Chapter Text
For as long as people have been in the city, there’s been a drug problem. They go further back even than our neighboring countries' involvement in the infamous Opium wars, though the event brought an influx of traffickers from China to Japan to distribute, and since then law enforcement has been working day in and day out against this festering plague, always one day behind. It trickles down, from the largest producers down to a local teenager feeling rebellious. Arresting drug traffickers and seizing their assets, particularly violent ones, eats up a massive portion of modern Hero’s time on the job. My agency is taking charge of another massive raid, and today is our last day to gather all of the intel we can before our heist tonight.
There’s a distraction sitting across from me on the floor, though.
“Shouldn’t you be out on patrol?” I glance over to the frustratingly nonchalant hero whose smile doesn’t waver an inch at what would have felt like a threat to any other person. The up-and-coming number-two hero feels the need to take his time to answer me, like I’m not busy trying to run Endeavor Agency on my own. Speaking of, he should be off at the Hero Commission writing up reports and processing criminals.
“There’s not much going on,” he finally says when he reaches my desk. He sets an iced beverage on my desk, presumably coffee, while he sips another he has in his own hands.
“It’s still your job. And I’m not much a fan of coffee served cold,” I reply at the sight of the beverage. He laughs with frustrating genuity.
“Who said that’s for you, big guy? Maybe it’d help with the grouchy mood, though.”
“If that’s yours, all that caffeine can’t be doing you any favors.”
Hawks smiles at me, just at eye level while I’m sitting in my chair and he’s standing.
“Well, how will I stay faster than you without all my performance-enhancing drugs?” he hums. Hawks chooses to ignore the couch and sit on the floor, a few feet away from my desk.
He does this quite often. Comes into my office and sits around for five minutes to eat or drink or take one of man’s quickest naps. On the floor, of course. I don’t stop him, but I don’t like this whole deal, either. Hawks pulls a wrapped sandwich out of his pocket, of all places, and tosses his dusty gloves aside before practically tearing the thing open.
“Y’know,” he says, mouth full and half the sandwich already gone, “One of these days, I’m gonna text you before I show up. And I’ll bring you a sandwich, too.”
“That wouldn’t be terrible,” I mumble, studying an incident report on my laptop. I have to strain my eyes to see, even with my laptop zoomed in. I’ve been staring at this screen for hours now.
“Mhm.” He throws an empty wrapper to the side and pulls out another sandwich. Typical. “It’d be funny if someone robbed the store and I saved them, so they gave me a lifetime supply of free sandwiches.” I see his golden eyes looking up at me over my computer.
“For the last time, Hawks, I am not holding the cashier of the Poppy Seed Pantry at gunpoint for you.” He gasps and covers his face with his hand, which is stained with battle scars and a pink sauce from his sandwich.
“Endeavor! Of course not! They’d recognize your fatass the second you stepped in there! Just get your receptionist to do it!” For all the shit I give Hawks – not out loud, of course – he does manage to have his moments. Somehow.
“You have your own receptionist. I’m not ruining my agency’s name for the sake of your lunches.”
“No, but, like, I dunno. You’ve had your run, man. You’re getting up there!” Hawks tosses aside a second sandwich wrapper, his entire lunch demolished in about a minute flat. I only see the sandwich is gone because of the glare I cast at him over my computer. Hawks stares at me a tad too genuinely.
“I’m not old.”
“No, no, I didn’t say that.”
There’s a few moments where the only sound is the clock ticking on the wall, and of course, him obnoxiously slurping his coffee.
“But if I had to like, shoot one person out of two, and like, one of them was your age and one of them was my age-”
“That’s enough.” Hawks is feeling indecently bold today, apparently. I struggle to decipher what might be going through his mind at any time, especially when he’s being so rambunctious as to pose some sort of veiled threat to shoot me. I obviously understand Hawks is not quite a normal individual. He’s effectively an orphan, unless government officials paid to give him the cold shoulder count as parents. He’s not a well-socialized person, and part of me wholeheartedly believes that he sincerely has no idea that what he’s saying isn’t normal. The other half of me wonders why these things never slip out on TV – There must be some understanding. I understand that Hawks surely doesn’t trust me enough to tell me what I want to know, what would fill in the blanks.
I also understand that I’m not special to Hawks. He hates nothing more than being tied down by commitment. By bonds, family, people. He likes to be free, and he likes to rank low. Though, having recently risen to number two Hero, he feels obligated to act like we’re friends. At least, that’s my theory as to why he comes in here every other week or so just to sit on the floor.
