Archive of Our Own ^omega

Chapter Text

Hitoshi has no idea what to expect as he knocks on the door to Principal Nedzu’s office. He was summoned here at the end of the school day by a vague announcement over the loudspeakers.

He allows a small—very small—part of himself to hope that this is the meeting he’s been waiting for, that Nedzu will smile and pat him on the shoulder and say welcome to the hero course, Shinsou Hitoshi.

But Hitoshi knows better than to get his hopes up, even though they still linger in the anxious shivering of his hands.

“Come in!” Nedzu announces from inside the office. 

Hitoshi takes a deep breath and pushes open the large door. Considering the nationwide rumors about Nedzu’s eccentricity, his office is surprisingly normal—a large desk on one side that Nedzu perches behind, a set of couches in the middle, and on the other end of the room a small table setup with a coffee machine and various snacks. The room is, however, cold, and Hitoshi silently curses the uniform UA forces all the students to wear. He’d be infinitely more comfortable in a hoodie, or, hell, even a leather jacket, but whatever. The door creaks until it clicks shut behind him, and Nedzu gestures to the couch.

Hitoshi walks to the center of the room, but he doesn’t take a seat. He’s too antsy, and doesn’t really feel comfortable sitting. He’d much rather be able to bolt for the door if needed. Not that he’ll need to, hopefully. So he stands in front of the couches and stares at Nedzu, who looks incredibly small behind his large desk, but no less intimidating.

Nedzu doesn’t say anything else, only stares right back, his smile not changing even a centimeter as the seconds tick by. After what could be a minute, or five, or only a few seconds, the silence becomes suffocating. Hitoshi cracks. 

“What do you want?” he asks. He tries to keep the anxiety out of his voice, disguises it under what he hopes comes across as annoyance, instead.

Nedzu’s smile only widens, and he turns one of the computer monitors to face Hitoshi. “This regards the incident that happened yesterday,” Nedzu says as he plays the security camera feed of a hallway Hitoshi recognizes: the hallway right in front of class 1-A.

Hitoshi’s blood runs cold, everywhere except for his face, which threatens to start burning. Hitoshi swallows it down, though. He doesn’t regret anything that he said, he only regrets that somehow Nedzu heard about it. Hitoshi was right—still is—and so he stands up a little straighter, scowls a little deeper. “I said what I said.”

Somehow, although he wouldn’t have considered it possible, Nedzu’s smile grows even larger, and he’s starting to look more like a lion than a rat. “So,” Nedzu starts, not trying to hide the amusement in his voice, and Hitoshi gets the sudden feeling that he’s been caught in a trap.

Nedzu continues, “You sincerely meant it when you said, in regards to the Sports Festival, quote: this’ll be the perfect chance to knock you off your pedestals. Consider this a declaration of war.”

Even though sweat drips off his brow, Hitoshi answers, “Yeah,” with as much confidence as he can fake. “At the festival I’ll show all those spoiled brats what the real world’s actually like.”

Nedzu clasps his paws in front of his face and his grin twists into something dangerous. After a long moment of freezing cold, paralyzing eye contact, Nedzu says, “If that is your answer, then this is mine: Shinsou Hitoshi, effective immediately, you are expelled from UA high school.”

For two full seconds, Hitoshi doesn’t breathe. His heart doesn’t beat.

He’s somewhere else, like his body abandoned him. His stomach twists. His vision wanes. He nearly throws up. He nearly falls over. But his body can’t move. He’s feeling so many emotions at once that they all cancel each other out, letting him somehow ask, “What?”

This can’t be happening. This can’t be happening. This isn’t happening.

Expelled?

For what?

Hitoshi always gets the short end of the stick. He’s always been the one on the wrong side, no matter what actually happened. He thought UA would be different. He thought that maybe here he’d have a chance. That these fancy, politically correct heroes would at least pretend to treat him like a normal human, instead of dirt underneath their expensive shoes.

But this is what Hitoshi’s used to, and very quickly the panic switches gears, morphs into a more useful emotion: anger. This won’t happen. He won’t let it. Hitoshi refuses. UA is his last shot. He’s been saying for years, if he can’t make it here, if he can’t become a hero, then he’ll just fucking kill himself.

But he isn’t there yet. It isn’t official until it’s official, so even though Hitoshi is about to throw up he looks into Nedzu’s eyes and hisses out between gritted teeth, “Could you repeat that, please?”

“Sure!” Nedzu answers with a disgusting cheer. But it doesn’t matter, because with that single syllable, Hitoshi’s quirk grabs hold of Nedzu, and Hitoshi does not hesitate.

Hitoshi activates his quirk and Nedzu freezes.

Hitoshi knows the limitations of his quirk—mostly, sort of—and he can’t think of anything within his capabilities that would actually solve this situation. He doesn’t have enough information, doesn’t have enough power. The only thing—the only chance he might have is... He takes a deep breath, digs his fingernails into his palms, and orders Principal Nedzu, “Get rid of any paperwork—physical or virtual—regarding my expulsion. ”

Nedzu just keeps smiling, and he cheerfully answers, “There aren’t any!”

There—

What?

And then Hitoshi’s quirk wears off—he only ever gets one order—but he asks, the panic inching back, “What do you mean there aren’t any?”

Nedzu’s smile only widens, to the point where it’s uncanny. “You are not getting expelled, Shinsou-kun. I said that to see how you’d react—as a test.”

Huh?

Hitoshi blinks for a few seconds, processing, and then he collapses backwards onto the couch.

Nedzu continues with that same nonchalance he’s always had, “Since you passed—I’ll give you a B minus—I have a proposition for you that, if you accept, will get you transferred to the hero course, with a full scholarship for tuition and housing.”

What?

It sounds too good to be true, but Hitoshi doesn’t care. Not after all that. Not when UA is his last chance. Not when this could fall right through his fingertips. “I accept,” he declares, somehow out of breath. “I’ll get started right away.”

Nedzu laughs, and for some reason it’s the most terrifying sound Hitoshi’s ever heard.

“While I appreciate the enthusiasm, Shinsou-kun, you are going to have to hear the details before you can consent.”

Hitoshi sits up. His legs bounce up and down and up and down. He’s amped up. The adrenaline is still pumping through his body and he can feel his heart beating fast against his chest.

This is real, right?

Nedzu leans back in his chair. “The deal is this: the Sports Festival will occur in five days. You will, of course, participate alongside the rest of the first-years. If you win the  competition, you will be immediately transferred into the hero course. If you don't win... you will remain in the general education program while participating in an internship project under me. Participation in the project will be mandatory.”

“I accept,” Hitoshi says again. He’ll say it as many times as it takes. The details don’t matter. If there’s any chance he’ll have a shot at the hero course, he’ll fucking take it.

But Nedzu just keeps talking as if he didn’t already agree. “If you accept, you will spend the next four days, until the Sports Festival, undergoing specialized training in physical combat and your quirk to prepare you for the competition.”

That’s perfect. That’s better than Hitoshi ever could have asked for. He feels so excited he might as well be high.

“If, even after said training, you get anything less than first place in the competition, you will then go undercover for an extended period of time in the criminal underworld.”

What?

That is not at all what Hitoshi was expecting.

“You see,” Nedzu continues without pause, “we believe there is already a spy at UA for the up-and-coming villain group that attacked USJ. This spy is most likely another student, which is why we need you. For this project, your primary objective will be to figure out the identity of this spy, if they exist, by making contact with the villain group. Your secondary objective would be to find out any information you can about the villains who attacked USJ: who they are, their abilities, their plans, et cetera."

Hitoshi stares at nothing in particular. That was a lot of information he had no way of expecting. The whole thing had washed over him, but he retained the important information:

“So,” Hitoshi starts. “If I win first place at the Sports Festival, I get to become a normal student in either 1-A or 1-B?”

“Yep!”

“And if I don’t win, I’ll go undercover as some sorta villain?” And this is the part that makes the least amount of sense... “What would I get out of that?” Other than succumbing to every bad thing that everyone’s ever said about him? Hitoshi’s spent his whole life denying accusations of criminality and villainy, the last thing he wants to do is fucking make them true, even if he’s technically undercover. How would he ever recover from that? Who would ever trust him again?

“Because,” Nedzu answers, “If you successfully complete this project—by which I mean, get us information on this spy and/or the villains which helps us take them down—you’ll be transferred into the hero department, and guaranteed to graduate from UA with honors.”

Hitoshi blinks.

That’s it? That’s the deal? It sounds... too good to be true. Either way, whether he wins the festival or not, he’ll get a spot in the hero course. No matter what, as long as he accepts, Hitoshi will end up a hero.

This isn’t a choice. This is a gift.

And, anyway, he was already planning on winning the Sports Festival. As long as he makes that happen, his dream will finally come true.

“I accept,” Hitoshi says. “Since I’m gonna win the Sports Festival anyway.”

“Very good.” Nedzu pauses for a moment. “Now, I’m going to suspend you.”

“What?” Hitoshi throws himself to his feet as his stomach drops.

