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A monster is stalking the corridors.
Hawks can hear it, a hoarse breathing behind the wall he presses his back against, stifling his own mouth and nose with both hands as not to give himself away. Dark spots swim before his eyes, barely discernible in the darkness of the cave.
It’s a labyrinth. A huge, endless mess of underground passages intersecting and forming branches, sharp turns and large rooms, slopes and rises, similar like twins and imperceptibly different.
Hawks is slowly losing his mind, seeking a way out. They told him there was a way and he would find it when he was ready.
They didn’t tell him he would be trapped with a monster.
The cuffs on his wrists brush against each other, and his heart sinks into his heels. The wide tight silver bracelets are meant to protect him. Surely they won’t betray him to a monster. Surely they won’t.
He’ll pass out if he doesn’t take a breath in the nearest half a minute.
Slow, rustling gait of the monster fades in the distance. Hawks drops his hands and inhales sharply, stale moist air finally filling his lungs. It was close this time.
He doesn’t remember how long he has been here.
He is never hungry or thirsty, too hot or too cold. But his body gets tired, exhausted by the constant moving in search for the elusive. Sleeping is the worst part. He doesn’t know if the monster sleeps, for how long, where its lair is, if it has one. He doesn’t know what the monster is.
Every time he closes his eyes, he is afraid to open them and meet someone’s gaze.
Breathing evened out, Hawks stands up and noiselessly moves to the cave entrance, nearest to the passage the monster emerged from. It is not there if he heard it leave.
He has been to this part of the labyrinth before. It isn’t the part he knows best, but he is able to vaguely follow the direction he wants.
Until he rounds a corner to reach a dead end.
The wall wasn’t here before. He traces the rough stones with his fingertips.
From time to time new walls appear. It's disorienting, but they told they would help him. Maybe they are warning him against the wrong turn. Maybe they are trying to keep the monster away from him.
These forged walls soon crumble to dust. Only real walls stay, with scarce silver lanterns, scattered close enough to each over so the path is barely visible, but not close enough to fight off the darkness.
He traces back his own steps, returning to the corridor fork, takes the other turn this time and loses himself in the familiar quiet, following the tunnel curves.
After all, it doesn’t really matter where he goes.
He wakes up bleeding. The bandages, covering his torso from the waist almost to the shoulders, are wet on his back. He has – always had, since he can remember – an unpleasant lump there, like a soft hump under the tight bandages, and he tries not to think about what this is. He can feel with it sometimes, when he is too close to a wall, it’s like a bundle of raw nerves, and the intensity of it makes him nauseous.
Sometimes his hands itch from the desire to tear off the bandages and find out. Is it the mistake of anatomy? Some kind of nasty parasite? Something else, something worse?
He never does.
Hawks reaches behind his back, wincing when his fingers came back smudged with red. He slept on a new spot this time. Must have been an unnoticed sharp rock.
Would be good if the wound closed sometime soon, because otherwise the monster-
The monster. Hawks stills, straining hearing with all he’s might. He hopes the sharp metallic smell of blood hasn’t drawn it here yet.
He is lucky that day, and he even finds a small stream to wash his shirt and the upper layer of bandagers. He reapplies them later, but disgusting crust of dried blood stays on his back and irritates him for days.
One day Hawks sees it.
He rounds a corner, keeping his right hand on the wall. He tried following left turns for a past few days and ended up circling back to the distinct moss patch he passed on the way. Today he chooses all rights.
The long wide tunnel unrolls in front of him, walls almost two of his arms spans away from each over, ceiling obstructed by darkness, the next corner barely visible.
And a tall, lanky figure stands there.
Hawks sees it clearly, because the figure is unleashing blue flames from its hands, broken shadow reaching almost past a half of distance between them.
And then it screams.
And Hawks runs.
Heart pounding in his ears, right and left hands both forgotten, a wild, animal dread tearing him apart. Screams pierce his ears, and he doesn’t know if it is the echo or is it his own voice.
Because there’s a demon in the corridors.
Soon he discovers what the flame unleashing was for.
He is rooted to place in front of the tall, relatively flat wall, horrified and drawn in against his will. On his eye level, standing out against grey stones, almost the size of his arm, scorch marks form together a word.
Keigo.
Chills run down his spine.
For some reason he knows it’s a male name. He has never met someone named Keigo in his life.
Whoever this Keigo is, Hawks feels sorry for him. Haunted by a demon, stuck in endless, barely lit corridors with sharp stones littering the path, where painful death may lie in wait in every shadow. Almost like Hawks, except Hawks knows that he will leave one day. They promised to come for him then it’s time.
