Badump. Badump. Badump.

That was the noise Himiko’s heart was making. Her heart made all kinds of noises. She didn’t pay too much attention to them, mostly because each noise was similar to the last, but she knew what her heart was doing all the time. It pumped blood. It sped up when she was anxious, excited, or tripping over her own two feet.

She was tripping over her own two feet a lot more, recently.

It was love.

Her parents said her kind of love was wrong, and bad, and shouldn’t exist. They said it wasn’t love, what she had.

But Himiko knew love. It was the best thing in the world, and she knew that her love was real. It was true. It wasn’t wrong. She loved the sky, she loved the birds, she loved the stray cats, she loved the people—some people. Blossoms, flower gardens, sweet candies, cherry lip gloss, people holding hands, people hugging, people kissing. She loved blood. She loved violence. She loved the locker room talks, when she heard her classmates talked about cute boys—not a lot of cute girls—and talked about how much they wanted to date, or kiss, or go to a dance together.

Well, Himiko wasn’t like that. The most she had was the urge to hold their hand, or stick a knife in their thigh and lick the blood that would well up after.

But she didn’t want to it because she hated them—

Love was precious.

Love was so beautiful.

It was infinitely beautiful and Himiko wished she could cradle it in her hands. She wished she could hold someone’s hand, too. Wishes she could show them the red and gooey bits of her chest, the deep ravine that ran deeper than any canyon. She wished her crushes liked her back the way she liked them. But they never did. So she smiled, perfected her act, and didn’t make it a big deal. Because it wasn’t. Because none of it was big. And no one would understand. So she didn’t make it a thing.

(It was already a thing. It was already a thing.)

Her classmates gossip about cute boys and hot heroes, celebrities that made them flush red. Himiko didn’t feel that way for heroes or movie stars, but she smiled along as lied anyway.

The same as she always did.

They said that those people were so cool, so amazing. Oh! I would totally kill to be like them, her classmates coo and awe, bemoaning about it. And Himiko laughed, held their hands—didn’t feel anything warm when she did—and said oh my god, right? But she knew. She knew. None of them would take a knife and cut the blood vessels of another animal, let alone a cute guy they liked. They talked about killing and dying to be with them, to be like them, and it made Himiko’s stomach go funny.

Himiko wanted all those things.

Really, really, really badly. But she wanted more, because she wanted to be them. And she didn’t tell her therapist this, or her counselors, or her parents, or her friends. She kept in, all perfect, not red or brought or loud or evil.

Her heart would patter, over and over. Badump. Badump. Badump.

Over and over: Badump. Badump. Badump. Louder and louder, as the months went by, as her peers grew up, as they got older. Himiko was normal. She was great. Her classmates loved her. She even loved some of them—wanted to crack their ribs open and stick her hands against their insides, the red, the fats, the good and the bad. Splice their capillaries, dig her teeth into the thin and delicate veins of their hands, melt into their shape. Be so close to them. Be them. Himiko never mentioned this, either. She never, never, never said a word.

She loved them in her own way. She loved them, so, so, so much. And they said I love you Himiko! I’ll see you tomorrow in class! And Himiko said it back, smiling with her teeth, her hair pinned back and straight, perfect.

She was perfect.

She was so, so, so very perfect.

(Could be, she mused.)

Himiko’s heart beat to its own little drum, beautiful and caged, and Himiko went home and didn’t speak a word to her parents. She went to her room, said something about homework, said something about needing to FaceTime her friends, said something about trying yoga and doing some stretches because she wanted to try out for gymnastics that summer. Something else, something new. Anything to get her away from her parents, the looming dinner table, the useless couch, and the empty backyard. Because they didn’t trust her to have a pet, never expressed it beyond you’re not responsible enough, but she knew what they meant.

Of course, she knew. She had to know.

Himiko had been in enough ugly, mundane offices to know. Her quirk was bad. Her love was bad. They didn’t like it.

(She didn’t like them, either. It wasn’t love in any standard way. It wasn’t normal.)

There was a good thing, and a bad thing, and both coexisted within Himiko’s chest all the time. The awful feeling in her chest—well, that one was exhausting. The pounding of a heart, the threat of losing herself.

It always echoed.

It always and always choked, because her parents didn’t like her the way she liked herself, and they didn’t like her quirk, and no one liked it, either.

Himiko’s quirk was normal. It was a completely normal quirk because it came from her parents genetics, from birth, from life. She came to be because her quirk factor was a combination. Or whatever. She hadn’t gotten to the quirk unit yet because that often occurred during high school, not middle school. Himiko was normal. She was scientific. She was natural. She occurred naturally and formed in a human’s womb, came out human, lived human. She wasn’t evil for having a blood-related quirk. That wasn’t what this was.

But she breathed, and she saw her fangs, and she saw people call her a vampire or a freak or a weirdo or some other thing and they always laughed.

And her heart didn’t beat for them.

And that weird ache came back, not the sweet one of a song, but that awful fucking feeling. The one where her teeth hurt and her eyes watered and she would scratch at her neck or her arms or pause in the locker rooms when looking around—not always at the other girls, not creepily, but because they existed and some asked for her attention. She looked, she watched, she saw. And she didn’t care at all. She didn't like them the way they liked themselves, either.

Himiko was already here.

They hated her because they didn’t know her, could never be her, and could never even picture themselves in her shoes. Because even if she never told them about her quirk, they didn’t have the heart to be anyone but themselves. Not even the ones they love.

That was why Himiko was better. It was why she loved better, too. She wanted to be them, be everyone she cared so much for. She wanted to be who she loved.

Himiko’s heart didn’t make weird noises when she was home, though. It was quiet. It was unhappy. So was she—empty, dark, bad, unwanted, a million things. Her mouth salivated when her father cooked steaks, when her mother prepped the meats on the butcherblock. She saw the red, spilled it over the counter. They didn’t let her cook with them—never even allowed her in the kitchen unless they were there, too.

When she was alone, her heart beat. Her heart started doing that silly little tune. I love you, I love you, I love you. When she was alone, and she could look out her bedroom window at the tree outside the glass—long, tall, strong, perfect—she could see the pigeons and doves and crows and sparrows. She could see. They could see her too, fluttering close with all their feathers, all their pieces. And her heart would sing, I’ll love you, I’ll love you, I’ll love you.

Himiko started leaving her window open, night and day, when she was alone and when no one was in the backyard to see the hinges unattended.

The pigeons grew curious. And Himiko’s heart would talk.

(Badump. Badump. Badump.)

—

“They’re so cute,” Mai was saying, but Himiko wasn’t paying attention.

Mai was cuter than the rabbits.

Their little noses and long ears, white, soft, all that. Mai, in a lot of ways, was so much better than a few sweet-looking animals. Himiko knew what rabbot tasted like, not because she got to consume willingly, but because her parents had slipped up once in Himiko’s fourteen years of life and bought rabbit once, from the fancy supermarket, and widened Himiko’s horizons.

She never mentioned rabbits again. They were cute. Sure. She had a bunny charm on her backpack, after all.

