Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It’s a painless collision. A simple one. There’s no children to be saved by a valiant sacrifice, no distraught lover begging for him to open his eyes. Atsuhiro makes a lapse of judgement and only checks the left when he crosses the street. That’s all there is.

Atsuhiro’s never been one to make mistakes, whether on stage or at work, but it’s 11pm and he’s bone-tired, and he wonders if he remembered to defrost the chicken, and he needs to redo a client’s contract, and—

There’s a bright headlight that he hadn’t noticed cutting across the pitch-black road. He watches, almost in slow motion, as the driver honks desperately for his attention, and before he knows it, Atsuhiro is flat on the asphalt, all the air knocked out of his lungs. It’s not painful, somehow. Dizzying, sure. His head is spinning, and he registers nothing but harsh light through his squinted eyes. In that split second, Atsuhiro wishes he had spent more time with his troupe, his sister, and his little niece instead of chained to his desk.

He has one last, delirious thought:

The last few power-fantasy novels he’s read started this way too.

That’s weird, Atsuhiro thinks, I can move my fingers.

His vision clears. Atsuhiro is still on his back, except now he’s met with the blinding sun and clear blue skies. City buildings tower above him, but for whatever reason they’re short and stumpy in an oddly cute way. Distant shouting in the background is punctuated by the sound of...firecrackers? The surroundings are decidedly not a hospital or his home. Which means Atsuhiro must be having a mental break.

He doesn’t feel any pain, so he could be hallucinating on top-notch meds. The rest of his body seems fine, so he sits up slowly, then shakes out his limbs. Atsuhiro has had worse injuries falling from the trapeze, so he’s not too worried. If anything, he’s rearing to go back home and collapse.

A teenager with ridiculously spiky blond hair looms over him, an impressive glare accentuated by red eyes. Those could not be natural. Red contact lenses seemed overly edgy.

Okay. Maybe Atsuhiro is in a coma, which would explain quite a lot.

“You’re fuckin’ dead weight, Marbles. Icy-Hot is mine, so scram.“

Static crackles in Atsuhiro’s right ear, and he flinches.

“Young Bakugou, I am here to remind you again that this is an exercise in collaboration!”

The boy—Bakugou—just scoffs, his palms crackling menacingly.

Another voice chimes in, female and somewhat posh. “Midoriya and I have spotted the hostages. As we predicted, Todoroki is patrolling the south.”

Midoriya, Todoroki, Bakugou. That’s the last bit of confirmation he needs.

This is My Hero Academia.

He’s dreaming about the show that he had been binge-watching with his niece the day before. She adores the show, having already watched ahead, but they hadn’t gotten very far together; the last thing he remembers is an Olympics-style sports festival. Atsuhiro had gifted her posters of her favourite heroes, Deku and Lemillion, but Eri-chan had looked absolutely heartbroken when he solemnly told her all the Eraserhead keychains had sold out.

After that, another boy speaks, his voice easily recognisable from yesterday’s binge. “We’ve lost sight of Kirishima, but based on his direction, they’ll be together. Sako-kun’s quirk will be a good match, so c-could you—sorry if I’m being—“

Atsuhiro cuts him off, ignoring how weird it is to have a famous voice actor say his last name, mostly because Bakugou’s expression gets steadily more murderous as Midoriya speaks.

“I can handle it,” he says simply, pressing one of the earpiece buttons. Bakugou looks at him oddly, like he was expecting something else. Even Midoriya’s effusive thanks are tinged with shock.

Atsuhiro doesn’t recall this scene, but now that he has time to think, it’s some sort of training exercise.

Movement catches their attention, and both of them whirl towards two figures approaching in the distance. It’s odd seeing cartoons come to life. Todoroki and Kirishima look exactly like what Atsuhiro expects, but with an unsettlingly human element to their facial features and bodies. Like seeing a fan-made 3D render of them.

Bakugou sneers and says, “Don’t get in my way.” Not bothering to hash out a plan, he grins wildly and launches himself directly at Todoroki.

