Chapter Text
Katsuki leaned back in his chair and turned just enough to glare over his shoulder at Izuku.
“Your hair sucks, by the way.”
Izuku didn’t even look up. He sighed, slow and long-suffering, sliding his math book into his bag and pulling out his English textbook instead.
“I know,” he said tiredly. “You don’t have to remind me between classes, Kacchan…”
“I do,” Katsuki snapped.
“I think it’s cool.” Jirou, slouched sideways at the desk beside him, jerked her thumb toward Izuku’s head. “That buzzed side? Kinda fire.”
Izuku blinked, then ducked his head slightly. “Thank you,” he muttered.
“Keep it,” Jirou added casually, already tapping her pencil against her notebook.
“Hell no.” Katsuki twisted fully toward her, bristling. “Absolutely not.”
She didn’t even look at him. “It’s not your hair.”
“Yeah, but I gotta see it, first thing in the morning.” he shot back, pointing accusingly at Izuku.
“Kacchan…” Izuku groaned, collapsing forward and resting his forehead against the cool surface of his desk.
They’d had this conversation a thousand times before. Every version ended the same way: Izuku should grow his hair out as fast as humanly possible because Katsuki couldn’t stand looking at it for some reason. Ochako always agreed—nodding thoughtfully like this was a serious aesthetic issue—and every time she sided with Katsuki, Izuku felt something in his chest flatten a little. Because seeing the two of them united over something so small made him want to shave it again. Just to watch them do it all over. Just to stay there a little longer.
Still—
“Who cut it, your mom?”
“What angle is that even supposed to be?”
“Did you lose a fucking bet?”
Those comments got old fast. Katsuki fired them off like they were part of his morning routine, each one familiar enough that Izuku could practically recite them in advance. It wasn’t hurtful—just exhausting, the way a joke stopped being funny the fiftieth time you heard it. He didn’t want to hear them every twenty steps to class, didn’t want to keep nodding along like this was new material.
So… yeah. He’d grow it out. Eventually. Just not fast enough to preserve Katsuki’s sanity. Besides. Letting it grow slowly felt like the only small rebellion he could get away with—and honestly, watching Katsuki suffer for it was kind of worth it.
Before Izuku could lift his head again, the classroom door slammed open with the dramatic force of a Broadway entrance.
“GOOOOOD MORNING, MY SPARKLING STAR STUDENTS!” Present Mic burst in like a living sound effect, coat flaring behind him, yellow sunglasses already on despite the fluorescent lighting. He spread his arms wide like he was greeting a sold-out crowd. “ARE WE READY TO ROCK ENGLISH TODAY?!”
“No,” said the class in perfect, exhausted unison.
Mic beamed. “LOVE the honesty! Energy’s lookin’ real hero-like!” He clapped his hands together, utterly unbothered, and Izuku lifted his head just enough to sigh again.
English class had begun.
…
Present Mic, in all his caffeinated sunshine and chaotic good intentions, had decided that what Class 2-A really needed—after months of barely surviving training exercises, villains, homework, and general emotional instability and war itself—was an essay about their childhood. In English. Not just any memory, either. The memory. The one that, if you wrote it honestly, would make someone finally understand you… or finally see the parts you tried so hard to keep hidden.
“The plot,” Present Mic had declared, stretching his arms wide like a ringmaster unveiling a circus disaster, “is that you’ll be writing about each other’s childhoods! Nothing brings people closer than trust and shared stories, yeah?!” Half the class groaned and Jirou openly threatened to drop out.
It wasn’t even surprising. From the moment they’d stepped into U.A., the second-years had warned them in hushed voices:
“Mic worships friendship. Like—full religion. He will make you bond.”
“Run if he mentions ‘soul-deep connection exercises.’”
“He once made us do a trust fall seminar that lasted three hours.”
And they’d been right.
Present Mic didn’t just encourage bonding—he preached it. Every week there was a new assignment he promised would make them “grow together,” like they were a garden he insisted on watering with emotional vulnerability. No one had the heart to tell him they were already bonded through shared trauma, late-night panic attacks, and that one week where everyone cried in the dorm laundry room. So now they were here, again, about to write essays about each other’s childhoods while Mic beamed at them like it was the purest gift he could give.
