Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Sensei still isn’t back yet.

The last Tomura saw him was in two-dimensions, on a screen. Sensei didn’t allow Tomura to join him in the fight, no matter how much Tomura begged, but he did hook the bar up to some security cameras. So Tomura got to watch his sensei and that—that hero scum—fight. All Might. The worst of them all. Tomura had to watch, from a fucking couch, as they battled, and he couldn’t do anything. Not a thing. Even when there was some sort of explosion, and all the feeds went dark, and now Kurogiri won’t tell him jack shit, even after Tomura threatened his life and disintegrated every last bar stool.

Tomura yells, screams, digs his fingernails into anything he can get a hold of. Where’s Sensei? Where’s Sensei?

When Tomura draws blood—he isn’t sure whose—Kurogiri just warps him back into that fucking basement. That basement that’s always both stuffy and cold at the same time. Here, there’s nothing for Tomura to dig his fingernails into except for concrete and... and the last Tomura saw on that screen, Sensei looked pretty beat up. But Sensei doesn’t get beat up. Sensei never loses, so it was just a trick of the eye. It was just Sensei pretending. It must have been. Right?

But then why the fuck won’t Kurogiri say anything? And why won’t Sensei come back? It’s already been hours. Maybe days. Tomura lost track—there’s no clock down here—and he’s never been good at estimating—not that it matters anyway. Where’s Sensei?! Tomura screams it, as loudly as he can, until his throat goes hoarse, until he shreds enough skin off his forearms that he’s dripping blood, until this can’t be happening.

Sensei is Sensei. Sensei doesn’t lose. But if Sensei did... if All Might beat him—killed him—then...

What is he supposed to do? If Sensei never comes back?

The thought, at first, fills him with so much dread that his vision goes black, because he forgot to breathe—but when he takes that next shattering inhale, the panic is gone, and the vacuumed empty space is filled with rage.

How could he? How dare he abandon Tomura after everything? If Sensei’s dead, Tomura won’t ever forgive him.

If Sensei’s dead, Tomura will do whatever he wants. He won’t ever get trapped in this basement again, he won’t ever get his quirk stolen again, he won’t have to hide out in this dingy, dusty bar. He’ll be able to let loose. He’ll be able to decay whatever he wants. He’ll be able to decay everything. The whole world. That’ll show them. That’ll show All Might and the rest of those stupid fucking hero shitheads. That’ll show Sensei for thinking Tomura would just sit back and do whatever he asked like a fucking dog. That’ll—

The door at the top of the stairway creaks open, and the anger leaves Tomura’s body as quick as an exhale.

Sensei stands at the top of the staircase, in the doorway. He’s backlit, barely more than a silhouette, but Tomura can make out the distinct shape of his suit, his square shoulders, his feet planted firmly in the ground.

Tomura brightens, breaks into a wide smile, until Sensei takes a step forward, and Tomura can make out his face. What’s left of it. Sensei’s face is all blood and rot, a patchwork of flesh and meat, barely hanging on.

Tomura screams.

Sensei stands at the top of the stairs, except then he doesn’t.

It’s two days earlier. Sensei went missing only a few hours ago, and Tomura’s been down here one.

The door at the top of the stairs creaks open. Midoriya Izuku stands in the doorway. He’s nine years old, but already has Sensei’s eyes. He wears a short-sleeved button-down and knee-length, gray dress shorts.

Tomura scowls. Of course it’s him.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Tomura spits out.

“Tomura-nii—” Izuku starts, but Tomura doesn’t let him continue.

Tomura stomps up to the stairs, but he stops before the first step. He knows better than to walk up without Sensei’s permission. “Tell me where he is.”

Izuku knows. He’s the favorite, after all. Sensei tells him everything. Sensei gives him everything. Midoriya Izuku and Shigaraki Tomura. Sensei never gave a convincing explanation for that. Not one sufficient enough to quell the jealous rage Tomura feels whenever he sees his “little brother”.

The only blood they share is that which Sensei’s spilled.

Izuku frowns, an expression Tomura’s become unfortunately used to, laced with contempt and condescension. Coming from a nine year old, it’s just offensive.

“He’s getting treatment,” Izuku answers, voice level and unconcerned. He looks down at Tomura, as he always has.

The room shivers, like the static of an old television monitor.

“Maybe if you were more mature,” Izuku continues. His voice sounds disturbingly like Sensei, and every word hits Tomura like a knife wound. “—you’d know that. Maybe if you were smarter. Maybe if you were in better control of your own emotions. Maybe if you were his son, instead of just some nobody he picked up off the side of the road. Maybe if you were me—”

The room floods with a green light, and Tomura’s knocked off his feet, backwards.

You’re wrong. That isn’t how it would have happened.

The door at the top of the stairs creaks open, and

Midoriya Izuku stands in the doorway. He’s fifteen years old, and somehow making a hospital gown look like it could be a hero costume. “Tomura-senpai,” he says with a small smile, extending a hand. “Let me show you how it would have happened.”

---

Tomura shoots awake, drenched with sweat, heart beating against his throat.

“Woah!” Toga exclaims. She’s much too close for Tomura’s liking, so he hisses and half-heartedly reaches for her neck.

Toga just giggles, skips a few feet back, and continues, “Sorry for waking you up, but that looked like a nasty nightmare, and not in the fun way. What was it about?”

Like he’d tell her. Not that he remembers, anyway, just a feeling of suffocating dread, and the image of Midoriya standing in a doorway, extending a hand. His voice, maybe, but Tomura can’t remember what he said.

Tomura growls and stands up. The rest of the League is pretending like they weren’t paying any attention, but Tomura knows better. They’re still in this random warehouse, and Giran is looking like he wants to get out of here as quickly as possible. “How long was I out?” Tomura asks, because he hadn’t really intended to fall asleep, just rest his body for a bit.

