Cold wind blew into his apartment as he opened the door. And in his door stood a disheveled, shivering man, a shaky smile pulling on a pale face that was partially obscured by goggles and a green mask. A steel mouth guard hung around his neck, laying on the fur collar of a bomber jacket, which was bloodied mid-torso. Katsuki hardened his gaze and set his jaw, willing himself not to blow a hole in the door frame.
"Hi, Kacchan! Um, I was stabbed. Do you think you can help me?"
Kacchan?
Katsuki's resolve slipped and his palms smoked, the scent of burning sugar permeating the winter air. His eyes narrowed as he took in the man before him-- who was now trying to take off his headgear while still clutching a bleeding stab wound.
He doesn't wait for an answer. He pulls Deku inside, forcing himself to operate on autopilot because this was a situation he was not mentally or emotionally equipped to deal with. He could, however, deal with stab wounds. One didn't become a Pro Hero without learning some emergency first aid, after all.
"Your apartment's really nice, Kacchan! Wow..."
Whatever else Deku says is lost to his damaged ears. He kicks open his bathroom door and flicks on the light, snatching up a bulky first aid kid in the same motion. He nudges Deku-- carefully-- to sit on the toilet seat. Then he sets upon him with a vengeance.
"Woah, hey! I can- I can take this off myself, you know, oh, okay--"
Katsuki slipped the bomber jacket off his shoulders. From there, he rolled the torn fabric over Deku's stomach, revealing the wound, which was messy enough that he couldn't tell if the bleeding had stopped yet or not.
"Why the fuck aren't you at a hospital? Put pressure on that, idiot," Katsuki snarls, getting up to find a wash cloth. He dampens it, squeezing out the excess water, and descends upon his patient once more. As he cleans up the wound, he's relieved to find that the blood has stopped.
"They'd arrest me," Deku laughs, gasping in pain when the hiccuping giggles disrupt his wound. He winces again as Katsuki continues to work with the damp wash cloth.
They transfer hands again. Deku holds down on the wound while Katsuki pulls something out of the first aid kit-- gauze, saline, disinfectant, tape.
"Not gonna stitch it cause it ain't long, and it ain't deep, right?" Katsuki growls, shooing Deku's hands away. "Grit your fuckin' teeth."
-
After his wound was cleaned, Deku found himself to be exhausted. And Katsuki was cradling him with his two strong arms, against his broad chest, and was carrying him with more tenderness and care than Deku thought possible of him. He couldn't help the giggle that escaped him as Katsuki set him on his bed.
"Really, all this for me? When did you learn first aid?" Deku asks, smiling broadly. He melts into the soft layers of the bed despite himself, sighing.
"Shut up and sleep, Deku," Katsuki sighs.
-
When Katsuki awakes, and finds his apartment devoid of blood and gauze and green, curly hair, he writes off last night as a particularly bad dream and goes to work.
As his day shift stretches to a night shift, he's rudely reminded that his dream was not a dream.
It was very real.
And the heroes weren't the first to respond to this incident. A villain-incited bank fire that burned hot and green and sticky, its perpetrator striking from the lobby of the bank, spitting sizzling jelly at whoever dared to step closer. It forced Katsuki off the front lines and into crowd control, directing emergency responders, heroes, and victims alike to where they would be most needed. He kept this up so Creati didn't have to, so he could keep his back to her and shield her from the villain's focus.
(after all, she was the only one who knew how to confront the jelly, and her safety was therefore priority)
"There's someone up there!"
Katsuki looks up, eyes widening in surprise. From the bank's second floor, a window had been busted open, and a man crouched in its guts. He shot through the colored smoke and landed among the heroes, past the wall of flames. Several moments later, he shot back through.
Another Hero-- Cellophane-- ran up to Katsuki, offering a person.
"Ambulance 3 is open," Katsuki growls. He twisted his head around when Creati pulled on his pant leg. She looked too weak to stand, but the message was clear.
"All Heroes, to me! Grab one and put it over a fire. Red Riot, you're good to go in, got it?"
Katsuki can feel himself checking out as the group explodes around him. Fabric is taken and dragged, choking out the fires, and another window shatters above, and Katsuki doesn't hear himself assign Cellophane and another hero to getting inside the bank and helping rescue people, god dammit--
The mystery man shoots back down, this time dropping in front of Katsuki.
"Ambulance 3," Katsuki repeats, then stares as he recognizes the burned garb. His jaw snaps shut, even as he points at the truck.
Deku.
"I stopped the guys below, but the Greek Fire villain-- he came later," Deku gasps into his ear, then leaves.
-
What Deku said was true. By the time the villain had been apprehended-- Incense, Quirk: Greek Fire-- and the Heroes had gotten to the vaults, their targets had already been apprehended, the payload sat innocently on a table. Katsuki was dismissed, told to rest, and offered tomorrow off.
He rejected the offer, of course. As soon as he got home, he stabbed a number into his phone.
It rang twice.
-
Izuku was nursing his wounds when his phone rang. Surprised, he stares at it for several seconds, stomach twisting as he sees the Caller ID.
"H- hello?" Izuku says, abandoning the burn across his left arm.
"You're a Goddamn Vigilante," Kacchan snarls, voice loud as if shouting. "What the fuck, Deku?"
"Do you have a problem with that, Kacchan?" Izuku says immediately, hands shaking. His legs tremble and he drops onto his bathroom floor, hissing in pain. "The first time you call me in years and it's to harass me about my life choices..."
"I thought you worked at fucking Icy Hot's agency!" Kacchan snapped. "You made his costume, or some shit--"
"I still work with Shouto!" Izuku snaps back. "And I'm a Vigilante. Is that a fucking problem?"
Silence on the line. A sigh rocks his body, straining the injuries he's accumulated. Then, with a loud blast:
"You were fucking stabbed last night, what are you doing trying to work?!"
"Be quiet, Kacchan! I'm fine, I've had worse, can you please let me bandage myself--"
More silence. Heavy breathing, measured.
