The Revenant

It had to be a few days at the minimum, based on the memories he can accurately recall, but 'a few days' isn't exact. Even worse, he can't tell because he hadn't known the date beforehand either. There was the date he ran away: March twelfth. There is the current date: January seventeenth. Between that? He has no idea. It's not like he actually got a calendar to track the days. Even the seasonal temperature shift did little to help since he only noticed when rain turned to snow and leaves withered.

Another funny-unfunny thing?

His birthday passed, most likely while he was in a cell.

Well, it's a good thing I never cared to celebrate, I guess.

There's only a twinge of bitter sadness in the thought. There was never much of a reason to celebrate his birth, in his opinion. It felt too much like lauding his family's downfall for his taste. So, maybe it is fitting he likely spent it locked up by someone with the same obsessive eyes as his father.

'No place like home,  or whatever the phrase is.

He's fifteen now. Fifteen, and filling out a deferred adjudication form – which, yes, he did ask Eraserhead to explain to him. He may not have much of a choice in the matter, but he damn well wants to know what he's signing. The hero has been gracious enough not to get irritated with him, even if it's the fifth form he's asked for clarification on. (At least he can fill out the hero costume request form on his own. That one's simple enough. Not that he expects to hear back about that any time soon.)

His life has taken some odd turns, only a few of which he's proud. Too many of those choices have left him staring at the wall in silence, gaze a million miles away and mind even further. Whoever this court-appointed therapist is, he imagines they will either love or hate him.

He doesn't realize he's stopped writing, staring into space in thought, pen white-knuckled in his grasp until Eraserhead asks if he needs help with something. Shoto blinks himself back to the present, gives a soft "No, " and continues filling in his information.

---

Week One, Day Three:

Eraserhead has barely been around, always running to and from someplace or the other. Sure, it makes eating marginally easier as he doesn't have to abscond to his room with his meal as often, but it's certainly more nerve-wracking. He knows the man doesn't have his place wired with cameras – at least, he's pretty sure Eraser doesn't – but Shoto's still illogically nervous, eyes flicking to corners and checking dark nooks. Sometimes, the nerves still get to him even when he tries to rationalize it away, and he hides.

Last night was fraught with nightmares that followed him into his waking hours. His heart can't find its way out of his throat, and bile lingers on his tongue no matter how many hours pass. He doesn't know why he can't settle down like his body won't get the memo that there's no need for 'fight or flight' right now. There is no peril. So, why can't he calm down?

It's only worsened by the mental health screening he's taken to. It takes genuine effort and paced breathing not to vomit when he's left alone with the tester, who looks at him with vague interest and no empathy.

(He can't help it. People poking around his brain even metaphorically leaves a rancid taste in his mouth and a chill down his spine. A needling voice in his head laughs at that.)

His stunted emotive abilities prove helpful once more in covering his crumbling psyche. Shoto nods in the right spots and answers questions as broadly and neutrally as possible. Though, in hindsight, he really didn't need to be so nervous. The questions are vague, all things considered, and mostly surface-level. He noticed how the questioner didn't take any notes when the topic of 'attempted murder' came up. That raised more than a few red flags in his head. It can't be standard procedure.

Then again, neither is trying to onboard a vigilante so quickly.

A sinking feeling grows heavier and heavier in his gut with each step he takes in this process.

That evening, while Eraser's gone, he sinks so low that he eats in the bathroom, where he knows for certain there are no cameras, back pressed to the door. Somehow, that's more humiliating than submitting to Murmur.

---

Week One, Day Four:

Today's better.

Maybe the exhaustion forced away the nightmares, or maybe he'd been too tired to wake up from them. Either way, he'd gotten good sleep. Well, good for him, he supposes. Either way, he's in a relatively chipper mood, all things considered.

When Eraserhead returns sometime in the early afternoon, Shoto gives him a bright greeting. That being a slightly-less-than monotone 'hello' and a wave. It's downright joyous, truly.

That earns him an equally unenthusiastic grunt in return. He'll write off the lack of wave to the man's hands being full. There's a box under one arm, keys in hand, and the other hand is holding, surprise surprise, another folder. Whether that's in relation to him or Eraserhead's own hero duties, he's unsure. (He's praying it's not about him. He's going to develop carpal tunnel at this rate.)

He's not sure what the average processing speed is for legal paperwork, but he's pretty sure his stuff is being expedited. Maybe they're afraid he'll get cold feet and try to flee if they don't leash him fast enough. Maybe they're just really desperate to get him licensed. Whatever the case, every rushed form feels like another piece of sand in the hourglass slipping by.

Shoto watches Eraserhead, suspicious of the folder and resigned to the likelihood that it involves him again. He straightens his posture on the couch and assumes the air of a man at the gallows, waiting for the floor beneath him to open.

...Okay, perhaps he's being a tad melodramatic at this point, but who can blame him, really? Nobody liked dealing with bureaucracy on a good day, let alone a fifteen-year-old. His nightmares of Endeavor and Murmur are going to be replaced with ones of him becoming a salaryman soon.

It takes a few moments for Eraserhead to settle himself, but once he does, he sits on the armchair to the left of Shoto and gives him one of his signature inscrutable looks. Then, he hands that box over to him. Unless there's paperwork hiding inside of this thing, Shoto will happily take this mystery box over that folder.

Shoto takes the box carefully. It's relatively light and sturdier than it looks. In fact, now that he sees it up close, he notices that it's actually a protective case of some form. His brows pinch in thought as he scrutinizes the container before he looks up at Eraserhead.

"Is this for me?"

And the moment the question leaves his lips, he holds back a sigh at his own obliviousness. No shit. Why else would he hand it to me?

Luckily, Eraserhead seems rather accustomed to Shoto's remarkable observational skills and gives him a flat, very faintly amused look.

"I have no intention of updating my uniform, so, yes. It's for you," Eraserhead says as he leans back in the chair, shoulders losing their line of tension as he begins to unwind.

Shoto gives a brief nod of understanding, attention shifting to the box for just a second before he looks back at the hero.

"Thank you," he says, even though he's not sure yet what he's thanking him for. (If it really is more paperwork, Shoto is going to be decidedly unamused.) Then, he regards the pro with a tilt of the head. "Though, maybe you should consider adding a hood to your uniform. It'd make your hair less obvious when you use your quirk."

The way the hero's hair sticks up when his quirk is active is quite the exploitable drawback, in Shoto's opinion. It makes it all too apparent when the man is using his quirk and when someone can use theirs. Granted, the goggles certainly help in throwing off who he's looking at, but that doesn't negate the obvious tell.

Eraser looks at him with an expression that tells Shoto he's been down this route a time or two before, but he's still gracious enough to entertain the suggestion.

"A hood would obscure my peripheral," he points out in return.

Ah, right.

That would be an even bigger drawback in the middle of a fight, particularly for a close-quarters combatant like Eraserhead. If there's something he's grateful for regarding his curse of a quirk, it really doesn't have blaring weaknesses like that (not counting its apparent ability to attract power-obsessed people, of course). Shoto hums and thinks it over some more, momentarily forgetting the box on his lap.

"A hat?" he asks, though he imagines the logistics of wearing a hat in a fight would be a little tricky. Maybe if it had a strap or ties of some sort…? No, someone could choke him with that. Hair pins? Those could double as backup weapons.

Eraserhead's expression doesn't change, but Shoto senses that he isn't impressed with the suggestion from his tone when he says, "No."

Well, no need to worry about the logistics, then.

"What if you put your hair up?" he suggests. This one should be tactically feasible and easy to do.

For a moment, Eraser just stares at him. Then he leans forward and pulls his hair back into a bun, holding it into place with his hand. His eyes flare as his quirk activates.

A laugh is nearly startled out of Shoto when he sees the way the bun flips upward, trying valiantly to break free of its binding, and flyaway hairs stick up at random. It is, in short, absolutely ridiculous looking.

Shoto has to clear his throat to keep the amusement locked down in his chest. Thankfully, the hero can't see his face right now. Judging by the sigh he gets as Eraser lets his hair back down, it's pretty obvious he's aware of how funny Shoto found the sight.

"Alright, that's a no," Shoto says with a steady voice, still running the sight through his mind. At least he has something to fall back on now when he needs a pick-me-up. "You could shave your head. That'd eliminate the problem entirely."

The response is immediate, swift, and decisive.

"Absolutely not."

The hero seems rather attached to his hair, even if it proves tactically disadvantageous. Shoto tilts his head in thought, imagining himself in a similar position. Would he be willing to shave his head to eliminate his tell? After a few seconds, he determines that, yeah, probably. He's not overly attached to any physical aspect of himself. Hell, he's hardly looked in the mirror over the last several years.

(No, he has no interest in delving into the probable psychological roots of this. His therapy is coming up shortly. They can deal with that particular facet of his psyche then and there.)

"I'll have to think on this some more," he says after a stretch of silence, shelving the idea for now. This can be a fun little thought experiment to distract him when needed.

Eraserhead gives him a rather dry look, but Shoto thinks he spies a hint of amusement in his dark, heavy-bagged eyes. He likes to imagine he's getting better at reading the man and his very subtle cues.

"You do that," Eraser responds dryly, leaning back into the chair. He then gives Shoto a pointed look, clearly waiting for him to open the box already.

Ah, right. That.

He turns it over in his hands, finds the latches, and flips them open. When he flicks the lid up, he blinks a little in surprise before reaching in and carefully lifting the contents.

It's a mask.

A very nice, very high-quality mask.

"This is much better than my old one," he remarks, almost muttering as he turns it over to inspect it more closely, taking in the details.

Of course, it's not hard to be better than his original mask. That was just a plastic party mask he'd nicked from a dumpster behind a costume store. This one? This is clearly professional grade. And it's fashioned to look like his old mask, too, all plain white and featureless. However, instead of having those faint pinholes that gave the illusion of being eyeless like his first mask, this one genuinely did not have eye holes. Interesting. Does it use interior screens and cameras?

He runs his finger over the surface. Some sort of coarse, almost rigid fabric covers its sturdy frame.

"That's a polymerized weave, Nomex and Kevlar, I think. It'll protect it from fire and extreme temperatures," Eraserhead says, breaking through Shoto's intense scrutiny. "Odds are gangs will be looking to use fire quirks if they suspect you're around. Should also keep it safe from freezing over and small arms attacks like knives, as well."

It's hard not to marvel at least a little at both the thought put into its construction and the sheer idea of what it must cost. Shit, they're really serious about this.

While the thought still fills him with a sort of dread, he can't also help the slight tendril of excitement curling up through his chest as he holds the mask. It helps that they think fire quirks are his weakness, too, because now his mask is safe from both sides of his quirk. Not that he has any intention of putting its fire resistance to the test. Still, it's a nice fallback. As it stands, it's simply a nice addition if he runs into that asshole Dabi again. No more melted masks for him. (He hopes.)

Though, Eraser isn't wrong. Any enemy trying to outmaneuver him and take him out will probably resort to fire to combat his ice. It's just basic reasoning.

Shoto hums, turning it over in his hand and inspecting the inside carefully. It's just as smooth on this side as the other, though it lacks the fabric covering. Not that he's complaining; having that rub his face for hours on end would be unpleasant, to say the least. As he runs a finger over the surface, he feels a slight bump near the edge.

"There's a built-in comm unit already linked to my regular line. There's also a mic and camera. It won't record unless set, so you have to remember to set it before each patrol. Failing to record a day of work can be disastrous. Don't forget," Eraserhead says, watching his inspection carefully and walking him through the little details he uncovers on his own.

"Right."

Naturally, he'll have to record for patrols. That's standard procedure to protect heroes from catching criminal charges should a lawsuit arise. Well, it also helps with incident reports and investigations, but it's usually just a method of saying, 'See! I didn't do anything wrong!'

Eraserhead continues to watch him quietly, letting Shoto get familiar with his new mask. It's an important piece of Shoto's gear, more so than the average hero. It's not just a statement piece. No, it's become an integral part of his identity, his sense of self, and his sense of safety.

(Whether Eraser's the one who ensured it resembled his first mask or a decision made by the HPSC to build off of Shoto's already established image is something Eraserhead simply won't elucidate on, and Shoto doesn't think to ask about.)

"If that gets lost, broken, or stolen, we'll have to file it under damages. I prefer to avoid as much unnecessary paperwork as possible, so take good care of it," Eraser finishes, reaching over to pluck a pamphlet out of the box that Shoto hadn't noticed.

"I will," Shoto assures him, pausing his admiration to face the hero. This tiny display of manners is the least he can do.

Eraser stares at him for several moments, like he can really impress upon Shoto how important equipment maintenance is – or, rather, how severely he doesn't want to fill out a damage report. Either way, Shoto understands.

Once satisfied that he isn't about to toss the mask off a bridge or try to see how much it'd take to melt it, the hero nods slowly, handing over the pamphlet. Thankfully, it's just an instruction manual for the high-tech piece of gear. Shoto thumbs through it, glancing over the steps idly while listening to Eraser.

"Your costume won't be ready for a while. Unfortunately, the company likes to take liberties and is likely making several versions until they decide which is best."

That makes Shoto grimace. His request was very simple . He wants a temperature-resistant suit that regulates his core when using his ice. Extra pockets would be nice. That's about the long and short of it. What in the hell could they be extrapolating from that? Images of gaudy, attention-grabbing costumes and spandex body suits fill his head.

He fears what he's going to receive.

---

Week One, Day Five:

He wakes up with tremoring hands and a racing heart, but he can't recall what he dreamed about, so he constitutes that as a win. Soba is curled up on his chest, purring as if his life depended on it. That helps bring down his anxiety and steady his pulse. Shoto strokes the kitten, trying to motivate himself into something resembling a functioning human.

A knock at the door causes his pulse to jump again before he reminds himself it's just Eraserhead. Shoto has had to get used to that little habit since coming here. Every morning, the man raps on the door just once and waits for a response. It took three days to figure out why he did this.

"I'm alive," Shoto calls out, voice still thick with sleep.

The shadow under the door frame lingers momentarily before walking away, satisfied that Shoto is still kicking. He feels bad making the hero worry like this, he really does. So, he's been trying to get up earlier, to be visible before Eraser has to come knocking. (He's not usually successful on that front. What can he say? He really likes sleeping, and Soba makes it difficult to get up.)

It takes several more minutes – and several loud cries of protest from the kitten – for him to get up properly. The feel of this new mask is strange as he slips it on. It's far more high-tech than he initially expected, more so than any non-licensed individual should be given. In an odd way, it almost feels like a brand, a claim on his person. 'We put this money into you, kept you free, now you owe us.'

He tries to push the thought away, not wanting to ruin his mood before he even leaves the room. The other shoe will drop eventually. I'll be ready. No use wasting energy worrying.

Easier said than done, but he's nothing if not stubborn. Shoto will try valiantly to disassociate this mask from the HPSC and let any sour feelings leave.

When he steps into the kitchen, Eraserhead turns to him, a speculative look in his eyes.

"Once you've eaten and you're ready, I think we can begin training properly today. If you're comfortable with that," the hero says as he pours himself fresh coffee into a thermal cup. "It'll mostly be an analysis of your current skill level in both quirk and non-quirk combat, as well as your overall control and limits."

Shoto blinks in surprise, lingering in the doorway as he processes the hero's words. He's a little surprised Eraser is offering this right now. Granted, he did say training would begin once he passed his mental health screening.

However, judging by the flat line of his mouth, the pro might not have much of a say either way. In fact, Shoto is willing to bet whatever money is in his pocket that focusing just on testing today is Eraser's way of pushing back any actual combat.

It's touching, if true, but also unnecessary. Shoto may have some issues, but he's no fragile porcelain doll.

Yeah, because fighting is what I do best. The only thing I'm good at.

He tries to shut that voice up by shoving it in a little box and throwing it into the furthest reaches of his mind.

"Sounds good," he replies, short and simple, before moving about to get some food.

The mundanity of the task is about more than just nourishment. Shoto needs to busy himself, to keep pushing back against that sickly feeling in his gut. Once he really starts moving, he'll be okay. So long as he doesn't stagnate, he'll be fine.

They eat in silence, which does little to help abate the anxiety that's been plaguing him since waking up. His leg bounces under the table like it can shake the skin-crawling sensation right out of his body. (It doesn't, unfortunately, but it was worth a shot.)

Once they're done and dressed properly for training, they head out, Eraserhead leading the way. The trip to whatever gym or facility he's got in mind is nearly as quiet as breakfast. Shoto stares out the car window, watching the passing people and buildings blur by. Some radio station with a particularly loud host plays quietly in the background.

Things are fine, he assures himself. He'll feel better once he can burn off some of this pent-up energy. He's not used to doing nothing for so long. And he almost gets himself back to a level state, but then Shoto begins to recognize more and more locations. His heart begins to pick up pace the closer they get to Musutafu. His jaw clenches, teeth grinding like he wants to turn them to dust.

"Where are we going?" he asks, voice artifically calm as he works to keep the mounting tension to himself.

It's not entirely successful, based on the side-eye he receives, but Eraser doesn't comment.

"Geonosis Gym. It's the closest HPSC-certified facility that's large enough to handle your quirk," the hero explains, focusing on the road once more.

Fuck .

A chill goes down his spine while something adjacent to frustration mixes in his gut. He knows that gym. It's the same damn one his father would use and take him to once their home dojo was insufficient, before Shoto's quirk became too powerful, too destructive to be contained indoors.

The thought of going there again…

He has to resist the urge to throw himself out of the moving car.

"That gym isn't big enough," he says tonelessly, wrestling with the idea of running into Endeavor there. If he did, God, Shoto isn't sure how he'd react to that bastard.

Would you snap? Give him the Murmur Treatment? He doesn't deserve mercy, does he? So many years of retribution building up, that Dabi-like voice whispers.

Unaware of the brewing storm in his passenger seat, Eraser takes Shoto's words at face value. He blinks slowly before pulling off to the side of the road and putting the car in park. Then, he turns to level Shoto with a narrow-eyed look. This one is more inquisitive than unhappy, almost surprised.

"What do you mean it isn't big enough?" he asks slowly. "It's one of the largest gyms in the country, designed specifically for high-output quirks."

This, at least, is something to distract Shoto. His tension halts as the car stops. He turns to face the hero, face blank beneath the mask.

"I mean it's not big enough," he repeats, head tilting slightly to the side, uncertain where Eraser's confusion is coming from. He thought he was being pretty straightforward.

They stare at each other in silence for several seconds before Eraserhead sighs and rubs his eyes with one hand.

"Approximately how big of a facility would you need in order to show me your maximum output?" he asks, almost weary now, as if he's mentally reviewing that five-story building Shoto had iced and going, Why ?

Shoto remains quiet, brows pinching in thought. It's a fair question, one he doesn't have an answer to. He doesn't know the exact height of his largest attack. He just knows it's much larger than Geonosis. After brief contemplation, he just shrugs.

"Uncertain. I don't know the exact scale of my largest move. Last I can recall, it was around five hundred meters high, give or take," he says, almost casual in nature despite the absurdity of the information.

Eraserhead's eyes pop open wide, brows raising in surprise. It is, by far, the most colorful expression Shoto's seen come from the man. He almost wants to congratulate himself for bringing it to life.

"Five hundred meters? " he repeats, voice incredulous. Shoto can practically see the calculations running through the hero's head as he envisions that much ice. Eraser shakes his head slightly. "You're joking, right?"

Shoto's brows furrow once more. "No? Aren't jokes supposed to have a punchline?"

That incredulous expression on Eraserhead's face drops as if remembering who he's talking to. He just closes his eyes and sighs heavily as he collects himself.

"What I mean, Rime, is that… That's way more than anything we've been expecting from you. That's thirty times bigger than the largest attack you've displayed so far," he explains as he opens his eyes and stares down that blank mask like he's searching for the truth of Shoto's capabilities in its empty expanse.

And, sure, Shoto gets it. He does . That's a hell of a lot of power behind a single attack, more than most are capable of. It's why the gym facilities aren't big enough for him. There's little reason to build a gym that's one hundred and fifty stories high. It'd be a massive waste of money since nearly no one needs that much space. Maybe Shoto's just gotten used to the realities of his quirk and doesn't see it as that impressive despite knowing logically it is .

But, at least, he can say he surprised the ever-stoic Eraserhead.

He shrugs again, not really sure what else there is to say on the matter. Eraser's lips purse, and he taps a finger against the steering wheel as he thinks. Shoto leaves him to his musings. Hey, if it gets him away from Geonosis and Musutafu as a whole, he's not going to complain.

After a few more seconds of contemplation, inspiration seems to strike the hero. He grabs his phone and reaches for the door handle. "I'm gonna make a call. Sit tight."

Shoto just nods and leans back in his seat, staring at the dashboard and resolutely ignoring the scenery around him.

The call is brief, less than three minutes long, which is hopefully a good thing. Though, Shoto's really hoping it isn't the Commission he's talking to. It only just occurred to him that Eraser is likely going to report the revelation of his power to his superiors. That's going to make them salivate all the more.

Goddamn it.

He tries to chase away thoughts of the HPSC and the invisible noose tightening around his neck with imaginings of Soba. Of toys he should get for the kitten and the tricks he'd teach him if the kitten wasn't so stubborn.

Shoto's in the middle of deciding what color bandana he'd like to buy Soba when Eraser gets back into the driver's seat. He turns his attention to the pro, head cocking slightly in a silent question. Eraser doesn't speak as he starts driving again, pulling back onto the road before flicking on his turn signal and making a U-turn.

"Change of plans," he starts, glancing at Shoto from the corner of his eye before focusing on the road once more. "We're going to another location. There's a private and remote outdoor training facility we've been given leave to use. It should be far enough away from civilian structures to safely and effectively use your quirk."

Shoto's brows raise slightly behind his mask. That's not at all what he was expecting to hear. An outdoor facility would be perfect, though he notes that Eraser called it a 'private facility,' not an HPSC one. It makes him wonder who owns it. Well, so long as it's away from here, I don't care if it's the president of Japan who runs it.

"Okay," he says before settling back into his seat, the tension slowly bleeding out of his body the further they get from Musutafu.

It's not until they cross out of the Shizuoka prefecture and into the Nagano one that he really starts to feel...something nice? Safe, maybe? That makes me sound so pathetic.

That doesn't make it any less true.

The ride falls back into silence, though this one is significantly more pleasant than earlier. Shoto even actively listens to the radio host, mildly amused by the exuberant chatter between songs. He's not sure how anyone can talk so much and so animatedly. It must be exhausting.

The rest of the day is spent in some forest, which rouses memories of training with Endeavor and stories of what happened to his big brother. He tries to squelch them with every demonstration during his evaluation.

When Shoto sends out his largest attack, the ground shaking so violently it must have registered on the Richter scale and the forest splitting in half like the parting of the Red Sea, the ambient temperature dropping rapidly, Eraserhead is left in stunned silence. He's quiet as he stares, head tipped back, at the nearly implausible amount of ice Shoto put out in a few seconds flat. Then, he turns to Shoto.

"That," he says dryly, "is definitely more than five hundred meters."

Shoto just rubs the back of his neck.

"I did say I wasn't sure of the exact amount."

Eraser huffs before looking back at the spiking glacier, likely wondering how in the hell they were going to get an exact measurement of the volume here. The man's brows furrow, like the onset of a headache, is beginning to haunt him.

"Alright. Next test."

---

Week Two, Day One:

The initial evaluation had gone well. When Shoto and Eraser had done a practice spar just to place his current combat capabilities, Shoto hadn't shown any signs of losing control or falling into a traumatic episode. Still, Eraser hadn't been entirely convinced. So, he'd spent the next day doing the same thing, just to ensure it wasn't a fluke.

After reassuring the man that, yes, Shoto is relatively functional and not liable to split at the seams at any hint of violence, and yes, he's going to take his therapy seriously, Eraser didn't have much of a choice but to keep moving forward with the program.

While part of Shoto is pleased, dare he say he's even anticipating it, another rather large part is still waiting for the fine print to come into play. And yet, besides finishing up his paperwork and attending his first therapy session – No, he does not want to revisit it, thanks. He sat mostly in silence and answered whatever question was given to him in the most literal sense possible. – there's been no word from the HPSC. No demands. Nothing. It makes him anxious.

Since he was cleared to begin shadowing Eraserhead on patrol – strictly shadowing, Eraser made sure to keep reiterating that until Shoto's certain he can predict when he'll say it next – he gets to suit up for his first night of 'patrol.' (Yes, he's mildly frustrated he's just going on a glorified walk to watch Eraser work. No, he won't actually complain. He appreciates what the hero is doing too much to be that ungrateful.)

One thing he notes as they make their rounds through the darkening streets of Shinjuku is that some people seem happy, almost excited, to see him. He notes their reactions and puts a pin in it, set on asking Eraser about the sudden support later. Last he knew, most people weren't even aware of his existence. Sure, there was that article in the paper, but it didn't come with a picture of him or anything. So, he's not sure how they even recognize him.

They're currently keeping an eye out for trouble as they make a circuit through Golden Gai, the moon beginning to crest on the horizon, and the tourist crowds starting to thin. Shoto stands a few feet away from Eraser atop a club's roof, letting his gaze drift across the horizon when something odd catches his eye.

However, the oddity isn't on the ground. It's in the sky.

Shoto looks up a hair, seeing peculiar movement in the near distance and approaching quickly. His brows furrow as he focuses. A flash of red in the moonlight has a knot forming in his gut. You've got to be kidding me.

"Is that...Hawks?" he asks, somewhere between confused and displeased.

Eraserhead looks at him before following his line of sight. It's very evident now who the figure is. What had been just a reddish speck on the horizon is now clearly the number three pro hero. He'll be on them in moments if his speed is anything to go by. And he is aiming straight for them. What the fuck.

"Yes," Eraserhead confirms the already obvious, lips thinning.

Shoto's willing to bet his eyes are narrowed as if he can discern Hawks' motives through sheer willpower.

"Why?" he asks, his guard going up just as quickly as Hawks' approach. Eraserhead just shakes his head slightly.

"Not sure."

The pro moves to greet the billboard hero, stance distant but non-confrontational. Shoto's posture, on the other hand, is significantly more closed off as he angles himself in a more defensible position, about as unwelcoming as he can be without outright walking away. As if I can do anything to Hawks. Won't stop me from trying, though, if need be.

As expected, it takes all of a few seconds for Hawks to close the distance and hover over the two like a particularly smug and annoying angel. Shoto already dislikes him.

(Yes, he has a very obvious bias that goes beyond 'spotlight hero.' It's no secret who Hawks' favorite hero is. That automatically puts him at the bottom of Shoto's list, right above Endeavor and Murmur and below Dabi.)

"So, this is the vigilante making waves," Hawks says, a lazy smile on his face as he looks at Shoto, eyes hidden behind his large, yellow-tinted glasses. "Hey, I'm Hawks."

"I'm aware," Shoto responds, dry and cold. Every inch of him screams, 'Stay away!'

Unfortunately, it seems that Hawks is suddenly incapable of reading body language because he drops down to the roof, leaning a little closer with a smarmy grin.

Don't punch him. Don't do it. Eraser will be unhappy with you.

"So, you've heard of me? I'm so honored," Hawks says, grin widening, teeth flashing in the dark.

"Don't be. Every instance I've been aware of your presence has been against my will," Shoto shoots back, his hackles raising as Hawks invades his personal space.

(And isn't it almost funny to note that the highest-ranked hero here is also the shortest? Shoto idly wonders if that's why he's so annoying, to compensate for his lack of height.)

Hawks laughs at his (entirely serious) snark, and Eraser shoots him a look. Shoto can't see the exact look, but he can feel it.

"Wow, you are just so charming," Hawks says, moving as if to prop an elbow on Shoto's shoulder.

Quickly and deftly, Shoto slips out of the way, fists clenching and eyes narrowing beneath his mask. He gets that feeling again, the feeling of someone staring, picking him apart, evaluating him. Shoto wishes it was light out because he can hardly see the man's eyes behind those yellow lenses in the moonlight, can't discern the look in those depths. Maybe it's Shoto's natural distrust and wariness of pros in general, but there's something about this hero that sets off Shoto's 'fight or flight' instincts. Unfortunately, Shoto tends to favor the 'fight' instinct, which is not feasible right now.

"What do you want?" he bites out, fists clenching.

Hawks laughs and holds up his hands in mock surrender.

