#hawks-centric

So, he imagines that he can flex a little control over them, too. He’s got the information, he’s just not sure who to take it to. He’s never seen the head of the HPSC. They remain an enigma. The leader of this whole thing is the one piece he hasn’t slipped onto the puzzle. No, whoever they are, they’re mysterious. He only knows they exist because he’s seen their hen scratch of a signature on his progress reports and monthly, “how are you doing Keigo,” emails. 

Despite the mystery, the head of the HPSC is the one constant in his life. He can’t say the same of his handlers. Most of the people who surround him shift and change. They’re like a tide.

When he was younger, his father used to take him down to the beach. Keigo was always fascinated by the pull, the drag, of that dark blue water.

Yeah, these handlers of his moved in and out like a tide. Every month it was someone else. One or two might be familiar faces, but they never told him their names. Well, not their real names at least. No, no one ever revealed those. Keigo was accustomed to the secrecy of it all. It was kinda boring. 

But, most days were. 

It was just him and the various adults who were tasked with his lessons or training schedules. It was a never ending circle, a rotation of sameness that made his teeth ache. There were no other kids at the base. No, lucky him, he was the only one selected to receive this special training.

When he was smaller he’d been a little more excited. He’d wander behind the dark suits, clutching his Endeavor figure to his chest, his eyes scanning every room, every person, every crevice. 

You can never be too careful Kei, his father had told him, his golden eyes winking down at him. Always keep your eyes and ears open. 

“It’s a special program, Keigo. Starting today, you need to say goodbye to your name. You’re going to become a very special hero, okay?” 

It was a younger man who had talked with him that afternoon. He can remember looking down at his toy, the plastic heavy, sticking to his clenched arms. Keigo can recall his small voice asking the man two questions: “Can I be like him? Can I be a hero who beats the bad guys?”

At the time, they had felt so, well, important to him. They were all encompassing, vital queries that needed to know the answer to back then. He disliked them now. They were stupid questions. Besides, what self respecting adult takes the word of a six year old seriously? 

He’s eleven now. He’s way past those childish dreams. And, they still hadn’t taken his name from him. Oh, they hinted at it. He’d even caught sight of one of the lists. 

The lists were the long rows and rows of potential hero names for Keigo. Not that he was asked much about any of this. His opinion didn’t matter in the grand scheme of things. He’d only managed to see one of the lists a few years ago. His handler hadn’t been expecting him back so fast. 

He wasn’t supposed to use his wings unless he was in the training facility. Little did they know, he’d been practicing. How could he not? He could feel each and every tiny thing with his feathers. It drove him insane. If he was drifting off to sleep he would feel the electricity humming through the walls. When he focused hard enough he could hear the distant conversations happening on the floors above him. 

It was an endless march of noise, emotion, and sensations. He felt like he was overstimulated all the time, his skin too heavy for his bones. He wanted to scream some days: get these off me, I can’t, I-I can’t take it. But, he had to learn how to grapple with his quirk. It was part of him. 

Still, sometimes he wished he was someone, anyone else. 

‘Turn it off’, they said, ‘dampen the urge to reach out with your feathers’. 

Yeah, right. Let them slip into his quirk, see how much they liked the all consuming sensation of it all. It was too much, too intense. Some days it’s a fight to make himself get out of his bed. Everything is just...too close, sometimes. 

He’s just a kid, he wanted to tell them. Like that would grant him a reprieve. No, he already knew what answer they would give him. The HPSC had selected you for a purpose, a reason, Keigo. 

They fed him such vague, well, bullshit. Yeah, he knows he shouldn’t say words like that, whatever. They shouldn’t be doing this, er, whatever it was that they were hoping to achieve with him. But, it’s not like the confirmed acknowledgement of their preposterousness would stop them. No, he’d learned to keep his mouth shut and his eyes open. It was the best way to survive the endless march of days and weeks. He would nod, practice, and then practice a little more in secret. 

It’s his quirk after all. If he could perfect it, maybe they would loosen his leash.  

His wings were still a little stunted. They could grow to longer points, but it took a lot of time and a lot of concentration. It was like his body knew exactly what he could, or could not, in this case, handle. More feathers meant more sensations. More sensations meant less sleep, less control, and, worst of all, less autonomy. There would be more tests, more training, more, more, more. 

Still, he worked at it. It was a double edged sword. He both hated, and loved, the improvements he saw within himself. 

Despite his impeded wing growth, Keigo could flap himself along now. He could even hover in the air for a little while, but his back would protest the strain after forty minutes or so. It hurt to hold himself up. His shoulders just weren't broad enough to maintain his weight. He’d been hoping that eating a little more would help. You know, beef him up a little. 

He’d brought the subject up with one of his handlers, one of the ones he actually knew. The man had nodded, his curly blonde hair bobbing around his ears. And, with that, his food rations were extended. He was also given some other choices too. Some steak, veal, higher protein foods. He’d stubbornly stuck with chicken. He liked the taste. Never one to pass up an opportunity, Keigo took advantage of the larger portions and he gorged himself on the succulent meat. 

Four weeks later, he hadn’t grown much. Maybe what, half a pound? Nah, most of that energy must have been consumed by his quirk. But, the more he ate, the easier it was to focus on it. Meh, still a win, win. At least from the HPSC’s viewpoint. 

He mentioned that there are never any kids around the HPSC training facility, right? 

Adults? You couldn’t swing a dead cat and not hit at least 4 or 5 of them, at any given moment. Keigo didn’t mind. He was used to adults. By nature he was quiet, observant. It was his habit to position himself in the corners of rooms. It let him see anyone and everyone who entered or left. He likes watching. But, he’s done that his whole life. Even before the HPSC picked him up he’d learned how to hone that skill. 

Now, the trainers and handlers were trying to break him of that tic. 

‘You need to curb that Keigo’, they’d say. ‘If you’re going to become a successful hero you can’t just sit in the shadows. We already have plenty of agents who are trained for that. No, you need to be more gregarious. Speak up, talk with people. You’ve been drilled in this skill, now show us what you’ve learned. We want you to be a hero’.

So, he myna birds what they ask. They’ll leave him alone that way. Sure, sure, he’s rewarded with gifts, with praise, with extra free time. But, it’s all so calculated. He can smell their intentions a mile away. He’s seen the books some of them read. They were books with titles like: The Psychology of the Child, The Developing Mind, Playing and Reality. 

If that wasn’t obvious enough, he’d heard some of the conversations they passed as they handed off their shifts, the words lilting back and forth, like secret notes. 

“Ignore his minor tactics. It’s just him responding to the attention. Only praise him when he’s behaving.” Or, “Give Keigo labeled praise. You know, build his self esteem. He’s so quiet, it’s hard to tell what he’s thinking. Pack a snack for him. That way when he opens up to you, boom! Treat in hand.”

Do they not realize how much he can hear? God, adults are dumb. Smile and give them what they want, or, say what they most need to hear and they’re eating out of your hand. Meanwhile, as they’re congratulating themselves on a job well done, they had no idea what thoughts were racing behind his golden irises. 

No, Keigo is motivated by other things. One motivation trumps all the others: he wants to get outta this place. Just for a day, heck, he’d take an hour. Keigo is tired of the same walkway, the same lunch hall, the same dreary views of the city. 

It’s springtime in Japan and Keigo can make his feathers molt. It’s a newer skill, one he’s withholding from his handlers for the time being. Maybe if he feigns a cough, he can pretend to be sick? He’s gotten pretty good at acting now. That was another one of his classes. It was like a, how to deceive someone 101. Actually, it was prolly called something like ‘Espionage for Tots’. 

It was fun. He liked the smiles and serious faces he was asked to make. They should have slapped a big: “please, Keigo, don’t use these skills to deceive us” disclaimer on the door. He liked the guy that taught it, too. He was a short, unassuming man, but he would genuinely grin at Keigo each time he walked through the door for his session. Oh, wait. Was that just an act? He’d have to ask him. Boy, he’s good if it was. He needs to shore up his own skills…

He could always pretend that an imaginary sick day was part of the lesson. Look! My poor feathers, they’re molting, how sad. Also, cough, cough, I feel ill. No, ill is a bad choice of words. Ahem, I mean, I don’t feel so good. Can I lay down? Maybe prop open my window, for the fresh air. Oh no! I accidentally swooped out. Cough, cough.  

Keigo isn’t even sure what he’d do with himself if he could manage to sneak out. It’s not like he’s not noticeable. He’s sporting at least 7 feet of ruby red plumage now. Well, if he’s gonna plan an escape, he might as well do it-

“Keigo,” it’s a sharp voice, and it startles him out of his musings. It belongs to one of the head handlers. Kaori? Yeah, that’s her name. Eh, the one she’d given him at least. She’s nice enough, a little rough around the edges at times, but she’s fair. Maybe, oh, maybe he can ask her about-

“Are you listening, Keigo? We need to go. The provost was expecting us over an hour ago. Where have you been? Mai couldn’t find you so she asked me to look for you.”