Izuku sighs and continues tending to his burns and cuts. Antiseptic, band aids, covers for the blisters. More gauze for the stab wound that probably reopened. Forgetting Kacchan is on the phone so that when he tries to get up, he falls back down, swearing--
"I'm going to hunt you down, Deku, and you are going to tell me everything--"
"That's not very Heroic, Kacchan!" Izuku whines. "How do I know you're not gonna turn me in, huh?"
"Why in the hell would I do that, you're not breaking any goddamn laws--"
Izuku froze, staring at the ceiling. Before he could stop himself, he was laughing, high and a little off-kilter. Fuck, fuck, he wasn't expecting that from Kacchan from all people...
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Thunder roars, and lightning cracks. The UA campus quakes beneath the storm's might. Rain lashes the buildings, the windows, and the ground, carving muddy gouges into the grass and flooding the concrete paths. Once more, thunder rolls throughout the sky, eliciting another lightning strike within moments. It fills the blackened sky with spidery webs, transforming night to day. The wind howls-- it is worse than the rain. It rakes through the false cities; where there is no thunder, the keening of swaying skyscrapers can be heard, their fragile skeletons bending easily to the storm's will.
It is with this that Shouta rouses himself from his apartment within the 1-A dorms. The carpeted floor vibrates with the percussive thunder and he squints in the wake of whitewash, yet the assault only spurs him on. He slings his sleeping bag over his shoulder and steps out into the hall, which he finds to be illuminated only by emergency lighting.
The power's gone out.
Shouta's body protests as he walks faster, faster toward the commons above. Even with the rain's onslaught, he can already hear his students moving around, speaking in hushed voices and quiet feet. Silently, he hobbles into the common room, relieved to see the majority of his class already present. Several of his kids are piled in front of the TV, huddling together, distracting themselves through quiet chatter. Shouta lays himself across the floor behind them.
It's not his usual spot, but it'll do.
He climbs into the safety of his sleeping bag. A quick turn of his head shows him the kitchen, occupied by Iida, Yaoyoruzu, and Todoroki. Bakugou and Kirishima linger nearby, nursing cups of tea, talking quietly to one another. By the time he turns back around, however, Shouta finds himself surrounded by students.
"Don't crowd me," he grumbles, voice muffled.
"Sorry!" Someone says, and Shouta recognizes them as Hagakure. There's a rustling of fabric.
The kids reorganize themselves into a wide semi-circle, partially surrounding Shouta. He notes that Ojiro has two pillows to his name, yet is only using one. It takes him far too long to notice the pink pajamas hiding under his blanket. So that's how it is. Similarly, Uraraka and Asui have bundled up together. They have a battery-powered lamp sitting beside them.
Several battery-powered lamps have been stationed around the commons, Shouta realizes. They glow steadily, radiating soft pools of light that run together to form a protective barrier against the ambiance of the storm. Midoriya and Todoroki-- huh, he didn't see him move-- have one to themselves, whittling away the time with what appears to be homework.
"You're going to strain your eyes," Shouta calls out to them, flopping over with his sleeping bag. "Reading in the dark is bad for your eyes, Midoriya. Todoroki."
"We have a lamp," Todoroki replies evenly. He points at it. "Good enough."
Midoriya's shoulders lift as he stifles a snort of laughter, then jumps in shock as thunder booms overhead. Several bodies collide into Shouta at once, also startled by the sound, and he sighs. Without Toshinori to field the most physical of his students, his sleeping bag has been turned into one large stuffed animal.
Kaminari and Ashido are the main culprits, this time, if the tingling across his skin is anything to go by. With a great effort, Shouta sits up, allowing the two-- and more-- to settle closer. Even Tokoyami has taken residence, or perhaps he had always been there. Shouta hides his face behind the lip of his sleeping bag.
"Aizawa-sensei said not to crowd him," a gentle voice says. Iida kneels down beside the group, carrying a tray topped with several mugs. "Chamomile tea," he explains, catching his teacher's eye. With great care, he offers a mug to each waiting student, including Shouta. "And for you, Tokoyami."
Iida passes Tokoyami a straw before rising to his feet.
Shouta smiles despite himself.
---
The book is abandoned in favor of crawling closer to Todoroki. Izuku wraps his arm around the cool skin of his right arm, cheek pressed against his shoulder. He relishes in the cooler temperature and in Todoroki relaxing against him. Their free hands meet to intertwine.
"I don't see why you favor my right side," Todoroki murmurs under his breath. "Most people prefer my left. Warmer, that way."
"It's already warm in here," Izuku says quietly. "And both of your sides are equally good."
Izuku squeezes his hand tightly as Todoroki snorts in disbelief. Even with the admittance of his left side, Todoroki is still reconciling with it, considering his other side lesser to some extent. He knows it's an uphill battle.
---
Tenya scrubs sleep from his eyes as he rejoins Yaoyorozu in making tea. He stares blearily at the electric kettle as it boils happily away, only stopping when Yaoyorozu lifts it to pour hot water into an arrangement of mugs.
"Have you ate anything?" He asks tentatively, peering at her.
"Jirou gave me a roll of crackers," she replies, smiling back. "Don't worry. How are you?"
"I'm tired, admittedly, but otherwise alright," he says honestly. "I'd hate to fall asleep on everyone while it's storming."
"I know what you mean..."
Tenya watches as she takes her time with plating the last set of mugs. He looks to the side as Bakugou breaks away from Kirishima, approaching the kitchen with narrowed eyes, tense shoulders. Something crumples inside him at the sight.
Tension never left him, did it?
"Don't look at me like that," Bakugou says, and his voice-- it's soft. He presses himself into Iida's space until their hands are together and something small is being passed between their fingers. "Drink some of this if you want to stay up."
"Orange oil?" Tenya guesses, rolling the bottle between his fingers. "When did you get this?"
"Does it matter?" Bakugou grumbles. They nestle into each other, easily sharing their space. Tenya drapes an arm over Bakugou's shoulders while inspecting the bottle, experimentally dribbling some over his tongue.
"It's of high quality," Tenya chirps. "Thank you."
---
By the time Denki wakes up, the storm has faded, leaving weak sunlight to filter into the common rooms. His body aches in superficial ways, though as he twists around, he finds that his muscles and bones creak far more deeply than he'd like. He huffs as he sits up, blearily staring around the common room.
