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Ochako blearily groped for her keys in her bag, inwardly cursing the cumbersome gauntlets on her wrists and the dim light.
She winced at the pain in her arm, before she finally shoved her keys in the lock. Exhausted, she flung her gauntlets to the floor of her apartment. Her helmet and visor immediately followed.
She sighed in relief to relinquish the weight and be home. No more crises, no more meetings, no more children and classes, no more —
“Ochako-chan.”
Ochako felt a needle sharp pull in her chest.
Himiko Toga was sitting on her couch, eating out of a container of strawberry ice cream.
Ah. So it was going to be one of those nights.
She had already opened that ice cream, right? Ochako tried to remember when she’d bought it, or how much she had or hadn’t already eaten; trying to save herself the mental gymnastics she knew she would do in the morning.
Himiko was fishing for a frozen strawberry in the ice cream container as Ochako watched dubiously.
Whenever food vanished, Ochako found herself trying to rationalize if the food had ever existed to begin with. Was she so sure she had bought four yogurts and not three? Hadn’t she packed those strawberries for lunch? How many mochi had been left in that container? Five? Six? Had she even opened it?
Ochako at one point had tried to write down whenever this happened in a notebook, and then lost track and gave up. Tired and exhausted at the end of the day, she usually couldn’t muster the mental energy.
“That looks heavy,” said Himiko, nodding at the visor on the floor.
Ochako shrugged.
Some nights Himiko was a teenage girl, bubbly and effervescent and giggling, looking like the Himiko Toga that had donned villain gear over her tattered schoolgirl uniform.
These were the nights that Ochako felt most certain were dreams. These were the times she would see Himiko, forever youthful, forever seventeen, basking in a field of flowers, at peace, untouched by the world.
But then there were dreams that felt more lucid… something hazier between fantasy and daydream.
In moments like these, Himiko was older, the circles under her eyes darker. Gone was the threadbare school uniform, instead the worn cashmere sweater hung over a long dark skirt, or gashed leggings.
But she still laughed, still giggled, her wild and untamed hair still in a pair of tangled buns. And she always smiled, greeting her with glistening eyes, sharp teeth, and that warm murmur of ‘Ochako-chan’... and Ochako wanted to melt into the floor, offer her arms and throat to her warm mouth.
It was an older Himiko who greeted her this evening, wearing her faded sweater over a black lacy top. Red ribbons were threaded through her tangled hair, another red ribbon around her neck.
“That looks heavy,” Himiko repeated, her golden eyes boring into Ochako over the tub of ice cream. She was not laughing or giggling. She looked concerned. That, and occupied by the ice cream.
“Well, I suppose I’m just a little tired after getting back to a full schedule this week!” said Ochako with false cheeriness. “I’ll be back to normal soon enough!”
She walked over to her kitchen, and poured some water into her electric kettle, trying to maintain a composure of normalcy, despite the apparition currently on her couch.
Izuku had confided in Ochako that he could still feel faint echoes of those who had wielded 'One for All ’ before him, despite no longer possessing the quirk. Ochako had chalked these dreams, these projections of Himiko, into some strange manifestation of Himiko in her consciousness; likely borne of taking on Himiko’s blood.
It was a convenient enough explanation; some complex aberration of quirk science. She could explain away the occasional missing yogurt or mochi to tiredness, forgetfulness. There was no Himiko Toga in her apartment, merely some vestige of her in Ochako’s bloodstream.
“That costume is going to fall apart,” said Himiko, quietly.
“What? What are you talking about?” laughed Ochako, pouring her tea. “My hero costume is in excellent condition! So I’m a little out of shape after being off-duty for a minute. I’ll just put in an order to have my gear adjusted. That or hit the gym more! Guess I’m a little rusty.” She hitched a bubbly smile to her face.
“That’s not what I meant,” said Himiko.
Ochako felt her hands go cold.
There were still things Ochako couldn’t quite explain.