Nedzu chuckles. “Don’t worry, this won’t stay on your record, and will only last until the Sports Festival. This will allow you more time to train in preparation and, in case you don’t win, support your cover story for when you go undercover. I’ll inform your homeroom teacher of your “suspension”, and in the meantime, you can meet your trainer behind the cafe in 2-Chome you like.”

How in hell does Nedzu know which cafes he likes to go to?

“Considering the potential undercover aspect of this deal, it’s important for you to maintain a low profile when meeting the trainer, as they’re a hero.”

“That’s it?” Hitoshi clarifies.

“That’s it.”

Except Hitoshi can’t shake the itchy feeling that there’s a catch. Even with the weird “internship project”, it still sounds too good to be true—too good for Shinsou Hitoshi. And a small part of him wonders... what would happen to him if he lost the sports festival, then failed the project? What if they catch him day one? What would Nedzu do?

But that doesn’t really matter. If Hitoshi loses his last chance at being a hero, there’s an easy solution. The solution he’s been prepared to take his whole life.

He has more questions for Nedzu, but he’s afraid if he asks them the spell will be broken, and he’ll miss this opportunity. So he simply listens as Nedzu gives him detailed instructions to safely meet with the trainer, and then he heads out.

- - -

“This isn’t what we agreed,” Shouta hisses through gritted teeth. He saw and heard the whole interaction through some creepy live feed Nedzu had set up, and now he stands in front of Nedzu’s desk, arms crossed, body tense.

“What’s your complaint, Shouta-kun?” Nedzu asks, like he has no idea what he did.

“You’re a manipulative bastard, you know that, right?”

“Of course!”

Nedzu shouldn’t have framed it like he did—like a deal. That’s not what this is.

Shinsou isn’t going to win the Sports Festival. He might have stood a chance if Nedzu hadn’t suspended him, because Shouta knows that, alongside that suspension, Nedzu is going to spread rumors of his quirk around UA. Nothing specific enough to make it ineffective, but just enough that Shinsou will encounter someone, sooner or later, during the festival who knows well enough to negate it.

So all Nedzu did was give the boy false hope—make him feel like he had a choice, and a shot—and that’s why Shouta’s stomach churns. Because there’s no way a fifteen year-old boy is going to say no to the chance of becoming a hero. Because even though Shouta fucking hates it, he understands what Nedzu’s doing:

Nedzu has given the boy hope—has let him think that maybe he’ll win the Sports Festival—so that when Shinsou inevitably loses, the show he puts on that stage will be that much more convincing for whatever villains may be watching.

But what Shouta doesn’t understand, the glaring red flag... “You haven’t once mentioned his parents.”

“They won’t be a concern.”

Shouta frowns. “What if he tells them about this deal? You didn’t even order him to keep it a secret.”

Nedzu lets out a long, shallow laugh. “Shouta-kun, why do you think I picked Shinsou Hitoshi for this?”

Shouta’s already thought about this. Nedzu hasn’t given him any more information than he’s deemed necessary, but Shouta’s theory is, “Because he has the most villainous quirk of the first-years.”

“Nope. That wasn’t even what initially drew me to him, though it is a perk.” Nedzu hops up off his desk chair to clasp his paws behind his back and starts pacing along the wall of his office. “He doesn’t have parents. I picked Shinsou Hitoshi because he’s isolated, desperate, and vulnerable. He has no one he can tell any of this to. He has no one who will miss him if he spends the next four days training with you in an abandoned basement. He has no one to become suspicious when he starts hanging out in criminal bars. He has no one who’d consider suing me for child endangerment.”

“You’re a monster,” Shouta says.

“And yet...” Nedzu stops pacing to stare at Shouta’s face with wide eyes and an even wider smile. “You aren’t stopping me.”

Shouta flinches.

Stop Nedzu? That’s impossible. Shouta knows Nedzu well enough to know that there’s nothing Shouta can do to go against him once he’s set his mind to something. Nedzu has too much political power for Shouta to do anything. He has connections in all the right places, whether those be allyships or blackmail. All Shouta would accomplish is making Nedzu, and a strong majority of Japan’s ministers, mad at him. He wouldn’t even be able to stop him.

Usually, Shouta can at least slow him down, or edit the course a little bit. Often, Nedzu values Shouta’s moral perspective and opinion, but apparently this is not one of those times. And... even if Shouta hates it, he unfortunately understands. He’s too similar to Nedzu not to. Nedzu’s right. Shinsou Hitoshi will make the perfect plant.

So all Shouta can do is try to keep the boy as safe as he can, and prepare him for what’s bound to come. But four days?

Four days is nothing. Which raises the second big question Shouta has. If Nedzu doesn’t care about Shouta’s moral advice, “Why’d you bring me into this in the first place?”

Nedzu answers, in that roundabout way of his that gives away nothing, “Insurance.”

“Insurance for what?”

Nedzu only smiles.

- - -

Nedzu had given Hitoshi instructions before they parted ways. He enters the cafe as he normally does, orders the drink he normally orders (five shots of espresso with a splash of milk, iced), and then after a half hour or so, casually walks out the back door and straight into the building directly behind the cafe—a mostly-abandoned apartment building that houses a few squatters (Hitoshi’s spent a night there himself once or twice, which is probably why Nedzu picked it). Nedzu called it a “safe house”, but he smiled and chuckled as he said it, so Hitoshi isn’t sure how seriously to take any declarations of “safety.” Nonetheless, Hitoshi does as ordered and sneaks down into the basement.

The wooden stairs are old, too damp to even creak properly, and every other step his feet sink down an extra inch. Surprisingly, as he walks down, the stench of abandoned building gets better, not worse. Hitoshi still keeps the espresso drink close to his face, both for the smell and to keep it accessible in case of emergency.

Nedzu refused to divulge any information about the trainer, and Hitoshi has tried to keep from getting his hopes up, but there are a number of underground heroes he’d be so excited to work with. Hell, he’d be excited to work with anyone who’s an active or retired hero.

Hitoshi’s more than a little nervous, but he refuses to knock on the door at the end of the basement hall, and instead shoves it open to step in.

The “safe house” room Nedzu’s set up doesn’t look out of place in an abandoned basement—damp wood and trash and old furniture. But it smells distinctly not like an abandoned basement—it doesn’t smell like anything at all, which is impressive given the mold and cockroaches that call the rest of the place their home. On one wall is a rolled up floor mat that looks a little too new to really belong here and an old punching bag that hangs in the corner, next to an old pile of mattresses.

Hitoshi shuts the door behind him and takes a sip of his drink. He doesn’t see anybody—did he beat the trainer here? 

He starts walking towards the old, torn up couch in the middle of the room. There’s a plastic sheet across it, so it's probably safe to sit on.

But then there’s a flurry of movement, and before Hitoshi can react, the coffee cup’s out of his hand and there’s something like rope wrapped around his torso, affixing his arms to his sides.

From the ceiling, a person drops onto the couch, sitting on the back with his feet on the cushion. He holds Hitoshi’s coffee in one hand, and the end of a gray scarf in the other—the scarf that’s tied around Hitoshi’s torso. Somehow the man managed not to spill a single drop of coffee.

The man has long black hair tied up in a ponytail, with goggles over his eyes. Hitoshi already recognizes him before Eraserhead opens his mouth to ask, “What is this?” and takes a sip of the coffee.

“Mostly laxatives,” Hitoshi answers, because he can’t stop himself. “And a little bit of coffee.”

Eraserhead does not spit the drink out like Hitoshi would have liked, and instead takes another sip and asks, “Did Nedzu tell you what we’d be doing?”

“Training,” Hitoshi says. “Could you take these off?” He shimmies his arms to draw the hero’s attention to the capture weapon still wrapped around him.

“No.” Hitoshi’s heard Eraserhead’s voice before, in passing, but never in actual conversation. It’s stern, straightforward, and doesn’t hide much. “This is training. Free yourself.”

Hitoshi frowns. The fabric is tight enough that he really doesn’t have any wiggle room at all, and he isn’t allowed to bring knives into UA, so he doesn’t have one on him. He tries—in vain—to shimmy his right arm up, then his left arm, but the scarf doesn’t budge, and Eraserhead just takes his goggles off to watch, leveling Hitoshi with a stare that’s simultaneously blank and condescending.

Eraserhead then chugs the rest of the coffee, and tosses the plastic cup into a pile of trash in the corner of the room.

This is annoying. The more Hitoshi wriggles without making any progress, the redder his face gets. This isn’t fair. Eraserhead is his favorite hero and this is his first impression of Hitoshi? If he had a knife this would be a different story. If he’d had a heads up, maybe he’d have a chance, but, “You’re a professional hero and I’m fifteen. How the hell am I supposed to do this?”

Eraserhead’s expression doesn’t change. “You want to win the Sports Festival but you can’t even get out of a simple restraint?”

Hitoshi’s eyes narrow. That’s what this is? Fine.

He didn’t want to do this against his favorite hero, but Hitoshi’s willing to do whatever it takes, so he activates his quirk—the opportunity already laid with Eraserhead’s prior response—and orders, “Free me.”

The capture weapon drops, and Hitoshi spares a moment to smirk and stretch his arms.

After the few seconds it takes for his quirk to wear off, Eraserhead looks at the scarf and nods. “Good,” he states. He hops off the couch onto his feet, settles into a fighting stance, and faces Hitoshi.