Needless to say, Hawks is an interesting one.
“But like, it’s like the trolley question, but the version where the five people are all really old and the one is young and you have to switch it to the track for the young person. Or, was it there were five young people and one old person? Five old people and five young people?”
“I’m not that old, and you’re not going to shoot me or run me over with any trains.” Hawks smiles. Why? I wish someone on the face of the planet could explain that.
“No, of course not!” He snaps his fingers, looking up at me. I can almost see the lightbulb over his head. “No! The thing was, like, an old dude comes in for a checkup, right? And there’s a young tourist dude who desperately needs another heart. And when I say young I mean like younger than me,” Hawks tangents, “and old I mean like older than you. So basically, do you give the old dude’s heart to the young guy just b’cause he’s younger?” Hawks frowns again. “No, wait, I think the old guy was the tourist. Wait, that doesn’t make sense…” He’s quiet for a moment while he shakes his iced coffee for no particular reason other than to make noise. “Anyway, what would you do in that scenario, Mr. Number One?”
“You’ve failed to describe any scenario to me.”
“I described at least ten.”
“If you’re choosing to look at it so optimistically,” I mutter, eyes glued to my laptop screen, “then maybe. But you’re not the one this question is directed at.”
“I’d pull the lever.”
“In what scenario?”
“The one where there’s the old dude on the side tracks.” With a flap of his wings, he’s up off the floor of my office, back on his feet, taking his second coffee in his hand. “But I’m off to my apartment. Probably gonna catch some Z’s before the raid tonight.”
“I was starting to think you have a problem with me,” I sigh.
“Hm? Why’s that? ” I open my mouth to redundantly explain why it sounds like he wants to hurt me, but when I look up, he’s gone.
His two sandwich wrappers and discarded coffee cup are still on my office floor.
Typical.
His nap is more important than having the rules of socializing explained to him for the umpteenth time. Though, he did seem a little worn today, and did feel the need to have not one, but two thirty-ounce coffees with him. It’s absurd. I don’t know how his heart can handle that. I get sick trying to finish a ten ounce cup, which I might only have out of desperation to escape a liquor-onset headache.
I have to wonder how many missions he takes. Just like anyone, heroes have labor laws protecting us, though they’re loose and there’s not much punishment to our employers – that being government agents in the executive sector – for violating them, particularly for missions. There is an exception for a workday to be longer than twelve hours, given the overtime is part of a mission. There’s been lots to clean up around the city, and Hawks likes to take it upon himself to lighten the load of other heroes. He takes his mission statement seriously. I worry that the load has become too much to bear alone, though.
It’s no wonder he’s risen to number two. He cares about nothing more than keeping this city safe and unified. Given All Might’s recent retirement and the growing pandemonium around the notorious villain group all of the top agencies are trying to investigate, the public has been in desperate search of a new Symbol. The title has skipped over me, it seems, and some are arguing it may belong to Hawks, though that alone is a hot debate I don’t wish to engage in.
The public is seldom ever so split on an issue. It’s a dodecahedronal arena, with everyone backed into their obtuse corner. Some say it’s unethical to demand heroes to fill All Might’s role, rather that they should form their own identities; Some disregard the idea of ‘passing the torch’ because there could never be someone so great as All Might. The other corners are of advocates for heroes who the public believes holds the torch now, though if I have a corner in this ring, it’s not a very popular one. I suppose I only have myself to blame for that.
❅───✧✦✧───❅
That evening, in the cover of setting darkness, I exit the agency from the back and use my quirk to quickly travel to Shinjuku. Being such a popular district for its so-called night life, it’s no shock that a lot of these circles pop up here. Of course, they’re all over the city, and the country, but this area is densely populated, meaning more people to produce, and a lot more to sell it to.
I arrive on the scene first, then pace around for a bit to scope out the area. My senses are on high alert, listening for any unaccounted for movement. The area we must target is the cellar of a convenience store this time, and walking around the building, there’s a window or two above ground that are completely blacked out that would have led into the target building.
The largest issue is deciding how to get underground. We have a few plans. The first being, I enter the store and demand to see the cellar.
When I do, the cashier frowns and glances around.
“I’m not sure we have a cellar,” the kid responds. I tuck my ID away, glancing around the store. “But I’ll ask my manager.”
