#coarse language

            The next time they take him out of the cage, he figures it’s the last. He tells himself that every time they bring him out, but then he wakes up behind bars again, so battered that he can’t tell which injuries are new. Maybe none of ‘em are. Maybe he’s not even getting taken out now. Can’t be much fun, fist-fighting a meat sack like Frank. But there he is, he’s pretty sure, getting walked down the hallway to Fisk’s little fighting room. And there’s Frank Jr. in his head again, voice trembling, sad. Frank’s sad too when the word hits him, that word. The one he’s never heard before, the one that can’t be coming from his boy, his little boy. Must be a concussion. Must be the death rattle. Must be the devil come to get him.

            Fisk always gives him a few free throws before getting into it, especially now that Frank’s so busted up. The fat man grimaces like a disappointed parent watching their least talented child try to show them something. And something about Frank’s throw, when Fisk has taken a step back – less to avoid the blow than the dried blood and spit flying off Frank’s arm – something about that brings the voice back. Not Frank Jr. this time. Someone else who knows the magic word. Three letters, one syllable, pure hell, particularly because Frank listens.

            It’s not about strategy; it’s about opportunity. It’s about the split second when the fat man’s reveling or recovering, when Frank’s nothing but muscle memory, a body in motion. Instead of throwing another punch, he runs.  

            That piece of shit Brit tries to stop him. Frank engages enough to knock the gun out of his hands. But he doesn’t go for it. He keeps running. There are cheers from the cages behind him, all those city counsellors and unmasked vigilantes celebrating his escape. Frank almost turns back then, almost goes to give them hell for being so stupid, so fucking stupid. They can’t see it, what’s happening, how bad it’ll be now that he’s gone.

            But he doesn’t stop. He can’t stop. Lisa’s voice is there now saying, “Daddy. Read me a book, Daddy. Just one time, Daddy.” He’s gotta get to her before bedtime, before the lights go out, before she’s spilling out of his arms.

            There isn’t one of those shit cops who can stop him. Even in broad daylight, they’re scrambling. Frank throws a few in the water. Cracks a neck or two. But he doesn’t stop, not even for a gun, not even for a fucking gun. Jesus, what’s wrong with him. Took a couple too many hits to the head and now he’s scampering like a fucking kicked dog while Fisk is dragging someone else from their cell. Maybe that dumbass who likes to fight with a sword. Maybe that councilman who can’t stop crying. Nobody’s coming to save them, and the one person who might do something is running his ass away.

            City streets. Alleyways. Empty basements. Homeless encampment. Clothes from a guy saying he’s a former marine too. Frank’s pretty sure he’s not, but he doesn’t have the brain to question, not when he’s got a jacket with a hood. Then there’s the walk, one foot in front of the other, waiting for the silence in his head to break, for the thoughts to come back. For the urge to go back for a gun instead of continuing to walk in the wrong direction.

            He ends up back in the safehouse somehow. He brews some coffee, eats a bite something. The guns loom over him in their racks; the crates of ammo are locked, unused. Frank grabs them and throws them. He pushes over the shelves. He roars and kicks and tears because what the fuck good are they? What the fuck good is he? Fucking coward running out on hostages because one little voice in his head to – a voice he recognizes, a voice he knows and hates and will punch the ever-loving-fuck out of he ever hears is again.

            As if by fate, but God’s pure fucking asshole will, the voice speaks: “Frank?”

            Frank roars again and comes for him: the fucking devil. What’d he call himself? Matthew? That his name now? No. They don’t stand on fucking principle here. He can fucking say his name. SAY IT. Red, Devil, pyjama man, half-measure, choir boy, piece of shit, son of a bitch, asshole. It’s him. He’s the reason, and Frank is gonna make damn sure he knows it. Gonna punch some sense into the kid if it’s the last thing he fucking does.

            He’s already swinging, waiting for Frank Jr. to chime in with a, “Get ‘em, Daddy.” But Frank’s head is still empty. The only sound inside himself is a rush of blood inside his skull to the beat of his own heart. He manages to land one punch on Red before he falls, suddenly. The strength in his legs gives out. He’s on the floor still punching, trying to get his feet to fall in line. But nothing below the waist is happening. A clammy coldness sweeps up from his feet, and the only movement there is a series of shakes from sheer exhaustion.

