Chapter Text
A sharp pain traveled all throughout Wemmbu’s body — constant, nagging, and unwilling to depart. He stumbled to his feet, armor shredded and disintegrated long ago. His clothes were equally as tattered, torn where blades had swiped at them. In his right hand lay his sword, mace fitting cleanly in his left. Some items remained stuffed in his pockets as well, but his bag full of restocks, potions, and his spare rockets was gone. He rubbed his eyes blearily, adjusting to the hazy darkness.
He did not know where he was. Buildings that stretched towards the sky, disappearing into the mist at the top of their heights, enclosed him on all sides except for one. Even so, not a trace of light spilled through that gap; his only source of illumination was the soft glow coming from his mace. Stars adorned the night sky above, but no light leaked into the shadows. Wemmbu squinted up. He could have sworn it was daytime when he tore his way free from that accursed castle and took to the skies with its owners chasing after, but there was a chance that panic caused him to remember wrong. His eyes finally traveled downwards, settling on the gash wrapping around his side. He was not certain regarding who was to blame, but he knew it had to have been one of them — Clown or Ferre.
Only a mere few minutes before, he had fled from the pair after stupidly assuming he could take them both by himself. They drained his stockpile of resources left over from what he grabbed before the tree burnt down, broke the armor gifted to him by his former mentor, and nearly stole his brand new mace (the one he picked off of a diamond player’s corpse). It was through sheer luck alone that he had managed to take to the skies in time, freeing himself from a fate that would have almost certainly been death. His enemies were not known to take prisoners, after all, and he only knew one bird able to slip free from Clown’s devilish claws.
If there was one thing he could be grateful for, it was that stupid pearl carrying him far away from his pursuers, further than anybody could be expected to chase. The reason why he disliked that ‘stupid pearl’ was related to where it brought him. Here.
He did not know where ‘here’ was.
When he threw the pearl, he did not think he arced it that high — fully intending to disappear in the foliage once it landed — nor could it have possibly gone such a distance without some other force being involved. If he had Parrot’s intelligence, maybe he would have thought about it for longer, but that dumb escape room with Zam proved thinking was not necessarily his strong suit. Besides, it was not like the supernatural force that transported him here fully mattered, all he needed was to get back.
That was a lot easier said than done, though. His gaze shifted to his back, where the cartilage of his elytra sat tattered. His cape had already been shredded by multiple close calls with Clown’s and Ferre’s swords, but he had hardly expected to see his elytra in a similar condition. He frowned, removing the device and holding it in his hands, pinning his sword to his belt. His tail thrashed slightly on the ground behind him, dragging through the grime and dirt coating the ground, and his real wings — ones that stopped working several months ago without the assistive technology of his elytra — drooped slightly behind him.
Great. So, flying out was not an option either. At this rate, the only other fate left for him was to wait until a mafia member dropped by so he could steal their elytra instead. Knowing his luck, he landed in some sort of enemy territory with hunters vying to slay him after he took down their diamond captain, several gold subdivision leaders, and every other mafia chungi that crossed his path. On one hand, it would give him easy access to an elytra. On the other… he glanced back down to the wound on his side. Fabulous.
He crouched down on the ground, folding his legs under him neatly. It did little to alleviate the nagging pain, but it helped to a certain extent, and he appreciated the decision when the sting eventually settled to a dull ache. Now on the floor, dust attaching itself to his dark clothing, he sifted through his pockets, tugging out anything of use and laying it all out right in front of him. It was rather pathetic, and with how things were going, death would be coming sooner than he liked. He had his sword, his mace, half a stack of golden apples, and two firework rockets. Wemmbu glared at the pitiful pile with unveiled contempt. He could have sworn he had more stuff on him, including an axe and his chestplate, the only piece of armor that had not fully broken. Did it just drop to the ground when he teleported, or something? Did he accidentally give Clown a free gear restock? Wemmbu grit his teeth, annoyed and, admittedly, a little stressed.