“Less than an hour,” Kurogiri answers.

Good. They need to move as quickly as possible. But where to?

Sensei had always been the one to organize that boring shit, but now he’s all the way down in Tartarus, so someone else has gotta figure that out.

It should be Tomura. But he’s still shaking. His quirk scratches at the underside of his skin. He has to let it out.

Everyone’s looking at him expectantly.

Shigaraki Tomura needs to take charge, but all he can think about is the fact that Midoriya Izuku is Sensei’s son, and always has been. He can’t focus. He feels like a part of him was left in that nightmare, but he can’t tell which.

Or... maybe he lost it earlier, at Kamino, or even... during that “fight” he had with Midoriya.

“Shigaraki,” Giran says. “If you take a look at these documents, we can start to figure out our next move, namely where to go next.”

“Documents?” Tomura growls. A tension builds in his chest. A tightness in between his ribs.

Documents? Fucking documents?

They want him to fucking look at documents? The League does? Sensei does?

He wants to scream. The rage builds in his stomach like a bomb.

Is this his life now? Is this the kind of shit he’s gotta do to get rid of every last hero? No—to prove to Sensei he’s the rightful successor? That he deserves—that he’s better than Midoriya?

He’ll have to do the things that make him want to pull out each strand of his hair, one by one. He’ll have to look at documents and bank accounts and ledgers. He’s willing to do it. If it’s what he has to do to make Sensei proud, then he’ll fucking do it. But...

But not right now. His entire body’s still shaking. He needs to destroy something. He needs to destroy a lot of somethings. But he can’t do it here, because he’s the leader—

That’s right. Shigaraki Tomura is the leader of this party. And what does the leader do? What does the player do with all the characters in turn-based combat games? He gives them orders.

Tomura can make this work, even if he sometimes sees these little white spots in the corner of his vision, and his body feels unsteady.

“No,” Tomura says. He stands up straight, sticks his hands deep in his pockets, tries to look like someone who knows what they’re doing—tries, maybe, to look a little bit like Midoriya Izuku did when Tomura told him to fight like he meant it, and Izuku promised he would, but instead he just got in Tomura’s head—

Tomura looks at his party members in turn: Giran by the door, always ready to make a quick escape if needed; Mr. Compress next to him, arms crossed and mask on; Kurogiri lingering right behind Tomura, practically his shadow; Toga, looking up at him with an expression Tomura doesn’t want to decipher; Twice and Spinner and Magne sitting in a small circle on the cold, concrete floor; Dabi sitting on top of a large box in a corner, feigning disinterest. 

“Shigaraki,” Giran continues, a little more hesitant than earlier. “You’ve just inherited all of All for One’s material assets: bank accounts, properties, shell corporations, and also his contacts. To make full usage of them, we need to get you familiarized with the paperwork—”

“Paperwork?” Tomura asks. He fails to keep his voice level, despite trying. Just the word makes acid bubble up his throat. He needs to keep it together. He knows—he knows there’s paperwork to do and boxes to check and decisions to make and it’s all important. He knows that, and that’s why he can’t do it. He wants to scream it out loud, and maybe if this had all happened a week ago, he’d lack the self control to keep it in.

But he manages.

He knows himself well enough to know that he’s too distracted. There isn’t enough free space in his head for rational decision making, and this is something he needs to get right. He needs to get this right to make Sensei proud, but he can’t like this. His fingernails dig into his palms.

He needs to let it out, first—this rage, this bloodlust, this fear. He needs to let it out before he can be the person Sensei wants him to be.

He needs to kill something.

For half a moment, he wonders how much of it shows on his face. Do they recognize that he feels like he might fall apart any second? He’s being pulled in too many directions. The foundation he’d built his life upon just got pulled out from under him, like a tablecloth, except all the dishware was glass and now teeters on the edge of shattering.

He manages to sharpen his fear into something more pointed and hard, a knife in place of his normal buckshot. He makes eye contact with Giran. “You, Compress, and Kurogiri can get started on the pencil pushing and cookie clicking. I need to kill something first.”

“I... understand,” Giran says, but it isn’t convincing. He rifles through the briefcase to pull out an envelope. “At least read this, please. All for One left it for you.”

Tomura’s vision wanes. Before he’s registered it, the letter is in his hands, open. It’s written in a code Sensei insisted he learn, and even though Tomura hated every second of those lessons, they must have worked, ‘cause he can read it clearly:

Dear Tomura, my boy,

I love you so, so much. I hope that, throughout everything, despite everything, you never forget that. I’ve raised you for the past sixteen years, Tomura, and in all two hundred years of mine, these have been the most important.

I know this all must come as a shock, and I am genuinely sorry for not telling you about Izuku prior, but I knew it was too early for the both of you. Every day I’ve questioned my decision. Should I have raised you both side-by-side, under the same roof? But that’s not a decision I can take back, and I hesitate to regret it. I had reasons, though now, in retrospect, they look so small.

I do sincerely hope that my decision does not drive a wedge between you two. You are both so, so important to me. You may be on opposite sides now, but I am positive Izuku will return to us sooner than later. He’s my son, after all.

And if something were to happen to him...

You are all I’d have left.

What happens next is up to you both. You’re both old enough to make your own decisions, now. I have to take off the training wheels. I have to accept that the little boy I raised is now a grown man.

I want to give you the world, Tomura. I want you to become the next All for One, but you must first pass this test.

It will be difficult, but I know just how strong and smart you are. I raised you, after all—I took you in, gave you a bed, education, and childhood. I believe in you, Tomura.

Izuku is in a very vulnerable place right now. Even if he still feels like he belongs on the side of the heroes, it’s unlikely that they believe the same.