The demon creeps into his next dream. Scalding blue bites the wall, ingraining lines and cavities, but this time the other name appears. His name.
Hawks wakes up from his own scream.
He rushes to the other side of the labyrinth, slipping on rocks, almost twisting neck to check his surroundings. With blood roaring in his ears, he knows he won’t make out the sounds of the demon approaching him from behind or stepping up to him from the dark corner.
When screams reach his ears, he feels better.
Because demon’s howls are muffled and far away. It must have gotten to the Hawks’ sleeping cave. Which means it is not here.
Legs give out under him. Hawks sinks to the floor, catching his breath.
He is more careful since then, not letting himself settle into a deep sleep, always on edge, keeping track of noises and light. He has no idea if the creature can see in the dark, but the light obviously doesn’t hurt it, since it uses flames so much. So he gambles on darkness being his ally for once. He creeps into the darkest, farthest corners of the caves, and these caves always have at least two ways out.
He founds blood on a floor. Small, round drips, black in the weak lantern light.
It doesn’t look like the demon has found Keigo. There probably would be much more blood and maybe a body. Maybe not.
Do demons bleed?
He doesn’t want to find out.
He stumbles upon more writings on the walls. It’s always the same, the name “Keigo”, over and over and over, soot and ash and deep scratches. He feels sicker with every new finding, each time closer to his current location, like the demon is circling him as if he was prey. Maybe he is.
It also means the demon is frequent to this part of the labyrinth, and Hawks is wandering on its territory. But he can’t go back to his part of tunnels, the part he knows better, because he gave himself away with this stupid yell.
In the end, it’s his own fault.
He is trudging down the corridor, sluggishly moving his legs. Over so much time, his body has learned the movements, and his consciousness, exhausted by the lack of rest and constant tension, now and then sinks into a sleepy stupor.
At the edge of the next slope, a stone falls from under his feet. Hawks follows it with his gaze and meets burning blue eyes.
At first his fogged mind doesn’t register what just happened. Then, down there, something moves, dark in the darkness.
His pulse jumps into his throat. He takes a sharp breath, moves a step back and runs.
Right, left, left, jump, sharp turn, squeeze through a crevice – he can do it, he has to, he has to – demon’s heavy panting behind him, don’t scream, just run.
He slips. And hits the ground, hard.
The tunnel is so bright, deadly bright. Clutching scraped hand with the other, Hawks backs to the corner, terrified whimper escaping his throat. His body is trying to curl into itself, make him small, buy him a few seconds of being alive-
He is yanked from his pathetic hiding space, and hot hands cradle him to a chest.
“Kei. I found you. Thank fuck I finally found you.”
Words swim in his mind, devoid of any meaning. Eyes screwed up, he waits for the crackle of flames, for the unbearable heat to swallow him whole. That’s what demons do with their prey? Do they burn it to ash, the second it falls into their mercy?
He waits, shuddering gasps ripping out of his chest, body numb from the fear, but there’s no pain.
Why is he still alive?
His heart sinks to his stomach. Does the demon want to play with the prey now, after the long chase? Maybe it wants to see how Hawks would try to run, for the scorching flames to reach him again and again, until he can’t move anymore.
A sob escapes him, deafening in the deadly silence.
“Sh-h. It’s okay. You’re okay,” demon pulls him closer.
This... doesn’t feel like getting caught by the one of the most dangerous beings known to man. Maybe the flame touched him so fast he didn’t notice and he’s already dead?
He shifts a bit and promptly hisses from the sting of the edge of his torn shirt catch on his scrapped hand. Not dead. Still hurts like he skived his own wrist.
Low subdued rumble makes him flinch. Another hand, bigger than his, moves the torn sleeve lower, out of the way, and the demon hums again, as if deep in thought. Rough knuckle surprisingly gently traces the scratches.
“What did they do to you?”
“They?” words burst on their own, and Hawks freezes. That’s it, he’s dead.
But no pain follows, even after a minute. The demon seems engrossed in inspecting his hand, and Hawks grows braver.
“You know about them? Who they are?”
For some incomprehensible reason the demon doesn’t seem keen on killing him. So he might as well ask some of the questions tearing Hawks’ mind up, torturing him with uncertain and unknown, making him slowly loose sanity in the darkness.
Hawks risks a glance up and loses the power of speech, momentarily forgetting his questions.
