Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Whilst waking up with a sore body was not out of the ordinary for Katsuki, waking up with a sore body on hard ground, with bright lights burning into his closed eyelids and familiar murmurs around him, was not so ordinary. 

He frowned slightly. His mind was still half-asleep and blurry, but through the fog he managed to realise that no, this was not normal, and no, he was probably not safe.

That got his eyes blowing open and his back straightening stiffly against the hard wall he was slumped against. 

“Bakugou!” Shitty Hair cried. Katsuki’s eyes shot towards him. Sharky’s expression was one of panic and fear—at least, under the layer of fake braveness he tried to mask it with. “ Are– Are you okay? You’re the last to wake up. We weren’t sure what condition you were in…” 

Katsuki grimaced. His mouth tasted dry and ashy, like it did when he slept at the wrong time of day, and he swallowed. “ … Calm your tits, I’m fine,” he rasped, and went to raise his hand to rub at his eyes – to no avail. He looked down to see chains – bringing with them, of course, the lack of movement of his arms.

He paused. Katsuki sighed and knocked his head softly against the wall behind him. “ … Fuck.”

They had been kidnapped.

Katsuki had been kidnapped.

Fucking. Again . 

“ Oh,” Shitty Hair replied, relaxing ever so slightly against the wall opposite him. His own chains clinked as he sighed in faint relief. “ Oh, good.” As there was a short, silent pause, Katsuki took the chance to look around. 

They were in a large room. Everything was white – or, would have been, if not for the stains in the top corners of the room and the dirt and dust embedded in the small cracks of the floor. 

Opposite Katsuki, on his left, there was a large metal door. That, too, was far from clean; rust painting every inch of it and dark scuffs in the floor from where the door had opened inwards and scraped against it many times. 

The room itself was simple, just a cube, really, with two bright, artificial lights embedded in the ceiling. Katsuki was sat back against one wall, his chains bringing uncomfortable similarities to the ones he had during Kamino or the Sport Festival (which he shoved away quickly), and attached to the floor, between his legs.

Shark Teeth, Horns, Tapeface and Duncey were in similar states, spread out about the room against the walls as well. They were a good few feet away from each other, though, and for some reason, Katsuki found himself disliking it. 

They had no idea who the hell they were dealing with, or what the hell they’d be forced to do.

And – he checked, risking a small crackle in the palm of his hand, hidden in the shackles, and was proven right when nothing happened – they didn’t have their quirks.

They were, for lack of better wording, utterly fucked.

Katsuki groaned, wincing. “What the hell happened?”

As he spoke, it was hard not to notice how his head was pounding. But he didn’t dare mention it. 

“ Oh, just what usually happens,” Tape Dispenser drawled, sounding just about done with everything, “ We try to have a day out. We get attacked by villains. The only thing new this time is that they tried to take us and actually succeeded .”

Sounds about right. They’d convinced him to go to the mall with them to celebrate being half-way through their second year. Raccoon Eyes wanted to check out their merch for the third time. He knew because Sero wouldn’t stop complaining with him and the others wouldn’t stop dragging them back to look at something new every other minute. 

He wasn’t entirely sure of how it happened. Katsuki had caught wind of something being wrong (with how he hadn’t been pulled away to look at something for five minutes straight), but by the time he grew more concerned of where the others were, it was too late. One second he was browsing All Might merch, the next there was a flash of purple and white and he’d found himself here. 

And Katsuki had really thought that he wouldn’t get kidnapped again before at least finishing highschool… Not even close.

“It’s– It’s fine though,” Horns said, casting a quick glance at Sero. “We’re all okay—no injuries, unless you count the small headache, and the fact that we don’t have our quirks. We don’t know where we are or what time it is, but we’ve definitely been in here a while.”

Katsuki frowned. While good that no one was injured, no quirks would be a problem.

What are we here for? What did the villain want? He stared at the floor while his mind ran laps. Behind every kidnapping, there’s a motive. So what was it? 

“Oh yeah, definitely,” Drooly mumbled glumly, “I feel like I could run a marathon, I haven’t moved in so long. My poor legs , man!” 

The most common reason – at least, that Katsuki had experienced so far – was for ransom. It was a strong possibility, since Yuuei was rich, and their parents weren’t too bad off either. That would be the best-case scenario. Though, there were other options. Not all as good as Katsuki would prefer. They could be here for information on Yuuei and the heroes. That wouldn’t be great, because that would mean they’d probably have ‘ways’ of making them ‘talk’.

“Denki, you can complain about your legs once we figure out what’s going on,” Horns sighed. 

Maybe they’d be trafficked; they were probably worth a lot if they were sold to different rings. Or perhaps they’d be, quite simply, used for their quirks. He knew how many uses could be applied to quirks, and with theirs specifically? He’d be listing them for days. Though, the fact that they’d been stripped of their quirks for the moment didn’t support the theory – or maybe that was just another reason to worry.

Soy Sauce made a nervous noise. “Speaking of, Bakugou, we weren’t sure but… well, er, do you… think the League took us? We thought it could be a possibility, but, well, y’know…”  

If Katsuki was to be honest, he kind of hoped it was trafficking, or quirk use, or information or whatever the hell. Because as he thought, a memory resurfaced, from when he’d been – what? Twelve, or so? Maybe eleven, or ten. He wasn’t sure. But the kidnapping that year… 

“ If… If it is, we know what we’re against, right?” Horns questioned, tone bordering on hopefulness – before dipping into uncertainty as she continued, “ Blasty? You… know what they’re like.”

That year hadn’t been like the others. That time, the kidnapper hadn’t done it for any other motives. They’d just done it for pleasure. For entertainment. And although he’d escaped before anything serious could take place, it definitely sounded like–

“ Hey, Bakugou?”

–she would do it only for joy. Even his kid self could tell that. She’d been unhinged. So he really, really hoped that this wasn’t a similar situation. 

He didn’t think he could bear to see his friends get tortured.

“ Katsuki!”

Katsuki’s eyes snapped to Horns, who was watching him worriedly. “ Are you okay?”

“ I’m– fine , just… thinking,” Katsuki muttered, narrowing his eyes. “ What?”

“ Er– Well…” She looked away. “ We think this might be the League. If– if you’re okay with saying anything… Do you know anything about them that could–”

“ The League?” Katsuki repeated, shaking his head slightly. “ No, this isn’t the League . ”

“ Why not?” Duncey asked. “ I mean… their way of taking us is similar, isn’t it? They had a magician guy. With one touch, you’re gone?”

“ Not gone ,” Katsuki corrected, somewhat uncomfortably, “ Compressed – into a marble. And anyway, that felt completely different; that was like you were everywhere, but nowhere at the same time. You knew you were there – this time, you were just unconscious. This… Look, this wasn’t the League. And besides, they’d never do it like this .”

Shitty Hair frowned. “ What do you mean?”

Katsuki opened and closed his mouth, looking for words. He flexed his jaw, then said slowly, “ The League… they like to make a– a show of things, I guess. They say it’s to send a message, but really, they’re just attention starved assholes. When they have you captive, they ain’t gonna just leave you in a place like this, alone,” he said, lifting his shackles to gesture around them. “ They stay in the same room as you until you wake up. Try to be creepy ‘n shit. Once they get bored with toying with you, they leave the room to do whatever the hell they do. But there’s always someone there to keep watch. I guess there’s a fucking possibility, if they’re teaming with someone. But otherwise? No.”

He didn’t mean to spook them, especially since he left out the worst parts, but by the look on their faces, he realised he might have accidentally done so. He cracked a small smile. “ Plus, they like stylish shit; like cliché bars and big entrances. Not this disgusting place.”

It didn’t seem to help much, but it was true that the room smelt like sewage water. Ugh.

“ I suppose…” Horns murmured softly, “ You have, erm. Experience.”

Katsuki watched her for a moment, then shrugged. “ It’s… not that bad. The more I have, the better chances we have at getting out of here, and it’s just our luck that I’ve got a shitton.” 

Their faces turned a little bitter and confused at that, but they didn’t have much time to mull over it because just then, a loud click resonated from the large, metal door. Katsuki stiffened.

Experience or not, they had no idea who they were dealing with.

The door clicked again loudly, then there was a shck – like a sliding lock – and finally, the door swung inwards, slowly. Katsuki noted how they wouldn’t be able to open the door from their side quickly – if they could even get it to be unlocked in the first place – so it wouldn’t be a promising escape. Their side of the door was smooth; no locks or even a handle to open it with, not that it would have helped much. It might as well have been just a slab of metal. He wondered what locks there were on the other side. Digital, with specific requirements, or something they could steal the key to? His head ran with any and all possibilities that could get them through that door, but none of them were reassuring. 

They… They still had a chance. He’d figure something out.

As the door swung open, half a dozen people in what looked like black snowsuits entered – only, their suits weren’t as puffy and much thinner, surely not made for actual snow. All but one had black medical masks on and they approached each of them silently, despite their resistance and shouts.

The last, the sixth one with no mask, stood right in front of the door. Katsuki wrinkled his nose at the sight of him. Fuji. What the hell was he doing here? He… He definitely wasn’t in charge; or else his ‘style’ of kidnapping had changed drastically since the last time Katsuki had seen him, and from what he could remember. Was he partnering with someone? 

Or was he now working for someone even worse?

This wasn’t good. 

His short hair was a disgusting lime-green, and his deep, brown eyes roved around the room and fixed on Katsuki sharply, the dangerous glint in them not stopping Katsuki from glaring at Fuji openly. “ Come on, move it,” he barked loudly, eyes moving away from him, “ She’s waiting! The Supervisor will kill you all if you don’t move it. But bring them in order !”

‘The Supervisor’?

The guard that approached Katsuki clamped a hand over his arm’s shackles, digging the corners painfully into his legs to stop him from kicking out and using their other hand to unlock the chain attaching him to the floor. Katsuki knew not to fight back, though.

One look to the others proved that they knew not to as well, though Katsuki couldn’t blame Raccoon Eyes when she lurched a little and hit her guard hard on the shin, before complying and standing up when they yanked her to. The hit was a little satisfying, he had to say. 

The guard on him grabbed a fistful of his shirt and yanked him up, almost tearing it with the force, and Katsuki complied when he was shoved towards the leader. Apparently, he had the pleasure of being the first in order. Fuji wrinkled his nose slightly and stared down his nose at him – as if he were smeared gum on the bottom of his shoe. He said nothing.

Katsuki gave him the same treatment and glared. “ Limehead,” he addressed sharply. The old nickname he could barely recall from the memories he had of him obviously went noticed by the man, if the way his glare was reinforced with hate was anything to go by.

Fuji scoffed lightly in disgust, but he didn’t seem surprised. 

“ Brat ,” he replied. 

Dickhead. A brief glance behind him told him that Soy Sauce was next, followed by Duncey, Horns and, lastly, Shitty Hair. 

“ Alright, let’s go, and pick up the pace, people! Throw ‘em, if you damn have to,” Limehead then ordered, turning and walking back out of the door. Katsuki’s guard shoved him forward before he had the chance to take his own step, and he snarled at them before walking quicker and focusing on his surroundings. 

As they passed the doors, he noted as many details as he could. Stiff, as they locked up again; hard to break by force, at least without his explosions. Hinges and parts of specific locks shining a little cleaner than the door itself – newly replaced? No scuffs or cracks along the doorbeam, so it hadn’t been slammed much or withstood too much force – or perhaps it was just strong…

They weren’t led too far, but the hallways they did pass, Katsuki made sure to pay attention to as well. A door to the right. Pipes along the ceiling. Vents, though they seemed small. Straight ahead, Right, Left, Straight ahead, Straight ahead… 

The hallways reminded him of the descriptions told to him by Shitty Hair of the Shie Hassaikai Raid’s hallways, except he supposed these hallways were much, much more filthy. He wondered where they actually were, and how long they’d been gone to the outside world. 

After a few minutes, they arrived at a large double door. It was also metal, rusted yet heavy, just like the one in that cell – but this one didn’t seem to have any locks on it. 

He briefly wondered if it could be the way out, but heroes might as well knock down the door right that second if he was to be so lucky.

Limehead rapped his knuckles against the door and called, “ They are here, Akeldama!”

There was silence for a moment, before the door opened, a female voice calling, “ Wonderful! Splendid, splendid!”

The owner of the voice appeared as the doors opened fully, and Katsuki grit his teeth when he saw her. 

The lady was probably in her twenties, or thirties, and he would have thought she looked quite pretty, if not for the glint in her red eye. Singular; one eye was black, and the other a crimson, murderous shade of red. Her hair was choppy and black, and she wore a red, off shoulder dress – fit for an elegant evening, rather than whatever this was going to be. The neckline was low, with no shoulders, and showed off her sharp collarbones; a style Katsuki knew his mum always liked to input in her designs – her reason being that it simply brought the wearer more confidence. At least, when she wore it. The hemline reached to around halfway up her shins, producing high heels not too tall to be uncomfortable, yet not too short to be stubby, and a neat slit stretching up to her thigh revealed a snippet of her right leg. The hag had a dress like it, Katsuki could remember, but she only wore it on important evenings.

Something told Katsuki that this woman would be wearing it for a similar reason.

She smiled , and it sent a cold, uncomfortable shiver down his spine. Her eyes fixed on him gleefully. “ My, my. Aren’t we going to have some wonderful fun?”

Close behind, he heard Sero’s breath hitch. 

Fuck that.

He had to draw her attention to him in the case that anything happened – and by doing it, maybe he could gain his friends some courage. They couldn’t give up hope. 

Katsuki spat as close to the rim of her flowing dress as he could. “ Fuck you.” 

Her expression didn’t change, but by the way her grin froze and her eyes shifted to something a little more dangerous, Katsuki could tell that she was pissed. A sliver of doubt crept in on whether or not it had been the right decision, but it was too late for regrets now. 

“ Hm,” she hummed simply, voice sweet as honey and hiding vats of venom, “ I think I know who’s going to go first. Come along, now!” 

First for what?

She turned and walked back into the room, high heels clicking under her dress, and with that, the guards shoved them forwards to follow. 

The room was twice the size of their cell, and when the doors shut behind them, the guards stood in front of their closed entrances almost robotically. The students were forced to sit in specific spaces in the same order as in the old cell, their shackles being attached once again to the floor near a wall (and Katsuki tried not to think about how there were exactly five spaces for exactly the five of them, as if this had been planned for a while). 

They had walked into a torture room. Katsuki’s heart dropped to his feet.

In front of them, raised slightly higher on a stage-like floor, was a chair. Katsuki hated how his mind flashed to the League, and then to All Might and Midnight. 

It looked simple enough, but Katsuki’s stomach churned uneasily at the sight of it. Made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up and a chill run through him as if a ghost had breathed down his back. The chair stood sturdy and looming. It didn’t look comfortable to sit in; made of smooth, white stone and no curves in the entirety of its harsh structure. There were four metal clasps. One on each arm rest, and two on the lower part of it for the ankles. Even by the looks of it, he was sure that anyone locked in wouldn’t be able to get out alone.

It looked new, and pristine. Foreboding. White as snow and gleaming dangerously in the sharp lights. (Katsuki wondered; would it soon be coated red?)

The room had certainly either been cleaned, or it hadn’t been used yet. He wasn’t sure which to hope for. 

Around the chair, there were hollow desk-like tables with glass lids, angled towards them so that they could see what was inside. Katsuki’s blood ran cold. There was an assortment of torture devices ranging up into the double didgits. They went from burning tools, to electrical things, to sharp objects and to devices Katsuki didn’t even recognise. He forced himself to take a breath of air. 

Focus.

He watched as the lady in the elegant dress paused right in front of the chair and turned to them. The lights overhead bathed her in a cool, ghostly light. 

Her grin gleamed. “ You may call me Akeldama!” She then stage-whispered all too gleefully, “ It means bloodshed and death!”

Katsuki immediately hated her. Tomato Bitch. His eyes flickered down to his hands, locked inside his shackles. Maybe if he collected enough sweat, he could somehow–

Tomato giggled like she’d just told top-secret gossip in the playground, and as Katsuki looked back up, she caught his eye. Her gaze was unsettling. “ You may have noticed that you don’t have your quirks. Apologies for that; it’s my quirk, I can create concoctions that alter the body in different ways! So don’t try to escape, because it will be for naught. Amazing, isn’t it?” Fuck. There had to be a limit though, as all quirks had; so what could it be? 

She continued, “ On another note… You don’t know why you’re here, do you?”

They stayed silent. She clapped her hands with a high, shrill laugh. “ Well, I’ll tell you! I… hate, hate, hate heroes. They disgust me. They’re just a bunch of fakes – and they never quite do their job right. Not only that, but my entire family died right in front of me. They didn’t even raise a damn finger until it was too late! I was eighteen , can you imagine!?”