Hitoshi swallows, tries to mimic Eraserhead’s stance, but he isn’t really sure what he’s doing—he’s had no formal training, only scraps with other teenagers—and asks, “Could you at least give me a weapon?”

Eraserhead’s response is to instead toss his own capture weapon onto the couch before throwing himself at Hitoshi.

Hitoshi manages to dodge the punch, but in his panic he overcorrects, and barely manages to stop himself from falling over. Eraserhead doesn't give him a second and throws another punch. Hitoshi does a sloppy block—really just trying to slap the punch out of the way—and it sort of works.

Eraserhead’s obviously holding back, but he keeps attacking. Hitoshi barely has enough time and space to dodge, but he manages for a couple more seconds, until he slips up—trips over one of the mattresses and lands flat on his back.

“You have good instincts, but lack training and experience,” Eraserhead states.

“So what?” Hitoshi spits out. His heart rate is in the sky, his stomach in his throat. He needs water, or to throw up, or both.

“You need to cut down on the caffeine and increase your calorie, protein, and water intake.”

Hitoshi scowls. “I didn’t come here for diet advice,” he says in between heavy breaths.

“What did you come here for then?” Eraserhead asks.

He came because Nedzu told him to. He came here, to this building, because he gets to train under a real hero. He came because he’ll do anything it takes to become a hero, and right now that entails potentially going undercover into a den of criminals. Because, even if no one else believes in him, Hitoshi still wants to win the Sports Festival. Even though he hates to admit it, he knows he isn’t a great fighter, and against a real villain with an offensive quirk, he doesn’t stand a chance.

He came… “To get stronger.”

“Then you’re going to do whatever I tell you to,” Eraserhead says. “And that includes advice about what to eat.”

Hitoshi frowns, but takes the bottled water when Eraserhead offers it, chugging half of it in one go. Eraserhead watches him for a moment before letting out a long sigh. “Look, kid—”

“I’m not a kid,” Hitoshi interjects automatically.

Eraserhead just sighs again and redoes his ponytail. “What did you come here for?”

“Huh? I already told you—to get stronger.”

“No,” Eraserhead states. “What did you come here for?”

Hitoshi frowns, but answers, “To win the Sports Festival and become a hero.”

After a moment, Eraserhead’s face twists into a smile, baring teeth. “Alright. We only have four days. Today I’ll teach you a few basic exercises, reps, and moves that you can practice on your own during the daytime.”

And Eraserhead does just that. 

The rest of the evening is a blur. With the minimum amount of words possible, Eraserhead spends the next two or so hours teaching Hitoshi how to properly do push-ups and sit-ups, how to actually punch (since apparently he’d been doing it wrong his entire life), how to actually kick (not that Hitoshi plans on ever using a kick in real combat), and the basics of dodging. After the quick mini lessons, Hitoshi’s forced to practice against the punching bag they hang up until he has to expend just as much energy to breathe as he does to try another punch, and then further. After his eleventh-in-a-row rep of jab-jab-elbow strike, Hitoshi’s vision wanes, and before he knows it, his legs have given out, and the only reason he isn’t a pile on the floor is because Eraserhead’s holding him up uncomfortably by his armpits.

“We’ll stop here for tonight,” Eraserhead says.

“I can go longer,” Hitoshi insists, even though he feels like he’s going to throw up.

“You need to know how to pace yourself.” Eraserhead deposits Hitoshi on the couch and watches him for a moment. “I can’t walk you home because we shouldn’t be seen together, but... where are you spending the night?”

Hitoshi flounders.

What is he supposed to say? That he has a nice, comfy bed in a house with two parents who love him? Hitoshi wouldn’t be able to say that with a straight face, but he knows the last thing Eraserhead wants is the truth.

Who’d want to hear that he’s already moved between six different foster houses this year? That he can’t really complain about his current one—Bushida—because she leaves him alone and doesn’t care what he does or where he is? He has a bedroom, technically, but a twin mattress barely fits amongst all the boxes in there for storage. He could go back, but foster houses just make him uncomfortable now, and there’s nothing there for him anyway so he spends most of his nights wasting time in 24/7 cafes, restaurants, and stores, or wandering dark alleyways where there’s no cops to question why he’s out so late.

Hitoshi compromises. “I’ll stay here. Just for tonight.”

Eraserhead does not look satisfied with that answer, and he hesitates like he wants to say something, but then he takes a deep breath and erases the expression from his face. “I’ll meet you back here tomorrow at six in the evening. Get some rest, eat something healthy, drink lots of water, and tomorrow practice everything I taught you today. Stay safe.”

Eraserhead leaves without another word.

Hitoshi tries to fight against sleep, as he does every night, but his body is simply too exhausted. Every inch of him is sore, and before he knows it, his alarm is blaring that it's 6am, and he’s thrust back into the waking world.

Hitoshi spends the next twelve hours doing what he usually does on his days off, except he takes breaks from reading manga to practice what Eraserhead assigned him. The basement room is cold and too quiet, so Hitoshi plays music through his headphones. He tries a random workout playlist he finds online, but it’s too preppy, so he just blares some hard rock instead. 

He doesn’t enjoy being suspended—never has—because he gets bored easily. In any other situation he’d probably wander the local alleyways, trying to get into a fight he won’t lose too badly, but instead he’s doing push-ups and practicing strikes against the punching bag. It’s more cathartic than he was expecting. He’s never had enough motivation, or energy, to do any exercise consistently. But now, it makes his body buzz in a way obtrusive enough to distract him from the loneliness, from the world outside, from the upcoming sports festival. He punches and kicks and forgets about the manga he’d been reading, instead the only thing on his mind the dull pain that, for some reason, feels good.

His vision starts blurring, come evening. If he looks up enough for his eyes to catch the fluorescent lights in his peripheral, his vision is swarmed with bright dots. And then it’s suddenly 6pm and Eraserhead walks in with a frown already on his face and tosses a grocery bag into Hitoshi’s arms.

“Eat,” Eraserhead orders, and it’s only now that Hitoshi realizes he hasn’t had anything today. Not even a cup of coffee.

For once, Hitoshi doesn’t complain, and he forces down a bento box. As he finishes, Eraserhed says, “We’ll spar today. Feel free to use your quirk.”

Hitoshi frowns. He’s uncomfortable with his quirk, because everyone else around him is. Being labeled a villain by age four simply because of the quirk you’re born with would make anyone hesitate to use it. And Hitoshi learned early on that trying it—even if just to protect himself—often made everything worse. People don't like it when you take away their free will. And when they don’t like you, they hurt you. There’s been many a time when using his quirk in a fight has only accomplished delaying and multiplying the pain. So Hitoshi doesn’t use it unless he has no other choice.

And he may hate it, but he isn’t an idiot. He knows that for him to have any chance at winning the Sports Festival, he’ll have to use it. So he should practice, even if it makes him squirm. Even if sometimes when he opens his mouth the words get stuck in his throat like glue and it makes him want to throw up.

So, he tries his best to simultaneously hold his ground against Eraserhead’s attacks, and push the man’s buttons. He tries everything he can think of: making him angry, saying the most batshit random stuff Hitoshi can think of, bringing up his students, bringing up the other heroes. And nothing works. And Hitoshi just gets angrier and more exhausted and angrier and more annoyed and he fails to properly siphon his growing frustration into anything useful, until it reaches the end of the night—around 11:30. Eraserhead’s knocked him on his butt, again, and looks down at him with that look he keeps giving him: a concerned pity that makes Hitoshi’s teeth sting.

“Stop looking at me like that!” Hitoshi screams.

Eraserhead’s expression only sinks softer, like he’s looking at some wet puppy he found on the side of the road that doesn’t know it’s going to get put down in a few hours.

But Hitoshi isn’t a sad, wet puppy. He’s a hero prospect who’s going to win the Sports Festival, so he yells, “Stop fucking pitying me!”

And for the first time in hours, Eraserhead opens his mouth to say, “If I had any say, this project wouldn’t exist.”

Hitoshi’s too pissed to think logically, and gets in Eraserhead’s face to spit out, “If this is what it takes for me to become a hero, then I’ll fucking do it. Don’t you dare disrespect my decision, nor my commitment.”

Eraserhead holds eye contact for a few seconds, long enough for Hitoshi to realize he should have activated his quirk there, instead of snapping at the hero trying to help him.

“Okay.”

Hitoshi stutters, “Oh...kay?”

“Okay,” Eraserhead states. “I’ll start treating you like an operative-in-training, if you accept the bigger picture.”

Eraserhead digs around in the duffel he brought with him, then pulls out a knife. It’s not even a pocket knife—it’s a real, nearly six-inch-long combat knife, with a case and everything. And then he hands it to Hitoshi.

As he takes it, the first thing Hitoshi notices is that it’s just a dull training knife, but he’s still elated—he’s always felt more comfortable with a knife than with his fists—but the illusion quickly breaks.

Hitoshi understands what it means. Because if Eraserhead thought he’d be in 1-A or 1-B by next week, he’d have no reason to give him a knife. “You don’t think I’ll win the festival.”

Eraserhead frowns, but doesn’t try to deny it. “I want you to win.”

