was a Fiend—capital F Fiend— and the Blood Fiend at that, while the boy’s name was Denji and he was something like Power, but not exactly. Neither were full blooded humans, that was for sure, but what they actually were was turning out to be a bit of a mystery. 

The Hero Public Safety Commission used to be a couple words shorter a couple hundred years ago: Public Safety. The damn near prehistoric predecessor of the HPSC existed before villains, before quirks, and apparently during the era of Devils. Knowledge of Devils, for some reason, was practically expunged from common record, and laughed at for the decades that followed. All knowledge of Devils was suppressed to the point that Devils almost didn’t exist anymore—they’d all essentially faded, or stayed in their home dimension. 

The only surviving records of Devils lived within the walls of the HPSC, and existed in the form of old paperwork. They weren’t too fruitful in the definition and overall summarizing of knowledge, but boy, were those Devil hunter freaks meticulous. Death counts, battle recordings, Devil deals, chain of command, personnel locations—every minute detail was chronicled in precise handwriting on crisp paper. 

And while the devil was in the details, it was truly maddening when one needed to know something general—like the difference between a Devil, a Fiend, and a contract-bearing human. 

The intel that Madam President had supplied him with specifically showed Power stating that she was the Blood Fiend, but Keigo had no clue what to do with that nugget of information. She loved to talk, but she never really said much. And there wasn’t a lot he could do with the information—sure, he could say that as a Fiend she was less powerful than the true Blood Devil, but that said nothing to her current capacity. (Was she the Blood Devil-turned Fiend, or did a Blood Devil still exist, and she was only a part of it? What made a Devil into a Fiend? Why would a Devil want to be a Fiend in the first place, if they were weaker?)

It was just frustrating. 

He’d wanted to ask the Denji kid what his deal was, but once he started to wake up from the paralytic he’d been subdued with, he started to freak out. In the two minutes of consciousness that Denji had scraped together, he’d severely wounded three heroes in the top one hundred rankings, and they’d been forced to put him back down. 

Either he had one crazy deal, or he was part-Devil- something . 

Sitting in the observation deck, shuffling through papers, Keigo watched impassively as Power shuddered. Since she’d come in guns blazing, they were permitted to neutralize her in a more public and violent manner, but nothing too crazy. They suspected that getting her cold enough would prevent blood circulation and weaken her, but they hadn’t expected to be right to this degree. Locked in a freezer, set to a toasty -40F, Power was able to do little else but shiver. She had summoned a weapon earlier, emboldened by the impending arrival of the third Devilish oddity, and tried to slash through the metal walls. The moment her blade made contact with the wall, it practically shattered in her grasp.

She remained curled up in a ball in the center of the room, twitching, murmuring, and occasionally laughing. It was a bit presumptuous to comment on someone else’s mental state without regard for their past but…it was hard to believe anything except for the fact that she was so far off her rocker, Keigo didn’t think she’d ever had one. 

He was rifling through the pages before him, perusing the records on a previous iteration of the Blood Fiend, when a slow knocking pulled his attention. It was Power, rapping a curled and blackened fist against the floor. 

“Knock, knock,” she intoned. “Someone’s at the door.”

If Keigo hadn’t seen the fit she’d worked herself into when their third party member “woke up,” he wouldn’t have been as suspicious. But he was, and he couldn’t let it be. A single tap on his earpiece had him connected with the folks in the security office. 

“This is Hawks. Have you folks seen any interesting characters yet? Recently?”

He waited in silence for longer than he should have before they responded. 

“Yeah, we were just about to give you a ring. There’s a kid in the lobby who’s demanding to speak to the person with the highest clearance. Kept saying he was looking for his siblings. Honestly, if you won’t talk to him, we oughta call an ambulance because he looks half a second from keeling over.”

Power knocked once more. 

“Take the kid to the fifth floor meeting room, and evacuate the rest of the building of non-essential personnel. I’m heading over now.” 

A quiet you go it chimed in Keigo’s ear, as he came to terms with the fact that he would be going up against—for all intents and purposes—another Devil. That Denji kid had been wild when he’d woken, and subduing Power was no walk in the park. Frankly, the duo had been the two most challenging individuals Keigo had crossed swords with in years. The thought made his feather puff up, and his skin crawl. 

He had fought Devils in the past, but they were always paltry things, more mutant than threat. Sure, the Radish Devil could have swallowed someone whole, but the monster couldn’t even defend itself. One slice and it had practically exploded. These two— three— were not like that. 

(It brought back the memory of kneeling against the stone of a storage facility, staring at the figure of someone he knew was a Devil, but had no indication of being one. His entire squadron had been wiped out, leaving him wounded, breathless, and vulnerable. They had looked at him, just stared, as Keigo panted and tried to push himself into a kind of defensive stance. They seemed to find whatever it was they were looking for, because they turned on their heel and left. Not a single word was spoken, yet Keigo could never forget the all-consuming feeling of danger that had enveloped him that day.)

But that was the job. And he had a meeting room to be getting to. 

He spared one final glance towards where Power was shivering below, and was surprised to find her eyes locked on him. He took a half step backwards, shocked, as her eyes followed him. The glass of the observatory was a one way mirror, meaning she shouldn’t have been able to tell he was there, let alone if he had moved. 

Sharp teeth poked out from beneath cracked lips. 

“Topknot is very impatient, you shouldn’t keep him waiting.” 

Lacking anything to say, and feeling just a little rattled, Keigo left the observation deck, and made sure the door was locked behind him. Just in case. The elevator that took him to the fifth floor was too slow for his taste (just like most other elevators). He far preferred flying everywhere, but it wasn’t very professional, according to the guys up top, so he bowed his head and made it happen. 

As he crossed the floor towards the meeting room, stepping out of the elevator, he was met by a couple of the other high ranking HPSC workers. (And by workers, he meant other wards of the state whose hands were tied like his.) Highlight was walking with him on his left, while Pinpoint was on his right. 

Highlight filled him in on what he’d missed so far: that the kid looked a bit older than the others, said his name was Hayakawa Aki—which was either fake or all traces of him had been erased—and that he was here to pick up his siblings, Hayakawa Denji and Power , that he was deathly ill by the looks of it, and was all around just kind of bizarre. Not in the way that the other two were, but in the he’s almost normal by comparison, but something is wrong with that kid kind of way. 

“No evidence of a quirk,” she added. “And he has yet to exhibit any kind of ability like Denji’s.”

Keigo nodded. “And Pinpoint, what’s your take?”

“He ain’t all there,” the younger responded. 

Keigo nodded once again, the picture starting to build in his mind. Their boots continued to clunk down the hall until the trio stood outside the meeting room. Keigo took a breath, allowing the facade of Hawks to slide into place, softening his grin and tone just slightly. 

“The kid with the lie detector quirk is all set on coms, right?”

When he was met with twin nods, he pushed into the conference room and braced for the worst. Highlight followed, her slight form momentarily blocking Pinpoint’s, before he too entered. The boy—Hayakawa—was seated at the conference table in the dead center, eyes closed and head tilted back into the large office chair. Though he was visibly older than the other two Devils, he was still a high schooler. His shirt was a few sizes too big and gaping at the neckline, while his hair had seen better days. 

It was either one hell of a treacherous journey for him to get here, or he’d been “sleeping” for a lot longer than Hawks had assumed. The three were able to completely settle at the table, Hawks across from Hayakawa, and flanked by the heroes without Hayakawa noticing. The boy didn’t react until Hawks cleared his throat, and the kid practically peeled his eyelids from his eyes. 

Hayakawa blinked a few times, before lowering his chin in recognition. “I was beginning to wonder if I’d been stood up.”

Hawks laughed, something a bit unexpected and sharp. 

“No, no, I was just a few floors away. The elevators here are a bit slow.”

“I noticed.”

The boy’s response was quick, like he honestly had noticed. In his ear, a soft voice intoned truth, courtesy of one of the HPSC’s many lie detecting quirks. Clearly, Hayakawa was willing to play ball—and perhaps answer a few questions. 

Their conversation had lapsed slightly, but Hawks was ready to fill in the gaps. 

“Your name’s Hayakawa Aki, right? Do you mind if I call you Aki?”

The boy looked him up and down, and would’ve sneered if his face were capable of it. “I don’t care. What do I call you?”

It was Hawks’s turn to blink in private disbelief, and at his sides, Pinpoint and Highlight reacted similarly. What kind of kid—high schooler—didn’t know a top ten hero who’d solidly been in their spot (and the media) for a couple years?

The Devil kind, his mind supplied. 

“I’m Hawks,” he said smoothly, not daring to patronize the boy, or alert him to the fact that he was tipping his hand. “And these are my coworkers, Highlight,” he motioned to the pale haired woman, “and Pinpoint,” he nodded to the gruff man only a year his junior. “We’re pro heroes.” 

The boy nodded slowly, as if the words were taking a few extra moments to settle within him. He looked to his left, turning his head slightly, as if he were searching for something. Aki’s gaze settled in the middle distance, safely avoiding all of them. His leg bobbed underneath the table.

“Good. My brother and sister have been kidnapped, and I would like them to be rescued and returned to me. That seems like a job for heroes, Hawks, doesn’t it?”

Truth echoed in his ear like an empty condemnation. 

“I hate to inform you of this, but your brother and sister are ill. We believe your sister has been possessed by someone’s quirk, and is incredibly violent because of it. Your brother’s situation is a bit unclear, but we think he’s suffering from something similar—he nearly killed three people,” Hawks winced. 

The heroes at his sides nodded grimly, as if they were sympathizing with the terrible news he’d just relayed. The room was silent save for the soft sound of the air conditioning running, as Aki continued to avoid their gazes. The seconds ticked by, the boy not so much as flinching, until he lazily turned to meet Hawks’s eyes. 

“They aren’t possessed. That’s just how they are. They tend to fight when they’re nabbed by scary strangers. They’re just kids, after all,” Aki spoke. “Don’t you think children should be able to fight for themselves, Hawks?” 

Three times, the voice whispered truth.  

“Not when they’re apprehended by the authorities,” Hawks shrugged. 

This only made Aki hum. His arm twitched, like he hadn’t expected to be touched. 

“I request that you take me to them.”

“No can do.”

Hawks raised his hands in mock surrender, nonchalant, despite the fact that Aki was clearly going to grow frustrated. Hawks was playing it cocky and blase, hoping to get his fingers under the boy’s skin. Aki seemed immune to it though, face ever impassive, yet his condition fragile. 

“The big wigs are worried about this becoming a mass hysteria event. If it affected both of your siblings, it could affect you next. We’re trying to preserve the peace here.”

This whole conversation was a joke, it was a comedy of errors. Aki knew he wasn’t going to walk out of this room, yet he didn’t seem the kind to fight. Aki knew the Commission was holding Denji and Power here, yet he walked in anyways. He also seemed to understand that the duo were Devils—or at this point, didn’t care that they were.

In the gap while Aki tried to figure a new way to enunciate his will, Highlight tried her own tactic at information gathering. 

“You’re looking awfully pale, Aki. Are you feeling alright?” she spoke with a lilt that Hawks assumed was supposed to be matronly. “Can I get you something to drink?” 

Aki did not look away from Hawks as he almost— almost— smiled. 

“Oh, no, I feel awful. I’ve been sick with worry, and I’m currently suffering from extreme blood loss. I don’t think your weak, bottled water will make me feel better.” He finally turned cold, blue eyes towards her. “But getting to see my siblings would assuage a great amount of grief and anxiety.”

The bait was laid out, but none of the heroes were going to bite. Hawks was getting a bad feeling. Aki’s face was a simulacrum of anxiety. 

(Truth, the comm wavered.)

What might have been genuine concern bled into Highlighter’s voice when she spoke. “Blood loss? Are you hurt?” 

For the first time since Aki had awoken from his slumber, the boy shifted. He pulled his hands, which had been dangling at his sides the entire time, in front of him, face wrinkling in discomfort. He held his hands to his chest, pressing one against the other as he blinked his expression back to serenity. 

“Just cut the shit.” 

She shook her head slightly, “What are you—”

“—Don’t play dumb. You would all be imbeciles if you didn’t know what Devils were. You’re clearly interested in Denji and Power because you know what Devils are. I’ll answer whatever you ask, only if when you’ve run out of questions you release my siblings.”

(Truth.)

Highlight was frozen, unsure how to respond. It gave Hawks the opportunity to lead the conversation again. He didn’t hesitate for even a moment to take the deal. Neither of the trio would see daylight again, that much was true, but if Aki was willing to talk, Hawks would be more than happy to lend an ear. “You’ve got a deal.”

The boy merely shrugged. “Then shoot.”

“What is Denji?” Pinpoint cut in. “Fiend, or Devil?”

“Neither,” Aki spoke. “You’ll never find it in Public Safety’s records—if they’re even still around—but he’s a Devilman. Not fully human, not fully Devil, and certainly not a fiend. They were uncommon even when people knew about Devils.”

The boy’s leg continued to bob, gaining enough speed and force to gently shake the table. Truth, sounded in Hawks’s ear. 

Pinpoint leaned forward, “Then what are you?” 

Aki seemed disappointed by the question. “Human. All the way.” 

Truth.

“Your quirk then? Power’s and Denji’s?” Highlight chipped in. 

This time, Aki actually grimaced. “None. Not a single quirk between the three of us.” 

Truth.

While meeting quirkless people wasn’t necessarily a rarity—and they did tend to know one another—it seemed odd. It was true though, which was the stranger thing. Devil abilities, at least to Aki, didn’t count as quirks. 

“Then what contracts do you have?” Hawks asked. “Surely a quirkless, regular human couldn’t live alongside two Devils.”

Aki’s gaze was downright murderous by the time Hawks finished. Lips curled, and brow lowered, Hawks had clearly struck something. “Most of my contracts have expired, but I still have one.”

The table waited for him to continue, to tell who it was with, but the boy merely scoffed. 

(Lie, chimed Hawks’s earpiece.)

Hawks crossed his arms. “You said you’d answer anything we asked.”

Feigning concern, Aki frowned. “Oh, I did say that, didn’t I? You also said you’d release Denji and Power, but that was never going to happen.”

“Then why answer questions in the first place?”

Playful showmanship quickly dissolved into condescension. “To see how much you knew.” 

Hawks laughed slightly, nothing more than a puff of air. True, they had to tip their hand in his direction, but by doing so, Aki cemented their want for him. He solidified himself as a person of interest—someone who knew far too much about what they needed to figure out. 

“You wanted to know about my contract. I’ll be kind enough to show you.”

Aki pulled back the sleeve to his left arm, revealing raw flesh, barely concealed by over-bloody bandages. Blood was bright against his pale skin, and dark where it was wetting the fabric. The boy’s entire forearm—all the way around—was completely, and cleanly, stripped of skin. What the fuck. 

“There’s nothing in particular you need to know about them. They’re done at the discretion of the human and Devil. The person must possess something to give, and in exchange, the Devil will perform its part. If the Devil fails to do its part after taking from the human, it is sent directly to Hell. If the human is no longer able to hold up their part, the contract is voided.”

(Truth.)

Aki blinked at them like he wasn’t in agony and actively bleeding, just restrained, and calm. Hawks was officially suspicious, as was Pinpoint, who had shifted away from the boy after his arm was revealed. Highlight opened her mouth to say something—probably to offer medical equipment—but Aki beat her to it. 

“Most people die before that, though. So, to put it plainly. The only thing any of you need to know about contracts is that I possess them, and this Devil hasn’t left my side since I forged it.”

(Truth.)

The sentence settled over the room like a fog, leaving the three heroes with a sense of growing dread. Instantly, Hawks was on high alert. Sure, the kid was weird, but he didn’t feel there’s a Devil on my shoulder weird. Hawks had squared off against a good amount of Devils, and they all shared a kind of malicious energy—it was clear they wanted him dead, and so did he. Whatever Devil Aki had wrangled, clearly didn’t feel the same way. Aki laughed a mirthless chuckle and actually let his face pull itself in a facsimile of a smile. 

“You’re in so deep, you don’t know how far above your head all this shit really is.”

“Then tell us,” Hawks spoke, all joy gone from his tone. “Give us a clue.”

When Aki looked at him, a series of actions that would follow Hawks to his grave occurred. 

Between one moment and the next, Aki was on his feet. Pinpoint, whose quirk could cause his desired target to have a stroke within a certain distance, stiffened. His limbs, which had been by his sides, were suddenly pressed so tightly against his frame that he wheezed. And like a horror movie, his body continued to contort, until bones snapped, flesh split, and Pinpoint’s skull and neck gave way to a burst of bloody confetti. His mangled, crushed corpse collapsed out of his chair with a wet smack, dead before he could even activate his quirk.

Painted by blood, Hawks breathed for longer than Pinpoint’s death had lasted, before looking towards Aki. The boy looked unimpressed. 

“Did you see her?” he asked.

When Hawks’s face turned into a mask of utter confusion, the boy sighed. 

“That’s how out of your depth you people are. I didn’t kill him, a Devil did, but you people are so blind to Devils that they could rip your guts out and you’d never know.”

(Through the hyperventilating and shouted orders in his earpiece, Hawks heard a sobbed truth.)

Grandma Katsuri had known that she was going to die, and Aki didn’t understand it at the time, but he’d finally figured it out. There was a sort of hush that overtook the universe when someone was about to die, and Aki was tuned into it. Wired. He heard it like a pulse. 

He felt his face moving without his permission, glee beginning to crawl up his cheeks and sink into his eyes. He wasn’t happy that that hero had died, but the guy probably deserved it. He, in fact, did, because he was keeping Aki from getting to Denji and Power. 

In that moment, Kishibe was sitting at one end of the table, sipping sake and asking questions, and Aki was              , grinning like a loon and knowing more than anyone could have conceived. Aki was holding all of the answers, all of the power, and all of the questions. He could have laughed. 

(In fact, he thinks he did.)

It was hard to think when everything was happening all at once. 

Hawks was brandishing a featherlike sword, Highlight was starting to glow, and Pinpoint’s blood was pooling on the carpet. Flower petals that only he could see rained down upon him, gathering in his hair and on his shoulders, coating the room in a fine, velvety snow. 

By the time Hawks had come to his senses and was in a defensive stance, Highlight had already tried to advance. A small blade of light protruded from her palm, as she jumped over the table towards Aki, brandishing it like a knife. The boy, who looked sick enough to be bowled over by a strong wind, side-stepped her, pulled her off-balance with a single hand, and used her momentum to impale her on her own blade as she crashed to the floor. She choked on her own blood loudly, desperately trying to speak through her sliced throat. 

“I could bring this Hero Commission down,” Aki spat. “But I don’t want that. We’re just trying to live. Enjoy ourselves. Feel safe, if we’re lucky. I will not tolerate any further interloping by Public Safety of all things. This is your final warning.”

Hawks made to slash at the boy, but in the last moment, that half a second where he asked himself if he was really about to kill a kid, he saw her. 