“So cute,” Himiko agreed, happily, and she held her hand out so one of the rabbits would sniff it. Its pink little nose twitched and twitched, and its eyes were so unseeing, and Himiko smiled big at it. Rabbits weren’t so smart, she thought. But they were soft, and Mai certainly liked them.

“I wish my parents would let me have one,” Mai sighed, again, and she finally pulled her hand away from the flurry of supposedly-cute animals. “But they say I’m irresponsible,” she huffed. “And that I’d forget to take care of them.”

“My parents say that too,” Himiko laughed, sheepish, and she left the rabbits alone as well. She batted her eyes. “Maybe when you’re in high school, they’ll let you?”

Mai waved her hands—tinted pink, from the fingers all the way to her elbows. Her hair was brown, to the shoulders, and she always had this pink hue to her nose and cheeks. She was older than Himiko by two months, and was a fast runner. She had perfect fine motor movements. Her quirk, unrelated to her beauty, was one that adjusted her motions. She was fast, flexible, and almost always accurate with what she was doing. It was why she could write super small and still have the words be completely readable.

Himiko’s quirk, Transform, wasn't nearly as acceptable. So she always said she could shapeshift, but the requirements were yucky—they weren’t—so she never used her quirk. Mai had taken the excuse perfectly, as all girls do, and said aw, I’m sorry it’s not cool. And yet, she did something unexpected, and had put a hand on Himiko’s shoulder, nodding seriously. If you ever want to talk about it, I’m here for you.

They were quick friends after that.

Not that Himiko ever told her about the birds, or the rabbits, or the lack of privacy, or the way her heart made weird sounds when Mai held her hand. Himiko, being able to rationalize who she was and what she felt, knew it was love. Real love. Not the love she talked about with her other classmates.

Mai was different. Sweet, kind, and open. She had a nice face, a near-perfect life. Her parents loved her. Her friends adored her, and were even friendly to Himiko by association. It was so different from Himiko’s actual life.

“I wish,” Mai laughed. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, which was also pinkish. “But—petting zoos, they aren’t so bad, are they?”

“They’re better than nothing,” Himiko nodded, seriously.

She wiped her hands on her school skirt. The two of them had come to this small attraction right after school, having seen it on Instagram and decided it would be worth looking at. Cute animals to pet. Deer and rabbits and ducks and chickens and cats and dogs and sweet looking birds that you could feed seed or small chunks of fruit to.

Mai smiled at her, bright, perfect. She reached out and grabbed Himiko’s hand, very touchy, very cute, and squeezed. “Lets go feed the deer,” she said, brightly, “I have enough left from my allowance that we can stay another hour!”

“I can pay, too!” Himiko cheered, and she squeezed Mai’s hand again. Her heart started making that weird sound again, the go-lucky one. “Don’t forget, I love hanging out with you.” And she smiled, and her teeth showed, and Mai’s smile was just as wide. Hello, deer. Let me pet you. Let me keep you. Mai was so lucky. “Let’s go,” Himiko tugged, and they started walking. “We can get into the next pen if we’re quick!”

Badump. Badump. Badump.

—

Her parents were yelling about her again. Not at her, this time, because Himiko was in her room painting her nails with new pink polish. She stole the polish from Mai’s room. She didn’t tell Mai, obviously. Mai might not mind, but the whole point of stealing was not being caught and not ever mentioning it. You know.

Mom yelled something like she’s our daughter, it’s our job to fix her!

Dad yelled something like she’s no daughter of mine, with the way she behaves! Her quirk isn’t like mine at all!

For reference, and for all information, Mom’s quirk was a transformation quirk, too. Minor things. She called her quirk Mimicry. Or that was what its name was, in the public records, on file. Mimicry. She could mimic the people around her to a perfect ten, a beautiful dead-on performance. Dad’s quirk, on the other hand, was a basic enhancement. It had nothing to do with transformations or appearances or organs or heartbeats.

The common argument between her mother and father, these days, was about it Himiko’s mother cheated with some—and she quote—cannibalistic backstabbing homewrecker.

Himiko had taken a few science classes by now. She was still in one. Biology. They already covered the genetics unit, including quirks, though it was a brief topic. Apparently, in high school they would go over actual quirk history. Right now, it was all very basic stuff. Nimble, easy, common. Not at all complex. Long story short: Himiko knew that her mother did not cheat, and that her father was just crazy and hysterical. A total headcase right now. Not cool, not trustworthy, and not normal. He was denying his part in Himiko’s creation because her quirk wasn’t like his at all.

But, in the class—and in the many throes of internet research—Himiko came to a simple conclusion. Dad’s quirk was enhancement. Mom’s quirk was mimicry. To enhance someone’s behaviors—a shift—was to try and mirror them perfectly. To be them. And how can you be someone if you weren’t them? What was the key factor in being someone? Related?

Blood, right?

(Oh, she messed up her pinky. Himiko wiped the polish off with a swab, then started over.)

So it was very simple, in Himiko’s mind.

Families came in all forms. It wasn’t that Himiko wanted to be a relative to the people she loved. No. She wanted to be them. So she changed how she acted to match them, wore the same styles, talked the way they talked—tried and tried and tried—and matched her traits to theirs as best she could. Her heart thundered, her brain hummed, and her lips smiled. She was enhanced. She was better. She could be so, so, so perfect.

If she drank their blood, consumed enough of them, then she could become them. Mimic every part of them with perfect accuracy. Like how her Mom could change her behaviors to be a uniformed worker. Like how Mai had perfect movement and control over her hands and fingers.

Dad’s quirk was like a multiplier. He just made Mom’s quirk better. More realistic.

“She’s your daughter, damn it!” Mom yelled, way downstairs. There was the sound of a dish flying, breaking and shattering. “She’s your daughter!” Mom was insisting. “She’s yours! She has your hair, your eyes!”

Himiko held up her hand, looked at the pink polish. It was better now.

“No daughter of mine!” Dad screamed.

(Hysterical, you see.)

—

Himiko took a knife to her bedroom, held it in her hands. Once, she thought. Just once, to try? But then she slipped the knife under her mattress, between the frame and box springs.

She didn’t try anything. She kept the knife. She returned it in the morning, too, like she never had it. Like—

—

Mai saw her nails the next time at school. Her eyes widened, and Himiko’s heart started beating fast, the beautiful tune. And then—then, like it didn’t mean anything, Mai waved to her and said hi, good morning, how did you sleep? She came close, eyes kind, face open, and she was pink and pretty and Himiko was red and ugly.

Himiko’s heart stopped beating happily.

“Hi!” She smiled, though, fangs sharp, teeth aching.

Mai came close and made a show of pointing to the nails, happy, just as kind as always. “Love the color,” she cajoled. “You look like me!” She waggled her own fingers, which had matching polish, and Himiko’s face started heating up. She nodded happily, the weirdness in her stomach,or phong into something else. Mai didn’t seem mad at all.

Mai, two minutes later, saw the ring of bruising around Himiko’s wrist, fresh and raw, and she gasped. “Himiko-Chan,” she said, quickly, and pulled the girl into the bathroom before second period.