“Because you don’t think I’ll last a day undercover,” Hitoshi accuses.

“Incorrect.” Eraserhead pulls out a knife of his own. “Because you remind me of myself, when I was your age, and I want the best for you.”

Whatever. Hitoshi’s more comfortable with knives, anyway. He’s only survived fifteen years because he’s managed to have something sharp in his hand when it really mattered. He’s gotten through an orphanage, at least three foster homes, and more alleyways than he can count with some sort of knife.

He never received any real training, of course, but he’s infinitely more confident in his ability to defend himself with a knife than with his bare hands.

Barely two seconds after Hitoshi’s grip settles around the hilt of the knife, Eraserhead comes at him with his own. Hitoshi was expecting it, though, so he manages to successfully deflect the slash to his torso, and they spend the next half-hour sparring with dull training knives.

“You’re more comfortable with a knife,” Eraserhead notes as they’re wrapping the night up.

Hitoshi can tell Eraserhead wants that thread of conversation to go somewhere, but he just retorts, “Are you going to give me a real one?”

“You’ll only need a real one if you lose the festival.”

He’s right, even though Hitoshi wants one now. He’s never gotten his hands on a knife this large before, so it’ll take a little bit of getting used to. It’s big enough that he’ll need an actual holster, probably for the hip, which means he might have to start wearing a belt—not that it’ll matter. He’s going to win the Sports Festival, join the hero course, and never need a knife again.

“Same thing tomorrow,” Eraserhead says, then walks out the door.

- - -

For the next (and last) two days, they continue sparring, with and without knives. Occasionally Eraserhead invites Hitoshi to practice his quirk, but he’s never able to make the hero say anything during a fight again. Four days isn’t a lot, but Eraserhead has actually useful advice regarding how to use a knife effectively, and Hitoshi definitely feels more comfortable in hand-to-hand combat, albeit only when quirks aren’t involved. They don’t have another real conversation until the last night, when the clock hits 9pm and Eraserhead insists they end early.

“I can go longer,” Hitoshi says.

Eraserhead shakes his head. “The festival starts at eight in the morning. You have to get enough sleep tonight if you want to win.” He ignores Hitoshi’s petulant frown to say, “Nedzu wants to speak with you.”

“Why?” Hitoshi asks. The thought of speaking to that man/bear/rat makes his blood run cold with something adjacent to fear.

Eraserhead doesn’t answer, and instead hands Hitoshi his phone.

“Hello again, Shinsou-kun!” Nedzu greets from the speaker. “I just wanted to quickly touch base about the expectations for how you’ll conduct yourself tomorrow at the Sports Festival. If you lose, you’ll have to be prepared to act in a manner befitting someone who’ll go on to “betray” UA for the villains, especially if you make it to the one-on-one’s, which will be more publicly visible.”

“I’ll make it to the battles.”

“Of course you will,” Nedzu says, and even though Hitoshi can’t see his face, he can clearly imagine the condescending smile. “And if you lose one of them, you’ll have the perfect stage to make your debut, and gain repertoire with the villains. That is to say, if you lose, I’ll expect you to make a scene. Whatever anger you’re feeling, whatever disappointment... take it all out on the hero student who defeats you. Don’t hold back. Lean into it. That will be my biggest piece of advice to you, Shinsou-kun. The best lies are based upon the truth. Take whatever negative emotions you have, and exaggerate them. That will be the safest way to go undercover.”

“Sure, whatever,” Hitoshi says, dismissively, because, “I’m gonna win, anyway.”

Nedzu’s smile is audible in the silence, and when he says, “I hope so,” Hitoshi does not believe him one bit. Nedzu exclaims, “See you tomorrow!” before hanging up.

Hitoshi sighs, then hands the phone back, only to see that expression of pity he hates so much.

“You don’t have to do it,” Eraserhead says. “Even if you lose, you don’t have to make a whole scene. Your cover’s already good.”

Eraserhead might be right. Hitoshi’s cover is good, it has been his entire life, but then Eraserhead adds on: “You shouldn’t have to sacrifice your social life for this—” 

“What social life?” Hitoshi hisses out. “I never had any friends in the first place, so—”

“But you could,” Eraserhead continues with a sad naivety that makes Hitoshi want to laugh. “I could introduce you to a couple kids in my class I think you’d get along with.”

“It’s already too late,” Hitoshi says. “It has been for years.”

“I refuse to believe that.”

“That’s your problem, then. I stand by my decision, and even if I just so happen to lose one of the battles, I won’t regret it. This is my last shot to be a hero. I’ll fucking take it.”

Eraserhead sighs, and after a moment, places a hand on Hitoshi’s shoulder. “Shinsou,” he starts. It might be the first time Eraserhead’s called him by name. “I sincerely hope you win.”

Hitoshi almost believes him.

- - -

The whispers start before Hitoshi even walks through the gates. Good. That’ll help his cover. Or at least that’s what he tells himself to try and drown out the rumors of I heard he used his quirk on Nedzu himself and I thought it was a kid in 1-A and whatever you do, don’t talk to him.

It’s funny. Nedzu gave him some advice on how to become socially isolated, but Hitoshi won’t need any of it. He’s never needed any. He just does what he’s always done: shove his hands in his pockets, slouch a bit, scowl whenever anyone accidentally makes eye contact, and ignore the pain that settles into the bottom of his stomach.

He’s used to it. This is exactly how he was treated in middle school. Maybe UA would’ve been different—maybe it will be after he wins the Sports Festival—but for now he can take it. He’s been taking it his whole life.

1-C goes silent when he steps in. Hitoshi pretends to ignore it, stalks over to his seat, pulls it out in such a way that it creaks against the floor, and drops into it. After a moment’s debate, he props his feet up on his desk, and glares at anyone who looks in his direction. The whispers return, and don’t cease even as the festival begins.

There’s a heavy tension, like a glass bubble, following Hitoshi around. The rest of his class try to keep their distance from him, but as they’re ushered into the festival arena, they’re bottlenecked, and arranged as an audience in front of a stage. Midnight puts on a show announcing the start of the festival before inviting a representative from Class 1-A to give a speech.

Bakugou Katsuki stalks up to the stage (Hitoshi only knows his name because it’s been whispered in classroom gossip), slouched and with his hands in his pockets. He’s going to give the speech? Local asshole and troublemaker, Bakugou Katsuki?

How is that fair?

Hitoshi holds back a spiteful snort.

How is that very demure? Very fucking mindful?

The arena falls silent as Bakugou steps up to the mic and looks at Midnight to declare, “Sensei, I’m gonna place first.”

The student body erupts in an uproar of complaints.

Yeah, Hitoshi wants to complain too, but he settles for glaring as hard as he can at Bakugou.

What’s so different about them?

What makes Bakugou Katsuki any better than Hitoshi? Why does he get a seat in 1-A? Just because he has a “flashy” quirk, while Hitoshi’s makes people uncomfortable?

Bakugou doesn’t stop there. He smirks, and tells the first-years, “You’ll all make fantastic stepping stones, I’m sure.”

Hitoshi’s hands are balled so tightly into fists that his nails dig into his palms. He wants to put this immature brat in his place. He wants to embarrass him in front of the whole world. Hopefully they’ll get partnered up for the one-on-one battles.

Hitoshi will look forward to it.

But first, he has to make it through the obstacle course. His stamina isn’t great, but he knows that. He doesn’t need to make it past the finish line on his own two legs. He just needs to make it. And he’ll do whatever it takes, even if it means activating his quirk on some poor losers and riding their coattails all the way.

The rumors of him have been loud enough that there’s no point in trying anybody in his class, but they haven’t trickled far enough to scare the rest of the students away. He doesn’t know anybody’s quirks or abilities well enough to create a plan, but all he has to do is find some blockhead(s) strong enough to make it to the finish line, dumb enough to fall for Hitoshi’s quirk, and quiet enough not to spill the beans.

It’s just as easy as he’d expected. He stands back and watches as the more energetic students dive head-first into tackling the robots—the robots that cost him the physical portion of the entrance exam, and therefore the hero course. He quickly spots a girl with chin-length grey hair, who easily takes down a couple robots with some sort of telekinesis, yet simultaneously tries to keep some distance from the other students.

She’ll be useful for clearing the way, but first he uses his quirk to rope a couple randos from 1-D into carrying him. Then he approaches her, and, for lack of anything better to say, asks, “Are you okay?”

She obviously is, and the combination of the odd question in the middle of a competition, plus Hitoshi’s strange position balanced on top of the shoulders of two gen-ed students has her clarifying, “I’m sorry, what?”

Hitoshi orders, “Get me to the finish line, safely and quickly.”

She nods, and then Hitoshi gets to (metaphorically) sit back and relax while he’s (literally) carried to the finish line. The girl from 1-B takes care of the obstacles, and the losers from 1-D carry him through the course. Hitoshi does have to keep himself actively balanced, but otherwise it’s pretty smooth sailing. He worries, more than a little bit, about whether they’re fast enough. Will they make the cut? What if he makes it across, but he’s too late?

What if this is the end for him?