Atsuhiro forces himself to his feet, only stumbling a bit. He watches as Kirishima activates his quirk, stepping forward to block Bakugou’s line of sight. It’s useless because the pomeranian-looking teenager simply blasts upwards, then behind Todoroki. An ice wall erupts, enveloping the two powerhouses and leaving Atsuhiro alone with another anime character.

Neither of them move, staring at each other awkwardly. Kirishima looks almost concerned, strangely. Then, a guilty look descends on his face. He ends up breaking the silence, rubbing the back of his wild hair nervously.

“I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but I heard you earlier on the phone. That your quirk hasn’t recovered since...the USJ.”

It’s not a question, so Atsuhiro shuts his mouth in case he demands something stupid, like tell me what’s going on right now. Kirishima takes his silence as agreement, which doesn’t help his case at all. Atsuhiro doesn’t even know what his quirk is. 

God, he couldn’t catch a break in his coma.

“Are you—feeling alright?”

Atsuhiro nods slowly. “I’m fine.”

It’s a terse few seconds before Atsuhiro decides to plaster on his practiced stage smile, sweeping his arms outwards as if welcoming a crowd.

“Well?” Might as well get this over with. "I'm not helpless."

Kirishima’s eyes widen—what is with these looks he’s getting—then he flashes Atsuhiro a friendly smile. “No hard feelings, man!”

Enthusiastically, he charges at Atsuhiro, guns blazing. A fist comes flying, and Atsuhiro throws himself out of the way. He tumbles, the exact way that his gymnast seniors had pummelled into his brain. 

Atsuhiro has amassed a fair share of sparring experience from back when he studied Capoeira and Wushu, but they were only ever intended for choreographed fight scenes. The audience always loved an acrobatic kick sequence. It’s a weird shift to think of hitting a person with the moves.

Experimentally, Atsuhiro lets out a kick aimed at Kirishima’s side, but it doesn’t land. His leg catches nothing but air, despite no movement from his opponent. After a few more hurried dodges on Atsuhiro’s end, it’s obvious why. He’s shorter. It makes sense, he supposes. If they’re both in the same hero class, then he would have his 15-year-old self’s height. Nonetheless, Atsuhiro mourns the centimetres he’s lost.

He does a backflip to dodge another attack, which seems to surprise the other boy.

“Woah! Have you been taking lessons?”

Embarrassingly, Atsuhiro is already starting to flag, so he doesn’t respond to save his breath. Kirishima continues his assault, not breaking a sweat. His skin is hard as rock, which makes each glancing hit more painful. The boy is obviously inexperienced, rough around the edges, but apparently better than Atsuhiro at the moment. It’s almost infuriating how Atsuhiro’s instincts don’t cooperate with his shorter body. Kicks that should’ve been solid hits are ever-so-slightly off, enough that Kirishima is able to capitalise on his extended legs. When he rolls, Atsuhiro still expects his shoulder to hit the ground sooner.

There’s one thing, though.

Kirishima is wary of his hands. It’s like they’re live machinery or something. His eyes linger too long on them whenever Atsuhiro decides to sprinkle in a few punches. To test his theory, he tries to take an open-handed swipe at the red-haired boy. It barely grazes him, and Kirishima jumps out of the way with a sharp intake of breath. But he steels himself and gets back into the fray almost immediately.

It must have something to do with his unidentifiable quirk. It’s clear that Kirishima avoids his hands out of learned personal experience before he remembers that Atsuhiro’s quirk is not meant to be working. Yet he doesn’t think that’s it either. His quirk doesn’t feel like it’s responding at all when he touches skin. Surely there should be a spark, no matter how small.

He’ll make do. The next time Kirishima tries to punch him, Atsuhiro moves. He dodges, much smoother than a minute ago, and drops down into a crouch. Before Kirishima can react, Atsuhiro sweeps his legs and gets his first solid hit of the day. A warm tug in his core.

Then, Kirishima turns into a fucking marble.