“Oh,” She said, lightly. She pulled her uniform over her arm, gave a quick smile, “Sorry, it’s nothing!”

“Are you sure?” Her classmate frowned, and her nails were pink, and she was so gentle when she held Himiko’s hand. Clutched it, safely, to keep it from dogging in or vanishing. Mai was lucky. Mai was pretty. Mai was cute. Mai was possibly the best person Himiko had ever met, ever. “It looks,” she said, then stuttered off. “It looks bad.”

“It’s nothing,” Himiko repeated, kindly, and her heart was making that noise again. She stared at her wrist, barely visible with the sleeve covering most of it. Blue, purple. Not red.

Oh—oh, how Himiko wished it was red.

(But her mother was wild, and her hands hurt, and she copied Dad’s expression and his anger and grabbed Himiko and pried her apart. Splitting her, like pomegranates, yelled at her at the dinner table as if Himiko was the reason for all things wrong in the world. Himiko! Mom had sobbed, sobbed, sobbed. You can’t be like this, Himiko!)

“I’m fine,” Himiko said, next, and she smiled brightly. “It was an accident.”

“Okay. I believe you,” Mai said, but she didn’t sound like she believed Himiko at all. “Let’s get to class?” Himiko knew what liars looked like, how they talked and acted. Her Dad was one, for instance. Her Mom was almost one, too. Mai was a liar, for the first time ever.

“Yeah,” Himiko nodded. “To class, so Sensei can talk to us about algebraic equations.” She winked.

Light returned to some of Mai’s face, pink and honest.

—

“I think you’re a good person, Himiko-Chan,” Mai told her, and her hair was auburn in the sunlight and she was a warm thing—slippery like the insides of a human stomach, but no more beautiful than Mai’s normal appearance.

Because Mai was normal, and Himiko Toga wasn’t.

And Mai was a good girl, and Himiko could only try to be good. She could only try to make things work. Her mother, always screaming and sobbing about it. No blood, Himiko! God! Can’t you put aside this obsession of yours? Never pleased with Himiko. Not with the bird incident, or the sparrow dreams, or the many moments where Himiko was young, and slipped up, and said she craved raw meat, that she thought it would make her feel better.

So, so, so much better.

Mimicry, please. To be enhanced. To be special. To be different. To be new and fresh and red and good and beautiful in all the ways a caterpillar becoming a butterfly—out of a violently silken cocoon—would be. Beautiful. Momma, please, Himiko would plead. It looks so yummy. Please, it’s so red. No steaks, then. Cooked so well it was tough to chew.

Sparrow in the garden, and—

(Himiko, no! Her mother had wailed and wailed and wailed.)

“You too,” She said, kindly, to Mai. She smiled with all her teeth, all of them. “You’re so amazing, Mai! I love talking with you.”

(I love you—)

—

On Tuesday that week, the school counselor, Sacchiko Hirayama, stared Himiko Toga down with a look of faux kindness.

“Would you like any juice?” She asked.

“No, thank you,” Himiko said, and held her backpack on her lap. She stared at the counselor, too, and counted to ten in her mind a hundred times over. She resisted the urge to bite her lip or her tongue or the inside of her cheek.

“Alright,” Hirayama nodded. “Then, if you’re willing, we can talk about the reason I called you down here?”

Her voice was kind. Her face was blank. She had glasses—black frames—with long crescents on each corner. Himiko didn’t have glasses, but sometimes she wanted them. When she was little, especially, because Mom used to wear glasses all the time. Then she switched to contacts, because her husband had said so.

“Okay,” Himiko nodded. She already knew why. Her heart wasn’t making that noise anymore. It wasn’t making any good noises. It wasn’t.

(Don’t say it, don’t say it, don’t say it, don’t—)

“I received a concerned email a few days ago,” Hirayama informed her, casually and with great ease. “Someone had reached out with concerns regarding your home life, stating that you had come in acting unlike yourself.” She paused, looking at Himiko’s grip on her bag. “That you had a bruise on your wrist.” Her tone and expression softened, just a little. “You’re not in trouble,” she said, gently. “It just means I’m concerned, too. It’s my job to worry about the school’s students—you included, Toga.”

“I know,” Himiko smiled, easily. She looked down, fake shy, the way she learned to be. “My friend was wondering if I was okay.” She paused, for believability. “Because—uhm, sorry. Because she saw a bruise around my wrist.”

The terrible, terrible counselor looked at her, “And are you okay?”

And her teeth hurt so bad, and her stomach was cramping, and her hands were gripping her bag so tight. Her nails were still stained cotton candy pink. Himiko hated counselors and offices and antiseptic. She hated principals and teachers and useless sit-downs. She hated guidance counselors the most, with their stupid faces and endless clipboards and their bad advice. She hated being told no. She hated being told she was wrong.

Himiko was a good student. She ignored all her urges and all the loud voices in her head. Bite, eat, try, vocalize, be, become, turn, turnover, be, bite, drink, be, eat, try. She ignored every sliver, ignored every bad thing. She was a good student. She was a good kid, even!

One bruise was the least of anyone’s worries, wasn’t it?

Himiko wasn’t even that big of a red flag. She had nothing in her record except all the quirk counseling notes. She was a good kid. She was a good kid. She did everything her parents told her to do.

(They were still unhappy with her.)

She was a good kid. She was a good daughter. She tried so hard to be. She was top of her math class, perfect scores on all her recent tests. She was even better than Mai this time around, who was the best at math in the entire grade. Surely the counselor knew that? Surely the woman could see it on the computer screen? Himiko Toga: Perfectly Normal Middle Schooler with Good Grades? Surely? Because Himiko’s heart was thundering and she felt wrong, so wrong, and her skin was crawling and she was biting her tongue so hard it was making the rest of her mouth water.

“I am,” Himiko said, quickly, trying to brighten her voice. She stopped squeezing her bag so hard. “The bruise—it wasn’t from my home, or anything. It was a guy at the subway?” She tilted her head, hair barely tickling the tips of her ears.

“I see,” The counselor said, and she typed something on her computer while nodding.

“Yeah,” Himiko replied, again, to reiterate. She lowered her voice, awkwardly. “I already told my parents, and we handled it.” Goddamn, she thought, then, if only, if only, if only. The girl smiled at the carpeted floor, at her school-mandated shoes that were boring and entirely normal. Her mouth watered.

Hirayama breathed out. “That’s good. Alright.” She finished typing in her too-loud computer, then looked up to give Himiko another smile meant to be reassuring. “Thank you for your time, Toga.” She reached over the desk and gave Himiko a hallway pass. “Don’t be late to class, okay?”

“Okay,” Himiko said, politely.

She took the pass and grabbed her bag and left the counselor's office.

—

“Himiko,” Mom said, crying near-silently, “You know why you can’t be so reckless.”

“I know, Mom,” Himiko whispered, fairly, and she looked at her mother’s frail hands and tried not to think of biting at the nails and knuckles. Would it crack like a carrot, split with orange teethings? She wondered. Then she stopped wondering. Himiko screwed her eyes shut, tugging at her bangs, whispering quietly. “It was an accident, Mom.”