Worrying won’t help him win, so he tries his best to ignore it. At the start of the final obstacle—a minefield—he drops control of the gen-ed cronies and they drop from exhaustion. He follows right behind the telekinetic girl and makes it across without breaking a sweat. As he crosses the line, they announce him as 27th.

What if they only take 25? What if—?

His control of the girl naturally wears off and, while she looks confused at Hitoshi for a moment, she doesn’t try to approach him, or anybody else for that matter.

A couple minutes later, Midnight announces that the top fourty-two move on to the next round: the Cavalry Battles, laced with a perfect irony. The hero brat who got first in the obstacle course—Midori or Midoriya or something—is the one with the target on his head.

Perfect. No one will be looking at poor little Hitoshi, and considering everyone is chatting around to form teams, it’ll be even easier to activate his quirk this time. Plus, the competitors have already been culled, so it’s hard to pick wrong. He finds two 1-A brats and another from 1-B, and joins them as their fourth. They introduce themselves—Aoyama with the (useless) laser, Ojiro with the tail, and Shoda with the twin impact. Then, they turn to Hitoshi, expectant.

“Shinsou,” he says, and nothing else.

“What’s your quirk?” Aoyama asks, and Hitoshi activates it.

“Doesn’t matter. Help me win.”

Ojiro frowns, and—even though Hitoshi wasn’t directly talking to him—he responds, “We all want to help each other win,” and Hitoshi activates his quirk.

“Sure, whatever.Help me win.”

The last one, Shoda, looks between them all, confused and right on the edge of scared. It’s a look Hitoshi’s seen his entire life. He can recognize the moment they realize. He’s used to it. He doesn’t care if people don’t like his quirk. He doesn’t care if people don’t like him.

He doesn’t.

Shoda naively asks, “What’s going on?”

And Hitoshi answers, with a forced smile, “What do you mean?”

“I mean—”

“Help me win.”

The orders are vague, but that means they’ll last. And it isn’t against their primary directives, anyway, so he isn’t worried about its efficiency.

He’s on top, of course, the commander—balancing mostly on Ojiro’s tail, but also using Aoyama and Shoda as support. As the battle starts, Hitoshi does what he always likes to do: stick to the sidelines and watch. At least for a few seconds, so he can get a sense of the flow, who’s more aggressive, who’s more talkative, who’s the easiest prey.

While it would be therapeutic to go after Midoriya or Bakugou’s crew, he knows that wouldn’t be smart. Instead, they circle around the perimeter of the court, taking out the weakest links. It’s easy with his quirk. Amongst all the chaos and how everyone’s paying attention to Midoriya, no one thinks twice before replying to his jabs or questions or sarcastic pleas for mercy. And then all he has to do is say, “Give me your headbands.”

The lingering confusion in the echoes of his quirk means they’re too busy arguing with their own teammates to retaliate, and Hitoshi continues with this pattern, taking down anyone distracted by the harsh competition among 1-A. Hitoshi doesn’t need a lot of points—he just needs to have more than the majority. And by the time the clock starts ticking down, he’s taken out the five weakest links.

Was it always this easy?

He’s nervous, of course, but he isn’t worried. These losers don’t stand a chance against him, and it’s sobering how he passes. He isn’t even in last place, but in third . Has it always been this easy?

If only the entrance exam involved people instead of robots. Hitoshi probably would’ve gotten first place, easy. He’d already be in 1-A, and while maybe there would have been tension between him and the rest of the class, it wouldn’t matter because he’d be in the hero course.

If only it’d been people.

But it wasn’t.

And now Hitoshi has to claw his way up from 1-C. At least he has a real chance. From here on out, it’s just people. And kids, at that. Naive hero brats who probably won’t think twice before talking to him except—

Midnight’s announced the battle trials and Ojiro declares he’s dropping out. He doesn’t remember anything that happened during the Cavalry Battles so, for honor or whatever, he’s quitting. Shoda follows him. Aoyama doesn’t.

Hitoshi ignores the look of suspicion Ojiro shoots him. Shoda refuses to meet his eyes.

Whatever.

It’s fine. All Hitoshi has to do is win three one-on-one battles. It’ll be fine. He’ll win, he’ll get into the hero course, and they’ll all forgive him for using his quirk on them. If they don’t, it won’t matter, because Hitoshi will become a hero.

Midnight spins a virtual wheel, and Hitoshi’s drawn for the first battle, against golden boy Midoriya Izuku.

Standing nearby, Aoyama appears to consider saying something, but ultimately follows the crowd of everyone else and pointedly ignores him.

No one wishes Hitoshi luck as he walks up to the stage.

No one wants him to win.

No one thinks he has a chance.

He meets Midoriya near the center of the stage, and they make awkward eye contact. Midoriya tries to smile, but it’s nervous. As Midnight introduces them both, Hitoshi tries to hide the shaking of his hands by tightening them into fists. This is it. This is his moment, where either he wins and gets a real shot at the hero course, or he loses and has to put himself on the villains’ radar.

He’s going to win, even if he has to use his quirk.

As soon as Midnight announces the start of the match, Hitoshi starts talking.

“You don’t get it, do you, Midoriya?”

Midoriya hesitates to reply—someone must have given him a hint—but Hitoshi knows these hero types. He knows how to get them riled up better than anybody.

“If you know what you want, you can’t fret the details. Destination before journey, or whatever.” He fakes a nonchalance alongside his natural hostility. “That dumb chimp—Ojiro, was it?—don’t you think he’s a bitch-ass coward for flushing this chance down the drain?”

Midoriya’s face turns red, and he throws himself towards Hitoshi, yells, “What did you say?!”

And Hitoshi activates his quirk.

Midoriya freezes. The arena falls silent.

Hitoshi is going to win.

“Turn around and walk out of bounds.”

Midoriya starts walking towards the edge of the arena. If every next match is this easy, Hitoshi will win. Except—

Except there’s a gust of wind from the other side of the stage. Midoriya suddenly stops in his tracks. Did he break out of Hitoshi’s control? How? It would require some sort of physical shock. Did Midoriya cause that gust of wind?

Midoriya spins around, and before Hitoshi can put any of Eraserhead’s training to effect, he’s already on the ground, outside the ring.

Hitoshi’s vision wanes. His blood pumps too quickly across his body, like a violent beating that might leave him bruised. It can’t be. It’s over already. This isn’t how it was supposed to go. He was supposed to stand a chance.

As he blinks past tears, he makes out Midoriya’s hand extending from above.

Hitoshi can barely see it. All he’s thinking about is Nedzu’s voice, ringing in his ears. This was Hitoshi’s chance. He was so close. He could have... but now?

Nedzu told him to take his authentic feelings and exaggerate them, lean into the most negative emotions he has. It comes easy to Hitoshi. Maybe easier than it should. He doesn’t have to reach far to find anger. This was his last shot. If he’d gotten this, he would’ve been transferred immediately into 1-A, and he wouldn’t have to do this fucked up undercover shit.

“Fuck you!” Hitoshi yells as he blinks back the tears that start forming in the corner of his eyes. Hitoshi slaps Midoriya’s hand away, pushes himself up to his feet. “You hero brats have everything and I can’t even have this one thing?! Fuck you! You selfish, narcissistic hypocrites don’t care about anyone but your fucking selves. You don’t have any idea what it’s like to have to fight for anything—”

And here Hitoshi should stop—every ounce of self-preservation, of compassion, is begging him to. He tries not to look, but he can still see the hurt in Midoriya’s eyes. Maybe Eraserhead was right. Maybe they could have been friends.

But this is it. This is his moment. He lost, so now he only has one option left. From here on out, Hitoshi’s going to become a villain. This is his debut. Nedzu said that they usually don’t stream the audio from the stage, but he’d make sure to do it this year. For Hitoshi.

So Hitoshi spits out with as much animosity as he can, “You don’t know what it’s like to suffer. Maybe someone should show you.”

The arena goes silent. Hitoshi tries to stop his face from turning pink, but he can already feel the guilt taking over. Even if it was for the cover, for the internship, for the good of class 1-A... the look in Midoriya’s eyes is devastating. His eyes are wide with a sprinkle of fear, but mostly something much, much worse.

Hitoshi ignores it. He takes a step towards Midoriya and the arena erupts in complaint. A couple staff members Hitoshi doesn’t recognize escort him off the stage, and he puts on a show of trying to fight them off. He should probably say something else. Maybe yell something like this is all your fault! or I’ll show you but the nausea is too heavy and as they drag him off, Midoriya watches with a sad frown.

He looks so disappointed.

It feels like Hitoshi’s done something irreversible. Broken something that can never be repaired. Burned a bridge that’ll never come back.

There’s no going back now. He threatened Midoriya Izuku, the golden boy of the golden class of the golden school on live television and, worse, in front of all Midoriya’s friends. 

As soon as he’s out of sight of the audience, he stops fighting. They take Hitoshi to one of the empty prep rooms, tell him to “cool off” while they get an administrator, and lock him in.

He immediately runs to the attached bathroom. He tries to hold it in, but he can’t stop himself from throwing up. How is he supposed to come back to school tomorrow? The air was already so heavy, what with the avoidance and the whispers. He can’t even imagine what it’ll be like tomorrow, how toxic it’ll be.

