Chapter Text
People often asked if blindness made life frightening, if she ever misses her sight.
Loss requires memory, and Aizawa Himari has very little. Sometimes, she wonders if this makes her fortunate or the contrary. Himari does not have faces she longs to see again, sunsets she wishes she could witness one last time.
She could not remember yellow. She is aware that it’s associated with the warmth that caresses her skin and the autumn leaves that glides to her hair. Others even described that her own curly hair likens the bright yellow of her Papa’s hair, and that her yellow eyes mirrored her Dad’s. But this was really all just information to her, not experience.
Although, what she did mourn was certainty. Moments that became very frequent made her painfully aware that she would never fully grasp the world that others inhabited, just as they would never fully understand hers. Silence would occur when the sudden, deafening boom of fireworks littered her senses, as if everyone else was seemingly transfixed. Or when others stop mid-convo before cold pin-pricks enveloped her skin, which she would quickly realize that they were admiring the first snowfall.
Throughout the years, Himari realized that people confuse her blindness with absence. In reality, her world can be quite overstimulating.
Before she entered a room, it had shapes that were carved out by the many projections of electromagnetic pulses that were too faint for anybody else to see. Heat produced remarkably clear depictions of living beings against colder surroundings, and hidden signatures hummed through electronics. There was texture even in silence. Compared to the sound of packed halls, empty ones carried sound differently; rain softened edges; and unlike wood, concrete reflects energy.
In retrospect, she could be quite lucky that some of these could only be possible with her radiant energy quirk. But despite the countless hours of honing a quirk to survive in an unfair world, its translations were never perfect.
A heartbeat could easily be identified before they spoke, but she wouldn’t be able to know whether they had smiled first. Heavy footsteps could imply exhaustion, then would they also have shadows beneath their eyes as well?
Even right now, she is aware of where her fathers are in their apartment, the heat they radiated, the rhythm of their chest after patrols. Himari often wonders of their expressions when they look at her. (Do they wish they spent more time with her?)
Does Papa smile when she laughs?
Does Dad look worried when she walks away to coop up in her room?
Mirrors have always been made for those with sight. But there will always be thoughts nestled inside her brain that she indulges in when solar radiation is not as rampant, questions no amount of analysis could answer. Because the unknown was enough of a bother to give a reminder that her perception, no matter how refined, was always lacking somewhere.
If she couldn’t see the visible light spectrum that her quirk would surely have to observe the physical world, then she would understand it more deeply instead. She studied people until everyone can be defined measurably, dismantled machines to make sense of what exactly she was sensing, learned the rules that governed behavior and emotion, until that eventually cascaded to quirks in general.
Understanding allows her to meet the world halfway, and that was enough for her.
- - -
In an era where quirks influenced almost every aspect of day-to-day existence, education had changed with them. In addition to standard academics, her middle school offered specialised programs in technology, engineering and other hero-related fields. It was an environment where kids with unique abilities were encouraged to learn and develop them; and see how they could be beneficial in ways other than just combat. Opportunities like these were expected rather than uncommon for those with privileged backgrounds or those who aspired to succeed in hero society.
The tech lab always sounds different after classes have ended. It was peaceful.
Chatters that filled classrooms fade into echoes down the corridors. Cooling fans murmured from the computers lined across the walls. A cabinet door gave a rattle every few seconds from the air conditioner; someone must’ve forgotten to tighten it.
Himari’s fingertips brushed against the edge of the workbench, walking towards her usual station. Beneath her skin, the smooth laminate was cool, only disturbed by the familiar heart-shaped scratch etched in the corner by someone. Despite herself, she smiled, reassured by how little places changed.
Her tablet was set onto the desk, fingers resting onto the charging cable greets the current.