"Yeesh, can't a guy say 'hello'?" Hawks says, dropping his hands casually and rocking on his heels, looking far too amused for Shoto's liking.

"I'd expect the number three hero to have more important things to do," he retorts, voice pointedly rude now. He can vaguely hear Eraserhead sigh and just catch sight of him pinching the bridge of his nose in his peripheral, but he never takes his eyes off of Hawks.

The winged pro's smile turns almost saccharine as he leans in again, this time intentionally taunting with his playful tone. "What could be more important than welcoming a future colleague?"

Shoto has to wonder if the man is trying to pick a fight with him or maybe Shoto himself is just that much of an asshole for wanting to swing on the hero right now. It's a close fifty-fifty in his head.

His eyes narrow behind his mask as he takes in Hawks' expression and lax body language. Everything about him seems so goddamn casual, like he's just here for some fun, to see the novelty of this vigilante on the rise, and it pisses Shoto off.

"Many things. Saving lives, for starters. Or do you need a money incentive for that?" he shoots back coldly, aiming low for the billboard hero.

"Rime," Eraserhead suddenly interjects, his tone sharp and warning.

Shoto's shoulders tighten at the rebuke. He knows he needs to reel in his attitude and blatant contempt, but, fuck, is it difficult, especially with Hawks standing there and chuckling. His fists clench, and he feels that old, familiar desire in him.

You really have to handle everything with your fists, huh? Just like Dad.

Shoto has to strangle back the flinch that mental voice nearly draws from him.

All the while, Hawks acts like this is the most entertaining conversation he's had all week, like Shoto is being playful and not entirely serious in his distaste.

"You sweet talk everyone like this, or am I just special?" he says, voice low and grin spreading wider.

"You're—" Shoto starts, voice biting, but cuts himself off, firmly locking whatever vitriolic comeback he had on his tongue behind his teeth.

This only serves to amuse Hawks further, which in turn serves to irritate Shoto even more. Eraserhead watches the exchange closely, posture now prepared to intervene if necessary.

"I'm what? Smart? Funny? Devilishly attractive? I know, thank you," Hawks says, preening under his imagined compliments, wings flicking just a little more open, feathers puffing up like he's showing off for a fan.

Don't do it, Shoto. You will be arrested , and Eraserhead will be disappointed in you.

"This conversation is over," he says after mustering up his willpower to ignore the pro.

Then, he turns on his heel and walks away. Given that he's on a roof there isn't much of anywhere for him to go, but the message is clear all the same.

Unfortunately, as if Hawks' sole mission is to annoy Shoto, he follows behind him, grin unfaltering and voice teasing.

"Aww, so soon? But I really felt we were making a connection just now."

The only connection I want to make is my fist to your jaw, he thinks with clenched teeth, but he remains steady in his distance. He doesn't turn to look at the hero, even when the shadow of Hawks' wings, backlit by the neon lights nearby, falls over Shoto.

"I'm going to say some more hurtful things, and frankly, you aren't worth upsetting Eraserhead," he says, cool and dismissive.

This appears to make Hawks downright giddy.

He spins on his heel, facing Eraserhead, who looks thoroughly unamused by this conversation. His eyes are narrowed, face tucked into his scarf.

"Ooh, so you do actually like people. Eraser, you must feel so special," he says, this time turning his playful taunt to the other hero.

That is the decidedly incorrect move because now Eraserhead has determined this is an unworthy distraction. Number Three on the charts or not, he clearly isn't going to tolerate these shenanigans.

"You're interrupting my patrol. If you have nothing to contribute, then save this for another time," he says, voice flat in a way that Shoto's come to discern is actually flat and not the one hiding warmth beneath it.

(Is it sad that it makes him a little happy because it shows the stark contrast between how Eraser talks to him and to Hawks?)

Hawks huffs, letting his head tip back as he sighs, like he can't believe he's stuck around such dour people, even as he purposefully picks at them. All the while, beneath his tinted glasses, those sharp, sharp eyes study them, studies Rime. Picks apart his reactions, those minute tells of clenched fists and rigid posture.

He tucks all the information away as he shrugs, letting a blasé smirk lift his lips.

"Guess birds of a feather really do flock together," Hawks says, trying to lean on Shoto again but failing once more as Shoto steps away from him.

"Then I suggest you migrate elsewhere," he retorts.

"Alright, alright, I can take a hint," Hawks laughs, holding his hands up in surrender again. He walks toward the edge of the building as if to take off, and Shoto's terse stance begins to relax. But then, Hawks spins back around, tapping his chin like he just remembered something important. The smile on his lips tells a different story. "Oh, but wait a second. There was a reason I showed up."

Shoto's posture stiffens all over again. Even Eraserhead narrows his eyes further, scrutinizing the pro. He does not appreciate being yanked around, especially by someone who is supposed to be a professional and a colleague.

"Congratulations, I'm your probation officer!" Hawks exclaims like it's some wonderful surprise, jazz hands included.

Eraserhead and Shoto are dead silent as they stare at the man still jazz handing away.

For several seconds, the only sounds are the heavy bass of the music pouring out from the club they're standing on and the distant traffic.

Then–

"What."

It comes from Shoto, entirely lacking in inflection, a statement more than an actual question.

"I said—"

"Why wasn't I informed of this?" Eraserhead cuts Hawks' repeat revelation off, sharp, and just this side of genuinely aggravated now.

"And why didn't you lead with that?" Shoto tacks on, stepping closer to Eraserhead.

He doesn't know what's going on, but he knows it's fishy as hell. His mind races as he tries to put all these disjointed pieces together. There's absolutely no reason the pro-hero Hawks, of all people, should be his probation officer. There must be an ulterior motive for this decision.

"Must've slipped my mind," Hawks says with a one-shoulder shrug and a dismissive wave of his hand. "A representative was supposed to give you a call. Guess I got here before they could manage. You know me, too fast for my own good."

Must've slipped his mind? Seriously? This is something way too important to just 'slip one's mind.' Shoto isn't sure if he's lying, joking, or just plain stupid at this point. If it's the first option, his acting skills are phenomenal. If it's the other two, Shoto is going to have to try extra hard not to punch him.

Eraserhead's eyes are narrowed to slits as he steps closer, ready to ream the other hero for improper conduct and probably some other professional discourtesies that Shoto isn't privy to. But before he can start on his reprimanding, his cellphone rings.

"Oh, that must be them," Hawks chimes in (un)helpfully, smiling brightly as he points at the phone. Eraser's eye twitches minutely.

"Give me a minute," he says, shooting a pointed look at both of them. Shoto returns it steadily, unmoving, while Hawks gives him a thumbs up and a cheeky grin. Eraser gives him a lingering stare before stepping away from them to take the call.

Shoto is watching Hawks carefully while Hawks watches Eraserhead. Once Eraser is engrossed in the call, Hawks turns his attention to Shoto, smile smaller now. His posture is still so open and casual, hands in his pockets as he ambles just a little closer.

"I've been told you don't like heroes. Gotta say, I'm surprised you're deciding to work with us, let alone become one," he says idly like he's just trying to break the ice with the notoriously unfriendly vigilante.

Shoto has to actively keep down more insults. He's not usually one to play nice if he doesn't like someone – especially someone like Hawks ­ - but he really is trying here.

"I'll do what's necessary to help people," he finally grits out.

And it's the truth, even if it means sucking up his absolute hatred of the pageantry-obsessed charting heroes and working alongside them someday. If that's what it takes to keep people safe, to save more kids like Ishikawa, or shut down more trafficking rings, so be it. They're more important than his distaste and ego.

But something about his response seems to really interest Hawks. His grin is a little sharper, and Shoto feels that assessing stare from beneath those glasses all over again.

"Really?" Hawks asks, drawing out the word long past its usual length. "Well, I'm sure my boss will be thrilled to hear that."

Shoto doesn't know what the hell that is implying, because he's clearly implying something, but Shoto knows he doesn't like it. He falls silent, not wanting to initiate further conversation with the frustrating man. Though, he gets the distinct feeling Hawks isn't going to let silence reign for long.

And, lo and behold, he's correct in his assumption because after only a few seconds, Hawks is speaking again.

"I read the Murmur report. Nasty business. Can't blame you for what you did to him. Between you and me, I think I would've done the same," he says, voice dropping low now, little more than a whisper, like his words are meant only for Shoto to hear.

This causes Shoto's gaze to narrow, staring down the pro quietly. That is a decidedly abnormal statement for such a high-ranking hero to make. To openly laud such violence, near murder, especially to a vigilante. And to say he'd do the same, knowing Shoto's now in legal trouble for it? It makes no damn sense.

It's possible he's trying to ingratiate himself in Shoto's good graces, but why? He's one of the top three heroes in the country! There's no need for brown-nosing, especially not of such moral ambiguity.

It rings even more alarm bells in his head and twists his gut. Shoto isn't proud of himself or his actions. Sure, he's glad to have helped freed those people and expose that ring (though he credits Eraser more for it than anything), and a small, sick part of him is happy Murmur is out of the picture, but he isn't proud.

He doesn't trust Hawks.

Well, he didn't trust Hawks before, but he definitely doesn't now.

"To my knowledge, heroes aren't trained to be probation officers. How and why are you mine?" he says, completely ignoring Hawks' odd, probing statement. Whatever the man was trying to get out of Shoto, he won't get it.

Hawks purses his lips but then blows out a low, huffing laugh.

"Hey, I got those credentials in my file. You can check 'em if you want. But let's just say the bigwigs in the Commission took a shine to you. They wanna make sure you reach your full potential," he says, grin back in place.

Shoto does not like the sound of that. It's exactly what his father would say. 'I'll make sure you reach your full potential.' 'Stop acting so disgracefully. You have so much more potential!' 'I won't let you waste your potential on this childish rebellion!'

Yeah, Shoto knows what people mean when they talk about his 'full potential.'

"They plan on using me," he says, irritation flickering in his voice.

Hawks must raise his brows with the way his glasses shift slightly, a scoffed laugh filling the air.

"You say that like this isn't a job. We're all employees at the end of the day," he points out casually.

And, damn it, he does have a point.

But it's not the same . Not in the way Shoto means it, at the very least. There's a difference between being an employee and being a weapon. He knows which side of the fence he's falling on in their eyes.

"You didn't answer my question. Why are you my probation officer?" he says, turning the conversation back around.

Don't think I didn't catch you evading my question.

Hawks' eyes narrow, taking in Shoto's observational skills even as the hero grins so lackadaisically, at odds with his hidden cunning stare.

"Huh, guess I didn't," he remarks casually as he scratches his chin. Then, his attention turns to Eraserhead. "Well, would you look at that? Eraser's done with his call."

Now, Shoto knows something else is going on. He glares at Hawks for a moment longer before turning his sights on Eraserhead as well. The man looks positively annoyed now as he runs a hand through his hair.

Hawks just grins, walking backward toward the lip of the roof once more.

"Been a real pleasure, Rime. I look forward to working with you. I bet we'll be great friends," he says, cheeky and mischievous.

"Doubtful," Shoto retorts flatly.

Hawks laughs, wrapping his arms around his midsection like that was such a funny joke.

"Man, you're hilarious," he says, wiping a finger across his glasses like he's wiping away a tear, which makes absolutely no sense at all to Shoto.

"I'll forward Eraser the schedule for our meetings," Hawks continues on. "See ya around!"

With a salute, Hawks lets himself fall backward off the roof. Shoto knows it's too much to hope for that his wings get stuck and he just falls to the ground.

As he expected, in the blink of an eye, Hawks is shooting into the sky and flying away. Unfortunate.

They watch him for a moment before Eraserhead turns to Shoto.

"What was that?" he asks, voice sharp and expression stern.

Shoto feels very suddenly put on the spot.

"What?" he asks, confused and wrong-footed.

"That hostility. I know you aren't fond of heroes, but that was unreasonable," Eraser says, gesturing vaguely in the direction Hawks took off, the sky now empty.

Right. That.

Shoto knows he was in the wrong with his attitude, but he can't help it. Something about Hawks rubbed him the wrong way. Everything about his attitude got under his skin.

"...I don't trust him," he says after a couple of seconds.

Eraserhead sighs heavily and scrubs his face with his hands before looking at Shoto again. The hero looks him over, analyzing him yet again, like he's making sure his assumptions of Shoto's current state aren't misplaced. When he speaks, it's just as stern as earlier, leaving absolutely no room for misinterpretation or arguing.

"Whether you like it or not, you'll have to work alongside him and other pros someday. Burning bridges isn't going to do you any favors, especially if he's your probation officer."

Shoto sort of wants to punch himself now because Hawks is his probation officer , and he just spent the entire conversation more or less insulting the man. Shit.

(And, he supposes, Eraserhead has a point about the 'you'll have to work with heroes in the future' bit.)

"Right. Sorry," he grits out.

Eraserhead stares at him, still judging him silently, but it doesn't feel critical; more tired and concerned.

"Just...try not to instigate further. We don't want them to rescind their help. I don't have the weight alone to keep you out," he says with a sigh, dropping the topic. He's aware of how difficult a transition this must be. To have such a prominent hero suddenly pop up out of nowhere – especially in such a tenuous time – is certainly a potentially triggering event for someone like Shoto.

This response shames Shoto. He turns his head away from Eraser, looking into the distance with clenched fists as guilt starts to well up in his chest. He didn't mean to make things more difficult or to make Eraser look bad. He really didn't.

"...I really am sorry," he says, voice quiet now but utterly earnest. "I just…I get so angry and then I'm speaking before I think. It's worse with charting heroes."

Shoto can hear the hero shift and nearly startles when he feels a hand on his shoulder. He tenses at the contact before relaxing as he turns to look at Eraserhead.

"How about you bring that up during your next session? Maybe your therapist will have some advice on how to help with that," the hero suggests, and this time, that flat tone is the one with warmth hidden underneath.

Shoto nods, fists slowly unclenching in the face of understanding.

"Yeah, I will," he agrees, making a mental note to do just that.

(And it's not just for Eraser's sake that he's agreeing, either. It's for himself. To help him strangle these rancid voices, to suffocate the flames of his anger that just won't die otherwise. He hopes it works. God, does he hope. He doesn't want to be hateful, hurtful.)

"Thanks for sticking around," he suddenly adds.

He's not entirely sure why he says it, but he does mean it. Shoto knows he's not really the greatest company, even for someone like Eraserhead, especially now, but it's nice not to be alone, to know someone believes in him even with all his flaws.

Eraser is quiet, tucking his face in his scarf, though Shoto can see the faintest pull of his cheek, like a suppressed smirk is coming to life.

"Now who's the sentimental one?" Eraserhead says dryly.

Shoto huffs a quiet laugh and shakes his head, at ease once more.

Eraserhead tilts his head toward the skyline. "Come on, we've got a patrol to continue."

And like that, they're off once more, two shadows in the night. Eraserhead quizzes him as they go, starting with the basics, even while fighting. Learning can't wait, I guess, Shoto thinks with amusement as he watches the pro knock out a thug while spouting off another question.

---

Elsewhere – HPSC Chairwoman's Office:

Hawks stands before the chairwoman, giving her the rundown of his first meeting with Rime and ensuring not to leave out any detail. He reveals what he noticed of the vigilante's disposition and combative attitude as well as his sharp observational skills. It had been an...interesting meeting. Certainly eye-opening.

"He really doesn't like heroes, " he notes as he comes to an end with his report. "Though, he does have a soft spot for Eraserhead. He actually listens to the man, defers to him, even."

It's a weakness they can exploit if necessary. One she latches onto with cold, calculating eyes. They don't have nearly as much information on the man as they'd like. And with the knowledge Rime is potentially more powerful than they initially thought, if Eraserhead is accurate in his update, they need every advantage they can get in bringing this vigilante to heel.

"We can use this," she notes, folding her hands atop the desk as she stares thoughtfully into the distance, as if Hawks is just another fixture in the room. "I'd rather it not come to anything severe. Eraserhead is too useful to lose, even for someone as strong as Rime. But this opens up new avenues."

Hawks remains quiet, knowing he isn't actually being addressed here. He's used to this by now. He goes out, does his job, comes back, reports, and then stands around while she talks around him. It's old hat.

Her eyes snap to him suddenly, sharp and clinical. "Keep an eye on both of them. I want updates on their interactions. And talk to Eraserhead some more. If Rime favors him, as you say, you might be able to get more personal details from Eraserhead than from the vigilante. Understood?"

Hawks gives a decisive nod. Simple orders, really. They usually are in the beginning of these sorts of things. He's not looking forward to what's coming down the line.

"Understood," he reaffirms before being dismissed.

Time to play the probation officer for a grouchy vigilante, he thinks with a mixture of exasperation and wry amusement.

---

Elsewhere – Unknown Motel Room:

Dabi lounges on a chair, one foot kicked up the table as he reads the paper over. It's a few days old, but that's not what's important. On the cover is Murmur's place, entirely iced over with a pretty fucking fantastical headline.

So, the little bastard really did it, he notes with a sneer. Took him fucking long enough.

He had to practically lead that pro hero to the base with clues just to get shit started. Of course, he knew Shoto could get out. The brat really is the 'masterpiece' for a reason. Those stun cuffs couldn't stop him any more than they could stop Dabi.

But, as he reads on, he's almost amused to see just what Shoto did to Murmur. There aren't explicit details, but the fact that the paper even mentions that the ringleader is in critical care and the sheer ice fortress his base was turned into paints a pretty vivid, bloody picture.

He's gonna have to get someone to spill the details because he's dying to know what the hero-wannabe did to that jackass. Dabi saw that visceral rage in Shoto's eyes and that familiar fire of hate and anger that drives Dabi himself. It was like looking in a mirror, as much as it annoyed him to realize.

"Can't escape that asshole no matter where I go," he grouses.

However, something else manages to catch his attention near the end of the article. It's a short statement from some Commission PR lapdog who claims they're looking to 'talk with the vigilante' and 'offer him help in becoming a real hero.'

Dabi scoffs, rolling his eyes in disgust. 'Real hero' my ass.

He knows what's going on there. But, this presents itself as a very unique and very fruitful opportunity. One that can help push his agenda further, faster. He'll just have to play his cards right. A hum rumbles in his scratchy throat as he contemplates his next move, staring at that picture of the hideout all over again, before lighting it on fire.

Dabi watches the blue flames eat the paper up for a moment before dropping it on the liquor-soaked table. It goes up like a bonfire. Then, he gets up, in no rush as the flames begin to consume the room. As he makes his way to the exit, he steps over the burnt husks of two people before pushing out of the motel room.

When he’d asked for clarification on ‘no bringing anyone back here’, Eraserhead had given him a long, strange look. Then, he declared that it likely wouldn’t be an issue after all and just...moved on to the next rule without any explanation. Shoto is still unsure what that’s supposed to mean.

It all more-or-less boiled down to ‘don’t make trouble’ and ‘don’t read my work files, that’s illegal.’ As stated: Reasonable. Shoto has a high degree of confidence he can follow this list without too many issues. However, he can’t say there’ll be no trouble as trouble seems dead set on finding him regardless of how well-behaved he tries to be.

Eraserhead’s kindness extends on from there. He shifts his computer and paperwork out of his study and lays out a cot, giving up the space for his newest resident. Then, he grants Shoto peace and privacy to re-acclimate himself with the concept of ‘freedom’. This is not the first of his concessions for a soul teetering on the brink of ruin, and it won’t be the last.

Shoto grapples with this shift, unsure of what to do – what he can do. Of course, he knows what Eraserhead will and will not allow, that was outlined quite clearly, but he has yet to fight past the feeling that he’s intruding on the man’s life. So, he stays seated on that couch mechanically petting his kitten.

As he listens idly to the hero get situated and unwind, Shoto observes the living room’s sparse yet surprisingly homey décor. There are photos on a mantle with people he doesn’t recognize, books lining a shelf, and what Shoto thinks is a faux pothos plant beside them. The dust on its leaves is a little bit of a giveaway. What catches his eye, though, is the broken utility belt sitting on the coffee table amid a set of repair tools. I wonder if that’s from a recent fight or if he just hasn’t gotten around to fixing it yet.

Eraserhead has been busy as of late, thanks in large part to Shoto. He tries not to let that feed into that hungry guilt gnawing at him.

And there, in his peripheral, is the hero himself, seated comfortably with his hair up, filling out paperwork.

Working with Eraserhead in spurts gave a hint to his almost impractical generosity. Those small revelations are what started Shoto down this path of tentative trust, after all. But it’s different seeing him out of his hero uniform and in his daily life. There is no persona he sheds or switch-flipped. Just a change of clothes.

It’s bizarre.

His brand of virtue should come with stipulations and deals, a degree of selfishness, self-serving intentions, something. That’s how the universe works. (At least, that’s what he was raised to believe. All evidence thus far points to this conclusion.)

But, the man insists on subverting one expectation after another. Despite the thick file of paperwork waiting for him and the many wrongs Shoto has done, the first thing he’d done was try to make Shoto comfortable. And he does it all without expectation of compensation or acknowledgment.

It brings a sharp line of clarity slicing through Shoto’s uncertainties and doubts.

I need to help him, he decides firmly. With what, he isn’t sure, but he’ll figure it out. He can’t repay this kindness by being deadweight. However, he’s been severely limited in what he’s capable of now that he caused such a scene.

Household chores could be viable, if he knew how to do them, that is. Growing up with help tending to the manor had more drawbacks than he expected. Domestic qualities didn’t exactly fit into his ‘hero training’ regimen, so he’s left floundering on that front. How embarrassing.

Helping with cases is a hard ‘no’. Fighting criminals is almost certainly off the table after brutalizing the last criminal he faced off with.

It’s hard to come up with ideas when everything circles back around to what happened and what he did. He wonders for a moment if Soba could still smell the blood on his fingers. It might explain why the kitten keeps nipping them.

I need to help him, he thinks again, more fervently, almost feverish, as if helping Eraser will absolve him, but how?

He sits in silence, thinking of what he can do while desperately trying to box away all those nasty thoughts and memories clawing for his attention. He doesn’t want to hear Murmur or taste fear. He just wants peace and he wants to help. Is that too much to ask for?

By the time Eraserhead excuses himself, Shoto is no closer to a solution than when he made that decision.

How can he help a man who doesn’t seem to need any? What can he do to repay him?

Those questions follow him to his temporary room when the exhaustion finally grows too strong to ignore.

He lays on that cot, gut-churning, and stares at the closed door in silence. This is a safe area, he knows this, but his body refuses to listen as his heart jackhammers faster and faster until he feels like vomiting.

Shoto eventually shifts the desk to block the door, just a bit. Just enough that he’d get a warning if someone opened it. Then, he lays down, face hidden under the blanket as if Eraser would have cameras in his own office, and Soba cuddled up next to him.

He still doesn’t sleep. The nightmares just won’t let him.

---

Noon comes on the second day, and with it comes news.

Shoto is back on that couch, fighting stubbornly through a sleepless haze, muscles pleasantly warm from the meager exercises he ran through to occupy his time. Eraser had left early in the morning – earlier than a healthy night of sleep should allow, but he supposes the man is a nocturnal hero – and left Shoto with free time.

He relaxes into the cushions with a soft, contented sigh. Despite the horrors endured, this ill-fitted mask, and the caustic thoughts wreaking havoc in his head, at this moment, on Eraser’s couch, he feels closer to peace than he can recall being in recent memory.

He begins to drift, just on the edge of sleep, when the door opens and nearly gives him a heart attack. Despite the way he jerks in surprise, the cats currently lounging across him don’t budge an inch, stubbornly soaking up his excess heat.

Eraserhead enters the house with a file under one arm and a newspaper in the other hand. His eyes gravitate toward Shoto. There’s an odd look on his face. It’s a little like the look he gets when he finds something reluctantly funny.

“Congratulations, you have a name,” Eraserhead says as he drops the newspaper on Shoto’s masked face. Then, he continues his path toward the kitchen without any further explanation.

Confused and intrigued, Shoto grabs the paper and sits up, much to the cats’ collective disapproval. There, on the front page, is a picture of Murmur’s iced-over hideout. Objectively, it’s an impressive sight. The building is five stories tall and entirely consumed by grand spikes of ice like a glacier was dropped into the middle of the prefecture. He can’t be sure because of the angle, but Shoto wonders if he accidentally hit neighboring buildings too.

The title of the article rests above the picture in large, bold lettering:

Vigilante Exposes Trafficking Ring, Destroys Building

And Shoto isn’t sure if he likes that phrasing. He didn’t do much exposing. Eraserhead had already been there. They likely just want to sell papers with this fantastical title because who wouldn’t be curious about a vigilante doing all that? Still, he wonders if this counts as journalistic dishonesty and if that even matters.

He only skims the article, wanting to put more distance between himself and that place, but he needs to know if the other victims are being dragged through the dirt. Thankfully, there’s only minimal mention of captives recovered.

What he does notice, however, is precisely what Eraserhead had brought up.

A name.

His, to be precise.

Or, rather, a name the media has decided to give him.

He reads on with the ghost of a grimace on his lips.

The vigilante known as Rime has been spotted fighting crime around the Shinjuku prefecture. Sources say he’s responsible for the capture of over two dozen—

He rolls his eyes. Shoto would very much like to know how he’s known as ‘Rime’ when this is his first time hearing the name. (Also, who has been spotting him? Is he really that obvious?)

“I didn’t pick this,” he says loud enough for Eraser to hear after skimming the paper and dropping it onto the coffee table.

It’s not the worst name they could have given him. Sure, it isn’t what he would have picked, but it’s acceptable, he supposes. He could have been dubbed something similar to ‘His Purple Majesty’ or ‘Best Jeanist’ (full offense intended), and if that were the case, he might have considered suing the paper for libel.

Eraserhead appears in the archway, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed and an expression of muted amusement.

“I warned you, Rime,” he says dryly.

“You have no room to talk, Eraserhead,” he retorts on pure instinct.

The hero’s expression doesn’t waver. If anything he looks a little more amused at the defensive response in his own strange, dour way. He just stares, blatantly judging the teen and his new name. And Shoto can’t really defend himself more than that because Eraser had warned him. Shoto just...didn’t think it’d get to this point. If he didn’t think it’d be a stupid choice and give his identity away, he would have just gone with the hero name ‘Shoto’. It’s serviceable and not flashy. Unfortunately, that would have been a little on the nose.

Rime is...doable. For now, at least.

And hearing Eraserhead call him that name pings something in his head.

I’ve never heard him address me directly before.

He cocks his head in thought as he goes over their past conversations and there’s nothing. Weird.

“I just realized, this entire time you haven’t had a name for me. What’ve you been calling me?” he asks, overcome with curiosity.

While Shoto knows Eraserhead’s real name, he’s been calling the pro by his hero name because he didn’t feel he had the right to address him so informally before. Even then, he’s both verbally and mentally addressed the man with some form of title. Shoto never gave one in return.

“’Headache’ mostly. ‘Migraine’ when you’re particularly annoying,” Eraserhead says flatly.

Ah, that…is unfortunate, he thinks with just a small pang in the chest. He’s not sure what he expected. Perhaps Taro Yamada? That’d make sense. But, he supposes he’s been quite disruptive to the hero’s life.

“Oh,” he says, a little more subdued, and tilts his head down in apology. “I wasn’t aware I was aggravating you. Sorry.”

Shoto knows he isn’t the easiest person to be around. He’s not good at socializing and he doesn’t have much of interest to share with others. Plus, his temper isn’t exactly great. He’s unpleasant, to put it plainly.

Eraserhead is quiet, then he sighs and shifts, drawing Shoto’s attention back to him.

“I’m joking. You’re fine.”

Of course he is, Shoto thinks with a small degree of annoyance, though not at Eraserhead.

“Right.”

It comes out a little dull and bitter. He hates that the hero has to constantly clarify this stuff, that Shoto doesn’t get it like others do. He should understand these things, social nuances and sarcasm and just general conversation but he doesn’t and it only makes it harder for him to feel real.

“I’ve been trying to get better at reading social cues now that I can freely speak to others and watch people converse. I’m not sure I’m succeeding, though,” he admits, too tired to hold on to that irritation.

Since running away, he’s spent his share of time people-watching, fascinated by the most mundane of things. Watching people joke and laugh and argue was so interesting because there always seemed to be a subtext in conversations that went over his head. Nobody really ever said what they meant and it baffled him. He’s been trying to figure out this secret code with little success.