A cursory search tells him he's one of the first awake. A once-over tells him that Iida and Bakugou appear to be awake-- to some extent, at least. Ashido and Sero, predictably, are not, but Kirishima is, as well as Todoroki. He flashes a sleepy smile at the others, rubbing at his eyes.
"Thank God it's Saturday," he mumbles, sprawling out into a stretch that had his leg muscles protesting, and his feet digging into something soft and of a weird texture, definitely not a blanket--
"Oh, shit, it's Aizawa-sensei," Denki gasps, immediately flopping onto his side. He stares at the yellow sleeping bag- caterpillar, he thinks dimly-- until his teacher's face glares out at him.
"Is that how you wake up all your teachers?" Aizawa-sensei grouses, voice thick with sleep.
Denki swallows, eyes flickering around as he thinks of an answer. He notices that most of the lamps he helped power were still on. That was neat!
"Sorry," he manages, grinning sheepishly.
"Would you two be quiet?"
Denki and Aizawa both turn to face a grumbling Uraraka, her hair a fit of curls and tangles from her rough sleep. Cradled in her arms is an oblivious Asui. Cute as hell, really.
---
Tenya does his best to ignore the quiet chattering emanating from the other students. He hums softly to himself in such efforts, especially as he cards his fingers through Bakugou's hair, the locks of which are soft and pliant, glowing softly in the morning light. He drags his fingers, allowing his nails to scratch and then knead with the bed of his fingertips, lost in the sensation. The gentle buzz of the orange oil is finally starting to fade, the ache in his calves lessening.
Perhaps, once breakfast is prepared and everyone fed, he could sleep as well.
Until then, he would sit here, bound within sleeping Bakugou's spell.
---
By the time Shouta can rouse himself again, the scent of food is flooding his nostrils, and the sunlight forcing his eyes open is much warmer. He is acutely aware that blankets and pillows have been stuffed around his frame; he doesn't wriggle free of the prison for quite some time.
"Aizawa-sensei."
Shouta looks up, peeking out from behind his long, wild hair and several layers of bright fabric. Yaoyorozu is standing adjacent of him, hands full of a plate. He grunts.
"I hope I didn't wake you. Would you like some breakfast? It's Western-style, I hope that's alright."
He wrests his mouth free. "I'd like that. Thank you, Yaoyorozu."
And when he starts to eat, so do his students. Something warm twinges in his chest as he picks up on that particular fact.
Ushering X through the self-checkout and out the doors was a simple affair. Iris kept a grounding hand on his shoulder as they moved, a constant pressure applied to keep him moving forward. She was acutely aware of the Reploid behind them in constant pursuit, but half her concentration was dedicated to her brother whispering in her ear.
"Bring X by the post office on 8th Street. A guard will grab the Reploid, and you two should be home free."
Her affirmative was nonverbal, a mere data packet. She glances over her shoulder to check the Reploid's progress. It was a slow, shambling pace the Reploid took, so at least their lead would not be quickly eliminated. They just had to be careful.
"It's a nice day, isn't it?" Iris hums, finally releasing her grip on X's shoulder as they reach a complex intersection. People mill about at either corner, conceding to the vehicle traffic buzzing through the streets. She watches X grimace at a passing Enforcer cycle, a minute pull of the mouth. He doesn't respond right away.
"It's going to rain," X says as traffic stops.
X pulls ahead of her. Iris has to lengthen her stride to keep up, all while avoiding pedestrians and keeping an eye on their pursuer. She spares an iota of power to looking up the weather. Rain was going to come, but not for a while yet.
"We haven't had rain in a long time," Iris says belatedly. "It'll be good."
"Maybe," X replies, then he smiles. "Do you need to go anywhere, Iris? I know we have groceries, but they can withstand some jostling, I think."
They're walking quickly. From here, Iris can see the street signs indicating 8th Street. She looks over her shoulder surreptitiously under X's inquisitive gaze.
"I actually need to stop by the post office," Iris says, returning the smile. "I need to pick something up there for work."
"Oh? How has work been, anyway?"
They stop. This intersection isn't nearly as busy and crossing onto 8th street is done after a moment's pause. She knows the Reploid is tracking them still.
"It's been kind of a mess," Iris sighs. "All of the recent attacks..."
X nods solemnly. Iris looks at him, suddenly aware that they've crossed into utterly sensitive territory-- X himself was a victim of such attacks. She bites the inside of her cheek, frustrated at herself. The post office looms ahead.
"Do you have any afternoon plans?" Iris blurts. The post office is a nondescript brick building, generic front and back. She follows X to the glass doors, sending another affirmative packet to her brother.
The target was being handled.
"I think Zero and I are going out for lunch," X replies, but he sounds uncertain. "Um, do you want me to go inside with you?"
"Oh, we're here already! I'll be just a moment, don't worry."
-
Accosting the reploid is a simple affair-- a unit from the van ambushes it from behind, binding its limbs together with magnetized cuffs. Its slung over their shoulder and hauled away into an alley.
"Look at the poor bastard! Man, this case sucks."
"Sure does."
The reploid is dumped unceremoniously onto the van's floor. Its head twitches back and forth, as if taking in its surroundings.
When the van door slams shut, the reploid goes slack.
-
X is readjusting his groceries when it happens.
Iris is walking out to meet him when she hears it.
A concussive blast, an explosion.
Mere seconds later, smoke can be seen rising from behind the post office, wispy at first but gathering in volume.
"X, wait! Don't!"
-
X is gone by the time the glass doors hit their stops. Iris looks on in horror as the blue Reploid leaps onto the building's roof, booster assisted. His groceries swing wildly in his hands-- a can slips out from its plastic prison, bursting as it hits the concrete.
"Iris! What's your status?"
"We're safe! We heard an explosion, and X just ran off- I'm trying to pursue now! What happened?"
X was difficult to chase. Where he leapt across surfaces, Iris was forced to skirt the perimeter, just barely keeping the reploid in sight.
"The van was destroyed. I'm not sure what happened. I've already called emergency services-- get X out of there."
I'm trying, she thinks bitterly.