Demons are mostly human-like, especially their faces. But he would never mistake this demon for a human. Horns are peeking out from disheveled black hair, fangs are too long and too sharp, slender fingers, blackening, end with long glinting talons. That’s not why, though.
The demon is inhumanly beautiful. Features sharply defined, impeccably precise; eyes unnaturally blue and irises glowing – it’s obvious that nature couldn’t create this, without a single flaw. The only thing that looks foreign is the purple burn scars, taking up a half of demon’s face and creeping down, rough texture a contrast against pale skin. As far as Hawks can see, demon doesn’t even have hoofs. Slim legs end with very normal looking worn boots.
The demon watches him back, and if Hawks didn’t know better he would say it – he – is confused.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” a small wrinkle appears between neat eyebrows. Hawks still can’t talk, breath stuck somewhere in his lungs.
The demon shakes his head and glances behind him like he’s searching for something. The wrinkle gets deeper.
“Where are your wings, Kei?” the demon’s hand reaches to his back.
Hawks flinches.
“Don’t touch! Please,” he adds hastily. He is talking to a powerful creature which could kill him with a finger – talon? – snap, after all.
The hand halts.
“They said not to touch,” apprehensively explains Hawks. “...And it hurts.”
The demon’s body heats up abruptly, and Hawks squeezes his eyes shut. He said the wrong thing, he is going to die-
A warm hand caresses his head, tucking him under the demon’s chin. Hawks can feel sharp talons stroke his hair, untangling the knots with ease, as if they’ve done it hundreds of times. His eyes fill up with tears from a gentle touch.
It’s been so long since he was held. So, so long. He didn’t even know he missed it, but now he does, and it’s excruciating.
He was wrong. This Keigo is the happiest man alive. What wouldn’t he give to be on his place.
He sobs.
The demon exhales, leaving a heavy smell of ash in the air, and slowly moves Hawks away, seating him on a flat stone. He shudders, immediately feeling chilling cold.
“You don’t remember me, do you,” the demon reaches into his strange, cloak-like garment, pulling some kind of pendant off his neck. “This is yours.”
A pinkie-sized, vibrant red feather lies on his palm.
Hawks instinctively shuffles closer. It’s magnetizing, the delicate vane, neat barbs, everything so red. His hand moves on its own accord.
Demon’s fingers twitch, like he wants to close his palm around the feather, but his hand stays still.
“May I..?” asks Hawks, unable to rip his gaze away from the feather.
“It’s yours.”
Hesitatingly, oh so slowly, Hawks touches the small feather.
And suddenly he feels so warm. Warmth is spreading inside, circling his body and gathering on his back. Something twitches under the bandages.
The demon jerks like he was burned.
“What’s that abomination on your hands?” hisses he and makes a move to grab Hawks’ wrist.
Hawks darts to the side, but not far: the demon's hand grabs his collar.
“Why do you need them?”
“To protect,” wheezes Hawks, swallowing hard, as if demon’s claws are squeezing not the fabric, but his throat.
The cloak flies up, as though from a gust of wind. His shirt tears with a crack, and Hawks falls on his back, burning his palms on the smoldering collar.
In front of him is pure, hellish fury. Sparks fly, blue fires jump in pitch black hair, steam bursts out of the seams between the scars and the skin.
Life leaves his body. There’s only so many times one can disagree with a demon. Hawks is doomed, but he can’t tear his eyes from the murderous creature from hell, even if the flaming blue will be the last thing he sees in his life.
“From fucking what?! From me?!”
His voice is thunderous, and Hawks trembles with all his body.
“No, no, they didn’t know about you, they didn’t tell... I was – I was something bad before, I don’t remember but they told me I had to redeem my fault and they’d come for me, and the cuffs protect me from turning that again. Please don’t break them, I don’t – I can’t go through it again-!”
The memories flood him, of them telling him how lucky he was, how all he has to do was following their directions. They will even help him keep his bad side in control, do a favor for him.
And it hurt, too. A lot. The silver was still hot and molten when they clasped it on his wrists, several people holding him down, muffling his screams.
It’s probably a blessing he can’t remember what he was. He must have done something indescribably awful in his previous life, something he didn’t deserve to forget. And they were kind enough not to kill him, generous enough to give him a chance for redemption.
He can’t ruin all that, letting a demon crumble his only way out.
And he can’t think about how the hurt flashed in the demon’s eyes. It’s just shadows play, making face features deceptive and awry. His ill mind’s making it up.
“Fucking hell!” screeches the demon, and for a second all Hawks sees is blue flame, consuming everything on its way, feels the hot breath of fire on his skin.