A creature with so many limbs, weeping flowers from a tombstone body, stitched smile, and a single luminous eye lay curled around Aki. It gazed upon him with a certain kind of fondness—a familiarity. At Hawks’s inability to fucking move, to do anything at all, the monster turned its gaze towards him. It seemed like the right thing to do, because Aki leaned forward in anticipation. “You can see her,” he said softly, almost surprised. 

A Devil. That thing was a Devil. It could be nothing but.

“You remembered to be afraid.”

Aki laughed louder than Highlight had choked. 

“This world may be good for us, but we are horrible for it,” Aki spoke to no one. 

And just like before, the Devil that had looked upon him with an impassive eye, turned around and left. Keigo was the sole survivor of the encounter, and another Devil had deemed him interesting enough to leave alive. 

He needed a new fucking job. 

As the Devil ambled out of the room, flower heads popping from stems as they squeezed through the doorway alongside the dull sound of flesh upon linoleum, Aki stayed put. The boy brandished no weapon, was swaying on his feet, and utterly unbothered by the sweat pouring down his face. Hawks had never wanted to scream this badly before. He could’ve howled about how unfair this was—what could a human do in the face of a monster? Fear itself? 

What the hell was he supposed to do?  

Aki pointed at Hawks, blood staining the palm of his hand. “Whatever you’re feeling, never forget it. This is what makes you different from us. Not your quirk, not your job, not whatever shitty things happened to you. The difference between me and you is that I honestly don’t care about being afraid any more.”

“When I worked in Public Safety, and all this,” Aki gestured to the two dead heroes at his feet, “happened to me, my teacher told me that the people that scared Devils the most were the crazy ones. All of the sane ones would either quit or get killed, and I’m sorry to say, Hawks, but you’re not crazy enough. And that’s why you’re out of your depth.” 

Aki turned and left, his dark figure burned into space, despite the fact that he’d been gone for minutes. His comm was crackling with different feeds from other HPSC heroes, howling, gurgling, and straining to fight against the boy and his Devil. 

As Keigo’s knees gave out, and he slumped into the nearest chair, he closed his eyes and tried to follow Aki’s warpath. 

(He could still see him standing only a few yards away, genuinely frowning. That was the confusing part—Aki actually seemed saddened by the fact that Keigo couldn’t hack it. There was something else that he said, though, that was burning, and he couldn’t figure out what. He’d said something important. A genuine slip-up on his part.)

“He’s heading towards the basement,” someone shouted. “What do we do?”

In a moment of clarity, Keigo grinned. He tapped the comm, uncaring that his left side was painted by Pinpoint, or that he was seated in a puddle of viscera. 

“Let him.”

“I’m sorry, what was that?”

“Pull away everyone between him and the prisoners. He’ll just kill anyone that gets in his way. Stick a tracker in Denji, then evacuate. We can tail them, and move on from there.”

The displeased silence on the other end didn’t bother him, because Keigo had figured it out. 

Losing the Devil duo would be a loss, not to mention Pinpoint, Highlight, and anyone else who had managed to get themselves killed, but Keigo may have walked away victorious in the end. Hayakawa Aki had worked for Public Safety at one point. He knew about Devils from back in the day. That boy may have been a human, but he certainly didn’t keep human company. He didn’t have a quirk either, just like everyone from pre 2300. 

Hayakawa Aki was a Devil hunter who was just a little far from home, and Keigo had all the documents in the world to prove it. He just needed to find them. 

(If Keigo was grinning, only the security officers could see.)

The other heroes that Aki ran into did not stand a chance. After the first two tried to talk to him, only to be ground into the nearest wall or floor, the others learned to shoot first and ask questions later. That second wave of heroes were more difficult than the first, a few even managing to land hits on him. He wasn’t particularly worried though. Sure, everything was blurry and it was getting increasingly hard to not sway when he stepped, but Aki was feeling good. Really good. Future was back, showing him where the heroes were going to attack before they did, and She was over his shoulder, making sure no one killed him while he was busy. 

The hallway changed for a breath, Future’s vision kicking in, and showing Aki that he was about to be snuck up on. Despite the warning, he couldn’t get his feet to cooperate fast enough. A hero materialized out of the wall Aki had been leaning against, a single gloved hand cracking the boy’s skull against the tile. Aki lost consciousness for a moment, but he woke soon enough. 

“I would like to make a deal,” he spoke. “Take it or leave it, I would like to make a deal.”

He did not raise his head from the ground until he knew there was a presence before him. The Devil did not announce itself, but Aki didn’t mind. Some didn’t have human mouths to speak out of, while others refrained from speaking entirely. 

“I will give you the skin from both of my arms, wrist to elbow, in exchange for protecting me from death and killing intent for the next twenty four hours,” Aki offered. “I may offer other things in the meantime or if the situation worsens, but that is all I can offer for now.” 

A skeletal hand laid itself atop Aki’s head, and though no sound entered his ears, he understood. 

That is not good enough.

It was going to need to be. It had to be. He pushed himself up from the ground, eyes finally rising to the form of the Devil. It’s body was decorated by daisies—chains of the flower crisscrossed the thing’s chest—they rested against it like weeping willow branches. Limbs snaked out from between the strands, hands upon hands upon hands holding it upright. 

A familiar face grinned down at him, sewn in place by coroner’s thread. The Ghost Devil beamed at Aki’s form, gentle hand still resting upon his crown. She looked like she had before he’d killed her, except there was one notable difference—where her eyes were supposed to be sealed shut, the right one was open. A veritable ocean stared back at him, all seafoams, sunsets, and beach-grass framed by wide lashes. Ghost’s hair was shorter this time around, framing her face, and not yet spilling over her shoulders. 

To make a deal with me, you’ll need to offer more than that meager amount of flesh.

Himeno’s voice rang in his head as Ghost wore her face. Aki shivered. He shook like a leaf in the breeze, until his chest grew tight and he realized he was choking. He couldn’t feel his legs—couldn’t breathe. The smell of smoke was too cloying, too fragrant a perfume. Himeno watched him, disappointment permeating every inch of her features. She died, and this is what he became. She sacrificed herself, and Aki threw it away. 

Aki shivered, but he did none of those things. 

He smiled. He laughed. 

Despite the fact that he was staring at the horrific mixing of his former friend and the cause of her death, the cosmic irony wasn’t lost on him. He laughed until he was breathless, until Meowy pressed himself to Aki’s chest, and Aki realized he was sobbing, not laughing. 

Tears sliding down his cheeks, he said, “I can tell you about your past. I know about a previous iteration of the Ghost Devil and the human whose face you wear.” 

The Devil considered him, as much as a being whose expression was sewn to it could. Frayed nails trailed down the side of his face, as another hand smoothed the sweaty bangs out of his face. 

How much do you know? she asked. 

Aki’s teeth flashed in the early morning sun. “Enough.” 

Then it is done.

“What do you want to know?”

He woke with a gasp, his whole body straining against the new waves of pain that reverberated around his skull. If the world had been going blurry at the edges before, it was fully clouded by now. With sweat constantly dripping into his eyes, now mixed with blood from the recent dashing, Aki might as well be walking around with his eyes closed. 

All at once he jumped to his feet, remembering the foe that had done this to him, but strained against the vertigo that threatened to send him back to the floor. Before he could retch or collapse again, boney hands held him upright. 

Ghost was holding a struggling hero between her palms, one open eye trained on Aki’s form, like she wasn’t even worried about the hero breaking free. 

You are struggling, she murmured. Our contract lasts another twenty hours. 

He groaned in response, as he put one foot in front of the other. Power and Denji were so close he could practically feel it. (Maybe that warm sensation of confidence was merely the splash of viscera that painted his back after Ghost ripped the hero in half.)

Two hallways, four heroes, and one more chiding remark from Ghost later, Aki was at a door. It was a very official looking one, with a hatch and a camera. Surely it was locked. As he reached for the handle, the sound of the lock clicking echoed down the hall. Aki didn’t have the mental wherewithal to really question it—so he didn’t. He left bloody handprints everywhere he touched, but he was in. 

It was a cramped little observatory, with a few panels of buttons, a table with papers strewn about, a door tucked on the far end, and a massive wall of windows that looked down into a cell. The buttons had sensors, screens, and a lot of synthetic, blinking lights that pierced directly into Aki’s already throbbing head. His face wrinkled in pain, which wasn’t very fun, as he decided that he’d forgo trying to read any of the sensors anyways. In the center of the cell below, a very familiar shade of pink awaited. 

Though he couldn’t really make out how she was doing, Aki had found Power, and the relief nearly had his knees collapsing. He couldn’t remember climbing to the bottom of the cell—which was actually really concerning the longer he thought about it—but Power was in front of him, and he was kneeling to cup her cheeks with his hands. Her skin felt colder than ice, her eyes frosted over and wide as she stared at him. Her lips peeled apart from one another, blood starting to bubble up from where the skin cracked and peeled, and forced themselves into a smile. 

Aki mirrored her, effortlessly. 

“Okay,” he spoke. “Let’s get you out of here.” 

Though he had only been in the cell for a few moments, Aki’s fingers were numb. They were sluggish as he wrapped them around the younger girl, and threatened to stop bending should he stay in there longer. It was a labor of love getting Power to unfurl, and an even greater one to help her walk. Aki wasn’t ashamed to say he didn’t really understand how frostbite worked, but considering that most of Power’s skin was black, cracked, and bleeding, he assumed movement wasn’t particularly easy. 

He stood behind her nonetheless, half-carrying-half-supporting her up the stairs, until they both collapsed on the floor of the observation deck. She was eerily still, and eerily quiet, but her gaze was intelligent enough. (Power was going to be fine. She had to be. Aki had made it in time—defeated the bad guys, won the battle, and was here to save the day.)

(Somewhere behind them, Taiyo’s laughter echoed against the leather of a catcher’s mitt.)

Once Aki was warm enough to begin flexing his fingers without pain, he pushed himself towards Power’s aggressively shaking form. Slowly—more slowly than he’d like to admit—her skin was knitting itself back together and returning to its original coloring. She was still hypothermic, but she was healing. 

Aki pulled her into an embrace, one that he would claim was to warm her up, but that was an excuse to make sure that she wasn’t just a figment of his imagination. Every point of contact sapped what little heat Aki had left, but he wouldn’t have wanted it otherwise. Power’s tremors began to subside, yet she didn’t wriggle out of his hold. It wasn’t until she whispered thinly, “We must get Denji,” that Aki pulled away. 

He was shivering now too, but Power merely looked at him like she did every other day. She spoke nothing of the hug, no thanks for having rescued her, only stared at him impassively. (Aki could have cried—nothing had changed.) 

“Let’s get going then,” he replied. 

Together, they held each other up, and exited her room for Denji’s. 

And Aki lost time again. 

He couldn’t remember which way they turned, how long they had walked for, or what happened when they reached Denji’s confinement room, but one moment they were leaving the observation deck, and the next Aki was carefully pulling an IV from Denji’s arm. Though the world had a certain far away haziness to it, Aki could’ve pulled the IV out in his sleep. 

(Taiyo always pulled his IVs by mistake. He always got too excited, or tried to escape, and the needle would dislodge itself. The stand would go crashing, spilling his medication and leaving him a bloody mess. When he snuck Taiyo out of his room to have some alone time, he learned the best way to pull an IV. It was painless, and with some solid pressure, no mess.)

Denji was knocked out, so he wouldn’t have felt it either way, but there was that rotten, moldering part of Aki that wouldn’t let him hurt his brother. Power was working on cutting his binds with the most pathetic blood blade Aki had seen her muster, while Aki squeezed Denji’s hand. 

“I’m scared, aniki,” Taiyo cried. “What if I don’t wake up this time?”

Aki just shook his head, smile wobbly, but true. “You will. Because who else would I spend New Year’s with? I’ll be waiting for you when you wake up, ‘kay? So don’t be long.”

Denji’s lips were moving, but Aki couldn’t hear the sound because Taiyo was laughing too loud. In fact, Mom and Dad, Grandma Katsuri, Tanaka, Power, and Denji were laughing too hard. Despite not having heard the joke, their laughter was infectious, and soon Aki was laughing too. His hands were cold, but he was having fun— so much fun! It was so cold where he was that it must have been snowing. Everything was echoing and muffled at the same time—the exact thing that happened when the landscape was covered in snow. 

Taiyo loved the snow, even though it always made him sicker. 

“Aki,” Denji spoke.

The boy turned his head, snowflakes in his hair. 

You’re not going to make it, Himeno spoke. And Aki agreed. He had The Feeling. 

But things weren’t so bad. They weren’t, were they? Everyone was back together again. Denji, Pochita, Power, Meowy, Himeno…everyone(?) was here. Or was he forgetting someone?

“Aki, can you hear me?”

The lights were awfully bright, but the glare of sun on snow was always a little blinding. 

(He could smell the ocean.)

It wasn’t Beam. Kobeni’s family was from the coast, right? Or was that Arai?             ? Or was it A—

—ki!”

He had forgotten to remember who he needed to forget to miss. 

Maybe it was for the best. (A Part of him didn’t want to remember.)

Maybe he just needed some rest.

Shouta was not expecting an early afternoon call, especially not during his break period at school. When his hands weren’t full, and maybe when he was better rested, he’d thank every god that he didn’t send the unknown number to voicemail. 

He swiped the screen to accept the call, and before he could get a word in edgewise, he was interrupted. 

“Eraserhead? Pro-hero? You’re there right?”

The girl on the other end of the line was panicking, her voice shaky, and the background noise tinny. 

“Yes,” he said quickly. “What’s happening, where are—”

“Do you promise not to go to the police?” she hissed. 

Shouta blinked, trying to place her voice. 

“That’s a big request.”

There was a clanging on the other line, a sustained groaning, and then a flurry of shouting. “How badly do you want to solve your case?” she asked. 

The pieces came slamming together—the girl from the bakery, the missing kids. Something was wrong, and they needed help. He didn’t exactly have the jurisdiction to make this decision, but Nedzu always had a trick or two up his sleeves. He’d hired Shouta for his ‘truly heroic antics,’ and he’d cover for them too. 

“No police,” he agreed. 

A boy’s voice added, “ or hospitals. Or Public Safety! Fuck those guys!”

“None of them either.”

Again, Shouta agreed. 

“Where are you?”

All at once, the other line grew quiet. The silence was loaded and staticky, like it was just waiting for something to go wrong—for the other shoe to drop. 

“I sure hope you’ve got some colleagues that can heal people, Eraserhead,” the girl whispered. “Come to the bakery. In the back. And be quick—I, I don’t know how long he’s gonna last.”

Hizashi had been watching Shouta the entire duration of the call, and wasted no time when Shouta pulled the phone from his ear. Silent, only when it mattered, Shouta knew what his expression meant. 

By the time students were returning from their lunch periods, Mic would be filling in for Shouta—hero things and such being the reason for his midday exit. The kids would be none the wiser, after all, their teachers were active heroes. This wasn’t the first time Shouta had to step out for urgent hero needs, but it was the first on such short notice. (Only his problem children would be suspicious, but they had a three-to-five-day wait time on their mischief, so he needn’t be worried yet.)

In spite of it all though, there was no amount of hero training that could prepare someone for the scene that Shouta arrived at. 

When his hands weren’t full, and maybe when he was better rested, he’d curse every god that thought it would be funny if he didn’t send that unknown number to voicemail. 

My meme

Chapter Text

“—If it all ends tomorrow,

I had a blast.

It looked so beautiful,

And it hurt so bad.

What a real good time.

What a heartfelt world.

What a fucked up place.—”

“—Tie my hands and leave me dead in the trunk,

Just don't ask if I'm doing okay.

This ship is sinking, pass the whiskey.

Give me my last cigarette.

Tell my sister not to wait for me.

This is the end.—”

It is hard, Power has since decided, being in charge. 

There are always things happening, they are rarely the things that she wants to be happening, and it is difficult to see what is coming next. 

She knew when Aki came knocking on Public Safety’s doors, and she knew when he was knocking on hers. Despite her eyes being frosted over, blurry and unable to close, she knew that it was him who had been sharing his warmth with her. Every part of her was burning with new heat, blind to the surfaces she was scaling. She walked, yet she could not feel the floor, Topknot embraced her, yet she could not feel his hands on her skin. The cold room had stopped everything in its tracks—even her sense of smell. Were it not for Aki, she would’ve passed by Denji’s room without even realizing it. 

Topknot was not faring well though. 

Power knew this not from his blood, but from his actions. 

He was always well contained, straight-laced, and at his worst—boring. This Topknot was not like that, he was actually concerning. The strange feeling that seemed to coil deep in her gut and crawl up her chest, this, she decided, was concern. 

He stumbled over his feet, dripped blood with reckless abandon, and wheezed with the exertion it took to turn the corners of the office building. He was far too hot to be of any good for his mortal body, but there was nothing for her to do about it. Sure—holding her frozen body against his was probably bad for his flesh and good for his blood, but she would be unable to try and quell his fever (as Denji had called it) while also springing Denji from his binds. 

When they tried to get to where Denji was being kept, they had to pass through another observation room before being spat out into a sterile medical room. Denji was laying on a gurney in the center of it, machines beeping, and covered in sensors and tubes. Aki, probably unknowingly, relinquished his support of her, and left her half stranded at the threshold for Denji’s room. 

To her back, the observation deck; facing forward, Aki’s unsteady form. 

Though she carefully put one foot in front of the other (because crawling would be unseemly, and unbefitting for a fiend of her station), she couldn’t help but wince at every fumbling step that Aki managed to take. He left a trail of blood on the floor—droplets like stains against the pristine white tiling. He’d sweat through his shirt, hair moused, and every inch of his body trembling. 

Fever, Denji had said. It’s too high. People die from that kind of thing.

She did not want Topknot to die, let alone like this. They still had plenty left to do! (She had not yet learned to read the placard that held their park’s name. Aki had always insisted that it said ‘royal training grounds,’ or some variation of that, but Power knew better. Despite what the human thought, she could tell when she was being fooled. Instead of putting up a fuss, she let him believe he was successful in his ruse. Aki had been so tired lately—it was not worth the fight. Her honor was not tarnished in the end, and Meowy still curled against her chest, so she knew her choice was right.)

Power did not have much more strength in her than Topknot, but she watched as he settled at Denji’s bedside. He stared for a moment, steading himself where he swayed, before reaching a confident hand towards the blonde. With all the practiced ease of—what Power assumed a human surgeon did—Aki pulled a thick tube from Denji’s arm. He pressed his shirt against the contact point, which was desperately trying to leak blood. The elder’s insistence, pressure, and commitment left no room for the blood to weep. She was almost impressed. 

After, Aki pushed the boy’s hair back from his forehead, and began peeling at the wires that connected to his face. By the time Power hobbled to the bed, Denji’s body was free of circuitry and tools. Held down only by straps that Aki wouldn’t have been able to break on his best day, Power went to work at slicing them. It made her sick to pull more blood from her already impoverished system, but she made it work. 

