#cloud boy

A trade, is how they framed it, when they sat Oboro and Hizashi and Shouta down to tell them why Musutafu is so peaceful, so prosperous, so perfect. You have to give something if you want to get something in return. Oboro and his friends know how trades work. They trade things all the time. They nodded, and Principal Nedzu explained what the whole city traded – and trades every day – so they can keep being happy and safe and free forever. Oboro didn’t get it at first. He could tell that Shouta didn’t, either, but Hizashi picked it up fast, and Hizashi got mad. A kid, he repeated. We can only live like this because you’re torturing a kid.

In exchange for Musutafu’s prosperity, they give up one person – a little kid, locked away beneath the city, left alone and unhappy and forgotten. Always hungry, never spoken to, never cared for. One person’s suffering in exchange for the happiness of six hundred thousand. No matter how many times Nedzu explained, it didn’t sink in – not for Oboro, at least. Hizashi had already gotten up and left, slamming the door so hard that picture frames fell off the wall and shattered on the floor. Shouta sat on the couch, staring blankly at the wall, and Oboro kept asking questions. The same questions over and over again, hoping the answer would change.

It never changed, and finally, Nedzu steepled his paws together and sat forward in his chair. Perhaps, Shirakumo, it would help if you could see.

No, Oboro should have said. I don’t need to see. I get it. I’m not as smart as my friends are. It takes time for stuff to sink in. Give me a second, or a minute – maybe a week – and it’ll all make sense. I’ll take your word for it. I don’t need to see. Yes.

Most people don’t go and look, but it’s not unheard of. And it’s not unheard of for people to be tormented by what they see. Some people have such a hard time with it that they leave Musutafu and never look back, never to be seen again, headed off into the darkness for parts unknown. Oboro’s never known anyone who left, but he always knows when someone’s gone. The whole city seems dimmer, somehow. It takes a while for the light to come back.

Oboro’s thought about leaving. There have been days in the last six months where he’s wanted nothing more than to get up and run. But he looked, and he saw, and that means he can’t just leave. Just leaving doesn’t fix anything. Knowing what’s happening and leaving is the same thing as staying, when it comes down to it. For Oboro to clear his conscience, there’s only one thing to do.

He knows that Musutafu is perfect, peaceful, that there’s no such thing as bad intentions or hidden evil, but it still surprises him that there are no guards outside the building that holds the sacrifice. Everybody knows where it is. Everybody knows exactly what goes on here and what the consequences for changing it are, and they haven’t even set a watch. Oboro knows why, and knowing why makes his jaw clench and his vision blur. They don’t need guards. They don’t think anybody would really do it.

The doors are unlocked, too. Oboro slips inside, his hands shaking, his legs leaden. He made this same walk six months ago, behind Principal Nedzu, still believing somewhere deep down that it was a joke. Just like before, it’s the smell that alerts him that something’s wrong.

Nothing decays in Musutafu. Nothing rots. No one leaves a mess uncleaned long enough for it to mold, or an injury untended long enough for maggots to set in, but the stench that emanates from the storage room at the bottom of the stairs is unmistakable. Six months ago and now, Oboro recoils from it, some instinct yanking at him to get away. He holds his ground. As terrible as this is, it’s nothing compared to what’s going on behind that door.

Nedzu explained it again as he and Oboro stood before the open door, as Oboro froze in horror, too numb and distant even to cry. In exchange for Musutafu’s peace and joy in a dark and dangerous world, something had to be given up – one child, not locked up as a baby but imprisoned once they’re old enough to understand what’s being taken from them, neglected and forgotten forever. Barely fed. Oboro asked about that as he looked in at the kid, whose limbs were stick-thin, whose face was hollow instead of round and healthy. Never cleaned up or tended to or comforted. That wasn’t allowed, Nedzu made it clear. Even being kind for a second would ruin everything.

The kid in the storage room didn’t ask for comfort. It cringed away from the open door at first, then snarled in anger, then cringed away again. Oboro asked if it was a boy or a girl, and Nedzu said it didn’t matter. He asked what its name was, and Nedzu said that didn’t matter, either. Oboro asked what would happen when the kid died, because he couldn’t imagine anybody surviving like this for the kind of long life the people of Musutafu have.

And that was when Nedzu said it. The thing that made Oboro’s head swim and his skin prickle, the thing that clenched his hands into fists at his sides and closed his throat so he couldn’t scream. When it dies, another will be chosen, he said. Sometimes one must be sacrificed for the good of all.

But it isn’t for the good of all. Oboro sees the storage room, the neglected kid, every time he closes his eyes – but when he opens them and looks around, he sees people he didn’t see before. People Musutafu ignores. People who look different or see things differently, people their perfect city doesn’t have room for. Kids, mostly, in families that look perfect from the outside. Oboro wonders how many of them grow up and walk away forever.

Would this be okay if it actually worked? Would Oboro find it easier to swallow, easier to ignore the way Shouta ignores it, the way Hizashi convinces himself, that Musutafu being the way it is justifies this? No, Oboro thinks as he stands in front of the door and lifts the key off the hook beside it. Even if it worked. If it’s built on something like this, it’s not worth it at all.

As he fits the key into the lock, Oboro wonders if he’s being selfish. He’s wondered that a lot since this idea sunk its claws into his head. If he shouldn’t take his guilt and horror as another sacrifice for the good of all, something he can and should bear so the rest of the city can live in peace. He hates reading, and he’s not as smart as Hizashi, but he went straight to the library and read everything he could find about morality, about ethics, about anything. Almost everything he could find said he was wrong.

There was one thing, though. Something old, something stuffed away at the back of a pile of books. Whoever saves one life saves the world entire. Oboro thinks about that, reminds himself of it. One life versus hundreds of thousands is the wrong way to look at it. It’s one life. One life, and Oboro can save it. He unlocks the door, kneels down so he won’t block out the light, and holds out his open hand.

