Chapter Text
Gone was my soft bed and warm linens, replaced by a hard metal chair and rough bindings that dug into my wrists and ankles. My heart raced, and I fought to keep the rising panic at bay. My eyes were covered, and my head throbbed, but I was basically unharmed. It was cold and dank, and it smelled strongly of mould. A shiver ran the length of my body, goosebumps covered most of my exposed skin, and oh boy, my faded band t and boxer short combo left a lot of skin uncovered.
My brain sprinted through thoughts of last night; nothing seemed out of the ordinary. I graded papers until it was time to go to the studio, had a typical radio show, then returned home to bed. Yet, I had that feeling of being watched; it had been going on for weeks. Everyone assured me it was just a fan, and I was a big, strong hero who could look after myself. Apparently not.
I wiggled my hands and feet. The blindfold was wiped off my head with a dramatic flair, which I would have greatly enjoyed in any other situation.
“Good morning, Mr Yamada, or shall I call you Preasant Mic?” an unpleasantly disguised voice cackled at me.
A large, white fluorescent light above me made the room beyond the pool of light impossible to discern. Two mountainous men stood beside me—at least I hoped they were men. Their skin was an unnatural, inky black, and they had wild, bulging eyes that sat in almost animalistic-shaped faces. A laptop sat on a little table in front of me. The screen showed a red brick wall.
“What do you want from me?” I failed to cover the fear in my voice.
“Now, now, Mic, we all must follow the script. But since you seem so desperate to get to the grand reveal, I will cut the foreplay,” the monotone robotic voice mocked me through the screen. The disembodied voice continued, “I want you to work for me…”
I tried to cut in and say I would never, but it cut me off
“Yes, yes, I know you think you have a choice, but once you see what I have to show you. You will come round to my way of thinking. I want you to remember, while you watch this, that you have the power to stop this. Just say yes”
The image on the screen changed. Now I was looking over a crowd of people filing through a purple, misty portal; the camera swayed as though I was looking through the eyes of some great, lumbering beast. The camera blundered forward through the swirling purple portal, emerging in the familiar central plaza of the U.S.J.. Sickening anxiety crawled through my chest and sat heavy in my stomach. I watched in horror as the mass of ruffians spread out, threatening a class of first years.
“Stop this! They are just kids.” I begged.
As if in response, another voice demanded, “Where is All Might?”
Then I saw him—the love of my life, Aizawa Shota, the hero Easerhead. It may be unrequited, and I might firmly be in the friend zone, but he holds my heart and likely always will. He positioned himself between his students and the advancing thugs in a heroic standoff. His powerful arms brandished his scarf like the weapon it was, fending off the attackers left and right. His long, dark hair danced around his striking face like a delicate cloud. Dark, intelligent eyes framed by porcelain skin and defined cheekbones. An unkempt five o’clock shadow and facial scars lent Shota a rugged appearance.
I watched breathlessly as the sheer number of attackers slowly wore him down. His doges slowed, more hits landed, but he stood up, no matter how hard he was hit. That was until the camera started moving again. I watch in horror as an inky black fist pummels the slight frame of my friend, hearing in high definition the crunch of breaking bones and grunts of pain. I felt sick. A giant black hand grabbed Shota by the throat, lifting him up in the air before smashing his ragdoll body through the concrete floor tile.
“Please stop this”, I begged, straining against my binding in a desperate attempt to shield my eyes.
“Now, now, Mic. You can stop this, just say one little word” The mocking digital voice was back.
Aizawa wailed in pain as the beast broke his leg with a loud crack. I screamed along with him. My quirk is my voice; I'm loud and obnoxious, and I can use sound waves as an offensive weapon. However, without my microphone collar, my screams did nothing but jostle the laptop around.
Another defining crack marked the breaking of the other leg and my ability to scream. I looked on in horror as the monster held Aizawa's head in its two gigantic hands. This was the end; with one slight move, his neck would break.
“YES”, I screamed, "I'll do whatever you want, just don't kill him, please”
I knew I was weak. I knew Aizawa would have died rather than succumb to evil. But I couldn’t do it, I couldn’t watch him die. Not when I could do something, anything to save him.
The screen faded to black.
“Wait, no, I need to see that he is alive”, I begged the screen
“He is, don't you trust me?” the voice sneered.
“No”, I sighed into the weight of worry descending onto my shoulders.
“Smart boy”, I disliked pride more than the sneering. “I'm no fool. I know you will have nothing to lose if he dies.”
I shook uncontrollably. “What do you want me to do?” I asked the blank screen.
“We will be in touch. For now, go see your handiwork in the flesh. And remember, Easerheads' life is in your hands,” the sadistic pleaser in the voice made my skin crawl.
“I get it. I do what you want, or he dies; nowhere is safe,” I stated through gritted teeth.
“Smart boy. Tell someone, he dies. Failing to answer our calls, he dies. Work against us, and he dies…”
“I GET IT!” I shouted, pointlessly raging at the devil I sold my soul to.
The voice laughed a truly evil, despotic cackle.
Finally, the two black statues beside me moved, one guy tied the blindfold back over my eyes, and the other grabbed my chair and dragged me out of the room. I was manhandled into a vehicle, and 20 minutes later, I was standing outside my apartment, barefoot in the drizzle.
My doorman let me back into my apartment with the quiet grace for which he is paid for. Right on cue, my phone rang. It was Recovery Girl telling me Eraserhead had been injured. I tried to feign my stereotypical camp panic. This was not the first time something like this had happened. Heroes lead dangerous lives. Still, her words should have terrified me, but today my heart was ice. I played my part, rushed through my morning routine and thought myself through the familiar hall of UA High School. I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was an actor in my own life, and I wouldn't for a long time.
Shouta was a literal bloody mess. I knew it was going to be bad, but this was horrific. His limp body hung off the gurney, ruby red blood ran ribbons down his arm, dripping pools on the floor. Jagged bones speared through bloodied skin at unnatural angles. Recovery Girl and the medical staff buzzed around him with clinical precision.
I fell apart. My legs gave way under me, and I collapsed on the floor. The anxiety hit me like a lightning bolt, flipping my stomach, and I dry retched up to my nonexistent breakfast. Someone manhandled me to the bathroom; I heaved up nothing but saliva and my self-esteem. That voice played on repeat in my head, “see your handiwork”. I did, and I hated it.