Katsuki flexed his jaw. She continued, “ So now, I’m brewing revenge. My parents were wealthy, and I inherited all of this. This building, too. And so I thought, why, if I had to watch my family die…” She met Katsuki’s eyes, and he suppressed a flinch. She gestured to a camera beeping red in the corner of the room, overlooking them. “ Then they have to watch their next generation of heroes die too. Starting with you five! Then, I’ll move onto the rest of your class! Then your year! Then all of Yuuei! And before the world knows it, all hero schools will be–!”

“ You really fucking think this little plan of your’s will fucking work?” Katsuki sniffed, leaning back and eyeing her. He scoffed. “ At some point, you’re going to get fucking caught. You’ll never do it.”
Akeldama’s smile turned icy again, the same look coming back. “ Yes, I do believe it will work,” she said simply, expression fixed onto her face. “ I will make it work, Katsuki Bakugou, but the ‘how’ does not concern you, yes? After all, you won’t even be in this world once I’m done with you all! This is going to be so entertaining!”

She lifted a finger as if she had an idea, turning to Shitty Hair and approaching. “ And now I think of it, I do think we should start!”

Sharky shrunk back, glaring at her, but she only stopped briefly in front of him, then moved onto Horns. Tomato hummed and shook her head, then moved on again, stopping at Duncey. 

Katsuki couldn’t breathe or speak. His heart felt like it was leaping up his throat when she grinned and declared, staring right at the blond, “ You .”

The urge to explode screamed at him as useless sweat pooled into his palms, but he couldn’t . It was like an itch he physically couldn’t get rid of. He couldn’t let loose and explode that bitch to hell like he so badly wanted to do, not even as she smiled at him thinly. 

Not even as a guard undid Kaminari’s restraints. Not even as they shoved Kaminari towards the chair. Not even when the clasps shut around his wrists and ankles – and he still tried to smile wobbly at them and say, “ I-I’ll be fine, guys, don’t– don’t worry!”

“ No,” Katsuki bit through gritted teeth, expression twisted, shaking his head slowly. “ No–!” he protested louder.

Tomato picked up a red hot iron and smirked , turning back to Kaminari. She pressed it against his shoulder with a hiss and Kaminari screamed. 

“ No!” Katsuki shouted. Distantly, he heard the others shouting too, but at the moment all of his focus was on Denki – the way tears paved a glittering way down his cheeks before dropping into his lap; the way his nails dug into the soft skin of his palms, fists tight and painful; the way his whole body strained so desperately yet so futilely against the chair – and that sick, bastard, fucking woman. Her lips curled in a dissatisfied way and she took the poker off, only to stab it against Denki again in another spot of his shoulder, even harder. 

“ Fuck, stop !” he yelled, and Denki only cried louder. His eyes were screwed shut in pain, and Katsuki didn’t know what to do. “ Stop it! Fucking stop it !” He yelled louder than he thought he ever had, pulled against his restraints as hard as he’d ever thought he could, but it wasn’t doing anything. She jammed the hot poker in again, for the third time, harder still, and Denki’s scream ripped through Katsuki’s ears louder than any explosion ever could. 

“ Stop it!” Katsuki begged. “ Please! Just stop it! You’re going to fucking kill him, you crazy fucking bitch!”

She paid them no mind, and only seemed to get more frustrated every time Denki screamed. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

This was his fault–

Denki yelled.

He was useless. If he hadn’t acted out, Kaminari wouldn’t be there–

In went the poker again.

How the fuck did he let this happen?! How could he let that split second, simple plan backfire so terribly?

It sizzled, cauterising the wound immediately as it dived in again.

How was he this useless ?!

Wasn’t he supposed to be a fucking hero?! What good was his yelling, when Denki was being tortured right before his eyes and he was doing NOTHING?!

She yanked the poker out, eliciting a sob from Denki, and right before she brought it back down again–

“ TORTURE ME INSTEAD!” 

She froze, poker halted over her head for the worst strike yet. Everyone went silent, except Kaminari’s quiet whimpers, and Katsuki could feel everyone’s stare trained on him. He kept his eyes on Akeldama, though. Her gaze bore into Katsuki. When he realised he’d caught her attention, he hung onto it like a lifeline. “ Torture me instead,” he repeated, keeping his hoarse voice as calm as possible. “ Come on, you know you want to see what it’s like to torture one of the best three heroes in training of my class. Well, here I fucking am! You want entertainment? You want revenge? I’m the one you fucking want.”

It was strange, because although he was almost sure that the others had yelled out things similar to offering themselves instead, he was the only one she actually stopped to listen to. Probably for the exact reason he’d just proposed; he was strong. He could endure more, had gone through more, and she was looking for entertainment. He wouldn’t break easily, but he wouldn’t drag it out too long and make it ‘boring’ – and as much as that sounded offensive, that small fact alone might be the key to saving them. His friends, that was.

He, himself, was another story.

In his experience, ‘entertainment’ was often in the form of breaking people’s will when it came to villains. 

She wanted to break them, and Katsuki would be a challenge she wouldn’t be able to stop herself from taking on.

Akeldama smiled and lowered the poker gently, turning to put it away. “ Guards…” she said sweetly, turning back to them, “ Put Kaminari back into his restraints, and bring me… Bakugou.”

“ W-Wait–” Kirishima stammered, eyes wide and shimmering. His voice was a little hoarse from yelling, too. His eyes flickered between Akeldama and Katsuki, lingering on Katsuki with a betrayed expression. “ Wait, Katsuki, don’t do this! I-I can go instead!”

Pinky nodded vigorously, tear tracks stark against her pink cheeks. “ M-Me! I can do it! Please, Blasty–”

“ I’m afraid,” Akeldama interrupted them as Kaminari was lifted out of the chair and dragged back to his space, head lolling numbly, “ That I have already chosen. There will be no more negotiations from here on out.”

Katsuki was yanked up and dragged towards the chair before he could turn to see if Kaminari was even breathing. The clasps secured quickly around his wrists and ankles, and he found he couldn’t move them an inch. 

Akeldama giggled as she turned away. “ I have heard that when they try not to scream, at least, at first… it is oh so satisfying. I’m sure I won’t be disappointed!”

Katsuki clenched his jaw and held his head high, glaring at the wall on the other side of the room. He calmed a little as he watched Ashido and Sero try to get Kaminari’s attention, and them smiling in relief when he nodded back to a question, a ghost of his own smile playing on Katsuki’s lips. Then he met Eijiro’s betrayed eyes, and he took a deep breath. The others turned to look at him too, and he had to say something . “ Worry about Kaminari,” he said, forcing his voice to be level, as if he were talking about a fake simulation in a Heroics lesson, “ I’m fucking fine. He’s the one with holes in his fucking shoulder, anyway.”

Akeldama hummed from behind him. “ I’m not sure what to use… Ooh! I forgot about the poisons! And– Ah! The electrics, of course!”

“ Poison?” Katsuki muttered warily. She came around to his left and before he knew what was happening, she was sliding a needle into his neck, grabbing his hair tightly to stop him from moving. He grit his teeth – not against the pain, because that was more of just a pinprick, but out of anger. Only a moment or two after she removed the needle, he realised that everything was brighter, bolder, sharper; more pronounced to his senses than a few seconds ago. (More painful.) He flinched a little from the bright lights but forced his eyes to stay open.

“ A type of concoction, yes!” she chirped, twirling back to her assortment of weapons. Her voice was like a volley of spears to his ears, and not just because her voice was unbearingly annoying. “ I made it myself. It makes your senses ten times more sensitive! In other words, everything is ten times more painful!” He could see that. The clasps around his wrists and ankles dug in like knives. He was almost surprised there wasn’t any blood, even if he knew the pain was all in his mind. 

When she came back into his line of sight, she was grinning, holding up two large metal bands, the wires coming out of them and the faint buzzing of electricity making snakes writhe in Katsuki’s stomach. 

“ Let’s see how long you can go without screaming, yes?” she said with a honey-sweet smile as she attached them to the clasps holding Katsuki’s wrists and ankles down. 

Katsuki took a deep, shaky breath, meeting Eijiro’s eyes for some kind of shameful comfort, as she announced gleefully, “ 5,000 Volts!”

He had just enough time to see Kaminari’s head shoot up and cry, “ Wha’?!” before lightning shot through his body like a wave of fire. It was sharp, and piercing; white-hot pain flooding through his body as if he’d bathed in acid and it’d seeped into his body. But he didn’t dare open his mouth to cry out. He had to be strong. 

After what felt like hours, it faded. Not immediately after, he distantly heard a switch turn off. But eventually, the twitches in his limbs died down a little, the stun slowly wore off, and his chest heaved. He didn’t unclench his jaw, because he was fairly certain it would be more effort to stop than leave it be at that point, but apparently, his eyes had screwed shut tight sometime during the shock. He hesitantly and slowly opened them, blinking painfully at the light. The cuffs burnt against his skin and dug into his wrists and ankles. The chair’s cold texture couldn’t be more uncomfortable through his thin shirt.

Once his ears stopped ringing (when had they begun?), he realised that his friends were yelling. Maybe his name, maybe for her to stop. Hell, they might have been telling her to do it worse. It wasn’t like he could focus on their words long enough. 

He grimaced and leaned his head back against the chair’s back, despite it being too low for it to be comfortable. It dug into his neck. He didn’t care.

Tomato Bitch came into view hazily, shoving her nose up in his space. “ You’re still alive, right? Wow, I’m impressed! Not even a peep from you. Let’s do it again!”

He tried to say ‘fuck you and sod off’, but it came out more like “ Fuck you ‘nd soh off.” How eloquent. She only laughed and disappeared again behind him. He groaned. “ … Goddamn bitch.”

“ 8,000 Volts!” 

This time, it was harder to bite down a scream; though somehow, he still managed, trapping it in his throat as best he could. It felt like years before she stopped, and even then, the ache and strain of exhaustion was painful. Not to mention the uncontrollable lurches and twitches of his limbs that sent spike after spike of lightning through his body. He let his head drop into his chest, too exhausted to hold it up himself.

“ Hmm.” The son of a bitch, piece of shit, bitch-ass cunt had the fucking gall to snap her fingers in front of his face. He had half the mind to lean forward and bite her hand. See if she found entertainment in half her hand going missing. “ Should I go again…? I mean, you might die if I do. Honestly, I expected you to scream on the first one. And I want to test more stuff on you, so you can’t die just yet! I want to get a hang of this whole torturing job.”

Oho, that did not sound fucking good.

(But better him than them.)

“ Fuck you,” he gritted. 

She smiled icily. “ I suppose it wouldn’t hurt if I did electrocute you once more.”

This time, his friends’ yells were so loud that he was forced to focus on them and their loud protests. 

“ Shut up!” Tomato Bitch snapped at them. They quietened immediately, but even Katsuki could practically hear their glares until she finally turned away to fiddle with something with an annoyed sigh.

He swallowed.  “ I’m– I’m fine. I-I c’n take it.” His tongue felt like rubber. He couldn’t find the energy to lift his head up and face them, and for that, along with many other things, he hated himself.

“ I wouldn’t be so confident,” she said behind him, voice as smooth as silk, “ But I’m not going to complain. You’ll figure it out soon enough.”

If she did it again, Katsuki wasn’t sure he could keep whatever front he had up. 

“ Let’s see…” 

Katsuki grunted and shifted as best he could in his seat without sending spikes rearing through his system. Akeldama chuckled. “ Ooh, how about… Ten. Thousand,” she said it slowly, dragging it out and announcing it clearly, “ … Volts?”

He didn’t get much more warning.

Katsuki screamed.  

It was short, but the moment he realised the shout was coming from him, he focused everything he had onto clamping his mouth shut again. He was pretty sure groans and muffled cries escaped his shut lips anyway, but he liked to pretend they didn’t as he screwed his eyes tight.

It sort of felt like he was in a dream. There was nothing but pain and everything around him was sluggish and bleary. He couldn’t find his mind hooking onto much, other than pain, pain, PAIN–

He gasped, reality crashing back over him as the surge of electricity finally stopped after what felt like decades. He didn’t dare move anything – at least, he didn’t move other than the spontaneous, painful lurches and twitches.

“ Was that a scream?” Akeldama cooed, voice in front of him. He didn’t open his eyes. “ It was short, only five seconds or so, but– you screamed ! Ha! Finally breaking, are we?!”

He swallowed – as well as he could swallow, anyway – and forced his eyes to inch open, glaring at her through his eyelashes. “ N-Nah, kee-keep dream’n, ol’ w-wom’n.”

Her lips curled up a twitch, and she watched him curiously as he hung his head back against the too-low head of the chair again. “ Hm.”

“ Katsuki!” he heard Eijiro sob. “ Stop this! J-Just– Just show her you c-can’t go on any longer. Let us help you. Please, Katsuki.”

A beat.

Two.

Then, “ … ‘M sorry.”

He really was. If he was stronger, had been quicker, had realised what was happening before any of them had been taken, they’d be fine. Kaminari would be fine, and they wouldn’t be there. If he was stronger and could take all of this easier, then they wouldn’t have to be stuck here listening to his pitiful cries. Or maybe, just maybe, if he’d declined to go with them in the first place, they would have called it off entirely and they’d be fine.

Maybe it was just his pain-addled mind, but all that mattered to him right now was that his friends got out safely, or as safely as possible. He had to make things right, and that would start with him taking the brunt of it all. 

“ Katsuki–”

“ Aw, you’re all so sweet !” Akeldama commented, her voice somewhere to his… his right? Or maybe his left. He wasn’t sure. “ Well, while you kids were being all sappy and cute, I got a cool idea!”

He didn’t really care.

“ I’m sure you’re extremely curious, so–”

He honestly did not care.

“ –I’ll tell you all about it!” Akeldama chirped. “ I’m having fun, but that fun can only last with how much a human body can handle. And, clearly, you’re willing to go to such lengths for your friends, Bakugou!” He didn’t bother to curse her out, but he very much longed to do it. “ So, here’s my proposal. No one knows where you are, or what is happening to you. Which means, I have all the time in the world. I’ve never seen anyone with such spite and resilience, and I doubt I’ll find someone else anytime soon, so that means I won’t kill you right away, Bakugou, but –”

“ Get to the damn point,” Mina spat uncharacteristically, and Katsuki couldn’t agree more.

Tomato Bitch tutted. “ Temper, temper. Careful, there. The point is, instead of killing you all today, I’ll stretch it out. We’ll see how long Bakugou here can go each day, until he decides to swap out; but if he doesn’t swap out… no one else will get hurt, except dear ol’ Bakugou. Otherwise, I’ll move onto… Kirishima, say, or Ashido. Once I break him, or… just kill him, I’ll simply move onto you either way. It’ll be exactly the same as the original plan, except, no one dies too early – if Bakugou can hold out long enough, that is.”

It sounded wonderful to Katsuki, since that had been what he’d been planning to do anyway. 

“ You fucking piece of–” Hanta didn’t sound so pleased.

“ What about us, then?” demanded Mina. “ We just– sit here doing nothing but watch? Don’t you want to torture us, too?!”

“ But that’s just part of the fun,” Bitch replied. “ It’s part of the torture to make you watch. And of course I want to hurt you physically too, dear, but I’m afraid it’ll have to wait until either Bakugou switches out or he dies-slash-goes unconscious for too long. Alright, bubblegum?”

“ Don’t call me that,” Mina seethed. Was her voice shaking? “ You won’t get away with this!”

“ They all say that in films, don’t they? Sadly, my dear, this isn’t like the films. This time, I get away with everything.” Her glee was visible in her voice. “ And there’s nothing you children can do but sit back, and enjoy the show. For now, anyway.”

Even Katsuki couldn’t help but feel a little despaired at that.

“ How about one or two more electric shocks, eh, Bakugou?”

Fuck.

Chapter Text

When Katsuki came to, it took him less time than the last to realise where he was. 

It may or may not have had something to do with the pain. He groaned, eyes stubbornly shut. At least that weird shit Akeldama had injected him with had seemed to pass; he wasn’t hyper-aware of everything around him anymore. Though… that could be worrisome, if it meant he’d been unconscious long enough for it to wear off.

“Katsuki!” he heard Kirishima gasp from somewhere in front of him. He called again (and this time Katsuki could recognise the panic in his voice), “ Katsuki !”

“I’m up, ‘m up,” Katsuki drawled, face scrunching. “No need to fuckin’ yell.” With difficulty, he forced open his eyes, and found himself staring at the wall just above Kirishima. The lights were bright, but compared to how he’d seen them earlier, he could manage. With a little disappointment, he realised they were in the cell they’d started in.

“Kats…” he heard Ashido say wobbly. When he shifted his eyes towards her, he realised she was on the verge of crying. Then, everything from before shot through his mind. 