Now is your chance.

He’s your little brother, after all.

Love,

Your sensei

The letter disintegrates between his fingers.

Tomura is falling.

He can’t think. If he thinks it’ll become irreversible. If he thinks about anything he’ll lose himself. Forever. He can feel it. He feels so far away. This can’t be happening. This can’t still be happening.

What does Sensei want from him?

Tomura blinks. He needs a distraction. He needs—“Kurogiri, get me the fuck out of here right now.”

“Shigaraki-san, I suggest—”

Tomura screams, “Now! Send me to fucking Australia—I don’t give a shit—just somewhere with people.” He needs something warm and soft to crunch under his fingernails.

“Wait wait wait!” Toga exclaims with a wide smile. “We’re coming with! I love a good field trip, especially one that ends with lots of blood!”

Tomura doesn’t want any company unless they’re gonna end up as a pile of dust, but he also doesn’t have time or energy to spare. At this point, it’ll be more annoying to try to convince her to stay behind, so he doesn’t object. But... we?

Along the warehouse wall, Dabi silently hops off his crate. He avoids looking in Tomura’s direction, but walks up to stand next to Toga.

Really?

Fine. Whatever.

After a moment, Kurogiri nods. He opens up a portal without another word. Tomura steps through, Toga and Dabi following behind, and they find themselves in a forested area. All he can see are trees.

“Have you been to Australia before?” Toga asks.

“This isn’t Australia,” Tomura bites out through gritted teeth. He can taste it in the air. There’s too much moisture here, not enough sunlight or heat. This forest could be anywhere, but it sure as hell ain’t Australia.

And, anyway, Tomura asked for people, for civilization. Why in hell did Kurogiri send him to the middle of some boring-ass forest?

“How do you know?” Toga asks, “Is it ‘cause you’ve been before?”

He doesn’t answer; there’s no point and there’s no way in hell he’s telling her Sensei sent him there as a punishment. But Toga’s Toga, so she takes the silence as permission to keep going, “You have! Why? Sightseeing? That opera building is there, right? The one on the shore line with like the layers and it’s sorta like a seashell?”

“The Sydney Opera House,” Dabi interjects blandly.

“Yeah! Have you seen that!”

Tomura sighs. “No.” 

“We should go! How far is Sydney from here?”

They don’t even know where ‘here’ is. His gut is telling him they didn’t go far. Instinct whispers they might still be in Japan, but he has no evidence to back that up. He doesn’t care right now. It doesn’t matter. He asked for something alive.

Tomura sprints forward, thrusting five fingers through a trunk. The tree starts disintegrating, but gravity’s faster, and it topples before Tomura can finish it off.

Boring.

Boring. Boring.

Trees don’t fight back. They don’t even scream. And with Dabi right there, it all feels utterly pointless. Fuck! He needs civilization. He needs people.

Maybe they should go to Sydney. Although, if they leveled a city that big, the news would travel to Japan quicker than he’d like. So they probably shouldn’t. But they could, and the temptation sizzles deep in Tomura’s gut. Oh, he’d love to decay the opera house down to dust. It would be glorious.

“What are you thinking about?” Toga asks. Suddenly, she’s right in front of him. Barely a foot of freedom between them. Even as he shoves her to the side, like a small dog she continues, “I like that expression on your face!”

She’s annoying as balls, but for some reason Tomura doesn’t want to kill her for it—

Wait.

Tomura freezes.

That isn’t—that isn’t right.

No. He can’t.

Something is very wrong.

“Oh,” Toga says. She’s back in front of him again, looking up with big eyes. “Are you okay?”

Tomura has four fingers around her throat, tight enough that he could lift her up off the ground if he wanted.

Toga doesn’t fight back. She just stares at him, still smiling.

Tomura should kill her. She’s easily replaceable. He can find another villain who’s good at pretending to be other people. He can find another person in case they need a low-profile assassin. She’s annoying. He should just kill her. He’s going to kill her. He’s killing her right now except—

Except—

Fuck.

Tomura tosses her to the side, and picks a random direction.

He needs to kill something.

He needs to kill someone, now.

Because, for some godforsaken fucked up reason, he doesn’t want to kill Toga Himiko.

It’ll all be fine, as long as he can find someone else.

He picks a random direction, and runs. There’s only trees. An occasional bird or squirrel but he needs something bigger. How could Kurogiri do this to him? He specifically asked for—the only reason Kurogiri wouldn’t do what Tomura asked is if...

Tomura stops running. He can hear, in the distance, a rhythmic thumping. It’s getting louder. Closer.

Toga and Dabi have caught up to him, or perhaps they were always right behind. They turn towards the noise.

A giant of a man brushes the trees away like they’re no more than blades of grass. The beast pauses in front of them, a blank expression on his face. Dabi takes a step forward, quirk flickering across his skin, but Tomura says, “Wait.”

The only reason Kurogiri wouldn’t do what Tomura asked is if it conflicted with an order Sensei gave him.

The giant holds out a radio, normal-sized, but in his hand it looks like a toy.

It crackles to life. “Ah, Tomura-kun,” a voice coos through the radio. Without the right context, it takes Tomura a moment to recognize it: the Doctor. Tomura’s met him a couple times. Never liked him. And yet, here he is. In fucking radio form. “I guess Sensei’s hypothesis was right, as they often are. Well… hm…” He speaks slowly, unconcerned, as if every second isn’t burrowing a hole deeper in the bottom of Tomura’s skull, the back of his neck.

The Doctor doesn’t care. “Let me say this in terms you’ll understand… you’ve encountered a glitch. Or a back door. You’ve snuck into the boss fight area early. The main quest won’t take you here, for quite a while, but you’ve been allowed a... preview. This is completely optional. And in fact, my professional recommendation would be you turn around and return to your League immediately...”