(She’d had to recall the blood she dedicated towards Aki’s new earring, but she made a satisfactory blade. It was short, thin, and was born of where it sliced into her palm, but it was done and it was working.)

She had successfully freed Denji’s right hand, and was working on his right ankle, when Topknot started to lose it. He’d finished what he was doing moments ago, and had been holding the blonde’s hand within his own. Aki did nothing but stare at the sleeping Denji. 

(Power could tell it was a deeper kind of sleep, though. Denji’s blood was cloudy, but was clearing at a rapid pace. Their jostling of the boy did not wake him, which was proof enough that it was the strange kind of sweet-smelling sleep, and entirely unnatural.)

Aki smiled. 

Power cut through the ankle cuff just in time for Aki to tip too far backwards, and land on his ass. Either too startled (or perhaps tired?? Sick? Did they do the same thing?) to react, Aki sprawled out against the tile on his back. He let out a chest rattling laugh that made Power want to look inside his lungs. It was too wet—too sticky—to be pleasant. Not that she found human laughter pleasant. 

Flakes of Power’s skin were shedding from her face as her body healed itself. It was achingly slow, enough that her inability to maneuver her hands properly was impacting the speed at which she was saving Denji. Freeing his left wrist, without so much as a second glance towards Aki’s resting spot, Power accidentally nicked the inside of Denji’s wrist. The cut wasn’t bad, probably wouldn’t even bleed, but Denji winced. 

The moment she sliced through it completely, she shook the boy at the shoulders. 

“Wake up,” Power hissed. “Denji, you need to wake the fuck up.” 

His breathing stuttered in a strange way, which she was hoping meant that he was trying to talk, but he remained frozen against the gurney. The first two joints of her pinky ripped off as she whittled away at the strap on Denji’s left ankle. 

(Behind her, Aki made a strange noise before going taut. His blood did not speak to her, but there was something wrong. Even when he was at his sickest, his body did not shake like it was doing now. His skull cracked across the floor, fingers bunched uncomfortably tight, yet Power could do nothing besides free Denji.) If anyone knew what to do about Aki, it would be Denji. Half human, and a stranger amongst them, but Denji was their best shot. He was Topknot’s best shot. 

The moment his final strap was cut, Power plunged her blade into the meat of the boy’s calf. Instantly, his eyes flung open, a soundless howl of pain forcing the boy to sit up. The fiend did not wait by his side, as he slowly came back to himself. She busied herself, instead, with being at Aki’s side. 

By the time she sat on her knees, the boy had stopped twitching, but that didn’t mean he was any better. His eyes were open, half-lidded, and the ugliest shade of gray-blue she had ever seen. They lacked the intelligence and ice that the elder embodied. Instead, they tracked lazily around the ceiling, his lips forming words that he had no breath to speak. 

It was strange to watch. (Uncomfortable, even.)

Power didn’t know what to do.

Loudly, she called, “Aki!”

The boy turned to face her, not looking at her the way people were supposed to look, but he’d heard her nonetheless. 

“Cease this,” Power hissed. “Denji is not awake yet. We need to leave. You must be awake.”

“Everyone’s here,” he spoke slowly. 

He did not sound right. Aki sounded too—too—he sounded like the song that he hummed at night when Power was too afraid to move. He sounded like the kindness that parents had unto weak babies and other paltry human things. (He spoke like Power did, when she first found Meowy. When she found something alive, and warm to take care of.)

Aki was not supposed to sound like that, and it made Power want to shake him. She hated him for doing this. 

(The last time she’d heard a fondness like this it was spilling from her own lips and Meowy was being taken away and she was afraid and got found the very next day and it was confusing and she had never felt more alone. All lives were equally insignificant. That was the rule—that had always been the rule. But something about that rule wasn’t set in stone. If she tried hard enough, she could bend it. Bent it like for Meowy, for Denji, she could do it for Aki.)

Denji’s feet slapped the tile behind her, as he finally flung himself from the hurt-human-sleeping bed. The hospital bed. She could almost feel the warmth of his palm through her blade of blood, but it could have been her imagination. 

Power held Aki’s left arm between her hands, and with what meager strength she could summon, tried to will the blood to stay inside. She could not command it, but she could reason. 

It will be much too cold outside. You’re meant to be warm.

I am blocking the holes, you must continue forward. 

Please do not stain me any more than you have already.

The response was not great, but some of it remained. It still spilled over her hands in rivulets that pulsed along to his heartbeat, but it didn’t seem to hurt Topknot, so she assumed her pleas had been at least heard. 

Denji’s body collapsed roughly on Aki’s other side, and the blonde stared at their keeper like he couldn’t believe his eyes. 

“He will not wake,” Power chittered. “He has been getting worse. I cannot carry him out.”

Denji looked at her like she was speaking another language. He looked like he was trying to read her words. He didn’t understand. 

A flare of annoyance—no, something stronger than annoyance—gripped her, and in a moment her face had wrinkled. Her nose screwed up, her fangs bared, Power wished to summon the full extent of her abilities. 

She growled, in the simplest words possible. “He is dying. Do something!”

Denji blinked slowly as he turned to stare at Aki—whose eyes were closing. Denji watched, before everything (she hoped, Darkness, she hoped) clicked into place. Tired eyes widened, before Denji was gripping him by the collar of his shirt so tightly he was lifted off the floor. 

“Aki?” he rasped, before his voice filled out. “Can you hear me?”

Blue eyes fluttered for a moment—a moment where Aki almost seemed aware—before they shut, and no amount of shaking could open them. 

Eyes of orange met brown, and suddenly Denji was pulling Aki from the floor—a dangerous flutter taking root in his chest. His expression was carefully blank when he pulled himself to his feet, their companion slung over his shoulders. “We need to go,” he intoned. “We need to get the fuck out of here.”

Power nodded, huffing as she went from her ass to her knees, to unsteady feet. Denji did not wait for her, as he trudged away step by painstaking step. She trusted his instincts when they turned left upon exiting the observation room. Her tracking abilities were shot—there was no way she could help, even if she wanted to. 

Though, at the very least, he didn’t seem to need much help. She knew he couldn’t read the signs on the walls, so his very keen sense of direction didn’t go unnoticed. A part of her laughed in disbelief at the thought —surely, he hasn’t figured out how to smell like a Devil, has he? If it were any other situation, Power would’ve been able to confirm if he was moving off of scent alone, but something made her lips tick upwards. 

It was as bare feet slapped tiles, and the commotion outside the building grew, Power felt some of her worry fade away. Aki was in a bad way, sure, but they could do it. They survived Hell—truly, madly, deeply, did it. He could not be felled by such a small feat of a foreign world. 

He was better than that. 

This sickness needed to claim his arm. At the least. The very least, for her to even consider that the situation might be dire. 

It did not matter that his blood was starting to smell funny, or that she’d stopped paying attention to where they were running. 

Aki was going to be fine. 

Power was getting better. 

Denji was fine. 

It’d be ok. 

Shouta did not like the dial tone that he’d heard after the last three declined calls he’d just made. As he swerved around old ladies and dogs while avoiding blatantly running red lights, Shouta wondered just how many times a fellow pro hero would allow one of their own to go to voicemail. The nav croaked something about approaching his destination, and in between yelling at the hands-free assistant to ‘call back,’ the dash lit up. 

He accepted the call without thought, and got the groggy voice of his partner from many stakeouts. 

“Aura, this is serious. I’m using a favor,” he spoke. 

The other side of the line was static, heavy, slow, and silent. 

Whispered, she said, “What?”

“I’m calling in a chit,” Shouta hisses. “Off the books, I need you to meet me at UA and heal some very important folks.”

There is a hushed voice on the other side of the line, combined with a different kind of static. 

“Eraserhead, I’m so sorry. I’m out of the country, I—There’s nothing I can do for you.”

The car was parked, line disconnected, and nav trilling something about being at your destination before Shouta really thought about it . The scene was desolate—not a single person perusing the alley besides the bakery: people walked by at the mouth, but no one strayed within. He couldn’t hear any screaming, no signs of a struggle, or anything that would have his hero-sense starting to stir. 

That in and of itself, was something that made him uneasy. The desperation on the other end of that phone call had made his skin crawl. To think, those poor kids were up to something. Hurt. Afraid. They very well could have done something wrong or illegal, but they were scared, and Shouta had a good record about working things out with judges. This was all probably some big misunderstanding. 

(He reached for the doorknob, cold flesh meeting a colder metal handle.)

The more jaded side of him whispered that sometimes kids turned out bad. It wasn’t their fault, but they ended up doing bad things nonetheless. Some kids were too far gone for his help. They would not be the first to end up in jail by his hands, nor would they be the last he would see perish. 

(Shouta opened the door, and saw a great many things.)

Every thought seemed to stand still—crawling right on top of their tip-toes. For a breath, the world stopped. Dark eyes met four more pairs, and two odd sets closed. He stepped forward into a sea of reddened towels, and stained tiling. 

It happened like this.

Shouta opened the door, and came face to face with Denji, Power, the two Fujikos, and the delightfully, all-too-present grin, of the Ghost Devil. At the sight of the Devil, a primal switch in Shouta’s mind flicked on. Frozen, taking in the creature’s full appearance, one of the figures had approached him. 

Fujiko—the daughter—was pressing a backpack into his hands, which likely belonged to one of the other children. She moved like the million-legged abomination behind her was normal, like she didn’t even notice it. 

 Fuck. The longer he looked, the quicker it dawned on him that the person bleeding out on the floor in front of him was the same age as some of his students. The other two were younger—gods, younger— but Fujiko was talking. 

“You need to go,” she was saying. “Get them out of here, and don’t show their faces until they’re safe. You were never here.” 

The father was helping the other two kids peel the third one from the floor, having Shouta back out of the doorway in advance. They came stumbling out, and as he opened the backseat doors, he couldn’t remember if he’d said anything to the girl. Okay. Got it. Thanks. Did he nod? 

It didn’t really matter, considering the two other children were screaming over one another to be heard, howling that he needed to get behind the wheel.

In the rearview mirror, Shouta spied the boy on the left. Denji, blond, bedraggled, and pale with shock, did not so much as look away from the elder, who lay sprawled across his lap. Topknot, older, unwell, and devoid of any discernible temperament. Yellow eyes cut into Shouta’s gaze as he met the girl’s—Power’s—suspicious glare. She looked hurt—burned maybe?—but holding it together. (Cannibal, predator, and wild-card. He had his work cut out for him.)

“Where are we going?” Denji called. 

“We are going to UA, where one of our staff will try to heal him.”

He blinked, like he wasn’t expecting to be answered. 

“And your other friend, the one with all the arms” Shouta said lamely. “Where is she now?”

The creature was far too large to fit into the vehicle, but Shouta had the disturbing feeling of being watched. 

“Ghost is Aki’s friend, not ours. Aki’s the only one who knows how long she’d be around.” 

Power’s voice was clipped, clearly signaling the end of the conversation. He did not miss the way she rolled the words around in her mouth, like there was something about them that just didn’t taste right. In the end, their silted conversation didn’t hurt as bad when the gates to UA came into view. By the time they were flying across the property, Shouta had told the kids what was going to happen. 

Aki—which was what the kids called him, not Shouta—would get carried inside, while the two younger ones stayed by his side. Recovery Girl would guide them to the infirmary, and all five of them would have to stay put for however long it took. The pink one soured, but didn’t voice anything in opposition. 

Recovery Girl was standing outside the back bay of the infirmary when they rolled up. The car was scarcely in park before Shouta was lifting the too-light boy out of the back. He didn’t dare look back at the kids—if they blew their own cover or got into trouble, it was their loss. Of course, he could tell the three of them were willing to do anything for one another, and hedged his bets that they wouldn’t want to leave Aki along with a stranger. 

Recovery Girl kept pace as they crossed the clinic. 

“He’s lost blood,” Shouta informed. “He’s also burning up. It could be infection, it could be fever, or it could be both.”

She did little more than hum, before pulling them into a room. 

As the woman flitted around one of the highest tech med bays the school offered, freeing up sensors, and slipping on new gloves, she leveled Shouta with an icy stare. “I quit being in emergency triage for a reason, Aizawa, don’t expect much.” 

He nodded. “Do what you can.”

He hadn’t quite thought far enough ahead to consider what Aki’s companions would be doing at that moment, and was quite surprised to hear the boy pipe up from behind him.

“You better fucking help him.”

Though Recovery Girl didn’t slow in her preparations, it was clear she had an eye out for the kids. 

“You’re supposed to be heroes ‘n shit. Do your jobs.”

“It ‘tis your head if you fail.” 

Shouta had forgotten, for just a moment, that Power had killed Stain with her bare hands, and that Denji had fatally wounded a nomu with a single blow. They stood a few feet from Aki’s bed, arms pressed against one another with how closely they stood. Clearly, they were not strangers to combat, nor covering for one another. 

(It begged the question, what was Aki capable of, if the both of them were so powerful? Was he weaker, which was why they felt the need to protect him? Maybe he was just important.)

Shouta, as choreographed, and measured as he could, took a breath. He looked at the two of them, and prayed to anyone that would listen to please, let this be easy.

“Let’s leave Recovery Girl to do her work. The longer we’re in here, the slower she is, and the more likely he gets an infection.” 

Both children looked at him like he’d offered to just put the boy out of his misery, right then and there.

“Are you kidding me?”

“Topknot needs my help!”

Shouta held his hands up placatingly. “I get it, but—”

A hand anchored around Shouta’s wrist. 

“—Kishibe… where’s ‘imeno? She’s just here…”

Before Shouta could blink, Power was at his side and holding her hands mere inches from Aki’s outstretched arm. Denji was slower to join, but he was smiling nervously. Aki’s grip on Shouta’s arm was near bone-breaking in its surety, and the pallid yet childishly confused expression on his face only made the hero’s stomach clench harder. 

“Himeno’s still around, man, don’t worry. She just, uhm, she just stepped out for a sec,” Denji winced. 

Aki nodded, unresponsive to the several monitors that whirred to life at Recovery Girl’s touch—heart rate, blood pressure, and oxygen. (Everything was flashing and ringing in warning.) Aki then, surprising everyone, sat up. 

“I want a smoke too,” he nodded, like he was putting it together as he said it. “I think I’ll join her.” 

Aki released Shouta’s hand without a glance, completely unaware of what he was doing before. With both hands now available, he pushed himself off the cot, and immediately collapsed into Denji and Power’s waiting arms. He didn’t fight them too much, but he squirmed as they tried to get him to lay back down. A chorus of no’ s and sit down’ s made Shouta wonder if either of them knew what to do with a sick person—let alone whoever this guy was to them. 

Settled against the sheets, with Recovery Girl giving him an IV while he was distracted, the boy looked at the three of them with feverish awe.

“Where am I?” he said quietly. 

“Hospital,” Denji nodded. “You’re pretty fucked up.”

Aki nodded with him, like he might have just been realizing that himself. “Is my arm gonna fall off?” 

Both kids seemed to look at each other like they didn’t know what to say—they knew what he was talking about, but it seemed like they didn’t want to break the news.

And then something happened. 

Aki’s body gave out—that was the thing that happened—but it was 

so 

much 

more.

The room erupted into a cacophony of sirens, beeping, and flashing alerts. The strings holding Aki together unraveled, and his eyes rolled in his skull at the same time he went limp. Shouta wrapped his arms around the kids at his bedside and pulled them away. They struggled against him, but were ultimately pliant in his grip. Shock, he mused. They were in shock. Followed directly by the thought: holy shit, he was dead.

Recovery Girl was shouting, as the high pitched whine of a defibrillator charged, yet the kids in his arms remained silent. Aki’s heart had stopped.

She shocked Aki, and his body arched off the bed. 

(Denji’s eyes were wide. This was bad. This was the worst kind of bad. It felt like his chest was caving in, like he wasn’t even breathing anymore—but he had to be because he was still standing. It hurt in a place so deep, so tender, that he wondered if something was wrong with Pochita. He watched the old lady try to bring him back, but it was like he was standing farther away than he should have been. Denji was in a hallway—a dirty, rusted, and dingy hallway—watching Aki die through the doorway of the apartment in front of him. His closed apartment door sat just off to the side, the blood that leaked from the gap between the wood and the carpet had completely soaked through his shorts, where he lay collapsed against the ground. Fingers reached out from the mail slot. They wanted help.

Don’t open the door, Denji.

He didn’t need to. Aki’s door was wide open. In fact, his hands itched to close it.)

Recovery Girl shocked the boy again. And again. 

In Shouta’s arms, Power recoiled, her head jerking so far back that she nearly took out one of his eyes with her horns. For the first time since formally meeting one another, the girl reacted with the intent to harm. She pulled against his arm, trying to run to Aki, but he held her back—letting go of Denji to use his other hand. The next time Power tugged, pain laced up Shouta’s arms, and he cringed back just enough for her to slip through his grasp. 

Recovery Girl shocked the boy for what had to be the fifth time, before Power threw herself against his chest. 

Wailing with an intensity that would be ringing in Shouta’s ears for the rest of her life, she cried out. 

No! Wake up.

Come back, Topknot, she screamed. Get back here. 

You can’t do this—I was in charge. I was guarding you! 

C’mon Aki. You can’t leave us here.

You took us here, I command you! 

You’re better than this. 

You were stronger. 

Denji needs you.

I hate you.

Wake up.

She pressed her ear to his chest, hands feather-light on either side of his neck. 

“You’ve gotta be joking,” Denji whispered. “What the fuck.”

The expression on Recovery Girl’s face told Shouta all he needed to know. He could see the time of death reflected in the pinch to her lips, and the age-old weight of failure resting upon her head. No one could hold their head high in the presence of a dead child—one young enough to have been enrolled at UA. It was hard to be a hero when Power was crying, trying to bring the boy back with whatever her quirk was, when Denji was frozen in place. 

Shouta wondered when reality would kick in, and they’d start to fight back. 

At 2:42pm on a Tuesday afternoon, the world choked on a breath. It went to inhale, but for some reason its throat got sort of—sort of— stuck around the air. It heaved a hacking cough, pulled in with wheezing lungs, and finally got the air in. 

It was foul though, laced with a terrible stench. 

It reeked of something unnatural. The smell reminded reality of something that it had nearly forgotten about. 

It stank of a promise.  

At 2:45, a few moments, and a lonely infinity later, the world was back to its regularly scheduled breaths of life and death. It inflated the hearts of children being born, and snuffed out the minds of those who were ready to die. 

Except one, which didn’t move the way it was supposed to. Death turned into life, which always returned to death—that was how it was supposed to work. One being, born of a promise long forgotten, breathed in anew on the universe’s exhale. Where death was supposed to bloom, a boy drank it up. Where life was supposed to flourish, he held his breath. 

Hayakawa Aki, for seemingly no reason at all, was alive. 

