Archive of Our Own ^beta

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...

Chapter Text

“Tomura’s back!” Toga announces as Shigaraki steps through Kurogiri’s portal. She rushes to him, but miraculously stops a reasonable distance away.

It’s been nearly an hour since Toga and Dabi reunited with the others. Just enough time for them to move warehouses and for Toga to tell the League what happened. She doesn’t tell them everything, surprisingly. Despite the girl’s haphazard energy, Dabi has to admit, she’s more cunning than she looks. He only half-listened, since he was there, but she spun the tale in a way that painted Shigaraki in dramatic lighting. Using much more colorful language than Dabi would ever care to repeat, she described him as a tenacious underdog, willing to do whatever it took to win.

“Where’d you go?” Toga asks.

“Nowhere important,” Shigaraki growls. An obvious lie, given the dazed look in his eyes. He’s unfocused, looking at nothing in particular. “Where are we?”

Before Toga can say something annoying, Giran steps in. “We relocated to another temporary location. A different warehouse, on the opposite side of town.”

Shigaraki scowls, spares a moment to take in the warehouse (it’s exactly like every other warehouse), and starts to look a little more present.

Giran continues, “Mr. Compress and I began organizing the paperwork; we think you should start with the accounts—”

“No.” Shigaraki’s voice comes out hard, and it seems to surprise even himself. His hands flinch into fists at his side. He starts pacing, unsure half-steps in no particular direction.

“I need...” he starts. He brings his hands up, halfway to somewhere—but with nothing to do, he throws them back down with a grumble.

Right.

It’s obvious.

Shigaraki still hasn’t killed anybody, has he?

The room waits for him to speak.

“I need...” Finally, Shigaraki comes to a halt. He straightens his back to declare: “I need a desk.”

No one says a word. A... desk? That’s what Shigaraki needs? Dabi’s never even seen him hold a pencil before, and he wants a desk? It’s almost laughable, but there’s too much tension in the room for even a chuckle. Even Toga looks confused, her smile failing to hide her raised eyebrow.

Kurogiri is the first to speak up. His voice is calm as he clarifies, “You’d like a desk?”

“Yes!” Shigaraki yells. He throws his hands nowhere again. His face twists into pained anger. “A fucking desk with—with drawers and pens and an outlet somewhere and—fuck—I need a new computer. Fuck!” His hand punches through a wall. “Fuck!”

Mr. Compress clears his throat. “There’s an office space rented by one of the shell corporations. It should be untraceable, if we use it right.”

“Great. Fine. Whatever,” Shigaraki says. “Kurogiri?”

It is, perhaps, the oddest dichotomy in the world. Nine villains walk into an empty office in Tokyo... what’s the punchline?

As Giran explains logistics about the building that Dabi doesn’t care about, Shigaraki stalks around the office like a lion looking for the right prey. The space is relatively small, with a loveseat by the front door, four desks, an attached kitchenette, a closet, and a single bathroom. There’s a pair of windows on the far wall that look out across Tokyo. The room is high enough up in the building that they have a pretty clear shot of the skyline, so despite the lack of square footage, Dabi expects rent is not cheap.

Shigaraki paces the perimeter of the room a couple times. The other villains watch silently, staying out of his way.

Shigaraki stops. He runs his fingertips across the back of a desk chair, carefully, without activating his quirk. He pulls it out, stares at it like it’s something he’s never seen before.

He sits down.

Shigaraki settles into the chair as if he were allergic to the fabric. But then he plants his feet, solid against the ground, and digs his fingernails into the arms.

Dabi has no idea what’s going on.

No one does.

Shigaraki raises his head. Sitting in an office, wearing an old, sweat-soaked hoodie too big for him, Shigaraki somehow manages to make the desk chair look something like a throne.

“Giran,” Shigaraki states. The name itself is an order, although it comes with no further instructions.

Giran hesitates, long enough to wipe the beads of sweat off his face, then unloads the contents of his bag onto the desk in front of Shigaraki.

---

Discomfort grows as hours shift into days. Shouta remains on the cheap, plastic chair, moving only to use the restroom and drink water. His muscles complain about the stagnation; he should be stretching, or doing sit-ups, or something. There are a number of exercises he could do on the hospital room floor, but he doesn’t want to leave Izuku’s side.

He tried to get them to remove the handcuffs again. But this is one concession not even Nedzu can force the Hero Commission to budge on. So, despite being in a medically-induced coma, Izuku is still handcuffed to the bed—only his right arm, thank god—with the same type of cuffs they slapped on All for One.

Fine. If they refuse to take off the cuffs, then Shouta refuses to leave.

He hates being absent for 1-A’s transition into the dorms, but he made his decision and he will stand by it. With Nedzu’s assistance, he’s been able to call the parents who were pushing back on the move, and with Hizashi’s in-person help, almost all of them have signed off. It would be more efficient—and would better align with his teaching philosophy—if he were there to talk to everybody himself, but there’s no way in hell he’s leaving Izuku’s bedside like this. What if he wakes up?

What if he wakes up, handcuffed in a high-security hospital that’s essentially a prison?

It’s fucking underground.

Midoriya Izuku is handcuffed, in a basement—so Shouta refuses to leave his side.

Every time he thinks about it he wants to scream. Instead, he settles for grabbing the arms of the chair so tightly the plastic creaks.

This is so fucked up.

The not knowing makes it so much worse. They don’t have any details. All for One cleaned the house and then Shigaraki Tomura erased what little remained. There’s no evidence left, nothing at all to indicate what Izuku’s life was like under that roof. All they know is this: for some amount of time, he was locked in his own basement, and he dug his way out to go to the training camp. Shouta’s training camp.

No one knows how often he was locked down there. They don’t know the extent of what All for One did to him.

The boy has a healing quirk. Anything could have happened.

What makes it all worse is that horribly, in retrospect, it makes a sick sort of sense. Shouta won’t ever be able to forgive himself for that. He knew something was wrong. He knew. The lock picks. Izuku’s anxiety. How careful he was, all the time. The overcompensating. Always taking Shouta too seriously. His fear. Panicking when he didn’t get 100% on his final exam.

Shouta knew. He should’ve done more. He could’ve saved Izuku. But instead, All for One locked him in the basement while Shouta was doing nothing but getting ready for the trip. 

Isn’t he supposed to be a hero? He couldn’t even help a kid he knew needed him. His own student.

His kid.

It would be easy to wallow in this regret, to let the guilt poison him. Shouta has nothing else to do in this hospital room but rot in it.

Except—except, that’s selfish. It doesn’t matter how Shouta feels. All that matters is that he can be here for Izuku going forward. And that’s why he won’t leave this room. That’s why he won’t let himself be consumed by the guilt.

And, anyway, it’s not like Shouta has accomplished nothing. He was intentional with not forcing or pushing Izuku, and it paid off. Izuku hugged him during the training camp. When he said that horrific goodbye, when he said thank you for always being there for me. I mean it— Shouta believes it. Now, he can sit here without feeling like an imposter. Shouta is representing UA to be Midoriya Izuku’s temporary legal guardian, and it feels right. Like this is where he belongs.