By the time she arrives, panting--
-
X stops himself from leaping into the fray. He perches on the edge of a flat roof, fingers digging into the brick as he surveys the damage. Through the thick smoke he can see two caved in walls-- the alley had been narrow, so the explosion easily caused collateral. Piles of reddish-brown rubble have a vehicle trapped, partially consumed by the brick. The vehicle's cabin is separated and laying on its side.
Its burning from the inside out. Further away from it, an armoured Reploid is curled up, damaged but not actively alight.
X finally leaps, landing beside the Reploid.
"Are you alright?" X asks, for lack of something better to say. "I'm here to help!"
"I'm not dying, but my legs are no good. I had friends in the back of the van-- I don't know..."
The blast wasn't severe, just...
"Of course. Stay here."
X turns. He eyes the front of the van warily-- clearly, the motor hadn't ignited, but his systems refused to dismiss the probability. Still, he starts to dig through the smoldering rubble, the alert hanging in his peripherals.
The pain is indescribable. X debates switching off the nerves in his arms when he discovers a broken body-- green, leaking fluid, reminiscent of-- he can't remember. Dead. He moves on, digging elsewhere, until--
"No good," X says in a wheeze. "This is no good!"
"X! What on earth are you doing?!"
Two bodies in the brick rubble, decimated by the blast and entangled with the broken hulk of the vehicle. Worse, their leaking fluids were now out to the world to ignite and burn wantonly, though the low fires were not near enough. His body goes limp as Iris grabs his middle, pulling him back down to solid earth.
"You scared me to death, X. Come on, are you alright?" Iris asks, gently bringing his face around, earnest green eyes meeting X's.
"I'm fine-- I'm fine... There's someone hurt behind me, um, two dead, I can't tell what caused the explosion, though. Have-- you know, been called?" X says, voice wavering.
"Yes, they have," Iris says reassuringly.
X smiles, relieved, even as the cold consequences of his actions sink in.
It would be okay, though. It had to be.
-
"What do you think, Iris?" Colonel asks of his sister. They sit across from each other at a round table, a single lamp illuminating their space. Several screens are laid out in front of them in the form of laptops, tablets, and data pads, while papers lay in organized piles. Two mugs of energy are nestled amidst the mess, nursed half to hell.
"I think there's a lot we don't understand, obviously," she replies. "Today's events..."
"I know. Aiden is recovering well, though."
But the same could not be said for Skipjack, who had been in the epicenter of the explosion. Iris sighs while her brother's hands tighten on the wood, making it creak. In tandem, they return to flicking through screens and poring over data.
"How is X, do you think?"
"I don't know," Iris replies honestly. "What do you think of that Reploid we saw today?"
"Why are you asking me? You're the one who saw it in person."
She rolls her eyes. "I think it moved odd. Like a zombie. It didn't respond to outside stimulus except for X."
"But it had to be aware of its surroundings if it exploded," Colonel points out. "To an extent, at least."
She nods. It makes sense.
"We won't be able to do anything for a while, though," Colonel continues. "The media's watching us pretty close after today."
-
X is tired. X is tired, and while Zero's constant steady presence abates it, the sterility of his home does not. Everything is barren-- from the kitchen, devoid of food, to the living room, furnished sparsely and without decoration. It's another reminder that his own home is destroyed, but--
He can't afford to think about that right now. There was too much to consider.
"That was really scary," X whispers to himself.
Questioning had taken place at Zero's work, after all. He felt like a mouse running willingly into a lion's den, defenseless and foolish. It had taken every ounce of his will power to act as if he felt safe. As if nothing was wrong, save the fact he tried to be a hero.
"I'm going to have to do that again, aren't I?"
He couldn't calculate any other outcome. Becoming an Enforcer-- the process of which had been smoothed over by Sigma himself-- would force him into working directly beneath the 17th.
"You look dreadful," Zero says, cutting into his thoughts. "I ordered takeout. Do you want to put on a movie?"
The couch squeaks under Zero's added weight. X loosens up, a hand immediately wandering for his friend's gauntlet. He nods, unable to speak until his shakes pass.
The TV screen in front of them flickers violently.
"It's okay if you're not okay, X," Zero murmurs, leaning into X's space. "You've been-- you've been through a lot."
Astro Boy's familiar music fills the room. It wasn't a movie, but close enough. X sags into Zero, head resting on his shoulder, eyes drifting shut. Here was safety-- here was security.
"Are you offering to listen to my feelings?" X asks, slurring somewhat.
"Yes," Zero says, squeezing his shoulder.
They sit like that in the dark room, illuminated only by the TV screen.
The Death Rogumer was not a large airship, but it was imposing in its own right. It glided through the air under a quarter of its power, ponderous at such a slow speed, clad in a royal purple and burnished gold regalia. Its name was inscribed along its bow which bulged out beneath the sword-like figurehead, a deadly aerial rapier. A giant lens, a contraption of glass and steel, rotated, extending, shifting until it could view the sprawling city unobstructed. The ship banked, rolling so gently in the air, exposing the electric cannons stationed on its slim upper deck. Steam hissed out from their rounded chassis as their barrels extended; red lights flashed for as long as the cannons turned to position, glowing solid green when their mark was found.
Their target was an elegant, conical skyscraper that made the city's skyline iconic, a legendary silhouette recognized by many. Its glass face shattered in the brutal wake of the cannon-barrage. More than plasma ammunition, shards burst from the half-ton shells, raining fire on the city below. These embers floated, descending, skipping through the air as the wind took them, then latched onto the ground and neighboring buildings, singular burning cinders where they did not ignite what was below them. Above, the skyscraper shuddered, failing to regain its strength when another two-gun barrage assaulted its broken flanks.
Its assailant circled the beaten structure, engines burning low and steady. The Death Rogumer no longer lumbered, but sauntered through the air, a circling shark awaiting the next opportunity to bite. Fire from the city below washed its sleek hull in a flickering orange glow. It banked again, settled onto an even keel-- and exploded.
A fin on its starboard side burst apart from the inside. The explosion rocked the airship simultaneously with cannon fire-- the combined inertia saw the ship plummet, flaming from its open hull, a main engine going up with it. Yet, as quickly as the inferno began, all was smothered, choked out by thick white foam and a flood of emergency drones from within. The Death Rogumer shuddered violently, shaking off the wound, and struggled into a climb.