Once, after an encounter with a villain made of spikes, Himiko turned up in her bed, spooning her and stroking her hair. Telling herself it was just a dream, Ochako murmured for Himiko to take her blood, some part of her desperate to appease the phantasm with the promise she had made on the battlefield.
Ochako could have sworn there were two fresh puncture wounds in her shoulder the next morning, but she couldn’t totally be sure, mingled amongst the tiny red dots of injuries that were already there.
Other times she had stretched her arm out to the phantasm after an injury, and Himiko’s lips against the wound felt so real, so gentle, that she felt it couldn’t possibly be a dream.
Ochako would watch her own face swim before her; tired, dark circles to rival Himiko’s, a reflection she could barely recognize as herself, before she drifted off to sleep.
There was never any sign of Himiko in the morning. Ochako returned to the narrative that this was all a dream, and settled for trying to recall how many granola bars she’d had in the cupboard the night before.
“I thought you’d be home sooner today,” said Himiko, surveying a strawberry she’d scooped up. In the morning, Ochako knew she would fret about how much ice cream had been there yesterday and how much she remembered eating or not.
“Oh,” sighed Ochako into her tea. “I had to go back full-time today.”
Himiko raised an eyebrow, licking the spoon.
“I was looking forward to it!” Ochako said, brightly. “I’ve been tired of being cooped up and not on active duty. There’s nothing I wanted more than to get back to hero work! Though of course it was nice to get to spend some extra time on the Quirk Counseling program!”
Himiko snorted through her nose.
“What, the one where you teach kids to play little games with their quirks with what's-his-name?”
“Lemillion.”
"Ughhh, that guy is so annoying."
Himiko waved the ice cream spoon dramatically in the air. "Look at my peaches! I'm going to save one milllliiiooooonnnnn people! Jeez, self-righteous, much?”
“Well, uh, it’s not always with him,” said Ochako, not wanting to admit that she also found Mirio to be… a lot sometimes. “Lots of other heroes help out too! We all want to help the next generation learn how to use their quirks!”
“Sounds exhausting.”
“Oh no, it’s not work at all!” said Ochako cheerily, giving the same rehearsed answer she always gave. “I love helping all the kids I work with. And we have lots of funding from the HPSC too!”
“Ha! I bet Hawks loves throwing the HPSC’s blood money at noble causes,” cackled Himiko, aggressively stabbing her spoon into the ice cream tub. “Anything to clear his guilty conscience. Anyway…”
She tilted her head and fixed Ochako with a stare.
"I thought your agency was giving you more time."
Ochako bit her lip, and shrugged.
“I mean… it would have been nice, but you know how it is.”
“Oh, do I?” said Himiko, a faint hiss in her voice. “Me? A villain? Know about the inner workings of a hero agency? Nah, can’t say I do.”
She stood up from her couch and crossed her arms. “Why don’t you enlighten me, Pro-Hero Uravity?”
Ochako blanched, surprised. Whenever Himiko showed up it was always a warm murmur of ‘Ochako-chan,’ not ‘Uravity .’ Ochako would feel relieved that there was no need to be the perfect, bubbly hero Uravity. To Himiko she was always just Ochako-chan.
Not that Himiko was real.
“We’re short-staffed,” said Ochako, quietly. “There were a lot of injuries after what happened last month. I only got two weeks leave. My physical therapist said I needed more time, but the agency said they wouldn’t keep paying for visits. But at least they let me come back just part time a little while!”
She nodded at her discarded equipment on the floor. “I’m just tired because this was my first full day back. But I wouldn’t have it any other way! I really wanted to get back to helping —”
“Let me see,” cut in Himiko. She was in front of Ochako now, her yellow eyes hard and sharp. Ochako trembled, wanting nothing more than to melt into her, let Himiko hold her and lick her wounds.
“Let me see,” repeated Himiko. There was a growl to her voice, her teeth glinting.