Most were only familiar with electricity through outlets and the sting of static. Himari couldn’t ignore it even if she tried. Each gadget had its own pulse that she could sense somewhere deeper, almost as natural as feeling the warmth of sunlight on her face. Each device produces EMG radiation that seeks her attention, providing consistent hums throughout the lab. Above her, a little stream of energy flowed through the ceiling as each overhead lights buzzed softly.
Her almost depleted tablet appeared to be reaching for the outlet. She offered a trickle from her own internal storage, converting her absorbed radiant energy into usable electrical energy. Others joked that she was basically her own portable, biological solar panel. It sounds funny until you end up becoming everyone else’s charger. They better be thankful that she sunbathes to recharge for their own personal enjoyment.
Her tablet chimed awake under her hands, causing an influx of “written” information onto her senses. A structured electromagnetic map of pulses and patterns translates to her organized folders from over a year of arranging and rearranging until she was satisfied. (She never is…)
Prototype Ideas, Research, Testing Logs, Failed Designs. The four hell of aspiring engineers.
She taps on the last folder without really thinking. Some erase their mistakes, Himari has hers perfectly put on display. Failed sketches, cracked casings, designs overheating now lived exactly where she left them. Frustration can’t even begin to explain her experience inside this lab, but this reminds her why she had failed in the first place. She prefers learning from evidence over confidence after all. Believing otherwise will only soil her clothing in even more so than she’d prefer, and perhaps even a phone call to her two, very overworked, parents that she doesn’t want to bother as much as she probably already does.
Her warm stylus nestled comfortably between her fingers, and opened her latest model. The shape unfolds inside her awareness. Immediately, the warm pulse from the power core made itself known. Raised outlines marks the plating with repeating vibrations for its moving parts.
She nudged a component slightly to one side and paused. Himari tilts her head with a “Hmm, no…” It still didn’t feel right. She could never really explain how she knows. Designs like the one she’s working on right now carried that same imbalance like the past version. Something like wavelengths entangling weirdly with each other? But waves interact with each other all the time albeit in a less chaotic way. Experience had taught her to trust these instincts. Delete!
The tappings of her stylus blended into the printer’s steady hums until another sound interrupted it. Footsteps, and it seemed unhurried, so not a teacher. Teachers often walk with purpose, their heels strike against the floor as if to convey a warning. No, these steps were fainter, accompanied with a soft rustle of floral-scented fabric.
They stopped beside her desk. Their heat signature and heartbeat were steady, indicating that they must’ve been around or in the lab already while she was awfully absorbed in her work. That familiar heart pulse must mean this is–
“You know, I’ve been watching for almost five minutes,” A gentle voice sang across the space. “You keep changing the exact same parts.” Her lilt must mean she finds amusement in this self-inflicted misery.
Himari raises her head to acknowledge her presence. Yaoyorozu Momo’s signals stood beside the workbench, and she considered just closing the project. Momo, however, didn’t comment on the countless revisions meticulously ordered along the screen. With quiet interest from someone who has seen this far too many times, she looks upon the open design as though she were trying to comprehend the person behind it rather than the project itself.
“You’ve rebuilt this three times,” Momo observed. She leaned in, her thermal energy enveloping her surroundings. The taller girl hummed, as if transfixed on unfamiliar terms and concepts, or perhaps it could be familiar from their years together.
Yaoyorozu Momo had been a part of Himari’s life for so long, it was believable to falsely claim to others that they had known each other since diapers. Sometimes though, they jest that their relation extended to a family tree. Childhood playdates became study sessions, study sessions eventually led to weekend projects, and somewhere along the way, a solid friendship fixed itself between them beyond academic connections. Others knew Momo as this poised honor student who always seems to have the correct answer, but Himari knew the girl who quietly hummed while reading, or the girl that apologizes to inanimate objects when she bumped into them. It was that quiet curiosity, more than her intelligence or family name, that Himari always admired and used as inspiration
“Five times,” Himari corrected helpfully. “The first two versions were worse, do you wanna see?” She heard a soft chime of giggles behind her. Honestly, if she was just gonna come here to laugh at her dilemma, might as well force another brain power to join her. She’s a smart girl, she’ll figure it out if Himari just throws her in the deep end.