Because the counselor wasn’t supposed to know anything.

Himiko was a good girl. She ate the right foods, she didn’t eat anything weird, she didn’t ask for blood or raw meats anymore, didn’t ask about her mother’s quirk, and didn’t bother her father. She was good. She did everything to be good, to be seen and known as good. Higher than average grades, a good smile, a good reputation in school. She had good hair. A good voice. A good name, even. She didn’t talk when she wasn’t supposed to. She was likable, kind, and blended in. She never said all the things in her head and never bit anyone like a crazy vampire, or some kind of demon, or a cannibal.

Himiko just wanted to be normal. She just wanted to be normal. So normal, you see. She wanted to eat a normal breakfast with a normal family and go to a normal school with all her normal classmates and do normal school things.

All the things that everyone else got to do. All the things that everyone else was able to do with great ease, because they were easy on the eyes and the heart, beautiful and normal and good. They weren’t wrong like her. They weren’t odd or terrible or evil. They did not meet her expectations, but at least they weren’t demons.

(No such thing, but—)

Himiko wanted to be normal.

Drinking blood wasn’t normal. People didn’t like it. Wow. They loved all the vampire films but freaked out in real life. Himiko tried so hard to fit in. She ate meals with her friends, she offered her notes to people in her class even if they didn’t miss the previous day’s lectures. She was kind! She was really, really kind! She didn’t tell them they were boring or ugly or uninteresting just because they weren’t her type. She was kind. She was trying.

She was normal. She was so very normal, given everything she did and didn’t do. What she wanted and what she wasn’t supposed to do. She tried. Himiko tried so hard.

Badump. Badump. Badump—

“Never again,” Mom cried, weakly, “Your father almost left the house after getting the phone call.”

Because her father was an odd man. Because Himiko wasn’t his idea of a good daughter. An ideal daughter. Someone to love—at least not the way Himiko loved. Definitely not fully, violently, truly, in all forms of death and dear-heartedness. Himiko wanted to take her father’s butcher knife, in the kitchen, and put it through his heart. Crack his sternum and see if his heart thundered like hers, if it said love-love-love or badump, badump, badump. She didn’t say this. She didn’t. And she never would, because Mom would go crazy, and Dad would go ballistic.

Himiko breathed, peeled her eyes open, and imagined biting her own fingers instead—to test the carrot-crunching theory. The girl swallowed. “Okay.”

Badump, badump.

(Her heart sang, even if the rest of her didn’t. Her fingers would snap right off in her mouth.)

—

Himiko waited patiently at the window. She had the heel of her hand at her mouth, pressing against her lips. She had just applied cherry chapstick—stolen from Mai’s bedroom, the last time they talked. Her nails were chipping. She hadn’t repainted them, didn’t plan to. Her phone was dead, her desk lamp was on, and her homework was incomplete.

She waited.

A small bird—a little sparrow, so small, so dainty, fluttered its tiny wings and came to her windowsill. Himiko stared at it, wide-eyed, and bit down on the heel of her hand. The bird fluttered closer. It pecked at the sunflower seeds that Himiko laid on the sill. She watched.

Then, when it came closer, closer, closer… Then, when it pecked at the outer shell, speckled and useless to mend a human’s hunger—perfect for a bird… Then, as it minded its business without knowing what would happen next… Then, as it ate… Then, as it danced along the window sill without a concept of right or wrong or good or sinful… Then… Then…

So, so close—

Himiko lunged forwards and grabbed the avian in her hands, teeth shimmering with her own blood, mouth gaping open.

—

Himiko’s heart beat for both boys and girls. It wasn’t too odd—one of her classmates had a girlfriend, and one of the juniors had a boyfriend. It wasn’t odd.

Himiko’s heart beat for both, as long as they were pretty enough.

(Everyone was pretty with blood, she imagined.)

—

And her heart pounded in her chest, and Mai’s heart thumped just as eagerly, and Himiko wondered what that meant.

(I love you.)

But Himiko’s kind of love came from broken bones, angry faces, blood on one’s lips and in their mouths. She wanted to be what they were. She wanted to be like them. Be the best version of them. Walk in their skins and feel their bones, their tendons, their pulses. She had always wanted to be close with the ones she loved. She wanted to be so close, the closest, and to do that, she wanted to peel back their skin and press hers against the rawness of tender flesh, muscle and fat and lipid.

She pressed her lips against Mai’s, gently. Her heart pounded. It wasn’t the right sound. The urge to pull away and heave her lunch into the bushes grew stronger and stronger.

She kissed her friend, anyway.

(No teeth, because biting wasn’t normal. She wasn’t a dog or a demon so she couldn’t just—)

“Oh,” Mai whispered, and her skin was pinker than pink, and she was smiling. She grabbed Himiko’s hands, held them between her hands. Her hair fell against the skin of her face, covering the warm tips of her ears. “Gosh, Himiko,” she said, and she sounded so honest and so true and not at all like a liar. “You’re so—”

And she leaned in again, pressed her lips to Himiko’s. From where their hands were connected, wrapped together, Himiko could feel the jittery pattern of Mai’s heart. And she could see it, too, in her head. A striking organ, thundering over and over. The blood that pumped, warm, strong. It would spray if Himiko nicked the right vein, taking an entire chunk of flesh. Oh, it would be warm and coppery and so crimson. Shiny, like strawberry wine, and it would create an entire symphony from the sounds.

Himiko’s heart wasn’t like that. She wasn’t like Mai, she didn’t even want to be Mai, but she had this urge to live and laugh and sometimes—

Please, please, please, she begged, let me, won’t you let me, won’t you?

“I like you,” Mai said, and she was kind and kindness was worth a lot, just not to Himiko Toga. “I like you so much,” she said, again, and she wrapped her hands around Himiko’s neck on either side, eyes wide, face burning, “You’re my best friend, and I’m so happy to share my life with you. I’ll share it forever.” Mai spoke against Himiko’s lips, tasted of her starburst chapstick, smelled like that rose perfume she always bought. “If you want to, I’ll share it forever.”

Himiko’s stomach flipped, her heart fluttered, and her teeth stung.

She pulled away from Mai, breathed in her own space, and smiled. I can’t share those things. Share the dead pigeons, share the raw meat, share her empty stomach, her open heart, her dreams. Oh,how her dreams lived forever, far longer than any kind of normal love. Mai was too normal. Mai was cute and strong but nothing like what Himiko wanted. Nothing like that at all.

She kissed Mai again, and she held the girl’s hand, and she convinced herself not to vomit.

—

After the pink and beautiful Mai, was the red and rugged Saito.

Himiko loved locker room talks, even if she was often left out for one reason or another. All the girls whispering, giggling, brushing their hands over their gym clothes and bags and each others’ shoulders. What she was attracted to wasn’t muscles or pretty faces—though they were interesting traits—and what she liked most wasn’t public. She didn’t tell the other girls, and didn’t talk so loudly about it. Blood and gore and violence and a bitten lower lip.

(Oh, how she wanted it so badly.)

When Mai flushed red, sometimes, Himiko could almost imagine that she was bleeding in her cheeks. Blood, not embarrassment or shame. Blood.