            And it’s spreading. Up through his waist, along his back. Frank gets one more yell before it hits his arms. Red’s there – “Frank, I got you” – and Frank pushes his dumbass away. You stay away, you hear? Don’t you touch me. Don’t you ever fucking touch me. You get out of my head! Get out of my place! Get out!

            Get the fuck out.

            Blackness.

~

            Fragments after that. Snapshots.

            Frank propped up in the safehouse shower, warm water running over him, swirling red and brown and black as it heads down the drain.

            Frank lying down on a cot as deft hands palpate ribs that he didn’t even know were cracked and compound bruises.

            Frank watching through half-closed eyelids as the mess he made gets cleaned up.

            And all the while, there’s Red: red from the blood, red in his vision, red from the concussion, yeah. But Red cutting off his blood and shit crusted clothing. Red washing him off, scrubbing the blood off his skin, out of his hair. Red holding his head so he can get some water down. Red hauling him to bed. Red tending to his injuries: stitches and ice packs. Pills crushed up into water so Frank can take them. Red speaking softly on the phone about-

            Frank can’t make out the words. Or he can, but they don’t matter. Nothing matters. He lets the darkness take him again.

            He wakes up trying to swing his legs off the cot. s

            “Whoa, hey, take it easy, Frank.”

            “Get the fuck away from me.” It’s what he wants to say. It’s what he wants to do – to get Red the fuck away from him – but nothing’s working. Frank’s arms aren’t moving the way he wants; his legs are useless. His chest hurts, his head hurts. He can’t breathe. He can’t fucking breathe.

            Takes a while for him to get that awake again. This time, Red’s keeping his distance, sitting by the cot wearing the same kind of throwaway clothes as Frank’s: a hoodie and a jacket. His beard’s grown out. He looks like an idiot. Frank can’t wait to get his hands on the little shit.

            “You with me, Frank?” Red asks.

            “Fuck you.” Frank wants to say it again, wants to say it a thousand times, but he can’t. His chest is still tight.

            Red doesn’t help matters much by giving him the full rundown on his injuries. Frank cuts him off with another, “Fuck you.”

            “You wanna tell me how it happened?”             “The hell do you think?” Frank demands. His head’s spinning. All the voices are overlapping. “Fucking Fisk. He’s got people in cages down in Red Hook. And you’re sitting here doing nothing! You’re running around this city-“

            “Frank-“

            “-doing nothing! You’re…you’re…fucking…” Frank tries to yell and can’t. He tries to get out of the bed and he can’t. He tries to stop his eyelids from shutting, to get his thoughts back in line, to do anything, and he can’t.

            He’s muttering shit. Trying to shut Red up, that litany of, “Just breathe,” and, “Take it easy,” and, worst of all, “I’m sorry.” Sorry for what? For walking into a war? For getting captured? For running? Fucking running? Frank wishes the darkness would come get him then. Wishes there really was a God and a devil, not some asshole lawyer in a secondhand hoodie. Wishes that he hadn’t listened to that voice, that fucking voice, Red’s stupid fucking voice.

            “I heard you back there,” Frank says finally. “‘Run,’ you said. ‘Run.’ So that’s what I did, Red. I ran. I left them behind, left Fisk alive, and I ran.”

            “Frank, you are lucky to be alive.”

            “Bullshit.” He can’t yell it but he wants to, God, he wants to let the kid have it. “That’s bullshit, Red. You know it, I know it.”

            “It’s not: you could be dead now. You’re not.”

            “And those people back there-“

            “Could also be dead, Frank! You being there or being here doesn’t seem to be stopping that!”

            Frank wants to rip him apart. Wants to tear down the walls of the safehouse. He wants to stand up but he can’t.

            Red grabs his hand. Frank tries to pull away, but he can’t do that either. He can’t do anything except let the kid’s words wash over him like gasoline before a match. “You did the right thing, Frank. You didn’t let him kill you. Now Fisk gets to be afraid, knowing you’re out here, knowing you’re coming for him.”             Frank scoffs. “I ran.”             “You survived,” Red says. He squeezes Frank’s hand. “Now get some rest. We’ve got work to do.”             “We?” Frank asks. Jesus, how hard did Fisk hit him in the head?