They’ll eat him alive. But more than that, everything he said runs through his head on repeat. The look on Midoriya’s face. He hates it all. He hates that he said it. He hates that he isn’t sure if he meant it or not.

Hopefully Nedzu will send him to the bar soon, and Hitoshi can go there instead of school. Because right now he’d much rather interact with a bunch of criminals than his own peers. 

He told Eraserhead that he doesn’t care about his social life here, but that’s a lie. He’s just gotten used to his reality. In another world, maybe he’d even want to have a friend or two. But in this one, Hitoshi was born a social pariah, and he knows better than to hope. In this one, Hitoshi hates the person who looks back at him from the mirror.

A few minutes later, Cementos steps in to say he’s disappointed in Hitoshi, and that there will be a conversation with Nedzu regarding consequences before the end of day. Good. Hitoshi needs to know what the next step is, so he can forget what the last one was. He just burned a bridge that barely existed in the first place. The only way he can go from here is forward—down, into the criminal underground. Then, once he’s reached rock bottom, Nedzu will teleport him up to the top, and he’ll be able to become a hero.

He just has to remind himself that this is all temporary, and all these hero brats never would have wanted to be his friends, anyway.

Hitoshi simmers in that room for nearly two hours, digging a pen he found into the seams of a chair, trying to unravel it, until the door opens and Eraserhead steps in.

When Hitoshi opens his mouth, Eraserhead shakes his head, and he gets the memo. Just in case anyone’s listening.

Eraserhead makes eye contact, nods once, then leaves again. The interaction was short, and Eraserhead gave nothing away, but it was comforting nonetheless. A moment of quiet, with someone who knows that Hitoshi isn’t the boy on that stage—or, more accurately, he isn’t only that boy.

Cementos returns to take him to Nedzu’s office and says, “I’m sure your parents will be incredibly disappointed in you,” to which Hitoshi obviously replies, “I don’t have any parents.”

They spend the rest of the walk through UA in silence, until Cementos leaves him alone in Nedzu’s office.

The first words out of Nedzu’s mouth are, “Great job, Shinsou-kun! You’re a natural!”

Is that something he should be proud of?

Does Nedzu know the other lyrics to that song? They play automatically in Hitoshi’s head whether he wants to hear them or not: a beating heart of stone / you gotta be so cold / to make it in this world / yeah you’re a natural / living your life cutthroat.

Despite this pit in his stomach, Nedzu’s right. He may feel guilty about it, but the words came easily. It may have made him throw up, but he was still more than capable of saying them. And, honestly, now that he has cooled off a bit, he recognizes that he would do it again.

Hitoshi doesn’t linger on the moment, though. “What’s next?” he asks. He feels shitty, so he skips the pleasantries and the being anxious, instead collapsing onto the couch and propping his feet atop the coffee table. If Nedzu wants him to act the part, then Hitoshi’s gonna act the part.

“We’ve received information that the group that attacked the USJ, led by Shigaraki Tomura, is recruiting. The only way we’re aware of to contact them is through the information broker I mentioned previously. He goes by Giran,” Nedzu answers.

Nedzu picks up a piece of paper, folds it so quickly it’s a blur, and suddenly a paper airplane lands perfectly in Hitoshi lap. He unwraps it to reveal a surprisingly high quality photo of an older man with gray hair and round sunglasses.

Nedzu continues, “Analysis has identified a bar he has connections to that would be least suspicious for you to start showing up at. It’s called The Shore, and—”

“Oh yeah, I know it,” Hitoshi answers. One of his old foster “parents”—was that one Obe?—practically lived there. There were a solid two weeks when he was ten where Hitoshi had gone straight there to get his dinner money from the man.

Nedzu smiles. “Good. In response to your... outburst, I’ll have you suspended for this Monday and Tuesday, at least. Going forward, you’ll spend your time in between the basement training room and the bar. As we already discussed, while there, you should minimize any unnecessary contact and conflict. I’ll give you some cash, but don't drink more than—”

“I got it,” Hitoshi says. “I’ll just sit in a corner glowering and sipping on a beer for a couple hours. If anyone other than this broker approaches me I’ll tell them to piss off—”

“This bar is frequented by dangerous villains, Shinsou-kun—”

“Yeah,” Hitoshi answers, “and I’m one of them.”

Hitoshi can’t hold back. This quirk of his that’s been like a fucking brand his entire life—people have been scared of it ‘cause they all knew how powerful it is. Hitoshi hasn’t wanted to use it precisely for that reason, but if he’s gonna go straight into a villain den, then he won’t have a choice. He’ll stop holding back.

He’ll do whatever it takes to become a hero, even if he has to be a villain first.

- - -

Oh, this is perfect, Nedzu can’t help but think. He doesn’t even try to disguise the smile on his face. He meant it when he called Shinsou a natural.

This will be fun. That anger that’s been simmering under Shinsou’s skin for his entire life is finally getting an outlet. Nedzu is curious to see how long it’ll last—and in which direction Shinsou will aim it.

“I trust you, Shinsou,” Nedzu continues, “so I’ll let you make whatever decisions you deem prudent going forward, as long as you don’t jeopardize your own safety or this mission. To be clear, right now your goal is simply to ensure that your cover is convincing.

“Based on my calculations, it is likely that a villain will initiate contact with you relatively soon. Once that happens you can build rapport by selling information about UA that I give you. Otherwise, you should not initiate any action at this time. If, weeks down the line, we’ve reached a stand-still, then we can circle back... To that end, when do you think it would be appropriate to make your debut at the bar?”

“Right now,” Shinsou answers without hesitation. “I just lost what was my last chance at fulfilling my lifelong dream of becoming a hero, and you just suspended me. I’m a fifteen year old boy. If I don’t get drunk tonight I might kill myself instead.”

“Wonderful,” Nedzu answers. “Where did you get the money to buy yourself a drink?”

“I stole some from my foster mom, obviously.”

Nedzu pulls out the envelope of cash he’d prepared—a couple hundred bucks—and also a pocket knife that Shouta had made. Nedzu slides both of them across the desk. 

Shinsou goes for the knife first, weighs it in his hand with a look that can’t decide between disappointment and satisfaction. He doesn’t ask, but Nedzu still answers, “Aizawa-kun commissioned that knife especially for you. I don’t know much about knives—” a lie “—but I’m told it’s extremely difficult to craft an automatic OTF with such a large blade.” An understatement, especially considering automatic switchblades are incredibly illegal in Japan, let alone ones that open out-the-front.

And while Nedzu had hesitated with backing the tool, it was only because he didn’t want Shouta to know that he approved of it. Nedzu didn’t want Shouta to look too closely at the hilt of the final product—curling, white seams with tiny, yellow bolts. 

It’s a knife that Shinsou’s favorite hero designed and gave him. Any time Shinsou looks at it, he’ll be reminded of his time spent training with Eraserhead. He’ll be reminded of a hero, of what he’s working for, of which side he’s on.

When Nedzu had called Shouta insurance, this is what he meant.

The training was simply a vehicle. All Nedzu really desired was a connection.

Shinsou has to have something to ground him, just in case he goes a little too far in the wrong direction.

Shinsou practices with the button on the hilt, extending the blade out in a quick, smooth motion and drawing it back in. All he says is, “It’s still smaller than what we practiced with.”

Nedzu refrains from feeling an offense at the complaint, solely because he knows, with the given time and monetary constraints, it is factually impossible to make that knife any bigger. Additionally, the difference is less than an eighth of an inch.

“Do you need anything else from me, Shinsou-kun?”

Shinsou pockets the knife, takes the money, says no , and starts to storm out. But before he opens the door, without turning around he asks, quietly, “I’ll get to be a hero, right?”

“Of course, Shinsou-kun,” Nedzu insists. He clasps his paws in front of his face even though Shinsou isn’t looking. “No matter what happens, no matter what you do, or how you act, you’ll get to be a hero. As long as you get us useful information.”

Shinsou doesn’t say anything else before leaving, slamming the door behind him.

- - -

Hitoshi wears what he usually does when he isn’t in school—Converse, black jeans, and a hoodie. This time, he also throws on a cheap medical mask to cover the lower half of his face, and pulls the hood up over his head. It isn’t a disguise, but he’s sure it’d be more suspicious if a fifteen year old walked into a bar without trying to hide his face.

His hands do not shake with fear as he gets closer to the bar. He keeps them in the pocket of his hoodie, right hand around the hilt of the knife Eraserhead gave him. He’s still getting used to its size, but it’s much easier to defend himself with this, rather than one of his normal pocket knives (he still has a few on him, one in his jeans and one in his shoes). Other than the knives, all he has on him is his phone, earbuds, and some cash.

He’s been to this bar before, but it’s been a couple years, and this time he doesn’t know anyone. He talked big in front of Nedzu, because that’s what Hitoshi does, and everything sounded so easy when he was back in Nedzu’s office—just be himself and he’ll be fine. But now, hiding in a dark alleyway a few blocks from the bar, Hitoshi feels small. There could be any number of villains in there. Someone could shoot him dead as soon as he steps foot in. What if they catch on? What if they know he’s actually on the heroes’ side?

Oh.