His confession, though innocent on Shoto’s end, just an admission of his awkwardness, seems to go down wrong for the hero. He tucks his face, as Shoto notices he does when he wants to hide what he’s feeling, but his eyes are sharp and narrowed, calculating all over again.

“You weren’t allowed to talk to anyone?” he asks. His voice is neutral, so much so that Shoto has the distinct feeling he’s compartmentalizing something here.

That’s when Shoto realizes just how badly his words can be misconstrued. How horrible does Eraserhead think his childhood was? It wasn’t that fucked up. Right?

That’d explain the sudden tension. I should probably clear things up.

“Ah, I phrased that wrong. I could, but I was limited in who I could interact with growing up. My father and tutors were okay,” he says as if that’s somehow normal or better than the conclusions Eraserhead is drawing.

That expression doesn’t shift off the hero’s face, much to Shoto’s chagrin. He hadn’t meant for this to be a ‘thing’. It was just an explanation of his shitty social skills. Unfortunately for him, said social skills decided to kick in during the explanation.

“Your mother? Brother?”

Shoto shakes his head, mood dampened even further.

“No.”

He doesn’t mention how his mother used to hold him, stroke his hair so lovingly, and reassure him. In the end, she was taken away when he was barely out of his toddler years, just a shell of a woman. Nor does he tell the hero that he has no formative memories of interacting with his siblings. That, he imagines, would not help his case.

His voice doesn’t betray the defeat he feels. For the life of him, he can’t understand why he feels a little ashamed, as if he’s the one at fault. (But he is, isn’t he? It’s always his fault, his failures, his imperfections.)

Eraser stares, eyes heavy.

“Well, ‘isolation’ would explain a few things,” he mutters, barely audible.

He can’t decide if he should feel offended or not. Was he that bad?

Before he can come to a conclusion on that, Eraser shifts the course of the conversation by holding up the folder from earlier.

“I have the questionnaire.”

And with that, the last remnants of peace he managed to cultivate shatters. This, he decides, is going to be unpleasant. But, answering without a fuss is the very least he can do. (He’s taken up as little space as possible, used as few resources as he can manage, but the guilt never leaves.)

“Okay.”

It takes an even greater effort, one he’s almost tempted to give up on, to move the cats as gently as he can off his lap and pry himself off the couch. Soba protests this vehemently. The two walk in silence to the kitchen and take opposing seats at the table. Shoto watches the hero through lead-heavy eyes as he glances over the sheet. Then, a new form of torture begins.

Answering the questions feels exceptionally similar to offering a broken-up version of a mission report, only significantly worse. Recounting his experience is easy – at least up until his memory grows blurry – but it’s uncomfortable. He doesn’t want to think about Murmur or his laundry list of failures. He doesn’t ask how many people were rescued or if that woman was among them. He doesn’t want to know, at least not right now. Later, he’ll ask for a headcount, and later he’ll mourn in proper.

He wishes he could scrub the entire event from his brain, but he can’t. So, he supposes since that isn’t possible, he may as well make use of these memories and weaponize them against those guilty.

And so, he tells Eraserhead everything he can, sparing no excruciating or embarrassing detail unless it’s absolutely necessary. Descriptions of the culprits are concise down to approximate height, weight, and any distinguishing features he took note of. When he speaks of his capture, his escape, the hostage, his torture, and failed conditioning, it’s all with a deadened, clinical voice, like reading instructions off a box.

The only clue to Eraserhead’s feelings on these subjects is the way his pen creaks dangerously in his grasp and how his shoulders draw into a tense line. When Shoto notices, he nearly suggests fixing his posture to prevent muscle cramps.

After his voice tapers off and the last of his recount comes to an end, it grows unnervingly quiet again. Nothing but the soft scratch of pen on paper and a ticking clock fills the air. Then, Eraserhead lowers the pen with a heavy sigh. He rubs his eyes and tilts his head back to look at the ceiling like it holds the answers he seeks. All the while, Shoto waits patiently, almost drooping in his seat with the desire to sleep tugging at him.

Once he seems to find whatever secret the ceiling has been keeping from him, Eraserhead looks at him again. His expression is no less severe.

“I have something serious to discuss with you,” he says, and the way his voice drags across the air, gritty and unbearably heavy, cracks through the shell of apathy that’s ensconced Shoto. A tendril of worry creeps through his nerves.

“What is it?” he asks even though he wants nothing more than to get up and walk away from this conversation.

Eraserhead takes a beat to answer and it’s unclear if he’s giving Shoto a chance to prepare or himself.

“You left Murmur in critical condition,” he finally says, voice flat, almost distant. He puts an invisible divider between the two as he speaks, unwilling to let subjectivity sneak its way into this moment.

Shoto appreciates that even if it feels like he drank a poison most bitter. (It burns more than the information he was just given. What a rotten, selfish boy he’s become.)

When Shoto doesn’t respond, doesn’t so much as twitch at the words, Eraserhead frowns a little. He continues.

“He’s alive, but as of right now, he’s comatose. It’s uncertain when or if he’ll wake up, and if he does, what sort of state he’ll be in. Permanent brain damage is well within the realm of possibility.”

Shoto feels a little nauseous at the news, and he’s not sure if it’s because of the guilt and disgust he harbors for his monstrous actions, or if it’s from the sickening, blood-curdling hint of relief and satisfaction that seeps into his core once it sinks in that Murmur will likely never terrorize the streets again.

To the rest of the world – Eraserhead specifically – he’s a statue of indifference in this quaint, contemporary kitchen. Maybe this is the moment Eraserhead will finally snap and hate him, finally recognize the thing he is.

Still, Shoto doesn’t respond. He doesn’t know what to say. Words can’t fix this and any apologies would ring far too hollow. After all, he isn’t the sort to say something he doesn’t truly mean. (Vile, vile, creature. Violent and wretched.)

Eraserhead can’t see his face but it feels like the pro is reading him just as easily as if he could. Dark, bloodshot eyes search his defeated posture for the answer he won’t give. Where once Shoto would sit straight, the picture of conditioned refinement and barely bridled confidence, he slouches under the weight of his invisible demons. There is nothing but silence from him, and yet that, in itself, speaks volumes to the hero.

It lessens the tension Eraserhead carries and replaces it with ineffable sadness. (What does he mourn?)

“There were talks of bringing you in for attempted murder, among other lesser charges. While your situation was understandable, you went beyond justifiable lengths in self-defense,” Eraserhead says, still distinctly distant and unfalteringly professional.

There is a muted bite to his words, though, that he just can’t hide. An undercurrent of clenched fists and sharp teeth, and Shoto isn’t sure if the hero wants to tear into him, the barely-living Murmur, or the authority figures placing these charges at his feet.

There’s a flicker of anger that threatens to ignite in Shoto’s chest. Beyond justifiable lengths? For that monster? He wants to scoff but it stays lodged in his throat like choked-back bile. They aren’t wrong, he knows this, but it still leaves him feeling a little sick.

He was nearly brainwashed by that bastard, nearly turned into a puppet to be used and abused and God knows what else, but he’s the criminal? Shoto sucks in a shaky, rattling breath as he struggles to sort through these ugly emotions.

Will he have to run the moment Eraserhead drops his guard and stops lingering like his shadow? Because Shoto certainly can’t let himself be taken in and tried. No matter what he does, he’s going to disappoint the man.

I’m sorry. I was trying, Eraser. I really was.

He lowers his head, a bow of understanding and remorse, though, not for his actions. It’s for the crime of letting the hero down. Shoto folds his shaking hands in his lap and tries to think but it’s so hard to stay focused. His mind keeps drifting to places he wishes it wouldn’t.

Eraserhead shifts in his seat, posture slipping into something a little less detached, a little warmer. That small action lessens the tremble in his fingers.

“Both the Hero Commission and I spoke on your behalf to mitigate the damage and reach an agreeable conclusion. We’ve been able to convince them to grant you clemency, of sorts,” Eraserhead says as he pulls out a thin folder from under his stack of papers.

And Shoto is stunned into stillness for the briefest moment before suspicion takes over entirely. It burrows through his achingly empty chest and easily outshines the nerves and guilt that have been knocking around his head. He’d be touched if it’d only been Eraserhead speaking up for him. (He still is touched, but that’s buried far beneath the heavy weight that is the Hero Commission.)

A sense of wrongness takes root.

“Why would the Commission come to my defense?”

He doesn’t even try to hide his distrust. Most would jump for joy at potentially dodging a criminal sentence, but he can’t help but feel like this is a sentence in its own right.

They have no reason to help me. Vigilantes are pretty high on their shit list.

Eraserhead doesn’t so much as blink at his tone, likely expecting him to react like that. Ranting several times over about his distaste for heroes clearly has left a (pretty accurate) impression.

“Remember that request you made for further training?” the hero asks. Once Shoto nods in confirmation he continues, “I’d asked around earlier in hopes of finding a solution to your situation that would let you move forward on this path. It would appear that the Commission is interested in seeing you become a hero after all.”

That sense of wrongness heightens. Trap, trap, trap, trap.

The Commission doesn’t excuse vigilantes so easily, especially ones facing charges like him. That just doesn’t happen. Not unless they have something to gain from it.

And that wrongness turns to speculation turns to aggrieved understanding.

What does anyone ever want from me?

“They want to use me too,” he says, flat and hard. But that hardness is like frozen, brittle metal. One wrong breath will fracture it to pieces. His hands tremble again and he clenches them into fists until it hurts.

Eraserhead’s expression twitches. The barely-there pinch of his brows and thinning of his lips expose his surprise.

“What makes you say that?”

“You only got an answer after my display of power,” Shoto points out. “That’s what they care about.”

“Not necessarily,” the hero counters with a faint frown. “They could have been discussing it. Your situation is unique, even before the incident with Murmur. It’s not something that could have been decided on quickly.”

And Shoto is just a little surprised himself.

He really believes the Commission wants to help me.

The thought strikes him as almost funny. Perhaps the hero is so good, he fails to see the snakes in his den. He isn’t sure if he blames the man or not for that. But Shoto knows the Commission better than Eraserhead realizes, better than they probably realize. He scoffs and shakes his head, for the first time a little disappointed in the hero.

“They’re a group of amoral opportunists. They want to help me so I’m indebted to them.”

Eraserhead’s expression turns stern as he sets the folder on the table, one scarred hand lying flat across it. Shoto stiffens subconsciously at the display.

“You haven’t even heard the deal and you’re ready to throw it away and take a prison sentence?” the hero asks with tired, narrowed eyes. It comes out far too pointed to be a question.

Shoto opens his mouth, a retort on his tongue, but guilt keeps him quiet once more. He has to remind himself that it isn’t just the Commission speaking up for him, it’s Eraserhead too. The man has put his reputation on the line for him and Shoto is effectively trying to kick it into the mud. He turns his head away, ashamed and frustrated.

“I...apologize,” he says softly through gritted teeth and he hopes Eraserhead knows that anger isn’t directed at him. Then, he turns back to look at the hero. “You’re right. I should hear it all. Please, continue.”

It takes a few seconds but eventually that stern facade cracks and underneath it comes a look that matches the tiredness in his eyes. This time, it’s Shoto who worries. Has he been sleeping at all lately? Maybe I should check on him later.

What he’ll do if Eraserhead is running himself into the dirt is, as of yet, undecided. Knocking him out seems pretty unappreciative as a guest, no matter his intentions. Bargaining might work.

That contemplation is set to the side once Eraserhead flicks open that folder and pulls out a sheaf of paper. After a cursory glance to ensure it’s the right set of documents, the hero passes it over to Shoto.

The packet is thin, just a few pages in total, and full of legal jargon that Shoto can barely parse. He scans the first page uneasily. Request for Deferral stands out in large bold letters atop the page. He assumes the ‘Taro Yamada’ in the recipient section is meant to be him. There are talks of his charges and something about public service. He only catches bits and pieces with the brief look but it doesn’t settle any of his doubts.

Though he doesn’t understand much of what’s listed – and he can’t give it a full read at the moment – he does notice a distinct lack of the HPSC’s official title anywhere. There’s a representative listed he doesn’t recognize, but he wouldn’t be surprised if it was intentional that they’ve more or less kept themselves out of the official documentation. Just in case things don’t pan out right, he’d guess.

“If you accept this deal, it’ll be kept out of the judiciary,” Eraserhead starts, drawing Shoto’s attention away from the papers and back to him. “You’ll effectively be on probation. During this time, there’ll be restrictions put into place and a mandatory mental health screening.”

Shoto nearly tears the papers when his grip tightens. Probation is fine. Not ideal, since he’ll be tracked, but it’s infinitely better than getting arrested. (Especially given their particular leniency to his unknown identity. Can’t bite the hand that feeds too many times on this front.) A mental health screening, though? That sends shivers down his spine. An instinctive fear bubbles up at just the concept.

He nearly misses Eraserhead’s next words as he worries himself in circles.

“If given the all-clear on your health, you’ll begin training. Regulated training.”

Eraserhead is quick to correct himself, like he needs to differentiate his training from the secret, monstrous training Shoto’s father put him through.

“You’ll also study this book,” the hero continues as he picks up a sizable book with a deep blue cover that sits next to his stack of papers. That, too, is handed over to Shoto.

Heroic Fundamentals: An Equivalency Test Study Guide.

In cheerful font is a subheading that proclaims it’s HPSC-certified and the ‘Number One Choice for Aspiring Heroes’. Shoto sort of wants to freeze it into an oversized ice cube and mail it back to the representative on his deferment letter, but he’s trying to be mature here for Eraserhead’s sake. So, he exercises restraint and simply sets the book down next to his paperwork and looks expectantly at the hero.

This is definitely the better choice because his easy acceptance has Eraserhead untensing minutely and leaning back in his chair.

“You’ll shadow me on patrol and during that, I’ll be quizzing you. If it seems like your studies are falling behind, you’ll be benched to catch up,” he says, gaze heavy but not unkind.

Shoto gives him a nod of understanding. That’s a fair condition. He glances back at the book and frowns on pure reflex at the tedium that awaits. Fair does not mean fun.

(Not that heroics has ever been fun for him. Shame, as he’d grown accustomed to finally doing things because he enjoys them rather than because he has to.)

His eyes are drawn back to Eraserhead when the man shifts once more, ducking his head just a bit to level Shoto with a serious look that is somehow more serious than it’d been before, staring hard at where he believes Shoto’s eyes are. The hero almost gets it right.

“I want to make something very clear: During patrols, you are not authorized to fight or use your quirk for combative reasons. Minor usage for traversal is permitted and in self-defense if absolutely necessary, but nothing more,” he says, unblinking and voice weighted. “If you engage in a fight or use your quirk on another person non-consensually, you’ll break the terms of this deal rendering it null. You will be arrested and there’s nothing I can do about that. You’re there to observe and learn, nothing more.”

And Shoto knows he’s being deathly honest. However, a small part of him wonders if Eraserhead would still try to come to his defense again or if that’d be his final strike.

He frowns, displeased at the stipulation. That leaves him almost no room to help at all. Granted, he’s only meant to shadow the hero at work, but still. There are so many instances he can imagine that his help would be necessary.

“What if it’s a situation similar to when we met? I can’t sit by and watch you or someone else get hurt if I can help it,” he says, firm and fierce.

Complacency isn’t generally a thing with him. Just standing idly by when he knows he can do something never crossed his mind before. Shoto is a creature of action first and foremost.

Eraserhead’s neutral expression changes into something mildly vexed, dark eyes narrowing and lips down-turning slightly.

“You either trust my abilities as a pro or you don’t.”

There’s a finality to this ultimatum that rattles the teen.

“I do,” he says on reflex. It’s a quick, thoughtless admission that startles him. Of course he trusts Eraserhead’s capabilities but still, he can be helpful. No, he needs to be helpful.

The pro just blinks slowly, absorbing the rapid response before he nods once in acceptance.

“Then don’t interfere.”

The command rankles his nerves, gets under his skin like a splinter and bleeds with indignation.

“But—”

“No ‘but's.” Eraserhead is quick to cut him off, sharp and unbending. “This is a non-negotiable condition. Do you understand?”

That question is no longer a question exactly. It’s an order hidden under rising intonation. Shoto has to take a moment before answering as he chokes back his desire to argue.

Of course, they wouldn’t want him to fight or use his quirk. Look at what happened last time he did so. Someone very nearly died and a five-story building suffered severe structural damage. It’s nothing short of a miracle (or a long-winded ploy, he mentally hisses, and he knows it must be) that he’s not arrested and slapped with several more pairs of stun cuffs, identity be damned.

“Yes,” he finally concedes.

It comes from gritted teeth and does nothing to hide his displeasure. Eraserhead, bless him, takes no offense to his attitude. He sees the place it comes from, the desire to help, and the fathomless well of hurt Shoto is trying desperately to crawl out of and takes it in stride.

The hero nods, but the look he sends Shoto makes him nervous all over again. Whatever’s coming can’t be good.

“And finally, you’ll be attending therapy regularly,” he says, ripping the band-aid off quickly. The way he squared his shoulders gives a hint that he’s preparing for Shoto’s inevitable eruption.

And erupt he does, but it’s not anger that flows pyroclastic from him. It’s fear. He lurches forward, knocking papers askew and nearly sending the book flying. The table jerks under his sudden move, spilling some of the hero’s coffee, though the man doesn’t so much as bat an eye at the mess.

“What?” he asks, breathless and high, like he just found out he’s been put on death row.

His heart is in his throat. Therapy? They can’t.

He thinks of his mother and where he’ll eventually end up because he’s broken like she is, in Endeavor-shaped pieces that are jagged and cutting and far too fragile to be handled by untrained hands. Just a few sessions is all it will take for him to be locked away. He can lie through a mental health screening but regularly appointed therapy? He’s not sure he can trick them for that long.

It’s just a matter of time and he’ll be put away all over again. Another small, white room he’s not allowed to leave with people dictating his life. He thinks of his mother’s wide, horrified, and utterly vacant eyes and wonders if that’s what he will look like when they make that call.

(He wonders when he started fearing becoming her. Was it when he had to hold his head together as his mind began to splinter? White walls are white walls and broken minds need to stay inside them.)

His reaction to just the concept of ‘therapy’ is certainly doing him no favors in feigning mental stability, that’s for sure. Eraserhead’s features smooth out from coolly professional to mildly concerned at his response. That invisible divider is pulled away as the hero slowly moves to ease him away from the edge of panic. He raises a hand, intent on setting it on Shoto’s shoulder like he had back in the store’s ruins. This gentle display dulls some of those razor edges in Shoto’s mind.

I’m worrying him again. I have to stop. Besides, the Commission wouldn’t lock me away if they really want me, he reminds himself, and it’s bad how he finds comfort in that truth. It doesn’t matter what he tells this potential therapist because they’ll slap a ‘good enough’ sticker on his forehead and send their newest little soldier out for business, he’s almost sure of it. So long as he convinces them he has potential, he’ll be safe. He hopes.

He pulls back from the offered hand with a soft, shaky exhale and sits back down. Eraserhead does well in not showing his worry, just shifts back to business. (There is an unmistakable lenity now that softens the hard tone, though, a kindness in his voice Shoto can’t deny.)

“You’ve been through several severely traumatic situations. Seeking help to process it all is healthy,” Eraserhead says. He doesn’t see the way Shoto avoids meeting his eyes.

“I’m fine,” Shoto says evenly as he busies himself with straightening up the papers he knocked around like that’ll erase his outburst from existence. He still resolutely refuses to meet the man’s eyes, unwilling to see even a shade of pity or disgust lingering there.

Eraserhead remains quiet until Shoto is finished painstakingly and meticulously sorting the papers. He moves on to straightening out the book he nearly threw, which buys him all of three seconds. Then, he’s left with nothing else to do but fold his hands atop the table and finally acknowledge the hero’s attention.

“Do you honestly believe that?” Eraserhead asks, voice level, cutting through niceties and getting straight to the point.

If Shoto were a lesser man, he’d flinch under the direct call out. Instead, he looks away, desperately wishing there was an easier way to deal with all of this. He’d rather be pulling out his own teeth with a pair of extremely questionable and highly unsanitary pliers than face the truth.

Accepting this need for help, acknowledging that he’s damaged goods, feels akin to recognizing himself as a failure, though he isn’t sure what it is he’s failing at. He just knows he is.

“I’m fine,” he repeats as if it can change reality, can erase his cracks, and make him whole again. He wishes those voices that taunted him manifested in physical form so he could crush them between his fingers like the nasty bugs they are.

Eraserhead stares at him, a ghost of understanding in his eyes.

“There’s nothing wrong or shameful about therapy. I attend it regularly,” the hero says without fanfare.

The admission shocks Shoto more than he expects. He jerks his gaze back to the pro, brows raised in surprise.

“You do?” he asks, not bothering to hide his reaction. (But even then, that comes out a little flat, a little dull, a little inhuman. Will he ever get this right, being a person?)

Eraserhead nods, expression somber.

“Yes. A lot of heroes do.”

There isn’t a hint of shame to be found when he says it.

How? How does he accept it so easily?

Shoto blinks away his shock and looks at the table, a little envious of the other’s self-confidence. It must be nice to look at one’s flaws and not feel overwhelmed under their weight or split into pieces from their fracturing depths.

“I can’t,” he says with a frustrated little sigh.

Eraserhead tilts his head, the only indication of his genuine curiosity. ‘Can’t’, he can practically see the hero take note, Not ‘won’t’.

“Why?”

Instead of answering Shoto gestures vaguely at his mask; a catch-all for his many complications, but mostly the problem with his persona.

“A non-issue,” Eraserhead says and Shoto can imagine him waving his hand dismissively with the blasé way he says it. Then, the hero is pulling out another piece of paper and sliding it his way. “I’ve explained that you can’t reveal your identity for safety reasons. The therapist we have lined up specializes in talking to heroes, so the mask and anonymity are fine.”

Shoto takes the paper in silence and looks it over. Reading the therapy admission form and all its blank little boxes he’s meant to fill out makes him want to heave. He takes a breath to ground himself and sets the paper on top of the others.

I’m blowing this out of proportion. There’s nothing wrong or irrational being asked of me. Besides, he notes with an odd mix of reassurance and disgust, it’s a hero therapist. They’ve likely heard far worse than what I can say. I’ll sound fine in comparison.

While the idea of talking to a hero specialist makes his skin crawl, he rests just a little easier knowing they’ll probably wave away a lot of what others would consider ‘grievous trauma’. That’s certainly a silver lining.

It does very little in the way of making the information settle easier. There’s still the lingering feeling of a fundamental failure on his part, an utter, inescapable wrongness. All his designer genetics couldn’t make him infallible in the end, it seems.

“That’s the final condition,” Eraserhead says, drawing Shoto from his thoughts.

“Great,” he says and it’s dull and sharp at the same time.

He’s not even sure at this point if he’s angry or not that his original plan is being put into motion. He’d wanted to continue his training and pursue heroics on his own, away from the shadow of his father, preferably under the guidance of Eraserhead. That’s exactly what he’s getting here.

Doesn’t really feel like his plan when he’s being forced into it. And yes, he has a choice in all technicalities but is it really a choice when he has to choose between this or being exposed and arrested?

Rock, meet hard place.

“This is a logical decision,” Eraserhead says, calm but firm, unshakable on this front.

It makes Shoto almost certain it was Eraserhead who pushed for mandatory therapy and not the Commission. He’s not sure how he feels about that if that’s true. Irritated, maybe? Warm? Something in-between.

“I need to be certain you’re in the right state of mind to handle these situations,” Eraserhead explains. “If you’re at risk or unwell, then I can’t have you near active combat situations. It’s for the safety of every party involved – yourself included. I would have preferred to wait on your training until after you’ve attended therapy, but I was overruled.”

He hates that he sees the logic in his reasoning, and hates even more that he agrees. Shoto isn’t rabid, doesn’t snap at anyone who looks at him wrong, but he gets it. A damaged boy ( or man, in their eyes ) with too much power is a recipe for disaster if left unchecked. If he wants to be a hero – a real one – then he needs to set aside his feelings on the matter and do better.

A good man would seek help, and Shoto so desperately wants to be good.

(A good man seeking help is why he’s here at all.)

Like he’s omniscient and listening to Shoto’s thoughts, Eraserhead speaks again.

“And, I’d like to see you get the help you deserve.”

There’s a pointed amity in his words, a care that speaks of the hero’s own struggles. But most of all is the weighted truth, undeniable in the way he says it so bluntly, like it’s obvious, an absolute given. It makes Shoto’s chest feel tight.

‘The help you deserve’ is a foreign, strange concept to him because when has Shoto ever deserved help? When has he ever earned it? If the heroes he’s met didn’t see fit to help him, if the doctors treating his injuries didn’t think he needed anything more, then why does Eraser? Surely, a toddler is more worthy of that care. Or at least a child. And it brings back that internal struggle, the ever-lasting war between ‘it’s their fault, the heroes and broken system’ and ‘but I’m the common denominator, the only constant factor’.

He knows they deserve most of the blame, but not all of it.

Unsightly broken thing, a voice claws at the back of his mind. So violent and biting. How much blame can you shift? How much can you take before you’re unworthy again?

It makes him nauseous all over again.

He shakes his head to quiet the hisses and looks at the honest, tired hero across from him. Just his presence, open and unjudging, helps soften those voices to dull whispers.

“You’re starting to sound like you care,” Shoto says after too long a pause to appear unaffected. It’s another attempt at a joke, something to show his own care because saying ‘thank you’ is too easy, too simple for their odd bond. He almost gets the inflection right this time.

Eraserhead huffs and with no scarf to hide behind, Shoto can see the way he smirks a little in amusement. Then, he wrangles his expression back into something flat and sends him a glare that lacks any heat. Even Shoto, notoriously incapable of reading situations and intentions, can see the facade it is.

“Shut up or I’m kicking you out,” he says with just as little force.

Shoto gives an equally bland, Uh huh, in response. He pointedly picks up the deferral paper that mentions probation and lists Eraserhead’s address as his current residency. He reads it with a loud hum.

If Eraserhead were any less mature, or perhaps a little more tired, Shoto imagines the hero would kick him in the shin right now with the look he’s giving. It’s impressive the faux vitriol he can exude through sight alone. I wonder if he’s ever gotten criminals to surrender just by glaring. I imagine there must have been at least one.

The teasing, as mild as it is, feels almost...normal. Normal in a way that’s entirely abnormal for Shoto. He’s still not used to interpersonal connections outside of the manor and so he doesn’t have a frame of reference to go by. But, he thinks this is the sort of amicable taunting he’s seen others do during his nights people-watching. Some of that sickly, acrid sludge in his chest drains, those little voices screaming, Inhuman! Inhuman!, quiet just a bit.

See, he preens to no one but himself, I can do it.

It lightens the suffocating weight building in his lungs, just enough for him to breathe a soft not-quite-laugh. How his burdens seem to ease in the presence of the hero will never make sense to him. A secondary quirk, perhaps? It can’t be natural for one to be as comforting as Eraser is while still trying so very pointedly to remain distant and aloof.

(Or, perhaps his standards for comfort are just that low. That, he will admit, is entirely feasible. Probably more so than some unknown second quirk.)

He’s uncertain of many things, his future most of all, but, as he watches the hero grab the paper from his hands and explain the finer points of his supervised probation, Shoto thinks that it might be okay someday. They’re not good – not even close – but things aren’t hopeless. He just has to keep moving forward.

---

Elsewhere:

“Uh, I know I come highly qualified and all, but ‘probation officer’ isn’t really in my job description,” says a masculine voice. There’s a manufactured blasé quality to him, cavalier and charming.

“It is now.”

This voice is feminine and cold, leaving no room for affability. He gets no chance to respond before she continues speaking.

“We believe this...vigilante…could be a promising future colleague of yours. But, he’s still a wildcard. You did see his little power display, didn’t you?”

There’s a pause, a chasm that opens between words. The reality of the situation sweeps across him like a cold front. It takes effort not to let his affected manner show. A future colleague is a frightening proposition when looked at through the right lens and he knows what lens he needs to be looking through. He saw the photos, the destruction, and more importantly, the near-death of a villain. There’s no mistaking this.

“Yes,” he finally confirms. That boyish charms drops into stoicism.

The measured stare he gets is only slight consolation he’s correct in assuming the weight of the situation. She has a look in her eyes, like a carrion circling a dying animal: Opportunistic and hungry. He’s not the only raptor in this room.