So Shouta sits on this stupid plastic chair as his muscles grow stiffer, fielding phone calls Nedzu wires past security, wiping sweat off Izuku’s forehead, and holding his hand whenever his heart rate gets a little high.

Without even a knock, the door to the room bursts open. Shouta knows the Tartarus security is impenetrable, but he still shoots to his feet, settling into a defensive stance.

Of all people, Endeavor stands in the doorway. He makes eye contact with Shouta, only to let out a bemused huff and slam the door shut behind him.

Shouta doesn’t relax upon recognizing the Number One Hero. “What are you doing here?” he bites out. It comes across as more hostile than it should, but Shouta means it. There’s a look in Endeavor’s eyes that puts him on edge.

Endeavor isn’t looking at Shouta, but behind him.

Endeavor doesn’t answer; he walks further into the room. Shouta has to fight all his instincts to not step in between Endeavor and the bed. Endeavor’s a hero and, even if Shouta may not like him as a human being, he doesn’t pose a threat.

Probably.

Endeavor steps up to the side of Izuku’s bed, hands clasped behind his back, and looks at the boy.

Shouta’s hackles rise.

Shouta wants to kick him out, but he can’t, so instead he asks, “Why are you here?”

Endeavor doesn’t turn when he answers, “I am assisting with the interrogations.” Of All for One goes unsaid.

Shouta wants to know how the questioning is going, but he isn’t going to have that conversation in front of Izuku. He’ll ask Nedzu for an update later.

“When will he wake up?” Endeavor asks, voice flat. There’s no compassion in his tone. Shouta doesn’t hear a single ounce of concern for Izuku’s well-being. It’s more like Endeavor’s looking at a defective piece of merchandise than a fifteen year-old boy.

Instead of throwing a punch, Shouta answers honestly: “Whenever he’s ready.”

Endeavor scowls, and clicks his tongue.

Fuck. Shouta wishes he had a knife on him, if only to have something to tighten his fists around.

Shouta wants him out. A rage simmers deep in Shouta’s gut. It’s been simmering there ever since he saw the face of Izuku’s father, and this is only making it worse.

He was already at his limit before Endeavor walked in here with that look on his face, and now he’s almost ready to boil over. That’s why he asks a question he already knows the answer to: “Did you get to visit Shouto in the hospital? How’s he doing?”

Endeavor spins to face him, an aggressive frown etched on his face. “That has nothing to do with you,” he growls.

Shouta takes a step forward. Endeavor’s quite a bit taller, but he doesn’t care. “I’m his teacher,” Shouta growls back. “It has everything to do with me.”

Endeavor’s jaw clicks. His fingers flex in and out of a fist.

Shouta will not hesitate to use his quirk if he has to.

After a final moment of tension, Endeavor walks out.

---

Hitoshi is incredibly relieved to finally be out of the hospital. He and Shouto were only held for three days, which is less than he’d feared, but he still didn’t like it one bit. The smell—the lights—for some accursed reason, that place just reminded him of Izuku’s house.

They also had near constant visitors from UA, despite both Hitoshi and Shouto’s persistent asocialness. Uraraka, Iida, and Yaoyorozu were in the room practically any second they were free, as were Present Mic and Midnight.

Hitoshi met Shouto’s sister—it was significantly awkward—but other than that, the only visitors either of them got were from UA.

Endeavor never visited, and a nurse who was very distressed by this spent a lot of time making up excuses for him. Hitoshi mostly managed not to say anything too snarky in the presence of others, but when it was just him and Shouto, he didn’t hold back.

Now, Hitoshi is doing what he always does on an afternoon when he doesn’t have school to keep him occupied, but with one glaring exception—he isn’t alone. Shouto follows silently, at Hitoshi’s heels, like a guard dog who just so happens to carry around his abusive father’s credit card.

As they enter, the barista looks pleasantly surprised, even though Hitoshi’s brought Shouto here twice before. Hitoshi’s un pleasantly surprised by the fact that the coffee shop is completely empty, save for one person sitting in Hitoshi’s usual booth:

Principal Nedzu. 

He smiles and waves. Shouto tenses. Hitoshi tries his best to ignore Nedzu, instead walking straight to the barista.

They know his usual drink, so all Hitoshi has to say is, “And a frozen hot chocolate.”

The barista’s smile is bright. “Actually,” they start, “he already ordered and paid for you both.” They gesture toward the two drinks on the counter—Hitoshi’s iced espresso and Shouto’s frozen hot chocolate—and past it, where Nedzu sits perfectly still, smiling, looking more like a stuffed animal than anybody’s principal.

Hitoshi’s pretty sure it’s incredibly rare for Nedzu to leave the UA grounds. He’s only heard of it happening for PR reasons, like the press conference he recently gave regarding Kamino. The fact that he’s here, in-person, and bought them bribes, can mean only one thing: he wants something.

Hitoshi hesitates. In this situation, does he take the drinks? He’s never liked free handouts, because they’re never actually free. There’s always an invisible price tag, and since it’s Nedzu of all people… that just makes this all the more suspicious. So he walks past the drinks to take his usual seat, directly across from Nedzu. Shouto slides into the booth next to him.

“I like you, Shinsou-kun,” Nedzu says.

So did All for One.

The thought is jarring. Intrusive. Hitoshi doesn’t like that that’s where his mind went, that for half a second he’s back in the Midoriya dining room, wanting to throw up. He sat right across from All for One, and all he did was run away. Could he have done anything more for Izuku? Could he have saved him?

Fuck. Pointless. Hitoshi doesn’t want to be thinking about that right now. So he says, “I know. What do you want?”

“Please, take the drinks. No strings attached.”

Hitoshi just stares at him. Like he’d ever believe that coming from Nedzu. The mouse has already manipulated the situation so he has all the power. He’s taken over Hitoshi’s space. He’s the principal of Hitoshi’s school. He tried to bribe them. He’s the smartest creature in the world, and one of the most politically powerful in Japan.

There’s no way Hitoshi’s taking the drinks.

“Alright,” Nedzu begins. He clasps his hands in front of him on the table. “Straight to business, then.

“I’d like to transfer your legal custody to UA.”

Hitoshi blinks. “Huh?”

Why? To the school itself? Is that even possible?

“I have been in communication with the foster system administrators regarding moving you full-time into the new dorms alongside the rest of 1-A. Logistically, and financially, it will be most efficient for everyone involved if UA takes legal custody of you… Or, you’re welcome to stay with your current foster family. What would you like to do?”

Hitoshi can’t help it. He lets out a snort of a laugh. That isn’t a choice. Nedzu realizes that, doesn’t he?

Hitoshi doesn’t mind too much, but it’s still annoying, and disenfranchising. Nedzu could have had the decency of committing further in either direction: straight-up telling Hitoshi what’s going to happen to him, or giving him an actual choice.

Surprisingly, out of nowhere, Shouto speaks up. He stares Nedzu dead in the eyes and states, with hostility tempered only by his constant flatness, “Try again.”