Across the yard, by the door, Keith, supported by two of his hangers-on, was wrestling with one of the girls. She was twisting and pulling against the hold he had on her, and he was so lost in his attempted assault that he hadn’t even heard the car - or so it seemed to Jefferson.

The sound of a shrill cry broke his inertia, and almost as fast as Jones had thrown the car into the yard, Jefferson threw open the door and found his feet at the exact same moment that the girl broke free of Keith’s grasp and started to run.

She was running blind, with no idea of where she was running, and after a moment taken to color the air with ungentlemanly curses, Keith took off after her.

She was fast, Jefferson had to give her that, but with Keith’s longer stride, Jefferson knew it wouldn’t be long before he caught up to her, and if he didn’t - well… the razor wire would see to any chance of escape she might have had, in the worst way possible. Taking barely a second to take it all in, Jefferson did the only thing he could. He set of at a sprint that would allow him to intercept Keith before he could reach the girl. He’d take him down if he had to, and hoped the girl had enough sense still in her head - wasn’t panicking too much - to recognize he was trying to help her. The last thing he wanted was her running headlong into the wire.

He charged at Keith so fast that when they collided, the air was forced from his lungs, but at least he kept his feet, unlike Keith who stumbled back and fell to land unceremoniously on his ass. Brought up short by the collision of the two men, the girl spun around to face the danger from which she had been running.

Somehow still laser focused, Jefferson sensed it, and managed, “Stay behind me!” The words were strained, still winded as he was. He barely had time to glance behind him to see that she was doing as she was told, before Keith’s mocking voice, and the rustle of clothing, proved he was moving, and that Jefferson was out of time.

“My hero,” Keith dripped sarcasm onto each syllable. “Always trying to save the underdog - or in this case, the bitch.”

He was playing to his cronies and Jefferson knew it. Even so, the words raised his hackles, and loosened what tenuous hold he had on rationality.

“Wonder why that is,” Keith went on, staring, his eyes cold, his whole demeanor calculating. “Wonder what it is that we don’t know about the good Jared here…?”

In that, with those words, Jefferson knew he had been recognized, and his chilled blood slowed to a crawl inside of him. He had seconds. Less than that, before Keith and his henchmen would have him dead to rights. A dangerous, unwelcome instinct had him reach for his weapon, the ratchet sound of the slide as he pulled it back sounding far too loud in the near silence that had fallen, punctuated only by the fearful, hurried breathing of the girl behind him, whose fingers now trembled against the small of his back.

“Steady on, mate,” Jones’ voice, brittle with tension, sounded a moment later, as he reached them.

“Ever wondered why that is, Jones?” Keith went on undeterred, examining his fingernails. “That our friend here always seems to be in the right place at the right time to get in the way of—”

“If you’ve got something to say, go ahead and spit it out,” Jefferson growled, “instead of gossiping like an old woman.”

“Oh-ho-ho…” Keith laughed, his face a mask of exaggerated mocking.

“I. Dare. You.” Jefferson breathed, and flicked off the safety with an audible click. He felt the heat of his own intense stare boiling behind his eyes.

Keith lunged, trying to bypass Jefferson to reach the girl. She screamed, and Jefferson felt her forehead come to rest against his back. 

Time slowed.

Jefferson half turned, and pushed the girl away from him, almost directly into Jones’ arms. On the momentum of the turn, even as Keith tried to side step him, and anticipating where he might move, Jefferson caught his man’s arm. He twisted it upward and behind him, forcing Keith to his knees amid the accusatory words the other man spat half in anger, half in pain.

“So what is it this time, man…? Still some kind of co—?”

Jefferson twisted his arm still further then, to silence him before he could finish the word and put the thought into Jones’ head, adding the threat of the gun, just resting against the pack of Keith’s head, but with even more derision, Keith whimpered, “Maybe just a snitch!”

"Say it again,” Jefferson spat, “Just one more time, Motherfucker!"