Naturally, Katsuki hated it on sight. An essay. About childhood. About digging up memories and laying them out neatly on paper like they hadn’t clawed their way into the dark for a reason. He’d survived worse than talking about the past—war, death, hospitals—but that didn’t mean he wanted to name it. Didn’t mean he wanted to hear someone else do the same, either. Listening to another person’s story sounded like a pain in the ass. Writing his own would’ve been easier. Cleaner. He could control it. Shape it. Cut around the parts that still burned if he thought about them too long. But when had anything ever been easy for them, really?
Katsuki clicked his tongue under his breath and shoved his notebook into his bag. The zipper caught halfway, teeth misaligned. He tugged at it with his left hand—until the resistance scraped at his nerves. His grip tightened. The familiar itch of irritation crept up his spine, sharp and hot, asking to be let loose.
Before he could answer it the loud way, a hand slipped into view. Scarred. Careful. Steady. It took the zipper between two fingers and eased it closed with a small, practiced pull.
“There,” Izuku said quietly. His hand lingered for half a second too long before pulling back, fingers curling into his sleeve like he hadn’t meant to let go. He adjusted the strap of his awful yellow bag without looking at Katsuki—then immediately did look, eyes flicking to his arm on instinct. “How’s your arm?” Izuku asked.
Katsuki scowled at the closed zipper like it had personally betrayed him.
“It’s fine,” he said, rolling his shoulder once, like the motion alone could shut the question down. “Don’t start.”
Izuku’s mouth pressed into that careful line it always did when Katsuki said don’t. The one that meant he was going to start anyway. “I wasn’t starting,” he said. “I was just asking.”
“You ask too much.”
“I ask the normal amount,” Izuku replied, then immediately ruined it by glancing at Katsuki’s arm again—bandaged and half-hidden beneath the uniform jacket. Katsuki hadn’t been able to lift it enough to get it properly through the sleeve.
“Recovery Girl said strain shows up late sometimes,” Izuku continued. “Especially after—”
“I know what she fucking said,” Katsuki snapped, sharper than he meant to. He exhaled hard through his nose and looked away. “I was there.”
Izuku flinched, then nodded. “Right. Yeah. Sorry.”
Silence settled between them—thick, but not heavy. The kind that had learned how to sit without choking either of them.
Katsuki clicked his tongue again, softer this time. “It doesn’t hurt,” he muttered. “Just stiff.”
Izuku blinked. “Oh. Okay.” A pause. “Stiff is still… something, though.”
Katsuki shot him a look. “You gonna write that in your essay or what?”
Izuku huffed before he could stop himself. “No—! I mean—Kacchan—”
“Stop worrying,” Katsuki said, but there was no heat in it. Just habit. “I didn’t crawl out of hell just to fall apart in homeroom.”
Something in Izuku eased at that—not relief, exactly, but acceptance. He smiled anyway. Small. Fond. “Yeah,” he said. “I know.”
Katsuki let out a breath through his nose and pushed his palms against the edge of the desk. The chair legs scraped softly as he stood, movement careful but unhesitating. He shrugged his bag back onto his shoulder, rolling it once like he was testing his balance.
Izuku stepped aside to give him room, then lingered there, unsure. His hands drifted to the straps of his backpack. He adjusted one, then the other, fingers worrying the fabric like he was bracing himself for something he still hadn’t decided to say.
A soft clink echoed from the doorway.
Katsuki’s attention shifted on instinct, his gaze sliding past Izuku toward the sound.
Kirishima was there, half-hidden by the frame, a water bottle rolling to a stop near his foot. He bent to pick it up, then straightened, leaning back against the wall like he’d been there the whole time.
He didn’t say anything. Just glanced over and grinned—easy, patient—lifting his chin in a silent you coming?
Izuku drew in a quiet breath.
“Kacchan—”
“Midoriya.”
The voice cut through the moment cleanly, not sharp, just certain.
They both turned.
Todoroki stood a few steps away, notebook tucked under his arm. He hadn’t rushed over—hadn’t even raised his voice. His expression was calm, settled, like he’d been standing there longer than either of them realized.
Izuku blinked. “Oh— Todoroki. Sorry, I—”
“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” Todoroki said, though he didn’t look particularly apologetic. His eyes stayed on Izuku. “But I was looking for you.”