“I was up there.” Keigo points, his chin lifting to follow his movement, wings fluttering against his back. Despite her tone, Kaori doesn’t seem too upset. Her heartbeat is normal. But, that didn’t mean much around here.

“Up there?” Kaori’s tone is faint and a little awed. She turns her violet gaze to his, pursing her lips into a thin line. “Since when?”

“It’s been, ah, three months and sixteen days since I first made it to that perch. They didn’t like that I went so far. Eiichi said he was going to document it though. I mean, it ain’t too far. Guess I can go for a lower spot next time. I just like that I can see more up there, it makes it-”

“No, no. It’s fine Keigo. Don’t say “ain’t,” it’s slang. I suppose it has been awhile since I’ve seen you. How old are you now? Ten?”

“Eleven,” Keigo replies, his back straightening, wings arching beside his head.

“Mmm, eleven. Gosh, you’re growing up fast,” Kaori’s reply is sharp, practiced. Keigo rolls his eyes. She wanted to spark a reaction out of him. See if he’ll puff up with joy or grow sullen with her mistake of thinking he’s younger than he is. It’s easier to assign him extra training than really deal with him. At least, that’s what some of his handlers seemed to think. 

“Have you seen the news?” Kaori asks, violet eyes resting on his amber ones. “There’s a mission coming up. Endeavor’s agency is taking it on.”

Keigo feels his wings lifting again, but he quickly suppresses the motion, his shoulders hunching forward. He never, ever, wanted to seem too eager. Not when they’d primed him for such an obvious tell. It’s not like they didn’t know what heroes he admired. 

Yeah, Keigo had seen the news. He was permitted two hours of television each day. Most blocks were taken up with watching the latest developments. Sometimes he would shift the channel to a cartoon, but the television time would be lessened if he watched nonsense for too long. No, the tv was for educational purposes only, not for leisure or fun. He’d heard that line enough to have it memorized. 

“What about it?” Keigo asks, falling into step with Kaori. She’s taking the long way back to his next lesson. Clearly, she’s wanting to glean something from him. 

“Well, I was thinking it might be beneficial for you to observe the mission.”

“What, like on CCTV or something?”

“No. In person. We would need to fit into the crowd, but this mission has been widely publicized, it’s a miracle the villain’s haven’t heard about it.”

“That, or they want the fight.”

Kaori laughs. “Very good, excellent observation. You’ve improved Keigo. Consider this a set date. I will personally escort you to the mission viewing point. At the end of the exercise, I would like to hear your opinion on the matter.”

Keigo bites his tongue. 

It’s too slick again, too obvious. The mission Kaori mentioned fits the profile of a raid, not the everyday, run of the mill, villain sting. Endeavor’s agency had been squaring up with the lower level fighting rings for months now. This was just another day for him. The number two hero promised to clean up crime and he was following through with that assertion. 

So, why take him to see it now? Why did it matter if Keigo saw it in person? The data and video would be uploaded the next day to the HPSC database, he could just watch it and take notes then. 

Why is she doing this?

Keigo chances a glance at her face. She’s pale, stern and stoic above him. Her heels click on the tiles and her back is ramrod straight. A few feathers bristle, feeling, listening, nah, her pulse is steady too. It’s hopeless. Maybe this is the challenge? Something to test him, to try and see if he can get a read on the unreadable?

“What’s the point of me going? What good does it do? My data sheets haven’t slipped enough to call for anything like this.”

“Don’t be so critical of everything Keigo,” Kaori scolds him, her purple eyes lingering on his spreading plumage. “It’s not a test, it’s not a drill. I just...I can remember what it was like to be a teenager and be trapped doing something I didn’t want to do.”

Again, Keigo is silent after her declaration. He’s not really sure how to answer. Pragmatic, logical, even angry responses, he’s used to those. This? What is this? Some kinda misplaced empathy? He never would have placed an empathetic bone in Kaori’s body before today. 

They pause at the provost’s doorway and Kaori places an arm on his shoulder, demanding his attention with her strong grip. 

“Let me know by tomorrow.” 

And, with that, she’s gone, pacing down the long hallway, her heels tapping a sharp tattoo against the flooring. Keigo narrows his eyes, avian pupils dilating, focusing. Sure, maybe it was just an opportunity, a chance for him to get out of the headquarters for a while, but there’s always a catch. 

******

The email comes a few hours later. 

Keigo is sprawled across his bed, his wings tucked safely along his shoulders as he flips through his textbook. He lifts his head from his pillow and sighs heavily at the familiar chime from his computer. It’s either more geometry problems or it’ll have something to do with what Kaori was discussing: The Endeavor mission.

His wings shift and rustle as he stands. He’s agitated, on edge. He dislikes being maneuvered into a corner. No matter what the email is over, he’ll feel obligated to say yes. Even if it’s by default. 

Keigo steps up to his computer, his long fingers racing over the keypad, typing in his encrypted password. As he waits for the screen to load, his eyes fall to the battered figurine beside his monitor. 

It’s the Endeavor toy. He’s kept it all these years, safe and sound, in each bedroom he’s moved to. The flames are dull and his bright blue uniform is more mottled than cobalt, but it’s still a tiny piece of his other life. 

His father had given it to him. It was years ago. He hadn’t thought he was going to get anything for his birthday, but then, his father had flown in, his own plumage glimmering against the dying sunlight and presented four year old Keigo with the toy. He had clutched it to him, his eyes shining and bright. 

“Dad! Ah, how did you know?” 

His father had beamed at him, his eyes softening at the sight of his son’s genuine smile. Keigo didn’t smile a lot back then. Their life was too tumultuous, too chaotic. There was too much at stake. His father had gathered him up and pressed the button that activated the toy’s internal voice box. Keigo had squealed with delight and wrapped his arms around his father’s neck. 

Now, Keigo traces a single finger along the top of the Endeavor’s head, running along the dimmed flames. He’s seen a decent amount of coverage on the number two hero lately. He’d even gone as far as studying his moves. Not that it mattered. His quirk would never be a match for the flame heroes skills. But, he had to admire the guy. 

He was constantly overshadowed, outranked and outclassed by All Might. Still, Endeavor pushed forward. He’s the only one who really tried to overtake the number one hero. It was both impressive and, well, kinda pathetic, desperate even. All the same, Keigo kept hunting for news of the number two. Once you have a favorite, Keigo reasoned, you tend to stick with them. 

Tearing his eyes away from the little figurine, Keigo clicks on the new email. He blinks a few times, even rubs his eyes. No, no way. He spreads his fingers along the computer’s trackpad, enhancing the words. Yeah, no, it’s really there. 

It’s the list. 

Remember? The one with all the HPSC’s approved names for him? 

It’s, well, it’s even more anticlimactic than he was expecting. Damn, it’s over three pages of the most asinine, inane bullshit. Two bad words, oh no, and in one sentence. In his defense, this crap deserved a whole string of curse words.  

There are names like: REDWING, Darkbird, Vulture, WINGMAN, Canary, Condor, RED Condor, Northwind, Zauriel, Red jay, WING. God, it’s just page after page of trash. Whomever they paid to create this, well, they needed a new day job. Might as well just call him: BIRDBOY or something. Sighing, Keigo clicks out of the email, his plumage lifting and lowering, feathers rustling again, perturbed. Yeah, he’s got wings. So what? That’s not all he is.  

Keigo is about to pace back to his bed when another email chimes in. Groaning, he doesn’t even look at the sender before opening it. Oh.

It’s from Kaori and the head of the HPSC. They were wanting to confirm the viewing of the Endeavor mission. Both felt that it was a good use of Keigo’s time and the HPSC’s resources. They just need his answer.

Funny, Keigo thinks, tapping a quick reply, they always like to pretend that he has a say in things. 

******

He’s never been a tall kid. He’s not sure if it’s his quirk or something genealogical. Quirk makes the most sense. It’s hard enough to lug his own tiny body around, he can’t even imagine trying to pull someone like Endeavor into the air. 

Keigo’s seen the number two plenty of times. God, hundreds and hundreds of times, really. But, he’s not prepared for the hulk of a man that is standing before him. Enji Todoroki, that’s his real name. Most heroes don’t hide their civilian names. No, they’re all listed in the databases of the HPSC and open for public scrutiny. Keigo shifts on the balls of his feet, his toes tapping against the pavement. Apparently, that’s not going to be an option for him.

Kaori had sat, prim and proper, next to him in the long black car as they drove to the mission site. Her violet eyes were dull flints of purple as she relayed the news: 

“They need you to pick a name, Keigo. You’re old enough now and the data has shown that you’re learning how to control your quirk. The advancements we’ve seen in the last few months have been outstanding. The HPSC wants you to start making a name for yourself, publicly. We’re hoping, in six or so years, you’ll be operating on a professional level. 