“He’s been an unknown up until this point. Small-time thugs and little to no known quirk usage weren’t enough to raise alarms,” she says and there’s a tightness in her voice, the corners of her lips drawing ever so slightly down, knuckles whitening as she clenches her clasped hands. Shame, annoyance, embarrassment. In her eyes, this vigilante tricked them. “But, he’s been hiding the true scope of his power. He may prove to be an asset, but if he doesn’t, we can’t afford to have him as an obstacle. Is that clear?”

She is nothing if not shrewd. If she has the chance to turn this unknown into something of use, then she must.

He hides his distaste with startling ease and a performative bow.

Shoto doesn’t realize he’s lagging behind, too lost in his inhospitable mind to notice. It takes nearly running into the hero to drag him back to reality. Eraserhead is stopped in the middle of the alley, eyes hidden behind his goggles but head tilted down to conceal the concerned frown tugging his lips. Shoto might usually feel abashed at being caught so openly unaware, but he can’t dredge up the energy to muster those feelings into existence. He just tips his head ever so slightly as both an apology and a sign that he’s present. It doesn’t cure the hero’s worry.

Their pace is slower now and just as silent. Shoto wants to climb out of his skin, to get away from his head for a while, but every attempt to distract himself proves utterly and woefully fruitless. If only the nigh never-ending stream of thugs would rear their ugly heads again. That would be distracting.

You would like that, wouldn’t you? Just a spoonful of violence helps the heartache go down.

He clenches his fists tighter and sighs, caught in an unending tug-of-war between irritation and self-flagellation. This repeating circus of condemning voices is getting to be especially annoying. At this point, he’d almost appreciate it if they picked at a different insecurity of his. Perhaps he should blame his father for this too. Maybe if he’d been allowed to explore the creative arts growing up, these inner demons of his would be a little more inspired.

That worn sigh catches Eraserhead’s attention (unfortunately). Shoto would very much like to stop being so pitiful in front of him. Though, he’s almost certain the hero would have a few more choice words for him if he voiced that opinion.

Eraser pauses once more. When he dips his head this time, it’s in deliberation.

“Caught in your head?” he asks after a moment of thought.

Shoto doesn’t like the carefully neutral way he asks it, like if there’s too much inflection, too much emotion, Shoto will crumble under its weight. He’s hurting but he isn’t broken. (Are you sure? So very, very sure?)

“No. I’m fine,” he says quickly, part reflex and part biting defense. It rings hollow and waspish, leaving a sour taste in Shoto’s mouth. He grimaces under the mask.

The hero hums and nods to himself. Shoto’s certain Eraser doesn’t believe him, not that he can blame the man. His quick-trigger defense doesn’t exactly instill confidence. Still, it’s frustrating to feel so off-kilter and be called out so blatantly for it, even if it’s for a well-meaning – and sadly justified – reason.

“What can I do to help you right now?” Eraserhead asks. He says it like he’s asking for a mission directive: calm, clear, and deadly serious.

It chastens Shoto, this unwavering and instinctual kindness. Standing in this alley with a stolen mask and blood-caked hands, he’s confronted by that ever-lingering feeling that he’s unworthy of Eraserhead’s sacrifices. What has he done to deserve it?

Shoto opens his mouth but the words fail to come out. He swallows, clears his throat, and tries again.

“Nothing. I’m fine. You’ve done enough for me,” he says and it’s somehow so flat and toneless that it circles back around to being flagrantly dishonest, like he hung a neon sign above his head that says, Liar!

This, he figures, is the exact wrong answer because Eraserhead shifts slightly. It screams of discontent, the way his shoulders slump down by a hair and what’s visible of his expression curdles.

“No, I haven’t,” Eraserhead says firmly.

It’s weighty, but Shoto isn’t sure with what.

The hero sighs, rubs the bridge of his nose, and changes tactics. “I won’t force my help on you and I won’t force you to tell the truth. But, I’d like to help you however I can if you’d let me.”

This puts Shoto in a difficult spot.

Now, he’d ordinarily have no issue saying ‘no’ to someone in any given situation. His stubborn streak and lack of manners are quite pronounced in most instances. But, he finds he doesn’t want to be so crass with the man who’s risked life, limb, and job security for him. (Sort of like how he wouldn’t want to be that way with his mother if she didn’t already hate him. That’s a particular comparison he’ll shelve and never re-examine again.)

He shouldn’t need someone to metaphorically hold his hand to make him feel better or at the very least act like a functional person. It’s embarrassing. But, the way Eraserhead phrased it made it seem like it’s just as much for the hero’s benefit as it is for Shoto’s.

Guilt, maybe? But for what? He came for me.

If this really would help Eraser, shouldn’t he oblige? Not that there’s anything logical for the man to shoulder guilt about. Even still, he can offer just this little bit of assurance for the man, right? His ego may take a hit, but that’d be worth it to help. (Never mind his inner child quaking for that comfort. He’s learned long ago to ignore that yearning. It’s never helped him before.)

Shoto looks away from Eraserhead and down the alley like it’ll help this concession come out easier, like it won’t feel like he’s being dragged across a strip of tacks and broken glass.

“When I’m having a bad day,” he starts, slow and halting. Weak, weak, weak, an ugly voice chants. He ignores it for the hero’s sake and continues, “I like to…”

And he trails off, words shriveling on his tongue as he realizes he doesn’t know what to say. What does he like to do? He never really picked up any hobbies, was never given the option, really. He knows people like to gather together and listen to music – whatever that event is called – and that others like to paint or draw. Come to think of it, he isn’t even sure what hobbies are available that he could even try. It makes that hollowness in him feel infinitely deeper.

Eraserhead waits in patient silence. He tilts his head up a bit to show his undivided attention. Getting a snippet of anything personal from Shoto is infinitely harder than pulling teeth and more valuable than gold.

It makes the teen feel even worse because now he knows there’s nothing worthwhile to share, nothing that would help the hero feel better. Shoto would train back home, not that he had much of a choice on that front, and after running away, he’d just...sleep when he wasn’t busy doing things necessary for survival.

What sort of person doesn’t have a single hobby?

This realization makes him feel like a fraud, inhuman in a way. A mimic or doppelganger haunting the streets.

“...I’d train. That would distract me,” he finally finishes lamely.

It sits wrong in the air, but it isn’t exactly untrue either. At least when he was doing so, he could focus all of his pent-up aggression and hurt into something kinesthetic. It’d help him get it to manageable levels and keep him stable. He’s always been an active person, preferring tangible results and physical solutions.

But is that really my choice or by design?

God, he despises this new invasive level of self-reflection he adamantly did not sign up for.

“Or sleep,” he tacks on like an afterthought because maybe that wouldn’t make him sound so hopeless. Task failed, I sound even worse.

Upon hearing his answers, Eraserhead remains silent. Shoto isn’t sure if it’s the good type of silence or the bad type. His face gives away nothing.

“I might know something that can help, then,” Eraser says after a few more seconds of thought. He turns his head to look down the alley then looks back at Shoto. “Think you can keep up?”

A run? That...might help, honestly. It’s not like attacking the heavy bag or blasting off a Titanic-sinking iceberg, but he imagines keeping pace with the pro would be a new challenge all on its own, especially given his unique method of traversal. And if it makes him feel better, then that’s good enough for me.

“Sure,” Shoto says confidently, the most self-assured he’s been since their reunion. Fatigue gnaws at his bones but he ignores it. This is hardly his limit.

Eraserhead nods and turns to run but only does so once Shoto readies himself. Then, they take off across the prefecture.

It takes about a block before Shoto feels a little more like himself, a little more connected to reality. The exertion is almost a relief, feeling the concrete hard under his thin-worn soles and the crisp air in his lungs. It’s grounding, especially since he’s given little opportunity to disappear into his mind again with the way Eraser moves.

The hero darts over fences and uses objects like dumpsters and signposts as stepping stones to launch himself around. It keeps Shoto’s focus as he needs to concentrate to copy even half those moves and try to predicate where he’ll go next.

Eraserhead glances back now and again to see if Shoto truly is keeping pace (that he’s still really there). With each confirmation, he adds just another degree of difficulty that eggs the teen on and keeps those voices far away.

Though, Shoto notices with a degree of mute curiosity, he’s avoiding going up to the roofs like he normally would.

The only clue he has that the man is going easy on him is the way he never leaves Shoto’s line of sight. When he goes to take a corner, he lingers for a step, just enough for Shoto to get close enough so they both remain visible. Shoto isn’t sure if it’s condescending or if Eraser’s trying to reassure himself by keeping him in view. He tries not to linger on the thought too long, lest it invite back some of those awful feelings he’s been able to shed.

I’m okay, he reminds himself as he leaps easily over a broken balustrade. This time, it feels just a little more honest. Things are fine now.

When they cross atop an overpass that offers a clear view of the prefecture, Shoto’s steps falter and then stop. It’s nothing particular that has caught his eye but more like everything. This unobstructed view of Shinjuku and the way the sun has just begun to crest over the horizon, highlighting the snaggletoothed buildings and sleepless denizens, brings a distinct sense of reality to this situation.

He’s free.

Now, he’s known this, obviously. Known it since he beat Murmur within an inch of his life and escaped that facility. Known it when he nearly broke down in that ruined store. But those times didn’t feel real, disconnected as he was. This is the moment it well and truly sinks in, this unchained liberty and boundless city. No guards or nasty voices, no victims riding on his compliance. Just the sprawling cityscape welcoming him home.

He’s free.

Shoto grips the rusted, flaking railing tightly and leans a little closer. Wistfulness wells up in that sunken part of his chest, but it’s sad, somehow. Like he’s still mourning something he isn’t aware of. It hurts as much as it brings joy. It’s harder to breathe around this sensation. He wonders if it will ever feel better. If everything will be poisoned now.

Then, he sweeps his gaze across this crazy, lively prefecture he’s come to consider his new home filled with people who fight and suffer and love and bounce back time and again, and thinks that maybe, just maybe, it will get better.

He feels a little bit of kinship with the area. They’re both unsightly and bleeding violence, but Shinjuku marches on, ever enduring no matter the criminals that stake their claim. It has an unbreakable spirit, a tenacity that can only be admired. Maybe it’s odd to be inspired by a prefecture, but Shoto never was very conventional.

I’m not broken, he reminds himself as he looks at the horizon, more firm this time as he tries to emulate that unshakeable gall. And if there’s one thing as certain as his temper, it’s his willpower. When he comes to a decision he sticks to it, as if he can reshape destiny by sheer force of bullheadedness.

He turns, gratitude on his tongue because he doubts he’d be here now – physically or mentally – if it weren’t for Eraserhead. He’d probably still be a despondent husk in those charred ruins or back in that cell getting conditioned by Murmur. But that thanks evaporates when he sees the way the hero is standing. Eraserhead is coiled like a snake ready to strike, scarf wrapped around his hands and tension running his posture rigid. It’s like he’s preparing to fight, but there’s no villains around.

Just Shoto.

That hope withers pathetically. He feels bad, hurt. Perhaps the hero’s senses finally kicked in and he remembered the mess Shoto left, his recklessness, and the life he almost took. He wants to be mad but he can’t because he deserves this distrust, even if it feels close to torture. Still, he doesn’t like how it looks like Eraser is waiting for Shoto to attack him like he did Murmur.

“I won’t hurt you,” he says softly to the pro, hands going up in surrender.

But why should he believe that? When have I ever proven to be merciful?

“I know that,” Eraserhead answers calmly, in direct contrast with his action-ready stance and white-knuckle grip on his weapon.

Shoto frowns, confused. He isn’t sure what’s happening now or what he can do to make it better.

Does he think I’m going to attack someone else? But that doesn’t make sense, no one else is here. Unless he thinks I’m going to ice the overpass and cause an accident.

He looks back at the bridge’s railing, brows knit in thought. From his peripheral, he notices the way Eraser shifts a hair closer, arms raising a little higher.

That’s when he understands.

“Oh,” he says, as he realizes that Eraser isn’t afraid of Shoto. He’s afraid for him. He glances from the bridge back to the hero. “I wasn’t planning on jumping.”

He’s not used to this type of concern being directed toward him. Most are assured that he can take care of himself, so he doesn’t know what to do with...this. The miscommunication would almost be funny if it wasn’t so sad. Right when Shoto finds a sliver of re-emerging good, Eraserhead thinks he’s at his absolute worst. Now he feels a little guilty for worrying the man. But, it’s nice to know the hero is ready to save him (again).

“That’s good,” the man says, still tense and at the ready, clearly not willing to take a chance on Shoto’s word this time around.

Fair, Shoto concedes, painful but fair.

“Soba is waiting for you,” Eraserhead continues and Shoto would ordinarily point out the blatant bribe but he’s too caught by the way his heart lurches up his throat – pleasantly, somehow.

“You found him?” he asks, voice more tender now than even back at that store. He’d hoped that someone – anyone – kind would have found the kitten and taken him to safety. Knowing he’s been with Eraserhead this whole time makes him feel emotional all over again.

He wants his kitten. He wants to hold him so desperately, it’s like a physical ache.

Shoto steps away from the railing and closer to the hero, like Soba will pop out from the confines of the man’s scarf. The second he moves away from the edge, the hero visibly relaxes and Shoto once again feels guilt nip at him.

I should have moved back once I realized.

His growing incompetence truly knows no bounds, it seems.

“Yes. He was making a racket where you left him,” Eraserhead says, more casual this time as he lowers his weapon and smooths out his stance.

This revelation and well of bizarre, warm emotions reminds Shoto that he never properly thanked the man. He hardly counts that stairwell, especially now that he knows Soba is being taken care of. Since he’s no longer running and there’s no life-or-death situation to distract him, Shoto can finally do what he tried to do earlier.

“Thank you,” he says honestly and bows in the most respectful display he’s probably ever managed.

Eraserhead looks away again like it makes him uncomfortable. It brings to mind that odd look on his face back when Shoto first tried to thank him. He chalks it up to the hero being the sort to not like being faced with gratitude.

“Not sure what you’ve been teaching him, but he’s the noisiest cat I’ve ever met,” Eraserhead says, breezing over the thanks without acknowledging it.

In any other situation, the other party would probably take at least some offense but Shoto brushes past it just as easily.

He thinks of Soba and his unending mewls. A soft smile grows on his face.

“I give him treats when he meows,” he says with audible pride for his vocal boy.

“Sounds about right,” Eraserhead says dryly.

Now that Shoto takes with a degree of offense. The way he said it made it seem like there was something wrong there and, personally, Shoto won’t stand for any slandering of his kitten, even from Eraserhead.

“It’s cute and I don’t want him to think I don’t love him,” he says firmly. If Murmur thought he was stubborn then, he’d be absolutely floored by how unyielding he’s going to be on this front. Shut up, shut up, don’t think about him.

“You’re getting played by a kitten,” Eraserhead says, the very faintest tinge of amusement coloring his voice, almost indistinguishable from his usual tired tone. It helps keep Shoto from letting his mind slip into those dark places.

“That’s okay with me,” Shoto says confidently. If it makes Soba happy, he’s happy. (Endeavor should count himself lucky Shoto doesn’t have access to his bank account because he’d spend a truly ungodly amount of money on things for the cat.)

“Come on, he won’t stop whining for you,” Eraserhead says and tilts his head in the direction that they’d been heading.

Shoto nods swiftly, more incentivized to make this trek than ever.

They resume their former route at a much more leisurely pace now that Shoto wasn’t on the verge of clawing at the walls (again) or trying to jump off a bridge (he wasn’t going to anyway).

Shoto usually takes their natural inclination for silence as a blessing, but it feels more like a curse when he finds vicious thoughts and acerbic feelings growing in its space. They try to strangle that stubborn budding hope. His skin itches and his fingers ache to dig them out with his nails. Whenever one thought or feeling starts to grow too pronounced he asks Eraserhead a question, usually an update on the area. How has old man Tagawa been? Has crime changed? Has Soba gotten the appropriate amount of snacks and pets?

Eraserhead answers all of them patiently, He’s fine, wants you to swing by his shop again. Crime is the same, don’t worry about it. Of course, Soba has. I’m not a monster. He never questions Shoto’s unusual chattiness.

It makes this walk easier.

(Shoto’s afraid of what awaits him when he falls asleep and there’s no one to distract him.)

He asks another question.

---

They enter into the closest approximation Shinjuku has to a suburb, which sort of surprises Shoto. It’s not a far cry from the housing development and row homes on the west end, but there is a clear difference in street maintenance, given that this road isn’t cratered like the moon. The property values are almost definitely better, too. He hardly sees any boarded or broken windows and just a little bit of litter. He’d dare to call it ‘fancy’ if he’d actually grown up in the area he took refuge rather than one of the most affluent and grotesquely well-maintained areas of Japan. Still, it’s nice. (He’s biased, he knows. At this point, he’d probably compliment Shinjuku’s sewers over Musutafu as a whole.)

He’s busy admiring the houses, each displaying their own sort of personality, when Eraserhead comes to a sudden stop. Shoto halts on instinct and looks at Eraser with a tilt of his head; a silent question.

The hero just lifts his goggles to his hairline – and, wow, those are thoroughly impressive bags – to fix Shoto with the Look (Patent pending).

“It goes without saying, but don’t tell anyone this address,” he says, tone serious but not nearly as serious as one might expect. It seems more like he’s stating this purely as a formality.

“Of course,” Shoto readily agrees.

Even if he had someone to share it with, it still hadn’t crossed his mind to tell anyone about this location. He isn’t exactly a social butterfly. (His three main forms of socialization being the hero he’s more-or-less attached himself to, the kitten he found, and an old man that runs a konbini. That doesn’t really speak highly of his charisma.)

Eraser just nods at the affirmation and digs into one of his many pockets before pulling out a set of keys.

Shoto’s brows furrow, then, realization strikes. An imaginary lightbulb dings overhead.

“Is this your place?” he asks suddenly in surprise.

Eraserhead pauses on his way to open the door and looks back at Shoto with a raised brow. A silent, You just figured that out?

“Yes,” he says flatly.

With his goggles out of the way, Shoto can see the way the hero looks him over again like he’s double-checking to see if Shoto has some sort of head injury he can discern through the mask.

Shoto rubs the back of his neck and looks away now. This is above and beyond any help he’d ever imagined receiving. Well beyond what a pro is required to do. This is clearly and unmistakably because Eraserhead wants to, and that leaves Shoto floundering.

“You didn’t have to…” he starts before gesturing vaguely at his house, like that can encapsulate his complicated emotions.

Shoto had been expecting something like a halfway house, a shelter, or maybe one of the safe houses certain pros – usually underground for stealth purposes – utilize. That’s assuming Eraserhead even has a safe house. Admittedly, those tend to cater toward wealthier heroes, not that he can make an assumption about Eraserhead’s affluence. The man doesn’t strike him as the type to flash his money.

That’s also assuming that one of the former places would even allow him to enter while being masked. Safety hazard, and all that.

Actually putting some thought into it makes Shoto realize just how obvious this should have been. He’s going to blame it on his tenuous headspace.

“I’m aware,” Eraserhead says, leaving no room for arguing. He then turns back to unlock the door. “This is temporary until we can find you proper housing.”

Shoto frowns and looks from the hero to the door just over his shoulder.

“I don’t think that will be possible.”

For quite a few reasons, really. He’ll have to figure something out so he doesn’t impose himself on Eraserhead for longer than necessary. Making a nuisance of himself is the last thing he wants to do here.

“We’ll figure something out,” Eraser says over his shoulder casually, confidently, like there’s no doubt about it. He’s struggling with something at the door, if the way he’s nudging his foot through the crack is any indicator.

It’d be inspiring if ‘figuring something out’ didn’t include either running away again or revealing himself. Shoto shifts uncomfortably while the hero still has his back turned.

Once Eraser is victorious over whatever that was – Soba, Shoto hopes quietly – he turns and motions Shoto in.

Walking into Eraserhead’s house is a little awkward, if Shoto’s being honest, which should say plenty given Shoto’s absurdly high tolerance for awkwardness.

But any reservations he has about intruding in on the hero’s living space are completely and thoroughly decimated the moment he hears a high, demanding yowl and the pitter-patter of little paws.

Soba rounds the soft, well-used couch with that never-ending whine. Eraserhead is right, he’s a little noisy, he notes with affection as he drops to the ground next to the door.

The kitten wastes no time in climbing over him like a jungle gym, still crying nonstop and trying to rub all over Shoto like he’ll disappear again. Shoto has to use one hand to keep the exuberant kitten from knocking his mask askew. He doesn’t even mind when he feels those claws prick him through his clothes.

“Hello, I’ve missed you,” he says quietly as he turns toward the wall so he can shift the mask and plant a kiss on the kitten's head. That earns him an eager little forehead bump that almost knocks his mask off again. Shoto laughs softly, heart swelling at the loving welcome, and strokes the kitten.

A breath catches in his throat, cutting that laugh off prematurely. There it is again. That mournful feeling he can’t place that clouds his happiness. He holds the kitten a little tighter, hugging him to his chest as Soba alternates between meowing like his life depends on it, trying to groom Shoto through his clothes, and kneading the fabric. Purrs rumble loudly in his chest.

Shoto wants to squeeze harder, like it’ll chase this feeling away, but he fears hurting Soba. So, he settles for tucking his head down and cradling the kitten as close to him as he can. He shakes a little and he doesn’t know why. He was just feeling fine, so where did this come from?

Like he can sense Shoto’s spiraling mood, Soba bats at his chest and meows obnoxiously loud and long, so long it’s impressive his lungs have the capacity for that much oxygen. (That’s his little go-getter, alright.)

“Yeah, I’ll get you a treat,” he says softly, ignoring the fragile way his voice comes out. He strokes Soba a few more times in hopes of easing these jittering nerves. Then, he decides he’ll figure out where these treats are because that is very clearly the most important thing he needs to do right now. With a new mission in mind, he fixes his mask despite Soba’s best attempts to get to his face, and turns around.

He doesn’t need to worry about nosing around Eraser’s house because the man appears in his line of sight like he was summoned. Even better, he’s holding a treat bag.

“Please don’t give them all to him. He’s getting too fat as it is,” he says as he hands the bag over.

Shoto sucks in a sharp breath and cradles Soba tighter.

“He’s perfect as he is.”

The fact that the kitten is frantically trying to get into the treat bag like he’ll starve in the next three seconds does nothing to disprove Eraser. The hero sends him a look that just screams, Yeah, sure. Then, he shakes his head, clearly unwilling to pick this battle. (Wise, and likely one he knows the outcome of, as a cat lover himself.)

“If you want, you can take a shower. Down the hall, second door on the left. I’ll leave out some clothes so yours can get washed. We’re close enough in size that it shouldn’t matter for now,” he says, dropping the kitten treat topic altogether.

The feeling of discomfort pricks at him again. This is just temporary until I can gather myself up again. I won’t abuse this generosity.

He hadn’t even considered his lack of, well, everything. When that store burned, all his meager belongings went with it, save for the clothes on his back and the kitten in his arms. That’s not to mention the last time he can recall having a proper shower. He made do with sneaking into the ones provided at the public pool, but since his capture? Nothing.

How long had he been with Murmur? Because, he must reek something rancid, now that he thinks about it. The fact that Soba is even tolerating him is a miracle. And once he’s made aware of his particularly grody state, it’s like he can no longer ignore it. His skin feels tacky, his hair feels matted with grease, and he doesn’t want to think about the amount of grime and germs all over the place. He grimaces and nods slowly.

It’s a testament to his willpower that he’s able to put Soba down, and even more so when he doesn’t cave to the kitten’s pitiful meows and attempts at climbing his legs. You’ll thank me later.

---

Perhaps taking a shower was a mistake.

He’s gotten no further than removing his shirt, too distracted by the blood on the backs of his hands and still flaking off his knuckles. He wonders how much has already fallen off.

Swooping nausea hits him. For a moment, he’s afraid he’s going to throw up as he sits next to the toilet, but his stomach only churns enough to discomfort him. Shoto squeezes his eyes shut, takes a deep breath, and reaches over to turn the water on.

Once I wash it off, I’ll feel better.

And even he can tell that’s a lie. The blood will be gone, but he’ll know it was there. Washing it away doesn’t erase it from existence. Shoto thunks his head against the wall once, trying to reorient himself. The rush of the water keeps him centered. The little scratches and batting paws under the door give him drive. He wants to croak out an, I’ll be done soon, but his throat feels too dry at the moment.

Enough of this sorry state. It’s getting me nowhere, he thinks pointedly and hauls himself up even if he’d rather lay down and turn into the bathroom’s next unmovable fixture. (Alright, he can choose a better place to turn immobile. The bathroom is easily the most awkward spot.)

The shower is better, certainly more grounding. He barely registers the temperature he puts the water on since his body adjusts naturally to accommodate. But the sensation of the water and the rhythmic cleaning keeps him here.

When he scrubs his hands, he looks at the ceiling. (When he scrubs his hands, he goes too long at it, too hard, like he’s trying to peel his flesh away layer by layer until he’s finally, truly clean again.)

Once he’s done and dries himself – no towel needed – he picks up the clothes Eraser had left on the sink before he ever entered the bathroom. He catches sight of himself in the mirror and does a double-take, stomach roiling all over again. It’s bizarre to see himself. The last time he really looked at his reflection was when he touched up his shitty dye job. (Which he’ll have to do again. Red and white roots are extremely conspicuous.)

He looks...different and yet the same. His eyes are more gaunt, bags that could shame even Eraser’s weighing down his face. But everything else is more or less just like last time. And yet…

And yet, there’s something different in his eyes. Something unsettling. An unbearable distance or sadness. He doesn’t know, really, but it leaves him aching all over.

He hates looking at himself, always has. Now it’s that much worse. Wonderful.

Shoto tears his gaze away and dresses himself, hoping it can chase away the sensation that he’s staring at a stranger. The distraction only helps a little when he examines the clothes on him a little more closely. They’re slightly long on him, though it isn’t horribly noticeable. Eraserhead is a few centimeters taller, but not by that much.

It still feels odd, he decides, as he picks at the hem of the black shirt. (Is black all he owns?) But it’s better this odd feeling than whatever that had been.

Before the image of those haunting eyes can return, he quickly scrubs that stolen mask, scrapping off some of its delicate paint in his haste, and puts it on. Maybe he should worry about his dependence on a mask to feel safe, if the way his anxiety lessens a little the moment it's in place, but he really has had his fill of psychoanalyzing himself tonight (generally against his will).

Shoto beats a quick retreat from the bathroom, deciding that leaving himself in enclosed quarters alone just isn’t a good idea for his current state. It makes him feel wrong. The moment that door opens, Soba is on his legs again, practically screaming.

Better, much better.

Eraser must have been suffering horribly under Soba’s neediness. Maybe that’s where those atrocious eye bags come from. Shoto wastes no time in scooping the kitten up again and cradling him. Already, he feels a little better. He figures a tiny part has to do with being clean, but he mostly attributes it to Soba, because he is indisputably the best cat ever.

Shoto walks back into the living room, stroking the kitten with such vigor, it’s as if he can chase all his demons away through pure aggressive affection.

Even your affection is aggressive, huh? he imagines Dabi saying with a scathing grin.

He tilts his head down and presses it to Soba’s, letting the noisy kitten drown out that voice. The kitten happily rubs back against that mask, still chittering on.

Eraser is waiting for him, sitting on an armchair with a graying tabby cat on his lap.

Shoto’s mood brightens just a bit more.

He sits down on the couch letting his attention dart from showering Soba with all the affection he hasn’t been able to do as of late and looking at the hero for a sign of what he should be doing.

Eraserhead, who Shoto just now noticed is more casual looking without his scarf and in what he assumes are his civvies. (All his clothes do appear to be black and essentially the same in style, he notes.)

“Let’s talk,” Eraser says as he gives the elderly cat an affectionate pat. It huffs and stretches in its sleep. Shoto almost wants to coo, which is absurd because he’s never done that before. Maybe he really did sustain some lasting head trauma.

“Okay,” he says instead, because he’s not yet totally lost in the throes of trauma-induced insanity. “What would you like to talk about?”

The hero wastes no time in getting to the point.

“You’ll be asked to give a police statement about your experience,” he says and levels him with an even look.

Shoto’s hand stutters mid-pet. That’s right, he’ll need to report on this. He totally forgot. They’re going to want to take him to the station and question him. And then they’ll arrest me.

His posture goes as rigid an ice sculpture.

Eraserhead notices his discomfort, expects it, because he holds up a hand to keep Shoto from jumping to too many conclusions.