Izuku straightened a little. “You were?”
Todoroki nodded once. “About the essay.” He shifted the notebook in his grip, thumb pressing along the spine like he was choosing his words carefully. “I was going to ask if you’d work with me.”
Izuku hesitated. “Me?”
“Yes.” Todoroki didn’t rush it. “If that’s all right.”
There was a small pause—just long enough to feel intentional.
“It would be easier,” Todoroki added. “For me.”
The words landed simply. No weight added to them. No explanation offered.
Izuku swallowed. His hands tightened around his backpack straps, then loosened again. “Yeah,” he said after a moment. “Yeah, of course. If that’s okay with you.”
Todoroki’s shoulders eased, just slightly. “Thank you.”
He didn’t leave right away. He shifted his notebook from one arm to the other, then took a step back—giving Izuku space without turning it into distance. Only after that did he look down, flipping the cover open like the decision had settled something he’d been holding onto for a long time.
Katsuki watched him move away, eyes following him longer than necessary.
When he turned back, Izuku was still standing where he’d been, shoulders drawn in, fingers hooked tight around his backpack straps like he was anchoring himself there.
“You were gonna say something,” Katsuki said.
Izuku startled, head snapping up. “I—what?”
“Don’t play dumb.” Katsuki’s voice wasn’t sharp. Just blunt. “You opened your mouth. Then shut it.”
Izuku’s gaze dropped almost immediately. He adjusted his grip again, fingers curling, uncurling, the motion small and restless. “It’s nothing,” he said quickly, like speed might make it true.
Katsuki frowned. “You don’t do nothing like that.”
“I do,” Izuku said, a little too fast. Then, after a breath, quieter, “Sometimes.”
The hallway noise swelled around them for a moment—footsteps, laughter, lockers slamming—but Katsuki stayed where he was, studying Izuku like he was deciding whether to push or let it lie.
“Tch.” He looked away first. “Whatever,” Katsuki muttered. “Keep your secrets.”
Izuku’s shoulders dipped as he let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “Sorry.”
“Didn’t ask.”
Katsuki turned toward the doorway—not abruptly, but like he’d already spent enough time standing still.
Kirishima straightened as soon as he saw him, pushing off the frame with an easy roll of his shoulders.
“You good?” Kirishima asked. “Bell’s about to ring.”
Katsuki adjusted his bag, settling it more comfortably this time. “Yeah.”
Kirishima’s gaze flicked past him, brief and thoughtful, landing on Izuku still standing by the desks. “Guess that means we’re set, huh?”
Katsuki snorted. “Who else would I work with?”
Kirishima laughed, bright and easy, already walking alongside him. “Man, Present Mic’s gonna eat this up.”
“Shut up,”
From where he stood, Izuku watched them go—the way they moved together without thinking, the way it fit so cleanly it almost felt decided long before the assignment ever existed.
Like it would’ve been strange if they weren’t partners.
Izuku looked down at his notebook.
After a moment, he opened it.
Carefully.
…
They were supposed to be back at the dorms by now.
That fact sat in Katsuki’s head like a loose tooth he kept worrying with his tongue. The only reason they weren’t was because Aizawa had called them up and told them to wait outside his office—no explanation, no tone, just the usual tired authority that meant don’t argue. Katsuki had assumed he was in trouble. He usually was.
What he hadn’t expected was Izuku already sitting there.
That part made it worse. Confusing was harder to deal with.
The sterile hallway hummed with the dormant energy of a thousand past lessons, the fluorescent lights casting a sickly yellow sheen on the polished floor. The smell of dust and disinfectant lingered together, like the building itself hadn’t decided whether it was done being a shelter or still pretending to be a school.
Katsuki leaned against the cool, unyielding wall beside Aizawa’s office door, his good arm crossed over his chest. The other strapped, immobilized just enough to be annoying—still new enough to complain—hung at an awkward angle, forever a testament to a war that had stolen more than just his ability to blast. His gaze, sharp and restless, flickered to the green-haired figure perched on the bench opposite.
Izuku, a patchwork quilt of pale scars across his face, a jagged line bisecting his right eyebrow, picked at a loose thread on his uniform trousers. His usually wild curls, now shorter and uneven, framed a profile etched with a weariness that went beyond physical injury. He also looked like he was about to explode from anxiety. His eyes kept drifting to the office door. Then to Katsuki. Then away again.