Mainly, memories of screams.

“Kaminari—” he called thickly, wide eyes shooting towards the boy so quickly he saw stars. 

“Hey, hey, I don’t think I’m the one you should be worrying about.” Kaminari smiled weakly from his wall, voice slightly hoarse, but okay. He was okay. “Jeez, she… really did a number on you.”

Kaminari’s shoulder was bandaged up, from what Katsuki could see. He frowned at them. “Where…?”

“Oh—uh, these?” Kaminari tried to smile, though now it looked more like a grimace. “Yeah, she… I don’t know why, but she took me away and… well, bandaged me up. Said something like ‘can’t have one of you dying on him, can we?’ As if she was doing us a favour . God, I hate her so much.”

“Can say that again,” Katsuki sighed, sliding his back a little down the wall and leaning his head back against it, letting his eyes slip closed. His wrists and ankles burnt from where the clasps had sent electric shocks through him, but he didn’t bother to look down at his ankles or see if he could see past the restraints locking his arms out of view. His ankles no doubt had burns on them, though. 

“Bakugou… are you okay?” Sero asked to the right of him. 

“Mhm,” he replied after a moment, eyes shut. “C’n still feel stuff, so…”

“But– But, like…” Sero didn’t speak for a moment. Katsuki cracked open his eyes a little and looked at him. Sero licked his lips. “Mentally. Are you okay? Do you really think you can do this?”

Katsuki turned his head to look at him fully and paused. “Of course I fuckin’ can. I’m fine; all I need to do is get through it for the day, and…” The next after that, and the next, and the next. Until they escaped.

(Or until his body couldn’t go on any longer.)

He took a deep (painful) breath and tried to change topics. “So, what’s the plan, then?”

“… Plan?” Kirishima asked faintly. “Katsuki… There’s no plan . No one knows where we are, or what’s happening to us—to you— and as far as we know, we could’ve been gone for days. We don’t even know who took us, how they took us, or where the hell they took us to; so who’s to say anyone’s going to find out either?”

“So you’re just gonna give up?” Katsuki asked. He shifted, sitting up straighter and making his chains clatter. He smirked confidently; the way he did in battle, the way he did when he was a hero, the way he did when he knew he would win. He relished the way Kaminari’s expression became gentler—more hopeful—at the sight of it. “ So what if everyone outside doesn’t know how to help? Who the fuck said we need their help? We can get out alone.” 

“Blasty,” Ashido said, a pained tone in her voice, “We can’t do this alone.”

“We have what most people usually don’t in this bullshit scenario,” Katsuki grinned, “We have each other. That’s the key to getting us out of here. And as sappy as that fucking sounds, it’s true, and as long as we have that, we’ve got a chance.” 

“Don’t jinx us, then,” Sero sighed, but he could see that his eyes had regained some of their brightness and his lips had reclaimed the crooked, playful grin Katsuki was so familiar with. “So, what’s your idea?”

“Well—” Katsuki paused, suppressing a wince at the flickers of pain that flashed in his limbs. He frowned faintly, a split second of panic rushing through him when he realised he’d lost all train of thought. “It’s… It’s simple enough when you… think about it.” 

Kirishima looked as if he wanted to ask something, but Kaminari spoke instead. “Um, simple ? Yes, please.”

Katsuki smirked half-heartedly, grasping at the last threads of a thought—then he caught it again, remembering what he had been wanting to say, and he let a shallow sigh of relief escape him. “For me , I never said anything about you lot. Listen… Tomato Bitch back there—this is her first time holding someone captive and torturing them, at least in this place.”

“How would you know?” Sero asked curiously.

“You gotta pay attention, obviously,” Katsuki replied. “The room. It was clean—cleaner than it would be if someone had been tortured there previously, anyway—and was most likely made for the five of us , what with the perfect number of spots for everyone—which either suggests she’s fully prepared to install more chains if she wants to, or she made it specifically with us in mind. She’s already said she’s rich, so she’d be perfectly capable if we’re going with the first, though considering her big plan to kidnap the entirety of Yuuei, the latter also makes sense. Then, she kept on saying shit. Shit that basically told us that we’re her first time. Like… fuck, it’s hard to–to remember, but, she said something like… shit, she said…” His mind seemed to fuzz for a moment, completely losing track of his thoughts. Again . God, he hated this. 

“Oh, when she said she wanted to get a hang of it?” Kirishima continued encouragingly, saving him from drowning in his own embarrassment. “Yeah, it definitely makes it sound like that was her first time.” 

“Yeah—right, right,” Katsuki said, shaking off the humiliation of a murky memory. “She also said something like she wanted to try out all of the fuckin’ torture weapons on me before I died, and that we were first in line. That should be more than enough to show that she’s new to this.” 

“Okay, so she’s new to it,” Ashido said to herself in the tone she used when she was solving a hard equation. He could tell she was distracted by everything going on around them, and he didn’t blame her, considering their situation, but he was (begrudgingly) proud that she was able to soldier on. “Which would mean… we might have a better chance at getting out, with her lack of experience. She might make a mistake and we could use it to our advantage. Right?” 

Katsuki nodded. “The building’s layout or area could have a fault in it too, or maybe she hired the wrong guys. Which… brings up a stupid fucking problem. The head guard with the shitty face.”

“Right, that guy,” Kaminari muttered with a frown. “He definitely looked like he knew what he was doing.” Kirishima got that same bursting-with-a-question look in his face, but Katsuki answered Kaminari quickly. He knew what Kirishima was going to ask, and he really didn’t want to think about that.

“Yeah, that’s because he does ,” Katsuki said grimly. “His last name’s Fuji, from what I gathered… before. Dunno what the fuck his quirk is, but apparently he’s a useful player in the whole kidnapping career shit. He’s a tough fighter”—at least, to his ten year old self—“and he’s got wealth, status and power. He’s got about a hundred minions and double the number of contacts, so it makes sense that the bitch would hire him as her head guard.” 

He paused, and frowned. “The only thing that doesn’t make sense is why he’d take the offer. He’s one for glory, for feeling powerful; not standing by and watching while someone else does all the… fun shit.”

“How do you know him?” Sero asked, and though his tone wasn’t suspicious, the question itself put him on edge, ripping him from his prior train of thought. 

Katsuki hesitated. “I… I had a ‘run in’ with him and his stupid as shit gang, back when I was… ten. It was fine, ‘cause I escaped quickly, but he’s still to be considered a challenge, so we need to—” 

“A ‘run in’? You ‘ escaped’? ” Kirishima blurted, and apparently he couldn’t wait any longer for that bursting, dangerous question. “Bakugou, you talk like you’ve been kidnapped way more times than this and the League. You know this guy? You’re talking about him holding you hostage—as-as if it were just a blip on your radar and it doesn’t even matter!” 

“Yeah, well—” his eyes darted around and he tried to strengthen his voice, clinging onto the hope of changing the subject. “We–we can use it to our advantage. I know him, so I can—”

“Bakugou!” Kirishima interjected, expression hardened in determination. After a quiet moment, his eyes softened a little. “Please, man. You… You can’t just…" 

Katsuki stared at him for a moment, then looked away. An ugly feeling uncurled in his chest.

“It’s… not necessarily a bad thing, I’m telling you. I don’t even care anymore, I’ve forgotten about him and his stupid fucking—” he shook his head. “I’m over it. Which is why we need to focus now and figure out how to win . Putting that whole situation aside, I think that we should try to talk to the bitch. If we—” 

“Katsuki,” Kirishima said softly, “Don’t say that. Please. I know that stuff doesn’t just disappear, okay? Talk to us. We’re here. We’re listening. ”

“Yeah, Blasty,” Ashido encouraged. Her eyes were puffy and red-rimmed—more than the others—but she smiled at him softly like she was as happy and welcoming as ever. Open, like anything Katsuki said, she’d never tell anyone else about or even make fun of. “We’re together in this; we’re together in everything.”

“Seconded,” Kaminari and Sero said simultaneously, before glancing at each other for a split second then looking back at him with serious expressions—a vast difference from how they usually couldn’t look at each other without giving in to a smile or grin. Funny how it took being kidnapped and tortured for them to be serious, rather than over maths revision and the threat of being expelled. What idiots. He wondered if they’d ever revise together again.

Katsuki pursed his lips and swallowed, looking down. He knew that if he did talk to them about it, they’d understand. They’d be encouraging. They’d be open. Because that was just them . They were kind.

(But Katsuki wasn’t.)

Traitorous thoughts whispered too loudly; drowning out his friends’ reassurances. They’d see him differently; weak enough to be taken by low-life thugs. Stupid enough to walk alone at night. Naive enough to flaunt his quirk around like new shoes or a flashy haircut. Cowardly enough to fear the past.

They wouldn’t want anything to do with a ‘hero’ like him. 

And there were also the memories. They made his skin crawl and he avoided them at all costs. Sure, trying to ignore them didn’t help much but he’d still try. Ignoring what caused them. Ignoring what they meant. Ignoring them in general. But he couldn’t do that if he was actively repeating every little detail, no matter how welcome they made him feel… right?

He sighed and shook his head, the horrible feeling in his stomach most likely not from electrocution. “I… I don’t…” He took a breath and leaned his head against the wall behind him. “I can’t. I just, can’t. Right now.”

They were quiet for a moment. 

“That’s okay,” Kaminari murmured. A second passed, then he said, “What–What was it you were saying about speaking to… her ?”

It felt like Katsuki had never felt such relief and gratitude towards him. “Right—yeah. She… She seemed like one of those villains who likes to talk, and flaunt, so I thought…” 

“Yeah,” Sero added, as if he’d sensed his uneasiness, “We might get something out of her if we talk her into something. Maybe some of the guards are untrustworthy to her, or she’s doubting their loyalty. We could take advantage of that.”

“Definitely,” Ashido agreed, in hero-mode once more. “If we can get a guard on our side, we’ll be on our way out in no time. On that note, anyone have any idea where we are? Noticed anything?”

“The, uh, the hallways look alot like the ones I saw in the Shie Hassaikai Raid. Maybe this place is a little like that?” Kirishima said, and though he seemed a little awkward, Katsuki was glad he seemed willing to forget his own weak moment. “So, maybe the layout’s something like that compound. It’s a wild guess, but pretty much all we have going right now. Unless anyone else has something?”

There was a beat. Katsuki tried to sort through his muddled thoughts and memories but it was hard with both his exhaustion and the aftereffects of the electricity. There was something, though. Something he couldn’t quite place his finger on, yet he’d certainly thought about at some point–

“Akeldama said house,” Kaminari blurted. “… I—No, sorry, that didn’t make sense. I mean, while she was rambling about her evil-ness or whatever, she said that she ‘inherited this house’. Not– Not a warehouse, or a random building’s basement—a house.” He slowly added, awkwardly, “Most likely underground… if anyone didn’t gather that. I… know it’s not much, but—”

“No, no, good spot!” Sero complimented. “I was pretty unfocused through that, I… don’t remember much of the exact things she said. I’m sorry. I should have been paying more attention. It’s not like I’m the one that was– was–” 

“Hey, it’s fine,” Ashido said with conviction, leaving no room for him to protest. “If it makes you feel any better, neither was I—and I doubt Kiri was very focused either. None of us were prepared for this and we shouldn’t be expected to handle this like Pro Heroes.” Katsuki tilted his head forwards in silent agreement. She smiled and continued, “And anyway, it’s turned out alright because now we know that we’re underground, and the layout of this place is complicated—at least, on this floor. So we can’t rely on blowing ourselves out of here or a quick getaway unless those things aren’t problems anymore.” 

“Uh… we don’t have our quirks,” Kaminari pointed out with a wince. “And these restraints are too strong to be able to break out alone. So it’s not like we can take all those guards on anyway, even if we did manage to get rid of all these problems.”

“There’s—” Katsuki blinked against the heaviness in his eyes and cleared his throat, “There’s a ventilation system. It’s too small for us to go through and most likely too–too dangerous, but it’s good to note in case we figure some shit out. I also saw a couple doors. Don’t know where the hell they go, but again, could be useful at some point.”

“Yeah,” Sero agreed, then he paused. “… Are you okay? D’you want to sleep some more maybe?”

Immediately, the others perked up, and Katsuki hated it. “I’m fine,” he scowled, despite the ache of his body protesting the exact opposite, “How long was I out earlier?”

They exchanged a look. “We’re not sure,” Kirishima said slowly, “But I do think it’s worth mentioning that some people came in and, like, gave us a shot of something. Not sure what it was for, though, they wouldn’t tell us.”

Katsuki frowned. “What, like an injection? What did it look like?”

“Yeah. It was kinda… reddish. Reddish black.” He didn’t know any chemicals that would be ‘reddish black’ and he doubted they were injecting them with blood—but something pulled at his mind. He winced and glared at the floor as if it would give him an answer. 

Reddish black… 

… Black and—

Red. 

Her quirk.

The limit. 

He sighed. “Fuck, her quirk. It was her fucking quirk.”

“What?” Ashido asked.

“She said her quirk was making concoctions that could alter the body or some shit, right?” Katsuki said, shifting and making his chains clang a little. “That musta been it. Maybe the quirk wears off after a specific amount of time, which gives us a chance.” 

“Oh,” Kaminari frowned, “I forgot she said that… But, like, we should time it, right?”

“Yeah, but how?” Sero wondered. “It’s not like any of us have a watch anymore, or a phone we can casually use the timer on for.”

It was quiet for a moment. They’d hit a roadblock, and Katsuki couldn’t for the life of him think of a way to surpass it. This was their best shot at getting out, yet they couldn’t even use it. If they could time it, they’d be able to know when the shots wore out, which would help immensely if they either escaped or if they managed to stall. 

They could try to roughly count the seconds or minutes between the times they had to go to the torture room, perhaps? But maybe that time would be random. For all they knew, they could have started at midnight for their first torture session yet the next day they’d start at three. 

… Or maybe the noises outside? People walking by and shouting orders, even if Katsuki hadn’t heard anyone so far—if there was a schedule? (Though even to Katsuki, the idea didn’t sound realistic.)

“There isn’t a way, is there,” Ashido sighed, sliding down the wall a little. “We might as well just wait for someone to rescue us. I mean, we don’t even have a grip on time!”

“Well, not completely. I mean, the edges of these things are sharp,” Kirishima said slowly, lifting his arms slightly to show the heavy restraints. “If we keep count of the—er… t-the torture sessions, it’ll give us a grip on time itself. My guess is that she’s going to want to do them every day, so by keeping count of them, we’ll keep count of the days—we should ask her, maybe, without being obvious.” Still, his offer seemed a little deflated and hopeless, and it showed on all their faces. Katsuki grimaced.

In conclusion, they were stuck.

But maybe he could make the situation seem a bit lighter.

“Right then,” Katsuki announced, forcing himself to sit up straighter, no matter how painful it was. Just like our heroics lessons. “Our plan of action: first, we gotta see if there’s anything we can get out of the bitch, so see if you can ask her vague questions. Nothing too obvious, she can’t catch on. Try to get something useful.
“Once we’ve done that and found out as much as possible, we’ll see if we can get any further with an escape plan. Otherwise, make sure you try to memorise as much of the building’s layout as possible when we’re walking over. If we do manage to break out, we’ll need to be able to go quickly and it’ll help if everyone has an idea of where to go. 

“Third, and final step—do not, under any circumstances, get yourself in trouble. Do as the assholes say, as shitty as it is, and you’ll be fine. You can talk all you want, just don’t insult, and don’t attack. That’ll only end badly.” That last part was something he doubted he’d be able to stop himself from doing, especially with Fuji around, but it wasn’t like anyone actually expected him to take his own advice, right? Besides, he could take it if anything did happen.

They had the kind of look on their faces that said that they weren’t completely happy with it, but would do it anyway. He was glad to see them looking more determined, though. 

Ashido pursed her lips, and spoke after a moment. “Fine. Okay. But what about you?”

“What about me?” Katsuki asked, raising an eyebrow. 

“Yeah?” she said, almost sassily, as if it was obvious. “You—You don’t seriously think you’re going to be shouldering it all yourself… do you?”

Katsuki’s face hardened. “I will. All I need to do is hold up until we escape.”

“But what if we don’t?” Kirishima questioned in a broken whisper. His expression was crumpled. “What if—what if we never escape? What if it’ll be too late before we manage to—What if we have to watch each other die? What then?”

It was silent. 

They’d all been thinking it. But put into words, spoken out loud, hanging in the air—it was as if the full weight of their situation had well and truly slammed down on them with the weight of the entire world. If they didn’t get out in time, they’d have to watch each other die. 

Katsuki would be the first to go, and he wasn’t sure if he should feel relieved about it, because at the very least he wouldn’t have to watch them go through what he would. But they’d have to watch him. 