“If you’d like, I can take it and submit it as one of the Taro Yamada’s rescued.”*

“You can do that?” Shoto asks a little hesitantly. He doesn’t know police procedure nearly as well as heroics, but that sounds dishonest. The only reason he’d complain about lying to the police in this instance is because it could affect Eraser’s career and he doesn’t want to do that.

“Yes, I’ve been given consent in your particular case,” Eraserhead assures him. “I made them aware of your wariness of authority figures and lack of identity. This is a compromise they’re currently willing to work with to close this case.”

Currently willing, Shoto instantly notes. He takes it for what it really means. This is a parley with the unknown ‘vigilante’ for the sake of shutting the Murmur case. Shoto is likely their best, most reliable source of information from the victim side of things. Finding a way to make things work right now is paramount. But it won’t last. The moment they have what they need, I’ll be wanted again.

Still, he owes it to the victims to speak up.

“Okay,” he says resolutely. So long as he can remain anonymous, he’ll tell them everything, no matter how humiliating. (Barring obvious identity-revealing information, of course.)

He just really hopes he doesn’t have to talk about his attempt at murder. But, he knows there’s no way around it. It’s not like Murmur pummeled himself and froze the building. It makes him wonder how the hero is going to navigate this. Is he going to bring me in?

Shoto doesn’t want to confront that thought for any longer than it took to form it because he’s not sure he can handle the answer. He hasn’t turned me in yet, he reassures himself. There’s gotta be a reason for that.

Eraserhead nods, relaxing a little more at the easy acceptance.

“We can do that after I get their questionnaire,” the hero says.

Then, he pets the old cat one more time before gently moving it to its own bed. The cat gives a protesting chirp before settling down to resume its nap. Shoto really wants to know the cat's name.

Eraserhead straightens up and turns to him. His expression grows serious, lips thinning into a line and gaze heavy. Shoto’s heart feels like it’s about to drop.

Then, Eraserhead bows deep at the waist.

“I’m sorry,” he says firmly.

If his heart was about to drop before, it nearly stops right then. Shoto starts in his seat and Soba complains at the sudden motion. It keeps him rooted there, even when he wants to get up and stop the hero from continuing on like he deserves this indignity.

“What? Why? You don’t– You don’t have to do that,” he says quickly, voice an embarrassing pitch up from where it usually is as he struggles with how to navigate this situation.

“I do,” Eraserhead says unbudgingly. Then he straightens up and stares at him with just as much force. “I’ve been negligent in my duties as a hero and you suffered because of it.”

Shoto feels like he’s been thrown for a loop. He’s definitely considering the very real possibility that he’s suffering a type of stroke or something because this can’t be real. Eraserhead thinks he’s been negligent as a hero? The only hero Shoto actually trusts to do his job and do it with pure intentions? It has to be a cosmic joke, a brain bleed, or something.

“No, that’s not true,” he says just as firmly as Eraserhead.

They stare at each other, neither willing to budge, and it becomes very obvious that there’s going to be a cataclysmic showdown of who’s more obstinate in this room. (Shoto will win, he’s determined.)

Eraserhead takes the first point as he gives a blunt, word-of-law, “It is.”

Then, he sighs and sits down, fixing Shoto with a look that’s just as heavy but for a whole different reason. It looks frighteningly close to the distant-sad look Shoto had in the bathroom. The look Shoto doesn’t really understand but loathes nonetheless.

“I was aware of your living situation and aware that people may have been after you. Even still, I didn’t take the threat as seriously as I should have, which led to your capture,” Eraserhead says, voice flat, leaving no room for doubt. He continues on before Shoto has the chance to deny this again. “I’ve been treating you like a fellow pro when that’s not the case. Despite what I may have seen and the skills you’ve shown, you aren’t a pro. You shouldn’t have been in that situation.”

The guilt weighs clear and heavy on the hero like a mountain. His shoulders are slumped, posture atrocious as he bows under its force, but his eyes never waver, never lessen in intensity or sincerity.

And this hurts Shoto as if Eraserhead’s pain is his own. He hates that Eraserhead is taking the blame for Shoto’s incompetence. The hero has a whole prefecture to patrol and protect, and plenty of defenseless people who need his attention. Shoto is not – should not – be one of them. He can take care of himself (even if history clearly states otherwise). It’s his own failure that led to his capture, he’s sure of it.

Shoto strokes Soba to keep himself from blurting out something rude or untoward, gives himself a moment to collect his thoughts and rearrange them into an appropriate order, then he speaks.

“I...appreciate the sentiment but I still disagree. You knew of where I lived, sure, but there’s nothing you could have done about it.”

His tone is just as unshakable. He won’t let Eraser take the blame without a tooth-and-nail fight about it. (The hero’s about to learn the struggle Murmur had, and that asshole had a whole quirk at his disposal.)

“I—” Eraser starts but is just as quickly cut off.

“Nothing,” Shoto says sternly, almost bitingly. “I wouldn’t have allowed you to move me and if you tried, I would have ran. You would have never seen me again.”

And that’s the truth. At the time, he loathed the idea that the hero knew where he lived. If he tried to force Shoto to relocate? Yeah, he’d be dust in the wind before the man knew what happened.

Eraserhead looks displeased by the turn this apology has taken, that firm line of his lips twisting in a slight frown and brows slanting over tired eyes.

“And don’t coddle me,” Shoto tacks on before Eraser figures out what he wants to say. He hates being coddled, treated like an invalid, like a child. He hates it even more so when it's Eraserhead doing it. “You know what I’m capable of and that’s why you trusted me.”

Does it hurt that he said trusted? Yes, a little, and he hopes that he’s mistaken in that past tense usage.

Eraser rubs his eyes, his exhaustion seeming to have grown from this conversation alone.

“Regardless, you’re still a civilian and I was negligent,” he says.

Shoto gears up to protest, and the way he tightens his shoulders must give him away or the hero just knows him that well, because he holds up a hand, asking Shoto to let him say his piece. It takes a genuine effort to bite back his retort.

“It’s my duty as a hero to protect civilians and I failed. Worse, I actively endangered you.”

Shoto almost jumps off the couch at that.

“I endangered myself. I was just as aware of the threat as you were and I handled it poorly. If you take the blame, so do I,” he says stubbornly, like Eraserhead has somehow managed to offend him in his attempts to be a kind, reasonable, responsible adult. (If he knew the truth, Shoto fears the man would never forgive himself.) “Don’t hold yourself accountable for this.”

Eraserhead blinks slowly, expression grim as he shakes his head slightly like Shoto just doesn’t understand.

“If I don’t hold myself accountable, nobody will.”

That resignation and unrelenting guilt send an electric pang through Shoto’s body. I did this. I made him like this. He feels so wretched all over again.

“You came for me. You saved me. That’s more than any hero has ever done for me before,” he insists, pleading now. He can’t stand the thought that Eraserhead is burdening himself like this. I’m not worth this. Not when you did so much, he wants to say.

But his attempts at reassurance seem to bring that distant sadness back into the hero’s heart because his eyes grow heavy with profound sorrow.

“That’s what a hero is meant to do,” he says, almost exasperated. He looks away and rubs his face again. Then, he runs a hand through his shaggy hair and looks back at Shoto. His expression is almost back to normal, but there’s no escaping that pervasive woe. “You say stuff like that and it makes me realize just how badly the system failed you.”

Shoto hugs Soba a little closer to his chest and looks down at his lap. He thinks of the ‘system’ and frowns. No, he doesn’t think it failed. This is just how those in charge want it. That system will never step in to take the blame or hold itself accountable like Eraserhead had unless they’re strong-armed into it. That system will continue to exploit the weak, capitalize on the strong and morally abject, and ignore problems they can benefit from. 

Like Endeavor, he thinks venomously. He's too lucrative and powerful to bring to justice.

The commission had to be aware something was wrong. All those misconduct reports, the hospitalization of his mother, the death of his brother, his own hospital record? Only the willfully ignorant or corrupt would remain blind to how they tie together once they see those pieces. And that’s not even considering their habitual pardoning of heroes who take ‘unnecessary force’ as a suggestion. The reports are public domain, for fuckssake. But what's a criminal's well-being compared to a hero's profit margin? No, he doesn’t think it failed him at all.

“The system is working just as it’s intended to,” he says bitterly.

His eyes widen minutely as he scrambles to his feet, driven by instinct and muscle memory. It’s frustrating how he nearly trips over nothing and has to catch himself on the wall to keep from collapsing back down. Shit, this is worse than I thought.

Shouts seep through the wall, hard to make out at first, but when Shoto presses an ear to the door, he can faintly grasp the situation. There’s the sound of grunts and impact, something or someone hits a wall.

“—n’t erase this,” comes a soft, serpentine voice.

Even amid this godawful haze, his mind latches onto the word. Erase. His heart races for a different reason now.

Eraserhead?

Something warm springs to life in his chest and he feels a relief unlike anything he’s ever experienced before. It leaves him nearly shaken.

He came. It’s something no hero had ever done for him before, finding him in his moment of weakness and pain and offering him a saving hand. He’s here now.

There’s no denying the hope that takes root in his heart. It finds itself nearly suffocated by fear. Fear that Eraserhead will suffer just as these people have suffered because of Shoto. He hasn’t been fast enough or smart enough to escape, which brought the Eraserhead here. And like they thought, these bastards prepared a guard force meant to counter the hero.

If they get him...He cuts the thought off ruthlessly. That won’t happen.

Because Eraserhead is skilled and far more intelligent than Shoto. He wouldn’t walk himself into a trap like the teen did without being prepared. He wouldn’t get caught and make other people save him.

A pang of protectiveness sparks to life. Eraserhead may not need rescuing, but that doesn’t mean Shoto can’t be useful. (It’s the only way he can prove his worth, he knows this. Useful, useful, he can be useful.)

He takes a step back and takes a deep breath. It’s impossible to tell where anyone is on the other side of this wall, so launching a big attack may be detrimental. If I can warn him, though, then he can prepare himself.

Shoto sends out a small line of ice that darts under the door and hopes Eraserhead notices it.

“What the—” someone starts, clearly not the hero, but is cut off by what Shoto presumes is an attack.

“Heads up.”

The callout is loud, louder than any had been thus far, and very clearly Eraserhead’s gruff voice. Just a moment later, there’s a bang on his door and the sound of someone gasping in pain. Shoto almost smiles, knowing exactly what to do.

He wastes no time in following up on that crash and sends ice careening forward at the door with unforgiving force. It collides with the metal like a crack of thunder and sends it flying off the hinges before the door is frozen in the air. Along with it, one of those masked guards gets caught in the torrent like an insect stuck in amber.

It doesn’t stop there. Like his quirk was backlogged from disuse and aching to release for his own protection, it surges out, nearly spearing the ceiling with its unforgiving spikes and catching the other guard that scrambles away from the deluge.

Shoto doesn’t have much time to relish in his vindication because as the cool breeze blows back at him, he realizes something important.

He’s not wearing a mask.

It’s something he’s grown accustomed to as of late, this uncomfortable exposure. But hearing the hero, knowing he lingers just a breath away, brings back that realization in startling clarity. He feels exposed all over again. Panic makes a meal of his nerves.

Like a toddler trying to hide from punishment, Shoto hides his face in his hands and turns away from the hole he made in the wall. He curls in on himself like it’ll protect him from being noticed. There’s nowhere for him to go, nowhere to escape. He’s never wanted so desperately for someone to come to him and also leave him alone in his life. This conflicting array of emotions certainly doesn’t help the headache pounding away in his head like a drum.

It’s quiet as he fights this breakdown, save for the sound of the second guard struggling to free themselves. That’s cut brutally short by the sound of a painful strike and a groan. Then, cracking ice as footsteps near him.

“There you are,” Eraserhead says in lieu of a greeting, voice as sleep-graveled as Shoto remembers. It almost sounds like a sigh accompanies the words. Before he can get any closer Shoto frantically holds up his right hand, still protectively hiding his face with the other.

“Don’t,” he starts, voice hoarse from overuse and raw with his plea. “My mask is gone. Please, don’t.”

Eraser can’t see. He can’t. If he does, then there really will be no one left for him, no one truly and unconditionally safe. Shoto couldn’t even have his own sister without the threat of Endeavor looming over him. The moment Eraserhead sees and understands, he’ll act. Things will change and he’ll be lost again. That brings a sense of pain with it that Murmur could not hope to replicate, even at his most ruthless.

The desperation stops the hero in his tracks and Eraserhead goes quiet. Then the footsteps backtrack. Shoto’s heart skips a beat. He has to resist the urge to whip around, to beg the hero not to leave even though he knows, he knows Eraserhead wouldn’t abandon him. But he needn’t worry, because the hero halts once more just outside the hole.

A moment later something clatters near his feet. He peeks down, careful not to expose himself, and spies the white kitsune mask of the guard.

“That should work for now,” Eraserhead says calmly as Shoto gingerly picks up the mask with trembling fingers.

He’s reminded all over again of the hero’s goodness. Shoto had started growing frighteningly accustomed to the dehumanizing talks from Murmur and his own traitorous mind. Even if he knows logically that Eraser wouldn’t be so callous, that he’s respected Shoto’s need for privacy in the past, it doesn’t keep those invasive voices at bay that tell him, but this time will be different. He’ll finally show his true colors.

Those true colors are nothing nefarious, and he’s been shown that time and again.

As Shoto slips that mask on, ill-fitting and clearly tailor-made for that thug, he feels like he can breathe a genuine sigh of relief for the first time in a long time. He misses his old one, shitty as it may have been. This isn’t quite the same, but the separation between himself and the world adds a layer of ease he curls in on.

His shoulders untense and he straightens up. When he turns around to face the hero, he finds Eraser standing in the hall, weapon at the ready and posture alert but unthreatened, as if he’s the guard now. A lump feels like it's lodged in his throat as he watches the man for a moment.

Physical affection is something of a stranger to him, but he feels the bizarre desire for contact pulls at him. Maybe a handshake of thanks or one of those shoulder pats he sees friends do? Whatever it is, he brushes it off. Definitely not the time or place for him to get emotional. (He also doubts the sentiment would be returned. The hero doesn’t exactly exude touchy-feely energy.)

He steps through the hole and glances both ways but sees the floor startlingly empty of opposition. Deja vu. That bodes ill for the duo, but he finds it hard to drudge up any more fear. Like a car that’s hit empty, his reserves have been tapped out. Maybe it’s the confidence of having Eraserhead’s comforting and steady presence at his side, or maybe Murmur truly did crack something fundamental in his mind. (Oh, Murmur should dearly hope not, for that fundamental piece is what’s keeping him from a painful arctic prison.)

Eraserhead drops his defensive stance for a moment at his appearance and looks his way. A degree of tension leaves his posture.

“Are you injured?” he asks. It comes out clinical but it still feels like he’s shooting the teen a scrutinizing look under his goggles. Seeing that Shoto’s moving without problem, he tips his head toward the exit.

Shoto follows without question.

“No, I’m fine,” he says, even if his rough voice sounds anything but.

The feeling of being examined in microbursts hits him again. It feels an awful lot like Eraserhead doesn’t believe him. Understandable, certainly, but this doubt prods at that tender part of him that already screams of his inefficacy. Shoto sighs under his stolen mask.

“Really, I am. They’ve been trying to brainwash me, but the quirk in question is weak. Likely meant to be used over time,” he says, voice markedly neutral. Just mentioning that bastard’s quirk causes a trickle of rage to simmer underneath his skin.

Even though Murmur’s been tearing through his mind like an unruly toddler in a toy store, Shoto fully believes his assessment. It’s undeniably dangerous, but only over time. If it were stronger, Shoto wouldn’t be able to resist it, especially after such forceful use of it. He imagines that’d be different if he remained in the man’s clutches, but overall? Not that special. That may account for his envy of my quirk; an inferiority complex, perhaps? Shoto wants to scoff. Bastard.

If only Murmur didn’t target him. If only he hadn’t been so goddamn greedy. If only, if only.

It’s just unfortunate that he’s a Todoroki.

Because as the world knows – and as Dabi was so gleeful to point out – Todorokis are not known to cope with pain in healthy or passive ways. It manifests itself in flashes of brilliant ultraviolence. Violence that reaches out and mangles those closest to it.

So, it’s just so incredibly unfortunate for Murmur that he decided to kidnap Shoto because all of that pain and all of that loathing – both external and internal – have been festering and building in this time bomb he was abusing.

It was only a matter of time until that genetic rage he can’t escape burst out like the wildfire that consumed his brother. (Todoroki men can only take so many shots until their hurt turns to an unquenchable, almost maddened wrath. This is another universal constant, of that he’s certain.)

He bites down on that anger and drags it back. There’s no one here to focus it on. No one deserving, at least. So, he puts a lid on it and does his due best to ignore this pressure building in his chest. A poisonous part of him hisses, presses at his seams like his quirk wanting release.

Eraserhead grunts at Shoto’s assessment, bringing the teen back to the moment and away from volatile thoughts, though he somehow manages to make it sound dubious. Even so, he takes Shoto for his word and they head toward the stairwell.

“Other pros and law enforcement are on the way,” Eraserhead says as they breeze through the corridor.

Shoto’s heart lurches and he double-takes. (The fact that he feels such instinctual fear at the revelation, even amidst his kidnappers and torturer, only serves to feed into that tender anger nursing under his skin. Too late. They’re always too fucking late.)

“What? How long?” he asks, nearly choking on the question. He has to reign himself in after Eraserhead shoots him what he thinks is a doubtful look.

“Five minutes, give or take. I got a tip about this area and called them in after confirmation of activity,” he explains without slowing.

The reminder of Eraser’s dogged pursuit of Shoto makes that odd, warm feeling kick up tempo. It smothers some of his white-hot anger.

“Thank you, Eraser,” he says earnestly.

It’s awkward to do as he’s running, but he gives the hero the closest approximation of a bow he can while maintaining his stride. That ends up being little more than a dip of his head. Still, he hopes it gets the point across. He’s not even sure Eraserhead sees the motion since the hero doesn’t turn his head, but the slight slowing in his steps and the downward twist of his lips makes Shoto think he might have.

Odd reaction, he notes but brushes it off. This situation is hardly normal to begin with. They still have a couple floors and a couple assholes to deal with before he can begin to contemplate anything deeper than survival. (Hello, anger, he’d nearly forgotten you amidst his pleasant emotions. How unfortunate that would have been.)

“Don’t mention it,” Eraserhead says as he steps into the stairwell, ready to ascend. This floor had been empty of combatants aside from the guards, something Shoto would have found odd, had he not already broken out once.

“They’re likely convening on the main floor. It’s the tactic they used the first time I broke out,” he says as he clears the corner of the stairwell and sees no one lurking down the stairs.

Yep, just like last time. How predictable.

It’s a wonder Murmur wasn’t taken down sooner by rivals at the very least. He’s remarkably unadaptable.

“There wasn’t anyone on that floor when I first– Wait,” Eraserhead pauses and glances over his shoulder at him, subdued incredulousness taking root in his voice.“Last time you escaped?”

“It’s not hard,” he says casually as he catches up to the hero on the stairs, ensuring to keep an eye on their backs just in case. He pauses when he notices Eraserhead still staring at him blankly. What? Is it because I didn’t get out? He probably thinks I’m incompetent.

The idea that Eraserhead finds him useless or disappointing is unpleasant, but not unfair in this situation. There’s nothing he’s done to prove his aptitude otherwise. He’s made a habit of trying to disappoint authority figures, so this irksome pang in his chest throws him for a loop. He doesn’t want Eraser to give up on him, to think this rescue is unnecessary because Shoto isn’t good enough to save.

A useless tool is better discarded than taking up space, a snide voice hisses.

“They used a hostage to get me to cooperate,” he clarifies, trying to defend himself, wanting Eraser to understand he was trying to do the right thing. He just...failed. Not good enough. Not useful enough.

Eraserhead’s jaw ticks, clenches. He tucks his face into his scarf and resumes his former pace in silence. It unnerves Shoto. Useful. I can be useful.

“Sub-level three is called the kennels. It’s where they keep their victims,” he says in a rush.

This gets Eraserhead’s attention. He tilts his head in Shoto’s direction to keep the information flowing. His face remains frustratingly unreadable.

“Sub-level two is the showroom. That’s where sales are made. More kennels are on that floor,” Shoto continues then slows for a moment, confused. His head spikes with pain and he bites back a groan.

He doesn’t quite know how he knows that information. It’s in those fleeting maybe-memories that occupy that murky period between torture sessions. Shoto nearly trembles at the thought that he may have witnessed a sale, may have stood by and passively let it happen because he could barely hold his head up or remember his name. God, he hopes against hope he’d only been taken there as a warning.

(He hopes the memories stay murky. He doesn’t want to know the truth, he really doesn’t.)

A grimace contorts his features as he tries to compartmentalize that thought. He picks up his pace and ignores the look Eraserhead is sending him. If he pretends nothing’s wrong, maybe things will start to go right.

“I’m uncertain about sub-level one. Potentially their bunking quarters or monitoring station?” he carries on as he forcefully directs his attention to what’s immediately important. “The leader is a man named Murmur. Suggestion quirk. Appears to hire outside help for asset acquirement.”

When he wraps up his brief and lackluster report, he falls silent. It’s unusual that he’d seek approval for something so mundane, but he’s hoping Eraserhead finds use in his observations. The hero brings a hand up to his comm unit and relays the information Shoto gave to whoever he’s in contact with, then he gives Shoto a nod.

The nervousness that’d been thrumming in his chest dies down a little. He wants to gloat at that little voice that he isn’t a waste.

Such a good tool.

He resists the urge to punch himself in the head, knowing full well that A) Eraserhead would certainly take it out of context and make the mistaken assumption something is wrong with him, and B) it won’t shut that stupid voice up anyway.

When I get my hands on Murmur, he thinks with renewed anger and a rather large degree of humiliation, I’m going to obliterate him.

They come to a stop at the closed door leading to the main floor. Frenetic, frightful energy buzzes through his body. If this is anything like last time, there’s going to be people waiting.

Maybe another ambush for Eraser, like we first thought. Could explain why no one was there when he came in. Did they see him coming? How far out do they monitor the area? They likely started preparing the moment Eraser got close enough to the building.

Not that it’d matter, because Shoto’s here and he’ll be damned if those assholes get the satisfaction of grabbing the hero.

Shoto’s ready to burst through the door, the temperature around him dropping several degrees, but a silent hand signal from Eraser stops him in his tracks. He motions for Shoto to take the other side of the door, readying to sweep left while Eraser goes right. (The fact that the door swings left, giving Shoto more cover than Eraser, is lost on the teen.)

When Shoto takes position, he nods, ice forming at his fingertips and creeping over his shoe, nearly overflowing with the desire to be released. He places his left hand on the door, ready to throw it open so Eraser can make the first move.

“Compliant techniques first then defensive. Understand?” the hero says quietly as he prepares to breach the hall, scarf wrapped around his hands and ready to use. “Hostages take priority.”

Shoto is fairly certain he’s referring to the use-of-force continuum, something that went hand-in-hand with all those misconduct reports Endeavor would file. Personally, he thinks his father should have just laminated the damn thing and hung it above his desk as a nice reminder, but that’s just him.

He knows the basics of force protocol, that there are steps to match the escalation of the situation, but the finer details are lost on him. However, he does recognize that Eraserhead is more or less saying, Use necessary force, just don’t kill anyone.

That should be manageable, he thinks, even though his anger and hurt simmer under the surface like a volcano ready to erupt.

Somewhere, somehow, he feels like someone is snickering.

Necessary force, necessary violence.

Eraserhead counts down on his fingers before motioning to move. Shoto throws the door open, just a breath behind Eraser as the hero darts through.

The moment his eyes even register people, he’s shooting ice out. It trails forward, fast and unforgiving, leaving just enough linoleum free for Eraser to maneuver without slipping. This immediate attack startles the enemies. They’d been prepared to fight, yes, but first and foremost, they would try to manipulate the do-gooding heroes since it was tried and true. So predictable, he thinks venomously. This viciousness catches them off-guard and Shoto fully intends to capitalize on it.

His ice doesn't discriminate in who it goes for since he doesn't know who's hostile and who isn't and he certainly can't give them the time to make that distinction. Should there be a hostage, which he's betting there is, restraining them with his ice may be unpleasant, but it's not harmful and can even prove to protect them should Murmur decide to give another nasty command. It should be quick, restrain them and make the terrain disadvantageous if they evade the initial strike so Eraser can take them down. The hero can handle any non-heteromorphic quirks and Shoto can take on those he can't erase.

Clean and surgical, done before reinforcements even show.

But then he sees him. Murmur.

The bastard is there, gun in hand, just like last time as he dives out of the way of the ice.

Rage ruptures out of him like he’s severed an artery and all he sees is red, red, red.

“You,” he snarls and throws himself forward, propelled by a burst of ice.

Murmur looks at him with wide eyes. An expression not unlike cornered prey takes over his face. He moves his gun to threaten the nearest person regardless of whether they're friends or foes, but he's forced to dodge again when Shoto throws a spear of ice at him like he’s trying to impale the man. Shoto follows hot on its trail with another burst of ice that launches him over two thugs and the desk Murmur tries to hide behind. He barely misses cracking his head on the ceiling in his haste but he doesn’t care.

When he lands, it’s nearly on top of the now frightened man. Ice bursts from his hand as he grabs Murmur by the shirt and freezes him from chin to toe. A visceral, violent reaction is dragged out of Shoto the moment Murmur opens his mouth to talk. He thinks of the pain and the torture, of all those people he’s hurt, all the people he broke and sold like toys.

Red, red, red.

“Now, S—”

“Shut up!” he screams as he punches the man square in the mouth but it doesn’t satisfy the anger in him, doesn’t chase away the fear or soothe the pain. He punches again, knuckles coated in a layer of spiking ice. Again and again.

He forgets the battle waging behind him, the ambush set for two, as he explodes. He forgets about Eraser, the hostages, the incoming heroes. Everything.

“You want my quirk so bad?” he snarls, only further angered by the terror in Murmur’s eyes, like he has a right to be afraid. This is what he wanted, after all. “Take it!”

Ice bursts out of him and floods the room. It races down the hall like a tidal wave, consuming those in its path that weren’t quick or agile enough to avoid it. Eraserhead manages to swing himself above the surge, but only just. The thugs are caught and submerged, lost in glistening tombs. The hero tries to look at him but the desk and pillars of ice obscure his view. He calls out something but it goes unheard amidst the thundering, cracking quirk and Shoto's own fury drumming in his ears.

It swells, crashing through windows and racing up the building until it becomes an arctic fortress.

It’s still not enough. Not for Shoto.

Red, red, red.

He keeps punching, even when the man is silent and more blood than man. Shoto wants to keep going until there’s nothing resembling a man left. Wants to put his hand on Murmur’s mouth and choke him with his quirk until it freezes him from the inside out so the bastard can never speak again. He shouldn’t even breathe.

Shoto’s ripped out of his savage trance when something wraps around him and literally drags him away from Murmur.

“That’s enough!” Eraserhead yells out to him as he holds his capture weapon tight.

“Let me go,” he hisses as he struggles to free himself. His ice fails to heed his command and he wants to yowl in anger.

“No, you’re going to kill him,” Eraserhead continues as he pulls Shoto further from his target.

Good. He deserves it.

Shoto continues to fight his bindings. His eyes burn and it feels like he’s choking on air as he throws himself forward. Anger turns to desperation and he fights like he needs this to survive, like Murmur is the one attacking him.

“Let me do it! Please, let me do it,” he begs, voice breaking.

“I didn’t come here just so I can arrest you,” Eraserhead says, voice softer this time, still gritty, still commanding, but there’s a shocking undercurrent of a plea threading its way through his words.

It brings Shoto to heel. That blood-sick haze fades and he’s left looking at the devastation wrought by his hand. His entire body trembles like an earthquake, though he isn’t sure if it’s from quirk exhaustion or emotional exhaustion. Either way, he feels a moment off of toppling over.

The building is more ice than anything now and Murmur? Fuck. It’s hard to see his face beneath the blood and displaced teeth, but he’s going to need a hospital fast, probably even surgery. If Eraserhead hadn’t stopped him, if he’d continued just a little bit more, then Murmur would have died. Fuck, fuck. I almost—

His red-soaked hands tremble as he stops resisting. He stares, aghast at his own brutality. What he’d done to that thug who tried to harm Ishikawa is merciful in comparison as Murmur rattles out ragged, uneven breaths. It looks like a snapshot straight from a crime scene. He doesn’t even notice when his bindings loosen and fall away until Eraser is next to him. His expression is hidden beneath his scarf but it can’t be good.