His eyes did not open, nor did he smile and grip life with new hands. His heart beat once, twice, before jumping into a more regular pattern, and his lungs started to breathe. Aki did not wake up, but he was alive, beyond all reasonable conclusions. 

Shouta watched as Power beamed in pure joy, as Denji clawed himself onto the hospital bed at the boy’s hip. Recovery Girl was given pause, rendered frozen at the shock of it all. 

“Come, now,” Power decreed. “And fix him. I will make sure that he continues to live, you must make him better. He’s sick, you know.”

For a lack of anything better to do, Shouta sat in a chair off to the side, and let the… three of them do their work. Recovery girl set up an IV stand, adding bags and lines until she was satisfied. Power, sat atop the boy, continued to do whatever it was that had managed to get his heart started again, while Denji pressed himself against the duo so forcefully that Shouta wondered how the girl hadn’t been pushed over. One roll of gauze, two rolls of—three rolls of gauze later, Recovery Girl was sitting next to Shouta. 

“You should get some food before school lets out,” she said lowly. “And bring some for the kids, surely they’re starving.” 

It wasn’t a suggestion so much as an implicit demand, one that Shouta was all too willing to fulfill. As steadily as he could, he stepped with his left foot, then his right, and prepared to do it all over again for as long as it would take him to get to the cafeteria and back. Lunchrush would have enough leftovers to scrape together a couple helpings of snacks, and if Shouta avoided needing to speak with a single student or faculty, he’d count it a win. 

In a haze, Shouta filled two trays with cold bread rolls, too-sticky rice, and chicken curry that he’d found in the fridge. In hindsight, he’d probably just taken someone’s lunch, but he didn’t think about it too much. Thinking of anything for too long, really, was difficult. Every thought somehow tied itself back to the image of Hayakawa Aki ragdolled against stark sheets, blood, hair, eyes so dark that the scene was etched on the backs of his eyelids. 

Had Power not brought him back, he would have been the newest addition to Shouta’s painfully growing list of People He Had Seen Die. 

Shouta did not want to think about it. 

By the time he returned to the infirmary room, little things had changed. Power was asleep in the gurney next to Aki, snoring loudly, and dressed in a spare gym uniform. In fact, Denji was wearing one too. He spied a pile of—now that he looked at it—filthy clothes in the corner of the room, where three pairs of shoes had been deposited. 

Pointed bright eyes met his tired gaze as Denji drew himself up from where his head had been resting against the mattress. He’d moved his seat, now between Aki and Power, and the door. If Shouta were any more blind, he’d be able to look past this fact, but the truth of it cut deeply. 

Denji was protecting them from him, from whoever came ambling in. 

They were a threat. 

Heroes were threats—or was it just adults? Could it be hospitals? 

It didn’t matter in the end (but it did, god it mattered so much that Shouta wanted to drop all pretenses and ask who hurt you?) because while Denji was clearly cautious about Shouta’s entrance, he quickly grew softer at the sight of food. Recovery Girl was sitting in the same spot Shouta had left her in, but clearly she’d kept busy if the sea of crumpled water cups that littered the room were any evidence. 

“Here,” Shouta said lamely, extending the tray in Denji’s direction. 

The boy accepted the plate with a defensiveness that practically ripped the tray out of Shouta’s hands, but he wasn’t going to comment on it. He placed the other tray on the side table, taking care to show that he wasn’t doing anything strange with it, and that it’d be directly in his line of sight. 

“I’ll leave Power’s over here for when she wakes up.” Shouta’s hand slipped in his pocket, ready to proffer a spoon to the blonde, but the sound of ravenous breathing gave him pause. In the half-second Shouta had turned his back on the kid, Denji had plunged his bare hand into the hot rice and was shoveling it into his open mouth. 

No longer in a life or death situation, nor operating heavy machinery, Shouta let himself really get a look at the boy. He swam in the gym uniform he wore, the front entirely unzipped and exposing every all-too-prominent rib—plus the strange addition of a cord of some kind. Considering the chainsaw quirk he was in possession of, the cord didn’t seem like an unnatural consequence. In between bites, crooked and jagged teeth poked out from between pockmarked lips as the boy wasted not a single grain of rice. If it stuck to his cheeks, he plucked it off. It stuck to his fingers? He meticulously mouthed it off. He picked up each individual piece from his tray and swallowed it before he even considered the roll. 

It wasn’t long for the world, as the boy wolfed it down in a single, impressive bite.

There were shadows around the boy’s reddened eyes, and if Shouta wasn’t kidding himself, he’d wonder why the boy’s lips looked a little blue. 

“Oi,” the boy in question grumbled. 

Shouta had been caught watching, but Denji didn’t seem to mind. 

“This—” he pointed to the curry. “—wassit got in it?”

Taken aback by the question, Shouta gave a less than satisfying answer. “Chicken and vegetables.”

Denji, unsurprisingly, didn’t like the answer. 

He began rooting through the mixture, fingers now stained with the pale orange of the sauce. He began separating the contents, pinching foods, pulling them out, and inspecting them before sorting them. 

He held out a bay leaf, an expression of disappointment on his face. “Would you consider this a vegetable?”

Shouta wished that Oboro was standing here instead of him, because he wasn’t cut out for this. He was good at night stalking, at hitting people where it hurt, at crafting a plan—at being a hero—not being a social worker and a surrogate guardian. 

A small part of him whispered but you could never turn away a stray.

“No, that’s a Bay Leaf. It’s a spice. You’re not really supposed to eat them.”

“Are they poisonous?” Denji leered. 

Shouta blinked. “They’re very stiff and a choking hazard. They’re not poisonous.”

“... so they’re safe?”

“Yes.”

Denji had the leaf in his mouth between one moment and the next, and Shouta wondered just how many times he could be shocked in a single conversation, if he could call it that. Emboldened by the new information, Denji twisted to where Power’s plate of food rested, and began sorting through her curry as well. Instead of making two different piles, he put some of the food directly on his plate, and left others on hers. When he’d deemed it correct, he moved the second pile on his plate onto hers, and let it be. 

When he settled again, subject to Shouta’s unrepentant stare, Denji shrugged. 

“I like the veggies.” 

And that was that. 

From her perch at the opposite end of the room, Recovery Girl stood. 

“Let’s talk outside, Eraserhead, and let the boy eat in peace.” 

Denji eyed her warily from behind his plate, but did not move to stop her when she passed by. The moment the door was closing behind the two heroes, Recovery Girl sent him a glare that made him feel like a child getting a scolding. He wasn’t sure if it was a Recovery Girl Thing, or if it was an Old Lady Thing, but she’d clearly mastered it. 

“Oh, Aizawa, what have you gotten yourself into?” she tutted. “Do you have any idea who these children are?” 

Eyes widening, almost indignant, Shouta hadn’t expected this to be her reaction. Sure, he was expecting to get chewed out for bringing a half-dead kid to school, maybe get yelled at for involving the school in police matters—in possible villainy—but he hadn’t expected her to be this concerned about it. (If he dared think it, he thought she sounded disgusted.)

“I do, in fact, know who they are. Children, Recovery Girl. And the less you know about why I’ve taken them to UA for refuge, the better off you’ll be.”

Exasperation, like he’d never seen before, tore across her face. She opened her mouth, likely to tear into him anew, but paused. The color slowly drained from her face, as a thought seemingly dawned on her. “You haven’t checked your email yet, have you?” she asked, though it was more of a statement. 

At his raised eyebrow, she was checking every pocket on her person before lofting it in front of him. It was—shockingly!—an email from the school, but the subject line had him pulling it from her hands to read it better. He rubbed his eyes, sure that they were just dry and he was misreading the text. When it didn’t change, a shock of ice nestled itself within his spine. 

Attack on HPSC, it read. 

Further aggression from nomu, one successfully captured, two others escaped. 

Four pro heroes dead, several others injured in the fight—including Hawks—, as well as a dozen civilians injured. 

But that was all public information, the stuff they’d see in the articles and news later in the evening. The additional, hero-only-and-for-some-reason-also-the-police-force information at the bottom of the email was the problematic part. 

There are several people of interest involved in this case, images from the scene have been attached. These individuals are considered highly dangerous, and anyone with information or tips is required to come forward with it. Any police officer who comes across them must reach out to a hero agency, and is forbidden from putting them in custody without a hero present. 

Of course, the images were of a few familiar faces from the attack on UA—Shigaraki Tomura and the wispy face of Kurogiri captured in the corner of a video frame—but also a few others. A figure in formal dress, face obscured by a mask and tophat was there, as well as a man with dark hair, copious scarring, and a long jacket. Their identities were unknown, as were the two escaped nomu. 

The kicker—the real oh, how about that— the It Can And Will Get Worse, was that the three kids were pictured too. Power, drenched in blood, wielding blades and arrows and grinning with every tooth in her mouth; Denji, looking horrified, and surrounded by several pros—followed by an image at the exact same angle, but his head is half cleaved open by the blade protruding from between his eyes; and Aki, standing at the reception desk and looking like he’s only seconds from passing out. 

(Shouta tried to block out the second photo of him, which showed him from behind, fist outstretched in front of him, with a splash of blood and flesh erupting a few feet ahead of him. Aki, specifically, was marked do not engage, for the pure reasoning of god almighty that explosion was a person. A completely, and undoubtedly dead one.)

He must have paled, because Recovery Girl clicked her tongue. 

It didn’t help that Shouta’s mind was running a mile a minute—that maybe, just maybe—he’d bit off a bit more than he could chew on this one. He was still standing in the hallway and hanging the woman back her phone, but it was as if the floor had fallen out from under him. Shouta was suspended in mid-air, undisturbed, but for all intents and purposes marooned in an impossible position. If one thing so much as changed—if he breathed too hard—all of it would crumple and he would drop into the yawning panic below him. 

But he was a pro—believe it or not!—he’d been in worse situations. 

(Had he? How many hostage situations had he worked? How many of them were his fault? How many people were left in the building, were vulnerable if the kids on the other side of the door woke up and were violent? A different part of him was admonished at the thought. Were these children villains by default? Surely, they were dangerous, but everyone was if they were cornered. Think of the video, it whispered. They were running from something. They could be victims in all of this too.)

Shouta closed his eyes, and breathed for a moment. He tried to right himself—make sure everything was in order—before dealing with the new game board before him. When he opened his eyes, Recovery Girl was less mad. She looked fond, yet also unsure. Shouta was counting it as a small win. 

“You used to do that when you attended this school,” she hummed. “Always did your breathing when things were looking bad.”

It almost drags a smile out of him, but not quite. He can’t shake the shawl of unease that’s wrapped itself around his shoulders. 

“Have you told anyone that they’re here?”

Though she looked disappointed to do it, she shook her head.

“Then we keep it that way,” Shouta said. “Did they tell you anything while I was gone? I saw that they changed into new clothes.” 

Still less than enthused, some of her disapproval melted away. 

“I don’t think it’s the kind of information that’d be insightful for you—it was just about the elder one and the girl. Aki had been sick for a few days leading up to this, a high fever for at least two days. He was delirious. And Power had been locked somewhere cold. The ‘burns’ weren’t burns, they were frostbite. She’s lost a finger. Denji, bless his heart, was fine. He certainly needs to eat more, in fact, all of them do, but they’re stable. Power said her finger would heal by itself, probably something to do with that blood quirk of hers. They—and I—am most worried about Aki. They said he doesn’t heal like they do.”

Shooting a glance at the closed door, Shouta said, “That’s… a lot.”

With grim acceptance, Recovery Girl agreed. “You sure know how to pick ‘em.” 

Running a hand over his face, trying to rub some feeling into too-dry eyes, he murmured. “These kids are going to be the death of me.”

“It’s too late to change career paths. Now get your ass in there and talk to them. If they’re really as dangerous as the Hero Commission thinks they are, you better make sure they don’t… do anything.” 

The day had been a bit too long—not the longest day—but, like, definitely up there. It wasn’t like a day bored at Public Safety, spent signing papers he couldn’t read, or getting bossed around by Aki when he didn’t clean stuff right. It wasn’t grocery shopping, or walking Angel, or wiping Power’s tears all night. 

It was more like fighting the Katana man, not as bad as Santa, but it wasn’t a lot better. 

It was kinda like waiting for Reze. 

Yeah. That was it. 

It was crazy, shit had hurt, he’d been worried for a moment, and then it just stretched. It felt like sitting in a plastic booth, surrounded by the smell of coffee and sweets, yet not being hungry. It was too-hot, too-cold, too-boring, and too-nerve wracking. Every minute was an hour, and the disappointment just grew. Until it was resignation ( ha! fuck you, Aki, he could learn new words). 

But Denji wasn’t sitting in a coffee shop, holding flowers, and waiting for one of the craziest, hottest, and most understandable chicks he’d ever met. He was sitting in an uncomfortable chair, holding a plate of left lovers, and standing watch over his two most dear people. His friends? Coworkers?

It was hard to come up with a word for what they were. Pochita was his friend, and he’d quite literally been so important to Denji, and Denji to him, that he went and became Denji’s heart. That was a lot. He had a feeling that friends didn’t really do that for each other. 

The next step up from friends was like, family right? But Denji didn’t have a lot of that. He loved his mom in an abstract way, considering he couldn’t remember her—but he didn’t hold anything against her. She was sick and died, it wasn’t her fault. Yeah, he was mad at her for a while, since she left him alone with his dad and passed on whatever defect had killed her. But he was just hungry and sad when he’d thought that. He didn’t mean it. His dad on the other hand? He hated him. Denji could barely stand the thought of the man— his thoughts always carried smells and memories that he could live without. 

His dad had died, and Denji hadn’t felt anything. He wasn’t disappointed, wasn’t angry, he just didn’t care. He’d pulled himself away from the man, in his mind, they weren’t even family. 

Or were they? They still were, right? 

Denji hated his father, but he loved his mom. He was wishy-washy about them both. Was that what family felt like? 

Power and Aki weren’t like that. He’d never want them to be like that—so they had to be something more. They were like Pochita. They were special. 

That didn’t discount them from getting pranked or snarked at. He’d still be loud, and they’d wrestle, and Aki would still make them dinner. They were a guarantee. They were a promise to always be the same. Even if they argued, or Power said something that made Aki’s eyes go wide, there was always the unspoken rule of sameness. Whatever had happened during the day held no bearing over whether Aki would share the blanket with her at night, they would always be together. 

Aki would nag, Power would complain, and Denji.

And Denji would be content to stay the same. 

To chase that dream. 

(To be his kind of normal.)

But today had been a long day. It had taken all of the things that Denji cared about, put all the pieces in a box and shook it. Aki was sick, he remembered that. He remembered going to get medicine—Power had actually had a good idea—and Denji was going to get medicine. They’d napped at the cafe. Aki was going to get better. 

The next thing he remembered was a pain in his leg, and that Power and Aki were hurt. He’d dragged them out of the building, following the sinister feeling of there being something missing. Every time he wanted to go the wrong way, the heebie jeebies acted up. 

No, he’d recoil. I can’t go that way.

It wasn’t until they spilled out onto the street and were swept up in the pandemonium of it all, that Denji had the wherewithal to question what the fuck had happened. As they shouldered through the crowd until it thinned, Denji led them into an alley and let Aki slide from his shoulders to the ground. He was huffing, covered in sweat and muscles burning. Fourteen year old Denji wasn’t able to carry people on his back for a long time—let alone someone Aki sized. 

As he wheezed, he couldn’t ignore the way Power was scanning the alley. She had the look of a predator, of how she sometimes looked at night, when nefarious high schoolers came to drink and smoke at the playground on weekends. She was alert. (Denji’s hair was standing on end, but he couldn’t tell if it was because he was freaking out a little, or if he could tell something was wrong too.)

When her eyes settled somewhere over his shoulder, Denji slowly backed towards her, fingers latched onto his ripcord. He had learned one too many times that for how dumb Power appeared, she was a lot closer to a devil than she was a human—she just knew devil stuff better. 

“Show yourself,” Power hissed. 

Nothing happened, and for a beat, Denji wondered how fucked up she had to be for her devil senses to be going haywire. 

But a devil materialized right where Denji had been standing, and the boy wondered what was stranger—the fact that Ghost was clearly back, or the fact that she stared at him with Himeno’s face. The heebie jeebies were back, and they had never been stronger. It struck him that maybe it had been Ghost that was blocking off paths all along. 

Denji hadn’t seen a devil since coming to the future, but now he had. (And she really, really wasn’t looking so good.)

He knew looks could be deceiving, but all of her arms and hands were rail-thin, hair flatter than usual, and eye wide. Ghost hadn’t had one of those before. She looked tired. It was sort of hard to tell though, with the sewn smile and one eye she had going on. 

Power growled when she spoke. “What do you want?”

A hand emerged from the sea of them, and pointed a yellowed nail towards where Aki was laying on the ground. 

I am bound to him until the morning, a voice from inside Denji’s head trilled. We made a contract. 

“That does not mean you are barred from trying to harm us,” Power spoke. 

No. That is not an explicit term in our contract, but I am unable to nonetheless. Our contract is sealed with the intent to save you. Killing you would not be the saving grace that He had in mind.

Denji peeled his eyes away from the behemoth in front of them to look at Power. She was already waiting for his gaze, and met it with resistance. She did not indicate a yes or a no—she was leaving it to him. Power would never ask for help or defer to another, but if she left enough space for him to butt in, no one’s ego was hurt. 

“Do you know how to get to the bakery?” Denji asked. 

If the devil’s face could have smiled genuinely, he thinks she would have. 

Aki showed me where it was in the case that something like this happened. 

Power’s face was pinched, but she didn’t disagree. 

“Then lead the way.”

Ghastly hands stretched towards Denji, snaking around the side of him to scoop up Aki. He had raised his hand in alarm, thinking she was going for Denji, but sighed in relief as the devil picked up Aki with complete kindness. (After being choked by those hands once, he didn’t think they were capable of the care they’d grabbed the elder with.)

Follow me. I will carry Him until we arrive.

And with that, she turned and began trailing deeper into the alley. Denji relaxed, letting the ripcord drop, before making sure that Power was following. She stared past him with narrowed eyes—clearly distrusting—but fell into step. 

They heard dozens of ambulances and cops go by on the street, but Denji didn’t think twice about it. When they arrived at the bakery, all hell had broken loose. Ghost dropped Aki into Denji’s arms, and suddenly the back door was swinging open, and both Fujikos were staring at them in horror. The father had tried to shield his daughter from seeing them—for whatever reason—but she’d pushed back. They stared at each other for a while before anyone spoke. 

“Did anyone see you?” Fujiko—Aki’s Fujiko asked. 

“We were stealthy,” Power answered. 

The girl shook her head a few times, seeming to gather herself, before saying get in.

By the time Denji was laying Aki on the kitchen floor, Fujiko’s father was already wrapping the boy’s arms with drying rags, and Fujiko was in the front, kicking everyone out. After being told to hold this a few times by the senior, they’d managed to cover one of Aki’s arms, while Power kept trying to keep his blood on the inside. 