Using his mace as a support, he pulled himself to his feet. The weapon was too expensive to be used like a cane, so he quickly put it away, watching the item glimmer into white before vanishing until he called upon it next. He did the same to his sword, and exhaled softly in relief when the weight lifted. Continuing to move tugged at his wound, but he had no choice except to keep pushing forward lest somebody find him in his weakened state. The streets were strangely deserted, even for nighttime on Unstable, especially because most people chose to ignore their circadian rhythms and work overnight to waste as little time as possible. This only fed into his theory that he was in enemy territory — the mafia used the dead of night to raid the civilizations of their targets, so it would make sense why the roads of their home base were empty now. He wondered if this was the elusive Mafia City he had heard so much about, although this seemed far from any description he picked up on his wanderings. A side base, then? Regardless of its purpose, it was definitely a city. Buildings stretched taller than anything he had ever seen before. Not even Zam’s empire had been this tall, and the — former. hah. — emperor seemed to care a lot about size.
He stumbled forward, vision blurring slightly. What the fuck? He hissed softly in pain, standing up fully once more. It was only then that he noticed the trail of blood dripping from him as he walked, palm moving up to apply pressure against his gash. With his other hand, he ripped a golden apple free from his pocket and tore into it, hoping the healing properties would be able to do anything, anything to lessen the pain he was feeling. He knew from past experiences that it would not do much, but it was worth a try, and honestly, what did he have left to lose? He finished the apple, dropping the core down by his feet. It quickly dissolved into the stone — golden apples were strange like that, they never stuck around for long — but yellow flashed near the top of his vision. The rest of his golden apples were tucked away and out of reach, meaning he was either hallucinating or something was there. The yellow drew closer, and a loud voice, “yo!” assaulted his ears. He winced at the harsh sound, and winced further when the yellow reached out to support his weight.
“What the hell?” he muttered, eyes flicking to the figure supposedly helping him. His expression furrowed, and he twisted slightly, trying to knock him off. His hand scrambled to materialize his sword, but it fell to the ground and clattered against the stones instead the moment he tried.
“Asshole,” he struggled, vying for freedom from the figure’s tight grip. “I’m not going with you. Report to your stupid leader for all I care, you’re stupid if you think—”
Wemmbu did not manage to finish his sentence, voice giving out on him when a sharp ringing sound attacked his skull. The yellow figure continued to talk, but it went to deaf ears. Only a few snippets of slight reassurance managed to slip past the overwhelming noise in his ears, and he swore that if he reached out to touch the side of his head, he would find blood.
Huh. It had been a while since a pearl affected him to such a great extent. He really was departing further from his homeland each day. ‘I guess being in the overworld all the time isn’t good for me,’ he thought dryly, and then his vision went black. “Hospital” was the last word he heard, and by then, he lacked the energy to resist. Since when did the mafia have care centers? That was… backwards.
When his mind went to naught, his entire life did not replay in front of his eyes. In fact, he was only certain he was still alive for that reason — instead of a timeline of everything he had done from his creation in the End dimension up until the last five minutes of utter confusion, only the last few hours thrummed in his head.
Three long hours ago, Wemmbu and Egg stared at the crater at Mane’s tree from a lone jungle perch a little bit away. He vowed to kill Clown, then, only to be interrupted by Parrot virtually begging him to join his side for the second time. So, they side quested. It was not that he wholly minded — after all, he did get a mace out of the entire ordeal — but all he really wanted was to kill Clown, which was why he was so eager to ditch Parrot and his dog-coded friend the second he could. He dropped Egg off at District 13, too, for safety’s sake, and then he went to attack Clown.
Thirty minutes ago, he lost a rather unfair fight, a 2v1 against the most stacked duo still thriving separately from the mafia. Twenty minutes ago, he threw a pearl and landed… somewhere.
Zero minutes ago, he passed out in the arms of somebody who may or may not have had vile intentions. Zero minutes ago, he passed out in the arms of an individual with a strange outfit and hair so yellow it was like he wanted to cosplay a golden apple. Even Zam’s hair was not that bright.
Stupid.
When he woke up, he was not in a hospital bed like he expected. Nor was he out on the streets still, collapsed waiting for some mafia member to finish him already, and he also was not in a jail cell or prison or being corralled to talk to some mafia leader. No, he was being carefully moved down the street towards a hospital, or at least a building he assumed to be one — the bright red cross sign screaming “medical attention administered here” was proof enough for his delirious mind, although maybe this entire thing was just a practical joke and he was actually still back in Mane’s tree with his mentor.