Shoto feels horrible and grotesque. Eraser doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t need to because Shoto knows. He knows he’s a monster. A violent, ugly thing that can’t do anything but hurt.

The hero is quiet as he approaches the trapped and wounded man to make sure he isn’t on the verge of actually dying. Seeing the way the hero tends to the villain only highlights the disparity between the two. Shoto opens his mouth, ready to apologize, but the words don’t come out.

Is he really sorry for this? Sorry for bringing Murmur to the brink? He hates himself for it and for what he’s become but that isn’t the same as remorse. That only makes him feel worse. What a violent, unruly weapon.

Just then, Eraserhead’s radio crackles to life. Reinforcements. I have to get out of here, fast. Especially after the shitshow he just created. They’ll haul him off without a second thought for his actions.

While the hero is distracted, Shoto makes his move. It’s only the cracking of glass that alerts the hero of his actions. Shoto’s out of a broken window before Eraser even realizes he’s moving.

“Wait!” the hero calls out, but Shoto doesn’t hesitate.

The teen launches himself onto the neighboring roof, desperate to get out of Eraser’s sight.

I need to get away before I snap on him too.

And he will, won’t he? He’d failed to consider his presence when unleashing his quirk, could have easily overrun the pro with ice, and wouldn’t have noticed until his tantrum was over. When the anger pushes too high or Eraser pushes too hard, it’ll come out all over again. Because he’s violent, temperamental; a Todoroki through-and-through.

Just like him, a rancid, rasping voice laughs.

It’s what happens when there’s no one to direct me, his subconscious supplies. A weapon without a handler is a danger to society.

He wants to slam his head into a wall, and very nearly does when he almost misses his next jump. If only these thoughts would shut up.

Shoto isn’t even sure where he’s going. He just knows he has to go. Like a hunted animal, his instincts lead him away to hopeful safety. He runs on autopilot as he fights back against these mocking voices.

It’s not much of a surprise that instinct draws him back to the burnt-down husk of a convenience store. His heart cracks further as he walks through the remains like it’s a sacred burial site. When he enters the office he’d once called his room, he nearly folds down onto the floor. Nothing is salvageable. Nothing is even recognizable. It’s all charred rubble and ash.

Slowly, almost gently, he kneels and picks up something. What it used to be, he doesn’t know. He clenches it tightly in his fist and bows, forehead touching the ground in prostration as he apologizes to the ghosts in the room.

Sorry. I’m so sorry.

He doesn't know what he's apologizing for, but his heavy soul needs this repentance. His breath hitches and a sob catches in his throat, but tears still don’t find their way out of his eyes. He’s stuck in a perpetual state of almost-shattered.

Shoto remains there, kowtowing to no one and trying to keep from falling apart. Things had been good, great even. He’d finally started to feel like the future was golden, that things were looking up. He’d even made plans, actual solid plans on what he wanted to do, and who he wanted to be without anyone else’s opinion. And then…

His stomach roils as he thinks of Murmur, of the obsession in his eyes, the anger and greed, of lost memories, and just how violently Shoto responded. And that was without prompting. What would I do if he actually controlled me?

He almost retches at the notion.

The rubble in his hand drops, leaving streaks of ash on his pale hands. He cradles his head like he had back in his cell. I’m free now. I’m free. I’m safe.

So, why doesn’t it feel like it? Why does he still feel these disgusting emotions? Why does he still hear Murmur’s voice?

He loses time again, but this time it’s all his own fault. It’s only the crunch of steps next to him that brings him back to the present. Even then, he can’t bring himself to care who it could be. If it’s another criminal, they can strike him down, he doesn’t give a fuck.

“Figured you’d be here.”

Eraserhead.

Savior, saint, and precisely who Shoto doesn’t want to see right now. It’s almost disappointing when instead of someone coming to attack, he’s treated to a calmer, kinder presence. Shoto doesn’t respond immediately. He remains looking at the floor, at nothing.

Done with the arrests already? How long has it been? Maybe my information proved useful after all.

Instead of satisfaction, he’s filled with a deeper sense of desolation.

“Why?” he asks, voice hoarse even though he hasn’t shed a single tear.

“It’s rational that you’d—”

Shoto shakes his head and cuts him off, “Why can’t I just be a person?”

That brings the hero up short. He gets quiet, shifts, and then crouches down beside Shoto.

“You are,” he says firmly.

The teen scoffs under his mask and finally sits up. His posture is strong, despair leaking away to irritation. Can’t live without it. Always come back to anger, don’t I? He hates himself a little more.

“I’m not,” he says sharply. When he turns toward the hero, he notices how the hero has grown stiff. “All my life, I’ve been nothing but a tool, a weapon, for other people to use. It’s always my quirk, never me. Always their aspirations, never mine.”

His voice tapers off, caught between resignation and rage. He grabs that piece of charred rubble back up and freezes it in his hand like it can prove his point. Then, he throws it at the wall and watches in dissatisfaction as it shatters into pieces.

The voices are silent, no hissing or jeering, no trying to convince him as he finally accepts their truth.

“I wasn’t born out of love or even an accident. I was made purely to be used. I’m not a person, I never was,” he says, the resignation winning out. It’s hard to fight back when he knows it’s true. His parents didn’t want a son. Hell, he’s not even sure his mom wanted him at all. Endeavor just wanted a fucking weapon. Well, he got it.

A heavy silence weighs down the atmosphere and Shoto would find it hard to care on a good day. Now, he just hopes it drives the hero away. Leave. Just leave, he wants to beg. I’ll hurt you or you’ll hurt me.

But Eraserhead remains a steadfast presence at his side. After a moment longer of this unbearable silence, the hero speaks up.

“Would I be talking to you if that were true?” he asks. It’s almost conversational, so different from the desolate and aching way Shoto spoke. It does wonders in dragging Shoto from his spiral.

He tilts his head as he turns the question over in his head, but no matter which way he looks, it doesn’t quite click.

“I don’t understand,” he finally relents.

Eraserhead levels him with a flat look but there’s no heat in it. His patience remains temperate.

“I don’t waste time on irrational things. Would I spend my time talking to an object?” he clarifies.

Shoto blinks beneath his mask.

“No?” he answers, his coming out more a question than Eraserhead’s own did.

The hero nods and continues.

“Would I waste my time talking to a tool?”

The teen grimaces, knowing now where this is going and only just resists the urge to sigh.

“No,” he says instead, eyeing the hero uncertainly.

“Correct,” Eraserhead starts before tipping his head in consideration. “Would you consider your brother less than a person because your father decided to create him for his own gain?”

Shoto’s grimace tightens at the reminder of Toya. He almost forgot he told Eraserhead about him. While he didn’t know his eldest brother, he knows well enough that he’d never consider him in such a dehumanizing manner. That’s different. He’s different.

But he can’t figure out why. They were both made for the same purpose, both started down the same path. But Toya’s still different. He wasn’t like me.

Because he wasn’t perfect, right? Not a good enough weapon for Dad?

He shakes his head, almost rabid in the motion as he tries to throw that gross, invasive voice away. All he ever wanted growing up was to play with his brothers and sister, to get the chance to hang out with Toya. His father had been viciously adamant against it. Shoto refuses to let these nasty, parasitic thoughts poison his memories of his brother, few as they may be. (Oh, if only he knew.)

“No,” he says firmly, trying to shut that voice up.

Eraserhead hums.

“And would you consider Murmur’s other victims objects because he decided to sell them?” he asks, gaze piercing Shoto.

“No,” he responds, almost horrified at the implication. He’d never – never – see them in such a light, never blame them for what happened. They needed a hero to help them and Shoto failed them entirely.

The hero nods to himself before shifting his goggles up to his forehead so he can level the full strength of his stare at Shoto. It makes the teen uncomfortable, this almost knowing, caring expression.

“Then why are you different?” he finally asks.

Shoto falls silent, held captive by that persistent stare. The question prods so many sore spots he wasn’t even aware of. It’s different because… Because I’m me. I don’t count. It’s just- It’s different.

And no answer he formulates will suffice. None make enough sense for him to fully grasp. Logic clashes with emotion and he’s left floundering in uncertainty.

His silence is enough of an answer for Eraserhead. The hero sighs and reaches out a hand slowly, making the gesture obvious so Shoto can move or stop it if he desires. Then, he rests a reassuring hand on his shoulder. It takes an embarrassing amount of willpower for Shoto to resist leaning further into the touch.

(He feels a little like crying again and it annoys him.)

“You’re a person, always have been and always will be. The decisions others make don’t reflect on you,” Eraserhead says with the utmost certainty like he read it verbatim from a rulebook. Shoto appreciates the straightforward tone more than that soft, semi-sensitive voice he’d used earlier.

The teen drops his head and sighs, shoulders drooping like a dying flower as he accepts what Eraserhead says, even if he doesn’t fully believe it. It’s different. It’s all different. He just doesn’t understand.

“It doesn’t feel that way,” he admits in defeat.

“Trauma will do that to you,” Eraserhead says dryly. It nearly makes Shoto chuckle.

If he weren’t mistaken, he’d almost say the hero sounds like he’s speaking from experience. Practically a given with his line of work.

The duo lapse into a far more companionable silence this time. It’s not like before this incident when things were easier, but it’s closer. Comforting.

Eraserhead retracts his hand and Shoto will die long before he admits to missing the contact. No amount of torture could drag that confession out of him. He busies himself with rubbing at the soot marks on his hands.

“Do you have another place you can stay?” Eraserhead asks out of the blue after a few moments of quietude.

Shoto shakes his head forlornly.

“They found me before I could find somewhere new,” he says.

For as ragged as this place had been, he’d grown to care for it like it was a real home. He’s going to miss its gross wallpaper and cracked tiles. It had an ugly sort of charm to it, once one got used to it.

“Do you trust me?” Eraserhead asks.

The question makes Shoto pause his attempts at wiping that black off his hands. He looks back up at Eraserhead quizzically. He opens his mouth to respond but hesitates.

This question should be a hard answer for Shoto because every instinct tells him he shouldn’t trust heroes, but the truth of the matter is it’s not. It’s easy, so much easier than he’d ever expect to find a yes lurking behind his teeth. Even still, he respects the hero too much to give him a half-assed answer. So, he thinks it over seriously.

While heroes rouse a sense of discomfort and fear in him, he can’t say Eraserhead does anymore. In fact, he’s come to find the man’s presence agreeable, safe even, as bizarre as that may be. Nothing he’s done resembles the actions of the heroes he’s used to seeing. And, there’s that undeniable hope he’d had when locked away that Eraserhead would come. Not All Might, not Endeavor or Best Jeanist or Edgeshot, but Eraserhead.

And he had come.

If he had to sleep in the man’s presence, he feels he could do so comfortably and know that he’d be safe.

I trust him. I really do, Shoto finally consciously acknowledges, perhaps extremely belatedly, and with no small degree of surprise. It had been there in his subconscious, this bond he’d developed, but he pushed it down out of fear. But that’s not fair to the hero.

Shoto swallows, finding it hard to admit aloud, like it’ll cause Eraserhead to turn even when he rationally knows he won't.

“Yes,” he finally says, and he says it with finality, refusing to let his doubts deny it. “Yes, I trust you.”

Eraserhead nods, a small line of tension bleeding out of his shoulders as if he’d been preparing himself for a negative. Then, he stands up with popping knees and a small grunt.

“Follow me,” he says as he steps away from the building. He glances back at Shoto, seeing just how far that trust extends.

Isolation is nothing new to him. Growing up, it had been a regular state of affairs, hardly a punishment. On top of that, he’s grown accustomed to finding sleep in the most unlikely of places at the drop of a hat. They’ll be quite disappointed, he thinks, to find these methods ineffective against him. He can almost certainly handle being alone here longer than Murmur can handle leaving him be. That man is far too chatty and interested in him to stay away. Unfortunately.

Though, he muses darkly, that also means Murmur won’t be tormenting anyone else.

Better him than one of the other captives here. He can handle that bastard, loathe as he is to take that burden. That doesn’t mean he has to be pleased, however. And he’ll be sure to let his opinion be known. He’ll just have to keep his temper in check, that’s all. A tall order he’s going to pretend is just as simple as coping with solitary confinement.

Wouldn’t want to get too violent, now would we?

He frowns at the waspish voice, a little too rough in tone to be his usual inner dialogue.

I’m not that violent, he reassures himself.

That reassurance feels fake, consolatory. He thinks of the wide eyes of Laelaps and that woman staring at him in dismay. Fear. A fear so genuine it begs for mercy, a plea for their lives. Of flesh rent from a body and a piercing scream. Shoto feels no rush of power from their submission, no joy or pleasure from inciting terror. That has to count for something, right? He doesn’t harm them because he wants to or because it tickles some perverse part of him. It was a necessity; always a necessity. The ends justified the means, at least he thinks so.

Isn’t that what they all say?

He’s only slightly familiar with the paperwork a hero has to fill out after an arrest that requires any measure of excessive force. His father has bitched one too many times about filing another misconduct report for Shoto to ignore them all. They’ve always found it in Endeavor’s favor – in every pro’s favor because a pro’s word is writ. It was necessary. For the greater good. I regret having to use such measures, but—

He’s heard it all before, from Endeavor and other pros alike.

I’m no better than they are.

It’s a sickening, gut-churning thought. He’s run and run so fucking far, trying to escape the snares and snakes waiting for him, only to find himself back at the start. Shoto stares at his right hand, expression vacant and chest aching. He’s poisoning his mother’s quirk, using it in the exact same unapologetically violent way Endeavor uses his.

Damn it. Damn it.

His thumb aches all over again as he clenches his fist in frustration. He wanted to do better, be better. Wanted to become someone his mother wouldn’t hate or see as a monster, but here he is, playing the part of the beast in her shadow all too well. At least she can’t see me now. She’d hate me even more.

He huffs at the thought.

Small fortunes, and all that, he supposes.

(Regret is a slow and bitter poison, he learns.)

---

Time passes funny when there’s no way to track it.

It’s been long enough that the pulse in his hand has dulled to barely noticeable and he's counted the speckles in the ceiling tiles twice over, give or take some miscounts.

He thumps his head against the wall and stares at the door. It seems to taunt him. He knows he can’t sit and bemoan his rancid nature or wonder about Dabi’s unnerving stare. Oh, certainly cannot twiddle his thumbs, counting the seconds until some pro comes to his aid. If they haven’t found this operation already, they likely won’t now. It’s too well-rooted to be new.

But Eraserhead, a voice pipes up in the back of his mind, Eraserhead must be looking. I know he’s looking. He wouldn’t let this go.

Shoto grimaces, trying desperately to muzzle that little voice. Hope, above drugs and hostages and manipulation quirks, is his most dangerous enemy. Because if he lets himself hope, lets himself fall into the role of a child waiting for a hero again only to be let down, he doesn’t know if his spirit will recover. It's hard to dim that spark and ignore his gut that wants to point out and scream, Eraserhead is different. He cares. He's good. Every interaction he's had with the hero so far only highlights that point but Shoto wants desperately to wash it away. Like a dog hit one too many times, he's grown wary of authority figures and hands extended like they want to help. They never do. They never do.

I need to focus. These people need me. Ignore everything else.

That, at least, is a decent motivator. Thinking of that dead-eyed woman and the unknown amount just like her being kept like animals in these halls ignites a spark in his hollow chest. He can do this. If he’s a monster – and he’s unfortunately certain he is – then he can turn his monstrous gaze on those responsible. Let him capitalize on his rage and power to save these people.

And that brings up a curiosity.

They didn’t bother to cuff him again. In all the time that’s since passed, no one has come to restrain him. Perhaps they realized it’s useless to try. It makes him wonder just how many cuffs he managed to break while being transported because he’s almost certain that there was at least one. Four sets of stun cuffs at the minimum can’t be cheap to replace. It also must be pretty embarrassing to have a teenager fresh out of their pre-teens breaking out of your shackles and prison so easily. Best not give another chance to be shamed, he supposes.

Or, maybe Murmur is just being obnoxiously smug, waving freedom in his face while knowing Shoto has his hands metaphorically tied.

His brows slant as he glares at the door.

Asshole.

Like he's executing the world's worst party trick, the door swings open just as that thought crosses his mind and reveals Murmur. Per usual, the man is smiling all tranquil and friendly; a true poster child of Boy Scout benevolence. It wouldn’t shock Shoto if being called an ‘asshole’ actually summoned the man like he's some sort of shitty demon. It feels fitting for this wolf in sheep’s clothing.

The teen quickly stands and shifts into a defensive stance. There’s no weapon visible on Murmur and no aggression in the way he moves as he steps into the room, but that doesn’t relax Shoto’s tense posture. Nothing good can come from his presence.

He’s caught between the desire to glare a hole through the man (not yet successful, but further attempts may prove fruitful), or staring at the wall behind him like he doesn’t exist to irritate Murmur in a mild, non-inconvenient way. That’s when he notices two figures hovering just behind his captor. They frame the doorway, nearly out of sight but still visible enough to stare at Shoto. Clearly security of some form. And creepy security at that.

The quiet duo wears matching masks, one black and the other white, finely decorated and shaped to resemble kitsune. Now, Shoto isn’t exactly the religious sort, far from it, in fact. Even still, he’s well-read enough to recognize homages to Amaterasu and Tsukuyomi. If those kami exist, he sincerely doubts they’d be pleased two thugs are dishonoring their images. And what kitschy designs, too.

He doesn’t have time to wonder if their quirks relate to their chosen patrons because Murmur shifts into his direct line of sight. It’s as if the unremarkable nature of the man drives him to seek attention, discontent with being ignored or overlooked, especially by those he seeks out so hungrily.

That warring desire to be petulant rises in him again. To be, or not to be, that is the question. (His old tutor would be irate to learn he’s weaponizing Shakespeare to aggravate his captor.)

It’s only the thought of the other captives that keeps him from exercising the full extent of his bratty nature. No matter how deeply the desire burns in him, he can’t let them get hurt for his own petty whims. I’m not that monstrous.

Not yet, a different voice echoes back, too amused sounding to be anything less than malicious. Shoto makes a mental note to punch Dabi the next time they cross paths, because he's certain they will. The scarred man was pretty clear on that front.

He barely withholds a grimace, eyes narrowing into a glare as he watches Murmur approach. The door clicks shut behind him, separating him from his watchful guardians.

They’re alone now.

The way the man’s smile widens and how he wrings his hands in anticipation sets off Shoto’s nerves. There’s no telling what this bastard’s intentions are, especially with that odd look in his empty eyes. His defensive posture strengthens.

There must be a threat on Shoto’s face or in the sharp angle of his body because Murmur pauses his approach, hands raised placatingly. The pacifying gesture does nothing to soften the malice that radiates from him.

“Before you get any clever ideas, I’d like to warn you that I have someone monitoring us. It’d be unwise to attack,” he says pleasantly.

Shoto’s gaze narrows, honing in on the way the man’s jaw ticks around that smile. Discomfort? Uncertainty? Whatever it is, he’s wary of the danger Shoto poses, even in this position of uneven power.

Good. He should be terrified.

And he can’t attribute that biting comment to that new, venomous voice that’s taken residence in his head. No, that rancor is all his own. This time, he doesn’t mind it.

While there’s nothing more tempting at this moment than to freeze Murmur into a glacier so large, that global temperatures would drop, he knows better. It’s not his life on the line. He can feel frost creep up his fingers as he pushes back the biting, keening urge to attack. If getting out was as simple as taking down this one man, he’d have no hesitation in breaking the bastard into pieces.

Unfortunately, life is never that simple.

There are too many unknowns to account for. Who is monitoring the situation? How quickly would they react? Is another victim being held up as collateral? If Shoto can coax out some of that information, then he can make a more informed decision on what to do next.

That makes it slightly easier to will away the ice from his fingertips.

Murmur notices, grin sharpening as he steps closer. When he reaches into his coat, Shoto tenses all over again. That tension turns into confusion as Murmur pulls out a slender tablet and presents it to Shoto.

“Here you go.”

Shoto stares at the offered item like it might suddenly grow teeth and snap at him. Then, he glances up at the man, brows pinched in confusion.

“What is this?” he asks suspiciously.

Murmur sighs, but he sounds amused by Shoto’s distrust.

“Proof of my word,” he says. Then, he taps the screen to life.

Rather than take the tablet, Shoto tilts his head to get a better look. On it is a crisp live feed of another cell identical to the one Shoto’s in. Sitting on the floor, curled in a ball, is the woman Murmur had been threatening. It’s hard to tell from her position, but she seems no worse than the last time Shoto saw her. At the very least, he can see no wounds or blood on her clothes.

How terrible it is that this meager display of subhuman treatment is nearly enough to make him sigh in relief. The woman is alive, in one piece, and still in this facility.

If this footage is genuine.

He can’t be entirely sure of the validity of what he’s seeing, if it’s pre-recorded or actually live, but even the chance that she’s okay makes him certain he’d done the right thing.

“Perfectly unharmed, just as I said.”

And Murmur breaks his moment of peace by speaking. Naturally.

Shoto stares at the husk of a woman for a few breaths longer before dragging his gaze up to his captor. Murmur is far too pleased with himself for having done the bare minimum required to be only slightly better than actual roadkill.

His captor tucks the tablet away again, eyes only briefly leaving Shoto before darting right back.

“Do you believe me now?” he asks, sickly sweet.

What the hell is with him?

This can’t be normal, all this appeasement and reassurance. It’s doubtful he’s gone to such lengths for his other captives. Just seeing the state of that woman and her apparent disposability is enough to make that obvious. If he really wanted to, he could have drugged Shoto while he was unconscious. That’d solve this entire run-around before it even got to this point. But he didn’t. No, instead he’s trying to build some sort of rapport here, as stupid as that is.

Shoto brushes right past his question with no intent on answering. It’ll be a cold day in hell when he believes or trusts anything this jackass says. Instead, he narrows his eyes and lets his features fall into that stoic mask he’s perfected over the years.

“This is a lot of effort for one person. What do you want with me?” he asks, voice cold and demanding.

Murmur blinks at him, face momentarily blank with surprise. Then, his smile reappears, wider now and verging on manic. It makes Shoto want to step further away from him but he’ll be damned if he lets this guy know he’s unsettled.

When Murmur talks, his voice rings high with amusement. His words come out in a huff, like he can hardly believe he has to say them.

“I’d think it’s obvious. I want everything.”

He waves a hand vaguely in Shoto’s direction, as if that can somehow explain that incredibly vague declaration.

Everything?

A cold stone drops in his gut.

He has to re-evaluate the lengths he’ll go to pacify this bastard and protect these people, he fears. But even edging near that thought sends his heart skyrocketing. Threats of pain and torture are hardly terrifying to Shoto. He’s quite familiar with the many layers of agony, but this...this undefined everything conjures prospects that his young mind hadn’t thought of since being targeted.

Pride be damned, he shifts further away from the man and raises a defensive hand coated in spiking ice.

“What do you mean?”

His voice is far steadier than the rabbiting heart in his chest. He manages an air of disgust and rage when what feels is really fear. For once, he hopes that spark of anger finds him again because he doesn’t like this helpless feeling. He’d rather be consumed by the flames of hate than drown in fear.

Murmur’s face slackens for a moment before something in him cracks and he laughs. He laughs like Shoto said something extraordinarily comedic. His face is buried in his hands before he peeks between his fingers, eyes wide in such a manner that is makes Shoto’s skin crawl. For the first time, he sees a hint of the true madness driving this man.

“You really don’t know, do you?” he asks breathlessly from behind his fingers.

When he drops his hands and lifts his head, he is all sorts of ruffled. Shoto gives a sharp shake of his head, having absolutely no clue what tangent this man is on now.

Murmur’s smile is almost hysterical now as he continues, “How wonderfully perfect you are.”

Shoto’s unaffected mask cracks just a bit as he curls his lips in distaste.

“I’m not perfect.”

He spits it out and wishes it could strike the man like a punch.

The masterpiece, the prized one, the favored child, Endeavor’s crowning piece and magnum opus, nonpareil, perfect. He fucking despises those sentiments because it humanizes what it took to make him this way, softens his jagged, broken edges like they’re non-existent. Or, worse, like he is only his surface – his quirk, his strength, his name. He’s not perfect. He’s angry and tired and bitter and so fucking fucked that he can’t tell the difference between pain and safety, comfort and danger.

Murmur waves away his rage like it’s a gnat. Some of that frenzied energy has drained out of his captor and he looks closer to the composed man he likes to portray, but there’s still a malignant gleam in his eyes.

“I’m not speaking of your personality or other such arbitrary things. I mean physically, genetically,” he says as he glances over Shoto once more.

Warning spikes sprout from Shoto’s right side like a porcupine and his left side smokes lightly. That only serves to ramp up that instability fueling Murmur. He sighs, awed and starry-eyed.

“You are a marvel of nature.”

It sounds affectionate and far too kindly coming from this bastard. Yet at the same time, he sounds as if he’s speaking about a thing. There is nothing in his tone or his face that hints at understanding Shoto is a living, breathing person.

And Shoto cannot for the life of him understand what the hell he’s talking about. Sure, his quirk is strong and pretty rare, but to go so far as to call him a marvel of nature? That’s way more than a stretch. There are people out there with quirks that alter their entire body into something almost inhuman. Even the Iida family with their mild heteromorphic traits are more unique than him. For all intents and purposes, he’s a normal human with an abnormally strong quirk.

“Objectively speaking, I’m not that different from other people,” he says, voice pointedly disinterested. He doubts it will convince the man whatever fanatical ideas he has are wrong, but it’s worth a shot.

As he suspected, Murmur just seems to clench his jaw, almost angry that Shoto is denying this.

“Wrong. So, so wrong.”

He steps closer, crowding Shoto back to the wall. The spines of ice are the only thing that keeps the distance between the two. Shoto’s eyes widen and he bares his teeth like it’ll keep the man away. It doesn’t stop Murmur from gripping his chin and tilting his head left and right, inspecting him with fervent eyes.

“Chimerism is already rare among people, yet you have that and quirk chimerism. It presents itself so pleasingly and powerfully, too,” he says softly as he looks over his split features, eyes darting from smoke to ice, blue to gray. “That is a statistical improbability so unlikely, I’d sooner turn dust to diamonds than replicate you.”

That… Shoto didn’t know that. There’s no way that’s true.

And yet, Murmur is staring at him like he’s something divine.

Mollified after his impromptu inspection, Murmur takes a step back and smiles sedately once more, like nothing more innocuous than small talk just occurred. His ability to snap back to this false state of composure is unsettling, like an actor switches masks.

Shoto barely has the presence of mind to subdue the shaking in his hands. Fear coats his tongue. He doesn’t want to look at Murmur, doesn’t want to see the rapacity in his stare or the dehumanizing way he appraises Shoto.

“There are people who’d pay a genuine fortune for you,” Murmur states, voice pleasantly neutral again.

Shoto’s gaze finally flicks over to catch his. He tries to force all his fear down and all his hate up so it can leak out of his glare.

“I’m not for sale,” he says through gritted teeth and narrowed eyes.

If he comes at me again…He can’t guarantee he won’t get violent. Shoto hopes and prays that doesn’t happen because he doesn’t want someone else to suffer because of him, but… But he can’t take those greedy hands on him. It disgusts him, makes him angry and rabid, and most of all, it makes him afraid.

He’s no good to these people broken or sold, he reassures himself. He’ll have to defend himself because otherwise no one will be able to help them. It’s logical, rational.

Fuck, he hopes it doesn’t come down to him or them, because he’s scared of what he’ll pick.

Either his blank expression is still holding strong or Murmur is entirely uncaring of his distress – either is viable – because the man just gives him a pleased look.

“Quite right. You’re not.”

And that gives Shoto pause. He isn’t sure if he feels more or less frightened at the assurance. Because isn’t that why he was kidnapped to begin with?

Murmur begins to pace, hands dancing across the air as he speaks.

“I’ve pondered over you in the past days. You’d make me a lot of money. In fact, several interested parties have already placed astonishing offers. But, well, I may be a bit greedy,” he says and pauses his steps to shoot Shoto a wry, hollow grin.