The boy’s head dipped, a sigh escaping him.
"Are we in trouble?" Izuku's voice, a low murmur, seemed to vibrate with a nervous energy. He didn't look up, as if acknowledging the question might conjure their impending doom.
"What else would it be?" Katsuki scoffed, pushing off the wall. The action sent a dull throb through his damaged arm, a familiar companion. "This is Aizawa. He doesn't call us in for tea and crumpets."
Izuku finally lifted his head, his emerald eyes—still bright despite the surrounding scar tissue—met Katsuki’s. "But… both of us? We haven't done anything. Not recently, anyway." A faint blush crept up his neck, a tell-tale sign of his internal panic.
"Speak for yourself, nerd. You probably breathed wrong." Katsuki shoved his hand into his pocket, the movement jarring his bad arm again. He bit back a grimace. "Or, more likely, you tripped over your own damn feet and caused a city-wide blackout."
A small, almost imperceptible smile touched Izuku's lips. "I haven't caused a city-wide blackout since… well, since that one time. And that was an accident!" He defended, his voice gaining a touch more volume.
"Every damn thing you do is an accident, nerd. That's your whole schtick." Katsuki moved closer, his good hand reaching out. He ruffled Izuku’s uneven hair, the coarse strands tickling his palm. "Stop worrying. You look like you're about to spontaneously combust."
Izuku swatted his hand away, a weak protest. "Kacchan! My hair’s already a mess. And I have a really bad feeling about this." He shivered, despite the warmth of the hallway. "It's not like mister Aizawa to call us both in for something small."
"He probably just wants to yell at us about our grades," Katsuki grumbled, though a knot tightened in his own stomach. He’d seen Aizawa’s 'disappointed' face enough times to know it spelled trouble. "Or tell you to stop mumbling. Or tell me to stop setting off explosions in the common room."
"You did set off an explosion in the common room yesterday," Izuku pointed out, a hint of accusation in his tone.
"It was a controlled explosion," Katsuki retorted, his voice rising. "And it was for science! To see how quickly the dust bunnies would evacuate the sofa cushions."
"The sofa cushions are now singed, Kacchan."
"Minor collateral damage! Besides, you were the one who suggested we test the 'structural integrity of various dorm furniture' with my Quirk." Katsuki smirked, remembering the chaos.
Izuku's eyes widened. "I said that as a joke! You took it seriously!"
"I take everything seriously, Deku. That's why I'm going to be the number one hero, and you're going to be… the number one mumbler."
A distant clatter echoed down the hall, growing steadily louder. Footsteps. Heavy, deliberate, and undeniably belonging to more than one person. Izuku’s nervous fidgeting intensified. Katsuki’s gaze sharpened, focusing on the approaching sound.
Then—around the corner—they appeared. Aizawa, looking even more sleep-deprived than usual, his dark hair a perpetual storm cloud around his head. Beside him, Iida Tenya, ramrod straight, his expression a mixture of duty and barely contained anxiety. And trailing slightly behind them, hands tucked into his pockets, was Todoroki Shoto, his bi-colored hair falling over one eye, his face a mask of serene indifference.
Katsuki’s jaw clenched. "What the hell is he doing here?" he muttered, gesturing with his head towards Todoroki.
Iida, ever the stickler, immediately chopped the air with his hand. "Bakugou! Such language is unbecoming of a hero in training!"
"Shut your damn mouth, Four Eyes," Katsuki snarled, ignoring the sting in his right arm. "Nobody asked you."
Aizawa stopped in front of them, his eyes, dark as obsidian, sweeping over the four students. A familiar weariness etched itself deeper into the lines around his mouth. "Problem children," he sighed, the words a well-worn mantra. "All of you."
Izuku scrambled to his feet, bowing deeply. "Mister Aizawa! We apologize for any trouble we may have caused!"
Katsuki rolled his eyes.
"It's fine, Midoriya," Aizawa said, his voice flat. "Though I'm sure you were about to cause some, given the company you keep." His gaze flickered to Katsuki, who bristled. "Come in. All of you." He pushed open the office door, revealing a room that was, against all odds, even more cluttered than usual. Papers were stacked in precarious towers on his desk, and a half-empty mug of coffee sat precariously close to the edge.