Hitoshi snorts back a chuckle.

Who the fuck is he kidding?

He’s Shinsou Hitoshi. He’s been a villain ever since he was four years old.

No one in their right mind would ever think he’s anything else.

No one ever has.

They told him to take it slow. Eraserhead wanted to protect him, and Nedzu said it would be safest, and just as effective, to sit back. Hitoshi’s sure the math works out, but no one is thinking about Shinsou Hitoshi. He’s the only one thinking about what he’d do. Because this is an undercover operation, but it’s not like he’s pretending to be someone else. He’s pretending to be himself from an alternate reality.

And Nedzu may know what would work best to convince some information broker, but Hitoshi’s the only one who knows what Hitoshi would do, in this nearby parallel universe. If he’d really lost his chance to become a hero, Hitoshi wouldn’t play it safe. He wouldn’t drop breadcrumbs of information for a couple bucks and play some long game. He wouldn’t sit back, quietly betraying UA. No, if Hitoshi had really given up heroics, he’d be a suicidal, chaotic mess.

So that’s what Hitoshi will play.

Hitoshi puts in one earbud, and after a moment's debate plays Eraser by Nine Inch Nails, and walks straight up to the bar. He opens the door, steps in, and nothing in particular happens. Conversations don’t go immediately silent, the bar music doesn’t automatically cut off, no one tries to shoot him or anything, so Hitoshi walks straight up to the bar.

When the bartender takes one look at him, raises an eyebrow, and says, “I don’t serve kids,” Hitoshi replies, “I’m not a kid.”

He stares her down, but she doesn’t budge. “Sure, whatever. Just go somewhere else—” 

Hitoshi activates his quirk. “Get me a beer.”

She goes silent, opens the fridge, grabs a beer, and puts it right in front of Hitoshi. Hitoshi’s taking a sip—god, it tastes like shit—when she exclaims, “The fuck did you do to me?”

Instead of answering, Hitoshi gets straight to the point. “I hear those villains who attacked UA are recruiting. I want in.”

The bartender stares at him, confused for a second, then breaks into laughter. Hitoshi doesn’t break eye contact, and once she’s settled down, a hardness settles over her face, and she orders, “Jo, kick him out.”

A man who must be the bouncer—the biggest guy in the bar, with some sort of physical quirk that has him nearly seven feet tall and with a set of small, nubby horns on his forehead—steps up. He stares down at Hitoshi, cracks his knuckles, and says, “Come with me.”

Under his mask, Hitoshi smirks. “Or what?”

The bouncer replies, “Or—” and Hitoshi doesn’t let him finish. He activates his quirk and orders, “Go outside and don’t come back.”

The man leaves the bar without hesitation. The rest of the patrons, many of which had initially looked ready to fight him if necessary, freeze, and turn back into bystanders. That’s the way a place like this works, and it’s probably why Nedzu sent him here instead of a more legitimately villain bar. Because this one’s just for small-time thieves and brawlers, and sees just as many alcoholic civilians (e.g. shitty foster parent Obe) as actual criminals. And it’s somehow legit enough for the occasional info broker to frequent.

Hitoshi chugs the rest of his drink, then pulls his mask off and leans over the counter to stare down the bartender. “You don’t recognize me, do you?”

She still looks more confused than afraid, but that’s fine. Hitoshi doesn’t need to prove his strength here, he just needs to prove that he’s a morally-gray loose cannon. Easy. 

Hitoshi continues, “You will.” He’d be more surprised if he hasn’t gone viral already. Nedzu did, after all, include the audio in the stream of the battle. The internet’s probably eating him alive. Hitoshi has intentionally avoided reading anything about it, and so far he’s succeeded. It likely won’t last, though.

He slams too much money onto the counter and says, “Get me another drink.”

He hasn’t drank since getting admitted to UA (not counting the day he found out it was Gen Ed, not the hero course), so he’s already feeling the warmth rise to his cheeks. That’s fine. Actually, this should just make it easier.

The bartender serves him, this time without complaint, though she does ask, “Who are you?”

“I’m someone who wants to burn UA to the ground. Tell them that.” He doesn’t use his quirk, though he’d considered it. He still isn’t sure how well it works for orders that would have to last longer than an hour. There’s no guarantee she’d still be under his control when she gets a chance to contact the information broker, and the real Hitoshi isn’t in a rush, anyway.

With a beer in hand, he turns around to scan his eyes over the remaining patrons. No one reacts, so Hitoshi stalks over to the corner furthest from the door. An old, obviously drunk guy is sitting in the seat Hitoshi wants—the most important seat in this place, where your back’s right up against two walls and you can see the whole bar, especially the front door. The man scowls as Hitoshi stops right in front of his table.

He has to make a choice. The thing about his quirk is that the more he uses it, the more likely someone will find out how it works. But he also needs to show these people that they can’t mess with him—that he’s a loose canon.

So, instead of saying anything, Hitoshi stares at the man until he growls, “The fuck you want?”

“Your seat.”

“Fuck that.”

Hitoshi activates his quirk, except he sets his beer on the table and leans forward to whisper, “Fight me.”

And then it all goes to shit, exactly as Hitoshi wanted.

- - -

When Eraserhead steps through the door into the basement, his perfectly neutral expression immediately drops into a deep frown.

“Yo,” Hitoshi greets from the couch. He holds up an iced coffee for Eraserhead—he had somehow managed to refrain from getting himself a cup, to minimize the amount of chastising he’s sure to receive.

Eraserhead slams the door behind him. He stalks up to Hitoshi, snatches the coffee, and uses his other hand to manhandle Hitoshi’s face. “What the fuck happened.”

“Bar fight, duh,” Hitoshi remarks, lightly slapping Eraserhead’s hand away.

Eraserhead scowls, but after a couple seconds asks, “Did you win?”

Hitoshi breaks into a wide grin. “Yup.”

After another moment, Eraserhead smiles and takes a step back. “Good.” Then, “Have you cleaned the cuts?”

“Yeah, I splashed some vodka on my face before leaving the bar.”

Eraserhead stares at him with wide eyes, like he isn’t sure if Hitoshi’s telling the truth or playing with him. Hitoshi’s been impressed with his own ability to get reactions from the man. He’d been expecting Eraserhead to be a tougher nut to crack, but his protective impulses really are his weakness. Hitoshi just smirks, and picks up the first-aid kit he’d found and used. “I’m kidding. I used this.”

Eraserhead lets out a barely-perceivable sigh. “Tell me what happened.”

Hitoshi does... not . He tells Eraserhead what he wants to hear, what they’d agreed he’d do ahead of time. He says he convinced the bartender to get him a beer despite his age, but that one of the drunks there thought he was an easy target to throw around. Hitoshi had to defend himself. After he beat the guy up, no one else bothered him the whole night. It isn’t too far from the truth. Okay, it is pretty far, but Hitoshi just doesn’t care. It worked, he beat up that old drunk guy without having to use his quirk or a knife, and then no one else bothered him for the rest of the night, and he feels confident that no one will bother him when he returns tomorrow. He only has a couple cuts and bruises, which is nothing compared to how dozens of foster “siblings” and “parents” have treated him historically.

He’s used to it.

He, obviously, does not tell Eraserhead that he straight-up told the bartender he wants to be involved with the villains.

After he’s done with his story, Eraserhead says, “I was hoping you wouldn’t have to fight anybody... but I’m proud of you.”

Hitoshi doesn’t let it go to his head. He doesn’t. It only feels weird because, for some god-awful reason, Hitoshi believes him.

But then Eraserhead starts, “Going forward…” He has that small, disgusted frown on his face again, like he wants to strangle Nedzu with his own two hands. “I won’t be able to come here as often. The more we meet, the more danger your cover will be in.”

Hitoshi’s heart skips a beat, even though he’d known this was coming, even though it shouldn’t really matter anyway. Eraserhead’s more of a nuisance than anything else, and the man’s only here ‘cause he’s afraid Hitoshi’s gonna get himself killed and he doesn’t want that on his conscience. Whatever. It doesn’t matter. It’ll make it easier for Hitoshi to pretend he’s a self-destructive, isolated loose cannon.

And yet...

Hitoshi hates this fucking basement when it’s empty. It’s too cold and too big and he doesn’t feel safe and... and who else is he gonna talk to? Who else can he poke at without fearing for his life? Who else knows that all this shit he’s doing is just for show? That he doesn’t want to antagonize his classmates and spend his free time at some shoddy, smelly bar full of old people who’ve never been satisfied in their entire life? Who else—

Actually, fuck this shit. What is he, five years old again? This is stupid. Hitoshi’s been alone his entire life, he’ll do it again. It’s better this way. No one to hold him back.

So Hitoshi just says, “Makes sense.”

“That doesn’t mean you’ll be all alone,” Eraserhead continues. “You know how to do the dead drop.” He says it like a statement, but levels Hitoshi with a silent question.

Really? Hitoshi rolls his eyes. How many times has he been quizzed on this already? “I order a large Americano with cinnamon from the cafe down the street. I write whatever I have to say on the inside of the cup sleeve, then throw it out in the trashcan by the bus stop on the east side of the road.”