So, look over those names and pick one. Once you do, you’ll no longer go by Keigo Takami. No, that name will be expunged from the records.”

Why? He’d wanted to ask. Why can’t he keep his name? Does it really matter? What were they going to do with him? Why was he even in this program? There were so many questions racing through his mind. But, he just nodded and looked out the window. 

What good did it do to ask? They weren’t going to tell him anything. This was all just another manipulation. They always tried, so, so hard to let him feel like he had a say in his name, in his life, in anything. In reality, he was just their little puppet, floating along on a tight string. 

Keigo looked over the police tape to Endeavor again. Even the number two hero got to keep his name. What makes Keigo so different?

“They’ll be rushing the entrance soon,” Kaori says, her arms crossed, her pressed suit dark against the bright sunlight. “You might be able to see it a little better if you move to the other end of the street.” 

Keigo looks up at her, his eyes impassive. Kaori, sensing his gaze, blinks down at him. “Don’t go far. Consider this a small reward for good behavior. I know what I told you in the car can’t have been easy to hear. Don’t make me regret giving you a little more freedom.” 

For a long moment, Keigo is still. 

He wants to dash off. He’s never done that. It would be nice to place a little distance between him and his handler. Plus, he’s outside. It’s a beautiful day, just puffy clouds and the fresh, clean smell of springtime. Well, and the hustle and bustle of the raid that is unfolding across the street. He looks up at Kaori and her violet eyes lift away from him. She shakes her head and a small smile creeps across her lips. 

“Go on, you better hurry. Endeavor’s about to enter the building.”

It’s all the prodding he needs. Like a shot, Keigo is dashing through the crowd. A few people clamor around him, their voices distant, complaints and admonishments ringing over his golden head. He rounds the street corner and his wings lift, testing the air, trying to tug him into the skies. 

Amber eyes flash as he looks for the perfect spot. Ah-ha! There’s a low, tiled roof across the street. If he can get up to the second story he should be able to see into the back of the compound Endeavor is conducting the raid on.

His back aches, muscles tired and straining, but he ignores the sting. His wings lap against the warm air and, just like that, he’s landing on the roof, his sneakers bright against the dark tile. Keigo turns back to the compound. Yes! Perfect! He can see everything. His wings settle along his shoulders, still lifted as he crouches down, the plumage vibrating, listening.

Keigo can hear some of the transmission between the heroes. Their radios are switched up and the static sound makes his nose wrinkle. It feels fuzzy, almost like he’s stepped on a live wire. Apparently, Endeavor is about to move into the exposed courtyard and Keigo sits up straighter, his wings spreading, cupping under the low wind. He’s so focused on catching sight of the number two that he doesn’t hear the warning cry.

No, he only notices the danger when it’s too late.

His feathers bristle, arching, quivering, reacting as a set of talons rips into his delicate plumage. His wings throb. It stings and he feels the anger, the rage that is coursing through the culprit that’s attacking him. Their screams make his ears ache and he rolls away, his hands instinctively covering his head, protecting himself from the sudden onslaught. His golden eyes are narrowed and searching. What the hell-

The pieces fit into place when he sees her. 

It’s a hawk. She’s already taken to the skies, her dark wings wheeling her back to the roof. She lifts upward, the strong winds carrying her high, against the clouds. Then, she’s diving, her feathers bracing along her sides, propelling her at a terrifying speed. 

She’s headed straight for him. 

Keigo, unthinkingly, rolls out of the way, his own wings flaring open and flapping him a good ten feet or so, hopefully placing him out of range. The hawk pulls up, another scream echoing across the sky. She wheels around, her sharp beak and eyes trained on him. Keigo’s foot slips against the uneven surface of the roof and he bites his lip, his ankle twisting painfully. 

“Hey! Keigo! Oh, there you are. Come on! The raid is wrapping up, we need to get back.”

Kaori’s voice shudders up his spine, his oversensitive wings making her sound like a foghorn. Wait. The raid is over? He whirls back to the compound, his eyes scanning, flashing in his agitation. 

No. No, no, no. 

She’s right. Endeavor and his sidekicks are already back at the front of the building, he can’t even see them clearly from here. He’s missed his chance. Damn it. 

It’s not fair, he thinks, a misting of tears clouding his sight. He’d been so close. And now? Now, he’s gotta go back to that stupid building. Now, they’re going to take away his name and force him to do even more training. Who knows when he’ll get out again. It’s just, it’s not freaking fair.

Keigo wipes his arm against his eyes, pulling the moisture across his sleeve. He can’t let Kaori see him cry. He hasn’t cried in years. He’s not going to give them the satisfaction of knowing that he still...wait...what’s that?

Across the rooftop, close to where his original perch was, is a nest. It looks clumsy, like it might fall off into open space at any moment. It’s held together with a spattering of twigs and sticks, but there’s movement. Keigo lowers his arm, his wings lifting again, feeling. There’s one...no...there’s two chicks inside. They feel soft. Their heartbeats are fluttering, like a butterfly’s wing.  

He looks down at Kaori. She’s standing on the street corner, shielding her eyes from the sun as she peers up at him. Keigo lifts his hand so she can see, one finger raised, silently asking her for a little more time. Kaori groans, he can hear her exhale from here, and nods, lowering her gaze, one hand propped on her jutted hip.

“Be quick about it, Keigo.” 

He lets his wings bevel over his shoulders and he hops, carefully, slowly, across the tiles. As he gets closer, two pairs of yellow eyes peer at him, half hidden in the tangle of twigs. He grins and leans up, wanting to look a little…

The hawk, quick as lightning clatters in front of the nest, shielding her chicks from his curious observation. Her wings flare at his proximity, her beak open, sharp. She clicks a warning, her feathers spreading. Keigo mimics her display, his own wings fanning out and the hawk tilts her head, surprised. Her eyes blink, the dark orange shifting from agitated to quizzical. Slowly, her wings lower, draping along her back. Talons shift against the tiles and she chirps at him. It’s a different sound, less challenging. It's almost like a question.

Keigo lifts one of his hands, his fingers balled into a fist and gingerly extends his arm, his shoes sliding closer. She lifts her wings and glides a little nearer, her head still tilted in that exaggerated way. She chirps at him again and lowers her head. If he reaches out a little further he could stroke a finger down her feathers. Just a bit…

“Keigo!” 

The sound of his name startles him and the hawk. She yanks from his touch and launches herself back into the skies. Keigo watches her, fascinated by the ease, the grace that she moves with. As he’s admiring her fluidity, a single feather flutters to his feet. He almost misses it. The wind starts to catch it, pulling it away, but he snatches it up, his fingers careful to not crush the barbs. 

“Keigo, I’m not going to ask again...”

He uses his wings to help him down the side of the building. The verdant plumage is swelling, arching behind him. It feels different. Keigo lowers them against his back, mirroring the way the hawk had draped them, the feathers close to his skin. It helps. They don’t feel like something that he’s untethered from when he holds them like that. He’s still basking in his discovery when Kaori steps toward him, one brow arched.

“You know better than that, Keigo. Didn’t I ask you to not make me regret giving you a little more freedom? Come on, we’re overdue. What’s that in your hand?”

“Nothing,” Keigo replies, tucking the hawk’s feather into his jean pocket. She was so pretty, fierce and quick.

“You put any thought into any of the names on the lists? We were thinking your hero name should be-”

“Hawks,” Keigo replies, his wings stretching behind him, shimmering in the bright sunlight. “I wanna be called Hawks.”

Notes: bb Keigo is too cute, I couldn’t resist.

Hawks isn’t looking forward to his new assignment on the island. He’s been called in by the HPSC and Miyako’s police force. There’s been a string of unsolved murders and, with the onset of August, tourist season is in full swing. Homicide is bad publicity during the best of times. But, combine the discovery of freshly charred corpses popping up in various buildings, piers, and alleyways, with mass hysteria and you’re going to have a big problem on your hands. 

For eight open murder cases, there’s not much for Hawks to go on, and the data he does have is spotty. 

Hawks poured over the notes as soon as he got off the phone with the HSPC, the luster of the new assignment fresh in his mind. He swiped through the briefings and crime scene photos that were attached in the long email from Miyako’s chief of police. 

It looks like the trouble started in the poorer areas of town. No matter how bright the city lights shine, there’s always the common shadow of a downtrodden, overworked, and underpaid populous straining under the weight of “keeping up appearances.”  

Who else would do the nitty gritty jobs that ensured that the tourist season stayed afloat, and, most important of all, profitable? 

Sadly, it’s the blue collar areas that first experienced the horrors. The notes on these cases are borderline elitist, skirting close to xenophobic. The usual: ‘it was just something that happened when you crammed people in that close’. ‘What else did you expect’? ‘Most of the victims aren’t even from the island’. ‘They’re strangers, they’re not locals.’ ‘They’re not one of us’. 

