#justicespirit

When he wakes the next morning it’s to a shirt in his face and Zenko’s third sternest look. “Oni-chan! You’re going to make me late!”

He yawns as he manages to sit up, using the shirt to wipe his face. “It’s not that late…” His phone buzzes and sure enough, it is that late. His eyes bug. He trips over the sheets on his way to standing. “Aw shi-” Zenko’s giving him a glare. “-ttake mushrooms. You eaten yet? Got your homework? Is your music packed?!”

A curse is bitten off as his zipper catches the side of his finger. When he looks up, hair mussed, finger in his mouth, pants mostly zipped, he realizes Zenko is standing there with her uniform neatly pressed and bag already on her shoulders.

She hands him one of his protein drinks from the fridge. “Hero Day is in three days, onii-chan! We’re not going to be late, right?”

“Cross my heart,” he promises, taking the drink. “Lemme find a shirt an’ I’ll walk you to the bus, ok?”

It’s as he’s digging through yet another accumulation of clothing on the living room floor that Zenko asks, “You’re still going to wear it for Hero Day, right?”

“It?”

“The shirt!”

“What shirt?” He asks, absently.

“Baddo!”

He straightens at that and looks at her, lost. She points and it’s then he remembers she handed him a shirt.That he’s still holding. Setting down his still unopened drink he unfurls the shirt.

I <3 MUMEN RIDER stares back at him in bright green and yellow.

He’s pretty sure the sparkle were added afterward, considering the way they’re ensuring his hands will have bling for the rest of the day. “Uh…” But when he looks up he sees the look on Zenko’s face and glitterfied or not he can’t go back on his word. “Yeah, of course. Promise.”

The smile he gets is worth the shit Tanaka is going to give him.

It ends up being Tajima who calls him on it, giving his hands a look out of the corner of his eyes. They’re at the batting cages in upper K-City, the ones with the new machines that have three settings and reinforced cage wire after at least two run-ins with mysterious beings.

Badd rolls his eyes at Tajima’s look. “My sister.”

CRACK!

“Uh-huh.”

CRACK!

“For Hero Day.”

CRACK!

“Uh-huh.”

CRACK!

Round over he puts down his bat to give Tajima a look. “From a shirt.”

Tajima just smiles, which manages to make him look half a foot shorter. How that happens, Badd has given up on figuring out. “You busy afterward?”

Badd’s nose wrinkles. “After when?”

Tajima’s face will probably freeze in an eyeroll someday. “Hero Day.”

“Takin’ Zenko to the parade.”

“I mean after that, dumbo.” Tajima pauses as the attendant appears with a new basket of baseballs, giving a respectful nod to the man, before turning back to Badd. “After the parade an’ all that.”

He has to think, rolling the borrowed bat in his palm. “Maybe.” There’s a question coming and he’s not about to commit. Particularly given how he has yet to actually ask what Zenko has planned. “Why?”

A proud smile splits Tajima’s face. “Goin’ to a party at Haninozuka’s.”

“Huh?”

“Third year?” It’s still not ringing a bell, no matter how much Tajima gestures with his hands. “Private academy up the street, big yellow-brown eyes, small-?”

“The Cookie Mascot?” He pops his lip. “You sure he’s a third year?”

The attendant slips out with little more than a flash of his glasses and a respectful bow, closing the door behind them. Badd loosens his collar, sweat pooling at the base of his neck from the encroaching summer warmth.

Tajima just shrugs. “Who knows. Anyway, you in? Bunch of us are going.” It’s when Badd hesitates that Tajima tacks on. “Supposed to be catered, super fancy house, private school girls…”

It’s almost too late that he realizes that he should be more excited about that than he is. Perhaps a few months ago, maybe? His preferences aren’t exactly secret among his close circle (Tanaka included, and by extension Ennoshita). Though he’s never exactly been one to turn down similar invitations. Reputation, after all, was everything.

They both talk at the same time. “Sure./Guys?”

There’s an awkward silence where Tajima brushes his hair back and Badd rubs the back of his neck. “Sorry.”

Badd shakes his head and waves it off. “It’s cool.”

And it is, even if it’s started a cog going. Pieces lodging themselves into a thought, making him well aware of just what his late nights and early mornings have added up to. It’s almost an earthly miracle that Zenko hasn’t caught on. It’s definitely a god-level act of intervention that he’s realizing it now.

Fuck.

Tajima notices even as he picks a bat, swinging it once before deciding it’s good enough. “What’s up with you, man? You’ve been acting...” The batter trails, waving his hand with a loose swivel of his wrist.

“Yeah, just.” He finds himself swallowing, not sure he’s ready to share his revelation with the class. “Been a long week, you know?”

“You failing writing again?”

Which, god bless Tajima, is just the out he needs. “Yeah, you know how it is. No way they even read it all either.” Tajima huffs in agreement and takes a swing. CRACK! A perfect hit to hide Badd’s annoyance and second-hand embarrassment at himself. He clears his throat even as the batting machine spits out another. “So what time?”

When he goes home that night he has more than enough to ruminate on and not enough time to do it. By the time dinner and dishes are done, Zenko’s homework is double checked and the apartment is swept even the clock seems tired, faded green numbers blinking in and out. His own homework lays strewn on the growing mountain of clothes. Try as he might, however, the only thing done is his name on the assignment.

The pencil he should be using to finish an analysis of the night’s reading sits between his teeth, new canine marks in the wood. Enamel grinding away as he simultaneously hates himself for at least two different reasons.

First off, the...crush. He nearly bites through his pencil. The last time that concept applied in his life things ended in a fight that lost the team three bats at the next day’s practice. He’d hated feeling splintered. Fractured like the barrel of his once-favorite practice bat.