Hitoshi smiles, and nearly pats Shouto on the back. It’s easy to forget how little Shouto cares about power dynamics or authority with how quiet he is, but that’s one of the reasons they became friends in the first place.

Nedzu laughs honestly, without any discernible malice. “You’re right, Todoroki-kun. I do apologize for the treatment. Old habits die hard, after all, especially those you’ve had to adopt to survive… Anyhow, I’m not supposed to be the one negotiating with you. I’m just here to connect you.”

Nedzu pulls out a phone from somewhere—Hitoshi doesn’t actually see where it comes from, it’s suddenly just in his hand. It’s smaller than a normal phone, and vaguely more ovular than rectangular. Nedzu must have gotten it specially made for him. He somehow dials a number with his paw and says, “Transfer me to floor two.”

Hitoshi sits up a little straighter.

Unfortunately, it’s public knowledge where Midoriya Izuku is located—the second floor basement of Tartarus. The hospital floor, but Tartarus nonetheless. That must be where Nedzu’s calling.

Are they gonna get to speak with Izuku? How is he doing? Is he awake? Is he okay?

But then Nedzu says, “Give the phone to Aizawa Shouta.”

Hitoshi can’t help but be disappointed. Although… is it true, then, what the rumours are saying? That Eraserhead hasn’t left Izuku since getting in that ambulance? It isn’t as hard to believe as Hitoshi expected it would be.

Part of him—the part that remembers the conversations they’ve had and what Eraserhead did at Kamino—wants to believe that Eraserhead’s been making sure that Izuku’s safe this entire time. Another part of him—the part that’s fifteen years old and scarred by the system—is afraid that even if that’s true, Eraserhead won’t do it right. No adult ever does.

Nedzu sets the phone down between them and, through the speaker, Hitoshi hears a gruff, “Eraserhead. What?”

Nedzu answers, “I’m here with Shinsou Hitoshi—and Todoroki Shouto—to have that conversation.”

Eraserhead’s sigh is heavy enough to get picked up by the microphone.

“I’m speaking to him alone. Leave us.”

Nedzu stands up without hesitation. He’s still, eternally, smiling.

Shouto looks at Hitoshi, silently asking if he should stay or not. Hitoshi shakes his head no. It’s just Eraserhead on a phone call—he’ll be fine. Shouto nods, then follows Nedzu out. The barista flashes Hitoshi another smile, then steps out the other door, the one to the kitchen.

Hitoshi says nothing to indicate they’re alone, because he’s an asshole, and after a moment Eraserhead speaks up. “Whatever Nedzu said to you, forget it. It doesn’t mean anything, other than the fact he’s a manipulative bastard.”

Hitoshi can’t hold back his amused smile.

Eraserhead continues, “This is your decision, Shinsou.”

Hitoshi gets the impression that Eraserhead’s gonna go straight into this negotiation or whatever it is, so he interrupts with something much more important: “How’s Midoriya?”

For a moment, there’s silence on the other end, but then Eraserhead answers, “He’ll be fine. His vitals are stable, and have been since he went unconscious.”

Hitoshi knows all that. Izuku’s strong, physically. That isn’t what he’s worried about.

He’s worried about what’s happening in that big head of Izuku’s, and what kind of world he’s going to wake up to. He’s worried because Izuku’s underground.

Hitoshi doesn’t trust Eraserhead, not in so many words, but for some reason… for some reason, Hitoshi feels better knowing he’s there. And with everything the internet’s saying about Midoriya…

“Don’t leave him alone,” Hitoshi orders. After he says it, he wonders if he should use his quirk, just to be safe. But he’s never tried it over the phone before, and even if Eraserhead’s just another adult, he’s also Hitoshi’s favorite hero.

“I won’t,” Eraserhead asserts.

Hitoshi believes him. “When can we visit him?”

Another pause. Damn. Hitoshi really hates not being able to see any body language or facial expressions. It’s so much harder for him to have a conversation like this, with nothing but audio.

“He won’t be able to have visitors until he’s transferred to another facility, or released. He needs to recover first.” Eraserhead’s voice is flat, but there’s a timber of something underneath—an emotion he’s incapable of completely hiding. If Hitoshi could see his face, maybe he’d be able to figure it out—but like this, he’s left in the dark.

“Shinsou,” Eraserhead continues, “I know you’re trying to protect your friend, but I need you to tell me something, and I won’t accept any bullshit this time. I’ve long run out of patience.” He sounds more exhausted than he does angry, and that’s why Hitoshi doesn’t feel the need to snap back.

That, and the image of Eraserhead fighting off cops to stay by Izuku’s side as they were escorted from Kamino.

Hitoshi doesn’t say alright, though he considers it briefly. He won’t do Eraserhead the disservice of making a promise he might not be able to keep.

“Before the training camp, did you or did you not prank Midoriya Izuku.” Eraserhead says it with a heavy weight, but there’s no accusation. It isn’t a question. Eraserhead already knows the answer. This is, simply put, an opportunity. For Hitoshi.

He remembers what Eraserhead said, before they left for the summer camp. There will be consequences. Hitoshi didn’t care then, and now? Well, now it all feels so small, in the face of All for One. What’s the worst Eraserhead could do to him? Hitoshi supposes he could get expelled, but he was just kidnapped by the League of Villains, so he’s handled worse. And why would UA offer to foster him just to expel him?

“I did not prank him.”

“Okay,” Eraserhead says, voice calm and even. “Thank you for telling me. Did he give you any insight into his home life that would be helpful for us to know?”

Hitoshi almost snorts, but he holds himself back. He has nothing, on paper—only hints and instincts and failed vibe checks. He has a dinner where All for One said nothing particularly suspicious and Hitoshi told him to his face that he considers villainy every day. He has hours of conversations with Izuku in which he gave nothing up. He has Shouto’s second opinion and a lifetime of trauma. And it all paints, for Hitoshi, a blurry picture of what All for One must have been like as a father. But not one second of it would be admissible in court.

Luckily, All for One’s already in prison, and if all goes well, he isn’t leaving anytime soon. But it isn’t like Hitoshi can tell Eraserhead, oh, well, the vibes were so wrong I threw up, but I can’t pinpoint any hard evidence or anything. Hitoshi can, however, say, “He wouldn’t tell me anything, though he did admit he was grounded before the camp. In the basement.”

Eraserhead is silent on the other end, so Hitoshi tells him, “That’s why you better not fucking leave him alone down there. If you do, I’ll never forgive you.”

“I know.” Eraserhead takes a deep breath, in and out, before continuing. 

“Back to the matter at hand; this is your decision, Shinsou. All we want is what’s best for you, and what’s best for you is what you want. These are your options: you can remain with your current foster family, or UA can take custody of you.”

Whatever. It doesn’t matter either way. As long as he gets a couch in the dorms he can crash on when he wants, it doesn’t matter whether Ogeda or Nedzu is getting the check. Nothing for him will change. Right now, all he cares about is ensuring that he, Shouto, and Izuku are safe and together.

