Chapter Text
He is dying, and he knows it. Every breath is a jagged pull around the rebar speared through his chest. Every exhale rattles, wet and thick. The world narrows to heat, smoke, and the copper taste of his own blood on his tongue. Had he bought enough time? Had his sons and the human resistance managed to flee? He hopes so. More for his sons than the humans who’d been driven into the sewers after the Shredder’s first attack. The humans had not asked for this war. Neither had his boys. He remembers hearing it first, of course. How could he not? The explosions. The screaming. The distant thunder of collapsing buildings. His sons had wanted to go to the surface, to “check it out.” He had stopped them. He had assumed it was human business and resolved to keep out of it. Not because he hated humans, but because he genuinely believed their problems were not his family’s responsibility. They were ghosts, after all. Rats in the walls. The world above had never wanted them. He had been very wrong about that. He remembers the moment the televisions in their lair flickered, then shifted to a hijacked broadcast. Shredder’s mask filled the screen.
“I have taken over your silly government,” the man who had ordered his master’s death intoned. “This is a warning to all of New York: either you follow me, or you die. That is all.”
Humans had begun fleeing underground soon after. The first resistance leader he met was a Mrs. April O’Neil, clothes torn, face streaked with grime, but eyes sharp. She had taken one look at him and said,
“You walk, you talk. As far as I’m concerned, you’re just a very strangely furry human. Will you help me find safe spaces for our wounded?”
And he had. His boys had been so surprised when he introduced her. April, who did not scream. Who did not flinch. Who called them by name. He wonders now, as his blood soaks the broken concrete beneath him, if she will keep them safe. If she can. He had done his best. Challenged Shredder to a duel to the death. Told his sons to run. He remembers being both proud and horrified when his blade finally took Shredder’s head. A clean strike. The end of a monster. He remembers turning, ready to tell his sons that he had done it, that they were free—— and the shock of the gauntlet punching through his chest from behind. He remembers the horror as he realized he had not ended anything at all. That the armor still moved. That the hatred inhabiting it had not died with what he'd thought was a man. Now Shredder has gone. The battlefield has moved on without him. Splinter is alone with his thoughts and the slow seep of his life into the earth.
He wishes he had been a better father.
He wishes he had had more time.
More time to tell Raphael that his anger does not make him unlovable.
More time to tell Leonardo that he is allowed to rest, that leadership is not a punishment.
More time to tell Donatello how proud he is of the things he cannot begin to understand.
More time to tell Michelangelo that he will have to keep the light for their family when Splinter is gone.
The worst part is the creeping certainty that none of it has mattered. Not his insistence on secrecy. Not his love. Not even his meagre protection. He is going to die, and all he can hope for now is that he will see his sons one last time. His last thought, as his eyes close, is simple:
Watch over them for me, please… Master Yoshi.
Shota Aizawa is going to die. He knows it the moment he steps into a fight against more villains than he has ever faced at once. He goes in anyway. That is the job. Mentally, he apologizes to Hizashi. Mentally, he says goodbye to the creature who has been his father in all but blood—Nedzu. And then he does what he has always done when there is no other option: he pulls on the mask. The killer. The “King of the Underground.” The part of him that even Hizashi does not truly know. He promises himself he will do whatever is necessary to buy time for his students. He has to frame it that way—buying time for the living children, not dying for them. Not making a last stand. If he thinks of this as his graveyard, he will hesitate, and hesitation gets kids killed. Then the fatigue creeps in. Then the one who calls himself Shigaraki disintegrates his elbow. Then the Nomu pulls his arms back until he feels both of them crack. Pain splinters his focus.
“You know,” the villain says conversationally, “I really admire you, Eraserhead. You’re my favourite hero. You don’t deny your violence—in fact, you revel in it. The villains all know not to mess with the King of the Underground.” A pause. Almost fond. “But as much as I admire you, we’re trying to show the world why relying on heroes is stupidity of the highest degree. So… you have to die. Nomu. Kill him.”