“So you just kept them?” Momo raised, mindlessly tapping on icons over her shoulder. A wave of signals and patterns flooded her awareness as a result, overwhelming her senses from the sudden interference. Her school day always does end up like this, no? Momo subtly, not so subtly, telling her to just go home becomes routine.
Himari huffs, swatting her hand away. “Well they still did teach me something,” she mumbles. For just a moment, they allowed a comfortable silence to lull the empty lab. The 3D printer continued its mechanical clicking back-and-forth in the background. The ventilation system sighed overhead blowing cold wind through their hair, in contrast to the warmth that seeped to her skin from the window looming behind them.
“I like that,” Momo finally said with a knowing tone. “Most people only really keep what they’re proud of.”
Momo should already be aware that this habit was because of her in the first place. She was the one that insisted that every failed experiment of Himari’s was simply “one more way of understanding the problem.”
If Himari was at her happiest taking apart components to understand its inner workings, Momo was at her element on asking why they worked in the first place. For years, they had balanced each other’s viewpoints, turning casual chats into hours of discussion. Her confidence was always a comfort to Himari rather than overbearing. She had a tendency to embrace all of Himari’s ideas as if they were worthy of consideration regardless of how unrealistic it initially seemed. While it is true that Himari struggles to open up to others on anything that involves her, Momo still took the time to get to know her and had been one of the only ones to reassure Himari that her passion wasn’t odd. It gave her the initiative that it was something worth fostering.
Himari glanced back toward the tablet. “Well if I only kept the successful ones…” Her fingers feathered on the edge of the screen. “I’d forget how I got there otherwise,” she said, lighting up a smile up towards where she thinks Momo’s eyes are. She feels a warm hand ruffle her curly hair, probably further tangling it up more.
Momo watches as Himari saves the latest revision with a quiet sigh. “You’re done already?” she asks.
“For today,” Himari answers as she altered the tablet’s wavelengths to load up her notes. Files of her writing took up her perception of her tablet. Well, coded data to be more accurate: to be able to have easier readability and access with her quirk.
“‘For today’ sounds different from finished,” Momo says as she bumps their shoulders together. Over Himari’s shoulder, she taps on the tablet to translate the code into written language to read alongside her.
“Needs more improvement.” She replies succinctly in a joking manner. She’s not really joking though, it’s true.
With a laugh, the taller girl responds “Yeah, I was expecting that answer.”
Somewhere farther across the workshop, a cooling fan decreased its output, slowing down until the room became a little quieter than before. Himari absentmindedly rested her forearms on her workbench bringing her senses over her notes. Pulses and patterns stare back at her. Years of acquired information, both from observation and academic lessons, to better understand the world around her. Quirks, support tech, psychology, behavioural science are only one of many that take up this structured mess. Many crude collections, and eventually expansive and thorough annotations with occasional inputs from her dear friend beside her over the years.
Momo’s background must have drawn her interest in this little interest she has had, also wanting to understand more beyond what she sees in her everyday life. The systematic and behavioral effects that come from being privileged sounds like an interesting rabbit hole to get into. It has been a few weeks since she entered an exposition in the ‘psychology’ section.
Neither of them felt an urgency to fill silences, years of friendship made quiet moments comfortable as is conversation.
“I almost forgot,” Momo said at last. “Our guidance counselor handed out high school planning forms today!” Himari lets out a small sigh. “You sound thrilled,” Her friend muses.
“I’m trying to avoid thinking about any of that.” Himari mumbles, slumping back on the other girl to prove her grumpiness across.
Momo smiled knowingly at her quiet admission, leaning her head against the shorter girl. “Hmm, well they’re just asking us to think ahead.”
