Chapter Text
"What kind of bird are you?"
Super Star asks him the question the moment the timer rings. They'd been having joint training every Thursday upon the suggestion of their handlers, between four and six in the evening. And it's always the same routine, the same drill, the same result. The training isn't offering anything new, at least to them, because they're still in the same kind of room, the same kind of building– There isn't anything new, so this doesn't make sense.
"Well," he huffs for a reply, "what kind of star are you?"
Super Star, he knows, is here for the exact same reason he is. She is determined, sometimes too pushy, about what she wants to become, about who she is going to be. She makes it clear and obvious that she is going to be an astronaut. No, wait. That's not the reason he's here. He's here to become a hero, a pro-hero. So it doesn't make sense for her to be here, even if she has that kind of Quirk, even if she is the only other person his age that he's met, even if they are something like friends.
"A nebula," she replies easily, "but I'm going to be the Dog Star."
He doesn't understand– A dog?
"The brightest star in the Milky Way galaxy."
He isn't really too interested in astronomy and outer space like she is. He's never really liked the stars at night when he was younger, because they only reminded him how far away they were and how he'll never be like them. Stars were things far away from the world and all its problems, shining and glittering without any hint of dirt. Stars were clean, pure, and unharmed.
Not like him.
But exactly like her.
So when she tells him she's going to be a star, he doesn't doubt her. After all, she already has the name.
She asks the question again, "So what kind of bird are you?"
It takes a few seconds to process her question because he doesn't really know. He hasn't really thought about it, hasn't really wondered what kind of bird he is, because it wasn't important. No, it's not important. It doesn't matter to him or anyone else, because all that matters is that he's got wings. That he's got these wings that are unique and special and one-of-a-kind–
"I don't know," he answers, "why?"
Super Star asked him that question before, when they were younger, but he had never answered her.
"Hawks don't have red wings."
He frowns at her.
"And stars are supposed to be brighter."
His reply is a quip, he knows, because suddenly she's fuming to herself and shaking her fists like she wants to yell at him. But she doesn't. Instead, she just shifts away. Without a breath. Without a sound. Like a ghost.
How lucky, he thinks bitterly.
"I'm sorry, Hawks."
He is twelve years old when he hears the news, the tragedy, the absolute betrayal. He is twelve years old when his senior is ripped from him, when he hears people talk about her with venom in their voices, with pity, with indifference. He is twelve years old when he hears about Lady Nagant turning to villainy, about her snapping all of a sudden–
No, that's not what they used. There was a villain, someone who called himself Berserker, that could make people's Quirks go haywire. That was the excuse they used. The news all read, "Quirk Manipulator on the Loose! Pro-heroes in dangerous water" and only mentioned her in passing.
The brave Lady Nagant falls victim to Berserker: "I am also to blame," the sniper hero confesses, "I have to take responsibility."
But he knows that's not true. The way the Commission looks at him tells him it's not true. His wings tell him it's not true, and his wings have never lied to him.
"Sometimes a rare and dangerous Quirk develops before our very eyes, and the only thing we can do is try to stop it."
He doesn't understand what they're telling him, why they're telling this to him. Were they talking about Berserker? Or Lady Nagant? Were they talking about him? About Super Star? Or someone else?
"So work hard, Hawks," they all tell him, "show them your wings can be relied on."
He is twelve years old when his senior is simultaneously praised and ripped apart. Certain media outlets are particularly negative about her rifle Quirk, saying that this was bound to happen, while others expressed a lack of faith in the pro-heroes to act when such a dangerous villain had appeared, saying that this could spark another war similar to those during the Vigilante Era. There were sympathizers and those who lauded her work, and praised her heroism, but eventually Lady Nagant is forgotten. Eventually, her name is just a name in passing. She is just a hero abiding by the justice system now.
No matter, the news says, younger and better pro-heroes come up every year. Guns are a thing of the past, anyway.
Eventually, Lady Nagant becomes a legend, a myth, a warning.
"Heroes are strong, and sometimes villains are stronger," they tell him, "but you're not just a hero, you're a winged hero."
He thinks they put too much faith in him. He is just twelve years old.
It is three weeks before his thirteenth birthday when he meets the new president of the Hero Public Safety Commission. Her office is nice. Her office has an aquarium, a big one. It's filled with all kinds of colorful fish.
"Hawks."
She is facing the aquarium when she starts talking.
"What do you think about villains?"
He knows the answer to the question. He's been asked that question ever since he was six years old.
"They should be put to justice."
"Why do you think they became villains?"
The president's next question comes fast, but he hasn't ever heard of that question before. He doesn't know how to answer.
"Don't worry," she turns to him with a smile on her face, "no one else is listening. It's just us."
He remembers the times when he'd undergo training by following instructions sent through a radio, by communicating in codes with his feathers and listening closely if someone else was listening. He dislikes the automatic feeling it gives him.
The president sighs. He doesn't answer the question.
"Some say it's in their nature, the vileness," she says, "others say it's a sudden realization, that the thought just comes suddenly, the urge to take."
He shivers. His feathers ruffle in discomfort.
"But nobody knows the answer," she tells him, "perhaps there is none."
He wants to disagree.
"What about heroes, then?" She continues to her next question, "What do you think of them?"
"They help–" he corrects himself, "they save people from the villains."
His answer is textbook. His answer is in all the textbooks they had him read.