He should feel guilty, and he did, but not as much as he would if he gave up his place only for someone else to have to take it. 

Katsuki went to reply that they shouldn’t give up so soon, or just some kind of sappy shit that would lift their mood even the slightest bit, but the clatter of footsteps approaching outside silenced him. They all heard it, and turned towards the metal door. It seemed to stare at them, stationary yet looming, and Katsuki shifted in preparation for what was to come.

They collectively jumped a little when the locks in the door started to click and snap slowly, until finally, the door opened with a groan. 

Fuji—Limehead—stood in the doorway, holding two large plastic bags and backed up by the five guards. He scowled at them, silent, and stepped through; not bothering with closing the door behind him. Quick footsteps passed outside, but when Katsuki looked back over to the doorway, there was no one there. I nstead, t he guards stared back at him daringly. He clicked his tongue. 

Katsuki watched Fuji warily as he walked into the middle of the room and placed the plastic bags down. Reaching into them, he took out small, white polystyrene boxes. The kind you’d get from a takeaway. “Food,” Fuji said simply, voice rumbling. “Take it or leave it, it’s not my problem.” With that, he threw the white boxes towards them, one each. Katsuki’s landed near his feet, and he didn’t make a move towards it. 

“We can’t eat this,” Ashido informed cooly, tone bordering on passive-aggressive, and she shook her restrained arms, giving him a look. “What, are you going to hand-feed us?”

Fuji’s lips curled back and he glared at her for a long moment. Then his purple eyes glided over to Katsuki. “I see your friends are just as ill-mannered as you, brat,” he commented. Behind him, Katsuki pretended he didn’t notice how Kirishima’s expression darkened dangerously. 

“Don’t talk shit, they could beat your fucking ass in a heartbeat if they wanted to,” Katsuki replied calmly, eyes narrowed. “She’s got a fucking point and she’s speaking to you ; so answer her.”

Fuji clicked his tongue, but he did turn to Ashido. “Apologies for the discomfort, then. I’ll have my guards help you with that.” He looked back over his shoulder at the guards waiting for an order. “Swap their restraints.”

Katsuki sighed and rolled his eyes when a guard approached him, doing the same as before and holding him down like an animal as he undid the shackles. There was a click, and on went more simpler, lighter cuffs—the type you’d see normal prisoners wearing—then the guard stood back up and walked back to their prior position. One seemed to glance hesitantly back at them, then to Limehead, and that was the only non-mechanical thing Katsuki had seen a guard do so far, he realised.

Katsuki watched after them and rubbed his arms tentatively with the small leeway he had to move. They’re like fucking robots at this point. 

The others had similar restraints as him, he noticed as the guards all retreated. He frowned, looking at the white box Limehead had thrown in front of him earlier. 

It was larger than the others. 

Katsuki looked back up at him questioningly, and Fuji smiled. “Akeldama’s orders. Can’t have her playtoy going hungry, or it’ll shorten the time she has with you. Eat up.”

Katsuki glared. “I don’t want it. Give it to them.”

A moment of silence.

Fuji walked over to him slowly, shoes clicking on the hard floor with every step. He stared down at him. “I’m afraid ,” he said as if talking to a child, tilting his head in fake sympathy, “That there will be no swapping or sharing. Take. It. Think of it as a gift.” He kicked the box forward with the toe of his shoe, and it skidded to a stop right in front of the blond.

The nausea rolling in Katsuki’s stomach didn’t quite think of it as a gift. “I don’t want it,” Katsuki repeated.

“Then don’t have it.” Fuji grinned pleasantly. “Just… remember how that went the last time you refused a gift from me.”

Katsuki swallowed and his breath hitched. Chained. Starved. Hit.  

He took the box slowly, hands shaking. He wasn’t sure if it was from the electric shocks from before or the… fear. The thought left a bitter taste on his tongue.

The box popped as it opened, and the immediate stench almost made Katsuki gag. He peered down his nose at it and scrunched his face in disgust. He looked back up at Fuji, gesturing to the brown slop (it genuinely looked like someone had taken a shit with diarrhoea, putting the small chunks of multicoloured parts into account), ““ What the fuck is this?”

Fuji smirked, as if somehow pleased by the sight of it, ““ Your food for the rest of your time here. Don’t worry, it’s… probably got some good stuff in it. Better eat up, before it gets, well, stale .”

… He was tired of it.

Everything. The fear, the obedience, the orders, the pain. Tired of Fuji.

(Inside, Katsuki had the sudden urge to throw it, and see if it’d look any better smeared on Limehead’s face.)

Katsuki put the box down carefully, the lid closed securely again. The others had been watching their interaction anxiously, and hadn’t opened their own yet. Behind Fuji, Kirishima met his eyes with a look that said, ‘What in the history of fucks are you doing?!’ Katsuki ignored him.

Fuji frowned. “What?”

“I’ll eat it later,” said Katsuki. “When I’m hungry.”

“Eat it now .”

“Won’t. Or do you want me to puke on your shitty fucking shoes?” Katsuki replied. 

Fuji’s expression darkened. “I’m telling you to eat it. Now .”

Katsuki locked their eyes as he picked up the box again, lazily and slowly, relishing the annoyed look on the asshole’s face. He looked down at the slop and sucked his teeth, looking back up with a fake, sorry look. “Ah… I can’t.” 

Fuji stared at him for a moment, and Katsuki stared back. “… What the hell do you mean , you can’t?” he spat. 

“I can’t,” Katsuki repeated, exaggerating his words, “I don’t have a fucking spoon . Bastard.”

The man’s lips curled into a snarl. “I’ve decided I hate lunch duty. Though maybe it’ll be more bearable if I beat some manners into you, ungrateful piece of–”

“I-I can be on lunch duty, if you want,” an unfamiliar voice interrupted, right as Fuji was about to move towards Katsuki. Everyone froze, and Katsuki looked towards the voice – it came from one of the guards. 

The guard that had glanced back at them anxiously after switching the handcuffs. The only really human one.

She was quite plain, Katsuki decided as he finally took a longer look at her. Dark, straight hair reaching to around the middle of her back, and large, round, brown eyes. She reminded him of Pink Cheeks—that is, if Pink Cheeks trembled as she spoke or stammered when suggesting a simple thing. Of course, Katsuki didn’t blame her, but it was something to note with how, when Fuji turned slowly to her with a (silently angry) downwards tilt to his eyebrows, she gulped and took the slightest step back.

“I-I just meant,” she rushed to continue, “If you don’t want to–to do the job yourself, of course. I can do whatever y-you need me to do, I’m very capable, I promise, a-and…” She swallowed and gave a hesitant smile. “And i-it would be a very honourable job, of course, so I-I… I wouldn’t mind in the slightest! A pay raise would be nice, but if you… I-I just want to be of as much help as possible, Sir, and I know you’re very busy, as the head—”

“You’ve got the job,” Fuji interrupted. He gave a thin, creepy smile. “You’ll even get a pay raise if I feel like it. Don’t disappoint me.”

She stood startled for a moment, then nodded vigorously. “Th-Thank you, Sir, I—”

“What is your name?” Fuji asked, stalking towards her slowly.

She stepped slightly back again, such a small step that Katsuki might’ve missed it. “Erm, M-Morana—”

“Good,” he said lightly. He stopped a foot away from her, then barked, “Well? Get to work, then. The captives need feeding. I might come by if I feel like it, but otherwise, you’re to take them to the bathrooms, give them water, and make them eat. Call for backup if you need to go anywhere. Do not let them escape. If you do, we kill you.” He smiled, as if he was talking about getting her a gift rather than the punishment of death. “Simple enough?”

The guard nodded with a shaky smile. “… Yep. Simple!”

Fuji watched her, and for a moment Katsuki thought he was going to change his mind. But then he nodded, and with one swoop of his hand, gestured for the guards to follow him as he left. 

He looked over his shoulder at Katsuki when he got to the door and glared. “Behave, will you? Brats.”

Then the door slammed shut.

The guard stood frozen for a moment, head slightly tilted towards the door as the sound of footsteps retreated, and they were dunked in silence. Then she sighed in relief and walked closer to them, where Fuji had stood moments ago. 

“God, I hate that guy,” she sighed, and sat down heavily, crossing her legs casually. The sudden lack of nerves came as some surprise. The guard smiled and looked around at them. “You heard my name, right? Either way, you can call me Morana. I already know you lot, so don't worry. You’re pretty famous.”

“What do you want? You obviously didn’t offer to take the job to ‘feed us’ or for bonus friendship points with your boss,” Sero accused, apparently not taking the casual conversation. Katsuki wasn’t either, and it was clear that went for them all.

Morana pursed her lips. “Truthfully? I want a pay raise. And I want to help you.”

Oh, wow. Katsuki must have ‘gullible’ written in bold on his forehead.

“Seriously?” Kirishima questioned, eyebrow raised, and obviously unimpressed. “Do you really think we’d trust you that easily?” 

“Oh, of course not,” Morana said, a slight frown working their way across her brow, and it seemed she finally realised how hard it would be to get them to trust her. “I literally work for your captor and torturer, I wouldn’t trust me either.”

“You don’t seem to be helping your case much, then,” Kaminari replied dryly. 

She watched them for a moment, then took a deep breath. “Alright, think about this, then; if anyone knew I were offering to help, they’d snitch and kill me immediately. Considering how, put into a generous perspective, I’m willing to die for you lot, I should think I’m not bluffing.” She paused and her expression turned somewhat insecure. “I, uh… I was one of the guards who saw the ‘session’. I don’t want this to happen any more than you do. I didn’t sign up for this.”

“If you didn’t want to fucking see it, then why not just quit and leave?” Katsuki asked sharply. “It’d be easier to ignore it, wouldn’t it?”

“I suppose you’re right,” she replied, turning to him. She wrung her hands in her lap. “But I’d never be able to face my brother. Or anyone, for that matter.” She gave a small, humourless laugh and looked away. “Plus, I signed a stupid contract, so…”

Katsuki exchanged a glance with Kirishima, then looked back at Morana. “If you really mean it,” Katsuki said slowly, “Prove it. Tell us how to get out of here.”

She stared at him for a moment. “It’s not that easy, Mister Action. And I’m not here to bust you out, I’m here to make everything easier and hopefully keep you alive long enough until help comes or you figure it out yourselves. But here’s a short explanation of sorts; we’re underground. Pretty much in the basement of her ‘business’, except she built it down deep. We’re on the third floor—going down. Meaning there are two floors above us. So, you would need to go past a bunch of guards, climb a bunch of stairs, figure out which doors to go through if you want to escape alone—and with the injuries you’ll have from the sessions by that time, let alone everything working against you? Almost impossible.”

“‘ Almost’. There’s still a chance that it’s possible,” Katsuki argued. 

She stared at him thoughtfully for a moment, then nodded. “I like you. You remind me of my brother.”

Katsuki wrinkled his nose at her. Ashido spoke up before he could snap at the guard, “You said you’d be killed if anyone found out you helped us. How do you know there aren’t any cameras in here?”

Morana lifted a finger. “One; Akeldama and the Supervisor are way too self-righteous and naive to do that.” She lifted a second finger. “Two; I already checked. I’m not suicidal, y’know.”

“Might as well be, if you’re helping us like this,” Sero muttered. 

Morana opened her mouth to reply, but Kirishima beat her to it. “‘Supervisor’? Who’s that?” 

She hesitated, then gave them a look, crossing her arms and leaning slightly back. “Y’know what, no,” she said, lifting her chin, “I’m not telling you guys anything and putting myself in danger if you don’t promise that you won’t rat me out.”

“Why the hell would we rat you out?” Kaminari asked. “We’re in absolutely no position to do so, are we?”

She fixed him with an unimpressed stare. “People are selfish. How should I know you won’t, so that either Akledama gives you ‘bonuses’” —she scrunched her face in disgust—“or you can just get rid of another guard that, in your head, would be just another guard to stop you from escaping? And believe me, you are definitely in a position to do that. ”

“Look,” Katsuki scowled, glaring, “Sorry if you’re fucking offended by the fact that we aren’t trusting you immediately, but you work for a literal fucking kidnapper and torturer. I just got electrocuted. Of course we don’t fucking trust you.” The aftermath of that still served as a painful reminder with every spasm that shot through his fingers and every spike that sparked through his system.

“I know that,” Morana said, slowly letting her crossed arms fall back into her lap. She looked away with a slight frown. “I’m in no way a good person, and I definitely don’t expect you to trust me just by waltzing in here and demanding you to. But I still am someone. So forgive me, but I do want to secure my safety before I help you, because I have a brother and a cat to get back to at home and I don’t want the next time they see me to be in a casket, at my funeral.”

Katsuki watched her silently. Morana looked up again. Her expression seemed unreadable. “All I ask is that you promise not to tell. In return, I’ll help you. I do know that technically, it would be illogical to rat me out on your end, so it’s not like I really quite think you will. You need me, and I still have a say amongst my colleagues.” She shrugged, picking her nails subconsciously. “Your call whether you’ll take my offer to help you or not.”

Katsuki didn’t doubt for a second that they’d face some kind of consequence if they snitched, especially with how luck was definitely not on their side lately. And she was right; if she was offering to help them, declining would be stupid. They were not the ones in power here. Whatever Morana said about them, truth or not, there would be a chance Katsuki did not like that everyone would believe it—which was why she’d be both a good asset and a dangerous one.

That is, if they accepted. 

On the other hand, if they didn’t, they wouldn’t have to risk anything. If they did, they still would have the chance that they—Akeldama’s prized possession for the moment—would be believed over a guard she most likely didn’t even know the name of. All in all, it was hard to predict their chances.

Morana looked down at her lap and fiddled with her fingers casually, successful in her message of ‘I’m not looking, so…’

He watched his friends closely and silently. Meeting his eyes, Ashido gave a slight, almost unnoticeable nod. Kaminari bit his lip and lifted his shoulders half a millimetre, like a miniscule, uncertain shrug. Sero gave a hidden thumbs up. 

He looked at Kirishima. Kirishima looked at him, and with the smallest wave of his hand, gestured to Katsuki. 

Whatever you decide, I’ll be right behind you on it.  

Because, no matter what happened, or how much Katsuki thought it was stupid, Kirishima would always look to Katsuki. 

(And Katsuki would look right back.)

The blond hid a small, questioning thumbs up beside his leg, hidden to Morana yet visible to his friends. They studied it for a moment, then, one by one, nodded in approval. 

Huh. It seemed the many times they’d communicated silently in class through Aizawa’s lectures paid off, somehow. 

(How he wished to be back in that classroom, even if only just to not be in this cell.)

“Alright, we trust you,” Katsuki told Morana slowly. “We’ll let you help us, and we… promise not to snitch.”

Morana looked up in surprise, as if she’d been caught daydreaming—wide-eyed and paused. “That was quick,” she commented, “And silent. I didn’t hear a thing. Are you sure—”

“Yep,” Kaminari replied, obviously fighting a smile. Katsuki rolled his eyes. Kaminari had been the one to convince them to figure out how to talk silently during class in the first place, and Katsuki had no doubt that after this, they would never hear the end of it. 

And it hit him then—not as hard as a truck, or as heavy as a wave, but rather as delicately as a soft summer breeze. 

Maybe, with Morana’s help—

Maybe there would be something after all this. 

Maybe this wasn’t the end. 

He had to fight off a smile of his own, then.

Morana shook her head with an amused smile. “Sure, then. Guess you’ve got a guard on your side. What would you like to know first?”

“How long have we been missing?” Sero asked, though he was quickly interrupted by Ashido, who blurted, “Is anyone looking for us?”

At the same time, Kaminari— “How long is Akeldama going to keep us—?!” 

“Where are we?”

“Do they have any leads?!” 

“Do you have the keys to these locks?”

Morana recoiled in surprise, then waved her hands. “Woah, wait wait wait! One at a time, I’ve no idea what the hell you’re all saying.”

“ How long is Akeldama going to keep us?” Kaminari repeated, calmer.

“Oh, uh…” Morana paused, looking up in thought. “Not sure…” she hummed. “Until you guys can’t go any longer, I suppose… The Supervisor is pressuring her to cut it short, though—and in a way, she’s right to do so. The longer you guys are kept down here alive, the better chance the heroes have at finding you. Akeldama doesn’t seem to understand that; she won’t stop arguing and trying to take back control.”

Katsuki sat thoughtfully. “Who’s ‘the Supervisor’?” he asked.

Morana turned to him and blinked. “Oh, right! You wouldn’t know,” she smiled crookedly. “The Supervisor is Akeldama’s Aunt.”

Katsuki traded a look with his friends. He looked back at Morana blankly. “... Wait.”

Chapter Text

“Aunt? Where the fuck did you get that?”