“That’s kinda my problem, that sounds too stressful.” Himari let her head wander to the ceiling. The fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead, akin to those pests outside if they ever actually decide to leave the school premises in the next hour. She’d spent years envisioning the future, but every version seemed to end with another question she wasn’t able to answer.
“What did you write?” Himari inquired to the girl next to her head. She already knows anyways, years of conversing and planning made their goals known. “UA?” she answers for her.
Momo nods. “Mhm, the Hero Course,” She says in a serious tone, but her cadence reveals her inner eagerness. Himari humorously grumbles at her feigned solemnity and pokes at where she senses Momo’s side to be at, bringing a giggle out of her friend.
Momo has developed an unshakeable belief in herself, albeit the years of Himari tearing down her hesitancy on anything that involved her views and aspirations. She remembers sitting beside a younger Momo, surrounded by discarded notes and half-finished ideas. “You keep on looking for signs that you’re failing,” Himari once said, parroting the other girl’s advice back to her, “but you never actually notice just how much you’ve already succeeded.”
Momo’s confidence had never truly been missing, it simply was buried beneath years of pressure and self-doubt. There must be comfort in knowing where you want to be. Her friend really is so cool. Her, on the other hand…
“And you?” Momo invited gently.
The questions lingered in the air. Himari expands her senses back to the collections of notes on her tablet and her finished prototypes that lined along her work station. There were a dozen small reworkings in her designs that waited for her attention, each one insignificant in the grand scheme of things other than satisfying her own expectations. But they could always become something worthwhile eventually.
“I don’t know,” Himari answers. Momo didn’t interrupt her train of thoughts, she rarely ever did. “I like building things,” she continued. “I like understanding how they work, and why they don’t.” Her fingertips trace the edge of the tablet, finding that familiar comfort in the continuous signals that speak only to her.
A faint laugh escaped her. “I could spend a whole afternoon fixing one minor problem and never end up noticing time flying by.” She feels dainty, yet calloused fingers untangling her hair. “I’m pretty sure this borders on obsession, even one of my old psychoanalysis excerpts touches on that somewhere in my tablet. There must be something wrong with me.”
“There absolutely isn’t.” Momo fishes her hands out Himari’s curls, and folds her hands on the back of the chair. “Last I checked, you spent three hours redesigning the inside of one device.”
“It wasn’t three.” She claims as she whips her head towards the other thermal energy in the workstation.
“Actually, it was almost four,” Momo says behind her while proceeding to poke at her temple. “You skipped lunch, I didn’t see you during my rounds at the main building,” she chides.
Himari blinked. Oops. The student council had rounds checking around the school every now and again, lunch today must’ve been Momo’s. She can already imagine Momo probably smiling at her getting caught unaware, which is a rare thing nowadays. She’s getting better at it, she swears!
“You disappear whenever you’re too engrossed in your work.” Momo reveals.
“I do?” That small, yet meaningful observation brings warmth to her chest. Most would have teased her for this. Momo simply accepts it as another part of what makes her Himari.
“I don’t think I’d make a very good hero.” Himari suddenly admits. The words surprised even her. Perhaps because she’d never said them out loud before.
Conversations with others about high school almost always ended the same way. It was simply assumed that if your quirk was strong, you’d end up becoming a hero. Maybe in some long forgotten memories, maybe she’d wanted that, influenced by being adopted by two hero parents that she sees every now and again. People’s expectations of her furthering that sentiment, which probably includes even her own dads. She doesn’t want to disappoint them.
Himari is not sure if she even wants that anymore. She wants to be able to solve problems, whether it be in a physical sense or conceptually. She wants to be able to build something that makes other people’s lives easier, just like she’s done with her own. Himari didn’t think it was so bad to be able to understand the invisible rules that governed her own quirk, and take something unpredictable and make it dependable. But those dreams felt smaller. She wonders if they were valued less because barely anyone acknowledged them.
She communicates her thoughts to her friend, who was quietly letting her ruminate inside her head, reminding her that she was still there by twisting strands of ringlets between her fingers.