Fuck that. Return? Tomura hasn’t killed anything yet. He isn’t going anywhere.

“Sensei presumed you would not heed my advice, and if you insist on remaining, you should keep in mind one thing: you cannot win this fight. I am not terribly familiar with how this usually works in video games, but I imagine this is an accurate metaphor: your level is too low. Your statistics are in all the wrong places. You aren’t supposed to be here yet, but you can try, and you can fail, because Sensei thought this might be good experience for you. He thought you might need a reminder of where you stand, and what he offers…”

So Tomura was right. This is a pitstop Sensei planned for him. A hidden quest. He loves hidden quests.

“The creature before you is named Gigantomachia. He is a... gift Sensei left. One of those assets you may inherit. However, before you do, you have to make him submit. You have to beat him.”

That’s fine. It should be fine. But—but if this is a gift, then that means he isn’t supposed to kill it.

If he isn’t supposed to kill it, who is he supposed to kill?

The Doctor continues, “After sixty minutes, you will lose access. Gigantomachia will disappear, and the fight will not reactivate until you’ve caught up to the main quest line. And... this should go without saying, but no one else may interfere in this fight. This is… one v. one.  If you do not understand, please leave.”

There’s a beat, a moment of silence.

So then, this is, what? A training round? A tutorial? Sensei wants him here, but...

But Tomura wants to kill something.

Tomura doesn’t get the chance to question further, because the radio clicks into static. The giant puts it around its neck, like some sort of weird necklace.

Then, from the radio, Sensei’s voice orders, “Attack.”

---

A heavy fist, bigger than Dabi’s own head, slams down the moment the word leaves the speakers. Shigaraki, similarly, does not hesitate to run straight towards the giant. He doesn’t dodge, but instead runs under the fist; it narrowly misses him, but before Shigaraki’s hand can touch the leg, the creature jumps backwards. Despite its size, the giant is fast. And despite the odds, Shigaraki doesn’t let up.

Dabi’s first impression of Shigaraki, back in that bar, had been of a thirteen-year old boy living on the verge of tantrum. It had been disappointing, to say the least. Shigaraki was just another villain: immature and lashing out, hiding behind false pretenses. He spoke of wanting to show Japan the heroes’ corruption, of taking Stain’s mission one step further, but it didn’t reach his eyes. Dabi hadn’t particularly cared whether Shigaraki believed in it, or not. Their “goals” were close enough to aligned that he stuck around.

Dabi keeps his expectations low. There had been hints of intelligence, as Shigaraki planned the attack on the training camp, but that had been fleeting, and nothing to take serious note of. It had been obvious that Shigaraki didn’t care enough about that mission to really try. Shigaraki hadn’t lingered on strategy, just placed them on the map in specific places like little game board pieces. Intentional, sure, but nothing more.

Dabi’s had no reason to think Shigaraki’s anything more than an emotionally-stunted boy handed a bazooka after spending his whole life on Valorant.

But then—but then there was Midoriya Izuku, and Kamino, and Shigaraki momentarily let them all see what was behind his mask.

And it was shockingly human.

And now—now, Dabi has front-row seats to Shigaraki’s fight with a creature far stronger than him.

If Shigaraki was nothing but a thirteen-year-old boy with a bazooka, he’d just be throwing his quirk around, willy-nilly, with no thoughts in his head except for kill. But, instead, it’s obvious that Shigaraki is studying. He’s learning. He’s adapting. He isn’t as stupid as he looks, nor as weak-willed.

Giant Megatron, or whatever his name is, has a finite number of moves, and each time he uses one, Shigaraki gets a little better at evading it. Despite the time ticking by—how Shigaraki’s breaths get heavier, and sweat streams down his criminally dry face—Shigaraki’s only getting faster.

Toga, who’d been watching without drooling—though only barely—suddenly turns to Dabi and asks, “Why’d you come along?”

Dabi frowns. He doesn’t want to answer, but he knows Toga well enough to know she’ll just keep bothering him until he gives something up. “Because I wanted to kill things, too,” he offers, though it looks like they might not get to satisfy that today.

The voice on the radio had warned them not to interfere, but—what—are they just supposed to sit around and watch for an hour? Dabi’s quirk lights across his skin. They’re in the middle of a fucking forest. He could burn this place down. They can win, three against one, even if the giant is some fancy secret weapon.

Dabi curls blue flames between his fingertips. Fuck this. He takes a step forward, but an alarm pierces through his skull, high pitched enough to scratch against his teeth. He slams his palms over his ears, which dampens the sound, but not the pain. What the fuck? It’s coming from all around him, below, and to the sides.

“Step back!” Shigaraki yells. Dabi grits his teeth, but when Toga tugs him backwards, he complies, and the horrific ringing stops.

Bullshit. Dabi isn’t going to just sit around and take orders from some man who just surrendered and got himself locked up in Tartarus. If he burns the forest down, those speakers will go with it.

“Stand down!” Shigaraki orders, and even though he’s in the middle of dodging a heavy kick, he spares a moment to make eye contact.

Dabi hates taking orders, but there is a dangerous desperation in Shigaraki’s eyes that makes him pause—that makes Dabi want to see how this turns out.

He should be itching to get back to Japan and his crusade. But he suddenly can’t look away.

There’s something hypnotizing about it all. Shigaraki looks suspiciously human, dripping with sweat and taking hits. This is the first time Dabi’s seen him at a real disadvantage, and yet Shigaraki doesn’t stop trying. He doesn’t give up.

He never will.

Dabi knows it’s impossible—it was designed that way after all—but he can’t help it.

He hopes Shigaraki wins.

Toga giggles from beside him. “You wanna know why I tagged along?”

“No,” Dabi states, as he watches Shigaraki struggle against the unwinnable fight.