He’s seen the news. He had three days in a hospital room with cable and internet access. He’s read the threads and the reddit posts. At least half of Japan thinks Izuku’s just as bad as his father.

The most important question right now is, “They’ll let Izuku stay in the dorms, right?”

There’s a short moment of silence before Eraserhead confidently declares, “Yes. I’ll make sure of it.”

“I will hold you to that.”

“You should.”

Good. That’s covered. But he just admitted to lying to Eraserhead. Before he commits, he needs to know what exactly he’s getting himself into—what consequences Eraserhead has in store.

He’s confident enough that he isn’t getting expelled. Definitely. Probably. Logistically, it wouldn’t make sense for him to get expelled seconds after getting fostered by them, right? But—he’s still Shinsou Hitoshi, the boy with the villainous quirk. Always getting suspended, always getting expelled.

He finally has something here—friends.

What if it was all taken from him?

Fuck. He hates feeling this way. Better to rip off the band-aid than let himself be poisoned by false hope. Hitoshi sharpens his fear into a laugh, disguises his question behind a joke. “I assume this means I’m not getting expelled, then?”

The shoe hangs in the air, ready to drop, or—

“Right,” Eraserhead confirms. “No, Shinsou, you are not expelled.”

Hitoshi lets himself breathe again.

“I expect two things from you, going forward. One: don’t lie to me ever again. I hope you have come to trust me, at least a little more than you did a month ago. I am here to help you and the rest of your classmates. That is, and always will be, my first priority. 

“Two: once you are moved into the dorms, you will have a weekly one-on-one check-in lasting at least thirty minutes long. You can have this meeting with me or any other UA staff member, if there’s one you are more comfortable with. 

“If you can commit to these two things, you’ll face no further reprimanding.”

A weekly one-on-one meeting with Eraserhead? He can make that work. The harder promise to keep will be no more lying.

Hitoshi smiles, wide. “Well, if UA wants me so bad, I suppose I could allow you all the honor of fostering me.”

---

Sensei looms over him. His face is backlit, the bright fluorescents of the bar’s ceiling enveloping Tomura in his shadow. All Tomura can see is the sharp white of Sensei’s teeth.

“Happy birthday,” Sensei says.

Tomura has a birthday?

Has he always had a birthday?

Sensei doesn’t answer. “Now that you’re nine,” Sensei starts, “I want to introduce you to someone.”

Sensei holds out his hand. Tomura takes it, but it’s cold—like metal. They walk out of the bar, through the mall, past a familiar coffee shop, and into a living room.

A boy with curly green hair stands by the couch, holding Sensei’s hand. Tomura is alone.

“This is your brother,” Sensei says. Even though the house is well lit, Tomura still can’t see his face. “Tomura, say hi to Izuku.”

Tomura does not say hi. He tries to run. Something grabs on to his shoulder, tight. He lashes out, trying to find purchase to use his quirk, but the only thing within reach is that fucking couch. He digs his fingers into it, but it stays solid. It doesn’t decay.

“If you’re a good boy,” Sensei says, his voice scraping against Tomura’s ears, “you can even have a real bedroom.”

Tomura’s breath catches. Years pass. He knocks on the front door of a white picket fence house.

The door swings open.

“Tomura-senpai!” Izuku exclaims, before wrapping the teen in a hug.

Tomura grumbles, “Get off me, brat,” but instead of pushing Izuku away, he wraps an arm around Izuku’s shoulder. After a couple seconds, the hug breaks.

Izuku pouts. “I’m thirteen,” he whines. “I’m not a brat, and I’m old enough that I don’t need a babysitter.”

“You gotta convince Sensei of that, not me,” Tomura reminds him. He slides off his shoes and into a pair of grey slippers.

“Are you here the whole weekend?” Izuku asks.

“Yeah.”

Izuku doesn’t try to hide his excitement. “We can play something! Maybe It Takes Two, or—”

Sensei’s shadow looms in the corner of the kitchen, by the door to the pantry.

“You have to do your homework first,” Tomura says. It’s not an order, but a warning.

Izuku swallows. Despite the chill in the air, a bead of sweat drips down his face. For some reason, the droplet is yellow. 

“Right,” Izuku says, flat. But then he smiles, grabs Tomura’s hand, and drags him to the dining table. “You can help me!”

Izuku sits next to him, drops a heavy binder onto the tabletop, and starts pulling out handouts.

“You don’t need my help,” Tomura says, “and if your father finds out...”

“He’s out of town, and this is for school, not him. It’ll be fine! It’s just calculus. Please?”

Tomura rolls his eyes, but picks up one of the sheets.

“All done!” Izuku announces, closing the binder. “How about Mario Kart?”

They sit next to each other on the couch. Soft carpet brushes between Tomura’s toes. The only sound is Izuku’s laughter and the familiar theme song of the game.

Ever since Izuku started real school, Tomura spends most of his time at the bar. The third bedroom is still his, though, even if he’s only over a few times a month for “family dinner” or babysitting duty or... the basement.

Now, Sensei’s on a “work trip”, so they have the whole house to themselves. Tomura snuck in some Cheetos. In between races, they snack on the contraband. Tomura wins most of them, with Izuku a consistent second place, though it’s a tight race, and Izuku manages to beat him on a couple.

“This is fun!” Izuku exclaims. He turns that bright smile toward Tomura. “We should do this more often. We’re brothers, after all.”

The television screen flickers. The music from the game disappears.

This is wrong.

Tomura’s controller flings into the screen, shattering it. 

“You’re a fucking idiot,” Tomura growls. “You’re wrong. This isn’t how it’d play out and you know it.”

“It could have, Tomura—”

“No!” Tomura snarls. He digs his fingernails into the couch and the television starts to decay. “You know better than anyone. He never would have let it happen like this. He never would have let me in this fucking house—”

“It still could be.” Izuku’s wearing that fucking hospital gown. “Tomura-senpai, I believe—”

“You’re wrong,” Tomura states. Suddenly they’re both standing. A calm confidence settles around his fear. “You know you’re wrong.” He takes a step closer. The carpet morphs into hardwood panels.

“Wait—” Izuku’s eyes go wide.

Tomura takes another step. The couch fades into a dark, muddled grey, like the one in the bar.

“You’re afraid,” Tomura says.

Izuku stumbles backwards. “Wait, Tomura, don’t—”

The lights flicker.

Tomura sits at the bar, playing idly on his handheld. The door swings open. Izuku steps into the room. He’s wearing a copy of Sensei’s suit, tailored to fit him perfectly.

“I’m home, Tomura-nii,” he says. Izuku smiles, his teeth bright, white, sharp.

He’s covered in blood.

Chapter Text

Kurogiri can hardly believe it. He never thought he’d see the day Shigaraki willingly sat at a desk, doing something other than playing video games. Yet, here he is.

After Giran gets the documents in relative order, Shigaraki dismisses the rest of the group. They’re surprisingly reluctant to go, even though this is bound to be boring. Shigaraki sends Spinner, Magne, and Twice to start “gathering resources” while Toga, Dabi, and Mr. Compress ensure the security of this property and the other safe houses. Toga tries everything she can to stay, until Dabi literally drags her out.