I follow behind the clerk, checking behind myself to see if any of my colleagues – or worse, one of my opponents – have arrived. I’m not entirely comfortable stepping into the cramped box of a manager’s office, but nobody pulls any weapons on me. An old man looks up from a computer to me, and is clearly very shocked to see me.
“Wow, a hero! What can I do for you?”
“I need access to your cellar, immediately.”
“My cellar?” The man furrows his eyebrows. “I’m sorry, but I can’t help you. The cellar, you see, is an extension of my neighbor’s building. The apartment complex next door owns the cellar.”
“You understand any omission of the truth can result in legal action?”
“Y-yes, yes, of course I know that! I am telling the truth! Please, go knock next door. It’s their cellar, not mine! And it has some peculiar odors that deter the customers. It seeps through the floor. My goodness, please, do whatever you need!”
“Understood. Thank you for your compliance.” I turn, not letting my guard down for an instant, but nothing comes of it. I exit the store, out onto the streets. When I look up, Hawks lets me know he’s here by briefly fluttering his wings. He’s atop the building across the street, seeming small above the crowds. He can make himself large by extending his wings, with a wingspan of approximately thirty feet if I’m recalling correctly, but he’s very good at hiding for a man with that feature, as well.
I glance around. Mirko was supposed to arrive before him, but I don’t see her. I glance back up at Hawks, but he gives me no signal. That’s not a great sign.
The next door neighbor doesn’t seem to enjoy visitors. The door is several feet behind a metal fence that requires a buzzer or a key to enter. I press the buzzer, then stand for a long moment, waiting. When nothing comes of it, I decide I must take matters into my own hands. I touch my middle finger and my thumb, concentrating Hellflame only there, until their flames burn together. I separate my fingers, which now seem tied together by a bright purple flame that I use to carve through the metal lock.
I push the gate open and give my final warning as a hard knock on the front door. That one seems to alarm whoever’s in there. A scrawny man opens the door, looking up at me as if I’d already promised to kill him.
“Are you the owner of this house?” I demand.
“N-no, I–”
“Do you have access to the cellar?”
“The cellar? Man, I don’t know about no cellar,” he says quickly.
“Then you don’t mind if I have a look around?”
“Where’s the warrant?”
I tug a piece of paper out of my pocket and let the man look over it. “It’s a warrant for the market next door, but probable cause has brought us here. The store owner claimed that the cellar is a part of this home. We know what’s in that cellar.”
“Tch…” The man stumbles back, glancing around. “Hey, Comet,” he shouts. “Someone lunged the dogs at us!”
We’re still for a moment. There’s no reply.
“Comet!!” He shouts again. He stumbles back when another man, one of a larger stature than he, faceplants onto the warped hardwood floor a bit down the narrow hall. The man has a piece of fabric over his mouth, and his hands are tucked behind his back in handcuffs.
“That your comet?” a deep woman’s voice calls.
“Ah, Mirko. I was wondering where you’d gone.”
“Y-yeah, that’s Comet,” the man mutters, wide-eyed. “Shit…”
“That’s our man,” I say. “Maroen Ishima. Thirty-two, unemployed… And apparently, Shinjuku’s new Opium kingpin.”
Mirko nods, her hands on her hips, before tugging the man back onto his feet.
“What’cha got going on in that basement, kid?” she demands, sliding the fabric off of Comet’s mouth. He gasps, then grits his teeth.
“You’ll get nothin’ from me. I have no idea what you’re talkin’ about.” He turns and licks his teeth, before spitting on Mirko’s foot. She curses and wipes her foot on the man’s cargo pants to get it off.
“Man, ew. Why’s your spit black? All the shit you got in the cellar got anything to do with it?”
“I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.”
“Endeavor, let’s get these two in cuffs and start moving some product.”
“I see no reason to delay.” When I turn, though, the man I was speaking to a moment ago has vanished.
“Ha! Better luck next time, heroes! They should call you butterfingers, way he slipped outta here! Like he was a lubed–” Mirko slides the gag back on, then tugs on his handcuffs.
“Enough out of you, man,” she hisses.
“Yoohoo! Someone wanted to ditch the function too soon!” Hawks walks back in, holding the criminal by his wrists behind his back. “Party’s just getting started now that we’re here, man.” He grabs a pair of cuffs from his belt loop and slaps them on the guy. “Any more guests we should know about?”
“N-nah, man, just us,” he mutters.
“Oh, bullshit,” Hawks huffs, rolling his eyes. He shuts the front door and slides an interior metal lock shut. “Van’s out back, cops’re here to do the boring stuff. What a waste of a raid,” he mutters. “Let’s get to that cellar and gather some evidence.”