Aizawa is lifted as if he weighs nothing. Crushed tight against something monstrously solid. The world flips. The last thing he sees is the ground rushing up to meet him.
There is only darkness when he opens his eyes. Not pain. Not sound. Just black. Then: light. Blinding and abrupt. He shields his eyes on instinct, then lowers his arm slowly. He is standing. Across from him stands someone else. A man—or something like a man—with the shape of a rat heteromorph: furred, upright, intelligent eyes. Old. Waiting.
“…I’m dead, then?” Aizawa asks flatly. “Did the kids survive?”
The heteromorph turns his head slightly. His voice is deep. Weary.
“I would also like to know,” he says. “Did my sons survive?”
There is no visible presence besides them, but something presses at Aizawa’s mind—a question without words.
Do you think you did well?
Aizawa exhales.
“I did what I could,” he says. “My only regret is that my… kids had to see me fall. That they might be hurt because there was no one left to stop the villains.”
Beside him, the rat-man lowers his gaze.
“I, too, did what I could,” he murmurs. “But my sons…” His voice tightens just slightly. “I wish I could have done more.”
For a fleeting moment, the space around them vibrates with something like laughter. Not mockery. Recognition.
You are very similar.
The pressure shifts. Another question forms.
Would you give up everything for a second chance?
Aizawa snorts softly.
“What a stupid question,” he says. “I’m a hero. Of course, I would give up anything if it meant my kids live.”
The heteromorph nods once.
“I would surrender everything—body, name, peace—if my sons might have another chance.”
Something aligns. Agreement settles like a lock turning. The space pulls. Not violently. Inevitably. Aizawa feels himself dragged forward—toward the heteromorph. Toward warmth. Toward gravity. The rat-man steps toward him as well. There is no fear. Only resolve. And then— Nothing.
Agony. That is the first thing he knows. His arms are being pulled—wrenched backward, joints burning—and something gives with a wet crack. He screams. The sound that leaves him is not dignified. Not contained. It tears out of him raw and unfamiliar.
This is not my body— There is no answer. Only a flash— Scarf. Weight at neck. Move. Memory, not voice. He gasps. The air tastes wrong. Too thin. Too dry. No whiskers to filter it. No fur to blunt the bite of heat. His skin feels exposed. Naked. The world is too sharp at the edges and not sharp enough in the center. Protect them. The thought isn’t fully his. It slams through him like instinct. He twists instinctively—and nearly blacks out as pain flares through his broken arms. He falls badly, human-limbed and off-balance, hitting the ground harder than he anticipates. Wrong center of gravity. His hands spread against concrete. Hands. Long fingers. Blunt nails—no, not blunt. Slightly curved. Clawed. Human skin stretches across knuckles that should be furred. This is wrong. A massive shadow falls over him. Nomu. It lunges. He tries to roll and moves too slowly. The thing’s fist catches his shoulder instead of his skull, and the impact sends him skidding across broken stone.
Too heavy.
Too tall.
No tail to counterbalance—
Something shifts at the base of his spine, a phantom weight trying to exist. Pain flares there too, sharp and hot, as if something is attempting to grow.
Stop.
Focus.
He sees it then. A flash behind his eyes. Red haze. Erasure. Yes. His gaze locks on the Nomu. The world narrows—not with spiritual clarity, but with desperate concentration. His eyes burn. The air tears at them. The creature stutters mid-step. Its movements lose that unnatural elasticity. Not enough. It is still too strong. Footsteps behind him. Children. He turns—and the motion makes him dizzy. His vision swims. He catches sight of them in pieces: A green-haired boy running toward him. A girl frozen in fear. Others gathering. Not his. Not his sons. But children. And children are not meant to stand on battlefields. The green one cocks his arm back.
“SMASH—!”
“No!”