(Coincidentally, that’d been the first time he’d picked up a metal bat, but that’s not the point here.)

Would he say swearing off it all was dramatic? Perhaps. But it’d grown from childish melodrama to practicality. Between Zenko and school and work there’d been little room for anything else. Squeezing in another person became a chore quickly and if the lack of socks on his feet was any indication it was that he had enough of those he couldn’t keep up on. Few understood his dilemma. In the end, it was easier to save his nerves and spare someone else’s feelings than expect understanding.

It’s not that he’s inexperienced, he muses. He has...enough to know what he likes. He’s always had a certain jaded charm, a rebel with a cause attitude that draws in a certain type. With fame came the privilege (some would say responsibility) of desire. And he was young and, if he was honest, lonely. It was easy to say yes in the moment knowing there wasn’t going to be a next year.

Which, he liked. Right? Lead taints his tongue and he sinks lower on the sofa.

Easy didn’t always mean preferred. If that was the case Zenko would play something portable and cheap. Like the flute. Or, hell, he’d take a violin at this point. Flings were just that though. Less commitment, less chance of heartbreak, and easier to break away from without investing parts of himself he just couldn’t afford to be left hanging without. Not that he wants that. Wanted that. But it’s been so long since can became should that he isn’t sure he’d even want something that was more anymore.

He doesn’t like to think about just how misshapen that makes him.

Yet even with the one bedroom apartment over his head and Zenko’s well-stocked backpack sitting by the door as a reminder, he still feels as if there could be...more. Which is reason number two: that idealism.

It pops up like a tenacious spring dandelion. Stubborn and insistent. A fighting spirit Badd can admire until it’s standing in the way of accepting what should be an easy existence. Fights, piano recitals, a piping hot dish of revenge. It’s all he wants in life, or rather should be.

Until fucking Mumen Rider.

Mumen Rider, the hero stuck at Class C - Rank 1 permanently. Mumen Rider, the idiot on a bike breaking up bar brawls and B-list villains (and that’s being generous). Mumen Rider, the hero with abysmal stats and yet a universal appeal that suprasses his own. Mumen Rider, the man with…

He falters.

That’s the problem. He doesn’t know about the man. Mumen Rider the hero? Yes. Mumen Rider the H.A. member? Enough. But Mumen Rider the man? Not even the forums can help him there, and he’s tried at least four times with different searches.

Which, come to think of it, is...odd. Even his own high school is listed on the internet. It hasn’t resulted in a rapid increase of recognition, though the further in rank he climbs the more whispers he hears in the hall. It’s not a secret, by any means, but heroes are a dime a dozen, if not less for the high turnover rate the business has these days.

His teeth bite through the last shreds of cheap wood and he curses at the splinter in his tongue.

Shit. That was it. Mumen Rider the hero was just that. A hero. The man beneath the goggles, for all he knows, is boring. Plain. Fucking Haruna for all he truly knew. What happens as a hero wasn’t always a translation to what happens when the mask was off. (He’s never forgotten meeting Sweet Mask for the first time. He likely never will.)

He spits slivers of wood from his mouth. All you’ve got to do is go out with him. Just once. You’ll see. It ain’t gonna work out.

Just one date. He’s always been a decent enough judge of character. One date and he’ll know if it’s going to be something worth the eventual, enveloping reminder later on down the line. Sound logic. He can live with this decision. And with a ‘fuck you’ to schoolwork his eyes slide closed… Only to fly open again ten seconds later.

How the fuck is he going to ask the guy out?

By the time Zenko’s dragging him off the bus for the parade he still doesn’t have an answer. The street is busy with the sounds of bands, noodles frying. Confectionaries that layer the smell of sweet upon sweet. Heroes mingle, some behind booths to promote themselves, others attempting a less overt form of marketing. Cameras ensure encounters are recorded. He can spot at least four Hero Association press people attempting to be sly about their photos. Colorful strings of lights sway in the late spring breeze.

It’s A-City at its finest, but of course it would be. The Association is big on looks. True to form there isn’t even gum on the streets.

“Baddo, come on!” Zenko is pulling his hand. How she got a schedule already he doesn’t know. Her smile is bright though and he can see her best friend waving by the shaved ice cart. “Mina is already here!”

He lets himself be dragged, shifting in his jacket. His own hero duds may be at home, but his bat sits straight and strong against his spine. Just in case. “A’right, a’right, I’m comin’!”

She lets go of his hand in favor of Mina’s, leaving him to shove his fingers into his pockets and chaperone from a distance, lest he be accused of hovering. (He would never.) Two things of candy floss, three bags of popcorn, and a paper cone of soy wasabi almonds later they head off to find seats for the parade. He ignores the looks he gets. He’s used to the coy glance overs and second sneak peeks.

“Hey, Zenko, hold on!” She’s running ahead of him, the bright strains of parade music drifting over the crowd. Did they start early? He loses her quickly in the crowd, leaving him carrying a half empty bag of soy wasabi almonds. He dusts his fingers off on his shirt, adding green glitter to the mix. Two seconds and he's lost her, god damn it. “Can’t see ya…”

“Need some help?”

He’d been reaching for his phone, but that all goes out the window as his body freezes. Fuck. When he turns the phone’s long since out of his mind.

Mumen Rider is straddling his bike, one foot keeping him upright, another poised on a peddle. There’s a few new scratches on his goggles. Badd swears he can see the glint of glass embedded in the rider’s helmet. None of those details he knows he really should know, but there you go.

“Uh…” Score one for not his pride.

Badd knows they aren’t alone, but it feels like it. A part of his brain recognizes parade music, the screaming of a megaphone, the shriek of the crowd. They’ve got Sweet Mask headlining this year with a rare appearance by Tornado and Blizzard together (for the last time if tabloids are to be trusted). A thousand things to look and see and do.