He must have rustled, or given some sort of indication that he had returned to consciousness, because the golden apple spoke again. He really wished he would do that less; there were few things he wanted more in the world than a little bit of quiet right now.
“Oh! You’re awake again! That’s good, I thought I lost you for a moment,” he grinned, smiling down at Wemmbu. His voice was glaringly loud, and Wemmbu winced once more. “Must you scream?” he muttered. How long had he been unconscious for? It could not have been too long, considering they were still outside, but his head still felt like a thousand little needles were stabbing it at once.
A guilty look flashed over the golden apple’s face. “Sorry, sorry… you were pretty injured back there, you know,” he shifted, staring at him with something akin to pity shimmering in his eyes.
That was great. Fantastic, really — Clown and Ferre were alive, he was gravely injured, Egg was dropped off at a random Hunger Games ripoff anti-mafia base being ‘protected’ by two of the weakest fighters on possibly the entire server, and this random was pitying him.
Shit. Egg.
He swore aloud, shoving Goldilocks off of him with a newfound spark of strength he lacked before. He immediately bolted in the opposite direction of the hospital. He definitely did not know where he was going, but there was no time to waste when Egg was missing, separated from him, in the hands of the pair he had stormed off from angrily. He almost began to spread out his wings before realizing his elytra was not only woefully unequipped but also torn to shreds, so he lowered them behind him instead and angled his wings in a way that would resist against the wind less as he ran. Goldie yelled something incomprehensible from where he was, presumably chasing after Wemmbu, but he could not bring himself to care.
Honestly, running to an unknown place without even a semblance of an idea of where he was going, and with an injury no less, was probably not the smartest of his ideas. Despite this, Wemmbu never prided himself in his intelligence, and all he knew was that he had to find Egg as soon as possible, so he continued onwards. There was no time to waste at a hospital, and he was not planning on spending precious time appeasing Goldie by explaining why it was that he dashed away so suddenly. Regrettably, Goldie had more up his sleeve than just a loud voice and a boombox, because the next thing he knew, fabric was tangling itself around his legs and he was on the ground.
Moments before, as he ran after the injured stray, Yamada fumbled for his phone, tugging it free from his pocket. He immediately called the most trusty person he knew, stressing that it was an emergency and to come quickly. If there was anybody who could settle this situation, it would be him, so even as he lagged behind, somehow slower than this random boy, he had faith that everything would be resolved. He kept an eye on the purple-haired runner all the while, trying to ensure he did not overhear Yamada calling for backup. Once Aizawa affirmed he was on his way, Yamada sighed and finally hung up, trying to catch his breath. He was good at running, sure, but this was rather ridiculous — how much stamina did that kid have? Thankfully, Aizawa was already in the area, meaning he would be arriving swiftly. Sure enough, before he knew it, he caught sight of the familiar capture weapon and raised his hand in greeting.
It only took a few seconds for the scarf to wrap around Wemmbu’s arms and legs, restraining him stiffly. Blood seeped into the fabric from the wound on his side, but Aizawa did not react outwardly. Catching him had been rather easy, so he knew that the kid had to have been sporting some sort of injury already. The visible stain was only further proof of that theory.
Aizawa sighed as the boy writhed around in the weapon, attempting to pull himself free. At some point during the scuffle, some sort of hammer-like thing materialized into the kid’s hands, but it was easy enough to step forward and tug it loose, taking it for himself instead. He weighed it, staring at it doubtfully. It was quite heavy, all things considered, much heavier than he anticipated. The purple-haired boy seemed much too scrawny — lean, moreso — to pick up such an item, yet he carried it with ease. Supposedly, at least, but he figured if he was bringing it around on his person, that he knew how to hold and use it consistently. He would have to interrogate him later.
“So, kid…” he hummed, watching him with a level gaze. “Are you going to explain why you dashed, and also why you are holding onto this, or should we label you as some sort of danger to society?” Aizawa leaned the hammer against the building as he spoke, not keen on having to carry that back to turn it in at the station.