She chuckled. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realise how much you didn’t know.”

“How much is there to know?” Kirishima asked.

She considered it for a moment. “Quite a bit.” Katsuki’s eyes narrowed faintly.

“And how exactly do you know so much?” he asked.

She gave a crooked smile. “I’m nosey, and still the gossip girl I was when I was 15. There wasn’t much to do in this place before you guys arrived, so it was my main hobby here to ask around and see what I could find out about her. Akeldama also has a habit of taking important phone calls in front of us, then going on a rant to a random guard closest to her about her current problems—which probably doesn’t help her much. I only know bits and pieces, so I’m afraid I might not be a fountain of info, but hopefully it can still be useful.”

“You’ve been here a while then?”

“Yes,” she answered. “The moment everything was sorted with their deal, most of Fuji’s men came here to help guard the place while they transported everything needed for this to happen; and made some changes to the building’s layout.”

“What were you saying about the Aunt?” Ashido prompted, before they forgot about the subject. 

Morana nodded, “Right, of course. It’s not too long of a story, but listen close anyway.

“Akeldama told you about how villains killed her family at the age of eighteen, and how she did all this as revenge. But what she failed to mention was her Aunt’s—the Supervisor’s—involvement. When her family was killed, so was her Aunt’s, and that’s what brought them closer together, supposedly . Akeldama sought comfort in her Aunt, and that was when things began to go downhill.

“After confiding in her Aunt—who probably wasn’t a very good person, and still isn’t—her Aunt told her to get revenge, in whatever twisted help she was trying to give. From what I’ve gathered, Akeldama was the one to bring up torture. The Supervisor only encouraged it.”

“So this wouldn’t have happened, if not for the Supervisor,” Kaminari muttered with a frown.

Morana winced. “There are… a lot of factors playing into why this happened. I think it’s the Supervisor’s fault, of course, for not steering Akeldama in the right direction; but you could also blame the heroes who did not take saving her family seriously and lost their family’s lives, how the ‘justice system’ didn’t take care of the aftermath, and, of course, Akeldama herself.”

“How old is she now?” Ashido asked. “If she was eighteen when that happened, how long did it take to put this all together?”

“She’s 29, now,” Morana supplied, then paused. “Although, I explained it kinda poorly. Everything—the plan for revenge, getting the idea of torture, getting her Aunt’s encouragement—I’d say it happened over the course of years. After all, you don’t kidnap five of the most famous children in Japan and don’t consider every single outcome carefully.”

“And yet, she let you slip through,” Katsuki murmured . “If they did ‘plan for every outcome’, how come you seem so confident coming in here?”

Morana raised an eyebrow. “Confident? Hell no. I made this decision on a whim; it’s not like I didn’t make sure I wouldn’t regret it either. I just heard the chance to get a pay rise and to see if I could help you guys.” She then added, “Plus, Akeldama insisted she trusted Fuji and his guards, so she’s quite laid back with them.”

Katsuki narrowed his eyes and sat up straighter. “Fuji. What about him?” 

She hummed. “I’m not sure how Akeldama knew about it, but when she heard that Fuji was useful in the black market, she hired him and his guards, who are said to be some of the best.” She gave a nervous smile. “I–I… I joined him only recently, so this is the first… well, erm… violent thing I’ve done as his guard. I didn’t know to what extent he took these things; I thought it was just ransom, then you… let them go. Never… Never this.”

Katsuki watched her shake her head and say a few more words but his jaw clenched and it all faded to a distant fuzz. He ripped his eyes away to stop himself from glaring.

She was one of Fuji’s guards.

He wanted to ask her whether she knew how much pain she’d helped inflict upon those innocent kids. 

If she knew of the moments where the flashbacks would come out of nowhere and ruin his day like the flip of a switch. If she knew of the nights where closing his eyes meant living through it again and again and again. 

But really, what did it matter?

She was going to get them out. It wasn’t worth it, wasn’t important enough, to risk her changing her mind. It wouldn’t make a difference anyway. Accusing her wouldn’t help, wouldn’t wipe his mind clean, wouldn’t let him live his life as if it had never happened. It wouldn’t even give him a sense of reassurance or righteousness, because she wasn’t the one to blame. Or, at least, she wasn’t the one behind the orders. 

He took a deep breath and hid his anger behind a mask of indifference.

Steadying himself, Katsuki reluctantly met her eyes. His foot tapped on the hard floor.  

He looked away again. “… Are you sure there wasn’t a catch to their deal? Akeldama and Fuji’s.”

Morana paused for a moment. “Well, I don’t think so. In return for lending her his guards and loyalty, Akeldama would pay him. Most of it before the job, and he’ll get the rest after; like a normal hiring situation, in a way, I suppose. That’s all, I think.”

“Hm.” Katsuki frowned. Just money? It… He guessed it cleared up the question of what Fuji was doing here. But still… it would have to be a lot of money to win him over. Katsuki could still remember the way Fuji had yelled and spat when a guard had even suggested an option to the man; taking orders or working alongside someone himself just seemed strange. 

“Yeah,” she replied. “I think she tried to push for surveillance so that she could keep an eye on him and his guards, but he was most likely offended by that and started to grow skeptical. He’s very prideful, so it’s not like it would be out of the ordinary—he’d take it as an insult to him and his men. So… she gave up on that; as a sign of trust, I guess, because Fuji was going to be the best offer there was available for some time, and because she really needed him. The other guards—the ones that ‘belong’ to no one except Akeldama, really, all have surveillance over them at all times. Like… Constant cameras and microphones fixed to their suits, always have to do stuff with a ‘buddy’… stuff like that. They wear red suits, while we wear black. Since I’m one of Fuji’s guards, I’m pretty free, compared to them. Wouldn’t have really even considered helping you if I were a regular guard.”

 “Oh.” Ashido frowned. “So all those guards in the black suits–”

“Fuji’s guards. Only we can go into the Torture Room or this cell. You’ll rarely see the other guards, really.”

Katsuki drew his brows together. How had he failed to consider the possibility of surveillance in the room—or on Morana herself? They wouldn’t be able to do much if it was the room itself but they could have been pretty much talking to a camera leading straight to Akeldama, and Katsuki wouldn’t have bat an eye at it. What was wrong with him? 

First he was losing track of thoughts he should be focused on continuing. Completely blanking something so important now was… it was dangerous, in terms of their situation. A brain fog like this was not good. 

And oh, but what if—like he’d excused the first time—what if it was because of the electricity? If it was… That really didn’t sound good. No, in fact, it really wasn’t good. The electrocution could have caused serious harm, if he couldn’t think as quickly as he used to. And putting the first half of that statement to the side, if he couldn’t think as quickly as he used to, then it was only so long without any medical help before it nosedived, right? 

If he couldn’t think straight, he couldn’t plan properly, and he couldn’t help as effectively to plan their escape. Something cold crawled into his chest.
Fear.

“Okay,” Kirishima said slowly. “Got it. So… what about Akeldama? What were you saying about her, again?”

“Oh, right, her and the Supervisor,” Morana smiled. “So, now that they’d thought up the idea of torture and her Aunt encouraged it, and woah, coincidentally, they had all this money that Akeldama had inherited, they went forward with the plan—and up until now, that’s all that’s really been going on.” She paused. “… Except, lately… their relationship… I’d say lately, it’s getting quite strained. Half the building can hear their arguments, and they’ve only been getting worse.”
“Why?” Kaminari asked. “I mean, if they’re launching a whole revenge-and-torture-kids project, wouldn’t they… be prepared to do it together?”
“You’d think so,” she said, then pursed her lips. “They’re different people with a very wide age gap, though—not to mention different traumas they thought were the same. The Supervisor lost her sister, and her sister’s close family. Akeldama lost her whole close family, except for her Aunt. Plus, one is going to be more mature than the other, not to mention their less than healthy mindsets. Over time, it becomes apparent that their relationship is not going to last forever, I guess.”

“What’re their arguments about?” Sero asked. 

She breathed out through her teeth and thought for a moment. “Well… the latest one in the call I overheard earlier was the Supervisor telling her off for lengthening your time here.” She gave a hesitant pause and winced. “I’m… sure you know that you were supposed to die either today or tomorrow. No matter how your bodies held up against the torture.”

“… How did Akeldama react?” Katsuki said, if only to dispel the bitter feeling in the air. Being told when you would die, no matter in what form or tone, would never not be unsettling from that day forwards. 

“She just argued, I guess,” Morana shrugged. “Dragged it out, yelled, cursed… Her main point, apparently, was that she was supposed to be the boss, so it didn’t matter if she changed the plan.”

“So… she threw a tantrum,” mused Sero, raising an eyebrow. 

Morana laughed lightly. “ Pretty much . She does that a lot. A man—woman?—child, she is.” 

Katsuki scoffed. “Not very mature for her job, then. Fuck, how does she survive without her Aunt?”

“She doesn’t,” Morana said simply. “She completely relies on her. My guess? Akeldama was going through shit and her Aunt was there. Even though they’re both shitty people… they were there for each other. That kind of influence?” She smiled, tight and lopsided. “That’s powerful. And with the wrong person… it’s dangerous.” 

⬽—+—⤘

“ Lights out!” a voice barked in the hallways outside their cell, and the lights overhead shut them into darkness abruptly. Katsuki heard someone suck in a quick breath of air. 

Morana had left them a while ago, explaining that she’d better hurry before Fuji, or another authority figure, came to check on them. She let them know that she’d tell them everything else later, but there just wasn’t enough time—oh, and that she’d bring snacks next time. Good ones, too—even she’d felt sick at the slop in their boxes. Those had been left uneaten, in fear of poisoning, though Katsuki doubted he’d regret it.

(So… that was something to look forward to, he supposed?)

After she’d left, a small group of guards came to switch their restraints again. No words were exchanged. Yet, the small sliver of freedom that had been given with the light, more comfortable restraints had been wrenched away from them too quickly. Now, the harsh feeling he’d had with the heavy restraints were doubled tenfold, leaving him itching for the lighter ones back.

He had no doubt it would be impossible to get to sleep with these heavy, sharp pieces of shit on, but he hoped the others would manage.

… The silence was loud.

“ Night,” he heard Kaminari whisper into the pitch-black darkness. There was a murmur of combined voices as everyone repeated their good nights, and then it was silent once more.

No one roamed the hallways outside.

No one shifted in their restraints.

No one spoke a word.

The only sound Katsuki could hear was the quiet breathing of his friends, though even those patterns were—slowly, ever so slowly—evening out. One by one, he was positive his friends were sleeping; or, at least, drifting off.

Katsuki himself did not. Not even as the seconds felt like minutes which melted into hours. If his eyelids slipped closed, he’d force them open. If his thoughts became foggy, he’d bully himself into launching into a long thought-tangent about whatever the hell he could think of.

He wanted to blame it on the electricity still coursing through his system.

He wanted to blame it on him just wanting to keep watch for his friends.

Hell, even blaming it on having slept already for who knew how long would be better than… than admitting…

Well. 

He shut that train of thought off quickly. He swallowed and fought to straighten against the wall, sighing as he blinked, forcing his eyes open wider. He stifled a yawn.

Don’t sleep. Don’t fall asleep. Don’t let them see. Just don’t see. 

… Don’t fall asleep.

Don’t fall…

“ Katsuki, are you awake?” Eijiro whispered. His eyes snapped open.

“ I—Yeah,” Katsuki whispered back, voice slightly rumbling. He blinked against the darkness and frowned. “ You good?”

“ Y-Yeah, yeah,” Kirishima replied, somewhat insecurely, and Katsuki knew something was rolling in his mind like a boulder down a mountain, keeping him awake. “ Sorry, I-I heard you moving around and sighing, so I thought you were awake. Sorry. Go back to sleep.”

“ I was awake already, shithead,” Katsuki murmured . “ You didn’t wake me up. You’re good.”

There was a moment of silence. “ Oh,” replied Kirishima quietly. “ Okay. Good.”

Katsuki listened to the slow, calm breaths of his friends as they slept. Someone was snoring softly, and he subconsciously took the bet that it was Ashido.

Mina always used to snore at their sleepovers.

(Katsuki hoped they’d be able to have another one, one day.)

“Can I ask you something?” Eijiro whispered abruptly. “Well—it’s more of a favour. A really, really big one. But I need you to… I need you to do it. You have to say yes.”
“Then why ask, Shitty Hair?” Katsuki murmured back. Kirishima knew that Katsuki would do anything he asked—as long as it was reasonable, of course. And as long as Katsuki could grumble harmlessly about it along the way. That’s just how it worked in their friendship.

“ Because I know you’ll say no, but I need you to say yes,” was his soft reply.

Katsuki frowned softly. He complained lowly, “ How’re you so sure?” 

“ I know you, Katsuki,” said Eijiro firmly—but gently, like he was admitting it, like he was guilty of it, and yet like he wouldn’t change it for the world. “ You’re too stubborn for your own good.”

Katsuki gave a silent huff of a chuckle. “ Well, now I don’t know whether you’re insulting me or complimenting me. I’m open to taking the latter, though, you dick.”

Eijiro was silent for a moment. 

Katsuki wished he could see him through the dark, so that he knew what he was thinking. 

His best friend took a deep breath and his chains clinked as he shifted. “ I… I need you to—” he paused. “ I need you to make sure Akeldama chooses me instead of you in the next session.”

A pause.

“ No can do.” 

Kirishima’s voice took on a stern, yet tired, tone. “ Katsuki —”

“ We have Morana, now,” Katsuki argued quietly. “ I only need to hold out for so long—”

“ Katsuki, please.”

“ If we just continue like this, we’ll stay alive. We can stay alive, Eijiro—”

Eijiro clicked his tongue and it echoed slightly. “ Katsuki, I’m being serious. Please.”

“ So am I,” Katsuki returned simply. 

From whatever smudges he could see move in the black, Katsuki took a guess that he’d shook his head. “ I don’t want to watch my friend get tortured again and not be able to do anything — ”

“ Well I’m not watching any of you bastards die on me,” Katsuki shot back. “ I-I can’t. I won’t let it happen. You’re getting out of here alive whether it’s the last thing I fucking do on this shitty world.”

“ What, so we have to be the ones to watch you suffer?” Kirishima asked bitterly. “ It’s just as much our choice as it is yours.”

Katsuki shook his head. “ Still partly my choice, though. And as long as I’m up on that chair, conscious, with Akeldama still calling the shots? That’ll be my decision. That’ll be my fucking choice. I’m… sorry. You can’t change it.”

It was silent for a moment. 

Kirishima shifted in his restraints again. “ You’re an asshole,” he whispered quietly and shakily, voice seemingly on the brink of breaking.

He didn’t mean it.

(Did he?)

“ … I know,” Katsuki murmured back. “ … I’m sorry.”
For a moment, Katsuki thought Kirishima was ignoring him. 

Then he heard a sigh. “ Don’t apologise. I’m sorry for getting harsh. No one needs that in this situation.”

He didn’t reply for a moment. 

“ Don’t apologise,” he eventually whispered. “ Hypocrite.”

Kirishima chuckled quietly. “ Goodnight, Bakugou.”

“ Night, Shitty Hair.”

But Katsuki didn’t go to sleep. 

It wasn’t that he was scared to. Of course not.

(Who was he kidding, he’s a fucking coward.)

It was just… 

There was no guarantee that his nightmares would not come back, just because he was in a different place. No, especially since he was in a different place. And if they did come back and the others were awake?
No. 

He didn’t want that to happen. That would just be shameful. They’d see him as weak.

(Not to mention, that would add a spark to the raging fire he already had of his memories. Living through them again in the form of a dream felt… impossible to risk.)

And yet he was being selfish. 

What if the next day, when he was put into that chair, he was more inclined to pass out because he hadn’t slept? Then it would pass on to Kirishima, and he couldn’t let that happen. 

Katsuki frowned into the darkness. 

He could hear Kirishima’s evened out breaths now. 

He shifted in his restraints, and finally, hesitantly, let his eyes slip closed.

⬽—+—⤘

Katsuki stumbled. The guard leading him pulled him back by the collar to gain his footing, then shoved him forwards harder.

“ Move it,” Fuji barked sharply as he marched ahead, and Katsuki held back a curse.

He hadn’t slept much that night. Sure, he’d got a few winks in, but when he did actually try to sleep, he’d found that it was way harder when you had burns on your wrists and ankles and everything ached. By some kind of immense luck—though it was probably just the fact that his body was too exhausted to dream up anything—he didn’t get any nightmares.

Would he be able to keep that up for the whole duration of their captivity, though?  

Fuji knocked on the door, ripping him from his thoughts. Again, like their first day, he called, “ Akeldama!”

However, her reaction was not as similar as their first day. 

The large door was wrenched open. Instead of gleeful, her face was contorted into a lidded glare, and her shoulders were slouched grumpily. She lazily dragged her gaze towards Fuji. 