Mumen’s head tilts a bit, enough so that Badd notices then hates himself for cementing in his memory. “Nice shirt.”

It takes Badd a moment to process that. When he looks down, dumbly, it hits and he feels ready to sink into the concrete. Fuck fuck fuck. How bad does it look? Does it make my arms look small? Is my hair ok? His hand goes up to check for fly away hairs. Almonds go flying.

“It’s not like I l-like you or anything.” Fuck. “My sis’ bought if for me.” God damn it, stop talking. “It’s laundry day.”

By now his mind has stopped trying and he’s pretty sure his heart is going to fall into his stomach and dissolve in acid. It would probably be a kinder fate than the slow descent into agonizing mortification happening right now.

To his credit, Mumen Rider doesn’t laugh. “I like the glitter. Green’s my favorite color.” And the man actually gives a smile.

It does nothing to help Badd not stare. “Makes sense. You know.” He waves a vague hand at all of Mumen Rider.

Of course he’d know, why wouldn’t he know?

Mumen Rider’s hands tighten a bit on the handlebars. “Yeah. Listen…” There’s an awkward pause and Badd has to stop himself from biting a nail. “I know you’ve been following me for awhile.”

Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck.

“I was just wondering if there was a reason?” Mumen Rider is calm through it all, not even raising his voice.

Metal Bat - master of the fighting spirit, hero A-Class 21, the comeback kid, 10th district’s finest flirt and best chance of getting into the championships - would later recount exactly twelve things he could have said that he probably should have said.

Instead, he says in a mad rush of syllables, “You wanna go out sometime?”

Immediately he feels his face go red, though in the delusional state that he’s in he swears Mumen’s pinkens as well. There’s the muddy warble of a tuba blaring that seems to fit Badd’s general state of mind. Really all he needs is a meteorite or a god-level disaster to strike to finish him off.

Thank god Mumen takes away the question of who’s supposed to speak next. “Look, you seem like a nice guy.” Mumen shifts. “And I’m flattered-”

Badd knows where this is going. He’s given this speech himself and he can’t say it’s any easier to be the one hearing it. Every almond he’s eaten sits like a rock in his stomach. “But what? I’m not your type?”

“You were kind of stalking me,” Mumen says with a frown.

Badd notes he didn’t answer his question. “Followin’. Not stalkin’.” Because only weirdos did that.

“Because you heart me?” There’s a twitch of Mumen’s lip and Badd finds himself reddening again. “I’m flattered, truly. Your work is impressive. You’ve got a passion for hero work, Metal Bat-san, and an inspiring gift.” And if that doesn’t immediately plaster itself to the inside of Badd’s rib cage he doesn’t know if anything ever will.

But this is still a rejection and no matter how he feels about praise there’s still the end of that sentence to get to. He tries not to let his disappointment show. “But ya ain’t interested. I get it.” He shrugs, trying to keep the roll slow. A hand sweeps his hair, leaving soy wasabi powder. “Not your thing." And he gives him a look. "You're not one of those pro-family people, right?"

Mumen's hands go up. Fast. "NO. No. Gods, no. Just..."

So it's him then. "Right. Forget I said anythin’, ya?”

He’s ready to bail on this conversation entirely so he can go lick his wounded pride in the anonymity of the crowd.

But Mumen isn’t moving. “It’s…” Aside from in front of a camera, it’s the first time he’s seen Mumen flustered. “Not that.” (It’s a confession drawn out, rusty in use.) Mumen has a hand at his neck now, fingers curling. A deep breath in. “You’re just a kid.”

And Badd stops short of saying anything at all. “Huh?” Because if there’s any word he’d use to describe himself it’s never kid. It hasn’t been for nearly ten years. It’s a title that has his hands suddenly making fists and a defensive wall a mile long springing up.

Mumen bites his lower lip just enough for Badd to hate that he notices. “You’re, what, sixteen?” Badd refuses to give him the satisfaction of a verbal answer. “You’re too young.”

“Too young for what? ‘Love?’” He hates himself for actually doing the air quotes. “A relationship? Think I don’t know what I want? I ain’t that young, you know, and I don’t need the likes of you assuming that just because I’ve got a few less years that you’ve got this better idea about what I ‘need’ to be.”

“It’s not…” Mumen starts, trailing helplessly. “You dropped that.”

Which has Badd confused until Mumen points to the ground. The rest of Zenko’s soy wasabi almonds litter the ground, wax paper flapping in the breeze. Mumen is staring at him and he stares back, not sure if he heard that right. “Excuse me?”

“You dropped that. And the cleaning crew worked through the night to make sure the streets were clean for today.”

He’s incredulous, until he remembers the first time they locked eyes and the four way intersection and the intricacies of justice displayed in the way Mumen Rider considers himself very much a part of. It’s part of the charm that has Badd even here to begin with, wearing this shirt, even asking this stupid question. Which means that...

Oh.

“You’re not just givin’ me a brush off, right?” Mumen actually looks a bit hurt so Badd clears his throat. “So when ya say I’m too young…”

“Right now.” Mumen licks his lips. “You’re too young for me right now.” Justice rests against Mumen’s hips as he holds his hands up, anticipating a comment. “Come back when you make S-Class and we can talk then.”

A tick then two goes by as Badd processes this. “I might never make S-Class.”

Mumen just smiles a bit. “Not sure that many papers and that many people could be wrong.”

Which is also true. He’s already in A-Class, and there are betting pools regarding if he’ll be one of the few heroes to make S-Class in less than a year of hero work. “All right. When I hit S-Class then.”

Mumen Rider’s shoulders slump a bit in relief. “Could you do me a favor until then?”

“Depends on the favor.”

“Would you stop following me? It gives the wrong impression.”