Toga tells him anyway. “I like you, Dabi! But in the League, Tomura’s my bias, so I wanna make him happy, keep him safe and warm! Protect him, you know?”

Dabi doesn’t know, and he’s more than a little frightened of Toga’s definitions of the words “happy”, “safe”, “warm”, and “protect”.

A close call—the giant’s knuckles grazing Shigaraki as he barely manages to flip over a jab—successfully distracts Toga from the conversation. But...

But now she has him thinking about why he followed them both in the first place.

He’s always down for murder (assuming it’s the right victim, of course), but he doesn’t need it like Shigaraki obviously does. So why’d he really come? Why’d he follow an annoying teenage girl and a man who might as well be one?

It wasn’t just for the violence, and the other part of his answer is something that’s been creeping up behind him ever since Kamino.

Dabi fears he might be trapped.

He joined the League the same way one steps into a subway car; because it would get him a little closer to where he’s going. Because even if their final destinations are different, he can at least get off at a closer stop. Shigaraki’s League is but a vehicle to help him get stronger, to help him take out heroes.

Except now, Dabi’s starting to think this isn’t a subway, but a bullet train, and if he stays on any longer he’ll miss the last stop. He’ll never be able to get off. But, if Dabi’s right, the final destination for this train isn’t where Shigaraki thinks it is. Toga sees it, too. If they’re both right, the destination is somewhere Dabi would be happy to take a vacation.

Because all Dabi cares about is getting rid of the corruption in this world: bad heroes and child abusers and those who take advantage of the weak. A revenge not only against that fucker Endeavor, but the world who created him and let him get away with it.

If Dabi learned one thing from Kamino, it’s that Shigaraki’s Sensei has a spot on Dabi’s list.

Dabi wants him dead.

It should end there, stop with the corpse. But for barely a second, Dabi had seen it in Shigaraki’s eyes, after Midoriya had called the man father—a furious hatred to rival Dabi’s own. Then Sensei squashed it underneath a hug and white lies.

It should stop there, but...

Dabi wants to see it again.

---

This isn’t fair. 

Not the fact that he’ll lose—Tomura understands how games work, he isn’t pissed about that. What pisses him off is that there still isn’t anything here for him to kill. He fucking came out here to get his hands on something soft and warm, but all he has is this glitched boss fight he can’t win.

Tomura needs to kill something. That’s why he fucking came here. But instead he’s dancing around like a puppet.

This isn’t enough. It isn’t near enough to silence the screaming from the base of his skull. He needs to kill something.

He can’t think straight. How’s he supposed to think when his brain itches like a scab? He needs to take a needle or a knife and carve it into his scalp. If he can’t kill something else, he’ll have to...

The world spins with static. Is his computer lagging now? How long has he been playing this game, already? He’s sick of this. It isn’t fair. He needs something solid underneath his nails.

Everything burns white. A sharp pain against his temple. A silent ringing between his ears.

Did the game stop? He can’t tell. He needs to kill something.

Is he falling? Has he always been lying down?

When’s the last time he ate anything?

He needs to kill something.

He needs...

---

Tomura is twenty years old. Tomura is twelve years old.

Sensei has a face. Sensei has white hair and he’s wearing a suit, but no tie.

Tomura is sitting on the couch in the bar. Tomura is sitting on a couch he’s never seen before, in the living room of a suburban house. He sits with his hands on his knees, leaning forward to make himself smaller. Sensei stands on the other side of the room. Sensei’s arms are crossed. Tomura doesn’t look up, but Sensei’s frown is disappointed.

Sensei’s voice is calm, but loud, when he says, “Tell me, Tomura, what you did wrong this time.”

Tomura does lots of things wrong. Tomura keeps making mistakes, ever since Sensei took him in. Maybe, this time, Tomura is the mistake.

But Tomura is lying on the grass in the middle of the forest, so he answers, quietly, “I didn’t defeat Gigantomechia within the time limit.”

Sensei orders, “Say it again.”

Tomura flinches so hard he’s suddenly on his feet, bare toes digging into carpet he’s never felt before. Tomura is twenty years old. Annoyance and anger and hatred and volatility make up his core, because that’s what Sensei wanted him to be. He growls, “I failed to make that fucking giant submit. I’m sorry! I tried my best, Sensei, I—”

Sensei interrupts him. Tomura hates when people interrupt him, but he doesn’t hate Sensei. “How will you do better next time?”

Sensei’s disappointment is so palpable Tomura is five years old. He’s curled up on the bed in his room, looking up at Sensei. “What?” he asks, barely above a whisper.

Sensei has his mask on. “This is why you’re being punished, Tomura. Because you aren’t as smart as... nevermind. You’re grounded.”

Tomura is eighteen years old. He’s too old to be grounded; he should know this. Maybe he does. But Sensei knows better, so it doesn't matter. Tomura should know better than to argue, but Tomura isn’t as smart as... nevermind, so he says, “Wait! I’ll—I’ll do better next time, Just give me a—”

Sensei clicks his tongue. Sensei points down. To the below. Tomura freezes. “Just go to the basement.” Sensei reaches out to grab Tomura’s shoulder. Tomura’s scared. He doesn’t want Sensei to touch him. He doesn’t want Sensei to take his quirk. He doesn’t want Sensei to hurt him. But Sensei reaches out a hand to grab Tomura’s shoulder.

Midoriya Izuku steps in between them.

Midoriya Izuku is fifteen years old. He is nine years old. He is older than Tomura. He is younger. He isn’t even tall enough to reach Tomura’s shoulder but he stands in front of Sensei anyway and declares, “If Tomura-nii is going to the basement, so am I.” He sounds confident, but Tomura can recognize the anxious waver in his voice.