“ Well? Come on, then!” she snapped, turning and walking back into the Torture room. Huh… Katsuki thought tiredly. She’s in a shitty mood.

As the guards marched them into the dreaded room and restrained them in the same spots as before, Katsuki caught Kirishima’s eye. The memory from last night flashed before his eyes.

He sent him—what he hoped was—a reassuring nod. 

Kirishima only looked away.

“ Well then,” Akeldama announced from her platform, standing by the chair. She gazed at them lazily, not moving to tuck back the lock of hair that’d fallen in front of her face. “ Who’s ready for round two?”

Katsuki gave a weary sigh as guards approached him. Their hands were rough as they undid his restraints before holding him down tightly and clenching his arms so tight he was positive they left marks. Dragging him towards the chair, his friends could only look on in resigned horror. 

No one yelled this time. Katsuki couldn’t tell if that was a good or bad sign.

He suppressed a grimace when the clasps were tightened around his ankles and wrists, over the crimson burns already there. 

His eye caught on the camera overlooking the room in the corner. He wondered if it was live, broadcasting to Yuuei or the heroes. He almost let loose a smile when he realised he could just ask Morana, and it was that easy. 

That feeling immediately vanished when Akeldama’s thin, clawed hands curled around the back of the chair, nudging his head. “ I’m not in a very good mood today,” she murmured , but the room was so silent that her voice echoed. “ Auntie wants me to get this over with quickly. She doesn’t understand.” The scratch of her nails on the stone chair as she somewhat tightened her grip grated on Katsuki’s ears. “ No one understands. I’ll decide when I’ll finish; to hell with her!”

She sighed, slowly. She let go of the chair and moved away. “ Oh well,” she muttered, her voice retreating as she tinkered with something behind Katsuki. “ She may be idiotic, but I suppose I should entertain her for now. Auntie thinks she’s only doing the right thing, after all…” 

Katsuki frowned. Morana had spoken about their arguments, so he supposed it wasn’t much of a surprise. Yet… just hearing it felt strange. Uncomfortable, but for a reason that he couldn’t quite put a finger on.  

The prick of a needle was cold against his neck and again Katsuki had to suppress a flinch. As if remembering the agonising way electricity had coursed through him like a live snake only moments after the familiar feeling, his body stiffened. 

Everything grew a little too clear and a little too sharp from there. 

Chapter Text

—around 24 hours ago.

Shota knew that the path to heroism was dangerous. Of course it was dangerous; he knew first hand how risky it was. And so yes , he’d accepted that when he’d become a teacher, there would be times where he couldn’t protect his students properly. That his students would have to experience at least one harsh scrape with a hero’s reality to know what they were getting themselves into when they graduated—but god, it really wasn’t right. They’ve already had so many ‘scrapes’ that they may as well have already been full-time Heroes for a while.

Please, he thought tiredly, not again.

I’ve failed them too many times already.

“I’m sorry, Aizawa,” Nezu sighed, giving him a pitiful look. “Look, I understand your concern and support you fully, but we don’t have any more ways to find them from here, inside Yuuei. They definitely aren’t on campus, and none of the security cameras have seen them. The last place our trackers have led us to was the MyMerch shop down at the mall, but that connection’s been cut out since yesterday evening. Since no reporters have contacted us so far, I’d say there hadn’t been a conspicuous fight at the time either. Not to mention, I’ve already looked at their security systems, and all the camera footage is distorted—not a single clear shot to be found of the shop itself—which… does pose as some sort of concern.”

Shota’s jaw clenched and unclenched. He felt useless. “So are you planning to go to the police or the shop first?” If they went to the police, it was real. A new case would be opened. 
His students wouldn’t just be lost—as he was desperately clutching on to the withering hope of—they’d be missing. Kidnapped, considering their reputation.

He still couldn’t believe this had happened.

“The shop, of course,” Nezu smiled thinly, ripping him from his thoughts, “Before reporters come flooding in. Anything I find I’ll hand over to the police soon after, but doing my own digging would get us more information or evidence easier, putting aside the law.”

“Don’t do anything illegal, please, Nezu,” Shota muttered, rubbing his eyes and knowing fully well that even if Nezu did, no one would know. As if perfectly aware of this, Nezu only smiled. Shota sighed. “What do I do in the meantime, then?” He had to keep himself busy. He'd run himself mad if he had to continue on the day like nothing was happening.

“I’m not very good at making parent calls, especially when it’s about something serious,” Nezu said, his expression getting a little more sober. Shota didn’t like the sound of that. “So if you, as their homeroom teacher, could call Bakugou and the others’ parents and alert them of the situation…”

Shota groaned, then after a moment, stood up tiredly to take the phone off of Nezu. “Sure. Whatever.” He turned and crossed the room to open the door—when Nezu called him back, and he turned.

“Your students will be safe, Aizawa,” Nezu smiled. “Once I’m finished over at the shop, I’ll open a case and inform you of a meeting with the lead detective as soon as I find a good time. It will most likely be tomorrow, though—if that’s alright with you?” 

“I’ll make time. Tell me before the end of the day.”

Nezu nodded. Shota shut the door, and dialled Bakugou’s parents first as he walked a little ways down the hall, to somewhere more secluded and quiet. He could already picture how the conversation was going to go. He so badly wanted to stay in the silence of the hallway—where it didn’t seem like his students were missing, and Bakugou’s parents still thought their son was safe in the dorms, either sleeping peacefully or getting ready for another day of school. And yet, in a hero’s reality— his reality—he couldn’t. He had to soldier on. Had to accept that this was the world he was raising a new generation of heroes into. He had to tell her, and take responsibility for the fact that he’d let his students go missing, again. 

Her son. 

Again. 

Stop it. He had to do this. It was fine; nothing he hadn’t done before.

Shota took a deep breath as he lifted the phone to his ear.

It rang only three times. 

“Hello?” Mitsuki Bakugou. Her tone was sharp and to the point, as Shota had grown used to expecting—but the slight tilt in it was concerned, almost hesitant, like she already had a feeling of what was about to come next. Shota wondered how, then threw that thought away and busied himself with how he was supposed to tell this woman that he’d lost her son… again.

Mitsuki cleared her throat. “Hello?” she repeated. 

“Sorry, Mrs Bakugou—good morning,” Shota said. “My apologies for calling so early.” He tensed his jaw. Just get straight to the point. “Yesterday, your son and four of his friends left to the mall. They haven’t returned to the dorms since, but please be assured that we are searching for him as we speak, and I am confident that we will find him. There is no reason to worry.” 

Silence.

Shota swallowed the bitter taste in his mouth. He was selfish to let the silence draw on, but he couldn’t for the life of him think of what to say. He closed his eyes and pursed his lips, as if by ignoring everything around him, some sort of solution would arise. The sore feeling in his throat didn’t leave. He opened his eyes. “Mrs Bakugou?” Shota prompted delicately. 

There was a slow, shaky, and tired intake of breath. The exhale was just as grim to listen to. “Oh.” The single, softly-spoken word had never felt so heavy on his shoulders.

It just felt sad.

⬽—+—⤘

“Good morning, Mr Aizawa!”

Uraraka’s pepper voice urged his eyes to open, and he looked up at her from the floor, in his sleeping bag. Shota gave her a nod in return and she laughed, turning back to Hagakure and Asui to talk animatedly. He caught bits of talk about a new workout schedule Pro Hero Mirko had released the other day. He couldn’t help a small smile at that. Soon after, more students began to stream in through the open door, and he finally dragged himself up to get out of the cosiness of his sleeping bag. He gave a small, amused smile at the way Todoroki and Midoriya interacted as they came through the door, with Midoriya trying to explain something to Todoroki and Todoroki looking mildly lost out of his mind. 

As he watched, Midoriya faltered in his steps. His eyes caught on Bakugou’s empty, desolate desk. He stared at it for a moment, then his eyebrows scrunched together.

Shota’s heart dropped for the boy, remembering the morning’s events. It melted as a puddle at his feet. And suddenly the sky outside didn’t seem as bright, and the voices overlapping in the room didn’t seem as happy. This is going to be a hard day.

The hero bit his lip and sighed. Midoriya impulsively shifted his gaze to where Kirishima should have been—the vacant seat just looked glum; drained of light, even, though Shota had a suspicion that it could have just been his own mind, now that he knew that Kirishima was missing—and Midoriya visibly swallowed hard. His eyes darted to the three other seats his bubbly classmates should have been sat. 

Then, eventually, his worried, analysing eyes met Shota’s. Shota looked away; he couldn’t bear to hold the boy’s gaze for even a second. What a hero he was. 

(God, he didn’t even know who had taken them.)

He felt Midoriya’s stare on him and pretended to sort some papers with clammy hands, until finally (though it was really only a moment or two later), Todoroki tugged at the boy’s sleeve and asked if he was alright. Midoriya shot him a crooked smile, and a small apology, then stepped over to his desk in a few quick strides. Shota released a silent breath. 

It wasn’t just Midoriya who noticed, though, and when the clock over his head struck 8:30—the time homeroom was supposed to start—most of the class were casting odd looks towards the empty seats and then back to him. Sceptical. Anticipating.

Shota stood from his chair, about to address the room, and was taken aback when almost immediately, the class silenced. That didn’t usually happen. He paused for a moment. Everyone was watching him, eager.

Taking a deep breath, he announced slowly, “Good morning, Class 1-A. I hope you all had a good weekend. There isn’t much news today, so when we’ve gotten through it all I’ll let you talk amongst yourselves.” He was used to a few happy murmurs, maybe a small celebratory fistpump from a certain blond. (Usually only because he had homework to rush through, with the help of his friends.)
Shota received no such thing. He had not said what they wanted him to; answered what they silently asked. His chest somehow felt heavier than it did a few moments ago. He hadn’t realised how much of an addition Bakugou and his squad were to the class—and of course, any classmates gone would be obvious, but pretty much all the loud students collectively gone felt a little more… striking. It was too quiet. He cleared his throat. God, he felt like a student presenting a slide all over again. “Due to damages from Heroics to Ground Gamma, all lessons that would have taken place there will now be moved to Gym Gamma, so know where you’re all going. You won’t be excused if you are late. That does also mean that changing will be at Gym Gamma too, so don’t try to get into the other—”

“Sir, I have a question,” Uraraka interrupted, arm half raised, hesitantly. With a glance, Shota noted how her leg bounced, how she wore a mildly anxious, though passionate, look on her face, and how she fiddled with a flyaway string of her blazer relentlessly. She also didn’t usually interrupt announcements, or anything Shota said, really. So it came as a surprise for her to do so now.

Shota took a deep breath, then held it for a moment, getting the right words together. “Please ask me any questions after the announcements, Uraraka. We need to get through these.”

“I–I know,” she blurted quickly, her expression scrunching up a little more, “And I’m sorry, but Bakugou’s always on time, and he always arrives before us. He’s never been a day off sick, and he’s never been off without us knowing, and he didn’t tell me anything, and by the way everyone’s acting, no one else knows either, and if that’s not enough reason to be worried I can start listing everything about Mina, Kaminari, Kirishima and Sero as well because for starters, yesterday, Mina said that she was going to hang out with—”

“Uraraka,” he chided sharply. Her lips clamped shut, like she’d just closed a dam. She sank in her seat, face flushing fiercely, but she still pouted. Shota sighed. He couldn’t just dismiss her after that, especially with the whole class’ eyes trained solely on him and his reply. “What’s your question?” he asked, trying to save time as he thought of what he’d tell them. Was he even allowed to tell them? He hadn’t asked Nezu, but it hadn’t occurred to him at the time that he’d be the one to break the news—again, if he even could. 

He probably should have thought about that, but after spending almost half an hour speaking to sobbing parents about their lost children, he’d found that all he’d wanted to do was get the day over with. Selfish, on his part.

“My question is,” Uraraka said slowly, much calmer yet much more hesitant, “Where are they?” She added quickly, “And I know that you know because you always do, and you have that look in your eye like you’re just trying to dodge something.”

Shota frowned. “I do, do I? Hm.” He hadn’t realised he had a tell for these things. He’d have to work on that.

“That–That’s not the point!” Uraraka spluttered, then narrowed her eyes. “But you know what—you’re doing it right now. Sir, please. Come on. We may just be students, but… but we’re allowed to know, right?”

The rest of the class watched him eagerly, some nodding, some giving hopeful smiles. “If-If we know what’s happening, we won’t annoy you with questions for the rest of homeroom?” Midoriya suggested, a small smile sneaking across his face.

Shota pinched the bridge of his nose, then sighed. “There is no reason to worry. Though I’m not authorised to tell you what happened yet—I’m sorry—you are not to go digging into this. We’re handling the situation.” Uncertain murmurs crept around the room. 

“Oh, God,” Yaoyorozu muttered suddenly in an almost trance, looking ever so slightly sick as she stared at her desk, “I knew I didn’t see them come back yesterday. Oh, God. They went out, then they never— Oh... Oh, not again.”

“What, are–are you saying they’re missing ?” Hagakure spluttered in alarm, her clothes revealing how her shoulders tensed, how her hand came up to grip her blazer. The class erupted.

“What?!”

“Sir, you can’t just—”

“Oh no, oh no, oh no, oh—”

“What do you mean, missing ?!”

Shota winced.

⬽—+—⤘

Detective Naomasa took a long, quiet sip of coffee across from Shota. The breakroom of the police station was quiet around them; in the early hour of the morning, not many people had come in yet. Shota watched the detective. They sat in tense silence, and eventually Shota had to say something.

“What…” he began, before faltering. “What do you think about the case, Naomasa?”

Naomasa frowned. “What do you mean?”

Shota clasped both hands around his cup—still hot with the coffee inside. “What do you think of it so far? Think we’ll find them?” His voice was flat, as usual, but with how long they’d known each other, he had a feeling Naomasa knew how worried he was. 

The detective took a deep breath and held it, his eyes locked with Shota's. “I can’t say for sure, right now,” he said after a moment, “But… yes. From what Nezu has told me, I have hope for them.”

Shota nodded, looking out the window and watching as birds chased and danced around each other in the sky. Naomasa cleared his throat. “I wanted to talk about a few things with you.”

Shota turned to look at him. “Yes?”

“First of all,” the detective started, warming his hands with his coffee mug, “You’re their teacher, and I want to hear this from you, personally. Has anyone been acting strange? Either before or after the student’s disappearance.”

Shota shook his head. “No, not that I’ve noticed, no. Why do you ask?”

“Just the obvious,” Naomasa sighed, “You never know; I don’t really suspect any of those kids, but if they know something it could help the case.”

“When are you planning to interview them about it?” Shota asked. He remembered when all the students had to be interviewed when Bakugou had gone missing the last time—which was a thought he immediately veered away from. 

“Well, that depends. Have you already told them? They must suspect something by now; they’re a bright bunch,” Naomasa mused, tilting his head a little.

Shota grimaced. “I told them there wasn’t anything to worry about for the time being… And you’re right; they figured that the students are missing, or at least that I don’t know much about their whereabouts—but they still don’t fully know the severity of the situation.” 

“Hm. How did that happen?” Naomasa asked, and Shota couldn’t help a huff of laughter.

“I don’t know myself.” He took a sip of his coffee. “I’m telling them when I go in to teach later. If nothing good comes up by then… I’m not going to be looking forward to it. At least until then, I don’t need to worry about Midoriya storming some villain’s hideout or something.”

“I’ll try to plan the interviews for either tonight or the next day, then,” Naomasa hummed, dropping his gaze to his cup of coffee. After a moment, he said slowly, “Eraserhead, I need to tell you outright that this is one of the strangest cases I’ve had in a while.” He looked up to meet Shota’s eyes. The hero tensed, but kept their eyes locked. “Every CCTV camera in the area with the MyMerch store at least somewhere in the picture was cut out. No one witnessed or heard a fight breaking out. So far, there’s no ransom note. For some reason, the kidnapper decided to take them in the last hour before they were supposed to get back to their dorms—”

“I’ve had the rundown, Detective,” Shota said tightly. 

Naomasa pursed his lips. He watched him carefully for a second, then nodded. “Then I hope you’ll understand that when I say that this case is going to be one of the hardest cases involving Yuuei yet; I’m not saying it lightly. Whoever’s responsible knows what they’re doing, Eraserhead. There aren’t many clues to go off of here. It’s going to be hard.”

“You said you think we’ll find them,” Shota said lowly, leaning forward stiffly. 

“I wasn’t lying,” Naomasa said, keeping his tone calm, “And I do think we’ll get them back. It’s just going to be a bit of a rough ride.”