Badd can’t help himself. “In case you haven’t heard, I’m king of makin’ impressions.”

“Doesn’t saying that negate the validity of that claim?”

“Ain’t a claim, it’s fact.”

Mumen huffs lightly. Badd swears there’s a smile in there. “Either way…”

“Yeah, yeah, fine.” Badd waves off the conversation, wrist settling on his hip. “Could take a lesson from me, though, ya know.”

Mumen’s other foot stops idly moving on the pedal. “Is that right? And what would you teach me, Metal Bat-san?”

Badd’s grin is toothy. “Lotsa things. But mostly on makin’ a splash. You’re a hard guy to find.”

Which he feels like Mumen does know, from the single shoulder shrug that gets. “Seems a made an impession on someone." Badd can feel his face reddening as Mumen glances at his shirt. "But you're right. I don’t really like the publicity. There are others more deserving.” Badd frowns a bit, but Mumen’s phone buzzes and the cyclist fishes it out to flip it open with a thumb. “I’ve got to go.”

That also surprises him, considering his own phone didn’t ring. It couldn’t be the Association. Yet another question to add to his growing list.

“Yeah, sure.” Not that Mumen needs his permission to go. Mumen gives him a polite nod and pushes off. He watches, then calls after him, “You’re gonna say yes, right?”

Mumen just looks over his shoulder and gives him a thumbs up, making him wonder if the cyclist even heard him at all.

Wax paper crumples under his foot as he turns. Lifting his shoe, he scoops it up and turns it in his fingers. All he’s got to do is make it to S-Class. It can’t be that hard. Right?

As the paper finds a bin and almond dust is wiped off on his jacket, he hears his name being called.

“Badd! Badd!”

Looking up he finds Zenko making her way toward him, Hero’s Guide in hand. “You’ll never believe who I got!”

“Probably will,” he quips, bending his knees so he can look over Zenko’s shoulder and properly admire each new signature in her Hero’s Guide.

By the time he’s replaced the lost almonds, listened to three speeches by various Association officials, and stood in line to get Child Emperor’s signature, he’s had enough of Hero’s Day. His skin itches and he's restless. Zenko, however, is ecstatic and that's enough to curb his complaining.

The mood comes back, however, hours later at the promised party. True to reputation, the Mitsukuni Mansion is a study in grandeur. A sweeping front drive, finely manicured lawn, and butler at the door are certainly nothing Badd’s every grown accustomed to. The grandiose chandelier of the foyer and elegant stemware serving sparkling apple juice, it’s a surrounding that should be utterly and absolutely captivating.

All he can think about is Mumen Rider.

The party goes on behind him, a string quartet (a fucking string quartet) providing the night’s entertainment, and honestly if he’d known it was going to be this kind of a party he wouldn’t have come. Even his hero gear feels out of place. A bright smear of red against the elegance of black and white and pastels.

Dancing isn’t normally his thing, much less ballroom, much less being served on literal silver platters. Which is how he finds himself on the overlook, sipping sparkling juice and watching the influx of even more fashionably late individuals flood up the front stairs.

Watch all ya want, it ain’t gonna be him. The juice is overly sweet and his nose tingles from the carbonation. It just makes him all the more restless.

Tajima chooses that moment to make his entrance, arguing, loudly, with Izumi, Mihashi in tow. “I’m just saying, what’s the point of a chocolate fountain if you’re not allowed to dip stuff in it?”

Izumi wrinkles his nose and yanks Tajima’s drink away. “Just because they say finger food doesn’t mean your actual fingers.”

Mihashi, brave soul he occasionally is, attempts to step in. “You can’t deny, having those guys do it for you seems kind of excessive.”

Tajima rolls his eyes, dramatically, then catches Badd’s eyes and grins. “Heeeeeey, Badd! This is where you disappeared to! Thought you’d be schmoozing all those ladies in there!”

It’s obvious the drinking has gone beyond cider. His first thought is who’s going to get Tajima home. His second thought is, “You got any left?”

“Any what?” Even buzzed Tajima’s got his senses.

Badd laughs even as Izumi shoots Mihashi a clear look. “We don’t have anything…”

Mihashi looks nervous now (not that he doesn’t usually). Badd takes it upon himself to slap a supporting hand on the kid’s shoulder lest he vibrate out of his skin. “C’mon, Iz, you an’ I both know this party fucking needs it.”

Izumi looks between the three of them, Tajima wiggling his nose, and Mihashi rubbing the back of his neck,. He sighs deeply. “Seriously, it wasn’t from me, ok?” The flask comes out and the drinks suddenly become something far more tolerable. “Why am I always bringing the alcohol? When you gonna chip in, Badd?”

He takes a generous sip of his own drink. “When I ain’t got your butts to save.”

Mihashi stares at his glass, both hands clasping the stem as if it were a lifeline. “Are you sure we should be doing this? It isn’t our house, and if we’re caught Momoe will…”

“We’re fine, we’ll be fine,” Tajima says, draping an arm over Mihashi and leaning in. “Party’s too fancy anyway. Needs something more exciting than a chocolate fountain. Which why are they called that anyway? Not like they want you drinking the chocolate either.”

“Pretty sure they don’t want ya drinkin’ out of the normal fountains either,” Badd points out.

“That is not what you said that time at-”

“Hey, we said we’d never talk ‘bout that again!” A quick flick of Tajima’s nose stops the story - no one needs to relive that, least of all people not there - but has them devolving into a face making competition that ends with Izumi snorting into his glass and Mihashi laughing.

It’s easy, easy to be here giving a fuck all to the noise behind them. To pretend like it’s another party, another night, another remarkably normal moment where the metal bat on his back isn’t the definition of his existence.