The word immigrant pops up in the documentation frequently and it feels like a slur each time it appears. There’s a slinking, cloying animosity curling behind the looping words. 

It pisses Hawks off.

The only reason he’s been called is because the crimes have jumped over the poverty line. Now, two prominent members of Miyako society have been murdered. So, what’s the connection you ask? 

It’s the state of the bodies. 

All of the victims, rich or poor, have been mutilated. Something sharp was drawn across their skin, cutting and splicing, marring them, marking them. Then, as if to add insult to injury, they’d been set aflame. It must have been a scorching blaze. Something that leaves them so crisped and blackened that they’re more husk than human. In each case, it’s taken dental records to identify the deceased. 

The Miyako chief of police is doing a review of the known peculiars with Hawks. 

“They mirror the, uh, earlier crime scenes. As you can see, this one, she is, er, was a woman in her late 30’s-”

“She was 37,” Hawks supplies, his golden eyes running over the chart that the chief of police is showing him. He’s trying his best to hide his agitation, but his feathers still bristle, the red plumage flaring, refusing to lay against his back. 

“Uh, yeah, a bad age they say.”

“What?”

“Oh, nothing. It’s just, it’s supposed to be bad luck. You know?”

“I don’t. Can we get back to the matter at hand, please?” 

Hawks has to grit his teeth to keep his tone even. He’s really not liking the way these crime scenes are processed and he’s made his opinion known to the police chief and investigative team. Why now, he’d pressed, hours after flying in, sweat still clinging to his brow. Why didn’t the bodies matter when it was relegated to the lower socio-economic citizens? 

He’s also critical and skeptical of the motives of this police chief. There’s something about the whole thing that feels...off.

 But, now’s not the time to project that suspicion. He’s only just arrived, besides, he needs more information, more data. Despite his agitation, he gets why the HPSC sent him on this assignment. He’s known for doing things quickly. Plus, he’s usually calm, collected, and he’s got the clout to get things moving again. 

He’s also observant. The HPSC both loves and hates this particular skill of his, but it’s to their benefit in this instance. His sharp eyes might spot something that’s been missed, they’d said on the phone with him as they handed off his assignment. If he played his cards right, they said, he could pull these murders from unsolved to solved. Oh, and the commission is thinking these murders might involve some agents from the League of Villains. 

It’s not a confirmed connection. 

There’s nothing solid about it, besides the body mutilation and burned corpses. But both are known habits of two members of the League. They’re shadowy leads, more steeped in hearsay than fact. All the same, one is rumored to have a fascination with blood, and the other, has a proclivity for using a bright, blue flame. It’s a hot heat, perfect for cremation and these bodies have all been practically, well, cremated.

“Have you met the other heroes that will be assigned to work with you?” 

Hawks snaps out of his head and nods at the tall, balding police chief. “Amano and Matsuura? Yeah, we’re supposed to take a look at the first locations as soon as this...meeting...is concluded.” Hawks hopes the police chief can hear the air quotes he just put the word meeting in. 

“Good, good. I saw your additions on the later cases. I really feel that we should look a little harder into those. One was a member of the city council. He was beloved by the city and-”

“If I’m looking for a pattern, there’s a higher probability that the killer was sloppier in the earlier cases. New habits and all. I’ll get to the councilman when I get to the councilman. Again, this string of murders started in the lowlands. While I realize that doesn’t get you the most publicity, and I hear a re-election is coming up for your position as chief of police this fall, I’m not going to pick at certain elements of this and leave others by the wayside. 

You gotta’ problem with that, take it up the HPSC. But, listen, they’re a lot meaner than me and they’re not going to like that you’re obstructing my investigation. You asked the commission to send someone down, and, lucky you, you’ve gotten yourself stuck with me.” 

Hawks flashes the police chief a bright grin, his teeth gleaming as his eyes crinkle to crescents. The man stammers for a moment, his face flushing under Hawks’ false joviality, then he tosses a bulky manilla folder on the desk. 

“Why you...I heard you were an arrogant son of a...no, no.” The chief sputters, his teeth clenched, anger bared behind the grinding of his jaw. “You’re right, we’re so very grateful to the number three hero taking time out of his busy modeling schedule to lend us a hand with these murders.”

“Ooh, you saw that spread in the sports magazine? Nice use of color right? Loved that new set of watches I’m sponsoring.” 

Fucking prick. Hawks is used to this kind of irate reaction, hell, it’s pretty expected now. He’d heard it so many times he has it memorized. Yeah, yeah, he’s twenty one, a kid who’s too big for his boots. He has no idea, no real world experience. Did you hear how he talked to me? The audacity.  

Let this guy try to report his snarky attitude, it’s not going to get his low level wannabe bureaucratic ass anywhere.

“I’ll get my agency to send you a signed copy. I had no idea you were such a fan! Lemme grab these files, got some work to do. Catch you around, sir!” Hawks pantomimes a salute, a serious expression making his eyes narrow. Fuck this dude. He’s got bigger fish to fry.

Closing the door on the police chief’s mottled expression, he meanders down the stairs of the police precinct, his wings still arching and rustling his temper. You’d think this case didn’t matter to these buffoons. The sheer implication of Hawks’ presence should clue them in. The HPSC doesn’t do anything lightly. Nah, these killings could be related to the League. Plus, his background checks on the victims had revealed some startling discoveries. 

All of them, down to the nineteen year old restaurant hostess, were involved in minor villain activities. Some had smuggled drugs, some laundered money on the side, one was a known broker. They kept climbing the ladder of severity. It was worrisome. 

While the chances of the LOV’s involvement was low, the commission was still searching for their hideout. He’d caught wind of some of the activity revolving around that ongoing mission. He wasn’t assigned to it, but he liked to keep an ear to the ground. 

Association with the LOV or not, these homicides kept bothering him. There’s something he’s not seeing. He dislikes the sensation. It makes him tense, ill at ease. Once he steps outside the police headquarters he launches himself into the sleet grey skies. 

It looks like rain. 

If he’s wanting to glean as much as he can from those early crime scenes, he better hurry. Hawks doesn’t like rain. It makes his feathers feel bogged down and dampened. Unfortunately, it has the same effect on evidence. Rain can whisk the little details away, slicking and drifting as it washes down to the vast sea. It can easily snag vital clues on its meandering path, erasing as it goes. 

******

The first murder took place on the fourth floor of a shabby apartment. The victim lived in the 19th unit and was a 43 year old male. He was a well known loner. So, it was a shock to discover that he ran a pilfering ring. The ring wasn’t a small scale enterprise either. No, this went deep. It connected to three other islands and the Japanese mainland. There’s no way this guy was a simple recluse. If anything, he was nothing short of a criminal mastermind. 

His body had been left in an odd position. It was likely staged, purposeful.  

He was discovered by his landlord. Rent was due and it was unusual for him to be late with the payment. So, the landlord let himself into the 19th unit. It’s a small wonder no one reported the smell earlier. Apparently, it was putrid, acidic, gut churning. A mix of tarnished copper and old, rotten meat. 

In all likelihood, he was murdered elsewhere and dragged back to the unit. Nothing in the room, besides his corpse, was scorched. The victim was splayed on his small bed, but the placement was strange. His feet were resting on his ashen pillow, shoes still on his feet. Meanwhile, his head was at the foot of his bed, pointing northward. 

Hawks and one of the assigned heroes, a friendly guy named Amano, are going over the case file with two members of the forensic team. Apparently, one of the team members hadn’t been part of the original investigation clean up and bagging. As Hawks and Amano are sharing the crime scene photos, asking the forensic team questions, the taller of the two, gasps, clapping a hand over his lips. 

Hawks tilts his head at the man’s reaction, his feathers automatically feeling for his pulse. It’s elevated and the guy appears to be truly bothered. It’s an upsetting picture, to be sure, but this is his job. He cleans up blood and guts for a living. Surely, he’s seen worse.

“You ok?” Hawks’ asks, his amber eyes shifting over the man’s face. 

“F-fine. It’s just, well, look at him.” 

Hawks takes the photo back. Did he miss something? 

“What about him?”

“Look at the direction his head’s facing.” 

“Uh,” Hawks examines the position of the hazy sun that peeks through the rain clouds outside the window. “North?”

Now the other forensic team member gasps. What the hell? What does facing north have to do with anything? It’s a cardinal direction. What would they say if he was facing the West? Again, are these people deliberately trying to bog his investigation down?

“I don’t see what, uh, relevance that has.” Hawks tells the two, looking over to Amano. The hero doesn’t seem to be bothered by their outburst. He just shrugs at Hawks’ frank stare.

“It’s supposed to be bad luck, but yeah, there’s not-” Amano begins, finally placing some clarity on the forensic team's outburst of paranoia, but he’s interrupted by the taller, jumpier man. 