Chapter Text

The ex-Kirishima marble falls and rolls to a stop by his feet. Atsuhiro is eternally grateful that the marble hadn’t shattered upon impact because, given how realistic this dream is turning out, he prefers not to spend the rest of it inside a jail cell.

This must be his quirk. Kirishima’s curled-up form is visible on the marble’s exterior, and he looks perfectly okay, so it’s probably some sort of compression mechanism. A pocket dimension?

Either way, it’s an interesting sensation having a superpower when Atsuhiro has been a completely ordinary 26-year-old. He closes his eyes, but he can still pinpoint the exact location of the marble, as well as its contents. That is, an unconscious teenager. It’s probably better to leave him there until the exercise ends, or otherwise he would definitely be throwing the match.

Carefully, Atsuhiro picks up the marble and scans his body for safe locations. Unlike Kirishima, he doesn’t have a hero costume, instead donning the UA uniform. There’s two matching cuffs on his upper arm, lined with slim rectangular metal panels. Upon tapping a random panel, it lifts up to reveal an empty circular slot. He slides the Kirishima-marble in, hears a click, and closes the panel.

Not much happens. During their fight, Bakugou and Todoroki had drifted towards the centre of the city, ice and explosions following in their wake. It’s just Atsuhiro on the street, remnants of frozen shards and slightly smoking rubble scattered around him. There’s the occasional callout over voice comms, but it’s clear they’re occupied by something else. Atsuhiro nervously toes a large chunk of rubble, but it stays the same.

“Get smaller,” he says out loud, touching the rubble again. There’s no response, and Atsuhiro promptly feels about ten times more stupid.

Disappear, he thinks. Still, no indication of his quirk.

Recalling the fight, Atsuhiro remembers the sharp tug he had felt. He thinks about the warmth that had spread across his body and imagines the rubble turning into a tiny, bright blue marble.

This time, it works. The entire arm-length chunk of concrete shrinks down into nothing. He feels a heady rush of satisfaction.

Now, if only he could get it out. Atsuhiro stomps on the marble with all his weight, but it doesn’t budge despite looking exactly like glass. When he concentrates on the rubble inside, almost as if his body is being guided, his arm lifts and he snaps his fingers.

Unluckily for him, the marble is still directly under his foot, so when the rubble materialises, the force of it throws Atsuhiro off his feet. He lands painfully on his back once again.

A powerful voice rings out across the mini-city.

“The heroes have won!”

“See you tomorrow, Deku-kun!” Ochako shouts across the platform, waving happily at the fluff of green standing on the opposite side. She boards her train, careful to keep her pinky finger off the handrails.

The weeks following the attack haven’t been the easiest, but she’s glad she has her new friends. Ochako tells both herself and her worried parents that it’s a blessing to have survived—that she’ll get even stronger in the future. Sometimes, late at night, haunted by flashes of dark portals, she’s not sure she believes her own words. But today had been fun! Heroics is one of her favourite classes, and it’s almost surreal to think she’d nearly gone to Seiai Academy since it was closer to home. Ochako releases her grip (just for a bit) to fist pump the air.

“I’ve got a long way to go!“

She doesn’t notice the equally concerned and amused looks from the passengers until the train takes off again, leaving her arms spinning wildly for some semblance of balance. A friendly stranger places their hands lightly on her shoulders, stabilising her against the push-and-pull of the high-speed train.

“Careful there.”

The touch is gone as quickly as it arrives, and when Ochako turns around, she’s caught off-guard. Because it’s not a stranger—it’s Sako. It’s an honest mistake. Nobody in their class has really heard him speak, their attempts at conversation often rebuffed. When forced to answer questions during class, his voice used to waver dangerously, quiet as a mouse.

Now, Sako carries himself with an easy confidence, much taller now without his slouched shoulders. His hair is blow-dried and pushed back, revealing his forehead instead of covering his eyes like usual. His style is different too; rather than a meticulously done-up and obviously ironed uniform, much like Yaoyorozu, Sako’s sleeves are scrunched up to his elbows and his tie hangs loose around his neck.