The ascent was slow. It clawed its way back to a cool, safe three thousand, above the skyscraper which was now collapsing in on itself, and above the city, terrified but alive. There was a pronounced list to the airship. The repair drones broke from their duties to latch onto the battered decks, miniature motors whining, straining, a dozen or so contributors against a starboard tilt. The airship heaved.
The airship limped.
-
While the center of the city burned, the rest ground to a standstill. Jumbo-Trons and billboards flickered, the now-familiar warning message disappearing. The repetitive emergency instructions played alongside city sirens died down to a low, vibrating buzz, an oppressive hum that choked the ears and numbed the brain. The sound permeated the tons of concrete and steel as to be felt in the bones of various underground shelters.
One such shelter thrummed ominously. Marcus looked up from his book, eyes flicking from his companions to the open doorway to the television screen, suddenly alive with static. He watched it apprehensively, wincing when the intercom system blared. The speakers clicked rapidly, like gunshots.
The thrum died down. The shelter stopped shaking, as did their bones, and the screen warped colorfully. When it recovered, Marcus was staring at slightly grainy footage--
"That's the airship! It has to be!" Marcus cried, shocked. The airship had been popular before the Maverick War; its decks were as familiar to him as they were to Storm Eagle. "What's happening? How are they doing this?"
The footage flickered. When it returned, it was much clearer, and audio tuned in with it. Whistling gales played over the intercom, but Marcus found it as abrasive as the feedback, if not worse.
-
The explosion had knocked X into a titanium door, jamming up his shoulder. The damaged joint creaks and grinds in his ear as he clambers up a narrow ladder chute, pushing himself off the upper rung and onto the ship's prow. A shadow is already cast across the deck and he's mildly glad for it-- the sun is blazing overhead, bright and uncaring. He knows it would have blinded him if not for the ship's secondary rudder.
It also helps that Storm Eagle is the one blotting out the sun , X thinks dimly.
The former Commander holds himself aloft, a combined effort between gallant purple wings and dual shoulder-mounted rockets. He's intimidating, always has been, but now he also makes X feel sickened-- this is not the same Reploid he met as a rookie Maverick Hunter.
But it is , a voice whispers. You don't know if he was infected or merely defected.
X shakes off the thought.
"You've damaged the Death Rogumer . You must know that we'll be lucky to crash land outside of city limits, yes?" Storm Eagle calls, his voice reedy, a thin whistle to it. "No matter. The only acceptable death is one found in combat!"
Storm Eagle dives down. The sun flares out, brilliant, and X's face aches as his optics work double time to compensate. He dashes across the deck, clearing it in one, but as he twists around to face his adversary, he's already within seconds of blowing him away. X stumbles more than rolls out of the way as Storm Eagle's wings threaten to cleave him in two.
When he pops back up, it is with his buster blazing, yellow plasma tracking Storm Eagle across the platform. He sights crackles of satisfying smoke; his buster hums, residual plasma beginning to gather around the mouth of the barrel.
"I see you've improved!" Storm Eagle says, laughing, a sound punctuated by chirps. "But you're still just a rookie."
-
The first attack had been close. Marcus paws at hands grasping his arm, prying the clutch grip off. He can feel his heartbeat in his chest, an overwhelming sense of anxiety stealing him. None of this moment made sense-- the footage, the rattling terror in their bones, or the clash of Reploids above a burning city.
It didn't make sense.
But it was hope.
-
The charged shot is timed well, in X's opinion. Storm Eagle's gale rips across the platform, plying at the tips of his boots as he leaps above the focused stream, but his shoulder jolts at the recoil. The shot, aimed for the other's open chest, flies wide. X hardly has time to brace himself as he falls back into the wind tunnel, fingers tearing at metal.
The gust dissipates around him. X slumps against the deck, relieved, but is violently reminded of his situation when massive, vice-like talons clamp around his torso. His skeleton creaks as Storm Eagle squeezes and lofts him into the air.
"Perhaps this is dishonorable, but you left yourself open, Maverick Hunter X!"
His body lurches, and then there is nothing but open air and pain.
-
Marcus cries out in alarm as he watches the battle. Had it been too much to hope? Had their naivety tipped the scales out of the blue Reploid's favor? It was agonizing. X fell through the sky, disappearing from view in only seconds, but it felt like years.
"He can't die here! We need you, X!" Marcus exclaims, but it was mostly to himself.
-
X descends, but not as far as God or Storm Eagle intended him to.
He descends, but his body is skidding the surface of the wounded Death Rogumer , and it's enough for his boots to find purchase. With no small amount of strain, X kicks against the bruised hull of the ship and goes the only direction available to him-- up.
-
Storm Eagle is walking off the platform at a casual stride. Grief and dread sit heavy in Marcus' heart. It sits heavy in all their hearts.
"He's not dead, he can't be. We need him," someone says, and Marcus can't help but agree, bowing his head.
"He's not dead! Look! Mega Man!"
-
X walks across the deck unopposed-- for the most part. He fights the slanting, listing deck, his eyes hardening as he understands this to be a ship in her death throes. His time was running out.
"Storm Eagle!" X shouts, throwing his arms wide open, gasping as his shoulder wrenches. "I lived! Can't we work something out?"
The former Commander turns, one hand on the door to the ship's cabin. His beak drops open in surprise, eyes wide underneath his golden mask. X stares back unflinchingly, knowing that he must be quite a sight.
"No one has to die," X continues, plaintive.
The Death Rogumer groans.
"What of Chill Penguin, then?" Storm Eagle replies.
-
The fight is on again.
The fight is knife's edge close, a toe-to-toe stand between a stowaway and a corsair.
The camera shakes sometimes, revealing how bad off the ship is in fits and bursts. Marcus watches Storm Eagle make sweeping dives at X, but each time he zooms away, a feather is plucked, shearing off in a smoldering heap.
"He's doing so much better!"
"He must have found his stride..."
"You can do this, X! Mega Man!"
-
X goes up in light. When the light fades, his armor is a paler hue, bodysuit a bold yellow. He continues to track Storm Eagle across the sky, pacing the platform, buster vibrating with a suppressed charge shot.