“Not just that. You collect iron in your blood if you sleep facing north. It brings death.”

The guy said death like it might summon the fearsome spector down on them at any moment. Amano coughs, his hand covering a badly concealed smile. “Yeah, sure. Facing north is bad luck, and, I guess it can bring death, too. Learn something new everyday...”

“Worked pretty well in this guys case,” Hawks muses, arching an eyebrow at the jittery forensic team. “You guys see anything else? Something a little more, I don’t know, pertinent?” 

They don’t get much further with that crime scene.

Amano tags along for Hawks’ review of the other two cases. His agency runs out of this area and he was one of the first responders. He’s not got a lot of extra information, but he knows the people and they know him. It takes the edge off, lets the locals open up a little more. 

The next case is in a home. Well, home feels generous, it’s more like a shack. Apparently, the victim liked to collect cat figurines. Like, really, really liked to collect cat figurines. There’s over sixty of them, they’re scattered around the place, tucked into nooks and crannies. It feels like a thousand little eyes are watching the two heroes as they canvas the space. It’s creepy.  Hawks dislikes the sensation. His feathers keep lifting, feeling, spreading out.

The woman had been found at her kitchen table. She was propped into a chair, sitting, like nothing in the world, save her crisp remains, was amiss. The only way you could achieve a staging of that caliber was to wait for the body to enter rigor mortis. 

That takes time. 

Full rigor sets in around 5 to 12 hours after death has occured. Whomever did this must have had time to spare. And they weren’t worried about being caught during that time. No, they were too busy planning out the dramatic effect of their crimes.  

Once again, he feels like he’s missing something. 

One body was left pushing a garden cart. Literally, the man was found, early in the morning with his hands tied to a wheelbarrow. He was posed mid task, his arm lifted, reaching for someone, or something. Trouble was, the guy didn’t work as a gardener. No, he was a low level broker. Someone darting under the criminal radar. He’d eluded the police and heroes for months. Looks like his luck ran out.

The eighth body, the congressman, was discovered at a popular wharf. This crime scene is still in the process of being cleaned up, so there’s a flurry of people bustling around. Amano, and the other hero, Matsuura, who’s also been assigned to Hawks’ investigation, are talking with witnesses, gathering information and scheduling interviews. This kind of hero work is never ending. Hawks is grateful they’re willing to take on the grunt work. 

As Hawks is kneeling, peering over the ledge of the pier, looking down on the blackened wood and debris, a loud cawing breaks out. It echoes on the wind, coiling and lifting. It’s a funny sound. Like it’s far away and dulled. It makes Hawks’ wings fan out, overstimulated and brittle. The heroes and crime scene investigators debate on the origin of the noise. It doesn’t help that there’s no bird that’s wheeling above them. No, the skies are dark and empty, with a light misting of rain starting to drip onto the lashing sea. 

“What is that?”

“Is it a gull?”

“It’s creepy. There’s nothing even flying around. But, it sounds so close.”

“I think it’s a seabird. It’s gotta be, sometimes they fly out here looking for fish.”

“I’ve never heard a seagull sound like that.”

“There are other birds besides seagulls, idiot. It could be a pelican-”

“It’s a crow,” Hawks’ supplies, standing and turning back to the clutch of people who are quickly gathering up their supplies, doing their best to get the important pieces of evidence protected from the rain. 

“Huh? Did he say a crow?”

“Oh, damn, that’s a sign of death.”

“No...I think it’s illness, not death.”

Hawks’ walks to Amano and Matsuura, he tells them he’ll meet them back at the police headquarters. He needs to start his interviews if he wants to even have a prayer of snagging a bite to eat. He’s been subsisting off coffee since he flew in and his stomach is rumbling, loudly. 

The investigators are still debating the meaning of the crow caws when he takes off. His wings beat powerfully beside his head and he lifts above the grey storm clouds, coasting high, past the skyline. 

The people here are strange. They’re a superstitious bunch for sure. Everything has an underlying reason. Don’t forget to toss salt over your shoulder when you walk into that crime scene, Hawks. It’s bad luck if you don’t. 

Despite the strange mannerisms that surround him, they are right about one thing: there’s more to these killings than meets the eye. 

Things feel off in every crime scene. Were their belongings really left that way? Or, have the details been staged? Plus, the murders keep escalating. The particulars are spreading out and deepening as they interweave. The major connecting thread is still the state of the bodies, but even that is starting to feel vague. Hawks shudders a bit of excess moisture from the tips of his wings. Fingers crossed, some of these witnesses and relatives of the victims will have a little more substance for him to chew on.

******

Oh, they have something alright. 

It’s more hushed rumors and strange folk tales. God, the sheer frightened gullibility of these islanders is wild. The whole place feels so backwoodsey, lost in a bygone era. There’s always a prayer or blessing that needs to be uttered. Or, some supernatural logic that he needs to look into. Did you consider the devil, Hawks? He hides in the details, you know? 

It’s fucking weird. 

Hawks is treading in unfamiliar waters with this tripe. He didn’t grow up with any of this. The HPSC certainly hadn't offered him a course on Japanese islander folk traditions during his childhood. Still, these people, for the most part, seem well off, educated, cultured even. Some aren’t even from this island. But, they seem to be infected with the same disease: ghosts, oni spirits, and bad omens. It’s a whirling circle of nonsense and Hawks’ wants off this ride.   

“I got a call from her.”

“From the victim, your sister?”

“Yeah, it came in at 4:49 am.”

“Ma’m, that’s not possible. The coroner noted that rigor mortis had set in by 2 am”

“She sounded faint. It was like she was underwater, but it was her. She screamed at me.”

“She screamed at you?”

“Yeah, it was this low scream. Kinda, like a gasp? Like she couldn’t breathe. It kept getting louder and louder and louder. It hurt my ears. They felt like they were ringing, pounding. Then, the line just went dead. I can still hear it, that scream. Every time I close my eyes, or whenever I least...I-I can still hear her.”

“Do you have your phone records?”

Hawks is trying to make sense of it all, but it’s like they’re talking to each other before they come into the interview room, telling each new interviewee to up the ante. 

See if you can spook the number three hero. Go on, it’ll be fun. 

There’s a slew of strange occurrences. Disembodied voices, knocking on windows, doors opening on their own, quiet voids of cold that they step into. Ghosts keep popping up.

Then, there’s the oni spirits. They have red faces and they lean in close, their fangs reaching, gnashing, grinding. One woman, who was married to one of the victims, burst into tears, her terrified sobbing turning into a frantic wail. 

She had seen an ogre in her back garden. It was pushing a cart and the cart was on fire. Hawks’ checked his notes as he patted the woman’s back, trying to help her move through a few breathing exercises. One of the victims was found propped, pushing a wheelbarrow, could it be…

No. It’s another dead end. 

This woman didn’t know that dead man, the one who was pushing the cart. She didn’t even live on the same side of town. Ugh, this is endless. It might be easier if he did apply these delusions to his investigation. At least that way he’ll feel sane. 

Some of the victims had been acting suspicious, paranoid, on edge before their deaths. One of them had gotten a phone call in the middle of the night and ran off. The next day she was found dead in her home, burnt and drifting into ash. 

“So, she got the call and just ran out the door?”

“Yes. But, she let it ring four times.”

“You said that already. I’m not sure-”

“She picked it up after the fourth ring.” The aunt of the victim is looking at Hawks expectantly, her blue eyes wide, starting. 

“I don’t-”

“You know what that means...don’t you?”

“The hidden significance of picking up a phone on the fourth ring? No, no I don’t.”

They never fully expand on their weird theories. They’re normal comments to them. He debates looking up the meaning of the number four on his phone, but he tamps down the urge. It doesn’t pertain to the case. It’s useless drivel, a waste of time. 

An adult man shows him this ugly, ugly drawing of a cat. It’s pulling a flaming cart. Hawks doesn’t even want to touch the paper. The man keeps pointing back at it as he goes over his neighbor’s timeline. 

This particular witness is connected to the city councilman. The one that was oh, so important to the police chief. It’s a high profile case and it’s being taken seriously. Yet, here’s this supposedly credible witness, flashing a childish scrawl up to his nose, asking him to look for the phenomena, like it’s a normal request to ask the number three hero to look for nonexistent demons. 

‘There’s gotta be more to this’, he tells Hawks, his voice broken, fervid. ‘Something, something has to be there, after all, the councilman was murdered for a reason’. 

The man with the drawing is right about that, at least. 

These are not random crimes. The MO is too similar. Every single victim was involved in some sort of villainous activity. Yeah, the guys correct on that one sane theory of his: ‘There’s gotta be something there’. But, whatever it is, it’s not this cat thing. 

Hawks calls a halt to their interview and glumly munches on his cold chicken sandwich as he waits for the next witness to be called in. His head is pounding and he’s praying for some new development to fall into his lap, at least that way he can conclude things and get the hell off this island. 