With Saito, though, when he fought back in defense of others, oh, oh wow, her heart stuttered and her face grew warm and she heard the weird sounds of her most crucial organ telling her that it was love-love-love. Saito was cute when he was bloody, being teacher-walked to the principal’s office for unauthorized violence, needless—as they say.

But Himiko liked violence. Needless or needed. She liked violence.

In the halls, when he walked past and she stared with wide eyes, he never noticed her. She didn’t expect him to, but sometimes she would bite her lip and swallow back the drool in her mouth. He used to be the student council president, but with all the fights, he lost the position. Honestly, Himiko preferred him like this, even if they never talked.

Badump. Badump. Badump.

She never felt that way about Mai, exactly. But Saito was different. He was cute when he was bloody, not when he was clean and an honor roll student. Himiko knew no one would understand her if she said this, but it was nice to think about. Like pomegranates or grapefruit or mashed strawberries or the pigeons that flew onto her windowsill and became part of Himiko’s life. No one understood. Something about her love being wrong, but oh. Oh, god.

Saito was just so cool.

He was completely different from all the heroes and victims on the TV, so different from violins and their dumb declarations of war. Saito was cool. He was so cool, so cute—she loved seeing him red. He had a nice group of friends, a good personality, and had a way of talking to people. He was also strong. He stepped in to defend his friend, and his hair was wild and his nose was crooked, and he raised his fists, and he won.

Winning wasn’t what made Himiko so happy, so bubbly. She wanted his blood.

(No, Himiko, no, you can’t—)

She wanted his blood, so, so, so bad! She wanted to taste it! Would he be sharp? Would he be smooth, sour? Was he bitter? Was he made of that same iron tang? Was his blood just like hers? Red, so red, not boring and orangey like bugs, not boring like video games, not boring like the pigeons at her windowsill, not like her. Oh, gosh, Himiko just! She really just!

She really just wanted to be him. Saito was so much better than all her other classmates and peers, so much better than Mai, because Mai was never bloody. Oh, she was cute, she was, but she wasn’t enough.

Saito was her first real crush, but Mai—

Mai was her first kiss. And it was almost strange, a curse, a real statement of her loyalty to ever admit such a thing. It was almost a silly, romantic thing.

Love, but not the real kind.

Love, but not Himiko Toga’s kind.

Mai’s lips had been soft. Strawberry chapstick, like a starburst brand deal. And Himiko had felt joy, but it hadn’t been enough. Mai was kind, and sweet. She had possesed little to no anger in her. No violence. No defense. She was more of a seasick lover than anything detrimental.

Himiko had loved Mai, but she hadn’t ever wanted to be her. Saito was different. He had violence, strength, a strong voice. From what she knew of him—not much at all—he had the will to fight. He had been someone to look at and think if only I could be like them. And Himiko felt wounded and winded and desperate when she saw him fight. When blood trickled down his chin. But with Mai, there was nothing like that—it was soft, unattainable, boring, and simple. It was her tongue to the roof of her mouth, her erase stuck on Mai’s face, and her heart thumping idly.

(You’re so, Mai had said, and she had blushed so red. You’re just so— And then she kissed Himiko again, anad again, on her lips and nose and eyelids. Himiko hadn’t felt that way. She had barely felt anything at all. Oh. It hadn’t been the same fizzy feeling. It hadn’t—)

Saito.

Himiko bit her lip so hard it bled, and when it did, she felt relief. It washed over her, fast, and she licked her lips and stared after the guy.

Oh, what a crush—

A real one, too, not like how she felt with Mai, because Mai never bled, ever. Not ever. Himiko’s face was all warm. She could hear her heart thumping, too, kind, happy.

(She pushed him down to the floor in the hallway, after school, and stuffed the yellow plastic straw into his neck to taste the thing she had wanted since she was little.)

—

Himiko could hear her heart as she pressed her hands into his neck, as her mind sung. Oh, it was singing, making all the weird noises her parents told her were wrong.

Badump. Badump. Badump.

—

Running was new for her.

She left her phone behind, dropping it with her backpack in the girls’ locker room on the west side of campus. She dragged her school blazer off, took her beige one out from the locker. The one for winter. Her nails were chipped, her teeth hurt, and there was red all over her mouth. She wouldn’t be able to attend her school dance or the cute little promotion party that her classmates and Mai had been planning, but that was okay.

Her heart kept thumping in her chest, making the sweet sounds of happiness. She felt alive. She felt so good. This pressure was lifted. The ache she had carried her whole life had been traded off, and now she was running. No phone, no keys.

Saito’s blood tasted fresh. Perfect, even.

It was so dark and crimson. It smudged from his jugular to his jaw. It dried under his nose, from where he broke it in his fight, and Himiko could almost lick the bridge and feel all the fractured bumps.

His blood had been so refreshing. She just—

She was running. Her heart was singing, singing, singing. Saito looked the best when he was on the ground, bleeding, and Himiko couldn’t help herself. She couldn’t help herself at all. It was this uncontrollable urge and it drew circles and spirals into her skin and made her feel like she was burning alive. Oh, god. Pigeon blood. Sparrows that pecked at her stomach until she was a gaping, red, bloody mess. Her dreams were littered with the little birds, as deep and crimson as her desires.

Two blocks, then ten, then so many she lost count.

She tossed her school ID card into a random trashcan outside of a Smoke and Vape shop. She traversed the shittier parts of town. Her birthday was coming up, and oh god, she might’ve killed someone. Saito was so cute, he was so cute, he was literally so cute. She wanted to melt into him. She wanted to be him, with his friend group, with his not-so great track record, his stellar speeches, his ability to defend people.

She wanted to be him.

She liked him so, so, so, so much.

Her love wasn’t something people understood. Saito wouldn’t understand it, either, it was why the incident was so unexpected and uncalled for. No one would see it coming. No one did. Not her parents, not Mai, not the stupid guidance counselor who always asked her if she wanted juice.

Himiko had a few thousand yen. She took a bus, smiled at the driver. They looked at her crazy hair, the now brownish red on her face and lips and teeth.

“Bad day?” The driver asked, dryly.

Himiko laughed, paid the fee. The guy took the money readily. There was blood in her mouth, all over her tongue and teeth. “I can’t seem to get the lipstick to stay neat,” she said, like a liar. “It’s for a convention! So I went all out.”

“Have fun,” He said, like a nice old man, “Don’t let anyone take your picture without permission.” He waved her off.

“I will,” Himiko said, giving her best smile. Her canines dug into her lower lip.

She filed into the bus and took a seat at the back, knees knocking together, eyes wide and alert. Her heart was beating so fast. A constant stream of love-love-love and mine-mine-mine and me-me-me. The bus was loud and crowded. Himiko played with her hair, messed with it repeatedly. She pushed it behind her ears, tugged on her bangs, twirled it around her fingers. She smoothed her hands across her face and neck. She tugged her cardigan closer, locked her ankles together.

Himiko had never run away from home before. She wasn’t sure what she was doing, actually, wasn’t sure how far she could go. But she needed to go far. And she couldn’t get caught.