“Thanks. I get a bit carried away,” Ochako says, smiling sheepishly.

“I can tell,” Sako laughs softly. “It’s not a bad trait. You were pretty innovative with the hostages today.”

Ochako blushes slightly at the compliment, not expecting it from someone so reticent, and replies wryly, “They still got away, though.”

But she’s proud of the move too. Ochako had floated Kaminari and Mina directly above the door, then led the heroes into the waiting arms of her teammates. People rarely looked upwards, after all. Except for Bakugou, apparently.

“Sako-kun was pretty cool out there too!” Ochako mimics the flurry of kicks and spins she had seen during the footage review, throwing in the occasional sound effect. She stumbles again and hurriedly catches the handrail. “I’ve never seen you pull out those moves before.”

The taller boy smiles in response, almost indulgently in a way that weirdly reminds Ochako of her uncles back at home despite being the same age. Maybe she’s just seeing things.

“I can teach you if you’d like. I’ve picked up a bit here and there recently. But your quirk is five-finger activation, right? Kicks might not be your style.”

Ochako thinks for a bit, finger on her chin. “That’s true, but I’d like to learn the acrobatics at least. Here—“

She rummages around her bag, then pulls out her flip-phone triumphantly. “I’ve gotten a few numbers from our class already. I’ll text you later, so you'll have mine too.”

Ochako still feels a burst of embarrassment at the old thing, and Sako looks a little bemused at the sight, but he diligently fills in his details. While he does so, a thought rises.

“I always thought Sako-kun’s quirk was similar to mine. Since we have to use our hands?”

“Me too,” says Sako, humming. “Recovery Girl says it might be a stress-induced evolution.”

The unsaid reason hung in the air between them. The USJ had impacted everyone differently. Both Ojiro and Aoyama had been badly injured and hospitalised in the joint attack by the League of Villains and a smaller, unknown organisation. In the beginning, Ochako popped in occasionally with her classmates, but it seemed their presence only made the tension worse. After Mineta had left, stating the USJ as the catalyst, Ochako sometimes meets Tsu-chan on the rooftop during lunch, talking in hushed whispers. It’s usually menial stuff, like the lunch menu or homework.

During the worst days, when both girls show up with dark bags under their eyes, their conversations turn to darker topics. What they dream of. For Tsu-chan, it’s always hands. What if the teachers hadn’t arrived? Their classmates. Everyone is slowly returning to a sense of normality, with the notable exception of Sako. He’d been getting more listless and jumpy until…today. Ochako knows it’s not okay to gossip about classmates. But the mindless chatter grounds them in a selfish way, distracting them from their unbidden thoughts—the sheer strength of the villains that day.

They both ride to the next stop in silence, watching the Shizuoka scenery blur past in streaks of greys and mountainous blues.

Ochako says haltingly, “You’ve never. Really talked to us.”

It’s not meant to be accusatory, but she still winces at how it comes out. She doesn’t really believe in the theories some of the girls threw around in the locker room, anything ranging from Sako having developed a gymnastics hobby to a villain having taken over his body to make him a sleeper agent.

“I’ve been dealing with a lot recently. Even before UA started. It wasn’t because of you guys, if you’re worried,” Sako explains, offering her a quick grin.

When the signs chime for Hamamatsu, Sako bids her farewell, and Ochako realises belatedly that she had never seen him on this train line.

Kirishima and Uraraka are sweet kids, that’s for sure. They remind Atsuhiro of his juniors in the troupe, bright-eyed and eager. But he’s not sure how long he can keep up the farce, especially since some of the students have already started giving him side-eyes. He’s lucky heroics was the last class of the day.

Atsuhiro swipes open his phone again, fiddling with the unfamiliar navigation. It’s a high-tech model, offering state-of-the-art holographic displays and biometric authentication, not that he needs any of it. The iris scan has been a big help for getting into his phone, though. He manages to bring up this world’s equivalent of Google Maps and continues following the indicator towards “Home”.

