Work Text:
Sore, dim eyes flicker, dilating as they take in their surroundings. There’s no need to describe what happens as ‘opening’. His eyelids are always translucent, scleras always hydrated. To make better use of his quirk, his master tells him.
“It would be pointless if you had to keep blinking, hm? A fatal weakness.”
The many eyes given to Mukōka compensate for his mistakes. He is an abnormality, an oddity, a spectacle and a marvel, they call him, and thus any actions he’s ordered to take are his own fault and entirely his. It is the only thing he owns.
His eyes are vestiges; they belong to the dead, and they belong to him and they don’t belong to him at all. It is a gift. All for him. Their irises are all different colours (and, faintly, a question arises - who did they belong to, were they happy, did they give it willingly? - but Mukōka shakes it off, he can’t understand whose thought it is and why it would’ve appeared in the first place) and different swirls of shading.
Someone else thinks that in another life, he would’ve appreciated the hues. Especially the green ones.
“Your quirk is a domineering, powerful force of will, and yet, society deemed you an invalid all your life. Treated you like a villain until you proved yourself—"
Capability. They tell him he’s capable of everything and anything. Now that he’s on their side (when was he ever not on their side? that thought confuses him, makes his head dizzy as he searches for such memories, chest ache), they’ll conquer anything they want. Mukōka supposes he’s mollified to free them from such a burden. Of not being able to conquer. It makes them happy. His purpose is to make them happy.
Mukōka?
Yes, sire?
Do you remember anything? About U.A High?
No. I’m afraid I can’t assist with that.
…Alright. I suppose that’s acceptable.
Kurogiri is a comforting presence. He is a sun; an ironic sentiment, given his state of physicality, but something about him draws Mukōka closer and closer. A brief consideration runs through his head, clouding his thoughts as he mulls over it; perhaps Kurogiri has a secondary quirk besides warp, something to do with gravity and orbits. Maybe it would explain away the Warp’s allure.
Mukōka discovers nothing. It is no surprise. They do not tell him much. He does not need to know much. All he needs to know is what to do and what to say and how to act. There is no need for research. Research is for people.
“If you expect me to say a single thing about my students, don’t even bother. You won't get a single word out of me. ”
“Oh? Your students? A pity. You should be worrying more about yourself. Your students are not who we want anymore.”
He sees himself in the mirror sometimes. They installed one in his room after he mentioned his unease with such a peripheral object. They tell him to be grateful right before he lapses into weakness and ‘panics’. Panicking. Hours later, Mukōka doesn’t remember acting in such a manner; oddly enough, he’s relieved he lacks the ability to recall such an image. It is unbecoming of one of his stature. It does not suit him.
They tell him he should be grateful for being new. He doesn’t know what new means in this instance. Maybe forever is a better word: he does not tell them that. Instead, he just bows and goes back to his room, where the mirror awaits him.
It is cold and unloving. It fits him. He does not fit the image of someone - something, someone else reminds him, he is not real (though he disagrees, he has to be real, he can touch and sense and feel and smell and see and see and see) - wanton exaltation and recognized fervour. Eyes glare back at him distantly, though they're not unkind. Just familiar. The ones sprawled all over his body even more so.
You— are going to fucking— pay, for this, fuck, fuck, what are you doing to—
It’s more so a question of what we’re not going to do to you.
Don’t tease him like that! Haha! That’s hilarious! He's already cursing. I never imagined the day I'd see a pro hero curse...
They tell him to fight and who to look at. They tell him to kill. And so he does. Dark alleyways and dim streetlights accompany his daydreams, permeating iron, stickly sweet and stained on his uniform.
It's muscle memory, they murmur, watching in sick gleed awe as they observe him, his kills, his mistakes.
Muscle memory. From before.
("the true—po—wer o—f.. .a..—pro—h—ro. if only he'd been one of us sooner.")
There's no before, the rest assert, assure, when his eyes wander and mouth clicks open to inquire on such a title.
His eyes look tired as he looks in the mirror, sees his reflection. The original ones, he murmurs. Bleak and absent, as if something were amiss and not all in place, present and past and future combined into what can only be considered utterly him. The dark crescents overcast the area beneath his eyes like hazed somber clouds. It’s no wonder Mukōka is drawn to Kurogiri, despite the purple smog; beneath the vapour must be a man whose luminance gleams brighter than even the sun hanging heavy in the sky, rivaling Mukōka’s moons.