“Yeah, baby,” Mirko cheers.
“I’ll escort these two to the cars. You two, head down to the cellar. Keep your guard up; There could be more down there.”
“Not that I saw,” Mirko shrugs.
“You were down there already? Man, shoulda waited for me,” Hawks huffs. “Let’s go.”
I take a few minutes to drag the two criminals with shuffling feet to the cars out back, ignoring quiet pleas of ‘you don’t have to do this,’ and ‘I’ll stop right now, forever, if you just let me go.’ I don’t have much sympathy; A strength at work, but a detriment at home.
When I step back inside, the second door of the hall is swung open, and the first floor of the home is filled with a repugnant odor. I wince, but based off of the scent, it should be safe to be downstairs for at least half an hour. That is, before the fumes will get to our heads and make us ill.
I walk downstairs, and just as I round the corner, a loud crack nearly makes me jump. Hawks steps back, another frail looking individual collapsing to the ground. She twitches a bit, before reaching out for Hawks’s ankle.
“Nuh-uh, lady,” he mutters, stepping away.
“Endeavor. One in the closet. Knocked a few things over when she jumped out. I’m getting lightheaded… What’s the move?” she asks as Hawks paces around the room, rifling through the plants and cabinets full of equipment. A lot of highly particular processing is needed to convert these plants into what they want to make.
“Word must get to the police to wear some sort of full-face mask if they want to safely remove all of the product here. It’s not safe to open windows, given the amount of people out tonight. The fumes will particularly irritate young children and elderly people. We’ll have to bear it tonight, unfortunately, but I’m sure my doctor will be happy to examine us all afterwards.”
“Then the air-pros will air out the building?”
“It is their job,” I respond.
“Sweet. Like that.” Mirko paces around, glancing over plants and powders scattered across the tables.
“Whaddya think this shit does to you?”
“Well, ‘this stuff’ could be a lot of things, since so many things branch from the opium found in these plants. Though, we know this particular group has been pushing oxycodone. These types of drugs will alter the senses, and severely damage one’s ability to perceive the world while under the influence. But, I also understand that a high is a very calming experience. One of the effects it may have is to stimulate one’s brain to make more dopamine. As I’m assuming you know by now, that’s the part that makes them so addictive.”
“I’ve never seen a calm tweaker,” Mirko mumbles, grabbing a pill container with a plastic bag to keep her fingerprints off of it.
“The high doesn’t last as long as the withdrawal.”
“Shame,” she sighs. “But I get it. Don’t tell my bosses, but I smoked weed once or twice in high school, up in the UA dorms. It felt cool to do that. This shit’s too far, though.”
“Your secret is safe with me.”
She laughs, then goes quiet. As I examine a box full of needles, wondering if these are used or not, I see her glance up and around. “Yo, Endeavor, did you see Hawks slip out?”
Above us suddenly echoes with the sounds of rushed, heavy footsteps. We both look up, then exchange a glance. Police walk down into the cellar, donning respirator masks and weapons. When they see us, they tuck them away. Behind them is Hawks.
“Speak of the devil,” I respond.
“You were talkin’ about me?” He laughs, scratching his hair. “About my beautifully toned biceps, I presume.”
“I was thinkin’ about those chicken wings,” Mirko teases. “Aye, coppers! Bottle of pills, no label, but got tack on it like someone ripped it off. Means these used to belong to someone, ink might’ve seeped through and left a name of the seller on the bottle. Let me know if you dig up more of ‘em.”
“Chicken wings,” Hawks hums. Police swarm around him, moving into the cellar and out, transporting as much product as they can with every handful. I suppose they want to be out of here just as bad, when they’re in and out in a minute with a dozen plants.
“Yeah, chicken wings!” Mirko and I both whip around when another person hurls themselves down the stairs and latches onto Hawks’s wings.
“What the–!” He immediately tries spreading them, and gets very immediately agitated when he can’t. I can see it in the tick of his jaw, in the widening of his eyes. Hawks runs backwards, slamming the newest intruder into the wall. “What the hell! Nuh-uh!”
“Hawks! Lay down on ‘em!” Mirko shouts, as if this is some wrestling match and not her colleague being attacked.
“Hollow bones, lady,” he shouts, hitting the person against the wall again. That is a big concern. If he did decide to flop over onto a concrete floor, for whatever reason, he is very susceptible to breaking something.