When Fujiko came back into the room, she was holding her cellphone. She was pale, and kept opening her mouth to speak, yet nothing came out. She looked like a fish—and not the cool kind. 

(Penguins were fish, right?)

“You need help,” she ended up saying. “And we can’t help you any more.”

Denji paused in his work, letting the rag dye itself red, instead of changing it out. “What?”

“I know someone that can help, but he’s a hero. I think he’s one of the good guys. He’s a teacher. I looked him up. He’s strict, but he has a great record and—well he’s nice to kids.”

Denji didn’t move, let alone react. 

“I’m either calling the hospital, which I know you can’t go to , or I’m calling him. Which one do you want?”

Denji can’t breathe for a moment, as the situation truly washes over him. He wonders if he will cry when Aki dies. 

(He knows that he will. That he would, because Aki isn’t going to die. He can’t.)

He looks at Aki, and meets his eyes. They are open and expecting something that Denji can’t even fathom. He’s waiting. 

I don’t know, Denji wants to say. You do this stuff. What would you do?

Aki smiles, a grin of asshole proportions blooming on his face. “Since when do you listen to me?”

And Denji nearly smiles. 

He looks at Fujiko, and hopes she understands. “I don’t care. Whoever comes, I’ll kick their ass. Aki’ll be just fine, right?”

When he looks over his shoulder, Aki’s eyes are closed like they’d never been open in the first place. 

The hero arrives. Aki is loaded into his soccer mom van, and they cut through the city. Aki is wheeled into a hospital that isn’t a hospital because it’s a school, and suddenly he is dying. 

He’s dead. 

Flatlined. 

There are scratches in the wood of his apartment’s hallway, where Denji tried to claw himself across the floor towards where he could see Aki’s hospital bed. 

When his heart starts again, Denji is sick to his stomach. Not because he was afraid, or ill from whatever the fuck just happened—no, he is sick because Aki’s heart did not start again because of Power. It was another one of those hard to describe feelings—like a clock striking. It wasn’t something that he just knew, like the sound of Ghost’s voiceless voice, this was something that hit him. It washed over him, hit him like a fucking wave. 

Whatever brought Aki back, it was something a hell of a lot stronger than Denji or Power. 

(A kicked puppy in the corner of his dumpster heart whimpered something that sounded disgustingly hopeful.                  was that you?)

Denji half expected Aki to grow wings or something. Get struck by lighting, maybe? Something crazy. The old lady doctor and the hero seemed shocked as well, but he knew they hadn’t felt what he and Power had. As Denji stalked forward—just to check and make sure Aki was really, truly there—he caught Power’s eyes. 

I know, they said. His heart beats because of me, but I did not bring him back.

And the world got colder. It got bigger. 

The lady brought them water, and Denji drank each cup one after the other. Power watched him, and after he didn’t pass out or die, she drank hers. When the lady brought them clothes, they did the same song and dance. Denji changed first, checked through both sets of clothes for weird shit. (What weird shit could be hidden in clothes ? Aki’s fuckin’ paranoia had rubbed off on him after all.)

Power wanted to keep vigil over Aki though, not willing to leave him unwatched. Whatever it was that had brought him back, it had truly rattled Power. It had freaked Denji out, but not nearly as much as it had Power—who was constantly looking around the room. 

“You smell like shit,” Denji sneered. “Your clothes are gross.”

“You’re gross,” Power decreed. “I smell lovely. Like flowers, even. You reek.”

“In that case, I think I’d reek less if you changed. Maybe Aki would wake up if he wasn’t being suffocated by the stink.” 

Power glared at him.

“That is not a funny joke, even by human standards.”

Denji sent it back. “I wasn’t joking.”

In the end, Power changed her clothes. (She kept her socks on though, and wouldn’t go barefoot despite how much Denji complained. She conceded, but only because she’d grown tired, and the old woman said if anything dirty touched Aki’s arms he’d get sicker.)

The old woman made a sound of surprise when Power dropped all her clothes in one go—turning to avoid the fiend’s nakedness, chastising her while she looked away. Denji didn’t really care anymore. He’d showered her enough times to not even be phased by it any more. 

The old lady asked more questions, the nosy bitch, but most of them were about whether or not Denji or Power needed medical attention, so he didn’t push back too hard. He mostly just kept his mouth shut. He wasn’t paranoid like Aki, he swore, but the idea of giving away a bunch of information to strangers with their own fancy facility and a budget… it felt like repeating a past mistake. Even if they were being kind at the moment. 

When she was done with the conversation, Power merely climbed into the small space on the edge of Aki’s bed, and said, “It is your turn to keep watch, Denji.” 

And then the hero guy was back. He had food—which Denji was more than happy to chow on. He was smart though, and made sure that Power got all the meat. He had a feeling that asking for a big steaming bag of blood would have been problematic, call it a hunch. 

The hero guy and the old lady talked in the hallway, and when he came back, Denji’s hands and tray had been licked clean. 

The hero guy seemed like he didn’t want to be here. 

“When will Aki get better?” Denji asked, before the guy could bombard him with questions he wouldn’t answer. 

Instead of lying, the man shrugged. “I’m not the doctor here. Recovery Girl says he’s stable though. People aren’t usually in the hospital for extended stays though, so it can’t be too long.” 

That was fair. 

“But there are more important matters to attend to here,” the guy started. “I don’t know what Fujiko told you, but I’m Eraserhead. I’m a teacher. I’m also a pro-hero, and I was assigned your case a few months back. I’ve been looking for you since you first showed up.”

Denji didn’t like where this was going. He hadn’t thought they were being hunted. 

“But as things changed—when you killed those nomu, and when Power killed Stain—other people started looking. But no one knows the full story, not me, not the police, not the Hero Commission. Except for you. I’ve put everything on the line because I think there’s something more happening here.”

“What does everyone think happened?” Denji asked. 

“Today? That you three, alongside the League of Villains, stormed the Hero Commission’s building and killed a lot of heroes, and injured a lot of people.”

Denji balked. “Whos’sat?”

“The League..?”

“Yeah, and the other one.”

At that, the hero guy seemed to sigh. He seemed less upset, but his face stayed the same. (It was sort of infuriating.) 

“You didn’t attack that building, did you?”

Denji just shrugged. “I’ve got no idea what you’re talking about.”

The guy nodded, before laying down a pretty shitty list of house rules. If it was only going to take Aki a week to get better, Denji could live with that. Especially if the food was always this good. 

“What did you say your name was again?” 

“Eraserhead.”

“Yeah, I’m not calling you that. Either gimme a name, or I’m calling you scruffy.”

The guy seemed put out, if his emotionless pause was anything to go off of, but he still answered. 

“Aizawa.”

Tomura’s skin was crawling. He’d been close— so fucking close it hurt. The Hero Commission, for whatever godforsaken reason, had dropped to minimum security at a few minutes after eleven that morning. His rat told him it was now or never, and in less than an hour, he’d struck. 

There wasn’t much that could catch him off guard, but to find the walls of the facility painted with blood and Polluck’d with tiny pieces of hero, loath to say he was impressed. The nomu were causing chaos, his new hires were fighting off heroes and spreading destruction—everything was going according to play. Until it wasn’t.

Kurogiri materialized beside him, an urgency in the wisps of his smoke. “There’s something wrong with the devil,” he hissed. Tomura would’ve disintegrated the whole building if he were able. They wouldn’t lose if they pulled back now, but it would certainly be a retreat. He hadn’t done everything that he’d wanted to do—but the devil was important too. Sensei had saved it for him, cared for it, fed it, and saved it for him. It was a rare gift that could not go to waste. 

“Round up everyone else. Send the nomu back where they belong.” 

He didn’t even need to wait for Kurogiri’s affirmative before stepping into the mist. He walked from one of the HPSC’s hallways, and into the hallway of their base. A single cell sat before him, barred, and locked a dozen times over. He unlocked each one with a practiced speed, and ultimately stepped into the devil’s cell. 

It was sprawled across the floor, breathing heavy, and sweating beneath it’s layers of hair. If Tomura didn’t know any better, he would’ve thought the monster looked sick. But devils didn’t catch colds, so something was amiss. The thing was smiling too, so caught up in itself that it didn’t even realize Tomura’s arrival. 

“What’s wrong with you?” he asked. 

The devil startled in surprise at what it must have thought was a sudden new presence, shaking the manacle that wrapped around it’s throat. Despite it’s uncomfortable positioning, it did not seem to have the strength to move. It looked at him with tears in its eyes, and a face flushed with fever. 

“Four years,” it rasped. “Four years.”

Tomura sighed. Nothing the creature had spoken had ever made sense. He’d come back when the creature was capable of speaking sense. It didn’t miss Tomura, that the utterance clearly wasn’t for him, but was shouted at the closing door. That would remain a mystery for another day. 

“You kept your promise.” 

“—Well, I've carried the world on my back with no more to obtain,

The fire in the sky—a dim light in my eye that's long faded.

And I've stood where heroes have fallen their names turned to stone,

Yet I remain nameless, the best friend the hero has known.—”

Chapter Text

“—Death stands above me, whispering low

I know not what in my ear:

Of his strange language all I know

Is, there is not a word of fear.—”

Walter Savage Landor “Death Stands Above Me”

Living in the school’s infirmary was a unique experience. While Denji—and least of all Power—wasn’t really sure what ‘regular schools’ did, he thought it was a pretty safe bet that most schools weren’t like UA. He was pretty sure schools didn’t have whole entire hospitals in them, since folks on the TV always said something or other about Needing To Go To The Hospital. If all schools had hospitals, people would be saying that they Needed To Go To School.

There were always more schools than hospitals, so in a roundabout way, Denji knew that something wasn’t quite right about this place. 

It was also far bigger than just the hospital part. Sure, they’d seen it driving in, but he and Power had had more pressing issues. Now that Aki was stable—tired, sleeping, recovering, just like he had done during their stay at the Eternity Hotel, after Himeno, and after going to Hell—they’d been given a bigger radius to run around. After the first few hours, Old Lady and Aizawa learned that keeping Power and Denji in a ten-by-ten room was ruinous to their peace, and sat down to decide a new arrangement. 

Since Power was widely considered a pseudo-vigilante-murderer, she wasn’t allowed to leave the hospital portion, and if she were to leave the room, she needed to be escorted. (Power hated that, but secretly, Denji was a little pleased. It meant she had to keep watch over Aki, and she couldn’t get nabbed like he’d been at the store.) Denji was a bit freer—there was no way either of them were leaving the school—but he could be anywhere in the hospital without escort, and after school hours was allowed to go to the cafeteria for dinner. 

He didn’t like the idea of being treated like an animal that had to live in its crate, but there was little else he could do to fight back against it. Aki was going to get better, and then they’d haul ass and never look back. They’d done it in Hosu, and it had worked just fine. 

Instead of making a big stink about it, he complained and got Power to bitch and moan about it too. They didn’t brazenly disregard the rules, but pushed the envelope when they were being watched. It put the adults at ease, Denji could tell. For all they knew, he and Power were just a couple of fucked up little kids that didn’t want to listen to Mom and Dad. 

It made sneaking around during school-time hours so much easier. 

A stern talking to before Recovery Granny went on break, or when Aizawa left for class made the adults feel like they’d given enough pressure to keep Denji and Power from getting into trouble. 

That was all to say: Denji had met more people in the last three days than he had in the last four months combined. Kids came and went in a revolving door of regular ouchies, to personal issues, to really big ouchies-that-were-actually-really-fucking-bad-injuries. Denji had particularly liked meeting the kid with the weird black streaks in his hair. He did electricity stuff, and charged his phone while waiting for Recovery Granny to come back. The twitchy kid didn’t listen too well either, and it was half a comfort to know that someone else thought all the rules around here were a drag. 

The kid had a massive knot on his forehead from a nasty hit, but was rather jovially swinging his feet from his spot on a gurney. Denji had scared the shit out of him when he whispered from the doorway, what are you doing?

“Give a guy some warning!” the blonde lamented, spitting a cord from his mouth. 

Denji didn’t apologize, but he fully entered the area where the kid was waiting. They were both wearing the standard UA gym outfits, and looked scarily similar. Faintly, Denji wondered if they could pull a switcheroo on the old lady. 

After a few calming breaths, the kid said, “I was just charging my phone.”

“How’r you doing that?”

All in all, Denji liked the kid. He learned that the boy’s name was Kaminari, and also that cell phones had crazy fun games on them. Kaminari had to lean over his shoulder and give him pointers, but their meeting ended with the both of them whooping and laughing. 

The fun continued even after Nurse Granny showed up, when Denji snuck back into Aki’s room with Kaminari’s phone. He got to play three more rounds before the woman was sauntering in with an ugly expression. She seemed to suspect something was afoot, but Denji had hidden the device under his leg the moment he’d heard the doorknob rattle. 

Denji was the picture of innocence when Recovery Girl leveled him with a downright nasty glare. 

“Did you take Kaminari’s phone?” 

Denji shrugged, effortlessly lying. “Whossat?”

She merely extended her hand in his direction, making a give-me motion.

Lip curling, and running out of options, Denji crossed his arms. “What’s it to you?”

Based off of the way the old woman’s expression was only growing grimmer, Denji’s reluctance was starting to have an effect. She was running out of patience. With Power dozing beside Aki, Denji was alone in his battle of wills. (He was a stubborn bastard though, everyone who had ever met him had said it, so he wasn’t worried. Sure, he didn’t want to wake up Power after she’d been awake all night, but a win was a win, and if it came down to a shouting match Denji would howl.)  

Instead of anything like that going down, the woman merely sighed. All the anger in her stance smoothed out, and she took yet another steadying breath. 

“Denji,” she breathed. “That boy is concussed, and he needs to call his parents. He’s convinced his phone is in his bag—this is the third time he’s upended it trying to find it. I had to take his phone from him when he walked in because staring at screens is bad for concussions—so unlike him, I know you have it.”

Denji’s mouth opened to retort something along the lines of he was literally on his phone when I stole it from him, so you’re wrong, when the gentle trill of the worst song Denji’d ever heard started playing from beneath his leg. Both he and Recovery Girl could only stare at each other, eyes not daring to dip to where the phone was hiding, as a pop monstrosity filled the silence. After the second refrain, Denji growled.

“Fine!” he hissed, fishing the traitorous device out from underneath him.

It started singing again, once he was holding it properly.

The screen was alight, covered in text and shaking pictures. It was louder, now that it wasn’t covered, and was vibrating too.

Denji tried tapping the screen, but he couldn’t figure out which button to press. The song just got louder. In fact—was it playing for a fifth time? Maybe it never stopped. The boy didn’t know anything about modern technology or modern phones, despite knowing how to use Aki’s landline (and cellphone, during an emergency). And Aki’s phone never rang like this, if it ever rang at all. 

The only thing that came close to being this annoying was the alarm clock. 

(Why did the kid have an alarm clock in his phone? Why would he need one on the go?)

“Shut the fuck up!” 

He raised the device to smash it on the floor—hopefully that’ll quiet it down—because if it doesn’t stop screaming he’s going to have to break out the chainsaws. Power is trying to sleep. The phone is so goddamn loud it is echoing in his fucking ears and his skin feels like it’s crawling where the thing keeps shaking . 

The perfect arc of his arm was interrupted by Recovery Girl grabbing his hand in hers, ultimately cradling the phone and preventing it from smashing. Before he could reach out to properly crush it, she had already stepped away, and with a single swipe, the song stopped. 

They stare at each other—Denji’s chest heaving—and say nothing. 

Grandma has a look in her eyes that Denji doesn’t like. She has questions. Ask, I dare you.

Instead she murmurs something that might have been a thank you of some sort, and hustles out of the room. There’s little else for Denji to do besides sit there and try to reason why a shitty little cellphone alarm pissed him off so badly. 

It was annoying, sure. And sudden too, but he’d been shot dead before in scarier circumstances. And he didn’t even care about the phone enough to be genuinely, actually, upset at having to give it up. Yeah, Power was sleeping, but he didn’t care that much about the quality of her sleep, especially with how often she’d woken him crying about the Darkness Devil. 

He’d liked the phone and its fun game. But not enough for whatever reaction that was. 

He didn’t notice when Recovery Girl had walked back in, until she was standing a few feet away. 

“I’m sorry that I upset you earlier,” she started. Her tone of voice was grating—the kind of thing that adults would use when they thought you were an idiot, or one sharp word away from turning tail and getting hit by a car. The kind of voice they used for strays. 

“Do any of you three have phones? If you do, the Hero Commission might be able to track them and find you.”

Denji narrowed his eyes, but shook his head no.

“That’s good,” she continued. “Have you ever had a phone before?”

Torn between not wanting Super Nanny to know the truth, but also needing to tell her enough to keep them from kicking the trio out, Denji bit the bullet. 

“Just the landline. Aki had a cellphone a while back, but not anymore.” 

The light grin that curled on the corner of her lips was less pitying, but not any less annoying. “I suspected as much. You and Power are a bit young to have phones of your own.”

Judging by the fact that Kaminari had one just fine, and was largely appalled by the fact that Denji didn’t have one, he could smell the lie in the air. Instead of commenting on it, she proffered her own cell phone. “There’s no landlines here. In the case of an emergency, you’ll need to be able to call for help.”

“It’s 119,” Denji responded. 

“But can you call it on a mobile?”

When the cool case settled in his hands and the screen lit up, he was greeted by the time in large numbers, a nature photo, and a buncha words he didn’t know what to do with. All smooth glass, like the blondie’s had been, no number buttons. Nothing to dial. 

“What do you want me to do with this?” he grimaced. 

“To hit the emergency call button.”

There was no such button. Just glass, no notches, nothing on the sides—besides some ridges in the back that didn’t press—and a couple plug spots. Nothing for him to type. Denji glared at the phone, stared at the words he couldn’t understand before snapping his gaze back to Recovery Girl. He was about to announce that her trick sucked, and wasn’t funny, because (ha-ha) there was no emergency button, when he saw the dumbstruck expression on her face.

All the parental sadness and high-class pity was gone, just a surprised, if not knowing look.

“You can’t read, can you, Denji?” 

For a moment, he was reminded of Aki’s face, when he’d come to the same conclusion.

“Nope.” (He popped the p .)

“Can any of you?”

He shrugged. “I know some words, but Power’s hopeless. Aki’s as good as anyone else.”

To that she nodded, before taking back her phone. The conversation seemed to have stricken her, and she had nothing else to say. If anything—Denji was grateful he wasn’t getting his ear yelled off for messing with the students. Bored, and frankly a little sleepy, Denji pulled his chair closer to the side of the bed. With his arms as a pillow, and the buzzing of the lights to lull him to sleep, he ended an ultimately pretty okay afternoon by taking a nap. 