****** 

The 9th victim is an outlier. 

He’s high up in social circles and he was a popular man. He’s also been accused of money laundering, tax evasion and fraud. He was acquitted on all charges, but his past never did stop nipping at his heels. However, that’s not what makes him an outlier. 

No, that’s reserved for the state of his body. 

Most of the victims have been burned to a crisp, leaving nothing behind, save bone and gristle. You can still see this guy's face and defining features. He’s a little charred, but it’s almost like the flames stopped right before they got past his chin. 

They transport his body to the morgue and Hawks finishes the combing of the crime scene, setting up a new batch of interview times and creating witness reports. He leaves just as the sun is dipping under the horizon. 

******

It’s late now, and the cool sea breeze blows in through his open hotel windows, soothing across his crimson plumage. It’s his first evening off in over a week. He’s still working though, typing his reports into his laptop. 

He’s forgone his usual coffee this evening. He wants to try and see if he can catch a full eight hours tonight. God, what a fucking delicious treat that would be. Eight hours? That’s the real ghost here. 

He shuts off his laptop and flops himself across his bed, his wings tucking into his side, burrowing his shoulders into their reassuring warmth. 

He slips into the lull between realities, his mind whirring, the case resting heavily against the forefront of his thoughts. It shouldn’t come as a surprise that he can’t distinguish between dream and actuality as he drifts off. 

There’s something there.

It keeps to the edge of his vision, a dark shadow that leeches the color from whatever it touches. He can feel it watching him. It shifts quickly when he cocks his head to get a better look, sliding across the blank expanse like quicksilver, fluid and slick. 

He looks away from the edges of his dreamscape and turns. He blinks in surprise. He’s at one of the crime scenes. It’s the one with the man in the wheelbarrow. There’s a crowd pressing around him and that dark figure is blotted toward the back, lurking, watching. The people around him murmur and whisper, too soft to hear. They don’t seem to notice him. They also don’t appear to have faces. They’re just blank voids, with soft notches where eyes, noses, and mouths should be. Unthinking, Hawks reaches for one of them and his hand slips through the air, weightless and heavy in the same motion. 

When he blinks again he’s in that lady’s shack, the one with all the cat figurines. That wraith is sitting at her kitchen table. It’s not moving and he doesn’t feel particularly threatened by its proximity. Still, he dislikes this whole thing. If he can touch it, maybe he’ll wake up.

He’s stepping forward when he hears a soft mewl. There’s a black cat on a shelf. It’s tiny and lithe. It jumps in front of him, a low purr rumbling from its chest. It looks up at him, orange eyes fastening on his amber ones. Odd, he thinks, that woman only had figures. No living cats were evident in the house. 

The cat chirps four times. It’s a light, high pitched sound that makes his ears ache. It almost sounds like a phone. The cat lifts its tail and turns, padding soundlessly into the next room. Intrigued, Hawks follows.

Now, he’s walking down a street. The cat is still in front of him, weaving in and out. That purr of it is loud and sharp as it vibrates around his ears. He keeps trying to get the feline’s attention. He pspsp’s at the dark cat, clicking his tongue, but it doesn’t respond. Hawks is distracted, not paying any mind to his surroundings, wholly focused on the feline. 

The voice startles him. 

It’s rasping and deep and it’s calling his name. Not his hero name, no, it’s saying his real name, over and over. 

KEIGO TAKAMI. 

Keigo Takami, he thinks, stumbling over words that make him, him. It sounds strange now, foreign. He hasn’t heard that name in such a long time.  How did…

The voice is coming from behind him now. He whirls around and is face to face with that man. The 9th victim, the one whose face you could still see. He’s charred and battered, and blood is dripping in long rivulets from his gaping skin, pooling onto the ashen sidewalk. 

His eyes are wide, searching but not seeing. The pupil and iris are both milky white, rolling around in the cavities of his sockets. Then, his mouth pops open. It’s horrifically wide, like it’s caught in a scream. His teeth are crumbling before Hawks’ eyes, black pearls that slide from the man’s lips and clatter around his feet. 

Hawks is stunned, unsure, but, fuck, he can’t move. He tries to flap his wings, knowing that they’ll tug him away from this horror that’s in front of him. Except, there’s no whoosh of air, no lift. There’s nothing. What? How... 

His hands bat at the emptiness along his back. Where are they? What is this? His fingertips press along his shoulders, searching, desperate. His quirk, it’s...it’s just gone. He’s frantic now and that makes him clumsy. His feet tangle under him and he falls. Grounded, his legs instinctively begin to push away from the shell of a man in front of him.

The figure moves with him. Hawks keeps scrabbling away, but the man is even closer now and his bare feet are disintegrating with each shuffling pad forward. Still, he keeps on. Hawks tries to move again, tries to shift, but he’s been cast in stone. He can’t look away...he can’t…

The man is almost upon him now. His fingers are crumbling, the ash they create is making him choke. He can’t breath, he’s wheezing, unable to pull oxygen through his trembling lips. Hawks’ lungs are burning...

Then, Hawks’ wakes up. 

He’s sweating. His skin feels hot and his wings are flared. The feathers are quivering, searching. They bring him back bits and pieces. There’s someone sobbing two rooms over, someone is sleeping below him, their breath warm, he can almost feel it, pushing in and out, in and out. There’s a phone ringing. How many rings? What if it’s four...

Stop, stop.

Hawks tucks his wings back, ignoring the sounds, the sensations. The plumage wraps around him and he ducks his head into the darkness that they blanket him in. He’s comforted by the reassuring, solid presence of his quirk. He thought he’d lost it. His shoulders still hurt from his flailing motions. What is going on? He’s never had a dream like that. It felt so...so real. 

No. It doesn’t matter, he tells himself. He doesn't believe in this stuff. It’s not real. There’s no such thing as ghosts.

He tries to lay back down. 

He’s cooled off some, but his wings keep flapping, he’s stopped trying to fight them. His quirk is going into overdrive. This hasn’t happened to him in years, not since he was a kid. He tosses his pillow over his head, trying to stifle out the noise his quirk keeps drowning him in. He’s tired and overstimulated. Each breath stings and he tries to count, to walk through the steps that have been with him since childhood. Just be still, Hawks. It doesn’t matter. 

The sun is peeking over the horizon when he finally dozes off, his head heavy, fogged with exhaustion. 

******

Hawks grabs two nitro coffees the next morning. 

He practically inhales the dark liquid, hoping it will let him evade the haze of tiredness that thrums through his veins. It’s a slow day, thank God. There’s nothing of note that occurred the night before. Everything is pacing along its planned trajectory. There are no new bodies and the last interviews go by without any mention of spirits or the paranormal. 

Matsuura offers to take him for some lunch. Hawks, always eager to expand his palette, eagerly agrees and the two men head into the city. It’s a weekend, so the streets are crowded. People recognize Hawks and he chats with them, grateful for the welling of normalcy that the interactions bring. He’s signing an autograph when he catches sight of movement in a darkened alleyway. 

It’s not a particularly noticeable shift, but something about it feels strange. Hawks hands the freshly signed soccer ball back to the gang of kids around him and tilts his head toward the motion. He blinks. What the fuck? That’s not possible. 

It’s the man from his dream. He’s walking, steps heavy, sluggish and he’s moving into the alley. The 9th victim? But, but how? What? 

His wings react to his agitation and he hones in on the spot, reaching, snatching at anything he can sense. His fierce wings never let him down. They’re versatile, practiced and perfected. Feathers detach and shimmer into the midday sun, ducking around corners and onto rooftops, feeling. 

There’s nothing. 

No heartbeat, no footsteps, no voices. Hawks’ eyes had slipped closed as he felt for the man and he snaps them open again, his avian pupils dilating, constricting to a fine point. He turns to Matsuura and tells the hero he’s going to check something out. His wings lift before Matsuura can answer and he flaps into the air, the sea breeze assisting his ascension.

The rooftops are empty and Hawks scans the streets below, his wings rustling as he pulls himself along. Maybe it was a trick of his mind? Did he really see that guy? That’s a stupid question, how could he have? That man is dead. It’s gotta be his tired psyche. He didn’t sleep well, plus this case has been on his brain so much that he’s even dreaming about it. 

He lands on a nearby roof, his boots hitting the tiles roughly. Hawks closes his eyes again, sending a few more feathers out. The man, if he is real, will take this path if he is using the alleyway as an escape. There are no other routes available to him. 

He’s still attuned to his scattered feathers when he hears the cat hiss at him. His eyes open and he sees the animal. It’s a black cat. 

It’s across the street, lingering in an open window, its back arched and its fur standing on end. Hawks narrows his eyes at the aggressive display. There are way too many cats on this island. 