She had never been a runner, you know.

Himiko had never run away from people, not even her parents—and god, her parents were terrible. They were miserable. They made her miserable every time she stepped near them, dared to breathe too loud where they could hear. And yet, despite it all, Himiko had never run away. She had never been put on a missing persons report, never on a list.

But here she was. Running. Taking what little she had and fleeing.

Oh, how she was fleeing.

The bus went on and on and on, and Himiko’s heart kept beating, and the blood of her first real crush kept soaking and drying agsinst her skin. Her eyes didn’t even burn. She smiled at her reflection in the window.

—

There was an echo. Or maybe not an echo as much as someone simply reiterating what they wanted. That was different than a whisper of what was previously said.

Things were different, now. Himiko could see it.

She could hear it, too, because she could hear every stupid thing that these people spoke about. She used to live in a neat neighborhood, one of the gated ones, expensive houses, green lawns, big backyards, large kitchens. You know the kind. Himiko had never been one to indulge in all the richie-rich stuff, mostly because her parents never let her, but because there was a certain kind of boredom and disgust that came with. It didn’t help her in any way. Maybe money, to buy bus tickets and cellular data and nail polish and chapstick and coats and new paper for her schoolwork, but that was it.

Everything else was rather useless.

A fancy car, a fancy house, a fancy family that beat you in secret. She could put her teeth into Mom’s neck and the only thing that would change would be that Mom’s sobs would be pleas for her life, not for Toga to be normal.

Or maybe they would still beg her to be normal.

Maybe nothing would change at all. Maybe her parents would always hate her, not love her like she loved them. She didn’t want to be them, but she knew she was supposed to love her parents. They just weren’t good to her. If she hadn’t been like this, like herself, they would have loved her. She knew that quite well. They would have taken her to all different kinds of sports and clubs and restaurants. They wouldn’t have isolated her, scolded her, and dismissed her every desire.

But when Himiko was alone, like this, running was easy and so was hating.

She loved the birds still, loved the people she saw at the mall or the park. She went on long walks. She trapped doves in ragged traps, made amends with feather things before drinking her fill. She tried not to feel sad, mostly because it was only a bord—birds were still magnificent, even in rot—but sometimes grief overwhelmed her the way the feeling of being trapped did.

Not like anyone would ever get it, because Himiko wasn’t in her home town anymore, wasn’t even the eldest daughter of the Toga family.

Himiko was in a big city, blending in.

She stole new shoes, took a blade from a stranger’s kitchen. She tied her hair up, even, always smiled, always tcl to the back alleys. She didn’t buy lunch, and didn’t dine and dash. She danced around, essentially, and she tried not to stare at people who were alone—she wasn’t a creep—but her eyes wandered, her heart thundered, and everything about this place was constrictive and cold.

Her life had never taken such a form before. She was surprised the cops hadn’t found her, surprised the bus driver hadn’t turned her in, surprised the strangers she passed didn’t snitch.

Oh, but it was worth it.

And it was so good. She could follow, she could sing, she could see, she could be. And it was worth it—the blood on her hands, the taste, the feeling of being okay, without the same constraints everyone else had always told her to have. Himiko felt tears slip free and felt her eyes widen and her mouth curve and her lungs heave and she was alive, good, and well. She was well. She was better. She was red, and so were the bodies, so we’re people’s wishes and hopes.

She went to a new city, blended right in. No one stared at her the way she stared at them. Hunger, she mused, or love. Because she didn’t mind their blood. She wanted it more than she wanted good grades, or her mother’s love, or her father’s strange affection. No. Himiko was different. She was raw and tender and perfect and the rest of the world was wrong for ever telling her she was bad. She wasn’t. She wasn’t bad or evil or demonic, not for her quirk, and it sparked hatred and this awful, terrible thing in her stomach. Nausea, maybe. More like desire—oh, she could take them. She could become them, live their miserable and boring lives, and she could ruin it all. But no. Himiko was fifteen, her heart was heavy, and she set her sights on this cute thing in the middle of a bad part of town.

Bad as in cheap, low-quality, poor. Bad as in the city needed repairs, mends, fixes. Bad as in how could anyone live here, didn’t it suck to live here, she was sorry they had to live here.

Not bad as in criminal, or dangerous.

Because Himiko had a knife. Because she had a long way to go. Because she wasn’t scared of lingering men, or women, or anyone.

She heard rumors all the time, heard whispers about a killer who attacked heroes and strange things that went after young kids, quirk-traffickers, the opposite of Himiko’s parents. Oh, she heard a lot. Even through the pounding and throbbing of her own heart. An awful and terrible thing, deep within the confines of her chest.

Himiko was walking, skipping, and breathing fast. She was catching up to the girl on the sidewalk. The girl in question had brown hair and a pink backpack. She was in casual clothes, looking a little younger than Himiko. Her hair had the almost-same shape as Mai’s, but Mai’s hair had been dyed black for high school near the end of middle school. Not that Himiko stalked her Instagram or anything. She didn’t even have a phone anymore, you see.

She caught up to the girl walking, biting her lip hard. She was—

“Hi?” The girl said, with wide brown eyes. She paused at the side walk, waiting, and almost stumbling. Then she smiled brightly, noticing it was just another school-aged girl. Her voice was happy in a way Himiko couldn’t fake her own to be. “Can I help you with something?”

“Oh,” Himiko blinked fast, and panic set in, but so did her heart. “Yes,” she nodded, “Do you know where a nearby store is?”

“Yeah,” The look-alike girl smiled, and gestured with her hands—raised pink dots on each fingertip. “There’s a store around the block, like, maybe two streets down?” She smiled, and her cheeks were permanently pink in oval-structures. Oh, gosh. Oh, dear. “Take a left on the long street, and there’ll be some broken streetlights—but if you go past that, the store is right after.”

“Thank you,” Himiko said, and she was staring at the girl, and her heart was fluttering. “So much.”

“Of course!” She laughed, so kindly, so generously. “They put stuff out on clearance on Wednesdays, so if you’re looking for deals, uhm, go that day.” She waved. “See you!”

And she was gone.

And Himiko’s heart went badump, badump, badump.

—

She wasn’t crazy.

Well, she was—but not crazy in a creepy way.

Crazy in a please way. Himiko was clinging onto the slightest connection she could keep. Not to be weird, or mean, or pushy. All the things the other kids her age were. But she liked this girl. And sometimes liking someone was all Himiko needed.

(It was all she ever needed, actually. It just evolved into loving someone, not liking.)

So it went like this: Ochako was very kind. She was cute, familiar, and gracious. She wasn’t instantly creeped out by Himiko’s sharp teeth, or erratic behavior. She seemed a little lost, but she was still there, and she smiled. She wasn’t turned away by the estranged reactions of one dumb blonde. In fact, she seemed to enjoy talking to Himiko. She waved when the girl arrived, even waited at the convenience store on certain days just so they had a chance of running into each other. That was what Ochako said, at least, and Himiko believed her.

So she clung to the area, a cheap part of town, and she didn’t move away. Move would be a strong word, anyway, seeing as Himiko had no real residence and didn’t plan on working a real job. She didn’t have any fake identification papers. Or a house. Or, again, a support network—whatever.