“Then why do you feel the need to tell me all of that? You don’t need to remind me of these things,” Shota snapped. “Of course I know it’s not going to be easy, I’ve worked on these cases countless times before. You and I both have.” He couldn’t deny that it was most likely a kidnapping, after all, and Shota definitely had experience with those. 

He was going to get them back. He knew he would. 

His hissed outburst hadn't disrupted the calm, quiet atmosphere of the breakroom around them—the few officers in the room barely casting them a glance—but the silence between the two that followed somehow felt loud and tense. Shota ripped his eyes away from the Detective’s, watching outside the window again. The sun had risen higher in the sky. He rubbed the handle of his cup with his thumb as a distraction—though it didn’t help much against the steady buzzing in his mind. He hated that neverending buzzing. He couldn’t stop thinking about the oh-so-similar cases he’d been assigned to in the past that had taken such a horrible turn—before he could get anywhere close to the truth, too. The sobbing families, the pressuring reporters, the backbreaking weight of guilt that followed him like a shadow. 

He supposed he should have gotten used to it all by now. It was simply a hero’s reality, and he had to face that. 

Detective Naomasa cleared his throat, and despite himself, Shota glanced over to him. 

“I understand how you’re feeling,” he said with a thin smile. “Like you said, we’ve both done this before. I… didn’t mean to say it like that.” Neither of them apologised, but they recognised the faint regret in each other's eyes. Shota knew Naomasa was genuine—he hadn’t meant to make things feel worse—and he hoped Naomasa knew that although he’d snapped, he hadn’t meant to be so harsh. Shota had made his point, though, and he wasn’t taking it back.

Naomasa continued, “I meant to say that it is more important than ever that you keep a calm head and make sure to remember, if anything takes a turn for the worse, that you need to remain rational. I know you will anyway—somehow, you usually always do—so I also wanted to say that this will feel harsher than the usual cases. I won’t delve into why, because I’m sure you’re aware of my point here, but there are people around you who will understand, if you speak to them. This will impact a lot of people, and they’d be more than happy to help you.”

Shota opened his mouth, about to deflect that, because he physically couldn’t see himself speaking to anyone about something like this, but Naomasa spoke again before he could, “Don’t, Aizawa. I know you hate doing it, but it can be helpful. And anyway, who out of the two of us has a degree in psychology?”

Shota stared at him for an exasperated moment, then gave a resigned sigh. “Sure. I’ll keep it in mind.” 

Naomasa took a sip of his coffee, and looked out the window with a mildly pleased expression on his face. “Good.” 

Shota watched him for a moment. “Thank you, Naomasa,” he said quietly. “I’m glad we’ve got you to help us.”

Detective Naomasa looked at him with a worn smile. “No worries, Aizawa. I’m honoured.” 

Shota chuckled, then he let it fade quickly. “God, there’s going to be another press conference, isn’t there? The media’s going to have a field day with this, the moment news gets out.”

“Yep,” Naomasa sighed bittersweetly. “So will the criminal rates.” 

Shota rubbed at his face. “Yep.” He peered into his cup, then without a moment’s hesitation, he downed the coffee. 

He was going to need to buy another to get through this.

Chapter Text

When you’re pissed and insane—Katsuki had come to find—you don’t hold back your punches. The time he’d spent in that shitty room, taking hit after hit, had taught him that better than anything. 

“What hurts the most?” Morana asked quietly. It still echoed slightly in the cell they’d been shoved back into. He was aware of the four idiots staring concerned holes into every bruise that painted his skin, and it felt humiliating.

Katsuki looked away and clenched his jaw, stopping when a burst of pain immediately greeted him back. He’d taken a right hook at some point—embarrassingly, it had almost been the one to knock him unconscious, only a few minutes into the beating. 

“Bakugou?” Morana prompted softly. She was holding an antiseptic wipe and a tub of salve. 

“My ribs, I guess,” Katsuki grumbled. They were probably bruised. Broken was too much of a horrible thought in this situation to even consider. 

Morana nodded silently and helped him lift his shirt, avoiding any contact with his wounds. “Which side?” she asked—before seeing the blossoming blues and purples on his right. A pause. “Ah. Nevermind, then.”

God, this was painfully humiliating.

When she’d arrived for their lunch hour, she’d taken one look at him and stopped dead in her tracks. She’d brought with her a First Aid kit and five white takeaway boxes though, and passed the latter out quickly before turning to Katsuki. Your injuries need to be treated before you eat, she’d reasoned, before promising that there would be enough time for him to eat too. 

As for where she’d gotten the First Aid kit, she’d brushed off their questions. Said something about borrowing a few things from Akeldama’s cupboard, then went straight to sit next to Katsuki, medicine in hand.

“Are you feeling okay?” Morana asked gently as she carefully wiped the bruise on his ribs with her antiseptic wipe. “Does this hurt?”

Katsuki’s scowl deepened. “I’m—”

He hissed in pain when she applied a little too much pressure, and Morana recoiled in a heartbeat. “Oh my God, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Katsuki gritted. “Just… Get it over with.”

Morana hesitated. “I... brought some painkillers too.” When Katsuki met her eyes, her expression was conflicted. “But… I don’t know what she’s been injecting you with. Right now, you’re on two different mixtures as it is—the one they use to take your quirks away, and the one she uses on you before every session. It could… it could be dangerous if—”

“I know the damn dangers,” Katsuki muttered. Even talking proved painful. A part of him wanted to grab her little medical kit and down every single pill in there. He didn't care about the dangers. He wanted the pain gone. He wanted his body back.

His eyes lingered on the bag’s green fabric.

Katsuki almost slapped himself. “No,” he said. Resolute, as though any other response hadn't even crossed his mind. “I’ll be fine without.”

The thought had come from nowhere, and he should have never stretched it longer. They had a way out; Morana. He only needed to hang on for a little while longer. Then he’d be free from the pain anyway. 

Morana didn't argue, but it took a moment for her to continue treating his wounds. The minutes passed silently—filled only by Katsuki’s occasional grunt or hiss. You'd think the four idiots had vanished, they were so quiet. 

Morana cleared her throat. He couldn’t see her expression; she’d moved to the bruises on his back. “How are you guys enjoying the food, by the way? I hope it’s okay. My brother cooked it, and I didn’t taste check before I left.”

Judging by the smell, Katsuki approved of the cooking. A vast difference to the sludge Fuji had tried to feed them yesterday. It smelled almost like the food Mitsuki would sometimes make if he was in a mood and she was trying to get him to cheer up. In her own roundabout way, of course, but he’d always notice.

The thought stung.

“It’s really good. Thank you,” Kirishima replied, trying a small smile. Contrary to what he said, he’d barely touched it. “Does he like cooking?”

Morana laughed. “Yeah. He cooks all sorts of things when we’ve got the ingredients for it. Once, he made an avocado cupcake—and somehow made it taste good.”

“He’s really skilled,” Kaminari complemented softly. He’d eaten more than Kirishima, but it’s definitely at a slower pace than he would have inhaled food at school. Katsuki noticed how he held his chopstick with his right hand, despite being left-handed. He also noticed the bandages still wrapped around his left shoulder, and he made a conscious effort not to stare guiltily. 

Kaminari smiled, taking his quick glance as a sign. “Hey, Bakugou likes cooking too. Maybe once we get out, we could host them a bake off.”

Katsuki rolled his eyes when Morana ‘ooh’ed. “That would be amazing! He doesn’t really have anyone else to nerd off to about cooking. He rants to me sometimes about how frustrating it is when so and so happens or how cool it is when things… I don’t know, happen? I don’t get his view sometimes, but I never really understand what he’s talking about anyway, I guess.”

Deku came to mind. Katsuki tensed, his shoulders raised, and Morana recoiled again. “Shit, I'm sorry. Wasn't paying attention. Did that hurt?”

“No,” Katsuki said immediately. “No, I just— It doesn’t matter.” He locked eyes with Kirishima, then looked away. “Is there anything new about getting us the fuck out of here?”

Katsuki caught Morana’s face as she moved to his arm. It was held tight in a wince. At the sight of his wounds or at the things she was thinking, he didn’t want to know. “Kind of. The good news is, a press conference has been announced. I’ll watch it tonight, but it means, at the very least, that they know you’re missing.”

It wasn’t much of a win, but he’d take it. 

“That’s good,” Sero said, exhaling. “It’d be concerning if they didn’t, at some point.”

“Is there any bad news?” Ashido asked hesitantly. 

Morana was quiet for a moment. “It’s… I mean, it’s majorly bad, but some good could come of it.”

Katsuki didn’t know how well he’d be able to handle more bad news, but he wasn’t about to block his ears and sing at the top of his lungs. It could be good, she had said. 

He clung to the words like a lifeline. 

“I overheard a phone call between Akeldama and her Aunt,” Morana explained. “Simply put, the Supervisor wants you all gone in—at most—one week from now. You've already been here long enough; half a week already.” She gives Katsuki an unreadable glance, her voice quietening. “But she wants you gone. Whether you manage to survive the torture or not.”

With his tortured to fuck head, his thought process wasn’t in his favour. It took him a second to weigh the pros and cons of what that meant.

On the one hand, if Katsuki did fail his self assigned mission—if he broke— then his friends wouldn’t have to suffer for however long until they broke too, because there’d be a time limit to it. And if he stood strong for the entirety of the ten days, they wouldn’t have to suffer at all.

On the other, they’d still die at the end of it.

In retrospect, he considered this very very bad news.

Sero muttered something under his breath and rested his head against the wall. It sounded like a plea, or maybe a curse. 

“Couldn’t you, like, tell the media about us?” Kaminari asked desperately. “If you tell them where to find us, then we could be out of here in a day.”

Morana is silent. Her hand stills on Katsuki’s wounds. “I…”

It was so silent you could hear a pin drop. 

“You could even walk right into an agency and ask for an appointment with a hero,” Ashido began. She had the flash of slight urgency in her eyes. “Maybe one of our teachers—Present Mic, Midnight, Cementos… Aizawa doesn’t have an agency but I’m sure one of us remembers his number, or at the very least his—”

“Stop,” Morana injected. All eyes snapped to hers. She looked like a cornered animal. She continued simply, “I can’t.”

Kirishima’s expression contorts. “What do you mean, you can’t ?”

“You don’t understand,” Morana replied, pushing her words out with haste. She’s completely abandoned treating Katsuki’s wounds. He feels exposed without his shirt covering the purple blossoms. “If I do that, I’ll be killed. And I… I can’t leave my brother like that. He’d be alone. And he’d be disappointed in me.”

“So you’d rather Katsuki go through this same thing all over again, for days and days until the heroes above us finally get some sort of random hint?” Kirishima argued, gesturing to the entirety of Katsuki’s beaten body. “We could be dead by the time that happens, and all you care about is—”

“Kirishima,” Sero, closest to Kirishima, stopped him. “Calm down. Arguing won’t get us anywhere. The guards outside might hear.”

Kirishima averted his eyes, but kept his frown.  

“The heroes could protect you,” Kaminari said tentatively, breaking the silence that followed. “If you go to them and just explain the situation, then maybe you could get a secret identity, or move away, or…”

Morana shook her head. “Again… it’s not that simple. Now that I’ve taken this job offer and signed that absolutely shitty contract, the moment I get involved in anything legal will have me behind bars for the rest of my life. Bars won’t stop Akeldama and Fuji from killing me, anyway. The moment I say a word, they’ll be on me like a pack of wolves—inside the country or not. I don’t have enough money to do that anyway, even if it would have worked.” Morana shifts her weight, uncomfortable. “And I’m sorry I keep yapping on about my brother, but I have to. He’s hasn’t even turned 18 yet—older than you, I guess, but he’s my lifeline. His future will fall apart if I do this, and I’m not prepared to be the reason he falls.”

Kirishima couldn’t seem to let it go. He glared into Katsuki’s eyes. “Bakugou, you tell her. There’s only so long you can do this for—you know that as well as I do.”

Katsuki closed his eyes to breathe for a moment. Trying to push out the hurt he was bound to see reflected in Kirishima’s face was harder than he’d like to admit.

“I can’t... do that.”

Silence. Kirishima’s breath hitched. Deja vu hits him like a train. “What?”

Katsuki rubbed his hand down his face and dared to look back up. Kirishima looked like he’d been slapped. Katsuki powers forward. “We’re heroes,” he said resolutely. “We save people. We don’t ruin their fucking lives because of the mess we got ourselves into.” The mess I got us into.

He sensed the people around him shift. Out of uncomfort or shock, he didn’t care to find out. His eyes trained solely on Kirishima. He needed him to understand. Out of anyone at all—he needed Kirishima to accept this.

“You can’t be serious,” Kirishima muttered. “This is… You can’t be thinking straight.”

The electricity, the hitting, the pain, may have done a number on him—yeah. But if nothing else, Katsuki understood this as clear as crystal.

By helping them—and risking her life as it was to do so—Morana had bought herself a one way ticket nine feet deep into the dirt of a cemetery. Moreover, she’d be taking another innocent life with her. He knew how powerful Fuji was, and with Akeldama too? 

There was no getting away. What if no one had to die?

Yes, Morana had done bad things. Yes, she served the very first man who’d taught Katsuki how dangerous the world was. (Eight years old, he’d admit, was too young.) 

But that did not mean she had any more reason to die.

“We have a week,” Katsuki explained calmly. His throat burnt and his jaw ached for it, but he didn’t care. “Seven days, at most. So far, we’ve had one session between each Lights Out, meaning one per day.” He pauses as the pain rises for a second, then he smothers it down and pushes through. “That means that I only have to get through... I only have to get through seven more sessions.”

Seven.  

It echoed in his mind like a promise.

 “Blasty,” Ashido murmurs, her lip trembling. She’s on the verge of tearing up, but she speaks gently, as if talking to a child. “She’s going to kill us. Tell—Tell yourself that you can make it through those sessions if that’s what helps. But even if you do—we’ll all die on the seventh, Katsuki. That’s—That’s not going to change .”

Katsuki shakes his head. It makes him slightly dizzy. “It might . The heroes are looking for us. We have fucking All Might on our side, and the majority, if not entirety , of Yuuei. They’ll find us in time, just like at Kamino.”

“This isn’t Kamino,” Kirishima challenged. “We don’t have Momo’s tracker. We've never seen these villains before. We have no quirks. No nothing . We have absolutely no leverage here! And—what? You’re saying you want to wait it out? You want to willingly stay in this place—”

“Nothing about this is by fucking will ,” Katsuki assured sharply. “But as long as I’m the one still up there when that bitch throws her fist, it’ll be fine.” He looked at Morana. Her expression was, again, unreadable—but Katsuki got the gist that she’s torn. “You don’t need to go to anyone yet. But if you’re serious about wanting to fucking help, then—” He pauses. “Then if shit hits the fan, I’m trusting you to go there anyway.”

The room was silent. He’d expected someone to either give in and agree, or argue some more. And yet, it gave him more time to continue, so he didn’t care. “If we reach the last day and no one’s come, then you need to go. You need to tell someone. Do it anonymously if you need to, tell your brother in advance, get him to an agency in case shit goes down.” Katsuki breathed in shakily and ignored the aching in his ribs. His voice dropped to a murmur. “And if I’m not strong enough to get to the seventh day—whether that’s tomorrow, the day after or the next, I… I’m sorry. But you have to make sure that they don’t go up there in my place. You can't let them die.”

He wasn’t planning on dying any time soon, but no one could predict death. 

Katsuki had always prided himself on his good judgement of character. He had proved himself with the grape looking shit (who’d gotten himself an expulsion not too long ago), the other blond prick in Class B (everyone agreed that he was an asswipe at this point), and that dick at the Provisional Licence exam. Now, even with the stakes so deadly, Morana’s tense, jerked nod satisfied him enough to say nothing else on the matter. 

He didn’t have much of a choice, but he trusted her to do it. He just hoped that she stayed true.

A Pro-Hero wouldn’t leave anyone behind, and neither will he.

⬽—+—⤘

“Light’s out!”  

The yell was followed by pitch black darkness. 

Again.

Katsuki didn’t want to fall asleep. He'd said it before, he'd say it again. He wanted to savour the leftover taste of the food Morana had given, and the feeling of a full belly. He wanted to stay in the darkness, where no one could see his pitiful bruises and scars, or watch as his face twisted in pain each time he moved. Morana’s medicine had helped, but without being able to use any kind of lasting treatment—like bandages, or even a damn ice pack—there was only so much she could do. 

He would happily sit silently for the whole night and listen to his friends’ unlabored breathing. Sleeping felt like a quick-pass to a session of torture, even if he’d need the energy for it tomorrow. He corrected himself; sleeping simply was a timeskip to torture.

Deja vu swings past again when he hears Kirishima shift for the third time in less than a minute.

“Kirishima,” Katsuki whispered.

He stopped moving immediately. It’s silent for a moment. “You’re awake.”