“Ugh!” the man protests, his voice shaking as Hawks slams him into the brick wall again. He doesn’t relent, then leans forward and bites the joint of Hawks’s wing.
“Fuckin’- EW!”
“Oh, damn,” she mutters.
“Why don’t you help your colleague instead of being his cheerleader!?” I demand.
“Why don’t you help your colleague? It’s just a tweaker, he can handle it.”
I huff, stepping forward and placing my palms together. I aim Hellfire at the new man clutching onto Hawks’s wings.
“Gah! God damn it! Damn it, damn it!” He jumps off, patting his shirt until it’s no longer burning. There are blisters lining his side.
“Hawks, cuff him,” I say shortly. Hawks seems to have no intention of doing such a thing, though.
“I know what you did, bird brain! I know what you did! I’ll never forgive you!” The man takes a lunging step forward, and I hear Hawks shuffle back. I turn to where he stands, now behind me, but he’s too preoccupied cowering to have that thought. He thickly swallows. He doesn’t have to worry for long, though, when the police reenter the basement for another round of hauling things away.
“Endeavor,” the first in line says, gazing at the man who cradles his side.
“Cuff him. Surprise attacker,” I respond.
“Understood.”
So, instead of a plant, the first cop carries away a man. I turn to Hawks.
“Why didn’t–” I’m interrupted by the sight of Mirko hitting his wings. I’m about to ask what the hell she’s doing when I see smoke rising from the feathers.
I am truly an idiot.
Hawks’s wings are flammable. Of course setting the person attached to them on fire would make the fire spread. That’s why I asked Mirko to assist, though I figured I had better aim than that.
“Oh, my– Hawks, I’m sorry! I didn’t think my attack through at all.”
“It…” He mutters, but drifts off immediately. His wings flutter behind him, now less than half of the size they once were. His hands seem to be shaking as he rubs his face. “Oh, man… Oh man oh man oh man…” The hinge joint at the peak of his right wing is stained a darker red.
“I’ll be absolutely sure my medical team looks at your wings when we return, Hawks,” I say. Mirko swats at his smoldering wings one last time as they’re spread behind him. Hawks rubs his face.
“Oh, man!” He shouts.
“Hawks–”
“Not you,” he immediately says. “I can’t stand when people grab my wings. Makes me wanna claw my damn skin off.” He rakes his fingers up his arms, dropping his head. Mirko and I exchange a glance.
“...Hawks, perhaps it would be best if you would head home tonight. You’re injured, and your greatest asset has been damaged. Mirko and I will search the house.”
“Yeah, well. I can’t get home. Seeing as, I can’t fly with ten feathers to my name.”
“I took my agency’s van up here. You can take it back with me,” Mirko offers. Hawks mutters something, rubbing his hair.
“Yeah. I could use a lift.”
“To Endeavor’s agency, right?” she asks, looking up at me. Hawks does, too, albeit with more confusion.
“Yes. I insist we all speak to my doctor and have a brief assessment after the spilling of chemicals and the odd fumes.”
“Y-your, uh, doctor,” Hawks muses. “I have my own. At the facility.”
“You don’t get it, Hawks,” Mirko says, draping an arm over his shoulders and turning to exit the cellar. I was becoming desperate, as well. My eyes were beginning to water, and I could swear my vision seems to be too narrow. “Endeavor’s agency has some of the top doctors in the nation. I went with him and Kamui last time we did a raid, and the doctor not only gave me some meds, but also told me that I need to fix my form in battle, because my right leg is too strong and that means I could get a limp when I get old. He’s great!”
“Wow,” Hawks mumbles, his eyes a bit wide. “So, he can just tell you anything?”
“He has a special sort of quirk that enables him to more easily detect alters to homeostasis, as he describes it. Of course, it took some getting used to, and he is an accomplished physician outside of his quirk–”
“And he’s got a whole team with real neat quirks just like it!”
“That’s right,” I muse.
“I’m lookin’ forward to seeing that old fart. He’s kinda fun!” Mirko jeers.
“Let’s focus on finding anything else imperative to our investigation, first. Look for needles, cash, other substances, and be sure to check the fridge and freezer, if you find one. Let’s hope opium is the only thing these people were trafficking.”
“Right,” Mirko nods, turning to walk off to the kitchen.
Hawks follows me off, though. Unable to escape, and his defenses weakened, he knows it’s best to stick with somebody for the rest of the evening.
I don’t mind the company.