He watches as the Eagle wings around, flight now a wobbly, barely sustained trajectory toward his target. It's enough for X to level his buster, optics shrinking as he locks in-- the small of Storm Eagle's back, the rocket pack--
Arctic cold floods X's circuits as he looses his shot. A barbed mound of ice soars through the air, followed by a rapid-fire burst of ice shards.
The Death Rogumer shudders underfoot.
X's feet slide out from under him.
Storm Eagle crashes unceremoniously into the stern of his own flagship.
-
"He got him! X did it!"
"He did it! X really is a Mega Man!"
-
The Death Rogumer breaks apart. X finally plummets, his body going slack as he clears the fractured deck.
If the camera aboard the ship had still been rolling, then all those watching could have seen Mega Man X weep.
The King’s Battlefield has many nicknames-- the Palace of Ghosts chief among them. After so many centuries of bloody contests and bitter struggles, the forgotten bones of the fallen make resurgences, rising anew in the wake of surging thunderstorm or flooded river. And with no blade of grass or swaying tree to conceal them, the field from a distance resembles a realm of Hell, all broken bone and black, bloody mud. Yet, perhaps, the most persistent legend of the King’s Battlefield is the legion of healers who comb the burned plains after every conflict, drawing away the living-- and leaving the dead.
The healers are priests and acolytes and, most importantly, common citizens of great heart, their souls brandished for the world to see in white cloaks and white veils. No markings adorn their clothes, not even the injured, and they say nary a word passing through the Battlefield. Soldiers, mercenaries, and all others on Death’s riverboat regard them as saints or demons, cursing them and blessing them in equal parts. Though they bring souls back from the brink, they are seen as death-bringers, quickeners, and otherwise otherworldly.
Zero, for all his virtues, did not believe in such a whimsical tale. No one in any nation sent the Church or the Temples out to battlefields, let alone have a legion of such a breed, unless they were asking for the wrath of gods. Any respectable General would take the walking injured and leave the rest...
But something... tugged at him today. A whisper of something, hissing into his ears, and urging him back into the bloodied battlefield. Remnants of last night’s skirmish were everywhere-- but there was something missing. Bodies. In the distance, he saw a lone figure, bobbing and meandering like a lost wisp...
The lost wisp was upon him before he could decide what to do. A ghastly smile peaked out at him from beneath a white veil, white teeth through pale skin, lips and gums blood red. He startled back, hand dropping for the butt of his sword-- and found his sheath empty.
“The living do not come often here,” the wisp says. “Why did you come?”
Zero stared. Where did his sword go--? He tried to look for it, but the-- the thing had his eyes locked.
“You are not injured, nor broken or sad, but the taint of war-- it’s in your eyes. You wage it! You are it! Your heart is like iron. I can see it.”
He tried to speak, but nothing would come. Where was his sword?
“You are the storm that blew across these tortured plains last night! You left them all to die-- but it’s alright. We’ve rescued your captains, your lieutenants, and your cavalry... They spoke of you highly.”
Zero finally found his voice. “What are you- talking about?” His voice cracked like glass. “What are you?”
The veil came down from the wisp’s head, revealing a young man. As the sunlight touched his skin, Zero rapidly understood that he was human-- painfully average, terribly plain. He growled low in his throat.
“What game are you playing, kid? This isn’t a place for you to make pretend.”
“No one here plays pretend,” the man said earnestly. In his hands, Zero’s blade appeared, the steel edge glittering maliciously under the morning sun. He spun it delicately-- the blade, however briefly, grinned like a mouthful of fangs. “Now, mister Iron Heart, would you please come with me?”
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Jasper stares at the hook and bait as it sweeps through the water, leaving glittering swirls in its awake. She reaches out with a massive clawed hand and grasps the hook, armoured skin feeling nothing of the sharp metal's bite, and yanks. This was her territory! This was her food! She wasn't about to let some human steal her dinner...
The hook pulled against her hand.
She blinked in surprise-- how had the fisherman withstood her pull? She yanked back again, fins flaring out.
Another return yank. Frustrated, she shot toward the surface to inspect the pesky human, eyes widening in shock. It wasn't a fisherman at all! It was a young human woman, fumbling with the line, rambling to herself in confusion.
She must be powerful to withstand my strength... Jasper thought. A worthy opponent!
"Hey, you! Lady!" Jasper shouted. The strength of her voice rippled the water and rocked the boat gently. The lady fell over in a heap.
"Oops..." Much more gently, the giant mermaid swam closer to the small boat, using her many fins to lift herself out of the water. Mottled orange and yellow scales glinted like metal under the fresh morning sun, streaked black where old scars were. "What are ya doin' here?"
"I'm fishing-- or trying to!" the woman huffed. She shoved herself back onto the boat's seat. A mess of short but curly pink hair lay smushed under a sun hat, wrapped up by a white bow. Her skin was awfully pale but Jasper could see the muscle definition. This lady was strong!
"Why are ya fishin' in my part of the sea, then?" Jasper demanded.
"Your part of the sea?" the lady huffed. She leaned over the edge slightly, mouth turning into a shocked O-shape. "You...! Oh my, you're beautiful, I think! And a real mermaid!"
Huh? Jasper blinked in surprise. "Of course I'm a real mermaid, lady!"
But she had called her beautiful....
No one had ever done that before.
+
The woman came back with her boat and her hat and her fishing pole. Jasper trailed after the little craft, fins skirting the surface, wondering when she would put down her sales. She would make sure that the human got the best haul tonight! She would eat like a queen!
Something flew out of the boat. It hit the water and sank-- a sea shell! Jasper snatched it up and shot toward the surface.
"You could have hit me with that!" she complained.
"Ah, I would never want to do that... I had a feeling you would be here again, dear."
Jasper flared out her fins, frustrated. "What do you know, huh? What's your name anyway?"
"My name's Pearl! What's yours?" And the human woman smiled, a dainty little thing that made Jasper swell up.
"My name's Jasper!" the mermaid bellowed.
The boat shook and swung wildly away from its course, the sails taking the bulk of Jasper's shout.
Laughter rang out over the sea, long and beautiful.