Slowly, Ochako rolled back the sleeve of her bodysuit to reveal the brace that ran over her hand and up her forearm. Himiko slowly unclasped the straps and dropped the brace to the floor, revealing several lines of stitches beneath, criss-crossed with barely healed red scarring.
“Why doesn’t it make you angry?” Himiko said, her voice a low, deep hiss. She traced the scars on Ochako’s arm with red painted fingernails.
“I’m perfectly fine!” chirped Ochako, trying to tell herself that the gentle fingers she felt were nothing more than a complex manifestation in her mind from Himiko’s blood, and none of this was happening. “I had a lot of help and…”
She trailed off.
There were times, so many times still, that she couldn’t explain.
The times she was constantly doing a double take, swearing she saw those golden eyes and teeth in a crowd of people. A strange sense of deja vu that lurked in unexpected places.
A young girl with tired eyes hanging in the back of a crowd clamoring for her autograph, who seemed to vanish into the air by the time Ochako got to her.
The time an old threadbare pink sweater of hers had vanished, only for Ochako to see it on a woman across the street, who held her gaze for a little too long. Ochako thought she must have accidentally donated it, or that this woman merely owned the same sweater.
A middle-aged man on the train, who told her that she had a radiant smile that anyone would envy, in a voice that was far too youthful for his age.
One of these times had been last month. A building had collapsed after a villain attack.
Ochako had been badly injured; her arm trapped under the rubble. Having desperately tried to levitate the destruction out of the way of any civilians, she had failed to protect herself.
There had been so many injuries, and the onsite medics were running out of supplies.
“What do you mean we’re out of B?” A nurse had desperately cried.
“There’s shortage right now, we don’t have enough —”
Ochako had thought of Himiko in that moment, her vision hazy as the pain in her arm.
“Wait!”
A young man with messy, sandy hair had run up to the medics, seemingly out of nowhere.
“I’m a universal donor,” he said, gesturing to Ochako. “Please, take my blood. Take anything you need.”
“I’m here, Ochako-chan,” he had murmured, clasping her hand.
And Ochako had sworn she'd seen a golden-yellow sheen flit through his eyes.
She began to scream. Begging, pleading, that Himiko not do this, not again, before she passed out.
The nurses had told her she was delirious due to blood loss. The boy was long gone when she woke up, having vanished after donating several pints not just to her, but the rest of the injured.
“You’ve got a guardian angel looking out for you, love,” chuckled the nurse.
That or a stalker, thought Ochako.
It was such times like this that felt too real to be mere coincidence, mere happenstance.
“You had a lot of help, huh?” said Himiko, stroking a line of stitches down Ochako’s forearm, and jolting her out of the memory. “Who helped you? Heroes? Or a villain?”
“A… a civilian helped,” stammered Ochako, wanting Himiko to press her lips and teeth to the scars. “Anyone can be a hero! Even a civilian. We all have to do what we can to reach out and help and I’m grateful —”
“Stop, Ochako,” hissed Himiko, cutting her off. “Just stop. Stop pretending.”
Ochako blinked, taken aback.
“I-I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Ochako stammered. “What am I pretending about? I told you, I’m perfectly fine. So I’m a little out of shape after being out of commission. At least I don’t need to be in fighting shape to run my Quirk Counseling Program! And in the meantime I’ll have them make some adjustments to my costume. I’m absolutely fine. After all, I’m-”
“Pro-Hero Uravity?” drawled Himiko, glaring at her. “Yeah. Sounds exhausting.”
Ochako’s hand trembled in Himiko’s, the bite in her voice was sharper than any fang.
Himiko slowly bent her lips to the stitches, where a thin red line was visible. Her tongue flitted to the tiny wound, still unhealed. Ochako wanted to tear her arm open and give it all to her, anything to erase the furrow in Himiko’s brow, soften the flint in her golden eyes, bring back a smile to the hard snarl of her mouth.