The word rips out of him in a rasping snarl that surprises even him. It is not measured. It is not a teacher's command. It is panic-edged with instinct. He lunges—and misjudges distance. Human legs are longer. His stride is wrong. He nearly stumbles before slamming into the boy’s side and knocking him flat. The Nomu’s fist comes down where the boy had been standing, exploding concrete. Too slow. Too slow. He pushes himself up, pain blazing through his ruined arms. He reaches for his scarf and nearly drops it because his grip feels foreign—too fine-boned, too long. Memory flickers— Wrap. Redirect.
He throws the scarf. It catches the Nomu’s forearm, but his pull lacks leverage. His body is not used to the weight distribution. He’s dragged two steps forward before planting his feet, teeth bared in effort. The phantom pressure at his spine intensifies. Something tears fabric. A heavy, wrong limb slams into existence behind him—off-balance, twitching. He nearly yelps as the new weight throws him sideways. Tail. It feels grotesque emerging from smooth human skin. Too thick. Too exposed. Too vulnerable. He snarls—not at the Nomu, but at his own body—forcing the tail to hook around a broken column for bracing. Better. The Nomu charges anyway. He holds its gaze. Erasure burns. His eyes water. Blood trickles from the corner of one.
The creature swings. He can’t dodge cleanly. It catches him in the ribs. Something cracks. He folds. Air gone. Children behind him. Move. Another flash—cheap knife. Belt. His fingers find it clumsily. He lunges—not cleanly, not with precise warrior grace. He hacks at Nomu’s shoulder, shallow cuts. It barely reacts. Not working. He leaps for its back and misses his grip the first time. Human hands slip in blood. He almost falls. The Nomu grabs him and slams him against the ground. The scream that leaves him is animal. Not controlled. Not purposeful. Animal. He forces his eyes open again. Keeps Erasure active. The Nomu’s regeneration falters. Hold it. Just hold it. A memory surfaces— Delay. You do not need to win. You need time. He clings to that. He wraps the scarf again—around its throat this time—and pulls with everything he has. The tail tightens its desperate grip on broken stone, anchoring him. His arms are shaking violently now. He can feel the structural differences in this body—less forgiving spine, narrower shoulders, no fur to soften impact. Every hit reverberates more sharply. He is not built for this form.
The Nomu thrashes. He loses his footing. The tail spasms and nearly throws him flat. He bites down on a cry. He forces himself upright. The Nomu backhands him again. His vision goes white. He tastes blood. He wants—absurdly, fiercely—to retreat. To drag the children into sewers. Into tunnels. Into dark safety where things make sense. But there are no tunnels. Only open sky. He digs his heels in and keeps Erasure burning. Behind the Nomu— A gust of wind. Pressure shifts. A presence that feels like sunlight and storm. The creature pauses. A booming voice crashes across the plaza.
“I AM HERE!”
The Nomu rips free of his failing hold and turns. The scarf slips from Splinter’s trembling fingers. His tail flickers—and vanishes like something ashamed to exist. He collapses to one knee. All Might lands in front of him in a shockwave of displaced air. Splinter stares up at him through blurred vision. Symbol. Perfect smile. Too late.
'Where the fuck were you?' He almost says it. Swallows it.
Children rush toward him instead. Not his. But alive. That is enough. He braces himself, instinctively shifting between them and the fallen Nomu’s body as All Might engages it fully. His limbs shake uncontrollably now that he is no longer the sole barrier. His skin feels wrong. His mouth feels wrong. His spine aches where something unnatural tried to exist. He does not understand where he ends, and the other begins. Footsteps approach at a sprint.
“Shouta!”
He flinches hard at the closeness. Snarls before he can stop it. It comes from deep, unfamiliar and defensive. The blond man stops short. The scent—faint through blood and dust—reaches him. Memory, not voice: Safe. Not prey. Not a threat. Safe. Splinter swallows the sound and lowers his gaze instead of his teeth. He does not understand this body. But the children are alive. And for now, that will have to be enough.