“Bet you don’t even remember, do you…? Took so many in,” Keith’s words all ran together as he rushed to get them out. “…one way or another, but I remember you. I—.”

“You’re out of your fucking mind!” Jefferson leaned down to growl the words against the side of Keith’s head.

“Nah, man… I remember. Nothing you can say or do… nothing.” Keith struggled, as if he meant to find his feet; make one more assay to reach the girl.

“What the fuck, Jared,” Jones demanded, “is he talking about?”

“Out of his fucking mind,” Jefferson repeated, almost ignoring Jones. Almost, but not quite.

“Oh, you’d like that, but I tell you… every single one of those bitches in there is mine, and I didn’t fight my way up to an Enforcer to be told what to do by the likes of some… two bit squealer; some washed out, has-been, underc—”

The alley behind the bar was dimly lit and the wall behind him cold and hard. Jefferson took in a breath to speak, but the moment was taken from him with the hungry press of lips against his.

“You know,” his benefactor murmured around a dance of ice and tongues, speaking of his useless handler, “he has no fucking intention of doing anything.” Jefferson moaned. He didn’t want to think about that right now, so he missed the next words out of his lover’s lips. “Sooner or later it’ll come down to you or some dead guy walking. You’ll have no choice but to take matters into your own…”

The memory ended on the deafening sound of a single gunshot, and bile rose in Jefferson’s throat as sticky, hot, wet gore splashed the back of his hand; the side of his face, and the arm he was still holding went limp as the body pitched forward.

“Left!”

Jones warning came barely in time as Jefferson turned to see one of Keith’s henchmen drawing down on the two of them. On reflex, another act of self preservation, he raised his weapon and fired off two shots in quick succession, setting his jaw against the matching twin retorts of Jones’ weapon as he took out the man on the right.

In an organization like the Duneach, divided loyalties were never wise, and almost always fatal.

What could have been a messier situation than it already was, was over before it began, though it drew out several other guards from inside the Brewery. All were wielding guns which they lowered as soon as they set eyes on Jones.

“You,” Jones ordered one of them, “Clean up this fucking mess, and you…” he pointed to two of the newcomers, propelling the girl toward the second of the two, “Take this one back inside, and get the house under control.”

Even as Jefferson wiped his mostly clean sleeve over the side of his face, Jones turned and tossed him the car keys.

“Get back to the warehouse and get yourself cleaned up,” he said, “speak to no one until I send for you.  Duneach is gonna want to hear about this.”

**

He had no memory of how he made it back to his room in the Warehouse complex, just stumbled into the rooms they’d given to him, already shrugging off his jacket, automatically putting one foot in front of the other.

“You’re hurt!”

The words, soft spoken, jolted him out of his stupor, and he managed, “Not mine,” against the rising tide of emotion his numbness had kept at bay.

“Here,” the girl he’d left in his room when Jones had come to get him moved closer as he began struggling with the buttons of his shirt. “Let me.”

He shook his head, held up his hands and almost pushed her away.

“Can you drive?”

“What?”

“Can you drive?”

“Yes, I can drive, I—”

She barely caught the keys he tossed her way.

“Get out of here,” he told her. “Drive as far away from here as you can, and don’t look back.”

“But—”

“Do it!,” he snapped. “I can’t protect you any more!”

“You don’t have to, you—”

“Go!”

..

His mum arrives and there is a lot of shouting which just pisses him off.

“HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO REACT WHEN I GET WOKEN UP AT ONE IN THE MORNING BY POLICE TELLING ME THAT MY IDIOT SON, WHO SHOULD BE ASLEEP, IS IN HOSPITAL!!”

 “WHAT THE HELL WERE YOU THINKING!

Then there is the quiet disappointment he gets from his father when his mum is done yelling which only fuels his resentment.  

“I don’t understand why you did it son. Did you want to get into that fight? Or was it a mistake? Please. We can’t help if we don’t know what’s going on.”

Eventually, he finally snaps, “I fucking felt like it! That’s why I did it! And you know what, I’d do it again.”