Once they’re gone, Tomura tackles the paperwork.

Kurogiri feels proud. Maybe Tomura’s finally growing up—into a mature, functioning adult who can sit at a desk in an office, filing paperwork. All for One had tried, for years, to get Tomura to do something like this. It isn’t often All for One gives up, but after a couple years of failed attempts, he stopped fighting to get Tomura to sit and hand-write essays. Instead, All for One had modified Tomura’s “education” to be more... accessible.

He had Shigaraki play Civilization games, to learn political strategy; Nier Automata, to practice combat; Factorio, for engineering, programming, and critical thinking. Kurogiri had thought it smart, even kind, at the time—that All for One replaced readings and essays with movies and video games.

But now? He isn’t sure anymore. Now, Kurogiri fears All for One simply didn’t care enough to push harder. Maybe he decided he’d rather spend his energy on his other ward, who undoubtedly read books and wrote essays without throwing temper tantrums.

A part of Kurogiri feels proud as Shigaraki listens attentively to Giran and asks thoughtful questions about the records and accounts.

Another part of Kurogiri wants to throw up. 

It’s so out of character. Shigaraki is sitting at a desk and doing what he’s told, but he’s wound up like the spring of a gun, ready to shoot. He’s all tension—clenched jaw, legs bouncing, nails digging into the surface of the desk, eyes shifting back and forth and back and forth. He keeps decaying the pencils, or snapping them in half, or throwing them across the room.

He doesn’t belong here. It isn’t that he can’t do it—no, Shigaraki’s incredibly intelligent. Whatever numbers Giran has him looking at, Shigaraki will figure them out. It’s just… he looks like he’s being held hostage.

Kurogiri can’t even begin to start theorizing about All for One’s intentions. None of it makes sense, from the moment he took Shigaraki in, to today. Why, after everything, would he still try to force Shigaraki into a place he doesn’t fit? After deciding so many years ago it wasn’t worth it to make the boy write papers, why shove him behind a desk now? Kurogiri doesn’t understand.

The worst part is, Midoriya Izuku haunts the empty spaces in the room. From here on out, his shadow will always follow Shigaraki. Two boys, raised by the same man but in parallel, childhoods never crossing. They couldn’t be more different. Shigaraki will never be able to escape the comparison, whether by All for One, villains, heroes, or the mirror.

Kurogiri only saw the boy in person twice, but it was enough to know this:

Midoriya would thrive behind that desk.

Oh.

Is that it?

They would make the perfect team.

Midoriya could sit right there, planning out the big picture and calculating all the little details, while Tomura takes on the front lines, commander and nuclear warhead in chief. Together, they could take over the world.

But... it’s too late now, so Kurogiri just feels sick. What is All for One thinking?

Does Tomura know the seat he’s in was molded for someone else?

Tomura can’t fill a Midoriya-shaped hole. That’s not who he is; it will never work.

But Tomura tries, nonetheless. Because that is what All for One trained him to do.

Tomura sleeps in fits, on and off. Kurogiri had never succeeded in getting Tomura on a consistent sleep schedule, so he’s used to Tomura sleeping only a few random hours at a time, whether the sun is out or not, but there isn’t even a couch here. He sleeps less than an hour at a time, with his forehead plastered on papers or his forearms, even after Kurogiri suggested he try the loveseat. Tomura naps only when he gets too annoyed to work anymore. He wakes up sweaty, with a clenched jaw and wide eyes, like the world gets a little crueler each time.

Once Tomura and Giran have figured out which properties they’ll work and live out of, they take a deep dive into All for One’s financial assets and Giran’s proposed budget for the remainder of the year.

After an hour or so of looking at bank accounts and quotes, Tomura pauses. Something shifts in the air.

“Where is he?” Tomura asks. His voice is quiet, but no less dangerous for it.

Giran exchanges another glance with Kurogiri. They’ve exchanged many glances since they met up after Kamino, engaging in silent communication above Tomura’s head. They’re both worried about him—worried for themselves being in the same room as him.

Giran answers, “All for One is in Tartarus. One of the lowest floors.”

The pencil disintegrates between Tomura’s fingers. “Not him,” he snaps.

Another look. Giran doesn’t understand. Kurogiri does.

“Midoriya Izuku is also in Tartarus. The second floor: the hospital wing.”

Tomura doesn’t react. Giran clears his throat. “Midoriya’s location is publicly known. The whole affair was broadcasted. Now, the public’s torn between pitying him as a victim, or painting him a villain.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Tomura growls.

But doesn’t it? It may, in fact, be the one thing that matters most.

If Midoriya’s known this whole time, that means the perfect hero student of 1-A could have been a front. He could be a plant—planted deep, by Sensei himself—deep enough that not even Giran or Kurogiri knew about it.

Knowing Sensei, it’s possible. It’s possible that his son is capable of wearing a mask so perfect that it’s fooled Nedzu himself. Maybe Midoriya’s been on Sensei’s side all along. 

Maybe he’s been on Tomura’s side.

Midoriya—despite being barely fifteen years old—could pull it off. That’s the kind of child Sensei would raise. One capable of living the perfect cover story.

That possibility, in and of itself—that potential is dangerous. Because now Kurogiri’s in an uncomfortable position—perhaps the same position UA and the Hero Commission are finding themselves in: how are any of them supposed to know? If Midoriya showed up here tomorrow, and said that he’s here to help Tomura, would Kurogiri believe him? He’d have to, right? Since the boy’s Sensei’s son, but... but what if it was just another lie? Because Midoriya could walk in here, convince them he’s been on their side all along, then flip it right back around.

If Kurogiri recognizes he’d be capable of that, then surely the heroes have, too.

How is anyone ever supposed to trust the boy again?

Everyone, everywhere, is probably assuming the worst case scenario, but… what’s their worst case scenario?

It isn’t that Midoriya betrayed Sensei to side with the heroes.

No, Tomura’s worst case scenario is this:

Midoriya’s known all along. He’s the true heir to All for One’s regime, and all of this has just been some elaborate game he and All for One are playing. Tomura is nothing but Midoriya’s training dummy, strung up by All for One—prepared to be cut down as soon as Midoriya’s ready to take his spot.

---

Hitoshi’s felt like a hot potato his whole life. Passed around between families, each trying to hold on to him for the check as long as they can, then kicking him out before he explodes. He’s had this metaphor in the back of his head for years, but no one to tell it to. After leaving the Ogeda’s with the entirety of his belongings—a suitcase, a backpack, and a single (new) duffle bag—he tells his metaphor to Shouto.

Shouto’s deadpan response is, “You aren’t a potato.”

To which Hitoshi has no choice but to ask, “But am I hot?”

Shouto answers, “I am more likely to explode than you are.”

“I’d like to see you try,” Hitoshi teases. It’s a joke, but he means it. Shouto appears so calm and collected, even when he isn’t. The closest he got to exploding was back at the training camp, though Hitoshi’d rather not remember that (sometimes when it’s dark and he’s alone, the hum of an air conditioner, or the rumble of a train going past sounds like Shouto’s scream)—and anyway, he means a different emotion.