“You’re in a better mood,” Tajima says to him, low, as Izumi and Mihashi compare game scores on their phones. They’ve switched now to leaning by the entrance to the house, watching the dancers go by, the music faster though no less foreign. Waiters scurry by, giving them the odd look. “Find someone?”

Badd snorts and finishes his drink. His tongue burns now and he’ll have to walk it off before he gets home. “Said it yourself. All these people here ain’t in my league.”

“You've met all of them?”

“Don't need to.”

Tajima hums. “Got high standards there.”

“The highest.” He doesn’t really, but even now there’s a part of him that isn’t sure how to turn Metal Bat off.

“Know what they say about standards…”

He snorts. “They were meant to be broken?”

It’s not really funny, but Tajima laughs anyway. “You, my friend, break everything.”

Which earns the baseball player a wicked grin. “Haven’t broken you yet.”

“Only because you said I haven’t got a brain to break.” Tajima slugs him in the arm before finishing his own drink, smacking his lips. “Still, those “standards” of yours? Gonna leave you high and dry.”

Perhaps maybe Tajima’s right, a part of his brain suggests. But it’s not an issue, says his heart, because there’s that hazy promise of a date. Just as soon as he makes S-Class. He can wait that long, right?

“Doesn’t matter if it does,” he shrugs.

Tajima squints at him. “So there is someone.”

“Never said that.”

“Don’t bullshit me.”

“Ain’t bullshitting if I’m not saying anything.”

Tajima watches him for a long moment before looking back to the sea of people. Servers duck and dodge in white and red, obvious among the soft ball gowns and silk collars. Badd can’t deny there are several beautiful people there. But the glasses are stylish and elegant, hair neatly kept.

He hums. “Already know what I want.” He gestures with the now empty glass toward the ballroom of people. “And trust me, it ain’t anyone you see in this joke.”

They’re interrupted by the clatter of a tray. (Turns out, silver sounds just as loud as iron.) Badd moves to grab the serving platter as it rolls by, smooth even with the warm burn in his chest. He’s conscious of all eyes on them as he holds the tray out to the server scrambling to pick up glass.

The server takes it, head down, messy brown hair hiding what his glasses don’t. “My apologies, sir. I didn’t watch where I was stepping.”

“Yeah, ya didn’t.” Zenko would be disappointed in him and he screws his mouth up a bit, ready to attempt something less in your face. He stops at the red tinge across the server’s cheeks, suddenly tongue-tied in an uncharacteristic stab of uncertainty.

“Hey, no worries…” Tajima starts, but the server is already on the floor, sweeping up broken glass with his hands. Another server is already moving in with a cloth. Tajima glances at him and shrugs. “So when do I get to meet her?” At silence Tajima adds, “Him?”

As if it weren’t uncomfortable enough, it’s hot and humid the next night, a fact not helped by the surprising number of people he finds himself at the Mumen Rider Fan Club (K-City District Chapter). He knows it’s going to be a long night. He’s onto his fifth juice packet and they won’t talk about the fact he’s bored-eating his eight cookie. The agenda, so far, has consisted of recent sightings, compared stories, fanart of ‘alternative’ costume ideas, all devolving into gossip and general hero chatter. He hasn’t learned anything beyond the fact Mumen Rider’s favorite food is udon (unconfirmed), he used to be an A-Class hero until he got injured (unconfirmed?), his mother is a wind spirit (definitely unconfirmed), and that Yuki and Takeshi are #2 cutest couple in the club (confirmed - Freddy and Chika are definitely more adorable).

Part of him considers leaving to go stalk the man instead. It had to be more informational than...this. The implications though of that...stalking? Fact finding? Could you call it fact finding when you already had a healthy paragraph or two of information via the free Association pamphlets and an internal database with the basics? Not that he’d looked at the later already. (It just opened on its own on his computer…)

Instead, he gets up for another cookie as the group breaks apart, again, to compare posters and redo their main banner. He gives a nod to the janitor, who gives him a bespectacled nod back before disappearing down the hall, as if commiserating his situation. If he’s honest, he’d hoped to quell that curiosity all together here. But the lack of real information was only fanning the damn flame.

(Not that it was that kind of flame, of course not.)

A tug to his sleeve drags him out of his thoughts and he looks to find Jiro staring up at him through messy black hair. “Are you Zenko’s dad?”

It’s a common question, not helped by the mothers who line the back, twittering with each glance he catches them in. He sighs. “Do I look like I’m old enough to be her dad?” At the child’s blank stare he realizes he doesn’t really want to know. “What’d’ya want?”

“Can you help me?” Jiro holds out a glue stick, other hand clutching paper letters that Badd would bet spell some variation of Mumen.

With a small sigh he takes the glue stick and tugs. Surprised when it doesn’t give on the first try. Jiro watches him as he struggles for a moment and since they’ve got time, “Hey, Jiro?”

“Yeah?”

“You ever met this guy? Mumen Rider.”

“Yeah.”

Again, why did he come here? He yanks on the glue stick, top popping off and nearly hitting himself in the eye. A few moms twitter as he grits his teeth. Takes a breath in, lets it out. “What’d you think?”

“Think of what?”

“Mumen Rider.”

Jiro takes the glue stick back though he doesn’t run off. Instead, he twists the glue cap, thinking. He’s about to tell the kid never mind when he speaks, suddenly. “He saved my family. From a fire.” Which has Badd’s attention. “There was a monster, and it was really big, and it destroyed Ryuu’s apartment and made ours catch on fire and Mumen Rider came and helped us get out before the fireman could get there.”

It’s hard not to be affected by that, considering his and Zenko’s own experiences, considering the Hero’s Association is the whole reason for stories like this. He knows what the papers say about heroes; he’s followed most of them and has read more than a half dozen to watch his own name rise. The stories he’s in are always quick to point out power, promise, passion. A fighter of evil, they say. There’s even an entire expose on his namesake. Hell, his lawyer’s in talks with a sporting good company over licensing replicas, when he makes S-class.