“They’re different dreams,” Momo said matter-of-factly, as if she already expected her thoughts. “Different doesn’t mean smaller.”
Himari thumbs her tablet and says “ It feels like everyone else here is running towards the same finish line.” She searches for the words, and carefully adds, “I keep stopping to ask if there’s a better road for me.”
For a long moment, Momo continued playing with locks of her hair. She could practically feel her gaze. She wonders how her friend looks at her whenever conversations descend into these kinds of topics, it didn’t seem like she was disappointed, that doesn’t seem like her.
“You know what I think?” Her friend replies. Himari shakes her head. “This world does need people like you,”
Momo nudges her at her tablet, “because while heroes learn how to save people,” she paints. “someone has to ask how they can do it better. You’ve still saved someone.”
The soft pulses of half-finished projects covered nearly every bench. Some would never be used, or work in the first place. Other projects would eventually find their way into competitions and classrooms; or perhaps even the hands of professional heroes. Every invention begins as an idea someone believed was worth chasing.
Maybe standing behind front lines didn’t mean standing in someone’s shadows. The thought settled itself in her mind.
- - -
The train ride home passes in silence, the reassuring kind. Stations announce themselves to Himari before speakers do. Doors sliding open, changing the pressure.
Three stops in twenty two minutes, this was a route she had memorized long before her years were in double-digits. Living in an area with high surveillance and affluent individuals, seeing children wandering around without adult supervision were of common occurrence. However, this never calmed her paranoia growing up, especially with a disability. Did she ever complain to her parents about this? Absolutely not.
She had learned in elementary that kids felt uneasy around things they couldn’t comprehend. There were frequent praises of maturity from teachers because she never cried when her peers whispered or hesitated to include her. Adults, like her parents, called her “independent,” unaware that independence was just the easiest way to avoid becoming someone else’s responsibility. Long before she realised she was studying human behaviour, she had already started gathering data just to keep up.
- - -
The front door unlocked with the same worn key she had carried since a child.
“I’m home.” She called out to the apartment.
A tiny bell jingled followed by a soft mewl. A surprisingly dignified set of paws appeared among the many vibrations that their abode carried. Familiar energy the size of a plushie padded rapidly across the hardwood floor before colliding gently with her ankles.
“There you are.” Himari crouched, both hands reaching towards the warm wavelengths the Princess gave off. Before the cat brazenly fell onto her side and demanded attention, Princess responded with an earth-shaking purr that resonated through Himari's fingertips. “Survive another day to yourself, huh?”
She heard a soft meow before she chuckled. “Probably spent it sleeping.” An indignant yowl directed itself at her.
“I know, I know. It must be so exhausting.” she coos. Princess accepted the apology and rewarded Himari by rubbing against her legs. The apartment feels less empty with this kitty around. Not quite.
Her shoes found its usual spot beside the entrance before brushing her fingertips against the small table resting beside the shoe rack. As expected, her hand discovers a piece of paper among the empty tabletop, a folded small square. She smiles before she unfolds it.
"Dinner in the fridge. Heat for 3min. Don't forget your eye drops.
Love you.
– Dad"
His thick marker was used to write the note. Not because she would be able to read it or that he still hasn’t shaken off a habit. Rather, she was able to trace each word with her hand thanks to the raised adhesive letters her Dad, Shouta, had meticulously pressed along the underside of the paper.
Princess tried to headbutt Himari's hand after evidently concluding that the note was getting too much attention. “Jealous?” she giggles. She received a gruntled sound as much as a cat could muster. They had a lot of moments where Himara often wondered if their small, fluffy cat was a quirked animal. Its awareness could be more unnervingly accurate than normal. “I’ll pet you in a minute.” Knowing the cat, it was probably unconvinced.
Another note awaited her sticking to the refrigerator. Her fingers trace the raised letters, already aware that it was from her Papa, Hizashi. Its content brings out a small laugh out of her.