As he and the cat continue to engage in their silent staring contest, he hears a scritching sound coming from the street below. Hawks follows the noise, leaning over the edge of the rooftop. A child is playing below. She is sketching something into the concrete with bits of multicolored chalk. 

It looks like...huh? 

It looks like some kind of cart, but, why...why is it on fire? She is busy tracing the licking flames, a yellow piece of chalk clutched in her small fist. She’s humming a mindless song. It sounds like some kind of dirge. It’s soft and melancholic, following a minor tune. A shiver creeps up Hawks’ spine, but he ignores the pebbling of his skin, shaking his head.

Curious, Hawks wheels down, tapping along the street. He keeps a little ways away from the girl, he’s not wanting to startle her. His long fingers reach behind him, into his utility pocket that sits on his belt. He tugs out a small sticker sheet. He always keeps little trinkets in his pockets. It takes real effort to put people at ease and Hawks prides himself on his ability to steadfastly maintain that part of his image. He kneels on his haunches, dropping himself to a friendlier level before calling out to the little girl.

“Hey! That’s a pretty picture.” His voice is all light and honey and he has a bright smile on his face.

“Oh!” the little girl chirps, beaming her own grin back at him. “Thank you!”

“Tell me about your drawing.”

“It’s a Kasha.”

“Hmm, I don’t know what a Kasha is. Can you tell me about the Kasha?”

“They come to take away bad people.” The little girl replies, going back to her sketch, perfecting her lines and colors. 

“Oh! There’s a kitty in your drawing. Is the kitty a Kasha too?” Hawks asks, noticing the calico cat that’s attached to the handles on the front of the cart. It looks angry, vengeful. Strange for a kiddo to draw something so eerie.

“That’s the spirit of the nekomata, silly. Don’t you know anything?”

“Haha,” Hawks laughs, a genuine sound that makes him throw his head back, his hand bashfully scratching the back of his head. “Guess I don’t, huh? Do you like to draw...ghosts?”

“Not really. If I draw them they won’t-”

A distant voice is calling out a name. It’s female and coming from a house a few feet away, no doubt the girl’s mother or sister. The little girl calls back. 

“Coming mama! I gotta go, mister.”

“Here,” Hawks begins, detaching a smaller feather and drifting the little set of stickers over to the girl’s chubby hands. “Thank you for answering my questions,” he smiles. She coos and snatches the sparkly sheet, the sunlight catches the glitter that adorns the stickers. He tickles her cheek with his detached feather and she laughs. 

Her mother calls again and she starts to run off, her yellow shoes pounding on the street. Belatedly, she pauses before rounding the corner and bows low, a quick thank you slipping from her mouth. He waves back and smiles as she walks into her home, the door clicking behind her. Once he’s alone in the alleyway his grin drops and he stands, looking down at her drawing. 

It’s so freaking odd. Sure, sure, these cases are in the news. But the drawing looks...familiar somehow. 

Oh, that’s why. 

That man he interviewed, the one connected to the congressmen, had drawn something similar. Even then, back in that dark interrogation room, the strange figures looked like something he’d seen before, but where?

That nagging feeling is back. It pulls at the back of his mind. What is going on?

Hawks pulls out a small notepad and replicates the girl’s drawing, noting the colors and positions of the nekomata. As he sketches, his wings arc above his head, lifting and lowering meditatively. 

******

He comes back to the police precinct, his hands tucked deeply into his pockets. As he walks toward the chief’s office he runs into Amano. He’s the elder of his two assigned heroes and a font of knowledge about the island and its inhabitants. Maybe he’ll know something more about this doodle that keeps cropping up.

“Hey, Amano, you seen any weird drawings around town? Or, at the crime scenes maybe?”

“Weird? Like how?”

Hawks pulls out his notepad, flipping to the page with his sketch of the cat pushing the burning cart. Amano chortles, one gloved hand coming to cover his mirth. 

“What is that? It looks terrible.”

“I’m not much of an artist, I'll give you that one. In my defense, it’s based on a kid's drawing, so cut me some slack here, man. She said it was supposed to be a kasha and a nekomata?”

“Oh! Yeah, I can kinda see that now. I know what those are. According to legend, kasha appear during rainstorms. They steal corpses out of their coffins. Some of the older folks say they collect the souls of the damned. You can’t get the souls back if the kasha get them, they’re taken to hell, or eaten, depending on what version of the story you’re listening to. 

I mean, they’re all just old wives tales. We used to tell them on camping trips. They’re bedtime stories, something to scare kids into being good. Ooo, misbehave and you’ll get taken to hell. 

Eh, that feels kinda strong when I say it outloud, hopefully people don’t tell their kids stuff like that. Anyway, it’s not real.” Amano pauses, his head tilting at Hawks’ serious expression. “Isn’t it a little early to be getting into ghost stories? It’s summertime. Besides...” 

Hawks tugs his phone out of his jacket pocket, flicking through the crime scene photos as Amano elaborates on how ridiculous this ghoulish conversation is. Normally, Hawks would agree, but there’s got to be...oh...OH. 

There it is. 

His finger stills over the glass of his phone. It’s tiny, basically a scrawl, but it’s there. He flicks through some of the other photos, swiping through the different locations, searching. Ah-ha! Again, there’s that scrawl. This time, it’s almost cropped out of the photo. Still, there are two crime scenes with the scrawling of chalk. 

It’s a tiny drawing, so tiny he looked right over it originally, but now that he knows what he’s looking for, it’s there, plain as day. It’s a drawing of a tiny cart with a cat pulling the handles, lugging the wheels forward. 

Amano is still talking when Hawks looks back up. Hawks butts into his elaborations, not caring that he’s interrupting the man. 

“Ok, so they take evil doers away? Spooky. Question for you. You got any theories on why it’s cropping up all over town?” Hawks lifts the phone to Amano’s face. Amano takes the device and examines the strange markings, his brow creases, but he hands Hawks his phone back with a small smirk on his lips.

“It’s just talk, man. People do all sorts of superstitious things around here. Don’t look too hard into it. You believe what you want to, I don’t know. If that makes sense. Like those old sayings: ‘Don’t clip your nails before bed’. ‘No whistling at night’. It’s just something to say.

Superstitions are weird like that. Kinda like why you don’t have a fourth floor in a hospital. The number four looks like the word for death when you write it out. It’s bad form. It’s asking for trouble. So, don’t put a fourth floor, and boom, no problems with death.”

Hawks hums at Amano’s explanation. Ok, that superstition about the fourth floor, yeah, that one he had heard about. Amano claps a hand on Hawks shoulder and tells him he’s going to call a few more witnesses in. Hawks nods distantly, his mind whirring, processing. Despite Amano’s assurances, something still feels off.

******

He’s got a night shift. 

It’s only for one evening, so it shouldn't fuck up his sleep schedule too much. Hawks has already decided that he’s going to circle back to all of the crime scenes. He’s not used to being out of the loop, or being the one that people are looking at quizzically. 

He’d shown the drawings to the head investigator and the man had given him a blank look before asking Hawks if he needed some time off from the case. If he’d been asked that question a few days later, Hawks might have taken him up on the offer. 

It’s been five days since he had that dream, but he’s still seeing that man. He’s determined to haunt him, to flit on the side of Hawks’ vision, drifting around like a dead leaf in a breeze. 

He saw him at a bus stop the other evening. His dark hair was plastered to his face, burnt skin sloughing off his shoulders. He looked like a walking horror and Hawks had brought himself to an abrupt stop, staring at the figure below. The bus pulled up to the stop seconds after, the sleek metal shielding the man from view. By the time Hawks lifted himself higher, the man was gone. 

He saw him in windows, peering sightlessly out of the glass. He spied the man walking home from the train, trailing long streams of ash and smoke behind him. He never makes any sound. He’s not alive, so why would he? He had spoken to him in his dream, called his name, but after that? There was nothing. 

The vacancy of his presence is what startles Hawks the most. 

There’s nothing to feel, nothing to sense. It’s just this vast, blank, emptiness. For someone with a quirk like his, it’s deeply unsettling. Hawks’ life revolves around his ability to sense, to feel. The plight of the dead man makes his chest hurt with its loneliness and abject barrenness. Is that what it’s like to die? You drift into this void, alone? He doesn’t seem to have anywhere to go. Is this his routine? Is he trapped in an endless loop, playing out his final movements? How long does he have to participate in this charade? Is this some kind of purgatory for him?    

Distracted by his thoughts, Hawks spots a different man down a dark street as he flies overhead. It looks like he’s pushing a creaking wheelbarrow. Wait. A wheelbarrow? He looks again, wheeling back through the night sky, but there’s no one there now. No, the street is desolate, not even the gleam of the moon can brighten the winding sidewalks. 

Is this really a ghost? Do these visions even exist? Hawks has never given the topic of the paranormal much thought. It’s always been an outlier, untrue, and untested. A pseudoscience. Well, ghosts or not, whatever is going on, Hawks needs some rest. 