“Himiko, please…”
And then Ochako’s own face swam before her, as Himiko mirrored her from that miniscule drop of blood. Ochako saw the circles under her own eyes, unshielded by her rosy pink visor; saw the injuries on her arm unhidden by the gauntlets.
“That’s all you do now. Pretend, ” Himiko snarled with Ochako’s face. “You pretend everything is fine. You pretend you’re making a difference. You pretend that you’re perfect little Pro-Hero Uravity. You pretend I’m not real. How long are you going to keep this up?”
She turned, her face queasily melting back into Himiko’s in the dim light.
“Aren’t you tired? Aren’t you angry?”
Ochako flinched, staring at Himiko’s glittering eyes in the dark.
Of course she was angry. Angry at a world that still believed in the tired old dichotomies of heroes and villains; a world that was still perfectly happy to place its heroes on pedestals and keep making more villains. Angry at a world with little interest in anything beyond surface level change, leaving her only able to take half-measures; telling children that all their quirks were beautiful in syrupy, saccharine tones.
Angry at a world utterly disinterested in saving a seventeen year old girl. Leaving her to die on the battlefield, and never bothering to tell her story.
Himiko cupped Ochako’s face in her hands.
Izuku never held her this way, never saw her feelings, never saw her. He had rationalized away his own apparitions by throwing himself into work; telling the next generation that heroes could save anyone, because everyone was a hero. His ramblings, once charming, were now little more than idealistic dribble.
“You can’t put the fire out from inside the house,” Himiko murmured. “That visor is going to break.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” whispered Ochako, half of her wanting this terrible vision to disappear, as Himiko was so known to do, and the other half wanting to fall into her arms. “My costume is in excellent condition… I…”
“That’s not what I’m talking about,” said Himiko. “You can’t keep doing this. What happens when you can’t keep up the mask anymore, hmmm? When you can’t keep up playing the part of Pro-Hero Uravity? You’re going to break.”
She stroked Ochako’s injured hand, and gently guided her to the couch.
“I just need some more time to rest! Please, a little injury like this can’t stop me!”
“That’s not what I’m talking about,” Himiko repeated, pushing Ochako into the pink plush sofa, with more force than a mirage should have been able to command.
She leaned over Ochako, tilting her chin in her hands.
“By all means, keep teaching kids to do little party tricks with their quirks, and tell yourself that you’re making change,” sneered Himiko. “Keep playing the role of perfect, Pro-Hero Uravity.”
She gestured limply at the helmet on the floor. “But believe me when I tell you that you can’t keep doing this. I know how this is going to end. I’ve been there.”
She leaned over Ochako’s lap, stroking her face with red tipped fingers.
“Make all the upgrades you want to that costume, wear it as long as you want and pray every day it doesn’t fall to pieces at your feet,” murmured Himiko. She smirked, her fangs glistening in the light. “Don’t come crying to me when it breaks, and you find out everyone just loved Uravity and nobody loved Ochako .”
She wrapped her arms around Ochako, her breath warm at her neck. Ochako could feel the faintest brush of her teeth.
“ I love Ochako-chan. ”
Ochako trembled in her arms, while Himiko pressed her lips into her neck, trailing down her shoulder and to her arms.
It’s just a dream , Ochako thought, as Himiko’s hands caressed the puckered scar on her abdomen. This isn’t real.
Because if it was real… if Himiko Toga was truly alive, it would be wonderful and terrible and catastrophic.
For the girl she loved to be warm and alive and real, in a world where she was still a villain, was impossible. Uravity was a hero. Uravity couldn’t harbor a wanted villain or otherwise let her run free in secret.
Ochako thought of the terrible, forbidden story she might follow, if she decided that none of that mattered.
“If you’re ever ready to take that mask off yourself, and stop pretending, I’ll be here,” whispered Himiko.
In the morning, there was no vestige of Himiko Toga on her couch, and Ochako tried to recall if she had taken off her arm brace before going to bed, or if the strawberry ice cream had been opened or not.