They filed in, the silence of the office amplifying the nervous tension. Iida sat on the edge of a visitor's chair, back straight, hands clasped. Izuku hovered, unsure where to settle, until Katsuki nudged him towards another chair. Todoroki, predictably, found the most out-of-the-way corner and leaned against the wall, a silent sentinel. Katsuki remained standing, arms crossed, his gaze fixed on Aizawa.
Aizawa settled behind his desk, running a hand through his perpetually messy hair. "I know you're all wondering why you're here. And no, Bakugou, it's not because you set fire to the common room sofa. Though we will be discussing that later."
Katsuki grunted, a small victory in knowing it wasn't the immediate cause.
"I’ve signed the four of you up for a mission," Aizawa began, his voice devoid of any real enthusiasm. He picked up a tablet, swiping a finger across the screen. "A protest. A rather large one, actually. It's been escalating for the past few days, and the media presence is… significant."
Izuku’s brow furrowed. "A protest? What kind of protest?"
"Against the proposed Quirk Registration Act," Aizawa explained, his eyes scanning the tablet. "The one that requires all Quirk users, regardless of profession, to undergo annual psychological evaluations and regular Quirk suppression training. It's… unpopular, to say the least."
"But why us?" Iida questioned, his hand chopping the air instinctively. "Surely this calls for pro heroes, not students."
"Normally, yes," Aizawa conceded, rubbing his temples. "However, the Hero Commission is spread thin. And, more importantly, they specifically requested students. Four of them, to be precise." He looked up, his gaze sweeping over their faces. "Apparently, your… unique dynamic… is seen as an asset."
Katsuki barked out a laugh, a harsh, humorless sound. "Our 'unique dynamic' is me wanting to throttle Deku and Half-and-Half, and Four Eyes being a stick in the mud."
"Kacchan!" Izuku hissed, mortified.
"Bakugou, your assessment, while crude, is not entirely inaccurate," Aizawa stated, a flicker of something akin to amusement in his tired eyes. "The Commission believes that seeing young, diverse heroes, even those with… complicated histories… working together will help de-escalate the situation. A show of unity, if you will. Especially with the media swarming the area."
Todoroki, who had been silent until now, spoke, his voice a low, even tone. "So, we are essentially public relations tools."
Aizawa sighed. "Essentially, yes. Your job is to be visible. To project calm and reassurance. To prevent things from spiraling out of control if any agitators try to turn the protest violent. No direct intervention unless absolutely necessary. Think of it as crowd control, but with more smiling." He paused, then added, "Which, for some of you, will be the hardest part." His gaze lingered on Katsuki.
"I don't smile, old man," Katsuki grumbled.
"Then grimace reassuringly," Aizawa countered without missing a beat. "Look, I wouldn't have volunteered you if I had a choice. But the Commission gave me an ultimatum: send four students, or I'd have to send more. And frankly, I'd rather send you four chaotic idiots than a whole class of them."
Iida adjusted his glasses, a thoughtful expression on his face. "So, our primary objective is to maintain peace and prevent escalation, while also presenting a positive image of heroes to the public."
"Precisely, Iida," Aizawa affirmed. "You'll be positioned at key points around the protest perimeter. Your presence alone should deter most troublemakers. If things do get out of hand, you are authorized to use non-lethal force to subdue individuals and protect civilians. But again, de-escalation is your first priority. No unnecessary Quirk usage. No property damage. And absolutely no engaging with the media directly. If they approach, refer them to the designated press liaison."
Izuku's mind was already racing, analyzing the scenario. "What about the protesters themselves? Are they hostile?"
"The majority are peaceful," Aizawa replied, tapping the tablet again. "But emotions are running high. There have been reports of fringe elements attempting to incite violence. That's where you come in. You're young, you're recognizable—especially after the war—and you represent a new generation of heroes. Your presence is meant to be a calming influence."
Katsuki snorted. "A calming influence? I'm Katsuki Baku—"
"Which is why you'll be on a very short leash, Bakugou," Aizawa said, his tone leaving no room for argument. "One wrong move, and you're back in the dorms, scrubbing toilets with a toothbrush."
Katsuki glowered, but said nothing. The threat of manual labor, however mundane, was enough to keep him quiet.