Something tells him those eyes pale in comparison to another's.
He's not entirely sure of whose.
Mukōka wonders, distinctly, if he used to be anyone else.
Ob—o……ro…..
They direct and point to where he needs to stand. Where to sit. What to do. What to eat. He listens and nods and listens and does what he’s told. The black haired man with the purple scars — Dari, or Dabi, perhaps — often makes a sound akin to a scoff when he’s present, around. Mukōka does not take it to heart. The sentiment implies he’s had the organ in the first place.
He’s not sure if he does; when he presses his palms (callused and gleaming with veteran edge of experience that does not belong belong belong) to his neck, to his wrist, to his chest and everywhere else, a pulse does not emerge and announce itself.
Maybe he needs to search harder.
Surely he has a heart. Surely he's alive.
If I don't make it out of this, Hizashi... I’ll say hello to Oboro for you. I know you can’t h—hear me. I love you. I love you so much. Wherever I go, my eyes will always be on you. I know you'll do great things. Move on without me if I don't make it home. Protect the students.
Maybe he needs to stop wondering.
A scoff doesn’t mean anything. He is doing everything he is told and nothing more.
Hi—…za—…..
Though, maybe that is the problem, he realizes. A mindless puppet they call him. All the time. Tomura, the boy, told him that he thought Mukōka was ‘cool’, ‘once’ — yet again the term is beneath him, mocking and jeering at his obtuseness and why he can’t perceive it as an adjective directed at him, maybe it was once directed to another, Mukōka concludes, he cannot recognize it as anything else but foreign — and now he is boring.
"Eraserhead, you're so boring now. Goddamn. You'd do anything we asked, wouldn't you?"
He doesn't know the name Eraserhead. That must be him, though. His given name is the closest thing resembling such an oddity.
Mukōka can't be boring. He would do anything they asked. That was true. But he wasn't boring. He remembers having a ring around his neck, once. It was golden and shimmery and had the carvings of a music note on it. That signaled something. He wasn't boring. He remembers long, blonde hair, viridescent, kind eyes that looked down at him with nothing but the remnants of a lover, orange tinted glasses and a mustache he'd always claimed he hated, but actually adored beyond belief. He'd just always been too flustered to say it, always tucking his head into a grey alloy scarf that he doesn't remember having.
It was a capture weapon. He spent 6 long years mastering the alloy all on his lonesome. He remembers winning something with it despite knowing nothing. He doesn't remember why he knows that. Or what it means.
He remembers loud laughter and reflected red eyes as his quirk activated to stop them (who is them, he wonders) from waking up the neighbours, or the cats. Mukōka really likes cats. He remembers having three of them with the blonde. He often picked up strays after long nights of patrol. They liked him too.
None of that is true. It is all delusion. You've never had anything like that. You are a tool. There is no past. Only a present.
Mukōka opens his mouth.
Okay. That's true, he concedes, quiet as he speaks mutely.
None of that really happened. Perhaps. But you can't help the things you yearn for.
What is there to yearn?
Mukōka closes it, stunned. Vaguely, though he barely notices the muscle tense, he feels his jaw clench.
What is there to yearn for, he echoes, shaking his head.
(Mindless puppet, a monotonous soldier who does nothing but serve.
Isn’t that his purpose? He is a boring sight on sore eyes. He is the element of surprise and the element of nothing. It is a core part of him. He must evade the limelight to be useful.
He doesn't remember how he knows the last part.)
‘Zashi…. sorry………..real so—rry.
And maybe that’s an issue he does not need to worry about.
All For One, his master, would tell him if it were, wouldn’t he? He corrects all his mistakes and nothing more.
"—You should consider yourself lucky now that you’re in my care. I’ll take good care of you — there’s no need to prove anything. The world will know what you’re capable of when the time arises. Just be patient and do what I ask."
He does everything for Mukōka. All For One is his guiding light.
Mukōka can be boring. He can be grateful. He can do what everyone wants. He can make them happy. He doesn't need to be anything else. Dabi and Tomura and the magician and the girl and the lizard are just others he needs to appeal to.
Why don't you just get rid of me?
You’re too valuable for such a pitiful fate. It would be a waste.