It’s taken a while, but Hitoshi’s gotten relatively decent at reading Shouto’s facial expressions. This one is sincere contemplation—a slight scrunch of his eyebrows, lips pressed together in a silent hum. After a couple seconds of this deliberation, Shouto declares, “Okay.”

“Okay, what?” Hitoshi asks, confused but also amused.

“I’ll move into the dorms today, too,” Shouto states. The minimal upturn of his mouth is the closest Shouto can get to a mischievous smile.

Hitoshi shows him what a real mischievous smirk looks like.

Hitoshi had gotten permission (or rather the order) to move in two days before the rest of the class, due to his “extraordinary circumstances” or whatever. Perks of being a hot potato. He had originally suggested Shouto join him, but Shouto had hesitated.

Now, though, Shouto orders them a car to the Todoroki household.

“Will Endeavor be there?” Hitoshi asks, even though he doesn’t want to bring up the man.

“I’ve seen him once since Kamino,” Shouto answers. So, probably not. Too busy being the new Number One Hero and hanging out with the other famously abusive dad on the block.

The Todoroki house is pretty much exactly what Hitoshi expected: large enough that you could maybe call it a “manor,” and that hypocritical mix of modern and traditional architecture that rich people like so much nowadays. The last (and first) time Hitoshi visited a friend’s home, it was Izuku’s, and they all know how that ended up, so he’s a reasonable amount of anxious.

Shouto leads him through empty hallways and past more doors than Hitoshi could keep track of, into what must be Shouto’s bedroom. It’s a probably perfectly normal bedroom, maybe a little larger than average, though Hitoshi isn’t the best judge of normalcy. Shouto pulls a large bag—almost military style—out from under his bed. It’s already packed.

Of course he has a Go Bag.

He also has an empty suitcase, so while Shouto starts packing that with extra clothes or what-not, Hitoshi settles into the desk chair to scroll through the news.

The door slams opens. They both freeze (metaphorically, not literally). Endeavor stands in the doorway. “What are you doing?” his voice booms, threatening.

Wow. Hitoshi’s never seen Endeavor up close before. In theory he was at Kamino, but Hitoshi was distracted. The man really does radiate hostility, even in his own household. Hitoshi’s body threatens fight or flight, but Shouto’s presence reminds him to try to think rationally.

“Moving,” Shouto answers, and his voice is so flat it makes the tone Hitoshi’s grown used to sound downright ecstatic.

The phrase Grey Rock flashes through his mind: a strategy used to avoid unwanted social interactions or to extract oneself from a relationship with a person by engaging with them only at the most basic and unemotional level.

Endeavor glowers, smoke drifting off his skin. He’s taller than Hitoshi was expecting, and wide enough that he takes up the entire door frame. As the temperature in the room starts to rise, Hitoshi suddenly feels very, very trapped. There’s no door behind them, only walls and a window. Hitoshi had never identified as particularly claustrophobic before this moment, but now he considers it.

Endeavor states, “1-A doesn’t move in for another two days.”

Hitoshi’s actually impressed Endeavor knew that.

His hands are shaking, but Hitoshi says, “We got permission to move in early.” It’s half true.

Endeavor looks at Hitoshi for the first time; his eyes narrow. “You aren’t welcome here,” he declares.

Hitoshi lets out a sharp laugh. Wow. The audacity. His mouth moves before he can stop it—sarcasm comes too easy. “It’s such a pleasure to meet you, Mister Todoroki Endeavor, I’m—”

Endeavor scowls and he takes a stomping step forward. Hitoshi’s body forces him out of the chair to retreat backwards.

Shouto steps in front of him.

Hitoshi looks at his back.

It’s just like at the training camp. Hitoshi, powerless; Shouto, protecting him.

Endeavor orders Shouto, “Get this... distraction out of here and come with me to the training room.”

---

Shouto has never had a friend over before, because he’s never had a friend. Now he sees why, even if he did have friends, inviting them to his place would have been a terrible idea.

Maybe he should have thought this over more. Usually he’s pretty careful when it comes to navigating Endeavor, but he’s gotten complacent recently. After Kamino, and barely seeing his father at all, and having real friends, and facing real villains, he’s gotten sloppy. He’s always been willing to stand up to his father, but it’s different now.

It isn’t just him in the room—it’s Hitoshi, too. This is his responsibility—his house—his father. He can handle it. He can take a few hours of training. It’s nothing he hasn’t done before. It’ll suck, but then it will be done, and then he can move into the dorms alongside the rest of his class.

Hitoshi will be safe now, and Shouto will be safe later.

“Now!” Endeavor bellows, voice booming and beard burning.

“Okay,” Shouto says. He takes another step forward, but then there’s a hand, gripping his left wrist.

Hitoshi’s smile is anything but happy as he asks Endeavor, “Can I come with?”

Endeavor snaps his jaw shut. Of course he knows how Hitoshi’s quirk works. Why wouldn’t he?

Endeavor takes another step forward. Shouto refuses to back down, so they glare at each other, toe-to-toe.

Shouto was ready to go to the training room, but with Hitoshi holding onto his wrist, he isn’t quite sure what he’s supposed to do.

“What’s the freak doing here?” Endeavor spits out.

Shouto’s vision narrows into a pinpoint, but Endeavor keeps going, “Why’d you have to pick the two worst people in your class to grow attached to? The freak the villains tried to recruit, and the villain’s fucking son?”

---

Hitoshi had not meant to manifest any actual Todoroki explosions, he swears. But after Endeavor’s insult to both his and Izuku’s names, the room freezes, covered in ice. The temperature differential—or something—causes a gust of wind that throws Hitoshi backward, onto the bed. The next couple seconds are a blur of color and heat and cold and sensory overload.

It becomes instantly obvious that the building was specially designed to withstand both fire and ice quirks, because if it weren’t, the roof probably would have already collapsed. The room’s small enough that neither Shouto nor Endeavor can properly use their quirks, but there are still sharp icicles along the floor and rolling flames in the doorway and for a singular, terrifying moment, Hitoshi is back at the training camp and he feels so powerless.

But the fear doesn’t last long, because Hitoshi uses his special move: he sharpens his fear into anger. It works on a mostly surface level. The fear, of course, is still there, but every muscle in his body works to smother it under anger. Who are they kidding? He’s survived fourteen years on this messy planet. He survived Moonfish and Shigaraki Tomura and All for One. Endeavor has nothing on any of them.

He can see weakness within the tension in the air. Suddenly, he is filled with a (probably false) confidence. It is in moments like these when his quirk shines—when the emotions are too high for people to think clearly.

“Hey, Enji!” Hitoshi calls out. He’s still on Shouto’s bed, but he sits up to bare his teeth more properly. “You think you’re hot shit, right? Well I had dinner with All for One the other day, and he’s both scarier and better company than you.”

Nothing.

Fine then. Hitoshi will say whatever it takes, even if the words taste like acid, “And a better father.”