Eraserhead nods, and moves on without hesitation. “You also have my emergency burner number. While not ideal, if it comes down to it, you can find me at UA during the school day. We’ll make it work. No matter what, you’re still the responsibility of me and Nedzu, don’t ever forget that.”

Responsibility? Hitoshi can’t help but scoff. They’ve done just as much as every other shitty foster parent’s done for him. All those adults cared about was the check they got in exchange for him, and all Nedzu and Eraserhead care about is taking down these villains. Hitoshi knows how this works. Eraserhead can pretend—he might even think he believes it—but as soon as Hitoshi’s out of sight, he’ll be out of mind, too. As long as he gets them information, they won’t care what happens to him.

And that’s fine.

That’s fine with Hitoshi. He doesn’t need Eraserhead watching over him like a stalker. He’s used to it.

“What are you thinking?” Eraserhead asks him. He looks softer than he usually does.

Hitoshi doesn’t answer, so Eraserhead says, “Play it safe, Shinsou. Your safety is always the first priority. If you’re ever in serious danger, call or text me. This... project is nowhere near as important as you are. Don’t risk yourself for it, okay?”

Hitoshi can’t help but seethe, “This is my only chance at becoming a hero. I’ll—”

Eraserhead grabs Hitoshi’s shoulder, hard enough that it shocks him into silence. “I thought I made this clear. If I think you aren’t safe, if I think you’re taking unnecessary risks, I’ll pull the plug on this whole thing. I don’t care if it gets me fired, I don’t care if I have to throw Nedzu under the bus. If I think you’re putting yourself in serious danger—”

“Why?”

Eraserhead flinches backwards. “What?”

“Why do you care?”

“What—of course I care, Shinsou. I care about you.”

Oh. Despite all his instincts, all his trained trauma, Hitoshi really, really wants to believe him. It feels so close, and maybe Eraserhead does care, in some sort of way, but even if he does... what does it matter? It won’t do either of them any good.

It’s far too late.

So, to shut him up, Hitoshi gives his best smile and says, “I’m not an idiot. I don’t wanna die.” Hitoshi lies, “I’ll play it safe. Promise.”

Eraserhead doesn’t look like he believes him, but he doesn’t complain. “We’ll meet here in a week, midnight, unless you communicate to me otherwise. Again, in case of emergency, call or text me or feel free to approach me at UA. We’ll make it work.”

”I’ll be fine,” Hitoshi says. “Trust me.”

- - -

One of Giran’s many phones starts ringing, and it takes him longer than he’d admit to figure out which one. It’s the number he gives to low-level criminals in case they have any good information for him. He doesn’t always answer this phone, because usually it isn’t worth his time, but he has this number saved as The Shore and Giran will always take any excuse he can get to drink, especially since he hasn’t had as much free time lately as he’d like. Shigaraki’s been keeping him busy with all this “recruiting.” Giran can’t really complain, though, since All for One always pays him incredibly well.

But he hasn’t gotten a chance to just sit down and nurse a cheap glass of scotch in weeks, so he answers the phone, “Yeah?”

Unsurprisingly, it’s the bartender who called him—an older woman with a physical quirk that makes her head look like a fish (a different one depending on the weather). She says, “I weren’t gonna bring this up, but then I figured out... I guess you’ve heard the name Shinsou Hitoshi?”

Giran can’t help but snort. Of course he’s heard of Shinsou Hitoshi. The kid’s public enemy number one right now. The media and public are eating him alive like parasites. It’s all anyone on the internet can talk about: the UA bully.

“Of course,” Giran answers.

But, why’s she bringing him up? Unless...

“He showed up at The Shore last night, said he wants to join that group you’re putting together, said he wants to burn UA to the ground.”

“Did he?” Giran asks, idly.

His first instinct is that this is a perfect opportunity for Shigaraki, but there’s a second instinct that’s suspicious of the timing. It is possible that Shinsou’s a plant from the heroes to get info about Shigaraki and the league he’s building. But Giran’s watched Shinsou’s clip dozens of times, and that didn’t look like acting to him. Giran had already considered researching the boy, but now he definitely will.

Because Shigaraki may not know it, but he’d seriously benefit from having someone in UA—someone he has direct connection with, rather than this convoluted bullshit All for One has going on. Despite Giran’s job being to break the info, not even he knows who All for One’s source is. If Shigaraki had his own brat on the inside, that would completely change the game. 

All for One might be paying his paychecks, but Giran would much rather just work directly under Shigaraki. There’s something about All for One...

“Keep an eye on him,” Giran says. “I’ll pay.”

- - -

After his suspension wears off, Hitoshi’s days look like this: he shows up at school at least an hour late. He ignores the whispers and the jeers and how far his peers distance themselves from him. He ignores his teachers, picks stupid fights whenever they try to talk to him. He puts his head down on his desk during classes and listens to music as often as he can. Within the week, Hitoshi’s teachers have given up on trying to make him do any work.

He dreads going to school, not because it’s particularly hard, but actually the opposite. It’s exactly like it was in middle school, and it makes him want to kill himself. But he tells himself it’s all for the cover, that the worse it is for him here, the better he’ll look whenever he makes contact.

After school he goes to the cafe, buys coffee with money he shouldn’t have, then practices in the basement for a few hours before going to the bar. At least the bartender at The Shore actually makes a pretty good espresso martini, even if it is expensive as shit.

The information broker hasn’t appeared yet, and every so often Hitoshi reminds the bartender why he’s there. Sometimes, he also has to show off his quirk and/or knife to some small-time criminal who thinks he’s an easy mark. Most of them figure out pretty quickly that he isn’t afraid to draw blood, and as long as they keep their distance, they’ll be fine.

- - -

Giran is exhausted. All this shit with Stain, with recruitment, with trying to be the go-between for a bunch of mentally unstable villains... At least he’s managed to send a couple potentials Shigaraki’s way—Dabi, Toga Himiko, and Twice being near automatics—so he’s finally getting a sorta-break. But because he’s Giran, he multi-tasks.

He came to The Shore to finally get that scotch he’s been dying for, but also because that kid, Shinsou Hitoshi, has spent practically every night here for the past week.

As the bartender pours him his usual, Giran quietly asks her, “Any updates on the kid?”

She rolls her eyes and lets out a long sigh. “Unfortunately. He’s still a pain in my ass. When they aired that shit about the vigilante, Stain or whatever, and the UA kids who fought, he went apeshit. Spent the rest of the night getting in as many fights as he could. I keep trying to kick him out but that quirk—I don’t get it.”

Giran did his research—of course he did—so he knows. Fifteen years old, foster kid, rough life, barely got into UA’s general education course, suspended after picking a fight with hero students and then using his quirk on the principal, suspended again after his outburst during the Sports Festival. Giran only has vague info on the boy’s quirk—Command—which allows him, under specific conditions and limits, to control another individual, though Giran isn’t positive what those conditions and limits are.

It’s a gamble, but Shigaraki likes playing those gacha games or whatever they are, so he’ll probably go for it.

“What does he usually order?” Giran asks her.

“Goes back and forth. Most of the time it’s just a beer, sometimes he splurges and gets an espresso martini.”

Giran can’t help but let out a chuckle. A fifteen year old ordering an espresso martini in a shitty back alley bar. The image makes him laugh, but he asks her for one anyway, pays, and then slowly approaches the table in the corner.

Giran places the martini on the table and greets, “Shinsou Hitoshi.”

- - -

Hitoshi manages to hide his smile under a scowl.

It worked. It’s happening. Giran stares at him with an assessing look in his eyes, so Hitoshi glares back. “What?” he hisses.

The man doesn’t react negatively—if anything, he actually looks like he might be smiling. “Name’s Giran. I’m an information broker.”

Hitoshi’s eyes narrow. “You’re the one who knows all the villains, then.”

It isn’t a question, and Giran just says, “Have a drink,” and lightly pushes the martini closer to Hitoshi, who scowls.

“I don’t need your charity.”

“It isn’t charity, it’s the start of a business proposition.”

Fine. Hitoshi takes the glass, chugs half of it too fast, then slams it back down. That is not how you’re supposed to drink a martini, and he instantly regrets it.

Giran sits down across from him. “What do you want?”

“The fuck you mean?”

Giran’s tone is surprisingly light, like they aren’t in a villain bar, and his smile is surprisingly welcoming. “I mean, what do you want right now? In general. Aspirationally.”

And here Hitoshi’s supposed to say something like, to sell UA secrets for some quick cash but the Shinsou Hitoshi he’s pretending to be wouldn’t say that. No, he’d say, “To burn UA to the ground.”

“How far are you willing to go?” Giran asks.

Hitoshi stares into Giran’s eyes, funnels as much malice as he can into his expression. “All the way. They already dropped me down here, so I’m willing to go all the way down to hell.”

Giran looks actually pleased. “Alright. I’d like to introduce you to somebody. As you’ve heard, they happen to be recruiting right now, and I think you might be a great fit.”

This is it. It’s happening much quicker than Nedzu predicted, too. Hitoshi can’t help but smile. He’s filled with adrenaline—a mix of excitement and fear.

It’s happening. Hitoshi’s going to be a hero.

Giran says, “Have you heard of Shigaraki Tomura?”