Shoto’s known logically that there are vile people in this world, the kind who buy and sell others like property. There’s unfortunate proof of that in his lineage. And he’s known that the situation he’s in means he’s going to be dealing with said people. Even still, the difference between knowing this academically and having to experience it firsthand, that people are trying to buy him – a teenager – is bone-chilling.

Horror tightens around his throat like an invisible noose and robs him of his voice as he processes it all.

“Seeing the strength you have, and so young too, made me realize what an opportunity I nearly passed over,” Murmur continues with that unnerving vacant smile, “I could loan you out. For an appropriate fee and a signed waiver you’ll return unharmed, of course. With time, I’d make several times the amount I’d get from a sale.”

There are veritable yen signs flashing in Murmur’s eyes as he imagines his future wealth wrought by exploiting Shoto.

And it finally clicks into place.

His cursed fate isn’t to be chased down and forced into heroics. No, that’s the palatable option. His fate, one determined since before conception and written into the tapestry of the universe is that of a tool, an object, a means to an end. To be used to fulfill other’s selfish desires regardless of his wants.

Maybe this is recompense for the hell he caused his mother or the fissure he drove into his family – this mockery of her fate. (Does he deserve this? Like the scar on his face? No, no, he doesn’t believe that. Can’t believe it.)

That realization finally, finally, brings a spark to life in Shoto’s chest. A trickle of righteous indignation bubbles up into a wellspring to flood over his fears and drown them out.

How dare he?

He ran from home to escape the fate of a weapon and he damn well refuses to let this jackass pick up where Endeavor left off.

Shoto slaps away the hand that reaches out for him again like he’s an animal at a petting zoo. The flash in Murmur’s eyes is a warning of impending danger but rage licks at his heart, too hot to care. That small part of him crying out to be rational is drowned out by his rampant emotions. Always the hothead, this mercurial boy. He'd been told quite often that his temper and his mouth would get him into trouble one day. Wouldn't those people love to see him now?

“I won’t—” he starts out, voice biting and frigid, only to get cut off by his visibly irritated captor.

“There is no end to that sentence that matters. What you will and won’t do is not up to you,” Murmur states just as coldly. Whatever delusion he’d been frolicking in has faded away with Shoto’s sharp rebuttal. There is no pretense of pleasantry as he stares at Shoto.

That only fires up Shoto further. He’s prepared to spit out another retort, something no doubt scathing and potentially idiotic – (be calm, be polite, be rational.) – when Murmur barrels on.

“I’m being polite because I’d prefer not to break your mind. It would be an unfortunate waste, but I will if I have to,” he says with a glare, staring down his nose at Shoto like he’s an unruly child on the verge of punishment.

Shoto scoffs, but a thread of unease tangles its way into the blaze of his anger. Breaking his mind sounds especially unpleasant and very real.

What if that woman hadn’t been drugged? What if it was Murmur's doing?

He supposes that can account for Murmur’s desire to play at friends. Shoto would be a lot less useful if he’s borderline catatonic. Though, it certainly sounds like the man would still find uses for him. A shiver races down his spine at the notion.

“It doesn’t matter what you say. I will never be your tool,” he says venomously, nearly on reflex despite the threat lingering between them.

Murmur raises a brow, unimpressed.

“Please, your rebelliousness has its charm but don’t think so highly of yourself,” he says with a huff.

The hand Shoto slapped waves in his direction, almost dismissive. Then, the beginning of an antagonizing smile curls Murmur’s lips. It brings back that well-known desire to punch the man. Just one punch, please. That’s all I’m asking for. (Fortunately, Shoto’s sliver of self-control holds strong and he resists the siren call.)

“All I have to do is put a gun to someone’s head and you’ll be crawling your way back to your kennel like a good boy,” Murmur finishes, smile widened to its fullest extent.

That fragile hold he has on his self-control wavers dangerously.

It incenses Shoto, this smugness, and the utter insult Murmur throws at him, mostly because it’s true. Shoto’s so mad at his captor and this situation, but he’s mostly mad at himself for being so goddamn predictable.

Murmur revels in his unspoken victory over Shoto by deftly slipping back into his sycophantic role. When remorse takes shape on his face, Shoto feels violence in his veins.

“I don’t wish to be mean, but you must understand your place. We can avoid this unpleasantness if you simply accept your role here,” Murmur says softly, saccharine and synthetic in its inflection.

The quirk worms its way into his mind, twisting his thoughts into agreement. If Shoto wasn't already aware that the man would use his quirk on him, it'd become blatantly apparant in the way Shoto nearly nods along. It takes more effort than it should to keep himself still and to drown out that invasive thought.

Shoto’s fingers twitch as he forcibly resists hitting the man again – even if it would be so, so satisfying.

Not yet. I don’t want anyone else hurt.

No one else but him, of course.

That rough, snickering voice in the back of his mind finds company as Shoto imagines what it’d be like to break the man’s jaw. How euphoric it must be.

“Never,” he finally says after forcing down the compulsive need to agree and trying to (still unsuccessfully) glare a hole through the man.

Despite the unshakeable certainty in his voice and the aggressive defiance dripping from his body, Murmur just smiles softly, right back to genial in another whiplash of emotions. Keeping up with the shifts is nearly as exhausting as resisting his influence.

“Of course, Shoto. Of course,” he says kindly, amusedly. He reaches forward to pat Shoto’s shoulder only to yank his hand back quickly as a flame sprouts to life before he can make contact. The man looks at his red fingers, glances back at Shoto with that look in his eyes, before he chuckles and walks toward the door.

“Get comfortable. Our first session will begin soon,” he says over his shoulder before he exits. Just around the door frame, two monochromatic masks watch him in silence.

The door clicks shut and Shoto is once again left with nothing but the buzz of the lights and the sting of his thoughts.

Shoto doesn’t relax for several minutes. He watches the door like a hawk, prepared in case Murmur comes back in or some other bastard is sent to ‘convince’ him. When it becomes clear no one is coming, Shoto sighs and slides back down to the floor with a knotted gut and trembling hands.

He needs to get out and fast.

If Murmur is being honest about rending his mind, then that makes time more precious.

But if I act rashly, someone innocent will pay for it.

He grimaces as he stares at his hands again.

What if that’s what’s necessary?

On one hand, he knows the longer he’s here, the more dangerous the situation becomes, the more compromised he may be, and the more people will be sold. Sitting around is just as bad as putting these people up for auction himself.

He clenches his left fist, feeling the heat of his aggravation and helplessness cycle through him, bringing up the temperature on his fire side in increments.

But, on the other hand, if that tracker is still here or those guards are outside his door, the moment he gets out, someone will suffer. They might actually die. Who is he to decide someone’s fate like that?

He clenches his aching right hand, fingers coiled in an arctic fist.

If it came down to it, could he make a sacrifice? Could he cross that line, surrender one to save the many? When push comes to shove, will he do what it takes? He’s growing less and less certain he’s strong enough for this.

He thinks back on Dabi’s harsh words, on death being the preferable fate.

Guilt hits him like an avalanche. No matter how he looks at the situation, he feels like he’s at a loss. Someone is going to get hurt and it’s his fault. His next breath stutters in his chest.

If I’d been better, I could have prevented this. If I’d been smarter, I’d already have a plan.

(He’s a child, he shouldn’t be turning lives into statistics and shouldering the responsibility.)

(But he’s not really a child, is he? He never was. Fate didn't write that into his path.)

He rubs a cold fist against his eyes and it comes back dry. Shoto feels like crying but he isn’t sure he remembers how. This isn’t a situation he can brute force his way out of, an enemy he can overwhelm with raw power. It’s too intricate, something he wasn’t trained for. He was told what to do if he was held hostage, being the son of a high-profile hero would make him a target, after all. But active hostage situations were theoretical and saved for heroics class.

He doesn’t know what to do.

All this coveted power, and for what? To be caged like a toothless animal? So, so useless.

He feels despair dig its claws into him, self-hatred biting at his throat. And then irritation at himself for letting these weak emotions find root so easily. What’s he to do, wallow in self-pity? Give up because it’s too hard? What’s the point of all his pain if he calls it quits so easily?

He was made for this. If all he can be good at in life is heroics, then he might as well lean into that.

I can’t just give up. I have to help the victims here or they’ll be gone forever.

And maybe, if he’s lucky, he’ll get to punch Murmur in his smug mouth on the way out.

---

True to his word, Murmur comes by again.

He’s like a leech, Shoto thinks with no small degree of disdain.

But that meeting is just as unsuccessful as the first.

The third meeting is nearly hostile. It results in Shoto experiencing the true extent of Murmur’s quirk as the man jams thoughts into his brain like spikes. It’s nauseating and makes his skull feel like it’s splitting in two. The foreign ideas are so vibrant, lit up like neon lights in his mind, and so hard to ignore.

Shoto’s left curled in on himself, cradling his head in his arms and blood leaking from his nose.

It’s the first time he experiences the raw force of that quirk, but it won’t be the last.

By the fourth, both Shoto and Murmur are sick of this game.

“I’m growing tired of this. Aren’t you?” Murmur asks blandly, no longer caring to keep up his kind act.

Shoto scoffs from his position on the ground. He’s stopped rising to meet the man, barely even glances in his direction.

“If you’re tired, maybe you should go to sleep,” he says back just as tonelessly. He’s pointedly staring at the wall, keeping Murmur in his peripheral but not gracing him with his full attention.

“Cute.”

By the irritated way he says it, Murmur definitely does not think his snark is cute. Good.

With the pretense of equality gone, Murmur forgoes his usual conversation and dives right into his mind.

“You are a tool. Do you understand that?” he says like it’s a universal fact.

I am a tool.

Shoto groans and drops his head into his hands, fingers tangling in his hair as the idea is forcibly pounded into his head. It pervades every crevice, reaching even the furthest, darkest corners of his mind.

“No, I’m not,” he grits out even when everything in him says he should agree. Just saying that small refusal makes him feel like choking.

He barely registers Murmur’s presence as he fights to separate this invasive thought and what is really his mind.

“Yes, Shoto, yes you are,” Murmur says, closer now. “You are a tool, perfectly designed to be used by others. Why else would you have been formed so? Your quirk, your appearance, your skills, it’s all curated by fate to be used. Do you see?”

And wasn’t he thinking exactly that not too long ago? How his entire role in the world is to be used by others? It makes it so much harder to drive a wedge between Murmur’s manipulations and him.

“Shut up,” he says, nearly hissing as he presses his hands to his head like he can hold his splintering mind together.

“No. Not until you understand,” Murmur continues. The thought reinforces itself in his mind like a jackhammer. He feels his entire body twitch as he fights the intrusion. It feels an awful lot like his nose is bleeding again.

“I am not a tool. I’m not my quirk,” he says firmly, more as a reminder to himself than a statement to Murmur. He just has to remind himself of who he is. I’m a person, not a tool.

“You are.”

...He’s right. When have I ever been anything other than my quirk? Mom, Toya, Fuyumi, Natsu, they all suffered for my quirk. Endeavor made me for my quirk. I was taken for my quirk. That’s all anyone cares about. It’s all I’m used for.

He shakes his aching head like a dog.

No, shut up. Stop it. It’s not true. I’m a person, not a quirk.

And the war continues as he fights within himself. His quirk fluctuates as he struggles to find stability. His head feels like it’s cracking apart, like his brain will melt and drip right out of his ears.

“Stop it. Stop!” he yells as he tries to keep himself together. Voices, vicious, snarling things that whisper his worst thoughts and remind him of his place, echo one after another. It’s a cacophony so overwhelming, he nearly misses his captor’s chuckle.

“Oh, dear one, I wasn’t using my quirk that time.”

And Shoto doesn’t know when he leaves because he’s too busy fighting his own brain, doesn’t know how long he’s cradling his head and dripping blood onto the mat.

“I’m a person,” he reassures himself, voice hoarse like he’s been screaming this whole time.

An object, it hisses back.

“Not my quirk.”

It’s all I’m worth.

Even the fluorescents can’t drown this out.

The cycle repeats.

---

Before he’d been caught, Shoto had been under the assumption that being discovered and thrown back into Endeavor’s clutches was his worst possible outcome.

He was wrong. So very, very wrong.

The idea is compounded in the fleeting moments of cognizance before it’s inevitably chased away again when Murmur rips into his brain like he’s trying to lobotomize Shoto. It grows harder to distinguish reality from his captor’s woven fantasy. All he can do is cling to his repetition to ground himself.

My name is Shoto. I am a person, not a tool.

He doesn’t care if Murmur hears his persistent muttering as he keeps his eyes closed, focusing on his mantra to keep back any creeping doubts. Even if the ideas had been his own – this uncertainty of self – he chases it away viciously with his mantra because he can’t let Murmur have even the tiniest foothold in his mind.

(Even in the deepest throes of this conditioning, Shoto still manages to dredge up delightfully petty satisfaction knowing his stubbornness is annoying Murmur. Had the man thought he’d be easy to break because he’s young? Idiot.)

With each visit, the voices get harder and harder to drown out. Like sirens at sea, it grows ever more tempting to listen to them.

Give in, they say in a beguiling sing-song, we know it’s true.

And like always, he wills himself away, knowing it’s a trap but his will weakens under the unrelenting barrage.

My name is Shoto. I am a person, not a tool.

False. People are born. Tools are created. He created me to fulfill a purpose, just like people make weapons for war.

My name is Shoto. I am a person, not a tool.

Mom didn’t want a thing like me; like him. Wouldn't it be better to be with someone who wants me?

His refusal remains steadfast against the quirk and his body rebels. Murmur takes unkindly to his continued resistance.

It's unfortunate that it takes him vomiting blood and speaking to an unseen presence for the visits to slow. Murmur pulls back those mental talons and leaves Shoto crumbled in on himself, fighting to get a hold on reality.

My name is Shoto...

---

Meanwhile in Shinjuku:

Someone slips a note with a two-way radio into the middle of a particular hero's patrol route. The paper is nearly blank, but the coordinates it holds may as well be a gift from above.

When the hero reads this letter, it trembles ever so faintly in his grasp. Like a vengeful spirit, he turns on his heel and takes to the night. He'll test the validity of this note, see if it is what he suspects. (Oh, does he hope.)

If it proves true, a reckoning will follow.

The voice is masculine, unfamiliar, and far too pleasant given Shoto’s current state. It might be the electrocution or the head trauma, but it sounds a little like the man is speaking through a filter. It takes a moment for Shoto to decipher the words. By the time he grasps it, another voice, faintly familiar joins in.

“No more than what was needed.”

Who is that? Scars? No, it’s not hoarse enough. Sparky?

Shoto wants to look but each sliver of light that slips through his eyelids feels like an ice pick to the brain.

“This is what was needed?” says the first voice. It comes out exasperated and mildly inconvenienced like he’d been given the wrong drink at a restaurant.

Then, a cool hand touches Shoto’s face, gentle as can be.

It startles urgency into him. That brutal haze is pierced by an innate feeling of danger. Shoto doesn’t know exactly what’s going on or why he feels like death warmed over, but he knows no one should be touching him. Nobody aside from his sister has been so physically tender with him in a long, long time. Something’s wrong. His body jerks, aching muscles protesting at the command. He manifests a stream of ice without even thinking.

It earns him another round of shock therapy, though it’s milder this time by a large margin. More disorienting than purposefully agonizing. If his body had not already been thoroughly abused, it would do little to slow him. Unfortunately, his beaten muscles spasm with renewed vengeance, and stars dance behind his eyes. He can taste the current on his tongue.

Anger follows on the tails of the fear and pain that bite his ankles. Shoto isn’t sure if he’s growling but it feels an awful lot like he’s growling, borderline rabid as he lashes out like a cornered animal. Someone’s yelling. The electricity doesn’t falter. Every ounce of ice that leaves his body is replaced with lightning.

“He shouldn’t be able to—”

Shoto’s mind blanks out, missing the rest of the incredulous statement. His body gives in, convulsing from the combined backlash of the cold and unrelenting shocks.

“—warned you—”

He isn’t lucid for much longer.

---

Shoto flits through fits of awareness, each shorter than the last. And each time, he fights the hands that touch him, snarls at the voice that greets him. Spines of ice jut out like arrows on instinct and he’s shocked at every turn. He can’t even release a frosted gasp without electricity coursing through his body. Dazed, he can’t help but think it might kill him soon. Strangely enough, he’s not upset at the notion.

For a moment, somewhere lost in that electric haze, he feels a lick of fire burst from his face.

That dreadful, dreadful rage burns deeper in his gut.

---

The next round of consciousness hits him like a rough hangover – not that he’s accustomed to that feeling, but seeing a few people on the streets struggling after a wild night gives him a decent estimate of what it’s like. His head is throbbing, his mouth is dryer than his sense of humor, and he can barely breathe without it feeling like his body wants to shut down from intense muscle pain. Each minor inhale nearly causes him to convulse like his body’s grown too accustomed to the twitches to function otherwise.

Overall, he’s felt worse, though not by a large margin. This certainly isn’t making it into his Top Ten list of pleasant wake-up calls, that’s for sure.

He lays there for several minutes as he works on reorienting himself and taking marginally deeper breaths. His memories are foggy and his headache only exacerbates his efforts to backtrack. It's when he twitches his hand to rub his aching chest only to feel restraints around his wrists that it comes rushing to him in painful clarity.

The ambush – successful this time.

They got him.

Shoto knows he should be frightened, but he feels more annoyed and embarrassed than anything. Caught like a goddamn rookie. (The fact that he is years off of even being considered that level is pointedly ignored.)

Somewhere, he feels like his father is scoffing with a lecture for his incompetence at the ready. Perhaps the reality of the situation hasn’t settled in just yet, but he’s frustrated that he’s managed to give this little victory to Endeavor, even if the man is unaware of it. Laugh it up, you bastard. I’ll get out of here on my own.

He blinks and squints, forcing himself to work through the pain to observe his immediate surroundings.

White walls, white laminate flooring, white acoustical ceiling tiles, and not a hint of furniture beyond the tatami mat he’s lying on. He’d say the room is spartan but that’s being far too generous. The only other thing that catches his eye is a camera pointed in his direction up in the corner. The door, he observes, is solid metal with no visible handle. It’d be too easy if he was allowed to just walk out, he supposes. There’s no immediately visible threat or opportunity to exploit.

With that down, he moves on to cataloging himself.

The first and absolutely most concerning thing he notes is his bare face. No shitty, warped plastic rubs against his skin or causes his breath to condense unpleasantly on his lips. It rips the blinders off his eyes and forces him to see the situation for what it is. He’s known logically that things are most certainly Not Good, but there was a sense of safety his mask brought him, like a security blanket he’s imprinted on. With it gone, with the knowledge that anyone and everyone involved now knows his face – his shame – he feels the seeds of fear set its roots firmly in his gut.

There’s no way of knowing how many people have seen him. Was he processed somewhere? Examined? Someone moved him here. Is this a single entity or a team? The thought of more and more people recognizing him makes him sick.

He digs his blunted and cracked nails into his aching palms to ground himself. Focus. Evaluate the situation. Take control.

Ten seconds. That’s how long he allows himself to wallow in this miserable state, then he gets back to work. If these bastards think they can contain him or bring him to heel, they have another thing coming. He returns to his examination, only slightly stunted by the fog hovering in his brain.

Aside from his overtaxed muscles and the acute headache, he’s in working order. His vision has cleared and he has feeling in each limb. Granted, he could have still escaped without the use of his arms, but that would have been much more annoying. This? This is doable.

With a grunt and a roiling stomach, he forces himself into a sitting position. Once he's sure he isn't going to flop back down into a pathetic heap, he inspects his restraints with a frown. Stun cuffs. That might explain why he feels like an overused lightning rod.

Shoto remembers Endeavor going over restraint procedure a little over a year ago. These are ‘humane’, meant to disorient and prevent the captive from focusing on their quirk through the shocks it’d deliver if they tried. Given that he now has two pairs of cuffs on his wrists and, if he’s feeling it correctly, a set around his ankles, he supposes one just wasn’t effective enough. If he feels a tad bit smug at that, who can blame him? Anything to inconvenience his captors.

Still, he doesn’t remember how he got here or who put these on him. He can recall the moment of his capture and the moment he awoke in this room. Everything between point A and point B is blurry.

Having taken proper stock of his surroundings and well-being, he decides it’s time to act. The walls are sturdy, but likely not sturdy enough to contain his raw power. If, by some bizarre miracle they are, he knows the ceiling isn’t. The tiles are generic, little more than composite sawdust and glue. Tearing a hole into the next floor wouldn’t take much more than a basic attack.

Though that will likely alert my captors and I can’t afford to waste unnecessary energy, he muses and eyes the room up again before focusing on the the only exit. If I can finesse the door open I might be able to gain some ground before they realize anything is wrong.

Utter destruction will be his fallback if the door proves too difficult or costly to open he decides.

Gotta get these off first. Then I can bust out of here.

No matter which way he twists and turns his arms, he can’t see a latch, not that he expected to find one. They’d make for terrible restraints otherwise. He can try to overwhelm them, send out a burst of ice strong enough to coat them, and either fry the inner circuits or cause the metal to become brittle enough to break. However, that poses the same risk as breaking down the wall. It’d be a wasteful expenditure of his energy and he’ll harm himself in the process. Not exactly ideal when he’ll likely have to face down an unknown number of combatants.

Though, he doesn’t exactly know the voltage on these things. They’re something he has theoretical experience with through studying. It’s different to find himself strapped with a pair (or three). Getting electrocuted is something he’s come to loathe, but he doubts these things are packing the same sort of power as that villain’s quirk. It would hardly be humane then. Pain is something he has an oddly intimate relationship with. If the voltage is low enough, he can likely shrug it off and bust these things apart like toys. That would probably explain the extra sets, come to think of it.

Before he decides on the method, he’ll have to test the feedback. One set wouldn’t be too bad, but three? That’s questionable.

With a steadying breath, he bites back any shred of hesitation that tells him this is a bad idea and lets out an experimental little dusting of frost.

Electricity races all the way from his roots to his toes. He nearly cracks his head against the wall as he jerks back on instinct, like he can get away from the sensation. It’s painful and drives him into the realm of oversensitive, but, as expected, it’s not as bad as that villain’s quirk had been. This feels less like he’s been slapped into an electric chair and more like he fell onto a third rail. Still, not exactly a great feeling, certainly not one he’ll seek out for fun.

He’s pretty confident he can break them without passing out. But, it’s not a certainty. How long it’d take to actually shatter the cuffs is also an unknown. What state would he be left in after? One well enough to fight? The risk is too high to bet on while he still has other options to exhaust.

First, he has to get out of view of that camera; an unreasonable feat given the barren state of this room. So, he turns to face his back to the device and hunches in on himself, knees drawn to his chest like he’s just a distraught and hiding child. Acting has never been his strong suit, so he hopes it’s a believable display. Perhaps they’ll underestimate him given his now obvious age.

With some minor degree of privacy, he starts on his next plan.

The cuffs are sturdy and unyielding in the center, not allowing his hands to really bend far or meet in the middle. He can’t even touch his fingers together. He shifts a little so his arms slip around his knees and down until his hands press against the mat. Then, he tucks his right thumb under his foot and steps down. It’s awkward and slightly uncomfortable, but that might work in his favor this time.

Shoto takes a deep breath, holds it, and then jerks his arm back as subtly as he can manage with the force he needs. He hates that he’s almost grateful again for his father’s bullshit training because having dislocated this joint before makes it all the easier to do it again. (A child should not regularly have dislocated joints but that’s a fact that too many pros and adults were keen on ignoring.)

A familiar pain radiates up his arm as he feels his thumb pop out of its socket. It’s nearly insignificant compared to what he’s been through these past days. He hunches his shoulders close to his ears and releases his breath slowly as he grows accustomed to the throbbing. Hopefully, it just looks like he’s crying pathetically to any potential watcher.

Without wasting any more time, Shoto angles his thumb against his palm and forcefully wriggles one cuff off his injured hand. When the metal presses against the tender joint, it makes him shudder but he doesn’t slow. The second is no more pleasant to escape.

When his right hand is completely free, he heaves a sigh of relief before popping his thumb back into place without so much as a grunt. It’s a little stiff and uncomfortable. He’ll need to ice it and avoid overworking his hand for the foreseeable future, but he’s ambidextrous and doesn’t need his hands to utilize his quirk, so it’s a net positive in his opinion. (Any lasting and exacerbated damage to the joint is a problem for future-Shoto to deal with.)

Shoto presses a fingertip against the inseam of the cuffs and shoots ice inside. His punishment is swift as electricity arcs through him, though it’s certainly not as bad with half the cuffs off of him. He bites back a noise and tries to keep his body in check. The dosage lessens when the pair he iced sparks and the frame cracks as ice seeps out of its insides. He repeats the process with the second set.

By now, the feedback is almost laughable. He can understand how it’d affect most others, many of whom haven’t faced rigorous endurance training since they could walk or learned to fight through pain in the height of battle. This is a warm-up in comparison for him.

With both arms free, he swiftly and discreetly destroys the set on his ankles. He tests his quirk by covering his aching thumb in a thin sheen of frost to numb the pain. It’s borderline euphoric to use his quirk without feeling like an abused spark plug. Knowing he’s free to do as he wishes, he sends a thin, nearly imperceptible line of ice across the base trim of the wall. It races around the room and creeps up the wall under the camera, freezing the device. It sparks as it dies.

Here’s to hoping they think it’s a technical difficulty on their end.

He hates placing so much of his escape on faith and assumptions. But, there’s little else he can do other than wait around for some knight in tight spandex to bust in and save him (doubtful). No thank you, he’d rather choke on lightning again.

Getting to his feet is more of an affair than he’d like. There’s stiffness in his joints and a burn in his muscles like he’s run drills for days on end. It nearly makes him lightheaded. Shoto places a hand on the wall to stabilize himself while his senses reorient themselves. How annoying.

After a breath, he pushes off the wall, standing tall and looking almost entirely unaffected by what’s transpired. He’ll not allow these thugs to think they’ve so much as hindered him. They’ll become specks in his already ugly history and nothing more. Shoto tells himself this as he walks toward the door with aching limbs.

When he presses an ear to the cool metal, he can’t hear a thing beyond. It’s anyone’s guess what waits for him. Shoto runs his hand across the frame of the door, mapping out the hinges and working his way over to where he thinks the latch bolt is. It’s hard to get an accurate read due to the seamless design, but doors rarely differ in structure, so he can hazard a pretty strong guess.

He settles his palm over the minuscule crack between the door and the frame and lets ice creep in between. It’s small at first before more and more pushes in like a thickening wedge. There’s a low groan and creak as the frame slowly but steadily begins to bend under the unending intrusion. It doesn’t need to be a lot, just enough to free the door from its locked position.

While his muscles protest further physical exertion, he’s pleasantly surprised to feel little in the way of quirk fatigue. It’s there, on the frayed edges of his nerves, but it’s almost as if he’s slept through it all and is suffering through the tail-end. A worrying detail as it implies an extended stay in this place, but it’s also a boon. He’s free to more-or-less go to town on his captors – barring extensive hand-to-hand combat, of course. (Not that he planned on entertaining them long enough for it to get to that point. He’s going to turn this place into an iceberg at his earliest convenience.)

Shoto pushes a shoulder against the straining door and continues to wedge more ice into the sparse opening. It spreads further up and down the gap, pressing in like an industrial-grade jack. With a crack and metallic groan, the door jars slightly.

That’s all he needs.

He presses his left hand to the ice and quickly melts it as he rams his shoulder into the door before it can click back in place. It swings open with ease.

Shoto darts into the hall, mist rolling off his body as he surveys the area.

One person patrols further down the way but is striding in his direction swiftly, obviously drawn by the noise of the door. The woman seems shocked to see him exit the room. Her pale eyes widen and she moves to grab a radio on her hip.

Can’t let that happen.

Shoto sends ice careening her direction like a bullet. Before she can get the radio to her lips, she’s engulfed.

“Hey—!”

The device clatters uselessly to the ground.

He narrows his eyes as he stalks closer and picks up the radio. This might be useful.

“You won’t be doing that,” he says coldly and clips the radio onto his collar. Then, he fixes her with a glare. “Where am I? How do I get out of here?”

“C’mon kid, y-you don’t gotta—”

“Answer or I’ll leave you to get frostbite.”