"That's right," she nods, "it's the simplest answer. Heroes exist to save people from the villains."
He feels uneasy at her approval. He feels like he said something wrong.
"So if there are no heroes, that means there aren't any villains."
He can't imagine that. There will always be villains and there will always be heroes. That was how the world worked, right?
"No."
Her blatant rejection is punctuated by her cold, hard stare. Behind her, the fish swim unknowingly.
"Villains will always exist, regardless of heroes. And it has always been the people against the villains, only those who win against them become heroes. No matter how many heroes rise, no matter how many heroes fight, the crude and the vile won't be completely scrubbed off the world."
He doesn't understand why she's saying such a thing to him, and with that harsh tone.
"It is a disease, an illness that spreads," she continued, "and even if heroes grow stronger to combat it, it simply evolves."
Was he in trouble for something?
"For years, the Commission had sought to combat this disease directly, fight against it head-on, but it was wrong."
She tells him about how one bad seed is enough to ruin an entire crop, how fish instinctively know to shun the sickly ones, how weeds grow only to destroy a garden.
"We must purge this plague at its epicenter, at its core," she tells him, "and for that, greater heroes are needed."
She tells him about how there is greatness in the unspoken, unpublicized, in the silent and the secret. She tells him about sacrifice, about the things greater heroes do, about why they're greater because they do the things the other heroes can't, the things other heroes won't.
"So I am inviting you, Hawks," she offers a hand out to him, "will you help us cure our society?"
This is too much for him to take in. He is just twelve years old.
"I–" he stammers, a habit of his he's never gotten to shake off completely, "I don't know."
"It's alright," she assures him, "I understand this is a lot to take in, especially at your age, but I have faith you'll do the right thing."
He nods nervously. His feathers shake. He wants to pull his wings around himself. He wants to hide. He wants them to stop putting all their faith in him. He's just twelve years old.
But he turns thirteen in the blink of an eye. He turns thirteen the moment he blows the candles on his birthday cake, the biggest one he's ever seen, the biggest one his mother had ever gotten him. One of the things he is thankful for to the Commission is his mother's smile. His mother's calmness. His mother's comfort. His mother's happiness. They gave them, not just a sturdy roof over their heads and warm clothes, they gave them everything they could ever want.
"Happy birthday, Keigo."
One of the things he's only ever asked from the Commission is to give his birthday to just him and his mother. Because it's always been just them, hasn't it? Just them and not the man his mother once loved, not the man he'd reluctantly called his father.
"My little songbird."
His mother embraces him with stronger arms, warmer hands, and a louder heart. He'd trained his wings to hear better, hear clearer, and this is maybe the first time his mother had ever held with steady hands and an even steadier heart.
He wishes it would stay this way forever.
"You'll always be my hero."
He wishes they could stay this way forever.
"But you'll be a better hero for everyone else."
Keigo is now thirteen. His wings are getting bigger. His feathers are getting longer. But he's still not Hawks. Not the Hawks the Commission wants. Not the Hawks the world needs.
Yes. He wishes he would stay this way forever.
"Chicken Wings."
Super Star started calling him that when they were both ten years old and they were both just starting to get to know each other.
"Your wings look like a chicken's," she pointed out, "they're short, too short for your body, can you even fly?"
That day, he showed her that he could. He could fly really, really well.
"Chicken Wings," she decided then, "I think that fits you more."
She didn't really tell him why, didn't really explain her thought process, but she'd never call him that out of spite or out of annoyance. If anything, she'd seldom call him anything at all, not even by his own name. Then again, he'd never really called her by her name– Because it wasn't necessary. They were the only two kids their age here.
Now it's three years later. They're both thirteen now. Well, he is. She isn't going to be thirteen until March.
"Hey," his feathers catch her voice before his ears, "happy birthday."
Her birthday greeting comes two days later, the day before New Year's Eve. It's their last day of training before the short break, and she'd told him earlier she's going back to her hometown to watch the fireworks.
"I wasn't able to get you a present yet," she fumbles something with her hands, "but I'm giving you this–"
It's a keychain, shiny and silver.
"It's the Wings constellation," she points to the accessory, "you won't really see it here, or anywhere, so, so– So here."
"Thank you," his wings start to ruffle from embarrassment, "but you didn't have to–"
"I wanna take you to the planetarium, but…" she huffs.
"Your wings, they're…" she searches for a word, leaning to the side to look at his wings, "they're getting bigger now."
He thinks she sounds sad, but his wings flutter in response. He hasn't been to a planetarium, and has only seen the dome-like building from afar.
"So that's your ticket!" she beams, "Just tell me when you wanna go, and we'll go."
He wonders a little how she could be so carefree. His handlers aren't this lenient with him.
"Thank you," he repeats as he takes the keychain, "it's really nice."
"There are more stars there," she promises, "a lot more than the sky here could ever show. They're closer too."
He doesn't ask why she wants to take him to the planetarium because it's obvious, it's clear. She's going to show him this is what she's going to be, a bright star. And because he's probably the only one here who will appreciate it, because he's still just a kid and she's just a kid too, and they're both…
What are they, really?
Super Star shifts just as fast she had appeared, and he is left alone.
He flips the keychain and reads the engraving. It's small, but it's clear enough to read.
You're not like other birds.
He frowns and wishes he was.