--------
This is a Ko-Fi for @rrriledup ! If you would like a story of your very own, buy me a Ko-Fi here!
Aile knew that Greye was fragile-- just how fragile, however, she had not measured until that very night. It was a long-haul mission on a technicality, requiring Aile and Greye to stake out an old watchtower for the better part of a day. They were nearing their tenth hour, and Greye was nearing his last straw. He curled up against her with tired, baleful eyes, Model A resting on his boot. The thick cables protruding from his chestguard wrinkled in his hands.
“When can we go home?” Greye finally asked, his voice a bare whisper.
“Our shift ends in an hour. It’ll be okay,” Aile murmured. “At least there hasn’t been any activity, right?”
Greye’s eyes steeled. “No,” he said. “We had mavericks twice today.”
He pointed at his blackened, charred shoulder as if to prove his point. He had been grazed by the blast of a missile-launching fellow about three hours ago, yet had refused to retreat. Now it looked like he was preparing to use it as leverage.
“Well… yes,” she agreed. “Once we get home, we’ll get you fixed up, okay?”
The boy nodded. An hour could not come quick enough-- but thankfully, their mission concluded without any further action.
*
The narrow nurse’s office was comforting to Greye, if only because he slept in the back room. Aile picked through his hair as the doctor fixed up his shoulder, fussing over him like a worried mother. He didn’t protest, but he didn’t acknowledge her either.
“Feel better?” she ventured.
“Tired,” he responded after a long pause. “What time is it?”
“A little after eight in the evening…” Her fingers caught on a tangled knot of silver hair. Mindful, she picked through it gently. “You should get some rest.”
Greye did not get some rest.
*
The next time they met, Greye was on a solo mission. Smoke billowed freely from a festering wound in his back, dual pistols steaming from overuse. Worried hunters back home had been trying to contact him for hours to no avail and in a fit of desperation-- they called Aile. She would be able to get through to him.
Hopefully.
Aile hadn’t been able to get close to the youngster either, not until he was finished with the fight. Pain radiated out from his frame, grey eyes dim with the weight of the world. He barely recognizes his senior.
“Kid, you look like you need to get home…”
“There’s more to do,” he hissed out. “This isn’t finished.”
Model A-- she can’t hear him, but his energy pulses slightly. Greye shakes his head vehemently.
“I need to keep going. I have a spare tank, it’s fine.”
Aile couldn’t bite back the impressed whistle in time. Greye hisses again then tosses his head back, clumsily downing that spare tank. Most of it spills onto the front of his vest, bubbling where it hits open wounds. Jesus…
Before she can speak, Greye fills the room with light. He seems to swell to twice his size before she can see again-- and well, she had forgot about the Model’s little skill. Where once a fourteen year old boy stood, a hulking stag panted in his wake.
“Shit, are you sure that’s safe, kiddo?”
No response.
The wall crumbles into dust as the boy-turned-Pseudoroid charges forward.
Greye is fast in this form. Aile can hardly keep up equipped even with ZX, their gentle chatter keeping her focused and alert. She leaps in the wake of Buckfire-but-Not’s craters, finding purchase and propulsion. She takes out what enemies Greye misses.
“He’s really... “ her voice trails off.
Reminds me of you, Zero, chirps a small voice.
I was never so bad!
He really was so bad, once upon a time.
*
The lines between Greye and Buckfire blur as he embraces the Pseudoroid’s data. Memories not quite his own feel real and he relishes in the pleasure of moving. His mission objective is a thing of the past-- what was it? Why was he still out here? Had he not already beat the last enemy? No…
There was something he had to find.
An item, yes-- a flower for a child. She was small- maybe six or seven- and she had never seen a flower before, beyond the artificial plants within the bounty camp’s homes. That was a shame. Even Greye had seen a real flower, and he was… undeserving of it, to say the least. He must find a flower.
The concept is easy enough for Buckfire to grasp. Flowers. Find a flower without harming the flower. Bring the flower back home-- that’s where things became nebulous. Home was either his chambers in Weil’s castle, or the medical center of the camp. The two minds deliberated together.
Ah.
The buildings are beginning to recede now, reducing their high-altitude footholds until they are forced to land on solid ground. Greye charges forward with a roar, sweeping blindly across the ground, flame jetting wispily from his antlers. Flowers… Plants, something, had to be here! Yet he saw only barren earth.
WARNING:: ENERGY at CRITICAL LEVELS
Abruptly, power is sapped and rerouted from his hydraulic legs, forcibly drawn into the most essential functions. Buckfire/Greye collapse harshly and Model A detaches with a strained cry, leaving Greye sprawled on the ground.
What is wrong with you, Greye?! Jeez!
*
Aile is grateful when her charge’s mad dash comes to an abrupt halt, his diminutive frame sprawled and unconscious against scorched earth. She kneels beside him, fingers pressing to the center of his belly where you could feel a Reploid’s fuel pump. Even when they were inactive, it still flowed, but Greye’s was terribly still.
“HQ, this is Aile. I think we need a direct link back to the-- Airship.”
“Right away, ma’am. Two passengers?”
“Indeed,” she says gravely. “Right to the medical ward,” she adds.
He looks even more pitiful like this… Like a wet rat, Model A says mournfully.
What was he looking for, A? X asks gently. They float together, hovering just above a pair of surgeons operating on Greye.
A flower, A says. But he was going in the wrong direction.
If the situation weren’t so dire, X could have laughed. Instead he merely sighed, flipping himself upside down so his gem was in the direction of the floor. By the time Aile had confronted him, the boy was already half-dead. And by the time she had apprehended him…
Well.
It couldn’t have been any more timely.
At least dear Model A didn’t seem overly worried about his partner.
*
Aile kneels before a tombstone, head bowed and hands clasped, her thoughts slow and meandering. The stone is a simple affair- a titanium post, arms folding across it, paying homage to a Reploid who had lived a short life. Her heart twists in her chest.
“Giro,” she says, and her voice is frail. “I’m training him. Trying to, at least. He’s a tough nut to crack.”
Her voice cracks, and she splutters a laugh. Of course.
“That boy is crazy, though, Dad. Not in a bad way, but more of a Vent way…”
She swallows. Greye was something special, and he was her kid now, and fucking up was not something she could consider right now.