The next day, Denji would meet a guy with crazy red hair (Kirishima) and one of the tallest guys he’d ever met (Rikkido) and he would ask if they had games on their phones. 

Power would slink out that afternoon too, and watch the three of them laugh, and trade a phone between them. 

“What class are you guys from, anyway?” Kirishima asked. “No offense, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in the halls before.”

Denji’s throat closed up just in time for Power the grin. “We’re in the class above you.” 

Both boys’ eyebrows shot up. “Second years, huh?”

And the day after that a girl came to the infirmary. She laughed at the antics Denji got up to, while the boy that had come with her watched on in mute suspicion. Power had liked the girl—Yaoyorozu, she wanted to be called—because she’d helped pull her hair into a ponytail that kept the growing fringe out of her eyes. Denji couldn’t do it, and their resident expert on hygiene was still worryingly asleep, so the ponytail girl would do. 

The boy was boring, besides his hair being different colors (but even then, Kirishima’s pointy hair was cooler. And redder. Denji didn’t like Todoroki that much, but the boy didn’t suck for any reason. He was quiet, and not much else.)

Todoroki almost, almost, gave him the heebie-jeebies, but he didn’t. Denji felt like he’d seen the kid before though. (And he didn’t like the way he stared at Power.)

Aizawa showed up later that day, beaten to shit and covered in bruises. He seemed pretty lively for looking like the bottom of the tire. The Old Lady was tutting at him, ribbing him for whatever he’d done today in class. Something or other about being too soft on his students. He wasn’t really listening, floating in and out of the conversation happening one thin wall away. Denji was so wiped out it burned his eyes to stay awake. 

Power had been exhausted from keeping a constant watch on Aki’s blood pressure or whatever. Most of the time she spent awake, when she wasn’t eating or being an annoying little shit, she spent with a hand on the side of Aki’s neck and the other on his wrist. Even though she was a devil, trying to recover off of cooked meat and raw fish wasn’t doing her a lot of good. She was still weak, cranky, and keeping her vigil for Aki ate up all her concentration. She slept a lot now. 

Denji, conversely, didn’t.

Someone had to keep watch. Make sure that the door that was opening was the right one. That the walls only had the normal health posters, and not eviction notices. (That the papers Recovery Girl sometimes showed him did not have the Public Safety stamp on them.)

He was also the one who could explore in secret! He got to meet the kids who attended the school! He was the one who sometimes snuck upstairs and stole snacks out of the cafeteria garbage! 

Denji had been careful, patient, and had been on his best behavior. Sue him, he was tired. Staying up while Power slept was finally catching up to him, and after the second day without a nap he was feeling it. When he blinked and suddenly Aizawa was in front of him, he couldn’t help but startle to his feet. 

His hand gripped the pull cord in his chest on instinct, feet spread, and left arm extended away from his body. 

Aizawa, crouched on the floor, raised his hands in surrender. 

Denji blamed the tremor in his hands on being startled awake. (He wasn’t breathing hard either.)

“Didn’t mean to scare you,” Aizawa said tonelessly. 

Denji lowered his hands, and took a steadying breath. 

All he could manage to say was “Next-fucking-time, you knock.”

Aizawa’s nod seemed genuine, so Denji settled back into the chair he’d been resting—not sleeping, resting— in. Aizawa, unlike Nurse Grandma, never approached them with the urge to make small-talk. He showed up, said his piece, listened to what they had to say, and then left. If Aizawa was waking him up then he had something to say, and Denji wasn’t going to pull the guy’s teeth out to make him talk. 

Oddly, Aizawa pulled one of the extra chairs in the room away from the wall, and settled a good yard or two away from Denji’s perch. It seemed like this conversation was going to be longer. He couldn’t hold back the put upon sigh that fell from his lips at the prospect. 

As always, Aizawa was unphased. 

“I’m going to be very frank, Denji,” the man started. “And I know this will probably be upsetting, so I’m going to be as clear and as honest as I can be. Deal?”

Hackles raised, Denji looked down his chin at the guy. He’d clearly been thinking about this a while, and he was probably bringing bad news, but it didn’t seem like it was fire-alarm bad news. Denji was suspicious, but not afraid, and nodded his head. 

“It’s been six days since you three came here. Aki’s condition was bad for the first two days, but his body has completely healed. As far as we can tell he’s perfectly fine, he’s just not waking up. We aren’t going to kick you out or anything—I know we’d agreed on you only staying for a week—but I need you to seriously consider what you want to do if he doesn’t wake up.” 

Whatever Denji said, he couldn’t recall. As he curled up on the mattress next to Aki, face hot and fists clenched, he knew that he’d woken Power in his frenzy. Between every curse that he could remember and shouting at Aizawa, Denji was exhausted. 

Aki will wake up, he told himself. He always does.

Tucked into his bed, brow furrowed, Shouto sent a text to the class 1A group chat. 

Todoroki: When Yaoyorozu and I were in the infirmary today we met a couple students. 

Has anyone else met them? 

Kaminari: What did they look like????

Todoroki: The girl had pink hair and two red horns. The boy had sharp teeth and blond hair.

Kirishima: Yea Sato and I met them yesterday!!! They said they were 2nd years!! No names tho

Wait they were in again today??

Todoroki: Yes.

Kirishima: That’s so weird!! I hope they’re ok!!! Wish I could help more but idk them

Midoriya: I don’t think any of the 2A or 2B students look like that though

Did they say they were hero course??

Kirishima: No. But no one ends up in Recovery Girl’s office two days in a row bc of PE??

Shoto watched the commentary flow through, adding when he was asked questions, but not saying much else. When he got a private message from Midoriya, he didn’t know how the boy had known. 

Is this her?

[ Midoriya sent an Image ]

The grainy photo was clear enough for Shoto to respond with absolute certainty. 

Yes.

It felt like he’d done something wrong when Midoriya’s phone immediately went on Do Not Disturb, and he didn’t read a single of the messages from the group chat. 

Something was standing on the shore. 

It was a thing, at the very least, and it was propped up on two lines, so it was standing. It was hard to tell much else. It didn’t really know what it was. 

That meant it was thinking! It was thinking, on that shore where it stood. 

And if it knew that it was on a shore, it was seeing, and if it knew what a shore was, it had seen one of those before. 

Where had it seen a shore before?

You haven’t seen this shore with your real eyes before.

But that didn’t mean it hadn’t seen a shore with it’s not real eyes before. 

You’re smarter than they gave you credit for.

It didn’t know who ‘they’ were, but being thought poorly of gave him pause. He wasn’t thought poorly of. He was good at his job. He was a model, a teacher. 

He was a he. And he’d had a job that he was good at. He had values, morals, and a life. 

I can understand why                 would have wanted to be rid of you.

His lips had parted, and a dry, shaking voice was speaking before he could stop himself. 

“You can’t get rid of me that easily.”

No. I suppose one can’t.

He looked down and saw water bubbling up from between the laces of his tennis shoes, sand pooling around where he’d been rooted. The sun winked with each of his blinks, and in the afterimage, he thought he saw something next to him. No—some one.

His sleeve flapped in the wind.

His tears reflected the sun.

He is grieving something he doesn’t understand. Something he knows but hasn’t seen.  

No—he’s seen something, he is mourning what he’s seen, but he can’t possible know what is about to happen. He never knew later. He wasn’t supposed to Know what the Later was.

In that case, Aki

His name is Aki.

Hayakawa Aki

He is a brother, he is alive, he is asleep, he is dying, he is dead, he is not here, has never been here, saw this place, was here once— was, once, and also wasn’t, once— and it hurts so bad. 

will you make a contract with me?

The person next to Aki gawks, birdlike bones clicking together, mouth open, lazy eyes now sharp. Aki is forgetting something. He is forgetting something and it is as obvious as the shore, as his eyes, as the sun, as his empty shirt sleeve, as the being of misery that is eclipsing the sun. 

This is an order.

He Knows this. It burns. He can feel it crawling up his throat. 

He Knows that he cannot escape this, despite the fact that his mouth is closed, that his teeth are clenched tight enough to crack. There is blood in his mouth from where his vocal chords have gored themselves against the inside of his mouth. Tongue swallowed, tombstone teeth, funeral bones.

Aki is standing in the rubble of his childhood home. 

This is an

Aki is standing in HR.

This is

Aki is standing in his kitchen.

This 

Aki has been unmade.

Something was standing on the shore. 

It was a thing, at the very least, and it was propped up on two lines, so it was standing. It was hard to tell much else. It didn’t really know what it was. 

That meant it was thinking! It was thinking, on that shore where it stood. 

And if it knew that it was on a shore, it was seeing, and if it knew what a shore was, it had seen one of those before. 

It didn’t like the beach. But it liked the company that it kept there. 

A seagull flew overhead. It was the right kind, but it was far better than some of the other things that the beach had to offer. 

Something is laughing, but Aki doesn’t know what. 

She most certainly underestimated you.

“Who is that?”

The beach laughs at him. He has a feeling he should already know. 

A white feather falls from the sky, and settles on the sand. A gentle wave laps at it once, twice, before carrying it back to the sea. Aki can’t help but watch it until it disappears from sight, and even then, watches still as he hopes for its return. 

Do you remember?

Aki reaches out for a handful of downy feathers when he realizes that—something was standing on the shore. 

It was a thing, at the very least, and it was propped up on two lines, so it was standing. It was hard to tell much else. It didn’t really know what it was. 

It blinked. 

The sun was eclipsed by an AR, by an Angel Feather, by A Devil, by His hand, by Something That Was Standing On The Shore. 

You're getting close to something very dangerous. You should be careful.

"Everything is dangerous, here."

Not to you, it seems.

"Not yet."

Aki turns around, and there is someone beside him on the shore. They are speaking, but he cannot hear them.

(He Knows that his laugher sounds like a bell.)

Between grading the written exams, watching and performing in the physical exams, and bringing food to the runaways (fuck you Mic, he didn’t name them by choice), Shouta was preoccupied. His students were keeping to themselves for the most part, not causing any mischief, and really, that should’ve been the first red flag. 

But the fact that the runaways were keeping him so busy, was probably not a good thing. Every day Recovery Girl had a new, slightly more depressing tidbit of information about them. Apparently, from wherever they’d come from, Denji and Power couldn’t read, they didn’t know how to use modern technology, they knew nothing of world events, and barely, barely had a grasp of what heroes, villains, and quirks were. 

Neither of them had ever stepped foot in a school before now, for god’s sake!

It had been ten days since the trio had arrived, and four days since the last time Aizawa had spoken with either Denji or Power. The look of fear that overcome Denji’s face, coupled with Power’s more than ample howling, told him all he needed to know about how they felt towards him. By the next morning the duo had largely calmed down, but it took two more days before they let Recovery Girl anywhere near Aki. His conversation with Denji had practically shattered what little trust he’d managed to build—so forgive him if he was wary of showing his face to the wonder twins again. 

Though Shouta was a hero, he was still a coward. 

After looking over Recovery Girl’s email that stated what it had for the last few days (things are the same as they were before), Shouta closed the double doors behind him and began making his way to the front gate. He had a patrol shift starting in an hour, and he estimated that he had enough time to catch a quick dinner before heading out. Before he could open the campus gate, a yowling caught his attention. A mucky, white-brown stray was rubbing itself against the side of the wall, growing louder only when it knew it had Shouta’s attention. 

When he opened the gate, the cat began to wind itself around his ankles, yelling like it was starving despite looking very well fed. Shouta didn’t need to hide his smile, as he opened the side pouch of his backpack and proffered a half-broken biscuit in his open palm. He didn’t even get the treat below his knees before the cat was on its hind legs and noisily lapping at his palm. It purred as it chewed, the image of a perfect cat, before it meowed at him once more. 

Shouta slowly moved his hand toward the creature, well aware that he’d likely spook it, but was pleasantly surprised when it rubbed its head against one of his knuckles. 

For almost a week now, Shouta grinned at the far too friendly alley cat that he’d befriended. It waited for him to get off of work, greet him when he went in, and generally ate all of Shouta’s treats. 

After a brief petting session, the cat keened at him once more before darting in between the crack he’d left in the campus’s gate, and disappeared into UA. Shouta sighed, mentally kicking himself, before shutting the gate and opening his email. 

Good evening Nezu, you will find that a cat has slipped through the front gate…

If Shouta saw the cat napping on Aki’s chest while Denji and Power argued about the best kind of meat the next time he built up the courage to check on the trio personally, an additional five years would be shaved off his lifespan. He decided then and there that every problem in his life from the moment he met them, forward, would be their fault, and they would owe him emotional damages. 

If he saw the many armed ghost through a window on campus, he would let his eyes pass right over the figure. (His obscured goggles were great for concealing his quirk, and even greater for not alerting the monsters that he could see them.) 

(If Shouta got curious, and by the fourteenth day asked Denji who his many-armed-friend was, he would not be surprised by the response. 

“Ghost isn’t our friend. She was Aki’s friend for a day, but we don’t owe her anything, and she doesn’t owe us,” Denji leered. 

When Shouta crossed his fingers, and prayed his question wasn’t crossing the line, he said, “She’s not human, is she?”

Power and Denji stared at each other, communicating despite neither one of their expressions changing, or their fingers so much as twitching. 

“Nah,” Denji shrugged. “But she’s the only devil we’ve seen, so I don’t think you have to worry about any others. She’s just a special case I s’pose.”

When, two minutes later, Power was shoving the stray—Meowy—into his face as a form of persuasion to bring ice cream at their next meal (breakfast, at seven AM sharp the next morning), Shouta just couldn’t help but wonder who these kids were. 

Denji and Power had been taking advantage of the wider berth that Super Nanny and Aizawa had been giving them after he threw a tantrum the week before. Power had managed to make it all the way to the cafeteria with him the night before, and this afternoon’s target was the same. There’d been a bit of a commotion earlier, with two of the students coming and needing to be treated, but they’d recovered quickly and had been shuffled out just as fast. 

Recovery Girl had stepped out to go to a meeting or something, Power had told him, and so the coast was clear to make their trek. Just as Denji was twisting the handle, the door to the infirmary busted open. Denji froze where he was, the door cracked just slightly, and waited. 

Chattering voices disappeared into the wing where the rest of the school’s patients were treated, and devolved into well wishes and congratulations. 

Denji couldn’t hear much else, and Power’s strained expression meant she couldn’t either. They waited, parsing through each of the voices, and came to the conclusion that Recovery Girl was not one of them. They’d seen other students just fine before and the likelihood that any of them would even register to other people leaving the nurse’s office was miniscule. That was the purpose of this place—no one would question it! 

Power took the initiative to push the door open and step out, leaving Denji to shut the door and follow behind. He heard the satisfying click as the handle jerked back into place, and made it about three steps before bumping into Power’s frozen figure. 

She was standing stock still, staring into the other wing. When he followed her eyes, he met the dumbstruck expression of a kid with green hair and another with glasses. The girl that was with them seemed confused, but the two boys looked afraid. They seemed to know something.  

Power’s face was blank as she stared, until it suddenly smoothed into a mask of understanding. She did not take her eyes off of the boys—indicative of treating them like either prey or predator—but she spoke in a defeated tone. 

“I think our cover is blown.” 

Hawks checked the location of the tracker that was embedded in Denji’s side, and double checked it again. (Triple checked it.) When the location continued to come back as UA high, he let out a whistle. Whether it was intentional or not, they’d ended up in—reasonably—the worst place they could have. UA was free of any Hero Commission influence, and getting an agent in to bust the kids would be nearly impossible. 

Cold blue eyes from across the table flashed in his memory.

Hawks whistled. This would take some planning.

“Touche, Hayakawa Aki, touche.” 

“Sing your death song, and die like a hero going home.”

Chief Tecumseh “Live Your Life”

Chapter Text

There is a time for everything,

    and a season for every activity under the heavens:

a time to be born and a time to die,

    a time to plant and a time to uproot,

a time to kill and a time to heal,

 a time to tear down and a time to build,

a time to weep and a time to laugh,

 a time to mourn and a time to dance.

Keigo knew that his credibility wasn’t what it used to be, but in the eyes of his coworkers, he could tell it was almost well and truly dead. For all that Madam President was allowing him to fall down this rabbit hole—that she recognized how important and necessary that it was—no one else really understood. To them, it probably looked like he’d finally gotten a few screws a little too loose, but that just wasn’t the case. 

Sure, maybe throughout the course of his investigation a few nuts and bolts were a little looser than when he started, but he wasn’t losing it. He probably should have been, but he wasn’t. It was truly a testament to the training that the Commission had put him through—because if it were anyone else—they’d probably sit on the floor and drink until they couldn’t remember. 

Keigo didn’t have that luxury. 

Instead of freaking out like he rightfully should have, he merely added the mounting evidence he’d been collecting and kept digging for more. What he’d found was bizarre, unbelievable, yet annoyingly clarifying. 

Hayakawa Aki was a real person in the god given year of 1998. He had been contracted as a devil hunter a handful of years prior, drifted between units until he got a partner that stuck, and shoved his nose into complicated enough business that he ended up with a squadron all his own: Public Safety’s Division 4. 

It didn’t take a lot of digging from that era to find that Division 4 was something of a dead end. Division 4 was a wall that killed most paper trails and got records so heavily redacted they became a glorified list of names. While it wasn’t much, the names proved useful. 

Keigo would find a conflict, an investigation, an employee’s paper trail, and find that it ended abruptly with the Division 4 seal, and that was that. Most things were signed off by Hayakawa himself, but there were a few other miscellaneous signatures too. Some shaky, near illegible script was Higashiyara or something like it, and a damn near printer perfect script read Makima. 

The Makima character had no legible records—every single word was redacted, which wasn’t exactly helpful, but it put her a little more in the shit than the rest of them. Considering there were numerous documents that had Hayakawa’s signature and her’s, she was probably his supervisor. 

Hiyashigama did not do much on her own, it seemed. She was a rookie, worked directly under Hayakawa and anyone outside of the division with seniority over her, and had a contract so heavily redacted that her employee records were shredded from that point downwards. Unlike anyone else, she had repeated forms to take the Violence Fiend on daily excursions and missions (a can of worms that Keigo didn’t really want to get too far into. He’d found the Violence Fiend’s write up and promptly folded the page before refreshing his coffee.)

Hayakawa’s name was on every piece of Division 4 paperwork, which pointed to him being a founding member. He wrote hundreds of reports, sometimes a half dozen a day, detailing training, interactions, missions, and research about Devils. He had a kill count in the triple digits (which, holy shit), and he’d regularly engaged with Devils that put Keigo’s daikon Devil to shame. He’d killed things that ate people on sight and leveled buildings without losing any members of his team.

But that wasn’t the only thing. Hayakawa Aki was set to turn twenty before—officially— “violating a pre-existing Devil contract” and “being erased from this plane of existence.” 

These Public Safety freaks didn’t mince their words. 

Alongside him, his two charges—the Blood Fiend and Chainsaw—were unfortunately erased in the crossfire. 