“You’re going to be a hero?” Himiko asked, in faux surprise. She smiled wide, jokingly, “Is saving people really that important to you?”

Saving people wasn’t that important to Himiko.

It was a valiant effort on everyone’s part, but it wasn’t exactly Himiko’s chosen thing. She didn’t care about people. She didn’t care about the numbers or the crimes or the heroes or the villain attacks. She felt out of place amongst crowds and felt strange with boys holding her hands, but sometimes she wandered into the recreational centers and enjoyed talking with kids her age, laughing and joking, eyeing their bruises or faces and then carrying on with her day. But that wasn’t saving anyone. That was just wasting and passing time.

“No,” Ochako laughed. “It’s nothing like that.”

“Really?” Himiko asked, and she was mildly surprised. She didn’t want to be a hero—not in this society, not for this society—but she was relatively certain that most people wanted the fame that came with helping others. That and relief. Satisfaction. Fulfillment.

Oh—

Money, right. That felt pretty obvious, now that she took in the factors all around them.

Cheap part of town, underfunded and always overlooked, riddled with things that would otherwise be considered criminally dangerous. It made sense that Ochako would be looking for the paycheck. Hell, Himiko couldn’t even blame her. Money was a necessity. It was the thing that bought everything else. The things that power and blood didn’t buy, well, money covered it. Himiko did it have a lot of cash anymore. She mostly just took it from strangers’ wallets, but not everyone carried cash anymore. Giftcards, too.

“Oh, that’s not a bad thing,” Himiko said, before Ochako could flush any harder. She twirled some of her hair, smiled at the sidewalk. “It makes sense.”

Ochako blinked at her, mild surprise. “You don’t think,” she paused. “It’s selfish?”

“I mean,” The girl looked at Ochako again, and laughed just a little. “It’s selfish, but it’s the normal kind of selfish.” Because it was selfish. Doing the job for money. But that was just it, everyone did that. Literally everyone. You can like your job and like the paycheck, too. That was hopefully what most people liked about their role. Himiko waved her hand. “It’s not like you aren’t saving people, so. It’s a win-win.”

Ochako looked at her for a really long moment, cheeks tinted pink, and then she laughed again. “No one ever says that,” she chuckled. “They just say—oh, wow, Uraraka, that’s something.”

“It is something,” Himiko agreed, politely and nicely and not at all crazily, “But who doesn’t love being financially stable?”

She liked it fine, for example.

Money was rarely tight back when Himiko lived with her parents. She had been the eldest daughter, after all, and had been very quiet and very neat. Or she had, once they demanded it of her. Not like any of them had extraneous debt or hospital bills to pay. It was just Himiko and her quirk counseling, her counseling. Talking to quirkologists, other-ologists, the whole lot. But now that Himiko was gone, they probably had plenty of money to float on. Unless they got sued. Not like she really gave a fuck. It was water under the bridge by now, for her. They lived or they didn’t, because either way they still thought she made a mistake.

They would always call her a mistake, not just someone who made them.

“That’s a good point,” Ochako admitted, scratching at her cheek. She was a nice color like this. Himiko, like always, could pretend the coloration came from something other than embarrassment. “I don’t know. I always thought it was pretty shallow of me.”

“Shallow people can still help others,” Himiko parroted something her old counselor used to say, shrugging. Her heart kept thundering in tune. “Just act nice—no one has to know.”

Talking to Ochako was fun. It made Himiko’s heart sing, every now and then, even if the rest of the time she was bored. But Ochako wasn’t a bad conversationalist. She was kind, and sweet, and looked like Mai. But she also didn’t act like Mai at all. She was her own person, truly, and laughed at the funny jokes and smiled shyly at the other ones.

Ochako looked at her, really looked, and hummed. “Maybe.”

—

She held Ochako’s hand on the subway, the one time they hung out outside of the cheap part of town. They went to an inexpensive arcade and then an inexpensive diner. It was pretty nice, she would say even if her head kept screaming any time anyone looked at her too long. Stop looking at me like that, Himiko thought, blithely.

But then the girl heard her heart.

Badump. Badump. Badump.

It was the loudest thing ever. It followed her everywhere, and it made her face grow hot, and she felt weird. Maybe not the whole I need to vomit and be alone weird, but the whole oh my god, what is this weird. But she smiled despite the feeling and she bit her tongue and felt the saliva fill her mouth. She laughed at the jokes Ochako made. She squeezed the girl’s hand.

(She thought about biting Ochako’s knuckles, cracking down and popping the bone.)

“Are you okay?” Ochako asked, concernedly, and Himiko nodded.

“I’m okay,” She said, and she smiled brightly. They paid for the food and took the subway back home—Himiko’s treat—and she tried not to feel so elated when Ochako said she would love to do that again. She said she would love to do it again, too.

(They didn’t.)

—

And it kept going like that—

She dreamed of pressing her lips onto Ochako’s. Warm, easy, without burdens. The movement that came from two people conjoining as one person, becoming close, being happy with that shared space. Ochako’s wrapping her hands around Himiko’s hands, and Himiko wrapping her hands around Ochako’s neck like a noose. The dream had been so red and so nice. She dreamed of kissing, of holding hands, of taking a bite. I want to be you, she said. Ochako smiled at her in the dream. Okay, she agreed, if it’s what you want.

And Himiko pushed her hands through Ochako’s spine, through ribs and bones and tender muscle, and lowered her mouth to Ochako’s mouth. In the dream, Himiko was warm and her heart was the only other sound. There were birds overhead. It was beautiful.

It was so real, to Himiko, so real.

She dreamed of it, which never happened with Mai—even though she had wanted it to happen—which meant Himiko’s heart started singing all the time.

And she liked it, sure, but it meant she got impulsive and odd.

She stayed away from the area for a few weeks. Watched Ochako from afar. Her heart went please-please-please. The city didn’t call her and neither did the convenience store. She buried her hands into her hair and whistled to the pigeons and doves, sometimes stayed at the park and threw stolen seeds at the earth. The birds came to eat, and she thought about taking some with her to whatever abandoned place she was sleeping at.

“Maybe one of you,” Himiko said, quietly, to the dumb pigeons. “Or two, or three.” She clenched her hands in her lap, against the tops of her knees.

But she didn’t want them right now.

(She cupped the seeds in her hands, kneeled in the dirt, and grabbed a pigeon and sunk her teeth in.)

She wasn’t sure what it was—just the idea of pulling feathers out of small flesh, strayed and dirty. The mud and city stench. Himiko liked the sparrows more, she thought, but then she thought about blood as a whole—what tasted good. Saito had been sharp. Feeling her insides churn, accommodate the space that his existence took up.

Himiko could be him, maybe, if she took more of him. She could be Ochako, too, look like her at the very least.

Cute, polite, genuine.

(She didn’t want to be a hero. She didn’t even want money like that, didn’t want to live in a nice three-bedroom apartment, with a husband and two children and a boring job. She didn’t want that.)

Ochako could do that if she wanted. That was fine.