The offender stared at him blankly. “What?” he said, and it took Aizawa a moment to place the language the word was from. He visibly sighed the second he realized — English. Of course it was. He could pick up some words from his time with Yamada and brief training in international interactions, but it wasn't his priority as an underground hero, and his English was fragmented at best. He glanced at Yamada, who quickly understood and translated for him.
Understanding crossed the boy’s face, and his expression quickly contorted into annoyance soon after listening to their words. “Give that back. I just got it. You can’t seriously tell me all of that effort I went through was a waste—”
“Hold on,” Aizawa cut him off, crossing his arms and staring it firmly. He didn’t need to know what he was saying to know it was nothing he wanted to hear. Yamada echoed the words in English during his short pause, although tone was probably enough for the kid to decipher the meaning of that short phrase. God. He wished he could be doing anything but this right now. It was too late at night to be dealing with this random kid’s crap. “You are injured and you refuse to tell us to tell why,” he began flatly. “I don’t care how precious this thing is to you. Now, why did you run?”
There was also the dilemma of that earlier comment Yamada informed him of, regarding reporting to some sort of ‘leader.’ What kind of situations did this boy get himself into? It was strangely similar to the behavior he would expect from some sort of gang rivalry situation, but he definitely did not seem hardened enough to engage in that sort of life.
Yamada joined him by his side, eyes flicking over the restrained boy with concern in his eyes. “Is he—” he inquired, trailing off. Aizawa only nodded. He was not gravely injured, and he still had enough spark left in his eyes that Aizawa was confident that he would be okay. He doubted anybody who was in such overwhelming pain would be able to argue, or, in his words, tell him to ‘fuck off,’ so he figured it was fine.
“Listen, if you try to bring me back to that hospital, I swear I will slime out everybody there,” the boy threatened. Aizawa only blinked dryly, half amused at his audacity but also unsurprised at the same time. He supposed he had his students to thank, the only reason he even understood that slang in the first place. Honestly, it was a pitiful sight — the kid was clearly bluffing, as there was no way he genuinely believed he had the ability to actually cause bodily harm to anybody without his weapon and with such a serious injury. Still, a threat was a threat nonetheless, and this only meant more work for him now. Protocol demanded that he take those words seriously even if they meant nothing and legally speaking, it probably would not be a good look if he still brought him to public infrastructure — the hospital — even after that threat. What a bother. The next stop would be the police station, at this rate. Really, what was he meant to do?
“Kid—” he spoke, and he received a glare for it. Right. God. “It’s either the hospital or a police station. Pick your poison,” he stated, voice even. It did not take long for him to receive a begrudging answer, angry and bitter but ultimately acquiescing. Most of the hesitation was during the time it took for Yamada to properly explain in the right language, but they got there. That was all he cared about, really, so the boy’s satisfaction meant nothing to him. He was still glad he chose the sensible decision, though, as anything else would have been annoying. A hospital was infinitely better than dealing with law enforcement for the both of them — for him, due to the difference in the degree of paperwork he would be forced to do after the fact, and for the kid, the entire ‘not going to jail’ thing.
“Or you could just let me go,” the kid added with a smirk, although his eyes betrayed the lack of even a semblance of hope that it would work.
“Not happening,” he replied firmly, tugging on the capture weapon to unravel it. “You come with us, you get the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to get your hammer back. You dash, and we find you. Got it?” Somehow, in some way, he received a blessing from the universe because the kid did indeed ‘get it,’ agreeing with a simple, but definitely annoyed, “yeah, whatever.”
A win was a win. Aizawa did not care. He gestured for the kid to follow him and Yamada, snagging the hammer from the nearby wall before the kid could lunge for it. Despite indicating their trajectory, he had zero intention of bringing him to the hospital. His choice in street did not bring them to the police station, either, instead taking the route that directed the trio towards Yuuei. Yamada noticed fairly quickly, giving him a questioning glance, but both trusted in the other’s judgment to a great extent; hence, Yamada simply nodded in understanding without a lengthy explanation being necessary. He would make sure to clarify his thought process later, once their little delinquent had his injuries treated by Recovery Girl and, hopefully, fell asleep to give them some peace and quiet for a few hours. Yuuei was the safer option, all things considered, since even in the dead of night there were enough heroes staying late on campus that it was better to bring him there instead of the police station, or god forbid, the hospital.