Clearly they hadn’t been erased and something altogether more weird was going on since Hayakawa didn’t even look like he’d graduated from high school yet.

Keigo wasn’t really sure what to do with Hayakawa and his pet Devils. (Were they really siblings, like he’d said? Was that an excuse? The lie detecting quirk hadn’t been tripped by the admission, so maybe he’d taken responsibility of them? None of the three were related by blood, and Devils weren’t considered people so they couldn’t be adopted. If they’d known each other before Sukari Aka killed herself or Yameda Denji had been murdered, Hayakawa must have realized these Devils weren’t the people he’d known?)

(Would it matter?) 

He was losing track. 

The other members of Division 4 were equally as elusive. Some rookie died early, Hayakawa’s partner died, that Higashima girl quit abruptly, a few of the other assorted Devils in the squad also died or became too injured to work anymore, Hayakawa’s group disappeared, which ultimately left Makima as the final member (if she was ever a member at all). 

Unluckily, the Public Safety records descended into chaos and madness shortly after this. The administration basically collapsed, and most of the remaining documents were glorified letters pleading about the existence of Devils and that the authors hadn’t gone mad. Whatever had happened was what paved the way for the Hero Public Safety Commission to begin brewing. Chronologically—and un-fucking-luckily—the day after the Hayakawa freaks disappeared, the glowing baby was born. 

He’d be an idiot to fret over something as seemingly useless and unconnected as that, but he had a sickening feeling that there was an underlying something he was getting close to. 

Keigo’s office, which was a conference room dedicated to the stacks of documents he’d been tasked with sifting through, was in wild disarray, but Madam President spoke to him like she didn’t even notice. 

“What progress have you made?”

He looked at her over the rim of his mug—which was conduct that was bordering on disrespectful, though Keigo was starting to care less—and nodded slowly. 

“Some things here and there,” he admitted. “I’ve got a more or less comprehensive account of Hayakawa’s working history, his relative power and abilities, including his previous contracts! But that isn’t guaranteed to speak about his current arrangements. If the Fiend that we’re working with is the same ‘Power the Blood Fiend’ as before, I’ve got all of her specs as well. I’ve got the least about Denji—who I can only assume is the ‘Chainsaw’ that’s been mentioned. His stuff’s redacted like nobody’s business.” 

Madam seemed to think about his findings, briefly of course, because everything was brief with these fucking big-wigs, before nodding. 

“There’s nothing in the registry about him?”

And that was the real kick in the pants. “No, that’s the thing!” 

At the mildly amused expression that Keigo spied on her face, he quickly tried to compose himself, but his outburst was so genuine it was hard to tamp. 

“There’s not even an entry in their records about him. As far as I can tell, he walked onto the team after being recovered in the field, and nothing else exists. He’s marked as a highest level threat, but he’s not denoted as a Devil or Fiend or a contract bearer.”

He placed his empty mug on the table, hoping to express his point better without a distraction.

“I’d say even they had no idea what he was, and they weren’t too keen on asking questions about it.” 

Madam smiled ruefully at that. 

“So we’re flying blind again,” Keigo shrugged. “We’re no worse off than when we started.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Madam placed a packet on the table by Keigo’s mug, “Things are starting to get worse.” 

Keigo was leafing through the packet of reports before she was done speaking, noting the pictures of slain Devils and the personnel that were getting injured subduing them. 

“Ever since those three showed up, we’ve seen an uptick in Devil sightings and attacks. Non-responsive Devils have multiplied, though those are the easy ones. You’ve dealt with half a dozen cognisant upper level Devils over your career, and in the past six months we’ve seen triple that number.”

She pointed at the packet, and mimed flipping to the back. 

“That last Devil sighting was three days ago. It’s back.”

Internally, Keigo was correcting the madam, We can’t actually be sure if it’s a Devil or a Fiend by mere sight . 

The fucked up weird looking ones were clearly Devils, but knowing that Denji—something decidedly not Devil or Fiend—and Power—a Fiend—looked the way they did, it was clear the more humanoid ones could fall on either side of the aisle. It was dangerous to assume a creature was one way or another, but that was Keigo’s job to know and account for. Never to correct anyone else. 

The thing that stared at Keigo from the paper was… it certainly was. 

It was humanoid, that much was clear. It had a human head, torso, (presumably) legs underneath it’s clothing, and nothing else. Absurdly long hair hung limply around its head, pin straight, and ratty, while wings extended above it’s head. Whether it was by the thing’s nature, or it was a lucky shot, it’s halo was perfectly centered between the two. 

It stared at the camera with unconcealed boredom and exhaustion. 

“This was the one that got away.” 

Shock was not a word capable of describing what Keigo was experiencing. 

“You know as well as anyone else that you’re our best when it comes to Devils, but considering the only reason you walked away from it last time was because it let you—well, I don’t need to say anything else. The higher ups are meeting tomorrow to discuss options. Despite the shit show that’ll follow, I think they’re going to vote to assassinate those kids while they’re still in UA. The Devils got worse when they appeared, so the simpletons will expect it to go away when they do.” 

Keigo mutely nodded, still reading the report and flipping through pictures, and missing the half pleased smile on Madam’s face. 

“I’ll leave you with this. Let me know if anything changes.”

Keigo didn’t notice her going, but at this point it didn’t even matter. 

Didn’t matter that he’d come up with a theory about why people could see certain Devils, and why others were visible to all (and how to make people see Devils). That chill had come back with a vengeance—nearly as bad as the pain that the scar on his stomach twinged with. 

It was the fear of dying, he realized hazily. He’d fought that thing before and lost. Keigo was a dead man walking, and he’d let himself forget that. This time, he would be better prepared.

(Three re-reads of the report later—because face it, reading during an-almost-but-not-quite-a-panic-attack was not effective—Keigo realized what the report was actually saying. When he looked at the photos with new eyes, he saw the unmistakable figure of Shigaraki in the background. Keigo’s Devil had teamed up with the League, and for some reason that made him want to laugh.)

Killing two birds with one stone, right? 

It didn’t matter if he killed the Hayakawa kids—that Devil of his would still be kicking around, and that was all he really cared about. Maybe he’d read a few too many reports written by Hayakawa (and a few too many letters of recommendation by his various partners and supervisors), but Keigo didn’t care about him. The kid was a threat! That was easy! But he didn’t think the kid(?) was bad news. 

He’d warned Keigo, had given every single person as many warnings as he could’ve, and only did damage when he was prevented from doing exactly what he said he was going to do. 

Sure, he and his merry little band of misfits had killed Stain and a Nomu or two, but Keigo knew they could’ve done worse. In the—what?—last eight months they’d been around, that was all they’d done. Hayakawa was not lying when he’d said all that he wanted was to be left alone. His history was paved with gravestones and blood, it didn’t seem like he was rushing to get back to it. 

The mystery of Denji was useless at this point, Hayakawa was a non-issue in Keigo’s eyes, and whatever Power was now as opposed to before probably didn’t mean shit. 

Instead of pulling up the feed from Denji’s tracker, Keigo started leafing through one of the larger stacks of records. As he combed through the directory, looking for anything tangentially angelic, he lamented the fact that he’d need to brew another pot of coffee. 

Denji punched Power hard enough to bruise—or at least he hoped he did. Judging by the way she hissed and grabbed her arm, he’d managed to do it. 

“Ignore her,” he groaned. “Promise not to tell the old bat that we’re sneaking out? We’re supposed to be on bed rest, but, you know, we’re hungry?”

Let it be known that Denji could lie. He wasn’t great at it once you got to know him, but at first glance he just came off as a grumbling mess walking around with a walking fire hazard that couldn’t possibly lie. People tended to pay more attention to Power when things were weird, and Denji had learned to capitalize on that.

When Denji turned to the other group of kids, he was shocked to find the two boys staring at him with true terror on their faces. The girl was normal, if not sympathetic. 

“Don’t worry about it!” she beamed. “We’ve all done it once or twice.”

Denji could’ve kissed her. 

“Right boys?”

Denji could’ve killed her. 

When she turned to her friends, they met her cheery grin with faces frozen in fear. Too quiet to hear, they spoke to one another, the girl’s face screwing up with confusion, while the freaky green one never took his eyes off of Power. 

Denji pinched Power this time, not minding her hiss of pain.

“What the fuck is going on?” he growled. “What did you do?”

Power slapped his hand away, expression not even slightly bashful.

“Remember when I said I encountered a villain that I summarily subdued?”

Denji had come across heroes when he was loose in Hosu, but all that shit had worked itself out. The blood rushed from his face nonetheless, because he was missing something obvious. 

“There may or may not have been some other people around when I did so.”

Denji met Izuku’s eyes with an equally horrified expression. Murder was not cool here—Aki had made that much very clear. 

“Well fuck me,” Denji bleated. 

Things were not looking good. On one hand, clearly one of the kids was injured, and probably wouldn’t be able to run and tell somebody about them, on the other, there were two kids who very much could go find someone. Any one of them could yell too. Even if he and Power were to just turn around and leave them be, the nosy ass hero students (because this couldn’t be a normal school, could it?) would probably go tell someone anyways. 

Denji had seen the sports festival on the TV, he knew that these kids could do some real damage if they needed to. 

When he tore his eyes from the suspiciously silent side of the room, Power was already staring at him. He hoped his face truly expressed how badly he wanted to say don’t do anything stupid.

Her sneer told him that she was waiting to be thanked by the ants she’d saved. 

There wasn’t enough time to bust Aki out of his hospital room, ransack the place of everything they could find, and beat a hasty retreat before any of the kids alerted someone. 

“How did you find us?”

Denji thought he’d made up the shaking voice, but the green one had spoken to the surprise of—well, of everyone. 

Before Power could say anything, Denji cut in. “We weren’t looking, okay? We’re not here because of you.”

The kid nodded once, but he didn’t seem convinced. “Then why are you here?”

When Power caught his eye, he could tell what she was thinking about. It’d be dumb to tell them about why they were actually there, because it’d expose their biggest weakness—Aki was still sick, and he’d still be sick for any number of days after this. It didn’t look like the kids were getting ready to make a break for it, so hopefully keeping them talking would keep them distracted enough to wait for Super Nanny’s return. 

But that didn’t mean Denji couldn’t lie to keep them busy. They should lie, but that would put them in an equally bad position, just in a different direction. If the kids thought they were lying—like it sure looked like they did—they could do something about it. 

Shit!

They could’ve already done something about it, and they were actually stalling Power and himself for some reason. 

What should they do if one of the heroes or trainers tried to attack them? What would Aki want them to—

“House arrest,” Power sighed. “We’ve been put on house arrest.”

The green one gaped, mouth opening and closing around words unsaid. 

The blue one cut in. “What does that even mean?”

“Watch your fucking mouth, okay? This is weird for us too,” Denji barked. 

Something about the kid’s tone had grated on him—like Denji was being chastised for a job poorly done. This one was angrier than he was afraid, and Denji could work with that. He was due for a shouting match, Power too. Maybe if they raised a ruckus Recovery Girl would come back? Or would it only draw unwanted attention? Denji wasn’t meant to make decisions like this. (This was what Aki was for, if the asshole wouldn’t just wake up already.)

The girl, in lieu of quite literally anything else, raised her hand. Denji thought she looked like an idiot, but they were in a school, right? And that’s how things were supposed to work, weren’t they? Power pointed at the girl to speak. 

“Uhm. I think I’m missing something here, do you guys know each other?”

The blue one’s hands turned to fists at his side, but he didn’t make any moves.

“I saved their lives during a rather precarious outing,” Power preened. “It was not a hard won battle, but it was necessary to keep them alive. That man had such a foul smelling quirk, you really ought to be thanking me!” 

Her arms were crossed, chin jutted out in a show of petty superiority. 

“You killed Stain! You ate him alive!”

The blue kid had downright shouted it, face ruddy and expression crumpled in anger. He’d been so sure of himself when he’d said it, but that perfectly disdainful grimace had all but melted from his face—replaced by horror, and a hand covering his mouth. 

Shit. Was blue hair not supposed to say that? Didn’t they already know? (and why was it so fucking quiet all of a sudden?)

Power scoffed like she’d been insulted. “Yes, and? If he wasn’t dead, the both of you and that other guy would’ve kicked it. If you’d rather be dead I’m always amenable to a snack.”

She took a single, threatening step forward, and all three kids jolted backwards. The brown haired one was starting to look faint, while the two boys were starting to get twitchy. Clearly they were all torn on what to do. 

Denji and Power were standing on one half of the world, while those hero kids were standing on the other. And that was the thing, wasn’t it? This wasn’t the world that he and Power were supposed to be in. This wasn’t their home. So what if it was shitty, at least it made sense! (At least when things wanted you dead they just tried to kill you. They didn’t have nice nurses and adults that helped and hurt and rules that only seemed to apply to some things and not others. It was too confusing.)

(Despite knowing what was going to happen, he almost missed the simplicity of living life under               . It was awful, he’d been trying to tell himself. It wasn’t right. But that didn’t mean it wasn’t the first place he’d ever willingly called Home.)

Denji pulled on the hem of Power’s shirt until she was pouting at his side, and summarily distracted from the others. “Look,” Denji sighed, “I don’t know what you want from us. Recovery Girl and Aizawa have been hiding us here for days, and we’re gonna steal some ice cream and waffles because it sucks in here. You guys want any?”

No one responded, in fact, it didn’t even look like the trio were breathing. Just staring at him with thinly veiled horror. Power’s nails were digging into the flesh of his arm after scarcely a second, tugging him to the door with renewed excitement—Aki’s House Rule #4, if you don’t answer you’re just saying no in fewer words, ringing in his ears. 

They could leave right now and those kids would be too shocked to do anything, they really could. 

(But Denji didn’t want to leave Aki unattended and didn’t want to let them regain their confidence. He wanted to be in the fucking wind though, he wanted to turn around and never come back to this place. He wanted to go Home. He wanted his brother to be okay. He wanted to kill every single one of those bastards that thought they could fuck with them, wanted them to suffer and choke and drown on their blood while Denji pissed on their graves. He wanted to eat ice cream with Pochita in Aki’s living room while complaining about Meowy’s fur getting in the bowl.)

Denji was stuck. He wasn’t made to think this hard. 

When Aizawa opened the door to the infirmary, it was only second nature that Denji did something stupid. 

Blood spattered against the ceiling as his skull cleaved in two, as the whine of blades cut through the silence. 

Aki is sitting in an adirondack chair on the balcony of the apartment that used to be his. There is a cigarette in his hand that smells like the perfume he got Himeno for her birthday both two and a thousand years ago. The tree that used to tap on his window during stormy nights is smiling at him. His phone is ringing inside, but he isn’t going to get it, because hands are pressing him down into the chair by the tops of his shoulders. 

“Something isn’t right,” he says. 

Blunt cut bangs brush the shell of his ear as a voice he wants to forget whispers. “And what would that be?”

He shivers, but he isn’t cold. 

A car passes by on the street, his phone rings again, nails bite into his flesh through his shirt. 

“Aki, what’s wrong?” she asks. 

He catches the tree’s eye and watches as it leans forward. 

His phone is ringing. He wants to get it, but he won’t. Can’t. Something is keeping him here. 

(It is not a some one , it is a some thing, that, Aki is certain of. She has never been human, not once, and he knew. God fucking damn it all to hell, he knew. He knew she was a fucking monster and he didn’t do anything about it. Couldn’t. In fact, she’d made him love it.)

“You,” he says. “You’ve never been here.” 

He expects blood to stain his shirt when bone peels back skin, but nothing seeps out. He expected there to be something more underneath, but maybe he was emptier than he should’ve been. Even then. 

The tree’s laughter is shaking its leaves so hard that it’s bare. 

Aki hasn’t smoked a cigarette since before, so the one in his hand isn’t real. 

If                is here, then either Here isn’t real, or She isn’t real—just, one of them isn’t, and that’s good enough for him. 

Fingers grip his clavicle, and he can taste the blood of every person he has ever cared about. He thinks his bones are dirty now. (But the smell of perfume, of a sickened flutter in his stomach tells him that maybe they have been for a long time.)

“You’re good, even quicker than before,” the tree whistles. 

Aki doesn’t preen, but he doesn’t bristle. The hands don’t even hurt anymore, In Fact, she’s not even there. 

“I want…” he can’t find the right words to say what he wants. “Wherever it’s real. The real When and the real Where.”

The trees shake and rattle in a way that Aki can feel is distinctly happy, like a dog wagging its tail, like a particularly happy spider crawling up to a fly. 

“That’s up to you,” Future says, all knots and fuzzy pollen. “It’s always been up to you.”

Aki nodded once, too-short hair irritating freshly pierced ears. 

Aki closed his eyes, and waited. 

When Shouta walked into Recovery Girl’s office, he did not anticipate getting a face full of blood. 

He’d seen blood before, had been bled on, knew that he himself was a bleeder, but nothing had quite prepared him for the fine mist of red, in a perfect vertical line that went from chin to hairline, right between his eyes. 

And nothing really prepared him for the way that Denji was staring at him—chainsaw through the front of skull and cords protruding from neck—looking for all the world like the terror that the commission said he was. Pictures did not do the boy justice, because the sight of metal where sinew should’ve stretched and shaking headlight eyes were not things that an image could convey,

Gears grinded somewhere in the kid’s throat, every breath sounding like it had some kind of kickback. (The Commission did not release videos of the kids in action, which—despite how much it was biting him in the ass now—was probably a pretty smart move. Even he, self-proclaimed pretty good hero and Not A Piece Of Shit, would’ve been shocked by such a sharp absence of humanity.) 

Confronted with the situation before him, Shouta could not make himself focus. His students were frozen in fear, he was covered in blood, Denji was poised to kill. Shouta should have been more concerned—he had better things to be worried about—but as blood trickled down the side of his face, all he could find it within himself to care about was where that fucking cat had run off to.

Over the hiss of gears, Shouta cleared his throat. 

“What’s going on here?”

In the gurney, flanked by Uraraka and Iida, Midoriya’s body stiffened. 

Shouta took a gamble like he had never gambled before in his life, and scoffed, hands in his pockets. 

“Put all that away, Denji,” he glowered. “What are you and Power doing out here?”

He prays the kids can’t tell he’s sweating, and that he seems calm enough to diffuse whatever the fuck is going on.

Power—angel that she was—had the gall to look guilty. Even slapping Denji on the back and hissing something or other. At the very least, she didn’t seem like she was being threatened or was planning on doing anything violent. He turned his gaze towards her and pounced. 

“Where’s Recovery Girl?” he asked. 

Head turned, as if she were ignoring the conversation she was actively a part of, she shrugged. “I dunno. Out.”

“Did something happen to Aki?”

The girl’s face twisted briefly, into something that could’ve been a snarl if she committed. 

“No.” She crossed her arms. “Aki is unchanged.”