Endeavor growls, “Wha—”

Hitoshi activates his quirk faster than he ever has before. “Leave us alone.”

The fire goes out. Without another word, Endeavor walks away.

Dammit, Hitoshi thinks as relieved laughter bubbles up. Shouto finally let his emotions explode and Hitoshi didn’t even get to see his face.

---

Toshinori wakes to the calming, rhythmic beeping of health monitors. He’s spent so much time in hospitals these past six years that they feel like a second home. What’s he in for this time? What—

Toshinori tries to bolt out of the bed rip the tubes out of his body sprint out of the room but the moment he tries to sit up his vision wanes, the room rolling and turning as his stomach does. He tries to speak but can’t hear his own voice over the frantic alarms of the machines, too fast. Not fast enough.

“Is Izuku okay?” he fails to ask. “How’s 1-A? Is All for One in Tartarus?”

He passes out.

The next time he awakens, fear has made itself a home in the half-scarred hole through his stomach. There’s a new hole, too, but at least this one’s only metaphorical. Shigaraki Tomura: Shimura Nana’s grandson. Midoriya Izuku: All for One’s son. Yagi Toshinori: a fool.

All for One took everything from him—his stomach, his mentor’s family, his own mentee. Depression weighs his body down. His muscles have atrophied. He feels empty. One for All is gone.

Pain ripples across his skeleton with every breath, but no injury hurts as much as the hopelessness that ties him to the hospital bed.

He passes out.

The next time Toshinori wakes up, it is with intention. He is awake. He is Yagi Toshinori. He is All Might, even without One for All. He will never give up.

Naomasa is the first to visit him. He tries to ask how Toshinori is feeling, but Toshinori has more important questions that he badgers Naomasa into answering.

All his students are fine. All for One turned himself in and was successfully imprisoned in Tartarus. 1-A and 1-B will be moving into the dorms Nedzu somehow built within a single work week. Izuku is in a medically-induced coma for physical and mental health reasons, on Tartarus’ second floor.

The nurses try to keep Toshinori in the hospital, claiming his body is too weak without One for All to keep it going, but they couldn’t stop him from finding out where Izuku is so there’s no way in hell they can stop him from going there. Naomasa also disapproves, but there’s a car waiting for them outside the hospital under Nedzu’s name, so Toshinori has the blessing of at least one person.

He’s let down to the second floor of Tartarus with surprising ease, although he is approached by two separate Hero Commission agents who attempt to question him. He ignores them, Naomasa holds them off, and then he’s standing in front of Izuku’s room.

Fear stabs at his heart, threatens to twist his stomach into more knots. He is All Might, and yet... where is he supposed to go from here? What is he supposed to say? How is he supposed to look at Midoriya Izuku without—

He slaps himself, lightly, across the cheek. It’s enough to get him breathing normally again. 

He is a hero. He is a teacher. He exists to help and to protect. He opens the door.

Aizawa stands directly in front of him, wearing a neutral expression that fails to hide his exhaustion. He looks Toshinori up and down, evaluating, before asking, “Are you ready?” 

The question, without context, is nearly nonsensical. But protective anger blazes in Aizawa’s eyes. He must see Toshinori’s anxiety, hear All for One’s words echoing between Toshinori’s ears.

None of that matters. His voice is still hoarse from his stint in the hospital and everything that lead him there, but Toshinori declares, “Izuku is my student and I am his mentor. My first priority is and always will be ensuring he is safe and happy.” He means it in a prophetical way, an attempt to manifest a mindset that his body may fight against. But he means it.

Aizawa lets him in.

---

Katsuki watches the news and reads the articles and scrolls through reddit and writes comments he doesn’t mean and comments he does and nothing makes sense anymore. Where is he supposed to go from here? The world looks different, like he suddenly woke up in a movie adaptation instead of real life.

Detective after detective shows up on their doorstep, interrogates them in their own living room or drags them back to that fucking police station. Reporters have been camped out since before All for One got to Tartarus, ready to attack the moment a curtain moves or a door opens.

Hound Dog comes by one day to “see how Katsuki is doing.”

Katsuki is living out the last act of a shitty true crime documentary, the part they don’t bother to air because no one actually cares about it.

Or, it’s the other way around, maybe. The last fifteen years were the movie, a fiction Midoriya wrote and directed. Katsuki’s only now living in real life.

His father looks at him like he’s something fragile, about to break. His mother’s eyes are filled with fearful guilt, like somehow this is all her fault.

Maybe it is.

One day, a Hero Commission agent shows up. A real step up from the dime-a-dozen police officers they’ve had so far.

“We already told the police everything we know,” Dad says, by which he means they’ve said absolutely nothing of substance. Although he ostensibly wants the agent out of their home, he’s already poured her a glass of water and sat her at their kitchen table.

“I understand, Bakugou-san,” she says. She isn’t even pretending to smile. “Unfortunately, for the Hero Commission’s records, there are a few more questions I must ask you all face-to-face.”

Mom lets out a heavy sigh, then turns to Katsuki, who’s been sitting on the couch scrolling TikTok when he isn’t downstairs with the punching bag. “Katsuki, go to your room.”

Katsuki scowls; he doesn’t move to get up. He isn’t a baby. He’s gone through these same questions twelve times already, he can do it again.

The agent says, “I do have questions for Katsuki-kun as well, if he can stay.”

His mother starts, “I really don’t think—”

But Katsuki stands up. “It’s fine.” He walks over and plops himself down at the kitchen table, right across from the agent. “Ask.”

Mom and Dad take reluctant seats to join them at the table.

“Any information you have will be valuable while we continue to investigate the extent of All for One’s operations. Were there any signs that Midoriya Hisashi was not who he said he was, or that something was amiss?”

“No,” his mother declares. “We’ve already gone through this. There was nothing.” Just as she says every time.

The Hero Commission agent continues, “What about Midoriya Izuku?”

“No,” his mother repeats. “Of course not.”

They had all fallen for it. Every single one of them. His parents. UA. All those stupid teachers in middle and elementary school who worshipped the ground Izuku walked on, who gave him all those awards and accolades. It’s all of their faults. They all fell for it.

They all fell for it... except for Katsuki.

“You’re wrong,” Katsuki bites out.

“What are you saying, Katsuki?” his mom asks, already defensive.

“There were signs! I—! I’ve been trying to tell you since fucking kindergarten!”

His mom shoots to her feet. “Bakugou Katsuki!” Her fear has morphed into anger. She spins to the agent. “He isn’t usually like this. He doesn’t know what he’s saying, he’s just a boy and—“

Katsuki doesn’t stand down, no, he stands up. “You never— no one ever believes me!”

It’s always: oh, poor Bakugou Katsuki. Such a bright kid, but stuck in his best friend’s shadow. In any other school he’d be top of his class, but here he’s just second. He must be so jealous to lash out like that. If only he were more mature, like Izuku. If only he were smarter, like Izuku. If only he were more like Izuku. If only—

Fuck that.