“He’s in the medical ward, right now. Intensive care. His fuel pump was ripped out by some Pseudoroid, but he went tearing off halfway across the city for a flower!”
The stone is silent and cold. She heaves a shuddering sigh. The tombstone was never as warm as the real thing, but Giro had moved on, and that was for the best. If only she could do right by his memory.
“I’m really trying. He’s just a kid! He’s fourteen, dad, but his eyes are the angriest things I’ve ever seen. Even in the operating room... But he’s angry at himself, isn’t he?”
Words slide from her mouth like water, uprooting and filtering the contents of her heart after months of keeping it in. She was some kind of parent, some kind of influential figure, and barely scraping her twenties.
“What would you do, Giro? If you had to help Greye, what would you say?”
The tombstone leers at her as she leans back, the nameplate glinting in the sunlight.
[ GIROUETTE ]
“Yeah, me too,” she sighs. She wipes at her eyes with her gloves, swallowing down a quiet sob. Damn it. She was supposed to be past that by now-- Giro had died so long ago. But her heart still burned with the loss.
Aile slowly stands up, brushing away the dirt and grass that had collected over her clothes. As she does so, she sees something move beneath the arm of Giro’s gravestone, a flicker of color in a shadow. She kneels back down to inspect it--
A daisy has sprouted beside the titanium testimony, its head weighed down by its own bud. The petals are still closed, though she can see slips of white peeking through, and several more bundles of unopened flowers curled beside it. Her hand brushes along the stem, and the daisy jumps, the petals abruptly unfurling like a small sun.
“Awh, Dad…”
*
The Bounty Hunter’s camp is the same as the last time Greye saw it. There’s a few more residents, of course, but he had quickly learned that to be the nature of such a camp. Bounty hunters moved around a lot. A lot of them didn’t come back, either, though he was fortunate enough that all his friends were still here. He smiles at them now, waving enthusiastically yet never stopping long enough to chat.
He has some place to be. There’s a flower in his hand.
It’s a delicate daisy, thin and frail. Its petals are barely unfurled from its bud, the roots not yet taken into the pot. Greye is mindful not to move too fast for fear of scaring the plant. It has a lovely home waiting for it, with someone small and brave and deserving. She’d probably even name it…
The tower stretches high into the sky before him, a stone testimony. He flashes a smile at the Reploid who guards it.
“Eh? You look chipper today, kid…” The guard says, baffled.
“Do you know if Emi is still home, Elliot? I really need to see her,” Greye asks imploringly. He ignores the comment.
“She’s upstairs, with Clyde,” Elliot supplies. “Go get her.”
*
“A, you gotta A-Trans with me before we see her,” Greye hisses.
Wh-why?! I thought you didn’t like doing that in camp!
“Emi likes it. She said I looked cool!”
Well, it’s nice to be appreciated…. By some people!
*
Clyde is leaned against the wall, Emi in his ginormous lap, a book held between his hands. The cover is tattered and faded, yet the words still seem to be fresh, as the big Reploid reads them theatrically to the child. His rattles and booms conceal Greye’s approach, though the little daisy seems to recoil in on itself at the sound. He teases the petals reassuringly.
“Er, Clyde,” he says gently. Now that he’s here, he feels slightly awkward in full battle regalia.
(It looks cool, he reminds himself. Got to do it.)
“Clyde,” he says again. The big man finally pauses mid-word, arms haphazardly dropping back to his sides, Emi giggling in the abrupt silence--
“Ah! Greye! I wasn’t expecting you here! What’s that in your hands?” Clyde booms. The book closes with a snap and his expression is confused, searching out the silvers and oranges of Greye’s armor.
“It’s a gift, er… Emi, I found this for you,” he admits. He drops to one knee, proffering the flower pot.
The moment hangs in limbo.
Emi’s eyes sparkle, honey-gold in a shaft of sunlight, her cheeks rosy with excitement. Her hands are held together against her chest, quivering, hesitating, as if the flower might wilt and shatter if she were to reach out and touch it. She reminds Greye of the daisy, and he wishes her to grow as strong as the daisy.
“It’s okay. You can hold it, it’s in the pot,” he urges quietly.
Emi finally reaches the pot, accepting it gingerly from Greye’s gloved hands.
X had a secret, a crime, a guilty pleasure nestled deep within his psyche that ate away at him until he felt as if he would collapse. It was a sin that he nursed, a selfish urge, a yearning that rusted his core. Perhaps a reploid of stronger grit could have resisted it, but not he, for he burned with his love for this crime.
He dreamt of when he had last indulged it. His skin tingling as the predator crooned in his ear, strong claws holding him in place. The electricity sizzling his circuits as fangs pulled at his skin, threatening to draw forth blood. His core squeezed as he dreamt of the little sounds he had made-- the moans, the pleads. It made his skin crawl with shame when he finally awoke.
Yet he found himself drawn back, eager to commit that sin again. But it wasn’t all carnal urges that brought him back.
It was love. Plain, raw, honest love. And perhaps a little hope, too.
Hope that X could bring him back. Gather up the strands of what was left of his dear terror and piece him back together. Reach deep inside his core and restore him to his former glory. Hope that he could save Zero, and through that, save the world from certain annihilation.
The world, X mused. How.. dramatic. Yet Zero could lay waste to anything he so pleased like this.
“X! I knew you’d come back.” A voice, as sweet as any rose with thorns.
“Of course, Zero. I’ll always return to you,” X says gently.
Zero takes his hands in his own, squeezing ever so tenderly. Curved claws had grown over his fingertips, so they were more talon than hand. Fangs peeked over his lip, playful and dangerous. X sighs with a mixture of admiration and fear.
“I’ve missed you,” X admits. He pulls Zero into a deep kiss. “How long has it been...?”
Zero purrs into his mouth, smiling against his skin. “Three months... Have I been keeping you busy?”
“Oh, very,” X says. “Don’t you miss it?”
The kiss is separated. Zero growls low in his throat, rough as sandpaper. “No, X. Don’t you realize that I’ve been set free?”
“Oh, yes,” X sighs. “Can we go to your hideout, Zero? I want...”