But can he really say that his fans have stories to tell about him? (Him him, not his bat, not his clothes, not his hair.) When was the last time the monster wasn’t the focus of a call out?

The fact that he can’t answer that has his stomach twisting. Jiro watches him, as if sending the turmoil, and offers him a now sticky hand. “Help me with my poster?”

He ends up covered in glue and with bits of purple and green construction paper stuck to his cheeks. But Jiro skips off, happy, and at the end of the day even he has to admit that the posters look good.

For a few days the posters and Mumen Rider take a back seat in his mind as life continues on. There’s piano lessons, school, homework, and a baseball game to attend. Becoming a hero doesn’t mean life slows down, it just means having less time to deal with the challenges of the normal days.

By the time he thinks about those posters again he’s running toward a Demon Level threat and to be fair the only reason memories of glue sticks and construction paper come back is because Mumen Rider is there. Badd skids to a halt, shocked, dust swirling around him in an effort to catch up.

Mumen Rider stands in front of a wall of dust and smoke, teeth grit to a defiant scowl, fists up in a boxer’s stance. His goggles are cracked and both dirt and blood smear his face. Parts of his under armor are ripped and there’s more than one gash staining the edges of fabric. His bike lays off to the side, half buried under the rubble of a ruined apartment building, bent spokes of the front wheel just visible.

“I won’t let you pass!” shouts Mumen.

The Demon Level monster shifts, and only then does Badd realize the dust is literally the creature. “Step aside, you silly thing. You’re not worth three particles of my finger.”

“I won’t let you pass!” Mumen digs his feet in, determined, and he has to give the guy that; he’s not backing down. “I don’t care what you think of me. I’m right here, right now, ready to do everything to stop you from destroying the rest of this city!”

The monster hisses and it sends every hair on Badd’s arms on end. “You have nothing that could stop me, Whirling Sand Typhoon! Now step aside or I’ll make sure you don’t get up this time.”

He moves even as Mumen does, the latter letting out a battle cry that is cut off when a solidified hand slams into him. Mumen goes flying by him even as he steps in, bat rising up for a powerful downward swing. It dings off the vanishing hand, causing a scream.

Part of him wants to check on Mumen, but the man is right. There are apartment buildings here. Hundreds of people, of people’s homes, people’s lives. If this thing, Whirling Sand Typhoon, gets any further… He doesn’t want to see the rating go up anymore than it is.

“Hurt, didn’t it?” he smirks, bat twirling in his fingers. “But you know that already. Just like you know you ain’t gettin’ a step further.”

The dust shifts and two eyes appear deeper within. “Are you another of him?” Badd’s eyes slide over to Mumen, who hasn’t moved.

“Yeah, I am,” he says. “And you’re gone, so start sayin’ good bye to yourself. All whatever million of you there is.”

“Ignorant fool-”

He’s been called fool enough to know nothing important follows it, so he charges, aiming for the eyes. It’s as he suspected. His bat slices through dust with no effect, but dings off the rapidly disintegrating left eye. So that’s the trick. Huh.

“Whirling Tornado Fist!”

A large fist hits him in the side and there’s the downside to figuring it out; lost time. He grunts as he’s flung sideways, though once his feet hit the ground his heels dig in, slowing him down. He’s moving forward, but rather than waste energy stopping completely he uses it to leverage himself off what’s left of the building and spring back toward the action.

This time he sees the fist coming; dirty bastard was trying to get him in the back. (Then again, when do monsters fight fair?) His bat comes up and the impact of connecting makes his bones shake. The sound is a crack that temporarily deafens him and rings off the high rises.

The trick here is he has to get close enough as Whirling Sand Typhoon attacks to get at the solidified limbs.

Fortunately, there isn’t just one tornado here.

“How you gonna hold me off if you can’t even handle a tap?” Knees bend as he winds up, blood running hot enough to burn. “Savage Tornado!”

He expects a defense. What he gets is so much so that there’s suddenly nothing to hit. Dust stings his eyes and his bat finds nothing as he chases literal dust. He swears the thing is laughing, a rasping sound, and when he finally stops those infernal eyes are staring at him, yellow and unblinking.

“Is that all you’ve got?” It’s the last thing he hears for a solid thirty seconds as dust swirls around him, scratching his face, his ears, his hands.

His ears are ringing and his face stings when he swings, a blind gamble that almost pays off. His bat scrapes and the whirling intensifies. Even as the wind increases his grip on his bat does as well, fingers cutting into leather and joints shifting under pressure.

“You’re countin’ me out too early! See, thing is, that ain’t all I’ve got. In fact, you’re just seein’ a bit of it. But since you’re asking so nicely…” His stance tightens. “Dragon Thrashi-!”

When he comes to he feels as if he’s swallowed a beach, chest heavy as if what he didn’t swallow landed there. He’s being crushed and his bat is a fingertip away. It would be so easy to go limp, to say he’s done. But that’s not in his name, in his style, in his spirit. So he strains, harder and harder, until he feels it, his bat, just-

“Hey!”

The pressure abates, just for a moment, and that moment is long enough for him to find an extra inch and curl his fingers around his bat. Something hits the creature, hard, and it squeals, and suddenly the pressure is gone.

Perfect.

He stands then, sees Thrashing Dust Typhoon’s face impaled with a dark green helmet and he swings one handed so hard his shoulder threatens to pop.

CRACK!

Dust explodes with a screech and he has to squeeze his eyes closed against the ensuing mess. When he does open them, the air is hazy and he’s standing in at least an inch worth of dust. But the Whirling Dust Typhoon is no more and the area is quiet of rasping, scratching, and screaming.