It never touches him.
“Come on, Kei,” the demon lifts him from the ground like Hawks weighs nothing and puts the red feather in his hand. Hawks shakes his head, swallowing down tears.
When did he start crying?
“I am no Keigo,” he wants to keep the little feather so, so much, but he can’t. “I’m sorry. I’m not him.”
“Hold onto the feather for me, then,” the demon stretches out a hand to his face, but drops it halfway, grabbing him by the elbow instead. “We’re getting out of here.”
Hawks only makes a few steps, dumbfounded, the feather clenched in his fist, when the part of wall moves.
They are here.
He couldn’t recall their features before, faceless figures, degraded outlines. But the moment he sees them, he knows.
There are five of them, and he knows every one. He feels colder with each person, and it culminates with her.
She is leading them. Her blond neat hair, strict black robe, her presence alone making his body tremble.
They are the Committee; she is their leader.
They came for him.
And the demon positions himself between Hawks and them.
Her blue eyes – wrong blue, cold blue – pierce right through him, nailing to the spot. He couldn’t move if he wanted, overwhelmed with clarity of memories each of them brought. Like it happened yesterday.
It lasts for a second. It feels like eternity. Then her gaze snaps next to him, and her lips curl in displeasure.
“No one here has summoned you, demon. Leave.”
Hawks doesn’t want him to leave. He is struck with this sudden realization; there must be too many things wrong with him if he feels safer with a demon in a room.
The demon pays her no mind, moving to stand half-turned to watch both her and Hawks. And, probably, sees the relief on his face.
She furrows her brows. One of them, the bearded elder – he is a scribe, that one, and she keeps him for his wide knowledge – whispers something to her ear.
“Dabi, the flame demon. We do not wish to strike a deal with you. Leave us.”
Of course it’s Dabi. Hawks knew it all along, but for some reason the name slipped his mind. Strange. How could he forget?
And all this time he could make a deal – no, bad. Maybe that is what he got here for.
“I am not here to strike bargains.”
The Committee whispers among themselves.
“We understand,” she keeps her head high, as if talking with an equal. “We are here to take one of ours. Then we will leave this place to you.”
Hawks feels a bottomless pit gape in his stomach.
He was waiting for this day, pleading for it to come. He dreamed it to be the best day of his life, the day they will regard him worthy to leave.
Why is he frozen on a spot, paralyzed with terror?
“He was never one of you,” growls Dabi, and Hawks can hear the heat of menace in his low voice, the clear promise of retribution to those who cross him. The declaration of war.
He is able to breathe again.
Wait. What does Dabi mean.
The Committee leader is not surprised by his words. More so, she is irritated.
“Are you going to attack us?”
Dabi smiles. And it’s not a nice smile, too wide, too many teeth, burn scars tugging on his face. It makes Hawks skin crawl.
“I am aware you keep friendship with the god of destruction,” she doesn’t smile. Hawks is not sure she can. “He is not going to help you, demon. Unlike you, he knows to mind his own business. Shigaraki respects the rules.”
He knows Shigaraki. Walls don’t crumble by themselves.
And the rules mean balance. Demons don’t interact with humans without a deal binding them or a human passion feeding them. They are free to entice and allure all they want, though.
The bearded scribe silently nods behind her back.
“You must know what the seal of inferno does to those who don’t follow the rules.”
Dabi lazily lifts a hand, tracing the outlines of his scars, a nasty smirk playing on his face.
“You’re young and stupid,” the words fall from his lips, too indifferent to be an insult. “You wouldn’t know a demon from a devil if it sneered you in a face. The seal on my skin is my own, and my flames are blue.”
Right. Hawks has seen his flames, saw Dabi bathe the corridors in pure scorching heat-
Maybe he saw the inferno itself.
The Committee leader takes a step back. Her knees are trembling.
“You... you’re the fallen one?!” her voice takes a disgraceful shriek.
Dabi cackles, wild and insanely and terrifying.
“I am indeed,” drawls he, eyes still glowing in the dark, the last of flames leaking from his mouth. “You should be honored, village girl. Not many lived long enough to know after they met me.”
The Committee could be a group of stone statues. Hawks can’t tear his eyes away from Dabi’s burns.
The Fallen One was once a god. Not a demon birthed by blazing inferno, not a brood of human passions, not a weak local deity. A god.
And he gave these burns to himself, lightning up the whole inferno on his way.
“You know what else should scare you? Keigo there knows my true name.”