Every single one of those losers fell for Izuku’s lies, but not him. He’s the real winner here. He knew. All these years, he’s always been suspicious of Izuku—him! He was right, and now they’re all going to know it. No one can say he’s lying. No one can say he’s just jealous or looking for attention or trying to sabotage Izuku.

He turns to the Hero Commission agent. “You’re going to believe me.”

She looks him in the eyes, nods, and pulls out a notepad and pen.

Katsuki lets out a bark of a laugh. She’s going to believe him. He leans forward. “I never trusted a goddamn word out of that snake’s mouth.”

The agent asks, “Midoriya Hisashi?”

Katsuki’s face twists into a harsh smile. “Izuku.”

His dad gasps. His mom yells, “Katsuki! What are you—”

The agent clears her throat. “Let’s all sit down and listen to what Katsuki-kun has to say.”

Mom shoots him a look that tells him they’ll exchange more words later, but she does sit down. Katsuki sits back down, too, but remains on the edge of his seat.

“I remember,” Katsuki starts, “every single lie Izuku ever said in front of me. He’s always said whatever he had to to get out of something, or come out on top. Always.”

Katsuki’s been saying that something was wrong with that kid since kindergarten. Maybe if someone had listened to him, none of this would have happened. They could have arrested All for One and his son years ago, if a single adult had just listened.

Katsuki reminds them about the time the class pet escaped; Izuku accused him of being responsible and not a single person believed Katsuki when he insisted it wasn’t him. Not even his parents.

“I don’t remember that,” Mom declares. Dad shakes his head, noncommittal. Even now, knowing what Izuku is, they still can’t see it. The agent, however, asks Katsuki to keep going.

He reluctantly admits that he stopped playing with Izuku after he lost ten fucking games of tag-or-whatever in a row. Izuku lied to win and denied it instantly when Katsuki called him out on it. There’s a word for that, right? “Gaslighting,” Katsuki spits out.

“You were just kids,” Dad insists, ever the optimist. Mom’s gone quiet; maybe she’s remembered all the times Katsuki said he didn’t like Izuku, only for her to tell him to get over himself.

As they got older, Izuku got even smarter. He started lying less and manipulating more. And Katsuki long gave up on trying to call him out on any of it.

But there are some lies Katsuki can’t share. Like when Izuku told his mom they’d been hanging out together that one day, even though Katsuki had been lighting trash on fire behind the school building. Or when Katsuki forgot his history homework and Izuku insisted they’d worked on it together, that they’d both gotten the same answers and so whatever score Izuku got, Katsuki should get to.

So instead he tells them about the Battle Trials, Izuku’s lie about Uraraka. “He’s always had everyone wrapped around his finger, right where he wants them. Not a single person saw past it.” Except for him. “You’re welcome to talk to other kids from elementary and middle school. They’ll back me up.”

His mom is silent; she looks like she might be sick. Dad’s face is soft, still trapped in pity and denial.

“Thank you, Katsuki-kun,” the agent says. “This was incredibly useful information... Do you have any stories like this about Izuku’s father, Midoriya Hisashi? All for One?”

Katsuki freezes.

He can’t think about Midoriya—that man—All for One. Whenever he does he’s filled with this uncontrollable anger.

There was some dramatic-ass big reveal filmed on live television and everyone was invited—except Katsuki? Randos from fucking 1-A were there who didn’t matter shit. And that purple-haired loser who’s only been in the hero course for, what, ten minutes? He was kidnapped? It doesn’t make any sense.

All for One went on this long tirade about Izuku and Shigaraki and the lies and how it was all designed to hurt All Might and—and Katsuki isn’t mentioned once? He isn’t even there? He’s had dinner with All for One more times than he can count! He’s slept over at the man’s house! All for One’s helped him with his homework and, what, no one cares?

Katsuki’s in the hero course too! Hello?! Some rando who showed up two weeks ago is kidnapped and then teleported to Kamino to be by Izuku’s side and Katsuki isn’t even mentioned once? How does that track?

Is he so unimportant that All for One didn’t even think to try to leverage him against All Might like Izuku? It would’ve been easy! Just one throwaway line, “oh and I also tutored and babysat another one of your hero students, so that’s two out of twenty. Pretty decent percentage.”

Did All for One consider, for even one moment, kidnapping Katsuki instead of the purple loser? Did he ever consider that he could use their relationship to build Katsuki into another weapon against All Might, just as painful as Izuku?

Or is Katsuki just that useless? Can’t be used as a tool against All Might, can’t be a potential villain, can’t even be a friend of Izuku’s to threaten him with. Not even his quirk? It’s a fucking badass quirk, and All for One never once tried to take it?

Bullshit.

Katsuki will show them. He’ll show All for One and All Might and the Hero Commission and UA and the League of Villains and Midoriya Izuku. He isn’t someone you can just forget about.

He is Bakugou Katsuki, and he is going to win.

---

Summary of incident reports regarding Inmate 0114 follows.

Incident code: 0114-01

Name of inmate: All for One

Name of other involved parties: [redacted]

Incident description: [redacted]

Location: Tartarus, Special Prison for Villain Criminals, floor 0

Incident results: Two full-time Tartarus guards have resigned, effective immediately.

Follow-up recommendations: See below.

Incident code: 0114-02

Name of inmate: All for One

Name of other involved parties: [redacted]

Incident description: [redacted]

Location: Tartarus, Special Prison for Villain Criminals, floor 0

Incident results: One full-time Tartarus guard was placed on temporary leave for mental health reasons.

Follow-up recommendations: See below.

Incident code: 0114-03

Name of inmate: All for One

Name of other involved parties: [redacted]

Incident description: [redacted]

Location: Tartarus, Special Prison for Villain Criminals, floor 0

Incident results: One Hero Commission agent was institutionalized for mental health reasons.

Follow-up recommendations: See below.

Follow up recommendations written and approved by the permanent Tartarus Security & Strategy Consultant, Nedzu, as follows.

Due to Inmate 0114’s proclivity for psychological and emotional manipulation, I officially order the following protocols be enacted immediately under my authority as Security & Strategy Consultant:

1. No guard shall spend more than two consecutive hours on the inmate’s floor.
1. Note: this conflicts with the current protocol of six hour shifts to minimize risk during shift transitions. I have reviewed the current protocol and maintain this order.
2. Microphones in the inmate’s cell may only be connected to the speakers outside the cell during an official interview.
1. Note: this conflicts with the current protocol of ensuring guards nearby the inmate can hear inside the cell to minimize risk of unusual or unwanted activity by the inmate. I have reviewed the current protocol and maintain this order.
3. Interviews of the inmate must be no more than ten minutes long.
4. No one individual shall interview the inmate more than once in two days.
5. Interviews of the inmate must be conducted with at least one other individual present. At least one of the individuals present must be a member of the Hero Commission.
6. As of today, the following people are approved to interview the inmate:
1. Nedzu
2. Todoroki Enji, aka Endeavor
3. Tsuakauchi Naomosa
4. Yagi Toshinori, aka All Might
5. Members of the Hero Commission with security clearance above Delta
6. Midoriya Izuku