It wasn’t like he could or even wanted to explain that he’d jumped out his window to wander the streets at midnight because he had had a bad dream and his All Might poster had looked at him funny. That the rage and anger were preferable to that sinking empty feeling that had turned his every waking moment into a pointless repeat of everyday routines and useless interactions.  That every time he let himself pause and reflect, Deku’s stupid smiling face was mocking him from the afterlife.

Next, he spends an hour with Senior Officer Watanabe recounting every possible detail from his stroll through the streets to his climactic fight with Lanky, Tiny and Grease-Hair.

“Well, you definitely don’t do things in half measures kid. So far we have private and public property damage, unlicensed quirk usage, quirk usage with the intent to harm, vigilantly activity, assault...”

“Assault! Why the hell is that on the list. Those bastards started it.”

“You can’t go around beating people up no matter how good your intentions are!”

“So, you wanted me to just watch!”

“Yes!” A long breath, “I know it can be hard but you need to wait for the pros. You got lucky this time but what if things had been different? You had misread the situation. What if you had been badly injured? What if you had accidentally injured the victim or killed someone? There is a reason we make people get a license for Hero work. Seison Masuyama is a B-rank villain.”

“B rank? He wasn’t that strong.”

 “His quirk, Kinetic-Force, collects kinetic energy and releases it in one overpowered attack. It’s deadly to most people. You were lucky he had already used it once that day and that you were resilient enough to withstand it."

After multiple repeats of the ‘you’re lucky you’re not dead,’ with a side order of ‘it’s a good thing you’re still a minor because you could go to jail for this,’ he gets to go home.

It is three in the morning by the time he arrives back at the apartment, two exhausted parents in tow, having been issued an ‘official warning,’ an order to complete 100 hours of community service and instructions to undergo a psychiatric evaluation. He has never felt angrier or more resentful.

A days later and he is back at school, wasting his time watching clocks and avoiding classmates. 

Nothing had changed.

…

…

…

The car screeches to a stop at the school gates, throwing Katsuki forward in his seat. His mum turns to fix him with a stern glare, eyes narrow.

“If you’re not waiting right here by the gate when I come to pick you up or so help me I’ll be escorting you to and from your classroom from the rest of your school life,” she threatens.

“Lay off you old bat,” Katsuki snaps as was becoming routine since his mum had started driving him the short distance to school, “I got it the first million times.”

“I’ll believe that when I see it.”  A finger is pointed at his nose, waving in an almost menacing fashion. “Remember. Here. School Gates. 4:00pm. Don’t you dare think about ditching again.”

 Katsuki sneers and kicks open the car door, turning to slams it shut with as much force as possible in retaliation. He stalks through the gates, shouldering his way through a group of loitering students.  They all scatter when they recognise him. In some ways, he prefers dealing with the anger and yelling of his mum than his father’s quiet disappointment. That doesn’t stop it from being annoying as hell.

A spike of pain runs through his hand from where he must have used a little too much force on the door. Maybe he should take his father up on those kickboxing classes. Sure, he had practised punching after reading a bunch of online guides, but reading and solo practice were completely different when compared with real actual fighting.  That was assuming he was going to be getting into more real fights.  He opens and closes his bandaged fist, feeling a slight sting in his wrist and fingers. He glares. Four days on and he can still feel the echo of adrenalin.  The thrill of righteous anger had been so much more satisfying than the directionless rage he was accustomed to. It had rekindled some of that fire that drove him to be the best, to win, chasing away the sickening emptiness which had been dogging his every waking step.

He wants to feel that again…He wants to do something other than listlessly go through the same daily motions as he drifts towards his now uncertain future. 

“Hey Bakugō!” 

He keeps walking, ignoring whatever loser classmates wanted to talk to him.

“HEY!”

A hand lands on his shoulder and Katsuki twitches, a hairs breath away from spinning and firing a blast point-blank into the pest’s face. Instead, he stops and deliberately turns to glower at the pathetic piece of trash behind him. Murata Taheiji from his homeroom is standing there, one hand on his hip, flanked by two other boys he doesn’t know the names of. Two more appear to stand in front of him, blocking his way. They are all puffed up like they think they’re hot shit. Katsuki scoffs. Are these failures really trying to bully him? HIM!? 