As they walked, Aizawa attempted to push him for more information to no avail. Whatever he said, the kid did not budge. His main inquiry was regarding what the hell he ran for, but also how the kid managed to obtain such an injury in the first place. Was he a vigilante? He did not seem to have the complexion of a villain, at least not outright anyway, and he certainly was not a hero. His behaviors were more consistent with the middle ground, but there was nothing he could do when he only received stiff deflections in return relating to “what are you talking about, bro,” and reactions that made it clear he was not too keen on talking further.
Aizawa spared a glance at Yamada, who had lingered back to message somebody on his phone. When he caught up, the voice hero explained that he was contacting another hero to cover their shift on patrol tonight because ‘something else came up.’ Aizawa snorted softly. Yeah, it was something alright. It was exhausting, in reality, although he was not sure if he would rather be at patrol than here. Patrol was a pain too, what with all those petty villains trying to make a living in the criminal underworld and taking out their frustrations on innocent passersby. His favorite occurrence was when they assumed he was just a mere homeless guy and learned a lesson about selecting who you try to rob more carefully.
“If you didn’t wanna ditch, I could’ve brought the kid myself,” Aizawa commented, stuffing his hands in his pockets. That received instant protest. “No way!” Yamada exclaimed in response, jogging to catch up. “I’m not leaving you alone with him. I mean, you heard his threat! Besides, I found him in the first place,” he pointed out, and Aizawa had to hand that one to him. If not for Yamada, Aizawa would not be here in the first place, and for all the stress that the situation would cause him, he appreciated being at the scene instead of left clueless afterwards. It would have been even worse if Yamada got injured as a result of him not being there, so he told Yamada to always err on the side of caution when calling him. Thankfully, he got the memo.
“I’m still here, you know,” the boy muttered, kicking at a rock as they passed. It skittered a little bit ahead, and once they approached the small stone’s new location, he pushed it forward with his foot again. Aizawa sighed, kicking the rock off to the side of the road. Chances were that a new one would simply be found and the cycle would repeat itself, but the sound was too annoying for him to not do anything about it. “So, what’s your name, kid?”
“I’m not a kid,” he replied recalcitrantly, tugging at his long purple hair. Still, he refused to provide a name, and if Aizawa was not already peeved, it would have been right around now that he would start to get on his nerves. “Well, you’re sure as hell not an adult, or you’d act like one, so that only leaves me to assume—”
Yamada interrupted before he could finish his sentence, and Aizawa rolled his eyes. Maybe that was for the best, the pair seemed to interpret each other’s emotions and thought processes very well. It was why they synchronized so flawlessly in the field the majority of the time. “It’s either you give us a name or we call you Purple Guy. How’s that?” Yamada grinned teasingly, winking.
That earned a glare too. Jeez, how many times was he going to look at them the same way? You’d think he would gain some more original material, although it fit his age group. “I’m not some cheap FNAF clone. What’s with everybody taking names from popular franchises thinking they’re cool?” he complained, and it was probably a targeted comment that just reached the wrong audience, because Aizawa had no clue what he was referring to. Maybe it was a linguistic error, but he doubted Yamada had any idea, either. Regardless, Yamada had always been better at improvising on the spot than him, so the conversation flowed onwards.
“Purple Guy it is, then,” Yamada smiled widely, and the kid literally stopped walking, surveying the two dryly. Aizawa simply gave him a warning gesture, dangling the hammer in front of him. It seemed to do the trick because he continued walking shortly thereafter, albeit rather reluctantly.
“Wemmbu.”
Neither of them knew what to say to that. “Is that some sort of code name?” Yamada prodded first. It certainly did not seem like any name either of the two knew, neither English nor any other type of name they recognized. Still, Aizawa supposed judging would be harsh when they flaunted names like Present Mic and Eraserhead. In his defense, he had little creation in the creation of the hero title, but he still accepted it and wrote it down on the official form, so he took some blame.
‘Wemmbu’ scowled, gaze flicking back to the pair obstinately. “Don’t judge my name.”