He tries to put in as much vitriol in the threat as he can. Easy enough now that he’s sufficiently pissed and aching all over. These thugs are fortunate he wants to be a hero. If he fell lower on the morality spectrum, he’d take his pound of flesh in recompense. Instead, he’ll settle for thoroughly and soundly beating them.

It must be a convincing enough act because the woman grows wan. (Shoto doesn’t know, doesn’t see the hate in his own eyes. The way his lurid face and wild hair paints a distinctly malignant picture. He looks more savage than those that lurk in these halls.)

“This is the k-kennels. Sub-level 3. Gotta g-go up.”

Shoto glances quickly down the hall. It’s just as stark and impersonal as the room was. No signs, no posters, no other people, no windows. Nothing but blank walls and a line of similar handleless doors. It’s like an obnoxious marriage of esotericism and ultra-minimalism; hard to comprehend and empty to the point of discomfort. He would have had to scour each floor to figure out if it was the right one to get out.

The other doors are cause for major concern. If he was locked behind one, it’s not a far leap of logic to assume others are as well.

“And these other rooms?” he asks, just as coolly.

“O-other people. Boss M-Murmur sends them here for b-breaking before the shows.”

On the positive, he has a name. Murmur.

On the negative, he really does not like what conclusions he’s drawing. Breaking? Shows? It sounds like he’s training animals, not torturing people.

“‘Shows’? Explain,” he demands because he needs to know the severity of the situation.

“‘S where he s-sells ‘em,” she stutters out, breath frosting with each word.

So, he and Eraserhead were right. Not much of a victory when he’s in the midst of this shitshow, but he’ll be sure to tell the hero when he gets out. They can take a moment to gloat in awkward silence after cracking some heads. That’ll be a nice reunion.

He allows himself one more question. That’s all the time he can afford to waste.

“And what of your numbers? How much resistance can I expect?”

Her lips thin but she doesn’t resist selling out her allies. No honor among thieves.

“Boss h-hires outside muscle. D-don’t know how many there are. At least two a f-few floors up.”

With that, he decides her usefulness has run its course. He summons a thick piece of ice in his hand and uses it as a baton. She barely has time to see him swing before it cracks against her head with unforgiving force. Her face goes slack as she falls unconscious.

Despite his earlier threat, he really isn't a monster. No matter how much she deserves it, he won’t leave her in this hunk of ice. Though, he won’t leave her free either. After swiftly melting her prison, he throws her into his former room. The door slams shut and is coated in ice a moment later. We’ll see how she likes a kennel of her own.

Shoto then turns and makes for the end of the hall. As he passes the other doors, his steps falter. Guilt begins to gnaw at him.

How many other victims are here? How many would he be willing to abandon? It’s not logical to release a bunch of people without knowing their status, especially given his own physically questionable state. How can he protect them all? And how much time would that waste?

But still…

He reaches a hand toward the closest door, ready to blow it off its hinges, but hesitates.

It would be smarter to get out and bring proper reinforcements. Freeing people who may be physically or mentally compromised would be counterproductive. It’d put everyone in danger. He has one shot at this, so he has to be wise about this, not compassionate.

That doesn’t make the decision feel any better as he steps away from the door. It’s a bitter choice to swallow as he passes more potential victims on his way to freedom. I’ll be back, he swears to these faceless people, and I’ll bring help. You’ll be free soon.

Shoto’s steps feel particularly weighted, his chest unfortunately tight, as he reaches the door at the end. No time for second-guessing. Keep moving. Keep acting.

He rests his left hand on the handle, stance shifting to a defensive posture. Then, he throws the door open, frost billowing from his right side as he prepares to fight—

No one.

The door leads to a stairwell shockingly devoid of life. No matter how intently he listens, he can’t hear even the faintest stirring. It’s concerning. More than concerning. He’d have expected a closer eye to be kept on him after the trouble they went through to catch him in the first place. One guard is hardly appropriate security. Why kidnap people if you’re not going to monitor them properly?

Unless it’s a trap.

That, he feels, is the most likely scenario. This group has already shown their fondness for ambushes. What’s one more? It might also explain why his confiscated radio has been suspiciously silent. There’s been no check-in after her botched attempt at a warning.

He climbs the stairs as swiftly and quietly as he can manage. His footsteps still echo with sharp taps through the empty space. After reaching each landing, he counts until he gets to the door he believes is the ground floor. If that woman was honest, he should be close now.

His nerves jump and anticipation rises like a wellspring in his gut. Not far now. Just a few more doors and he’s home-free. As with the previous door, he prepares himself before opening it. If anywhere has signs of life, it’ll be this floor. Anyone entering or exiting the facility will likely pass through here. Through-traffic is more or less unavoidable.

He throws the door open in the same manner as before, stance prepared to strike. His escape comes to a screeching halt. Standing in the middle of the hall are three men and a woman, all clearly waiting for him. It's less of an ambush and more of a blockade. Shit.

Shoto would ice them but two very important details stop him.

One: Scars is there, expression darkly amused and entirely too relaxed, hands already smoking in preparation to act.

Two: One of the other men has a gun pressed firmly to the woman’s head.

Shoto won’t be able to freeze the gun before the bullet finds its way snugly into her brain. He’s fast, but he’s definitely not faster than a speeding bullet, especially one so close to its target.

So, he halts. He doesn’t know what will set this stranger off or what will get this woman killed. Shoto values his freedom, but he won’t kill her to get it.

A voice rings in the back of his head that sounds oddly like Eraserhead, telling him to compartmentalize and prioritize.

The man with the gun is smiling at him so calmly and politely that it unsettles Shoto. He is, in plain terms, bland; average in everything, right down to his neatly pressed khakis and neighborly expression. If it weren’t for his given situation, Shoto doubts he’d even remember the man’s face if given a lineup. He could work at a PTA bake sale and Shoto wouldn’t bat an eye. It’s unnerving.

“Told you he’d get out,” Scars says blithely. There’s an intensity in his stare that contradicts his lax posture. His smile is vicious as he watches Shoto with so much focus, it’s like he’s the only other person in the building.

“Aren’t you just impressive?” the gunman asks, pleasant as a lark, like he doesn’t have a woman hostage.

Shoto schools his expression into one of pointed disinterest and refrains from answering. Instead, he looks at the hostage. She's young, barely twenty. Her expression is slack, nearly deadened and her eyes are glassy. Is she drugged? That complicates things.

When he looks at the second man, yellowish wolf-like eyes and sharp teeth bared in a sneer greet him. It’s the tracker from the alley, the one Shoto threatened. No wonder nobody tried to stop him. They always knew where he was. Damn it.

With the animosity burning in his stare, Shoto’s pretty sure there’s no love lost between them. Suits him just fine. There’s a degree of sick satisfaction that wells in him when he notices the man flinch back slightly once Shoto levels his full, baleful attention on him. He hasn’t forgotten. Good.

“I think we should talk,” the gunman says.

It drags Shoto's gaze back to him.

Fine, not like there’s much of a choice. Besides, I might get information. Maybe an opening.

Shoto tilts his head, the closest approximation to assent he’s willing to give the man. Even that little concession earns him a too-pleased smile. He immediately wants to retract the motion.

“Please, take a seat,” the man says and nods to the floor, like Shoto’s stupid enough to get in such a vulnerable position.

Well, I am tired...

He’s moving before he even realizes it, leaning against the wall and sliding down. Comprehension dawns on him and shocks him into a stop mid-motion. His muscles scream in protest as he jerks back upright. Every line of his body is tense as he stares warily at the unassuming man.

“What the hell is your quirk?” he asks incredulously.

The man chuckles, clearly amused by the shock on Shoto’s usually stoic face.

“A minor suggestion quirk, nothing so impressive. Not like yours.”

There are several things he dislikes about what was just said. First and foremost, a suggestion quirk? Like brainwashing? That is really not good.

And he hates the way the man spoke about his quirk. It's covetous. That pleasant expression tips into something rapacious as he looks Shoto over. It makes his nerves twist. He can’t let that man near him, he just knows it.

Shoto moves into a more defensible stance as he glances at the other two men. The tracker is simple enough to handle but Scars is a different story. It’s too dangerous to engage him here when there are more people underground. Then there’s the gun. That’s his biggest concern.

Maybe if I…

There’s a move he can do that might just work but it takes concentration. Enough that he isn’t entirely confident he can manage it right now. He’s weighing the risk when the gunman tsks.

“I wouldn’t do anything rash.”

He shifts the gun a little as a reminder.

Shoto grimaces and relaxes his posture, if only to ease that finger further away from the trigger.

“Let her go,” he says as commanding as he can manage.

The man huffs a chuckle.

“If you insist.” He says it lightly like he’s entertaining a child.

It’s shocking how readily he agrees. Alarm bells ring in Shoto’s head immediately.

“Be a dear and hold this for me,” he says as he picks up one of the woman’s hands and transfers control of the weapon to her. “If he attacks or uses his quirk at all, kill yourself.”

The command startles Shoto. It's unfathomable, monstrous. He glances from the man to the woman who holds the muzzle to her head, expression barely cognizant. While Shoto broke control, he isn’t sure this woman is in any state of mind to resist.

Shoto wants to hit him so badly. His thumb aches as he tightens his fists. The glare he sends the man could level a city. Scars whistles at the expression, his own face lighting up in twisted amusement. The tracker growls low in his throat but steps back in the same instance. All the while, the man just smiles at him serenely.

“Now, that conversation…” he says as he claps his hands together.

“What do you want?” Shoto bites out, tension keeping his aching muscles taut.

“For you to behave.”

Shoto barely refrains from rolling his eyes. Get in line. Endeavor would probably hire this man if he succeeds in wrangling Shoto in completely, past transgressions be damned. (Forced compliance hardly counts, in his opinion. He still plans on turning the man into an ice sculpture once the hostage is secure.)

When the man looks him over again like he’s appraising Shoto, it makes the teen’s skin crawl. There’s an unsettling emptiness in those brown eyes. An absence of humanity. It’s hidden so well behind his genial appearance.

“Dabi did tell me you were a bit of a handful. Even still, this is a surprise. I didn’t expect you to escape so quickly.”

He talks to Shoto as if they’re friends. A little chuckle at the end like he’s retelling a funny story. The desire to hit him reinforces itself.

Scars’ smile widens slightly, gaze sharpening.

Dabi, I take it. The name is a little on the nose, given his physical state, but it’d certainly track with his quirk. Shoto would say he’s in no room to judge the creativity of other’s names, but he’s still harboring a grudge against Dabi, so he’ll offer the villain no such grace.

Seeing that Shoto isn’t being charitable enough to talk to him, the man continues on, sighing like he’s the one being inconvenienced here.

“I’m a fair man. I’m willing to compromise.”

That draws Shoto’s attention back to him, albeit begrudgingly. Fair? Really? He’d point out the woman about to commit unwilling suicide, but he sincerely doubts this asshole is capable of that level of self-reflection.

The man takes his bitter stare as interest and continues.

“You want to help this creature. I want you to be obedient. I think there’s a way we can reach an agreement.”

Anger burns through him. The casual dehumanization of this poor woman makes him sick with disgust and rage. His expression cracks, shifts, and curls into proper rancor. He has to take caution to keep from letting his quirk seep out in his anger, unsure just how little will be needed to trigger that latent command. Would the appearance of frost be all it takes?

“Unlikely.”

His voice comes out deceptively flat despite his expression. It does little to dissuade the man’s perpetually pleased demeanor. Why the gods decided to create such a punchable man is beyond Shoto’s comprehension.

“Return to your kennel and wait. If you mind your manners, this one will remain safe, sound, and unsold.”

What a horrifically vague bargain. It hinges on his manners? Those are pitiable on the best of days, even Shoto can admit that, but this man’s standards may be wildly different from the norm.

A chill trickles down his spine when he realizes he’s turning, ready to go straight back to that room. He stops before he’s even turned fully, eyes falling to slits as he glares back at the man. How’s he supposed to combat this quirk when he can’t even tell it’s being used? There’s been no indicator, no sensation in his brain, only the execution of the command that Shoto realizes isn’t his own will. It’s only that revelation that lets him stop himself.

The man’s smile ticks, though Shoto isn’t sure if it’s in amusement or slow-growing irritation. He’s hoping for the latter.

“Or, fight back,” he suggests nonchalantly, gesturing to the woman in a distinctly unsubtle threat. “Escape and live with the knowledge that you sacrificed her.”

Shoto’s irate expression darkens. His lips twist into a grimace before he locks it all down. There’s no other option for him, not one he would ever be okay with doing. Leaving those on the lower level so he can get help is one thing. Being directly responsible for this woman’s death or sale is unforgivable. His features fall distant and blank as he looks at the man as if he’s looking through him; like he’s insignificant.

“She’ll be okay if I remain complacent?”

His voice sounds hollow even to himself. It brightens the man’s smile to a revolting degree. It takes all he can not to erupt. He holds himself together the only way he knows how: sheer spite and bitter, biting cold. If only that were enough to petrify this bastard the way it does that tracker.

“Of course,” he assures, so saccharine it’s slimy. Shoto wouldn’t bet a single yen on his sincerity, but there’s little he can do to combat that.

“And how do I know you’re being honest?” he asks, trying to maintain even the faintest grasp of control of the situation. (He was never in control but he refuses to admit that, stubborn to the very end.)

The man huffs lightly and shifts his weight at Shoto’s continuous pushback. Maybe he’s unused to resistance. Maybe he really is getting aggravated. Good.

Though, he’s wary of how far he can push it. It’s selfish and so, so fucking stupid to risk her well-being just to indulge his petty habits. Seeing the man shift impatiently isn’t rewarding enough to compensate for the moment it goes too far. Pulling in the reigns and lowering his shoulders to show his passivity is a more momentous task than squaring up against Endeavor in their training hall, but he manages. His teeth grind as he exercises his tenuous restraint.

“You’re in no position to demand assurance, Shoto,” the man says, voice somehow both pleasant and snippy. It rubs Shoto’s aching nerves the wrong way.

“Don’t call me that,” he says through gritted teeth, repulsed by the way his name drips from the other’s lips.

The false familiarity that man is trying to establish does little to ingratiate himself into Shoto’s goodwill. In fact, it does the opposite. Perhaps it’s how his quirk works? The closer he is to the person, the easier his influence? If so, Shoto will have no issue maintaining that distance. It’s only through threats of death that he’s kept himself from harpooning the bastard.

“Of course,” he says, expression back to placid and voice cordial. “We’ll get to that stage soon enough.”

No, we won’t. He’d definitely rather have the heroes bust in and perform an obnoxious and over-reported rescue on him than exchange a single word more with his captor. But, he keeps that to himself. No need to antagonize this guy any further until that woman is safely away from the situation.

“You may call me Murmur,” the man says and holds out his hand for Shoto to shake.

It takes a truly divine level of restraint to keep from grabbing his hand and turning him into the world’s ugliest ice centerpiece. This asshole, Murmur, must know it from the audacity in his grin. This is the bastard in charge. Great.

Since he can’t freeze the man to the spot without the woman reacting in a truly terrible way, Shoto does his best to relay his opinion through sight. He glances at the offending hand and looks away in disinterest, leaving the man hanging.

He gets a sigh for his efforts and the hand disappears from his peripheral only to move up and touch his shoulder in a facsimile of affection. Every inch of his skin crawls and he tenses instantaneously, but his expression remains distant.

“You’re injured. Exhausted. All that impressive work has drained you. Don’t you think it’s wise to get some rest?” Murmur says softly and with so much care, it would almost be believable if his eyes weren’t utterly soulless.

Even still, Shoto feels the idea worm into his head. The ache in his muscles renews with magnified vigor and he realizes just how tired he is. I am exhausted.

“Stop it,” he nearly hisses.

Shoto is just about ready to punch himself like it’ll launch the manifestation of that thought clear out of his head. It’s horrifying how naturally it came to him like it was his own volition. What's worse is that he can't find it in himself to disagree with the thought, because he genuinely is tired. But now he can't trust that that's not another piece of manipulation. How is he meant to tell what’s his own thoughts and will and what’s Murumurs?

“Willful, aren’t you?” Murmur says with a light chuckle and draws back his hand. Then, he glances over to the woman. “Darling—”

Her glazed eyes are rimmed with tears and her arm shakes. Shoto sucks in a breath and takes a resigned step backward, gaze downcast. There’s a painful, poisonous feeling in his chest now, something like defeat and rage and unending self-immolation.

“I’m going.”

It falls out, flat and unfeeling, nearly robotic. Shoto separates himself mentally from the situation as he takes another step back toward the door. He can bide his time and come up with a better escape plan now that he has more information. He’ll just have to be careful for the other victims’ sake. It’s unknown how many are here and how many Murmur is willing to sacrifice to get to Shoto. If the avaricious way Murmur stares at him is any indicator, it’s an unsettling amount.

“I’m glad we could come to an agreement.”

Fuck you.

Shoto does little more than give him a dirty, frigid side glare, as dismissive and belittling as he can manage, before he turns away fully.

“Leave it to me. I can handle him,” Dabi (at least Shoto is still working under the assumption that Scars is Dabi) says suddenly. His raspy voice is pitched low and lilted in amusement. It grates against Shoto’s raw ego.

He tosses that same glare back at the scarred man. Then he smoothes it out to flat disinterest. Handle me? I distinctly remember things ending a different way our last encounter.

“How’s the arm?” he asks, blandly, catty undertones barely concealed. His gaze flicks down to the freshly-stapled purplish flesh, just as grotesque and painful looking as last time.

That earns him a vicious, snarling grin. Said hand lights up incandescent blue as Dabi raises a flaming fist and tilts his head.

“Fuckin’ peachy. Want a closer look?”

Shoto lets his gaze roll back up to stare at Dabi and tries to mentally communicate how gross he thinks the man is through his vacant expression.

“You’re pungent enough from this distance.”

Shoto feels like putting tape over his own mouth if only to shut himself up. Egging on a fight right now is the exact opposite of what he should be doing, even if he’d like nothing more than to go at all three men in this hall like there’s no tomorrow. Don’t be an idiot. The mental voice chiding him once more takes on Eraserhead’s dry tone.

It’s just so hard to reign in his temper and attitude. Usually, he never does. In fact, he tends to amp it up to piss off certain (Endeavor) individuals. Exercising this type of restraint is much more difficult when surrounded by multiple aggravating people, an aggravating headache, and an extremely stressful situation. He takes a deep, calming breath and resists taking the bait as Dabi strides threateningly close, flames even brighter.

Murmur’s expression takes on a tone of concern as he looks between the two. Not combative, huh? Good to know.

“Ah, I suggest—”

“Finish that sentence and they’ll be vacuuming you off the floor,” Dabi says, finally breaking their staring contest and looking at his temporary boss.

It’s a little jarring to realize this is the first time Dabi has looked away from him since he entered the hall. He must have really pissed the man off the last time they met. It’s also an interesting thing to notice that Dabi doesn’t seem particularly beholden to or trustful of Murmur. Is he afraid Murmur will try to manipulate him? No loyalties here. Might be a point I can exploit.

“Naturally,” Murmur says coolly, tone distinctly different from how he speaks to Shoto. He motions for the woman to follow him. Even as she walks, her shaking arm never lowers the weapon. Damn it. Then, he nods at the two, expression dipping back into that mixture of tender-greed as he looks at Shoto.

“I’ll be down to see you soon, dear one.”

Dabi scoffs while Shoto’s lips curl in disgust. That sentiment leaves him feeling gross and mildly nauseated.

“Stop being fucking weird,” is Dabi’s parting words before he shoves Shoto roughly through the doorway and out of Murmur's line of sight.

The walk down the first flight of stairs is quiet, something Shoto’s grateful for. Dabi has the unique talent of annoying him. Maybe it has something to do with the tone the villain tends to take or the way he stares like Shoto’s missing out on some big, hilarious secret. Either way, it makes antagonizing the fiery man all the more appealing. (Maybe it’s also his repressed desire to lash out at another smug, obnoxious, asshole-ish fire-user.)

By the time they’re halfway to the second landing, Dabi seems to have had his fill of not counter-antagonizing Shoto.

“Dumbass.”

The sudden and slightly expected insult causes Shoto to shoot a confused-yet-annoyed expression at the other man.

“Excuse me?”

Dabi gives him that I-know-something-you-don’t look again and Shoto’s fist itches to acquint itself with the man’s face.

“You really think you saved that waste of space? Murmur already has someone else lined up to take her place,” he says, lips stretched in an unsettling, lazy smile.

His blasé attitude and lack of empathy aggravates Shoto. How anyone can see this situation and think any of it’s funny is appalling. Just wait, we’ll see how much you smile when I get out of here.

“What else was I supposed to do?” he asks coldly.

Even though it was meant to be rhetorical, Dabi still rolls his eyes and answers.

“Let the sorry bitch die. Better fate than what these sickos have in mind,” he says casually and without a single care. His bright, blazing stare lands back on Shoto and his expression shifts back to grotesquely amused. “Then again, mercy isn’t your thing, is it?”

The way he says it, like Shoto’s no better than him, makes Shoto burn with indignation.

“You’re in no position to make judgment calls about me. You’re helping these traffickers,” he spits out, annoyed that this bastard has the gall to equate anything he’s done to what Shoto’s done to survive.

“Sure I am,” Dabi says, but the way he says it gives Shoto pause. It’s almost sarcastic like helping this group is the last thing he’s doing. Shut up, you literally kidnapped me.

Something in Dabi’s expression shifts. He’s still smiling, but it falls flat and jagged, the picture of vindictiveness.

“Endeavor’s little masterpiece knows all. Especially how to get his way. Got that special brand of Todoroki sadism in you, don’t you?”

When Dabi speaks, it’s darkly amused and so resentful.

Shoto’s eyes widen marginally. Something lodges in his chest. No. No, I’m not like him at all.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he finally manages to force out.

They’re nearing the door to sub-level three’s hall now. It hasn’t occurred to Shoto just how slow they’re going. This lackadaisical pace his captor takes draws out their conversation. No, Shoto is too busy choking back this unwanted comparison.

Dabi huffs a scratchy laugh.

“Threatened to kill Laelaps. Ripped the skin off my arm. Threatened to torture me for information. And what happened to the dumbass guarding you? How’d you get this?” Dabi asks as he flicks the radio still clipped to Shoto’s collar. His expression is smug, all too pleased with pointing out Shoto’s vicious streak.

It’s like a slap to the face. He did that. He did all of that. In the moment, it felt appropriate because he knows how far he’ll go, but to hear it put so plainly from another’s mouth? It’s almost monstrous sounding. My God, he’s right. I’m… I...

“So heroic. Just like daddy taught you, right?”

He says it with such certainty, it’s unsettling. Shoto shakes off the horror for a moment to stare at him, more cowed by this conversation than anything Murmur could do.

“Who are you?” he asks, hollow and distant as he tries to settle this new uncertainty in his head. I’m turning out just like him.

“The Ghost of Christmas Past,” Dabi says sarcastically, and it only confuses Shoto.

Those rushing, painful accusations are momentarily silenced as he knits his brows together in thought. Christmas isn’t something Endeavor cared to celebrate, and so Shoto never did by proxy. If this is a reference to something, it’s gone firmly over his head.

“What does Christmas have to do with anything?” he asks.

Dabi stares at him blankly for a moment, assessing how serious Shoto’s being, before he rolls his eyes in the same manner Shoto imagines Eraserhead does behind his goggles sometimes.

“Fucking hell, you’re dense.”

And Shoto would be more offended if he wasn’t still grappling with himself. He’s quite sharp, thank you very much. He just...has issues with pop culture.

The two are silent for the time being as they walk down the hall. Shoto can still feel the intense heat rolling off Dabi’s body, even without the fire. It makes him wonder if that’s his natural body temperature or if he’s preparing himself for Shoto to fight.

No need to worry, he thinks bitterly. I can’t risk it right now without sentencing that woman to death or worse.

They halt in front of his cell – or kennel, as they call it. (Shoto despises that term. He’s not an animal. None of them are.) Dabi looks over the icy door and scoffs.

“Told them the cuffs weren’t enough. Shoulda tranq’d you.”

And Shoto is glad they didn’t do that. Being constantly drugged is not something he wants to become familiar with. That poor woman seemed too well-acquainted with that method of control and it looked dreadful. At least he can function at full mental capacity with the cuffs.

The ice melts in record time as Dabi presses a hand to the door. The steam curls around his palm before he even makes contact. It gives credence to the idea that he naturally runs unbearably hot.

Shoto eyes him up and imagines bashing him over the head with a sturdy piece of ice, but resists the temptation. He doesn’t want to give Murmur a reason to hurt that woman or – god forbid – sell her. Still, the mental image of knocking Dabi out is at least slightly mollifying.

(Until Dabi’s voice rings in his head, poisoning his satisfaction with taunts of Todoroki Sadism.)

He can’t see how Dabi opens the door. Card? Fingerprint? Does Dabi even have fingerprints left? It swings open and reveals the woman on the ground, cradling her head. Shoto’s tempted to ask her if it hurts. Mockingly, of course. He resists and stares at the blank wall he’s going to become unfortunately familiar with.

“Quit laying down on the job,” Dabi says and kicks her leg. There is no gentleness to the action, like the way Eraserhead would nudge Shoto. It’s entirely impersonal and unkind.

She squints up at Dabi, pinched features pained and glaring. Then, she notices Shoto to his right and leaps unsteadily to her feet, anger rolling off her in waves.

“You little bastard!”

The way she steps forward, all aggression, would be threatening if Shoto wasn’t dead certain he could handle her again.

“Oh, please, do attack him. I wanna see if he actually kills you this time,” Dabi says with a laugh and steps out of the way, hands motioning to Shoto like he’s genuinely encouraging this action. The way his hazy blue eyes stare at Shoto makes him think Dabi really is curious to see if it happens.

She notices it too. Her steps falter and that false bravado flags as she reassesses the situation. Her glare grows uncertain, wary. This is a fight she's no longer interested in taking.

It makes that mocking voice pipe back up in his head. Endeavor is no stranger to excessive force but he isn't a murderer. To think that anyone, villains of all people, thinks Shoto's willing to kill someone is disheartening. How has it gotten this bad?

“I’m not killing anyone,” he says firmly, to Dabi, to the woman, and to himself. As he speaks, he shoots Dabi a sideways glare before staring at the wall again, entirely dismissing the woman’s presence.

“Yeah, we’ll see about that,” Dabi says, and Shoto doesn’t like that tone.

What the fuck do you know?

He grinds his teeth and pointedly ignores the man.

“Get out of here. You clearly can’t handle this,” Dabi says to the woman and shoos her away with a particularly rude gesture. She huffs but leaves without a fight.

A nearly scorching hand shoves against his back and Shoto has to correct himself before he trips over his own feet as he stumbles into the room. Dabi takes the radio from his shirt and tucks it into his pocket. Shoto glares at him and Dabi just smirks in return.

Don’t punch him. Don’t punch him.

It’s harder to resist when Dabi leans a little closer, face in perfect swinging distance, to whisper to him.

“When you get done toying with these assholes and actually escape, keep an eye open. I’ll be waiting.”

It’s confusing and definitely not what Shoto was expecting him to say, but there’s no mistaking the threat in his voice. He’ll have to sleep with one eye open or risk becoming an unidentifiable pile of ash, that's a known quantity. But, that doesn’t make the threat any less odd. Dabi is positive Shoto’s going to escape and by the sounds of it, he isn't going to try to stop it a second time around. Shoto's not sure if he should take it as a compliment. Being that he thinks this guy’s a dick, he’s going to say no, it’s not a compliment.

Still, why bother with all this runaround? What’s his endgame?

And Shoto’s sure there’s an endgame here. In all his encounters with this group, Dabi is not only one of the only legitimate threats, but he’s also one of the smarter ones. At first, Shoto thought he was just a thug-for-hire, but that doesn’t appear to be the case. He has an ulterior motive, Shoto’s sure of it.

Dabi seems to delight in Shoto’s confusion. He laughs, malicious and grating, as he backs out of the room. His silhouette darkens the doorway for a final breath.

“See you around, Shoto.”

His name slithers out of Dabi’s mouth like a taunt. It’s so different from the way Murmur said it. One grasped for the familiarity and the other throws it in his face like it's a given. Shoto jerks, fists clenched. Before he can make the irrationally stupid decision to lunge at the man, the door slams shut, leaving him locked in the room with nothing but his thoughts and the hurricane in his chest.

Shoto leans against the wall and slides down, gaze a million miles away.

He wishes Soba was here.