The rest of the night passes uneventfully and Hawks collapses onto his bed, drifting to sleep as soon as his golden head hits the pillows. 

******

After a goodnight’s sleep, it does get a little easier. 

He feels like his mind has cleared, the cobwebs brushed to one side, for now. Despite the clarity, he’s still seeing something. The man hasn’t gone away. No, even the daylight sun isn’t able to banish him. He saw him in his hotel lobby this morning, waiting for an elevator. By the time Hawks zoomed over, he was gone, the only evidence of his presence is the rising numbers on the illuminated floor panel, clicking up, toward the 4th floor.

That night, while getting a late night coffee, Hawks, long since given up his avoidance of caffeine in the evenings, spies something a little more sinister. As he’s paying the friendly barista, he notices someone lugging something across the road. It looks like it’s heavy, dragging against the street. They’re struggling to hoist it and it’s looking more and more like a body to Hawks’ frazzled nerves. He can’t be sure if it’s the specter that’s been lurking after him, but he’s not taking any chances. Again, Hawks is fast, but it’s not his speed that’s letting him down here. 

Each and every time, there’s just nothing there.

Is he freaking haunted now? Is that a thing? That crazy dream hasn’t returned, so that’s one, fleeting, plus. Wait. Does thinking about the paranormal bring it into existence? Is that how ghosts work? Ugh, if he’s going to be plagued, he might as well read up on this shit. What the fuck is going on? Is it the town? Is it the pressure of this case? Is it him?

As he takes himself, and his coffee, up to his hotel room, he ponders the strange predicament he’s landed himself in. He can’t fit all the pieces together. It’s too strange, too abnormal. He wants to lay down, try to get a little sleep. But, a hero's work is never done. He’s got another report to type up and another set of interviews to schedule. 

As he sits at the small desk that faces the window, he hears a strange cawing. It sounds close, almost like it’s right outside the glass. It’s not the call of a seagull, no, it’s that crow again. But, crows aren’t indigenous to the island. He’d looked them up after that discussion on the wharf. No crows have been spotted on the island in over 50 years. The last known specimen was an old bird, living in the Miyako zoo. It died over 3 years ago. 

Hawks pulls himself to his feet, scraping the chair legs against the floor. He opens the window and pokes his head outside. He can smell the salty aroma of the sea. It tickles his nose and makes him take a big inhale of air, filling his lungs with the crisp aroma. The crow can still be heard, shrieking into the night. There’s a soft, familiar, beating of wings, too. He cranes his head, scanning the blackness, his wings are lifted as well, but there’s no bird. Per usual, there’s no movement, and no creature is flapping its way into the night sky. 

He closes the window and the cawing echoes to the other side of the room before fading away. Annoyed, he takes a sip of his coffee. Hopefully that’s the last he’ll hear of it. He’s got enough ghosts fucking with him, thank you very much, he’s not wanting to add a disembodied crow to the role call. 

******  

The next morning Hawks is on a patrol. 

The murder cases have stagnated again. While this, on the whole, is good news, simply because there are no new bodies, he still can’t get that damned drawing off his mind. It feels like things are slipping away from him, pulling out with the tide and into the vast realm of the dreaded: unsolved cold case. 

He’s frustrated, no, he’s not frustrated, he’s pissed. 

He feels like he’s letting the whole town down. He’d been called out here to do a job, but what good has he really been? Sure, the townsfolk are weird, the police chief is an ass and the lead detective pretty much has Hawks written off as a conspiracy theorist nut, but he was sent here to do a job. He’s good at sniffing things out. He’s good at being a hero. He’s not good at waiting, and that’s all this case has turned into, one long stint of stagnation and thumb twiddling. 

Hawks glides across the bright sky, the sun reflecting warmly on his ruby red feathers. His eyes and wings are alert, feeling for any disturbances. He’s rounding onto the main street when he sees him.

It’s a living, breathing man. Hawks can feel his heartbeat, it’s pounding against the man’s breastbone. Only problem is, he shouldn’t be in the realm of the living.

The 9th victim ducks into a large bank, his familiar dark hair gleaming in the sun. 

Hawks maneuvers to land immediately, his wings tucking against his back and dropping him to the earth at an alarming speed. He startles the small huddle of pedestrians on the sidewalk, but he’s too intent on catching his quarry to smooth any ruffled feathers. He races up the steps of the bank, one broad, gloved hand yanking the glass door open.

There he is. He’s talking with someone. Hawks can almost hear what he’s saying, he just needs to get closer…

“Sir? Can I help you?”

It’s a bank employee. He’s wearing a crisp blue suit and his eyes are wide behind his horn-rimmed glasses. Hawks pauses at his question, then slides past him, but it looks like it was just enough time for the 9th victim to evade him. He’s walking now, disappearing from view, stepping down a back hallway. It looks like he’s following someone…

Hawks turns back to the bank employee, his wings vibrating with annoyance and impatience. “I need to talk with that man, he’s wanted in a murder investigation. My name is Hawks, my hero number is-”

“Oh, I know who you are. O-of course, please, do what you need to d-”

The bank employee’s voice fades as Hawks lifts himself, pulling over the heads of the people waiting in the lobby. A few feathers dash out, feeling, searching. 

Where did he go?

Hawks reaches the hallway in record time, his wings folding as he paces over the marble flooring. There’s not much back here, but it does lead to a large, closed vault. Damn it all. 

“Sir, sir, SIR! Can we help you? I am the bank manager. You’re not permitted to be back-”

“Sure, you can help me. I need access to this vault. There’s a man, you can check your security cameras, he just walked-”

“I do not have access to the vault. You will need to make a formal-”

“Whaddya’ mean, “you don’t have access”? Then find someone who does. Two men just...Damn it…”

Hawks phone is ringing, he tries to ignore it, but it persists, vibrating and chiming against his leg. The bank manager is bristling, his mustache quivering as he babbles on about warrants, and how heroes can’t act like cops. It doesn’t matter if Hawks is the number three, he can’t ignore protocol. He needs to come back with a warrant, or get out…

His phone’s ringtone continues to slice through the tense air and Hawks, after the 9th, exasperating, ring, lifts it out of his pocket, glancing at the caller ID: it’s the HPSC. Fuck. He accepts the call on a final, shrill note.

“Hawks, here.”

“You need to come back...there’s been...All Might...Kamino...attack…”

An intermittent static keeps breaking over the phone line. It’s a crackling sound, snapping and rustling, it makes his skin crawl. It almost sounds like someone is whispering something, just below the faint hissing. “What? The line is breaking up-” Hawks lifts the phone, ah, there’s no bars in here.

The bank manager is still carrying on, heedless of Hawks’ inattention. “And so, I am within my rights to ask you to-”

“I’m going to need you to wait here and don’t move. Yeah, yeah, sure thing buddy, I don’t have a warrant, but I can make things pretty rough for you if you don’t do as I say. You don’t want to be involved in this case, believe me. Now, do what I asked and stay here.”  

Lifting his wings, he flies across the lobby again, swiping a quick text to the police chief, if they hurry they might be able to catch this un-dead, dead guy. He jets himself onto the sidewalk, scattering a gaggle of beach goers. 

As he re-dials the HPSC’s number he hears it again. It’s the call of that crow. It startles him and he almost doesn’t lift the dialing phone to his ear. God, this has gotta stop. He scans the sky for any physical sign of the screeching bird. It’s close, cawing and shrieking into the wind. It’s different from the other calls it’s made. It sounds angry, desperate, trying to reach him...trying to tell him something... 

The line picks up and a voice repeats the familiar greeting of the HPSC. 

“HAWKS, here,” he says, vexed, eyes scanning, looking for the disembodied crow. 

The person on the other end asks for him to hold, and a few seconds later the head of the HPSC is answering, her soft voice both grating and reassuring to Hawks. 

“Hawks. You need to return to Tokyo, immediately. All Might has been attacked by All for One. There are developments that we cannot discuss over the phone. Leave whatever intel you’ve gathered for the Miyako police chief and get back here. This is a national emergency. We need all hands. I don’t need to tell you, but the implications of this are dire. Hero society as we know it will be forever changed. I repeat, drop whatever you’re doing and get back to headquarters.”

The line clicks and that static sound rises again. There’s a garbling, muttering sound that’s rising from the hiss. It’s saying his name. KeigoTakamiKeigoTakamiKeigoTakami. 

Then, all is silent. The voice is gone, the cawing is gone. A deep feeling of dread washes over him. It makes his feathers flair, plumage spreading and flexing. All around him, voices are chatting, laughing, living. They have no idea, blissful in their ignorance. Everything is, no, nothing is ever going to be the same again. God, All Might. If he can’t recover, if he dies... 

Hawks lowers the phone, his eyes wide. Suddenly, all these ghosts of his don’t feel so important now.

Notes: @hawksweek2020​