The ground shakes ever so slightly beneath Oboro’s feet, not an earthquake or a foreshock – just a warning. Stop while you still can. Go no further. Oboro’s skin crawls, and his nose wrinkles at the smell leaking out of the storage room. He leaves his hand extended and speaks. “Hi,” he says. The ground rattles again, harder this time, and an odd, wavery sound drifts out of the darkness. “I’m Oboro. You might not remember me, but I was here before.”

There’s that wavery sound again. Nedzu called it whining, said that it was all that was left of the kid’s ability to speak after years down here, but Oboro doesn’t think that’s right. It sounds like sighing, or sobbing, quiet and plaintive. “I was here before,” Oboro says again. “I’m sorry it took me so long to come back. I just – I’m sorry. But I’m here. I’m here to help.”

Nothing moves in the storage room. The smell covers Oboro like a shroud, making his eyes sting. All he can hear is the kid’s breathing, faster and shallower than before. What does help even mean to them? “You never should have wound up in here. Nobody should,” Oboro says. “I’m here to take you away.”

Even when Oboro was standing here last time, asking questions that couldn’t be answered the way he needed them to be, he had this thought in the back of his mind. The thought of coming here, doing this. So he was careful with what he asked, and Principal Nedzu explained in detail about how even if someone was to take the child out of the room and care for them again, it wouldn’t make much of a difference. It had been in there too long, and something had been wrong with it from the start. It would never speak, never function normally. It must have grown used to its surroundings. It’s scared of people, scared of the light. Why would it want to leave? That’s where it belongs.

It isn’t, Oboro said. You put it there. You made it this way.

Indeed, Nedzu says. There was regret on his face, but not guilt. In any case, it’s too late.

Oboro doesn’t buy that. Not for a second. He leaves his hand extended, ignoring the low rumble from below the surface that rattles his bones. “I’m here to take you away,” he says again, and a small hand emerges from the darkness to brush against his.

Maybe the rattling isn’t some warning to Oboro from the universe. Maybe it’s just his own rage, because the hand fumbling awkwardly against his isn’t whole. It’s missing its index and middle fingers. All that’s left are two stumps barely protruding above the knuckles. Whatever they’ve been doing to this kid isn’t bad enough. They had to chop off the kid’s fingers, too. Oboro’s limbs might be humming with fury, but the kid’s hand is shaking like a leaf in the wind, its arm too weak to support it. The kid makes a weak attempt to hold onto Oboro’s hand, but loses their grip.

Oboro catches their hand in both of his. “Okay,” he says, steadying his voice with an effort. “Can you come out? Do you need me to help you?”

The kid doesn’t answer, but the hand caught between Oboro’s goes tense. Another hand emerges from the darkness, this one missing just the index finger, and with Oboro as an anchor, the kid pulls themselves halfway out of the storage room and into the light.

Their hair is long and matted, their eyes squeezed shut. They smell awful. Their skin is scratched raw all over their body, and there are sores on their feet and legs. Oboro feels a surge of disgust and hates himself for it. If the kid is filthy and starving and smells awful and can’t speak, it’s because they were made to be that way. It’s not their fault, and it’s not their fault no one’s helped them. Oboro doesn’t get to be grossed out. If he thinks it’s gross, he can do something about it.

But first he has to get the kid out of this building. “These stairs are kind of tall, so I’m going to carry you up them. Is that okay?” When the kid doesn’t respond, Oboro reaches for them, and when they don’t flinch, he scoops them into his arms. They weigh next to nothing. It feels like Oboro’s carrying a bundle of dry twigs. “Okay. Let’s go.”

There aren’t many lights on in Musutafu at this hour, but Oboro can see them flickering. He wonders if they always do that, or if it’s something new, something that’s only happening because he broke the rule and rescued the kid. But he hasn’t rescued the kid yet. They’re still inside the city. Someone could still stop him. Oboro picks up the pace, but the faster he walks, the more the kid’s arms and legs flop bonelessly, their head jarring with every step. They can’t even hold their head up. That’s how weak they are.

Oboro can fix that, though. He calls up his quirk, shaping the softest cloud he can manage, and settles the kid in the middle of it, bundling them up tight. The kid blinks up at Oboro through their matted hair. Their eyes are crimson, and too large in their hollow face. “That’s better, right?” Oboro asks, trying to keep his voice encouraging. “We’re just going to walk for a little bit. Just until morning, and when we stop, I’ll help you get cleaned up and find you some clothes and some food. How does that sound?”

Blink. Blink. “Okay,” Oboro says. He picks up the pace again. “We’ve got a little ways to go. Let me know if you need anything. If not, just enjoy the ride.”

He sounds confident, like he actually knows what he’s doing or where he’s going once he passes Musutafu’s borders, like there’s not panic scratching at him, growing stronger with every step. Oboro came prepared to help. He has a backpack full of food and medicine and clean clothes for the kid, and he knows how to defend himself as well as anybody. Better than some, maybe, because he’s taller than most people with the strength to match. It’s not about defending himself. It’s about everything else. Not knowing where he’s going. Not knowing what’s out there. Maybe knowing how to take care of someone but not knowing how to heal them. Having to do all of it alone.

Oboro would have brought Hizashi and Shouta with him, if he could. He spent four months trying to explain, trying to get them to go and see, pointing out all the other things he could see now, too. But nothing he said worked. Nothing he said could convince Shouta to look, or get Hizashi to look past his anger long enough to turn it into something to act on. Eventually Oboro had to stop trying to talk to them about it. If he kept talking, they might guess what he was planning. They might try to stop him. Oboro couldn’t let that happen.