"The protest is already underway," Aizawa continued, rising from his desk. "A car will be waiting for you outside in fifteen minutes. You'll be briefed further on site by a Pro Hero named Ryukyu. She'll be your supervising hero for this assignment. Any questions?"
Iida raised a hand immediately. "Mister Aizawa, what are the specific parameters for non-lethal force? And what is the chain of command in case of a critical incident?"
Aizawa pinched the bridge of his nose. "Iida, Ryukyu will cover the specifics. For now, just remember: keep people safe, don't make things worse, and try not to get yourselves killed. Or arrested."
Todoroki pushed off the wall, his voice a quiet rumble. "Are there any known Quirk users among the agitators?"
"Intelligence suggests a few minor Quirk users have been seen among the more vocal groups," Aizawa confirmed. "Nothing that should pose a significant threat to any of you, but be aware. Don't underestimate anyone."
Izuku, still processing, finally spoke, his voice laced with a familiar concern. "Mister Aizawa, with the media there, and emotions running high… isn't there a risk that our presence could be seen as an escalation in itself? Like the heroes are there to shut down a peaceful protest?"
Aizawa paused, his gaze thoughtful. "That's a valid concern, Midoriya. Which is why your demeanor is crucial. You're not there to shut down the protest. You're there to protect the right to protest, and to ensure it remains peaceful. It's a delicate balance. One that requires more maturity than I usually expect from you lot." He looked at them all, a rare, almost imperceptible hint of a challenge in his eyes. "Don't disappoint me."
He then gestured towards the door. "Go. Get your gear. Be outside in fifteen."
Katsuki scoffed, but a flicker of something else—a grudging acceptance, perhaps even a spark of anticipation—danced in his eyes. He turned, limping slightly as he headed for the door, Izuku trailing a step behind him, still mulling over the complexities of the mission. Iida, ever diligent, was already striding purposefully, undoubtedly mentally reviewing hero protocols. Todoroki simply followed, a silent, unwavering presence.
As they exited Aizawa's office, the sterile hum of the hallway seemed to take on a new weight, the promise of a volatile crowd and flashing cameras hanging in the air. The war had left its marks on them, visible and invisible, but the call to protect, to serve, still resonated, pulling them towards the unknown. Even if it meant being a smiling, grimacing, silent, or mumbling public relations tool.
…
The acrid tang of ozone still burned his nostrils, a metallic, sickly sweet flavor that coated the back of his throat. He tasted ash, grit, and something else—something profoundly wrong, something that made his stomach clench and heave. The world was a raw throb, a relentless drumbeat behind his eyes, a spinning kaleidoscope of violent reds and bruised purples, then black. Then red again, pulsed by the pain.
His head lolled, a dead weight on a surface that scraped his cheek with a rough, insistent texture. Stone, maybe? Or rusted metal. His limbs felt disconnected, heavy as lead ingots. Each breath was a shallow, painful rasp—the pressure crushing his chest was immense, a mountain of displaced debris pressing down. His ears rang, a high-pitched whine that screamed louder than any alarm. He tried to move, to push against the weight, but his limbs wouldn't respond. A dull ache throbbed deep in his bones, then sharpened into a searing agony that shot through his entire being.
His eyelids fluttered, heavy curtains reluctant to part. The world remained a distorted blur, fractured by dust and the grotesque shapes of twisted rebar. His vision swam. He swallowed, a dry, rasping sound, and coughed. The cough ripped through his chest, sending fresh waves of torment through his ribs. Something wet trickled down his chin, hot and viscous. He touched it, tentatively, fingers clumsy, uncoordinated. When he pulled his hand back, it was slick with crimson.
Blood.
"You fool! You'll die!"
The pressure on his chest intensified, squeezing the air from his lungs. He gasped, a ragged, whistling sound. Each breath was a razor-sharp blade raking through his ribs. He felt wetness spreading across his back, soaking into his tattered hero suit. Not sweat. He knew that much. His eyes, struggling to focus, managed to discern a horrifying reality. The source of the pressure, the grotesque weight pinning him, was organic. Not concrete. Not steel.
Her.
What remained of her.