Sensei opens the large, metal door. It’s as large as a skyscraper, and it takes fourteen years to creak open.

Tomura and Izuku walk down the endless stairs together, until it ends.

They stand in the basement.

The basement floods with green light.

Midoriya Izuku is fifteen years old. He wears a hospital gown. He looks at Tomura with a frown and scrunched up eyebrows, but he hides the expression of confusion a moment later. Tomura sees it, though.

Izuku asks him, “Is this what your basement looks like?”

Of course it is. Izuku knows that, so, “What the fuck do you mean?”

Izuku tilts his head a little bit. “Well, this is your dream, but... my basement looks exactly the same.”

Tomura doesn’t understand. But he isn’t as smart as Izuku, anyway.

Izuku walks the perimeter of the room. “Same door,” he says. “Same stairs, same dimension, same panels.” He looks at Tomura. “With your quirk, you could escape at any time. Why haven’t you?”

If Sensei wants him down here, then this is where Tomura belongs. He didn’t get that when he was four years old. Or when he was five years old. But when Tomura was six years old, he finally got it. He learned his lesson. Sensei loves him. Everything Sensei does is to keep Tomura safe, is to make him better. Stronger. Sharper. More useful.

But Tomura is twenty years old and Sensei isn’t here, but Midoriya Izuku is. So he asks, “Why don’t you?”

Izuku smiles. Izuku always smiles. “I did.”

Tomura is six years old. He has to use his quirk but he can’t use it on Sensei’s walls so he uses it on himself instead. The pain is comforting. The blood grounds him. This is his body. He can’t open the door but he can open the scab on the inside of his arm. He can’t walk up the stairs but he can dig his fingernails into his ankles. This body is the extent of what he has control over. But even then, even then sometimes he doesn’t. Sometimes this body is Sensei’s too. But right now, his nails and teeth and skin are his own.

Izuku asks, “Doesn’t it hurt?”

It does. It’s supposed to. He’s glad it does. But, anyway, “It’s okay. I’m not here right now.” He’s twenty years old. He’s in a clearing in a forest but Izuku’s in a living room with a couch and a coffee table and a bookshelf and framed photos and a trophy and shaggy carpet.

When did he get so far away?

“Maybe not right now,” Izuku says. “But you’re still trapped in All for One’s cage.”

---

Tomura shoots awake. There’s something in his stomach—in his throat. He tries to throw it up but nothing comes out. He crouches on the cold forest floor, hacking up air, but nothing comes out. He claws at his throat to try and get it, but the pain finally grounds him.

He’s awake. He’s in the forest. He was trying—he is trying to defeat the glitch. But he—how long was he out for?

Ugh. He feels sick. He can’t remember that dream, though he’ll never forget how disgusted it made him feel.

The giant stands above him, unmoving. It might as well be laughing at him. As if Tomura needs a fucking handicap.

He’s fine. He’ll be fine, as long as...

How much longer does he have to play this game?

The radio crackles. The voice that comes out of the speaker isn’t Sensei’s, but the Doctor. Goddamnit. He says, “Shigaraki... Sensei didn’t want me to tell you this, but I think you deserve to know.”

Tomura stares up at the giant. Should he strike, while it’s distracted? It would probably count as cheating, but if it means he gets blood under his nails, he doesn’t give a shit.

But the Doctor continues, “This fight that you’re losing...? Midoriya Izuku would have won it already.”

Oh.

---

Dabi doesn’t hear what the radio says after Shigaraki stands back up, but Shigaraki’s silence lays thick across the forest. Shigaraki looks up at the sky and, for an entire minute, even the trees hold their breath.

Shigaraki laughs. And laughs. It is hysteric. And laughs. Manic enough that Shigaraki doubles over, clutching hard around his stomach. And laughs.

From here, Dabi can’t see his face, but it is not a happy sound. It comes from somewhere deep, and doesn’t let up until Shigaraki’s near hyperventilating, gasping for breaths.

Toga lets out a sound of appreciation Dabi tries very, very hard to ignore.

When the only thing left in the forest are the echoes of Shigaraki’s anger, he stands up, uncoiling like a spring. He growls out, to nobody, or everybody, “Fuck you,” and launches himself at the monster—

But then the radio bursts into a high-pitched alarm. All for One’s voice announces, “Mission failed.”

---

Tomura finally gets it.

Sensei leaves him in the clearing, alone. Gigantomachia walks away. Tomura finally gets it.

This fight wasn’t about a Kaiju-wannabee that can’t even think for itself.

This was about Shigaraki Tomura, and the fact that if he can’t defeat something so simple, how in hell does he stand a chance against Midoriya Izuku?

Sensei sent him here for a wake-up call. The way Tomura has been doing things the past year won’t cut it any longer. Midoriya has at least half a dozen quirks. Midoriya is one of the smartest people in the world, and only fifteen. Midoriya was raised his whole life under the same roof as Sensei.

This isn’t like going up against Endeavor or All Might.

This is more like trying to go up against Sensei.

If Tomura wants to win, he can’t just blindly throw his quirk around like he’s been doing. He can’t just play Street Fighter any longer. He’s going to have to play Civ instead.

“We’re done here,” Tomura declares. He doesn’t turn back. “Toga, call Kurogiri.”

Toga smiles, but instead of doing as asked, she says, “You might have a concussion. Let me—”

She reaches out a hand to—to what? He can’t tell what she’s thinking behind that disgusting smile, so he smacks it away. He glares a silent threat.

She giggles, then pulls out her phone.

As she calls, Dabi walks over from the tree he’d been leaning against. He doesn’t say anything, but his persistent look of pompous annoyance has morphed into something more neutral, something just slightly open. He no longer looks like he wants to crush Tomura under his foot like a bug.

Then, suddenly, Dabi says, “Good job.”