“Hi Sunshine! There’s dessert hidden behind the veggies, don’t let Shouta find out :D
Love you mostest,
– Papa”
She found a carefully packed dinner in the refrigerator, just as she had anticipated, along with an oreo pudding placed where it was claimed to be. Everything was portioned so precisely that she could recognise each container just by touch.
For years, her parents had been doing small things like these. Raised labels on food containers, textured stickers on buttons, rubber bands wrapped around various bottles so she could distinguish between shampoo and conditioner. Meals were made if they knew they would be away late, which was frequently the case. Little acts of affection concealed behind everyday activities. They never forgot, not even once throughout the long years she's been under their care.
- - -
She carried the plate to the dining table: one set of chopsticks, one plate, three chairs.
The other two seats remaining empty happen more times than she’d want to admit. It’s not like the apartment lacked people, it was just constantly waiting for them, always wondering where they were now.
She didn’t want to sound like a brat, but it was always another person who needed her parents more urgently, whether it be patrols, raids, meetings, emergencies. But she understands; heroes didn’t choose when disasters happened, teachers can’t just leave because their daughter missed them. That’s not how responsibilities work, she’s known that since she was little.
That doesn’t make it hurt any less though. Understanding never made their absence smaller, but it does make it harder to complain about. Does that make her ungrateful?
She took a bit of her dinner. It tasted exactly like Dad’s cooking always did. She wished they were sitting across from her.
- - -
The apartment settled around her. Her senses focused on the pipes inside the walls, the fridge compressor starting, someone several floors above dropping something heavy, distant traffic creating an endless river of vibrations across Musutafu. At some point, Princess had wandered over to one of her bedroom windows to watch the city beyond.
She thumbs her bedside table in search of that small paper again. Her hand discovers a sticky note this time.
"We'll be home late. Sleep well. Proud of you.
— Dad & Papa"
Dad would always sign their notes first, followed by Papa, as if they had reached an unwritten agreement long ago. HImari asked about it once when she was still a child, which just led to lighthearted bickering on who wrote first. She wasn't totally sure that they truly knew who picked up the pen first, even now. With a faint laugh, she gently folded the note and put it in her pocket. "You two are hopeless," she said in a loving whisper. "Love you anyway."
Himari reaches for her locked cabinets, only opening for her she communicates altered radio waves to the components. The light thrum of her portable work station greeted her, fingertips trailing across the imperfections worn into the convoluted device from years of hidden late-night projects. This was where she’d subconsciously decided years ago, long before anyone realized she’d stopped talking about becoming a hero.
She’d heard it more than enough growing up from friends and family,
"With your dads, you'll be an amazing Pro Hero one day."
"Imagine how proud Eraser Head and Present Mic must be!"
"You'll follow in their footsteps, right?"
She knows they never meant any harm, it was just simply what people expected from a family like hers. To her, she found it was always better to look at silver linings, that everyone else looked past her visual impairment, and was confident that she would be capable of something so grand despite that. Even she tried imagining that kind of future for herself.
But the satisfying click of a mechanism finally working will always draw her in. Nothing could quite compare to listening to someone’s smile in their voice because of something she’d built for them. The Support Course hadn’t become her second choice, because it was the only choice that she could truly connect with, despite years of doubt and hesitancy.
What she was worried about wasn’t truly this path, it was that her dads don’t actually know. They care very much about her, but there just hasn’t been a right moment to tell them. One patrol became another, more overnight work. Eventually, days blurred into weeks. and then months. Her digital notes just kept on multiplying, crowded workstations. Her simple fascination developed into passion before she knew it without them even noticing. Or perhaps she still couldn’t shake off the fear of disappointing them.
These wayward thoughts always made her sad. Tomorrow that would change, they’ll finally know the dream she had been quietly constructing for years.
And whatever happens after she tells them, she wasn't changing her mind.