Her body, or what was left of it after the intimate, self-annihilating explosion, was a grotesque, unrecognizable mess. A tangle of viscera, bone, and flesh. She had not merely exploded outwards. She had ruptured. And he, in his attempt to contain her, had become the receptacle for the most horrifying parts of her. He was covered in her. Her blood, her tissue, her very being.
A wave of nausea crashed over him, hot and violent. His stomach churned, bile rising in his throat. He tried to push himself up again, to escape the sickening intimacy of her shredded remains, but the movement only exacerbated the pain. A sharp, cracking sound echoed from somewhere deep within him, and a scream tore from his throat, raw and animalistic.
"Get off me!" he choked, though the words were mangled, caught in his burning throat. He was yelling at the debris, at the building. He was yelling at her. At the remnants of her, plastered against him, fusing with his own torn flesh.
He could feel the texture of her. The slick, gelatinous mass of organ matter. The rough fragments of bone. The matted hair, still clinging to a part of her scalp, now pressed against his cheek, tickling his skin with its damp, clumpy strands. The smell was overpowering now, a coppery stench of blood and something sickly sweet, like burnt meat and rotten fruit, mixed with the pungent odor of his own sweat and the metallic tang of his own blood.
He clamped his eyes shut, trying to block it out, but the sensations were too vivid, too immediate. He could taste it, the metallic tang, the grit on his tongue. He could feel it, the grotesque weight, the sticky wetness. His body rebelled. His stomach spasmed violently, and he retched, a dry, painful heave that did nothing to clear the burning bile in his esophagus.
"No... no... fuck!"
His mind raced, a torrent of chaotic thoughts. Where was he? Who else was here? Was anyone else hurt? He tried to call out, but his voice failed him, dissolving into a strangled croak. His lungs burned, screaming for air, yet each breath was an ordeal.
The rubble shifted slightly, a groan of tortured metal and cracking concrete. The world tilted, then resettled, pressing down with renewed malice. A sharp, jagged shard of something, he couldn't tell what, dug into his hip. Another scream, this one weaker, more a whimper, tore from him.
He was trapped. Buried alive. And covered in... this.
His vision pulsed. Black crept in at the edges, threatening to consume him. He forced his eyes open again, trying to take stock. His right arm felt dead, useless. His left hand, though numb, still clenched painfully. He tried to move it, but the movement sent a jolt of unimaginable pain through his shoulder. He gasped, his mouth open, sucking in dust and the pervasive scent of death.
Then, a new sensation. A peculiar vibration against his chest, rhythmic and faint. He realized, with a jolt of horror, that it was her heart. Or what was left of it. Still beating? No, impossible. It was a muscle spasm. A final, macabre twitch. But it felt like... a pulse. A ghost of a pulse, thrumming against his own rapidly failing heart.
He couldn't breathe. The air felt thick, heavy, like sludge. His chest constricted, tighter and tighter. He clawed at the debris with his good hand, nails tearing, scraping against the rough concrete, against something soft and squishy that yielded sickeningly.
His breaths grew shallower, more frantic. Each one was a desperate fight for survival, a painful, wheezing gasp. His body trembled uncontrollably, seized by a violent rigor. He felt cold, then burning hot. Sweat, mixed with blood and other fluids, plastered his hair to his forehead.
The black returned, bolder now, creeping in from all sides, a hungry maw ready to consume him. He fought it, thrashed against it, but his strength was gone. His muscles burned, screaming in protest.
The girl's face, her wide eyes, flashed before him. The moment of impact. The way her skin had stretched, distorted, then burst. The spray of crimson, hot and thick, erupting from within her.
He swallowed. It wasn't just bile anymore. His throat constricted, and he felt a gush of liquid erupt from his mouth, hot and chunky. It splashed against the debris, against his chin, against her. A horrifying mix of stomach acid, undigested food, and blood. The smell intensified, sickeningly sweet, putrid, and metallic. He gagged again, convulsing. His eyes rolled back in his head.
The ringing in his ears reached a fever pitch, then abruptly ceased, plunging him into a terrifying, suffocating silence. The pressure became unbearable, squeezing the last vestiges of life from him. His limbs went limp. His body finally gave out, surrendering to the overwhelming weight, the unimaginable pain, the suffocating terror.
His last conscious thought was of the girl's eyes, dissolving into nothingness against his chest.
Then, only black. Absolute, profound black.