Huh?

Dabi turns away before he can see the scowl on Tomura’s face.

Good job? What the fuck does he mean by that? That wasn’t a good job. Anyway, why the fuck would Dabi of all people say that to him. He didn’t stick around to make a demand, or tell him how he should do better next time, so what was the point?

Whatever.

Tomura still isn’t used to having characters in his party. He’s going to have to start putting them on the playing field, soon. This is something Izuku could do easily—has done easily. Giran showed Tomura the recording of the entrance exams. If Midoriya can do it within thirty seconds of meeting some brats, Tomura can do it with a group of villains he’s known for weeks.

But that will come later.

Kurogiri arrives. Tomura waves Toga and Dabi into the portal ahead of him. Toga hesitates, but the expression on his face must be convincing enough, because she walks through without another word.

Tomura steps up, but pauses. He looks back, once. The NPC is gone, probably waiting in some void until Sensei summons him again.

Before Tomura can continue on the main quest, he has to finish up a side quest that he started. He needs answers. He needs to know his enemy.

“Kurogiri. Take me to the Midoriya household,” Tomura orders.

Kurogiri’s mostly portal, but he solidifies his face enough to frown and say, “The house has been cleaned and emptied, Shigaraki-san. There’s nothing there.”

Tomura stares him down. Kurogiri interferes too much. He’s nothing more than the fast travel option. Tomura doesn’t need to hear his dialogue. Kurogiri must get the memo, because he lets out a sigh and shifts the portal. “Whatever you say, Shi—”

Tomura doesn’t wait for him to finish; he steps through the portal.

Tomura finds himself on a sidewalk, staring up at the kind of house you’d see in a magazine or The Sims. Kurogiri placed him right next to the mailbox. Tomura’s overwhelmed by a sudden desire to open it and see what’s inside. The impulse frightens him, so instead he slams his palm on it, decays it to dust, and refuses to give it another thought.

In front of the house lies a small yard of short, cropped green grass. Tomura doesn’t know enough about nature to tell if it’s real or fake. Either way, it pisses him off. Each strand is exactly the same height, cropped perfectly around the sidewalk edges. Tomura never had a yard. Hell, Tomura never had a fucking window.

He stomps up the short pathway to the front door and kicks it open without checking whether it was unlocked or not.

The house is silent, cold, and completely empty. Kurogiri had warned him. Tomura heard Sensei say he cleared it out. But for some reason, Tomura hadn’t really believed it. He could picture the inside of the house in his head. Just bits and pieces. A couch. Three pairs of slippers. A bedroom. It isn’t the clearest of images, more like remembering a story he’d heard third-hand.

But this house is just a skeleton, an outline of something that doesn’t exist anymore.

Tomura suddenly finds his fist in the drywall. He pulls his hand out, barely managing to fight the compulsion to peel away at the edges of the hole until he tears the whole house to shreds.

It’d take too long.

He stalks through the foyer to the empty kitchen, rips the tops off the counters even though the drawers are as empty as everything else.

This place pisses him off.

Fifteen years, erased and buried under bleach and plastic sheeting.

Would Sensei have done this to the bar some day, if Midoriya hadn’t found it first? Would he throw away the place Tomura grew up in? Even if the memories weren’t all that great, they were Tomura’s, and they were Sensei’s too. Did it mean nothing to him?

Tomura sprints up the stairs, throws all the doors open, but these rooms are just as bare as the rest of the building. There’s no way to tell which bedroom was Sensei’s, which was Midoriya’s.

The stench of bleach is strong enough to dry his eyes out.

Tomura stomps back down the stairs, decays the banister as he goes, scratching a long line down it with his fingernails.

Why’d he even come here?

He wanted—he wanted to see evidence. He wanted proof that Midoriya’s childhood was better than his. He wanted something to lash out against, something to direct this tight fury that’s building in his core. He doesn’t know where to point it anymore. Maybe he never did.

He wanted an excuse to hate Midoriya Izuku.

Or, maybe, he wanted the opposite.

He wanted to know what Midoriya’s childhood was like. He wanted to know if it was like his or not. But there’s nothing here but drywall and plastic and bleach. Everything smells like bleach, like the fucking basement under the bar Tomura tries his best not to think about.

Does this house have a basement?

Tomura isn’t sure if normal houses do or not.

The first floor has three doors: the front door, a back door which leads to a boring, small green backyard, and a door next to the kitchen which opens into a sort of closet. Tomura lingers in the empty pantry under the stairs for a moment. He can feel something in the stagnant air, can smell something he can’t identify from the wood paneling at the back of the closet. It’s pure instinct that has Tomura decaying the wall and finding the familiar, hefty metal door behind it.

It’s the same door that’s in the bar. The one that leads to the basement.

His vision wanes. He takes a staggering step back. He trips. He falls. The kitchen floor tiles disintegrate under him. Tomura stares at the door.

He’s overcome with panic, though he can’t identify why—no, he doesn’t want to know why.

Midoriya Izuku has a basement too.

That sentence—Tomura doesn’t want to think about it. He bites down on the inside of his cheek, enough to taste the metal of blood, to distract him. After catching his breath, Tomura stands back up, and steps up to the familiar basement door. He stares…

Then, slowly, he opens it.

---

Shouta’s curled up uncomfortably in the cheap chair. Most of the Tartarus budget went to security, rather than upholstery. Luckily, Shouta’s an expert at sleeping (and not sleeping) in unusual positions, so he can’t complain too much about the awkward bend in his torso and the way the arm of the chair digs into the inside of his knees as his feet dangle off the side.

He’s sat right next to Izuku’s bed, as he has been ever since they first put the kid under. The staff is still hesitant about Shouta’s presence in the room, and it took barely two hours for a Hero Commission agent to be placed right outside the room’s door.