His shoulders loosen, grip lightens. The rush is edging toward fading, Fighting Spirit dying to be resurrected next time. He did good, that he knows, though there’s that tiny part of him that bemoans how the fight was so easy in the end. There’s something to be said for a challenge.

Mumen Rider.

He turns quickly and his bat nearly bangs into the other hero. They both freeze, staring at each other, until Mumen Rider carefully wipes off his glasses with a thumb. “You ok?”

In truth he feels he should be asking that question of Mumen. But he can’t get words out. Not quite. His tongue is thick and there’s an odd sense of awe for the fact that Mumen’s nose just stopped bleeding and here he is asking if Badd is ok.

Before he can say anything, Mumen says, gently, “Thanks. That was pretty amazing, what you did. You really saved my rear out there.” He offers a hand. “And the city’s.”

He’s not the shaking hands type, no matter the warm smile on Mumen’s face. “Tch, was nothin’.” There’s a helmet by his shoe, however, which he scoops up to hold out. “Had a pretty good assistant.” Then, like his foot isn’t already in his mouth. “Not that I couldn’t have taken it.”

Idiot.

Mumen, however, takes the helmet and just gives him a grateful smile. “I know. Figured it was better to end it early than to drag it out.” Mumen runs a hand through his hair. (Badd won’t admit to that old curiosity squeezing his chest.) “But you’re ok?”

They end up staring awkwardly at the other for a few seconds, because he still doesn’t know how to answer that question. Mumen’s smile dims a bit, sweat rolling down his temple.

“Er, yeah, fine.” Badd rubs his neck. “Your bike ain’t though.”

Idiot.

Mumen glances at the bike tire, now nearly obscured in dust. “Might need some cleaning. We should probably see if anyone is left in these apartment buildings though.”

Which is a solid plan, particularly as it means Badd won’t have any more opportunities to look like a fucking idiot in front of this guy. So he nods, “I’ll take the east side.”

They split up, but even as he knocks on doors and helps families get out of now destroyed rooms he thinks about Mumen across the way. Calm, collected, accepting Mumen Rider, unphased by just about everything it seems. There’s no push for fight rights or claims to the deed. No posturing or threatening he clearly remembers from the Tank Top crew. It’s, oddly refreshing?

(And also why the guy won’t ever get above C-Class, the snide voice in his head says.)

Still, there’s a tenacity there in the way he watches Mumen fight and in the way he moves afterward. Obviously sore but still carrying a backpack full of...cats? The press arrives just in time to miss that shot, but get the one of Badd emerging with a single mom’s sick daughter, which is of course the shot that makes the news the next day.

It’s not enough of a fight to get him promoted, but it’s enough for him to get noticed, proof arriving in his inbox even before the construction crew can show up at the apartment complexes. He reads it in the cab back from the store, black text stark and to the point. A form letter but nonetheless a good indication that, come the next fight, he’ll find himself higher up in A-Class before the day ends. It’s good news. It should be good news.

XXX

He doesn’t think much of it when he finds it. She’s at the age where K-Pop, heroes, and tv show figures are available on clothing and who’s he to deny her something she’s passionate about? So when the shirt appears in his hands halfway through sorting clean laundry he folds it and puts it in her pile to put away later.

But before he can get further Zenko is there, half throwing clothing out of the laundry bag. “Did you clean it, onii-chan?”

“Hey, hey, hey, stop that!” He shoos her off before giving her a reproachful eye that he likes to think other parents only dream they could manage. “Clean what?”

“My Mumen Rider shirt!” That receives a blank stare. “You know, Mumen Rider?” Another stare. “Onii-chan, he’s only one of the most popular heroes ever!”

Which immediately has his lips puckering. “Who?” Because he’s waiting for his A-Class license in the mail, literally, and already the rank there is obsolete. (They’re calling him a natural, a wonder, a phenomenon. They don’t ask what he calls himself.)

Zenko rolls her eyes in a way that makes current Badd feel pity for future Badd and the ensuing teenage angst. “Mumen Rider, onii-chan. He’s courageous and daring and Mariko met him once and said he’s the nicest guy there is.” Laundry bag in disarray she turns to her stack. “I hope I get to meet him someday.”

With a triumphant cry she finds the mystery shirt from earlier and shoves it in Badd’s face. Goggles, helmet, a thumbs up - it’s a caricature of a disappointingly normal man, considering the build up.

He tsks. “What’s the guy even do?”

It’s as if he’s called Tama ugly. “Onii-chan!”

He holds his hands up to stymy the lecture. “What? Just asked what he does!”

“He’s a hero, just like you.” He won’t admit to that still feeling good, even as she struggles to pull the shirt on over her dress. “And I’m going to be late.”

It’s not that he’s annoyed that the shirt is going with her. But… “Going where?”

“Mariko’s.”

“Why?”

“For club.”

“Club?”

The sigh Zenko gives is worthy of a daytime award. “Mumen Rider Club.” He does his best to not narrow his eyes. “Mariko’s vice president. We’re gonna make signs for Hero Day.” Despite his apparent failings she gives him a brief hug before picking up her book bag.

No matter how he feels about that shirt, there are some things he absolutely can’t help. He’s with her as she crosses the threshold and off down the hallway, calling after her, “Hey, you be back for dinner, ya? And be careful walking over there! Text me when you get there.”

“Cross my heart,” she promises. She waves, then she’s off down the stairs and the two blocks away. He knows she’ll get there fine and in ten minutes her text will confirm that.

But that doesn’t stop him from glancing in the hallway mirror and scowling at himself. It’s ridiculous, being this jealous over one piece of mass produced merchandise. A shirt. A phase. He’s seen Zenko blow through pop band crazes like quarters at the arcade. This can’t be that different, he assures himself.