“How about you get the fuck out of my way and go find a first year to pick on. You know, someone more on your level.”

That gets him an irritated scowl that transforms into a patronising grin, “You were always such a stuck up prick Bakago…Acting so high and mighty all the time. Not anymore, I know the truth. You’re just like the rest of us.”

“Huh?” he drawls, dragging out the sound, turning so he is facing the boy, “What the fuck are you on about.”

“My dad works for Musutafu police dispatch and he told me something real interesting yesterday.” A dramatic pause, “He said that you got arrested a few nights ago.” There is a laugh that is echoed by the four surrounding him. By now the confrontation has garnered the attention of several onlookers, who are slowly drifting closer.

“All that shit about being a Hero and you got arrested. What’d you do? Steal some candy from a convenience store? We all know you don’t have money.”

Around them, the growing audience is eyeing him with varying levels of eager anticipation like they think he’ll break down and start crying because of some dumb-ass insults. Damn, if that doesn’t just piss him off. How dare these losers think him that weak.

“Don’t compare me to your loser selves,” he dismisses aggressively, making to turn and forcefully elbow his way past. He is stopped by Murata’s hand which is still on this shoulder.

“You know what I think. I think you’re all talk.”

Katsuki stills, letting the words sink and curdle in his stomach. In one short move, he turns and steps in close to Murata so they are almost nose to nose.

“Don’t fucking touch me,” he warns.  The other boy tenses, looking like he wants to say something else equally stupid. If he remembers correctly Murata has some sort of muscle-enhancer, reflex quirk. One of the only worthwhile quirks in the school.

Katsuki jerks his elbow up and around in a quick jab. It smacks into the loser’s face. Crack. Guess having fast reflexes didn’t make a difference when you never saw the blow coming.

There is a cry of surprised pain and shouts of alarm from the peanut gallery. The other boy falls back, tripping over his own feet. It is ridiculously simple to lift a leg and deliver a kick to the stomach, not even a strong kick, so his failed bully thuds onto the ground, tossing up a small puff of sand. Unlike the fight in the ally, there is no rush of excitement, no spike of anger or adrenaline. No exhilaration. He is just irritated and maybe a bit disappointed. That’s what he gets for expecting anything out of the pathetic losers that went Aldera Middle School. They were more annoying than anything else.  

Murata rolls around in the dirt, wheezing, trying to draw breath. He can almost imagine Deku running up to complain about his violent tendencies or sprout some shit about Hero’s needing to protect people like Murata didn’t ask for it when he decided to try his luck bullying someone obviously stronger than him.

The reminder of Deku sours his already shitty mood.

“Ah…you broke my nose. YOU BOKE IT…ah…it hurts. Do something!” The idiot calls to his equally idiotic friends as he tries to stop blood from pouring down his face.

Katsuki gazes coolly at the boy before directing his attention at the four other ‘bullies’ standing frozen around him.

“You extras got something else to add to that?” With Murata out of the game, the rest of the pathetic group shuffles about uncertainly.

“Ah…we’re good,” The tallest one says nervously, “Sorry about that Bakugō. No hard feelings right?”

He scoffs.

One of the boys moves forward to pull Murata upright, kneeling and pulling out a tissue to help stem the flow of blood. “Crap. I…I think Murata needs to go to the nurse. This looks serious.” There are a few more apprehensive glances in his direction like the other boys think he’ll insist on continuing the ‘fight’-ha! like this has been anything near a fight- until they are all bloody messes on the ground. Kaksuki rolls his eyes. As if he has the patience to deal with any more of these losers.

“Cowards,” he mutters, shoving past. The crowd of students who had gathered to watch the failed confrontation, scramble to get out of his way. A strong breeze rushes through the school’s courtyard, drawing attention to how quiet it has suddenly gotten. Barely audible whispers follow in his wake and he can feel many sets of eyes on his back, watching.

“He always did have a bad attitude.” They murmur.

“Guess he’s a real delinquent now.”

“…did you hear what Murata said. Do you think Bakugō actually got arrested?”

“That’s got to be fake right? Murata is full of hot air.”