Does he really live here? Atsuhiro has never set foot in such an affluent neighbourhood. It’s a gorgeous slice of downtown. Modernist plazas, at least one in each direction, are alit with glowing lights and lined with sleek luxury stores. Residents flow in and out of sky-high all-glass apartments, and Atsuhiro comes to a stop outside a massive complex emblazoned proudly with Adachi Tower.

The doorman spots him immediately, rushing out to snatch Atsuhiro’s bags out of his hands. His backpack disappears as well.

“Sako-sama!” The man greets, out of breath, subtly adjusting the high collar of his crimson-red uniform. “Welcome again.”

What the fuck was his dream counterpart born into? Atsuhiro just waves him off, not sure if there’s proper etiquette to this sort of thing, and the doorman bows deeply. His sister would have loved this. Once inside, the two receptionists greet him with smiles and direct him to the elevator by the front desk. The panel scans his face, and soon Atsuhiro’s shooting up towards the 21st floor, which consists of only his apartment.

It’s huge. The interior is entirely monochrome, black modern furniture against ivory marble walls, but the floor-to-ceiling windows are certainly a nice touch. It would’ve been the ideal home if Atsuhiro hadn’t started walking around. Because there’s almost no sign of life within the apartment itself. The fridge is empty, save for jars of chilli oil and half-a-dozen energy drinks. Each bedroom, of which there are four, has exactly the same layout. There are no trinkets laying around, and the pillows don’t show signs of use either, staying perfectly fluffed up on each bed. Atsuhiro notices immediately that unlike his own home, there’s not a picture in sight. He’s not one for cameras, but his apartment back in normal-Japan is still littered with pictures of his sister and niece, polaroids of his college friends, and snapshots from notable shows he’s done.

Scratch that; there are some photos. Atsuhiro finds the dusty frames buried at the back of the entryway’s cabinet. There’s one for almost every year, spanning from ages 5 to 14, if the years scrawled on the back are to be believed. Under each year, the words Sako Clan Assembly. Each picture is eerily similar: rows of family members packed in neat formations, straight-backed and formal. It takes barely any time to find himself. There’s a few kids around his age, but one sticks out like a sore thumb, gloomy in almost every photo, never quite making eye contact with the viewer. It’s Atsuhiro. It has to be. He flicks to the most recent photo, with him at 14. The dream-Atsuhiro is a meek-looking thing, as if a weak draft would topple him over. The now-Atsuhiro grips the frame tightly, the wood creaking under his fingers.

Finally, Atsuhiro remembers his role in the cartoon. This same glum kid had been a filler classmate during the USJ incident, his name not yet mentioned before being killed off within the first arc. He existed only to show the audience the lasting consequences of villain attacks, fresh hero candidate or not, and the funeral had just been a brief flash onscreen. Knowing this left one problem. Two weeks have apparently passed since the USJ, but Atsuhiro is still alive.

It doesn’t mean anything good. He’s become someone who isn’t meant to exist, who he couldn’t imitate correctly. Will they think he’s gone insane? Been compromised by a villain?

If Atsuhiro’s just dreaming, it doesn’t matter. But he’s been pushing his deeper thoughts to the side, distracted by the shiny quirks and the sights around him. He could be in a coma, his niece reading novels to him by his bedside. Atsuhiro could still be in the hospital, flowers and cards by his feet, with his juniors taking embarrassing close-up shots of his face, telling him to wake the fuck up, old man. None of it will be true in the end. 

Nobody’s mind could make up this much detail for a fictional world. The pain of Kirishima’s punches had been too sharp, too realistic. The small things, like the passage of time, the layout of Musutafu's train station, or the scent of pork buns on the street, couldn’t be figments of his imagination. There's no way Atsuhiro escaped the truck collison unscathed, which left very few possibilities.

He supposes that there’s one last test. He walks to one of the empty king-sized beds. If he sleeps, there's still a chance to wake up from this reality, and he'll look back on today as nothing more than a fever dream.

It takes a long time to drift off.

When Atsuhiro wakes, he quietly mourns everything he had lost.