Yamada cringed. Yeah, that was his bad for assuming the kid would just accept the jab. His behavior was strangely reminiscent of Bakugo, honestly, and he was not sure if Aizawa could handle another version of that kid.
The conversation soured once more, but it did not wholly matter because they had already arrived at the gates of Yuuei. It was only then that the boy noticed that this was far from the route to the hospital, nor was it the drab parking lot surrounding the hospital, nor was the building looming ahead of them the hospital.
So, taking everything into account, Wemmbu probably realized they were not at the hospital.
“Where are we?” he asked suspiciously, regarding them carefully. He had no reason to trust them, really, so his circumspection made sense — after all, the hammer was the only thing he stuck around for.
“Yueei,” Aizawa replied, scanning his staff pass against the door. Instead of the larger gate welcoming them into its arms, the smaller one off to the side opened, and Aizawa gestured with the hammer for Wemmbu to go on ahead. It drooped from his hand, reaching towards the ground as he held it loosely — the item practically taunting the boy, nearly enticing him to snatch it and run. “Want your hammer, don’t you?”
Not like it would have worked.
“U.A.?” Wemmbu echoed, falling back into step while lagging slightly behind the pair. “And it’s not a hammer. It’s a mace. How do you not know that?” He seemed genuinely dumbfounded by the idea that somebody might not know what this ‘mace’ was, only leaving the pair with more questions about his origin.
“Well, I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, but it’s not exactly commonplace for someone to be carrying such a thing around. Especially not when they’re as young as you,” Yamada chirped, shooting a grin in Wemmbu’s direction. “We’re bringing you to a doctor here on campus. She’s more qualified than anybody else.”
He stared at Yamada for a short moment, like he was expecting him to continue his sentence after that, but when nothing else came, he just nodded. “...Kay,” he muttered, trailing after their retreating forms in the hallway.
They brought him to Chiyo’s room. He was very clearly thrown off by the bright, sterile room and the expensive medical equipment that adorned it — it was rather out of place for a school’s nurse office, at the end of the day, and likely nothing he recognized. Aizawa paid him no mind, immediately approaching Chiyo’s desk to speak with her. She was still there because she practically lived at the school, so a melodious voice had called for them to enter when they knocked a moment prior.
“Heyyy, Chiyo! Hope we’re not bothering,” Yamada greeted, walking backwards into the infirmary to keep an eye on Wemmbu. “We got someone for you to take a look at.”
“Oh?” she hummed, focus shifting from Aizawa to the boy. She stood up, brushing off the scarfed hero with a fluttering hand to step closer and examine the purple-haired boy more closely. “Sit down,” she said, and Yamada quickly parroted her order in English.
“If he speaks English, you could have said something,” she scolded gently, pushing the boy down onto the padded medical bed when he refused to sit by himself. He looked at her with protest on his lips but reluctantly gave in, settling back on his hands and staring up at the ceiling. “Will my quirk work on him?” she inquired, glancing back at Aizawa. He took a moment to reply, thinking. “It should. He’s tired, but he has enough energy for your quirk to fall back on.”
“Who said I was tired?” Wemmbu scowled, and Yamada snickered softly, translating Aizawa’s statement with the sole purpose of riling up the kid. He was too angry; he should react differently sometimes. A glow cut off Wemmbu’s peeved statement, Chiyo’s quirk doing its job while sapping at his energy all the while.
He stared at it in surprise, almost like he had never seen anything of the sort before. “What the fuck?” he whispered as his cut healed over. It was only the surface that smoothed over — the deeper cut would take longer to heal — but this would relieve some of his pains.
Aizawa sighed, shooting Yamada a warning glare to avoid translating this one before turning to Chiyo. “How long until he falls asleep?” he asked, pointedly in Japanese.
“Ahh… well, it depends how fatigued he actually was. He’s nodding off already,” she commented, tilting her head to the boy that was already lulled by the drain of energy from healing his wounds. “We can talk regardless. Would it be fair to assume he doesn't know any Japanese?”
“He hasn't reacted to anything Aizawa has said until I translated it,” Yamada replied, yawning as Wemmbu also yawned. It was contagious.
Chiyo hummed. “Well, okay…” she said, placing her hands on her hips. “With that aside, is somebody going to explain what is going on?”