They took his phone, and there’s intentionally no device in this room with internet access. Despite having direct contact with the outside world cut off, Shouta can still see the ripples of the work Nedzu is doing behind the scenes to keep both Shouta and Izuku safe and (relatively) comfortable. Namely, no one’s tried again to separate them, and no one’s yet to formally question Shouta about how Kamino went down, or his relationship with Izuku.

It’s small, but Shouta appreciates it dearly; the relative safety allows him to drift in and out of sleep as he keeps a close monitor on Izuku’s vitals—and facial expression.

The only people to enter the room are nurses and doctors. Izuku’s vitals continue to remain normal, and the doctor keeps trying to insist that Izuku’s the healthiest coma patient he’s ever seen. He doesn’t need to say it. Shouta knows. Izuku’s the strongest person in Japan. He’ll come out of this healthier than ever.

Shouta’s just worried about his mental state.

But there’s nothing he can do about it except ensure he’s by Izuku’s side for as long as it takes.

After more hours of nurses and doctors and the consistent beeping of health monitors, a Tartarus guard walks in. Shouta immediately tenses up, jumps to his feet and stands in between Izuku and the intruder.

The guard isn’t surprised by this reaction, nor does he move any further into the room. He simply holds out a radio phone and says, “Detective Naomosa is on the line for you.”

Shouta picks up the phone, but waits until the guard leaves the room and shuts the door before biting out, “What is it?”

His brain supplies all the worst case scenarios. Did the villains attack again? Is the government going to put Izuku on trial? Are they shutting down UA? Making Nedzu step down? Did one of his kids get hurt? Is the media eating them alive?

Naomosa must hear the concern in his voice because he answers, “Everyone’s fine. It’s just—I thought you should know, and I wanted an excuse to see how you’re doing.”

“Know what?”

“Shigaraki Tomura... he destroyed Midoriya’s house.”

Fuck. Shouta’s free hand curls into a fist as he looks back at Izuku—looking so small and powerless on the hospital bed.

The poor kid doesn’t have anything left of the past fifteen years of his life. That bastard of a father—he does not deserve the title—already took all his belongings, and now Shigaraki’s taken the building. It’s beyond disrespectful, but Shouta can’t help but think maybe this is for the best. Now Izuku can have a fresh start—at least, as much as possible.

Tsukauchi’s still on the line, which can only mean: “What else?”

“Two things,” Tsukauchi starts. He’s taking this conversation painfully slow, which means he has something important to say, but he doesn’t want to say it. “First, the house collapsed after Shigaraki left—nearly ten full minutes after. Nedzu hypothesized that this means Shigaraki may not have intended on destroying it, and/or we don’t understand the full extent of his quirk.”

Right now, Shouta doesn’t care about any of that. Tsukauchi’s hesitation is what’s most concerning.

“The second?” Shouta pushes.

Tsukauchi pauses. “We found... Aizawa, you remember what you told me? That Midoriya Izuku arrived late when you all left for the camp, covered in dirt?”

Shouta’s heart drops to the bottom of his stomach. Why the fuck is Tsukauchi bringing that up now?

“We found… a basement. And a…. evidence that someone had... dug their way out.”

Shouta’s overcome with nausea so overwhelming he collapses back into his chair. He clamps his teeth down, hard, and stares at his problem child. After successfully swallowing down bile, he asks, “How far?”

“A little under six feet.”

Shouta grips the phone, hard, and nearly throws it, but stops himself, only because Izuku’s in the room. Even if he’s unconscious, Shouta doesn’t want to do that in front of him.

He can’t quell this righteous anger boiling him from the inside. He’s going to kill All for One. That bastard. Shouta can’t think of a strong enough insult. Despicable. Disgusting. He doesn’t deserve to be alive. He doesn’t deserve to be Izuku’s father.

Shouta takes a deep breath.

It’ll be better, now. Izuku won’t ever have to go back there. He’ll never have to live under the same roof as All for One. As soon as he wakes up and is released from the hospital, he’ll be free. Nedzu wants to move him to the dorms immediately, but Shouta’s afraid he won’t be ready—that such a big change will only overwhelm him. If that ends up being the case, they can live in Shouta’s downtown apartment. It has two bedrooms, and is only really used as a place to crash after a late night patrol shift.

“It’ll be better, now,” Shouta promises, brushing Izuku’s bangs off his damp forehead.

---

A couple hours ago

Tomura looks down into the basement, and tries not to think about it too hard. He should turn around, walk away, and return to Kurogiri and the League. But Tomura can’t move. If he lets go of the door handle he will fall down, into the basement, and he might never return. But if he turns back now, he will be leaving a part of him down there.

Shigaraki Tomura hates Midoriya Izuku.

Tomura hates Midoriya Izuku. He wants him dead. He wants to kill him.

Midoriya stole Sensei from him. It’s all Midoriya’s fault.

Midoriya is some overpowered op who got everything Tomura didn’t—a yard with green grass and suburban neighborhood and a whole kitchen so—

So why does he have a basement too?

No. This isn’t important. This doesn’t matter. All that matters is Tomura beating him and getting Sensei back.

And yet Tomura can hear a memory, an echo. It makes him sick. Izuku’s voice, saying something he refuses to remember.

Tomura loses his grip.

He falls down the stairs.

Down there, he sees something he does not want to see. It does not fit. It isn’t there. Izuku had everything he didn’t. Izuku took Sensei from him.

Tomura ignores it, forgets it, and scrambles back up the stairs. Out of muscle memory, Tomura closes the basement door behind him.

Taking deep breaths, Tomura squeezes his eyes shut.

It doesn't matter.

He is Shigaraki Tomura. He will decay anything in his path, whether that’s Midoriya Izuku or...