“No way. I believe it. You don’t have to share a class with him, I’m telling you, Bakugō’s gone nuts.”

“Kind of scary when you think about it. With a quirk like that...”

He doesn’t know why they’re all so shocked. This isn’t the first fight he has gotten into on school grounds. Okay, so maybe he’d held off doing any real harm before now, well aware that U.A. would probably check his school record. It had never mattered to him because there was no point in beating up weaklings when he was obviously superior. Except for Deku…the only person he had ever really hurt, the only person he could get away with hurting without repercussions. And now he feels like extra shit. God, what a huge farce it had all been. Kaksuki clenches his fist and growls, wondering if it isn’t too late to ditch and go find somewhere secluded to blow off steam. Anything to escape this feeling of frustration.

 He doesn’t have time to make a proper decision because news of his ‘fight’ had obviously spread to the staffroom. One of the second year homeroom teachers comes barrelling out of the school’s front entrance, eyes immediately landing on him.

“What happened!” Their eyes move past him to the bloody Murata, “Go wait in the principles office. Now.”

Well, he didn’t want to deal with his annoying classmates anyway. He stalks away, the sounds of the teacher fussing over Murata growing fainter behind him. When he arrives, the principal’s office is empty and he flings himself down into one of the comfy couches, irritated. The bell for homeroom goes off and Kaksuki remains sprawled across the couch, arm across his face to block out the light and his view of the clock slowly ticking away.  

Just as he begins to contemplate leaving, Principle Fukuhara comes strolling into the room. 

“ Bakugō,” the man lets out an exasperated sigh, “Sit up please.”

Katsuki moves his arm to peek out and glare at the man, deliberately ignoring the instruction.

“I just finished talking to Ms Yuki and the school’s nurse.  You broke Murata Taheiji’s nose. I hope you realise how serious this situation is and that there will be major consequences. Aldera Middle School does not tolerate this sort of violence on its grounds.”

Silence. That was a fucking lie. Slowly, Katsuki pulls himself upright, meeting the man’s hard stare with his own. 

“Well, do you have anything to say for yourself and your disgraceful behaviour..”

Katsuki narrows his eyes, “The idiot was asking for it.”

Obviously, it's the wrong response going by how the skin tightens around the man’s eyes, “I see...I’m sorry you feel that way. Up until now, our school has been more than lenient. We have overlooked your shameful behaviour these last few weeks because we wanted to give you time to settle after going through such as tragic incident. However, I am afraid that this time you have gone too far. Your parents will be notified. You’ll see the school councillor. You will be staying back for after school detention. Since this is your first major incident we…”

“First?” He cuts the man off. He is sick of hearing the moron’s voice. “Hahaha and people say you don’t have a sense of humour.” He laughs an unpleasant laugh which increases in volume until he is almost shouting.

 “What sort of shit hole are you running? Three years I’ve been beating up the dumb idiots that come here and now you decide to care. Why is that huh? Is it because I’m no longer going to put this shitty place on the map and become a famous hero! HA!”

He lets his voice quieten, sneering “I’ll never be a hero so you’re shit out of luck.” Finally saying it out loud is like throwing a bucket of water over the embers of an already struggling fire. It hurts deep in his chest. The expression of shocked disbelief is almost worth it.

“Thanks for proving what a worthless profession it is,” he finishes with another hash laugh, rage simmering under his skin. When he tries to stand and leave a hand lands on his shoulder, pushing him back down.

The principal, who still looks somewhat stunned at his sudden outburst, orders, “Sit back down Bakugō! I am far from finished.”

Why do people always feel the need to grab him. He is so fucking sick of everyone pulling and tugging on him, trying to control him and hold him down. Katsuki turns slowly, that simmering rage pulsing, running down his limbs. Pop pop pop go his hands. He feels as explosive fire gathering in behind his eyes and in his shadowy stare. It is not the dramatic, adrenaline-induced anger he had felt when preparing for the ally fight. No, this is a dark burning rage, fuelled by his growing resentment.

“Touch me again,” he growls, low and intimidating, “and I’ll kill you.”

The principal snatches his hand back like he has just been burnt. A poignant silence follows in the wake of his threat.