Huh. Goodluck then, asshole. I’d never let myself willingly bow to the likes of you.
Goodluck, indeed. I don’t think I’ll have any trouble in that regard. Thanks for your kind wishes, though. I won't need it.
He cries. Cries often. Cries in front of the mirror, sniffles and stifles the sobs that wrack through his ramshackle body and sinks to his knees and sobs. His long, black hair — brushed out by the girl in the group, he doesn’t remember her name, just that her teeth are sharp and that her bloodlust is endless, but she looks to be of highschool age, maybe someone who could’ve been the same age of students he can’t stop thinking of, he doesn’t know their names and he doesn’t need to know can’t question it why does he keep thinking of them, green and blond and red and yellow hair and of all colours and eyes — cascades down his temple and past his shoulder, shrouding him in the dim tunnel of hope.
What does he want? What does he want?
Kurogiri comes in often. He often crouches down to Mukōka’s level, maybe sinks down onto the floor if there’s no mission, no order. The man is too kind. He oftens rests a hand on Mukōka’s shoulder, maybe draws him into a hug if he deems it so. He even asks for permission quietly. A noble thing. No one ever asks him for permission. They don’t need to.
Does he want anything at all?
Mukōka is always silent when he cries.
He just wants to go home.
Where is home?
This is home.
Home is where they want you.
Home is where you want.
What does Mukōka want?
Just KILL me a-l-already! GET ON WITH IT!
Does he have the capacity to want?
They told him he was capable of everything and anything.
Is there a limit?
Do they have to order him to want?
Why would they order him to want? It goes against the mission, their order, their perfect hopes and perception of him.
He is a doll, a marionette, limbs strung up by string in the fray. A set piece and a pawn in a war he was indoctrinated in and never wanted and always wanted to be in.
What? No. He wanted this. This is all he’s ever wanted. They saved him. Saved him from his past.
What is the past? His?
He has too many eyes and yet still can’t see a future. He cannot see a past.
He has many eyes and he can’t close them.
What is Mukōka’s name?
Hm? So you haven't decided on a code name yet, Sho?
It doesn't matter what I choose. I don't want to be in the spotlight anyway.
Bro! I got it! How about Eraserhead?!
Sure, whatever.
Mukōka is what we’ll call you.
But what about what I want?
There is no need to ask about what you want. Just do what we want.
What if I don’t want to do that?
There is no choice. You must.
Can I go home?
This is home.
Please kill me.
You will die when we dictate it to happen.
That's illogical. You’re going to die before I let that happen to me. Wait. That is not me saying it. Who is that?
That is you. The old you.
What is new? What is old? What is you? What is me? Am I real?
You’re as real as you want to be.
You told me I can’t want.
We lied.
Then I can die?
No, you cannot. You are useful yet.
You confuse me. You’re an asshole for doing this. Just let him and me die. Who is that? Who said that? Answer me, answer me, answer me! For once! Please!
…
Hizashi. Do you remember him?
Hizashi? Who’s that?
If you don't remember him, you don’t need to know. You’re a tool.
Please don’t mind my rudeness, my persistence. But I insist that you tell me, as the name reminds me of something. Sir.
There’s no need to call me sir. Just… fine. Okay. I'll tell you. Maybe. Just answer me one question. What does it remind you of?
He pauses. Can I know your name first?
Shouta. Call me Shouta.
Shouta, the second repeats. Shouta Shouta Shouta. He finds he likes the name. Shouta. It sounds domestic.
Alright, alright. Enough. Now answer my question.
Mukōka thinks. He thinks and he thinks and he thinks. He wishes his quirk could extend beyond erasing others' and perhaps assist him in the worrisome task of thought, erase the aching itch; the answer is on the tip of his tongue, elusive and gleaming, an ember of phlegmatic longing and yearning ignited by the question. But the true answer, the much more complicated, longer one, evades him ever more.
He supposes he'll go for the shorter one. Just for now. Until the alternative arises once more.
Home, he mouths.
It's so simple.
It feels like home, Shouta.
...Then go back home.
He collapses into the arms of Kurogiri, wilting back into his sobs. His eyes have never felt so dry.
He always does what he's told. He will do what he's told.
"Hello," Mukōka chokes out.
The other hums a murmur in assent, yellowed eyes glittering. Hello.
It sounds like home.