As the conversation carried on Denji slowly straighted out of his crouch. Chainsaw blades hissed as they slowed to a halt, and eventually splattered on the floor. (Distantly, Shouta noted that he’d need to ask about that. The blades could melt?)

“Then why are you out here?” he asked instead. 

Power tapped her foot on the ground, trying to stare a hole through Shouta’s head. He didn’t actually care why the two were out of their wing when they weren’t supposed to be—it was clear they didn’t actually mean any harm. Denji was pale, face bright with sweat, and Power seemed to be playing up her cluelessness because she knew they were caught. 

Shouta kept his gaze focused on the two of them, not allowing his eyes to drift towards the students he was supposed to be protecting from these two. 

“If you’re feeling too shy to speak up, I’ll talk to you privately. In your room.”

Shouta wasn’t sure if he was cashing in on every piece of good luck, goodwill, and karma he’d ever accumulated, because instead of raising fuss, whining, or otherwise fighting, Power pulled Denji’s hair until he silently followed behind her. Shouta watched the duo go, not daring to move until he heard the click of the door shut behind them. 

Now, this was the delicate part of the ooperation. 

Based on the general mood when he walked in, something had happened. Denji didn’t freak out unprompted, and while Iida could be a bit grating, all three of his students were unobtrusive and generally kind. For them to have spooked Denji, something must have happened. But that said nothing of how badly Denji and Power must have spooked them.  

Which was the predicament: Shouta didn’t want to scare them any more than they probably already were, but he needed to be firm. Despite the cold sweat—or was it blood?—on his brow, Shouta could not tilt his hand. It didn’t matter how badly he wanted to round on the kids and demand to know what happened, he knew that wouldn’t help any of them. 

Shouta tamped down the panic in his chest, and calmly, oh so calmly, turned to his students. 

Iida’s eyes had not left the door that the problem children had disappeared behind, body taught, and hand fisted in the blanket that Midoriya had pushed aside. Uraraka was staring at him with something like utter incomprehension on her face. She didn’t seem as frightened as the boys, but something was hanging over her head. The uncharacteristic behavior of the others was nothing compared to Midoriya. Midoriya, who was paler than Shouta had ever seen him, and was sat so perfectly still, mouth unmoving (no telltale muttering or jittery hands). 

The kid wasn’t even half this bad when Shouta had met up with him in Hosu— oh.)

That’s right. Midoriya and Iida absolutely ran into Power during the Hosu debacle. The famous incident where Stain was brutally murdered, but the news wasn’t allowed to announce it as such. Shit. 

In the cosmic scheme, everything could’ve been worse, but on the very realistic and specific level where Shouta was presently locking eyes with the kids who saw a girl eat someone alive and just watched her saunter off—things could be going better. 

Like a grown adult and hero, Shouta bit down on the traitorous tongue that had a million questions and then some. He turned in a measuredly casual manner, and situated himself at the foot of Midoroya’s gurney. 

Three pairs of eyes mutely stared at him. It was not horror, but it wasn’t not not horror.  

Shouta sighed. 

“I see you met our stowaways.” 

Uraraka was the only one to nod, which he chose to see as a good sign. No one was breaking out into hysterics and Iida wasn’t trying to vault over him, so… little victories. 

“I’m under strict confidence,” Shouta said slowly. “The Hero Commission is very interested in making sure no one knows about those two. And I know what you saw, but I am under strict orders not to let this get out. Your and my heroics licenses are on the line. If anyone finds out about them, all of us will be sitting in front of the Hero Commission.”

He hadn’t lied yet, but Midoriya was blinking at him like he wanted to call bullshit. 

“I’m sorry that you had to see them—I thought what we were doing was working, but it didn’t. That’s my fault. And I’m not sure how I’m going to fix it, but what I can say is that all of you are safe.” 

“Are we though?” Iida hissed. “That villain almost took your head off!”

(And there was a bitterness in his tone that Shouta wasn’t expecting, a kind of venom that he hadn’t thought Iida had developed yet.)

“What happens to me while I’m an active pro hero is none of your concern. This isn’t just some risk I haven’t thought about, it’s my job. There haven’t been any, and there will be no issues.”

 Midoriya looked at him with something like betrayal in his eyes, but nodded his head once. Iida didn’t react, but Shouta knew he’d heard. To his surprise, it was Uraraka’s uneasy voice that broke the looming quiet. 

“So we can’t talk about those two to anyone?” she asked. 

He shook his head. 

“Okay,” Uraraka nods. “What about the third?”

While she was never top of the class, Shouta could never let himself forget that Uraraka was clever. She had an eye for detail like no other, even though it usually came at the expense of the bigger picture; of course she would’ve noticed an errant name. 

“Him too. Aki, Denji, and Power are off-limits.”

“Why are they here and not in prison?” Iida cut in. “Why keep them here at all?”

Shouta watched Midoriya move for the first time since he’d walked in the room. The boy turned towards his classmate and said, “The other one is injured, isn’t he?”

Midoriya said it like a question, despite the fact that they both knew it wasn’t. 

Shouta ran a hand across his face, flakes of dried blood fluttering from where he’d brushed them off. He couldn’t pin down the moment when this whole thing got away from him, but at some point, it had. 

Was it when he got the case? When Midoriya stared through him in that interrogation room? When Fujiko called him with tears in her voice? When Hayakawa Aki died in front of him? When Hisashi gave them a name? Was it the goddamn cellphone video?

Shouta was exhausted, and no amount of holding his breath or weighing which group of children he owed his loyalties to would make it better. It was his problem, and it was his responsibility to fix it. (If only fixing it didn’t involve spilling government secrets.)

“I’m going to be honest with you three in a way that I will never be, ever again,” he spoke. “The less you know, the better.” 

After letting the statement sink in—neither a confirmation nor denial—Shouta rose to his feet. 

“You three don’t need to leave or anything, but I’m going to make sure those two aren’t getting up to any mischief. Just take it easy, alright? And don’t go spreading rumors.”

He left the trio with the distinct impression that he’d made a wrong turn, somewhere in there, but it was too late to go back. He’d made his bed—taking in the trio—and now he was lying in it. As Shouta made to open the door, Midoriya’s voice reached him. Hisashi would never ask him what he was thinking in that moment, but Shouta knew he would wonder. 

Though he couldn’t identify what was in the kid’s voice—it didn’t lack affect, there was something there— it made Shouta proud. Despite everything, Midoriya’s kindness persisted. 

“They were hungry,” he called out.

Shouta’s eyebrow raised. “Yeah?”

“They wanted ice cream and waffles.”

Yeah, that sounded about right. Incarnations of fear and pain, and they wanted to eat sweets like children. 

(Midoriya was catching on far too quickly.)

Where Nezu was walking the school grounds, he caught the eye of a particularly rambunctious cat. The creature lifted his head, rising from where he’d settled in a shaft of sunlight. 

The principal raised a paw. “Don’t worry, I come in peace. Surely Aizawa is taking care of you and your guests?”

Meowy licked his chops, flicked his tail, and yawned. 

“I see! Then I must be paying them a visit soon. Things could get out of hand quickly if any more students found out. Please, don’t let me keep you any longer.”

Meowy watched the principal until his meager form disappeared around the corner of the building. Only when he was alone did he rest his head upon his paws. 

Denji didn’t want to breathe on the chance that Aki would close his eyes again.

“Look, I knew this was like a different group when I signed onto this shit, but what the fuck is this?”

To say Dabi was doubting the legitimacy of this Shigaraki kid was not saying much. He felt like he was crazy for saying it too, considering no one else seemed to have a problem with it. Spinner was actively playing video games with the kid, while Magne refereed between the two of them. Compress—Dabi’s last tether to fucking normalcy—was standing across the room from him, watching everyone (but lacking any outward indication of disgust or concern). 

But this was where everything went wrong. While acting like everyone was buddy-buddy grated on his nerves, it was something he could deal with. 

Toga, sat next to this random fucking stranger at the bar was what stepped over the line. You could only go so long watching someone else watch as Kurogiri spooned food into the guy’s mouth because he had no fucking arms. Not to mention that due to Toga’s interest in the guy’s soup, he was pretty sure it was blood. 

It looked like Shigaraki had pulled the guy out of a crypt, hosed him down in the backyard, and sat him at the bar like a party decoration. The guy’s hair was a matted and tangled mess, so long and unwieldy that it pooled on the floor behind him. Dressed in what could only have been a repurposed bedsheet toga, the guy didn’t have any shoes for Christ’s sake. 

And all of this, without any kind of notification or heads up. Made decisions about the group without even thinking about getting their two cents. 

No one reacted to what Dabi had said though, save for what he could only assume was a pitying glare from Compress. 

“Who the fuck is this guy, and what the hell is he doing here?”

He let his quirk burn for just a moment—let off a few plumes of rotting smoke—to get his point across. Dabi was not one to be ignored, and certainly not on things of this magnitude. If Shigaraki was too out of control, he’d never be able to accomplish what he needed to. He’d have to start again, with a new group—which he would do! It would be a pain, but he’d rather get started now than get tangled up with whatever misguided shit Shigaraki was doing. 

That very man groaned, the head to head match pausing. Kurogiri stilled. 

“What?” Shigaraki hissed. 

For lack of any better answer, Dabi merely gestured to the new guy. 

Dumbly, Shigaraki gave no response, as if he couldn’t understand what Dabi was trying to say. Instead, Kurogiri cleared his throat. 

“Our benefactor has given us a fine weapon for our next endeavor.”

Stepping forward, Compress spread his hands in a placating manner. “Well, while we’re all here, please, introduce us.”

Though Kurogiri distinctly lacked a face, Dabi could tell he was unhappy. Why?—surely they were going to find out. (It was never good when the voice of reason was hesitant.) 

“This is Angel,” the villain warbled. “He will be handling the frontal assault for the next mission.”

For how he looked—all one-hundred pounds sopping wet, and gaunt features—Dabi assumed the guy would have an insane quirk. To hear he’d be handling the main battle single-handedly put things into perspective. 

“On his lonesome?” Compress asked Shigaraki, head inclined in the boy’s direction. “Surely you don’t expect him to do that much of the heavy lifting when you’ve got us?”

Shigaraki merely waved his hand. 

“You’re all irreplaceable pieces, I’m not risking you this early. Angel is a limited time offer—I’m gonna use him while I still can.”

Toga sat back against the bar, an exuberant pout twisting her face. “Awe, that’s so sad! I was just starting to want to kill him! Why’s he not sticking around? S’ he have an expiration date or something?”

Shigaraki shrugged, sleeping television screen coming to life as he settled back against the couch. His torn voice was practically impossible to discern from the video game’s sound effects, but Dabi thought he’d heard him say the dog can speak for himself. 

(Which was shocking, considering the man hadn’t made a single sound the entire conversation.)

When Toga batted her eyes at Angel, a silent plea to keep bothering the new guy, Dabi relented. It was her funeral if the guy was insane. (Or more accurately, Angel’s, if he was crazy enough to interest Toga.)

“Well? Why won’t I get to carve you up after our successful mission?” She whined. 

Angel didn’t look up from his blood soup. Didn’t even twitch, as Toga held a knife to his throat in glee. 

“I’m looking for someone,” he said, like it answered anything. “I don’t care about your mission, or the heroes. The person I’m looking for will probably be with the heroes.”

Toga gasped like she’d been stabbed. “But if you’re not careful, you could get arrested! What would I do without my new favorite friend if that happened?”

“I don’t care. I’ve waited a very long time for him. If they catch me, so what. He doesn’t want anything bad to happen to me, so nothing will.”

The flatness of the guy’s voice was jarring, more than the perfectly blank mask that was his face. He didn’t seem to care that he was in a villain den, that Kurogiri was spooning fucking blood between his teeth, that Toga was practically nose-to-nose with him. Dabi shocked himself when he spoke, the words bubbling out before he could stop them.

“You’ve got a lot of faith in some hero wannabe brat.”

Angel didn’t stiffen, didn’t scoff, didn’t really do much of anything. Just smiled, flaunting blood stained teeth, and turned his head just enough to see. For some reason, Dabi thought he was being laughed at. 

“Aki isn’t a hero. Hell would be empty the day Aki became a hero. We made a promise, and I don’t know how he did it, but he kept it,” Angel shrugged. “He was hurt recently too. Badly. I want to see how he’s faring.” 

Toga squealed in delight, practically swooning where she sat. 

“Oh, Angel, I’m so excited to meet this Aki! I wonder if you’d be able to tell the difference between us if I became him. Will you even recognize him? You said you’ve been waiting, like some kind of fairytale princess.” 

The man just turned his gaze from where he’d been spying Dabi, flat eyes meeting unrestrained joy. 

From the halo above Angel’s head, a sword fell out of nothing and halted only inches from the skin of Toga’s forehead. When she flinched away, knife clanging against the fucked up white metal of the blade, Angel huffed. This time, Angel really was laughing. 

“It would be easy to tell. Aki wouldn’t flinch.” 

And with that the man yawned, retracted the sword, and slid off of the seat. Seeing the guy move, especially after the little display he got up to was comical. The guy was like a newborn—spindly legs too thin to hold up the rest of him as he teetered on his feet. With no arms to counter balance himself, his chest slammed into the bar with a bone rattling thunk. Dabi didn’t move to him, as he struggled to get his feet under him. (Curiously, despite the fact that he’d initially extended a hand, Kurogiri didn’t try to help. Toga was just content to watch.)

Even curiouser, Compress did.

He took a couple quick steps, hand extended in a clear bid to help, but Angel’s shout silenced the room. 

“Don’t!” he hissed. 

Hands raised in surrender, Compress backed off. 

Angel managed to push himself off the bar, feet no longer tangled in his hair, and took a steadying breath. 

“If you touch me, you’ll die.” 

On the TV, Spinner lost, head turned and staring at Compress and Angel. 

“You’re shit at introductions there, Shigaraki,” Dabi chided, stomach turning itself in knots at the thought of how close Toga had been to death.  

No fucking wonder this guy was their frontal assault. No fucking wonder he wasn’t scared of getting taken into custody. 

Shigaraki tsked. “He got there eventually.” 

When Angel slipped out, he was followed by every pair of eyes and an overwhelming silence. When Magne went out for a cigarette later that night she was shocked to see Angel sitting on the fire escape. 

“I take it you’re not much of a smoker?” she tried. 

With his back to her, she hoped he at least smiled at her joke, because he certainly didn’t laugh. 

“Me?” he intoned. “No, not me. But I knew some people who did. Reminds me of easier times.”

She flicked the lighter a few times until it caught, and took a long awaited drag. 

“And how long ago would that be?”

Angel breathed in deeply, seemingly savoring the smell of her drag. 

He shrugged, wings bobbing a half beat behind his shoulders. “The last time they took me outta there it was something like two hundred years. But that was pretty recently, so.” 

Magne whistled, mind privately whirring. “Well, at the very least you look good for your age. What’s your secret?”

The man just hummed, head tilted to the side in thought. 

“A steady diet of ice cream and entrails. And secondhand smoke. And bedrest.”

She laughed, the sound punched out of her. She knew he wasn’t joking, but she certainly wasn’t judging. After seeing what had happened earlier, she could dismiss a little nonsense. (She wondered what she’d be like if she couldn’t touch anyone—if she’d never even gotten a hug without guilt.)

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

When Aki opened his eyes in what he could only assume was the real world, he was alone. It felt like he’d been hit by a bus, a kind of exhaustion burned into his body that he didn’t have a name for. Instead of waking to the sounds of bugs, cars, birds, and pedestrians like he always did, he woke to the sterile hum of air conditioning and fluorescent lights. The room, dimly lit and stinking of antiseptic, was too familiar. 

It was like back then. Like Himeno. Like Hell. Like grandma Katsuri. Like every other stabbing, head wound, injury, and broken teammate from before. 

Was this real?

Any second now, Denji was going to walk in with a basket full of apples that he and Power would end up eating. Aki was going to find a cigarette on the bedside table. Angel was going to say something shitty from the bed next to him—some dumb joke about only having one arm—and Aki was going to wake up again.

His chest rattled with the force of his breathing, lungs burning against the inside of his ribs as he tried to fill them until they burst. Aki desperately wanted to fling himself out of the bed, scream, do something to prove that he was awake, but his body wasn’t listening. Clawing against the sheets left him shaking, legs twitching throbbing instead of swinging off the edge. 

Sure, if he was calmer, maybe he’d be doing a little better, but fuck he couldn’t breathe!

By the time Aki managed to wedge his traitorous hands underneath him and sit himself up, his hair was plastered to his face with sweat. The IV port in the back of his hand ached with the pressure, but it kept him sharp. His vision wasn’t tunneling, but it was a near thing. He just needed to get on his feet and he’d be fine. He had everything under control, all he’d have to do was actually do it.  

Yeah! This was fine! He was fine, and this was real. And this was real.

(He might have been shaking. He couldn’t tell.)

And he was alone. 

When Denji kicked in the door to Aki’s room—not like he had to be fucking quiet—with a tray of lunch in his hands, he actually felt a pang of remorse when he dropped the food directly on the floor. 

Aki was sat up in bed, eyes wide, and was staring straight at him. 

When Power knocked into him, halfway to shouting something or other, she fell silent with a gasp. Denji couldn’t move. Stuck in the doorway, stuck watching as Power threw herself on top of Aki, as he wrapped his arms around her, as she screamed in joy. (There was something about doors that gave him the heebie jeebies.)

It felt like he stood there for years, watching to make sure that what he was seeing was real. Denji didn’t want to breathe on the chance that Aki would close his eyes again.

His voice sounded like shit when he croaked. “Get over here.”

And Denji was slumped across the bed, squished somewhere between where Power stopped and Aki started. (His chest purred with satisfaction—the ghost of Pochita howling with joy.) If anyone asked, he wasn’t crying—and that was the truth—but Aki was. Fucking sweating, crying, shaking, the whole nine yards. But they were laughing too.

(It wasn’t the same as before, clearly. There were new doors with extra padlocks and deadbolts between them, but maybe just a few of the older ones were gone.)

“We leave in forty-five. No later. Make sure you’ve got all your shit by then,” Shigaraki snapped. “We have a timed mission, we can’t be late.”

Spinner scoffed, clearly already raring to go. “Someone better figure out a way to wake up Sleeping Beauty over there, and it won’t be me.” 

Angel was sleeping on the bar, forehead flat down on the wood, completely oblivious to the battle preparations happening around him. He was either that heavy of a sleeper, or he honestly didn’t give a shit. Dabi gave him props for that—whichever one it ended up being. Being in their line of work and still being able to conk out and have a nap? Invaluable skill. 

Compress waved a gloved hand, tone playful as he stage whispered. “Eh, let the kid sleep a while longer. He’s gonna have one hell of a day ahead of him, let him sleep while he still can.” 

Spinner grumbled something or other, but went back to oiling a blade. 

Internally, Dabi grinned. Forty minutes left.

“He said I've seen you here before,

I know your name.

Yeah, you could have your pick

Of pretty things.”