And this is the last straw.
“What are you calling him?” shouts one of the man behind her, beside himself with rage. He – he is a blacksmith, with heavy angry hands. Hawks wrists flare with pain. “He is Hawks!”
Dabi’s gaze slips to him, nonchalant.
“You are simply too weak to desecrate the sounds of his name with your filthy mouth. Now, silence.”
The man falls to the ground, writhing in agony, greedy blue flames consuming his body. His screams echo in tunnels and fade.
Hawks has never deserved the second chance. He just watched Dabi, the Fallen One, burn a man who once burned Hawks – for his own good – and he feels lighter.
“He got what he deserved for feeding into his anger,” the Committee leader, regained her composure, steps forward without even a glance to the charred remnants of her dead adherent. “You are still a demon, the fallen one. You won’t touch us.”
Dabi scowls, and Hawks realizes with a wave of dread that she is right. Otherwise she won’t be alive.
“Hawks,” barks she.
Cold sweat stands out on his spine. She is untouchable. She can come up to him, take him away. Nothing can stop her.
He can’t be what she wants. He’s weak. He was something awful, and he can never stop being it. She was wrong to have faith in him.
“I wish to strike a bargain,” he says, words tasting like a handful of pebble.
“Hawks!”
He doesn’t look at her.
Dabi is silent for a few seconds. He stares, face unreadable, and Hawks has no idea what Dabi sees in his eyes, intent on not looking away. Traitorous heart stutters in his chest. He knows he’ll have to pay for it. But whatever the price is, it can’t be worse than following her.
“You don’t need to, birdie.”
Birdie. The word pierces right through him and goes to his back.
Corners of Dabi’s mouth twitch, and for a second he looks... sad. And then in the blink of an eye it’s gone, and he is angry.
“Stupid village girl,” says Dabi, low and dangerous. “Do you know what happens when a demon’s true name is called?”
She pales. The deadly silence falls, and not even a ghost of mad cackle of Toga, young demoness of insanity, can be heard.
“Oh, you do,” Dabi watches the weak light play on his long sharp talons, taking his time. “Funny thing. You need power to summon a demon, lots of power. The stronger the demon, the more it will require. But someone needs only a relish of force to call the true name. No more than a deity’s feather stores.”
She smiles at that. And it’s scary.
“He is as good as a human. Don’t you see, demon? His feathers were destroyed.”
Hawks’ back burns. Feathers. Multiple. So this little one Dabi gave him – it really was his. And he used to have hundreds of them, little – coverts, and bigger – secondaries, and giant – primaries, and all of them red.
He could cry right now.
“Oh, but not all of them,” Dabi licks his lips as if anticipating what comes next. “I kept one for him.”
Hawks’ gaze falls to his fist. He slowly opens it, and a small rumpled feather, his feather, lies on his palm.
He can see the hate, fear, disbelief, fury, everything at once, twisted together in the eyes of villagers. Their leader is struggles to say something, choking with rage. And Dabi...
Dabi’s gaze is filled with warmth that has nothing to do with hell flames.
“Act as you desire, Keigo. The choice is yours.”
True name, given willingly, stays. It never leaves who it was given to, always lingering on edges, ready to come in need.
Hawks is a secondary name. It’s a simple name, spoken by humans on comprehensible for them scant language. It’s a hollow shape which grasps only a few superficial qualities.
Dabi has been calling him by his Name. Has inscribed the Name with his flames. Attempted to channel power through it, again and again, enough to bring Keigo from the verge of dissipation if he should.
That would make any other demon too weakened to even take its corporeal form. But he can feel power, radiating from under Dabi’s skin, waiting to be unleashed.
The Fallen One is insanely strong. And Keigo has been refusing his gifts, guarding himself with human creations.
It’s disrespectful.
He offers his left wrist to Dabi.
“Would you do me a favor?”
Dabi smirks.
“Anything for you, pretty bird,” he lazily flicks a talon.
The silver cuff falls to the ground, ripped in a half.
Keigo can feel it. It’s like an air flow rushing into a space he didn’t know was stifling. It’s all coming back, the senses, the clarity. The memories.
He steers his own regrown talon through the second bracelet, watching silver crumple, edges turning up and twisting. He has all time in the world.
The fetters fall, joining the heap of useless metal on the ground.
Keigo lifts his head, finally seeing the room like he should have.
And he – his blue eyes are there to meet him. Like he promised. No matter what, I’ll be there.
“Touya,” greets Keigo, taking a step to him.
And then everything is blue.