“Mumen Rider,” he mutters to himself with a snort. Adjusting his hair even as he tries not to compare. (Or rather compare Mumen to him, because if they’re honest the guy’s color scheme is dated and attire pedestrian. No flair, no style.) “Tch. Can’t be that impressive.”

Three days later he’s still convinced of that fact as he watches from the back of a park bench as what’s best described as a walking fruit basket attempt to terrorize a corner store. Attempt, as the amalgamous of melons that make up the thing are more of an absurd oddity than anything related to horror. A fact the thing - he’s calling him Fruit Mascot Man - is only just now figuring out.

Fruit Mascot Man attempts what should be a threatening swipe. It ends with a melon hand cracking, dripping juice all over the sidewalk to the screaming laughter of two curious kids. In some way, Badd feels that he understands.

It’s just not their day.

He sighs, bored. It’s the fifth Wolf Class threat he’s answered with no success. Sure, he can stop the thing with one swing of the bat currently on his back. But that’s not the point here.

The point is that extensive trawling of online message boards has hinted that X-City was Mumen Rider’s stomping ground today and so far? So far he has nothing more than a throbbing stubbed toe from not-even-monster #4 and the title of ‘most bags of chips’ eaten in one three hour shift. No Mumen Rider and even less self-pride than when he’d started.

If it weren’t for the Hero’s Association profile, he’d be skeptical as to the existence of Mumen Rider at all.

A water pipe breaks thanks to a lucky punch, spraying the sidewalk in fruit juice and rapidly expanding water. Screaming erupts which is his cue. Brushing chips from his fingers, he straightens, letting the bag fall in favor of curling around his bat. Right, another no-

“Justice Crash!”

He barely hears it over the din, though he does see it in action. Up close and personal even. A pedal nearly grazes his face as it flies by, hitting Fruit Mascot Man’s side with a loud THWOK that sends it into the gutter.

Nose burning from the near-miss, he turns. Mumen Rider is there then, sun glinting off familiar green goggles. Mumen Rider’s shorter than Badd’s mind had made him, slim too for someone who can (supposedly) throw a bike from a several meters away. Despite his disappointingly accurate to photo looks, Mumen Rider is already in position, stance wide, arms up, fists ready.

It’s the picture of a fighter, a man ready for anything with confidence apparent enough for Badd’s hand to loosen on his bat.

Fighting spirit.

There’s a brief few minutes he’s tense, breath held, as he waits for Mumen Rider’s punch to be let out.

Instead, Fruit Mascot Man wheezes, and falls into a million ruined melon pieces. He just stares. As does Mumen Rider, until a melon hits his riding boot and he moves forward to warily rescue the bike from a now sticky sidewalk.

Just like that, three days of work is done and he doesn’t even know what to say to that. A bike crash. That was it. No punch, no kick, no kung fu, no super strength, no super speed. Nothing. Nothing except a move that could be classified as an accidental action. (Or convenient timing during a short lived and less than memorable career of terror.)

This was the guy Zenko wanted to meet?

As if knowing, Mumen Rider looks up and meets his eye. For a moment they stare at each other across the rapidly growing crowd of onlookers. He doesn’t want to say he’s star struck. He isn’t. Why should he be? Anyone could do what this guy did with less intention and just as much vigor. And yet he locks eyes  with him and there’s a second there where he realizes a horrible truth: he’s goddamned curious now.

While he ponders this sudden epiphany, he realizes Mumen is frowning. Making a motion with his hand. Down?

He looks down to find his abandoned chip bag crinkling under his toe. Oh. Fishing it off the ground, when he meets Mumen’s eyes again the man has the audacity to smile. Then flash him a thumbs up.

Seriously?

The bag squeals in his hand as he crunches it, watching Mumen take a call and turn away. Within moments Mumen’s pushing off, cycling with purpose down the road. He turns, done here as well, even if his mind lingers on the encounter long after he takes his own call for a Demon Level threat in J-City.

Later that night, over a meal of take out sushi that he’s regretting, he realizes the wasabi mound he’s poking at is shaped suspiciously like a helmet. He groans, causing Zenko to look up.

“Onii-chan? What’s wrong?”

He’s not sure how to explain ‘creepy fascination with a c-class hero’ so he goes with, “Too much of this. Don’t know why they always give us half a dam-ng bottle.” The wasabi is not too delicately deposited back in the take-out trash. In his hurry a chopstick goes with, leaving him to fish it out from amongst dirty napkins and spilled rice.

Naturally, Zenko sees right through him. “You like wasabi.”

Chopstick rescued, he wipes it off and shrugs. “Not tonight.” She watches him even as a piece of tuna slips off out of her grip to drown in soy sauce. He clears his throat. “So, how was club?”

She hums. “Good! We made signs for Hero Day and we wanna get there early. We can go early, right?”

How can he say no to that? Even if she will be holding a banner for fucking Mumen Rider. “Of course. Gotta get a good seat for the parade, right?”

Zenko grins. “Yeah!”

He nudges a piece of sushi around. “So, Mumen Rider, huh?” Super subtle. “What should I know about him?” Zenko just squints at him. “Just sayin’, if I’m goin’ to Hero Day with you I should probably know who you’re holding signs for, yeah?”

“You’re gonna hold signs with us?”

He’s not ready to commit that far to this. “Was thinking a t-shirt.”

Zenko’s face lights up. “Really?” He makes an noncommittal click with his tongue, which she accepts with a wider grin. “Ok!”

“So, Mumen Rider?”

But it is too late to redirect the topic to anything fruitful. “You should come to our next meeting! You can sit with me and we can go for ramen afterward then to the park.”

“Hey now, I just agreed to a shirt.” She was giving him that look though, hands folded over her chopsticks, and he sighs. “Ok, ok.”