Himiko wasn't exactly a minder, or even a good friend—it was just better if she stayed away, breathed in the dark, watched Ochako wait at the store and watched her walk home, dejected. It was easier to think like that, to hear her heart and hear the whispers in her head and feed that sunken urge to be, be, be, be. But she could feel it, and feeling the desire and urge was nice.

She liked Ochako. She liked.

And there was this thing who said it wasn’t like, it was love, it was more, it was going to consume her. Himiko would let it. She tugged at her bangs, cut some of her hair with scissors from her bag. She was uneven, rough, a little hungry. The pigeons suited her fine. Who was she kidding? She was always fucking hungry, always craving more. She wanted to be more. She wanted to be and act and look exactly the way all the other good children did. The way Ochako walked, the way Saito laughed, the way Mai scored high, the way the girls at the karaoke bar were always singing.

Himiko brushed her hair out with her fingers, in a park bath way. She stared at her blurry reflection in the cheap mirror, swiped her tongue over her front teeth and her lips.

Could be, she thought idly, as her heart lurched painfully in her chest. Will be.

She stopped going to Ochako’s part of town.

(She killed another sparrow.)

—

Himiko turned fifteen two weeks after abandoning her middle school and future life prospects, after drinking Saito’s blood and fleeing from her school with nothing but the clothes she wore and some spare yen.

She, obviously, didn’t celebrate her birthday that year.

(The crows swooped far above her school courtyard, at the window, cawing over and over.)

Himiko turned sixteen alone. She had a small cake from a corner store and stabbed at it with a plastic spork. She crumbled most of the cake and littered it in silly shapes on the concrete ground, at night. Waited for the birds to arrive.

(The pigeons said hello!)

She turned seventeen alone, too. She didn’t get a cake this time. She led a man into an alley, ignoring all the warnings in her mind, and got handsy with him before he got handsy with her. His blood drained into her mouth and it was sour, not at all what she had been looking for. She stuck a candle into a pile of mud at the park and shaped It into a heart. She lit it with a lighter she stole from the weird man.

(The sparrows sent their warmest and kindest regards!)

Then she left town two months later, with four more bodies to add to her mental tally. Her tummy rumbled and rumbled and she dreamed of red avians and brittle feathers, sickly and ill. She slunk along the darker side of Japan and listened to people talk. The Hero Killer: Stain talked quite loud.

Himiko went and found herself a little group to talk to, then.

—

Himiko followed the man to the bar.

She didn’t brush hands with the other guy, who wore a thick blue coat smelling of smoke and ash. She didn’t smile at him, either, with his charred skin, his dark hair. He had staples—maybe piercings—all over. Himiko knew better than to think it was only for stylistic purposes.

Her heart kept beating.

She dreamed of change, of wonder, of love. She wanted this to work, to be good. Living and dancing around all the corners never made any sense. At least when she was like this, on the run, she was honest.

Giran had seen that. He had complimented it, even. You got spirit, he had said, with a curled mouth and smoke falling from the gaps between his teeth. You out here because the shelter won’t take pretty things, or ‘cause you have a dream, huh? One lone cigar in hand, his breath smelling like nicotine. She had laughed at him, smiled, twirled part of her hair. And oh, she had a dream, a really good one. She wanted to live without constraint. Without the craze of people telling her she was evil, too bloodthirsty to be human.

She was wandering.

She was living and hoping and doing things that made her heart thunder, her heart stutter deep within her chest. Cavities of sunken flesh, reddened by her life, her blood, her means to an end.

The bar was dingy and strange and glossy. The man behind the counter didn’t smile—he had no mouth—but he looked at Giran and Himiko and the stranger with rippling skin, purple, detaching from muscle. Unlikely to be a mutation, she thought, but burns would make sense. She laughed at him, at the weird boy at the bar—boy was too young, so maybe young man fit better. He wore a hand on his face, had shaggy blue hair. He slumped in his seat, had a raspy voice.

Now, Himiko was here because she saw the messages that spread everywhere from the Hero Killer. And she thought, hey, I could do that. And if the league could do a fraction of what she wanted, she could just—

She could fit in, maybe. And that would be rather nice.

“I want to be like Stainy,” Himiko said, and she moved her hands up and down to indicate it. Laughed, too, with a big smile. “I’m Himiko Toga!”

Because to be like him wasn’t so bad. Fuck, it was within reach. She could be close to her ideals if she was given a chance. She had been walking around trading appearances for a while. She hadn’t gotten caught. Either she was better than most cops and heroes, or they were very useless.

“Not another thought it that head of yours,” The weird one said, sighing. “Fine.”

The shaggy haired one frowned. Giran had called him Shigaraki, and in the back of Himiko’s mind, she agreed. He looked like a Shigaraki. Not sure how it was spelled, though. “What?”

“I’m going by Dabi right now,” The self-proclaimed Dabi said, and his hands were in his pockets and he was tall. Not as lanky as Shigaraki but still pretty lean. The scars on his face told Himiko he was fucking nuts. She was nuts too, given the little bit of blood that was trapped in a ziplock bag somewhere in her cardigan pocket. Dabi was odd looking in a fun way. Societal reject, or maybe someone who rejected society.

Possibly both at once.

“That’s such a cop out answer,” Shigaraki said, snappishly, and Himiko felt her pulse jump in her throat.

Was it a cop out answer? It sounded normal enough.

She thumbed at her knife, hidden in her left pocket, her smile faded. It wasn’t so bad, she thought, to be here. To try to make this work. It wasn’t like the world would miss her. Or love her. And she used to really love them, and it, and everything within. The people and their funny movies and good rom coms, the horror novels she collected in secret, even some of her cute class men. Oh, but here she was. Himiko Toga was on the run in makeshift school clothes, hungry and not quite herself.

But the bar wasn’t too bad.

And it was stable enough, and she knew a nice place when she saw it. And she knew cute and good and fun when she saw it, too. Those things were easy for her to identify. The city wasn’t good enough, and Himiko wasn’t fast enough to catch up to Stain—to link with him and agree with him about how cruel society was, and how lame the heroes were. She wasn’t like that, she couldn’t be.

“Let’s not get hasty,” Giran smoothly said, waving one hand. A cigar was back in his mouth, crooked, and thick smoke ebbed from the end of it.

“Sure,” Himiko said, fast, but her hand was on the knife and her face was hot and she kinda-sorta wanted to try taking some of everyone’s blood, just a little, to see what it was like to be so confidently strange. She said it brightly, too, “Not too hasty, sure.”

She thought about sparrows and pigeons and pink nail polish and that one cheap konbini that she and Ochako used to visit. She thought about holding hands and kissing and hugging and licking beads of red off scraped knees. She thought about Mai’s bedroom, the duvet, the cut rug. She thought about Saito, his wild hair and bloodied face,the way he spasmed on the floor when she snapped and decided trying was better than denying. She thought about her own room, and her forgotten items, her hobbies and useless belongings. She thought about Mom and Dad. She thought about her life as a good daughter and then thought about the life she wanted to have, right now, right around here.

And her heart sung, of course. It always did.