“No shit,” Katsuki replied. It’s too quiet. “You are too.”

Kirishima didn’t reply. 

Katsuki clicked his tongue. It came out louder than he’d meant it to. “I can see your frown from here. What?” No response. “Kirishima—”

“Stop calling me that,” Kirishima whispered.

It was like a slap in the face. Katsuki’s defences rose by instinct, until he reminded himself that it’s the hard-headed, shitty-haired idiot he’s known throughout all of his journey in Yuuei that he was talking to. Not some random fucking extra out to get him. He deserved a hell of a lot more than that.

“Why?” Katsuki asked carefully.  

For a moment, it looked like Kirishima wasn’t going to reply. Then he did. “Call me shitty hair. Or shark teeth. Or—Or even Eijiro. But you never call me by my last name unless we’re in a real shitty situation, and you haven’t stopped calling me that since we got here.” Katsuki didn’t realise that Kirishima had sworn until his pause gave him time for the words to echo in his mind. “So call me whatever you want, but stop calling me Kirishima. We’re getting out of here.”

Katsuki hadn’t even realised he’d been doing it himself. “Okay,” he whispered. “You’re right. I won’t.”

Kirishima—Eijiro—only sighed. “Why did you have to say that, back there?” 

He didn’t need a reminder to know what he was talking about. His voice is so defeated that even Katsuki, of all people, felt the need to apologise. But he didn’t. 

“I had to.”

They didn’t speak after that.

⬽—+—⤘

The bitch brought fucking blades. 

She painted the floor crimson, turned it into a pool of Katsuki's identity, watched it gleam like liquid ruby.

He learnt, during what was most likely the effects of blood-loss, that it was peaceful in the depths of his mind; when he could let go of his body and drift with the tide— 

Until she’d call his name one too many times and slap him sharply to bring him back down. 

He didn’t think he’d ever forget her earsplitting laugh and cutting taunts.

He didn’t think he’d ever not hate her for it.

⬽—+—⤘

How long had he been in this godawful chair?

⬽—+—⤘

How much longer until he broke?

⬽—+—⤘

Morana put a map on the floor like it was something they should be impressed by. It was small, and very obviously nicked from a tourist shop. There were annotations and highlighted roads all over it—though some look like she’d added them herself. She’d already treated his cuts (while giving him a drink she said would help with his blood loss) and rebandaged Denki’s shoulder. The tension from the day before still hung in the air, but no one had made it a problem yet, so it was ignored.

Hanta leaned forwards to see the map better. “What’s it for?”

Morana smiled. “I’ve been working on something. You guys asked me on the first day how to get out of here, so this is it.”

Ashido frowned. “Isn’t that the whole of the Shizuoka prefecture?”

“Sorry. Yeah. You guys are a half hour’s drive away from Yuuei itself. It’s pretty far by foot and there are definitely things to consider. You’d still be able to memorise the best way to get help though, so…” She rummages in her pockets and pulls out a crumpled, white piece of paper. She places it over the map. “This is the real key. I’ve mapped out the whole of this building. Every turn, every hiding place, every weak point… it’s all here.”

Katsuki didn’t know what to say, and he was sure no one else did either. Breaking out had seemed too impossible to consider; things had certainly changed since their first day there. It was easy to forget that they had such a valuable player on their side.

Now, they stood a chance.

“Thank you,” Ashido murmured, staring at the paper as if it was worth more than gold.

In a way, it was.

“It’s no problem at all,” Morana said. “The least I could do. I’ll leave this one with you guys when I leave, but the map of Shizuoka will be too big to hide, so I’ll take it back with me. Instead, I’ll explain it. Make sure you can remember this, because if I can’t be there to help, you’ll be on your own.”

“What if she searches us? You’ll get caught,” Eijiro said, his worry thinly veiled. 

Morana waves him away. “No, it’s fine. Don’t worry about me. If you get an opportunity to escape, you’re going to need it. It might be the only one you get, and getting out of the building is priority.”

“OK,” Kaminari said slowly. “Go on, I guess. Won’t we need a car, if it’s half an hour to Yuuei?”

“I never said you had to get all the way to Yuuei to be safe,” Morana said, looking a little proud to be the one to tell them. “The nearest Hero Agency isn’t too far away. Akledama chose a good place to stay undercover… It’s a bit further than you’d be used to in the city, but we don’t have much crime here.”

She hesitated, taking in the cell she was sitting in. “Not… usually, anyway.”

Ashido let slip a small, half–hearted laugh. “Okay. What’s your big plan?”

Morana lightly tapped a spot at the bottom of the map, marked by a big red cross. “This is where we are right now.”

She moved her pointer finger up roughly halfway across the map. “And this is where you need to get.”

Katsuki looked at it, and tried to stop himself from crumbling. “Isn’t that a long way away?”

Morana chewed her lip and looked towards the other side of the map. Even from where he sat, hunched in on himself, Katsuki could see the bold ‘UA’ scribbled at the top. “Yuuei… is a bit further. I think this would be your best bet.”

“How far away is the Agency you're talking about?”

Morana grimaced. “Almost half an hour by foot. The least is fifteen minutes, if you’re quick. Maybe twenty, though I don’t… it might be longer.”

She continued talking after that—about hiding places, good places to rest, what best to do in a medical emergency—but Katsuki wasn’t listening. He couldn’t focus. He thought about how his body screamed so much that didn’t think he could even stand without wanting to collapse.

Half an hour's walk.

This was their third day. He's only done three sessions. And if things didn’t go their way soon…

There would be seven more to go.

Chapter Text

“Put that thing away,” Ashido fussed.

Kaminari whined, pulling the crumpled paper away from her grabbing hands. “Just give me a minute.”

“A minute for what?” she bickered, giving up on swiping it out of his hands. She hadn’t been getting very far anyway. Though Morana had managed to get their chains loosened permanently, their movements were strictly limited. “They’ll see it, Kami. Put it away.”

“It’s fine, Ashido,” Sero drawled. “No one ever comes in besides Morana in the afternoons.”

Ashido wasn’t convinced. “Morana—who is late . She should be here by now.”

Sero shrugged. “She’ll be here in a bit.”

Ashido looked expectantly between Katsuki and Kirishima. Katsuki sighed, ignoring the rough feeling in his throat. “Just put it away.”

Kaminari’s expression twists. “But shouldn’t we be working on memorising this thing? What if we lose it, or—or worse, they take it?”

“They won’t be taking it if they don’t know about it,” Ashido said with a pointed look. “When Morana comes, you can look at it all you like.”

“She’s right, Kaminari,” Kirishima added. “It’s too dangerous. Just keep it safe and we’ll be okay.”

Kaminari sighed through his nose and folded the paper in two. “Fine.”

Kirishima tried his best to peer out of the door’s small, square window. “She’s definitely running late though. I know my internal clock’s all wrong, but… you guys feel it too, right?”

Katsuki nodded grimly, an uncomfortable soreness in his throat. He hoped Morana would bring something for it.

“Do you think something’s happened?” Sero murmured.  

Ashido fiddled with a tangled lock of hair near her horns. “I hope not.”

Katsuki said nothing, but deep down he wondered if she’d betrayed them. Maybe she ran away with her brother. Maybe she decided to drop lunch duty. 

But ‘running late’? 

There was noise outside. Quick as a bullet, his ears sharpened and his eyes darted towards the metal door 

“Do you hear that?” Sero whispered, loud enough to echo in the small box of a room.

It grew closer. Louder. A dozen footfalls marching towards them as if on a mission.

“Kaminari,” Kirishima snapped. 

Kaminari bobbed his head, stuffing the paper into his trouser’s back pocket. “Already done.”

They waited in breathless silence. The footfalls reached their door, impossibly loud—

Then march right past. 

Kirishima, the tallest and closest to the door, slouched against the wall. He swallowed, his brow furrowed. “I saw them.”

“What do you mean?” Ashido asked. “What the hell was that?”

“Red suits,” he said. “They all wore red.”

“Morana said those are Akeldama’s guards,” Sero muttered. “They’ve never come this close before. Why now?”

“Something must be happening,” Kaminari murmured. 

Akeldama had seemed fine that morning. She might've looked bored at first, but she seemed gleeful, if anything, by the end of it. 

Katsuki’s stomach felt like it was eating itself. 

“Bakugou,” Ashido called. He dragged his eyes up to meet hers. “You haven’t said much lately. Are you okay?”

He shot her a small nod. “I’m fine.”

“Bakugou,” Ashido called again.

Irritation sparked. He sighed. “What?” 

“You’re shaking.”

He looked down at his hands. She was right. They trembled like leaves in winter. As he traced his hand up to his forearm and towards his shoulder, he realised that it wasn’t just his hands. It was his arms and shoulders too. His whole upper body shuddered, as if the energy inside him was itching to get out.

Except that he felt drained. If someone came, broke him from his chains and told him he could leave, he didn’t think he would. He didn’t think he could even stand. Between escaping and rolling over to sleep for a millenia… His body yearned for the latter. 

(And what that might mean—it scared him more than anything.)

He clasped his wrist with his other hand as tightly as he could in an attempt to stop the shaking. It only made it shake worse.

He opened his mouth to give Ashido an answer he hoped she’d be satisfied with—only to be interrupted by the same noise outside again.

Guards walking by. Less than last time, but much quicker. Kirishima pulled against his chains to get a glimpse through the small window. 

The footsteps stopped outside their door this time. Kirishima fell back down with wide eyes. 

“Fuji’s back,” he said.

Katsuki felt his stomach plummet.

The door slammed open and black-cladded guards rushed in. They unbuckled their chains and yanked them up with unnecessary force, as had become routine. But fear and confusion fought in Kastuki’s chest. They’d never had two sessions a day. Never before lunch, either. 

Where the hell was Morana?

They marched through the hallways like prison inmates. Katsuki’s feet almost buckled beneath him by the time they reached the second hallway. The guard behind him took firm hold of his arm and yanked him back up, pushing him forwards with the tip of his gun. Fuji looked over his shoulder and smiled, his golden tooth gleaming. It was a weird, unfamiliar look. 

“What happened to you, mutt? Not so much spunk anymore.” He laughed, ugly and obnoxious. “Don't worry, brat. You'll enjoy what's coming.”

Katsuki couldn’t even bring himself to spit at him, and hatred at both Fuji and himself reared its head. 

They reached the double doors Katsuki had grown to despise. Fuji thumped his fist against it like he always did, and called for Akeldama.

They waited a few beats.

She didn’t open the door.

Fuji grumbled and cursed under his breath. He shoved his calloused hands against the doors and opened them wide with little effort. He let them bang against the walls inside unashamedly, letting the guards follow as he stalked in. Katsuki’s eyes trained on the stage and its familiar chair as he passed, still stained with his blood. He couldn't see her anywhere.

The guards shackled them to their respective places. Morana wasn’t there. Neither was Akeldama. No heroes burst in with a dramatic entrance to save them. 

That’s when they heard the muffled yell. 

Morana stumbled on stage, shoved by Akeldama, who followed after her. Morana scrambled to get away, her mouth gagged, her face bruised and bloodied. Akeldama was beside her in a heartbeat. Despite her protesting, she dragged her to the centre of the stage like a sack of potatoes. It almost looked like a pantomime. It felt, entirely, like a nightmare.

“Hello again,” Akeldama beams. Her eyes were fixed on Katsuki’s. It occurred to him in an instant. There was no other reason as to why Morana would be beaten and bruised on the stage with Akeldama.

She knew.

A gleam of dark metal. She was holding a gun. Akeldama grinned, her grip moving to Morana’s choppy hair and pulling it slightly to keep her head up. Morana kept her eyes trained on the floor, avoiding their eyes. 

“This was always to be expected,” Akeldama started with a sigh. “There’s always one or two of them. Little brats that try to ruin and sabotage your success. It’s like they can’t bear to see someone in the position they wish to be in.” Akeldama tugged Morana’s hair roughly. “But here’s the thing; you can’t ruin someone like me. I’ve already been knocked down once. This time, I won’t allow it. I’m not going to show mercy. And I had warned you, you know. I had. When you first came into this building, what did I say?” She shook Morana’s head again. “Hm? I said that any disrespect would be met with a bullet.”

She cocked her gun. The tip of it met Morana’s temple, and Katsuki could pinpoint the moment she realised that she was going to die. 

Tears brimmed her eyes, but she didn’t let them fall. Her brow furrowed and crumpled. Her eyes flashed with a feral anger Katsuki was familiar with.  

Akeldama undid the cloth that gagged Morana’s mouth. “I’ll be kind enough to allow last words, if you wish. You can beg, if you like. Say anything that might help those brats though, and I won’t blow your brains out; I’ll pick them from of your skull bit by bit, and you can trust that I’ll make it slow.” She bends down to whisper something in her ear, before straightening again, proud. The gun never left Morana’s head. 

Morana swallowed thickly, and lifted her eyes. 

“I did it,” she said. “I told them. It's okay, you won't have to worry anymore. You're going to be alright.”

Katsuki wanted her to say more. That couldn’t be all she had to say for herself. What about her brother? Her life? What about them ; the kidnapped children she’d been so set on helping? 

But she said nothing else, and Akeldama smiled. “I love the quick ones.”

The gun went off. She didn’t even hesitate. Katsuki heard the splatter, but his eyes shut tightly and he turned his head away. Out of respect, he told himself. Not cowardice. He heard her body fall. He didn’t look. He didn’t see it. He couldn’t. 

When he opened his eyes, the first thing he saw was Fuji’s grin as he stared at the stage. He was happy . His golden tooth shone in the dim light. Katsuki wanted to punch him so hard that it flew out. 

He risked a glance to the stage. He could hear his heartbeat in his ears. He met Morana’s wide, glassy eyes. The tear she’d been holding slips vertically down her cheek, mixing with the pooling blood and the aftermath of the shot.

Her eyes don’t blink.

He turns to the side and vomits.

⬽—+—⤘

“I’m Sasaki Yami. I’ll be your new lunch guard.”

No one replied. The newcomer looked harsh and cold. Dark roots pushed through dyed white hair, and in her black outfit, she looked washed out and pale. 

Sasaki sighed and sat near the door. It was near to where Morana had first sat when they’d met her for the first time. The thought left the taste of bile fresh in Katsuki’s mouth.

“Wow. You’re a loud bunch,” she muttered, rooting around in the plastic bag she’d brought with her. “Why do you care so much that she’s dead, anyway?”

A weak anger flared in Katsuki’s chest, but he was too tired to snap back. His stomach felt like a black void. His head felt stuffed with cotton. Sasaki took their silence in stride and slid each of them a plastic container. They’d already had their chains switched out to eat properly. It didn’t mean much to Katsuki. Loose chains or not—-good food or not—-they were no closer to escaping. And Morana…?

 Katsuki took the food silently, opening the packaging with a quiet pop. A heap of rice and wooden chopsticks. Far from what Morana would bring, but it would be enough to fill his stomach. 

His hands shook as he lifted the chopsticks to his mouth. Grains fell back into the container.

Fuck.

“Why did she die?” Ashido mumbled. She was so quiet. Katsuki couldn’t be certain that it wasn’t his thoughts talking.

Sasaki looked up. “I thought you understood the majority. She betrayed Akeldama by helping you lot. It goes, even without saying, that it’s against the rules.”

“But— But how did she find out?” Kaminari asked shakily. Katsuki felt ultra-aware of the map Morana had given them. Still, he hoped, tucked into his back pocket. 

Sasaki didn’t move, and her expression stayed fixed. Katsuki couldn’t tell if she was hiding her emotion or if she felt none at all. Just like the other guards Katsuki had labelled as robots. “She said it herself. She was the one who told Akeldama.” 

He remembered Morana’s words. ‘I did it. I told them.’ But Katsuki didn’t believe it for one second. “Why the hell would she do that?” 

Sasaki’s eyes shifted to his. “I don’t know. But why would she risk it to save you anyway?” 

Eijiro scowled. “Because she was human. She cared.”

Sasaki stifled a snort. “She was human? That’s so—” She caught herself. “Look, I’m sorry… All I’m saying is that there were so many other ways to go about it, and she didn’t choose the best one. I’m not trying to start something.”

“Then why are you still talking?” Sero said. His tone was soft but his words weren't. “If you aren’t going to help us, then leave us alone.”

Sasaki put her hands up in mock surrender. “Whatever you say, kid.”

They spent the rest of lunch in silence.

Chapter Text

“It was raining today,” Sasaki said, before taking a mouthful of rice. 

Katsuki, with no mild exasperation, looked up. It was the first thing anyone had said since lunch the previous day. 

It was also the first thing they were told about the outside world since the day before the last. Since Morana visited them last. 

Sasaki chewed on her rice nonchalantly. Exactly the same dish as the day before.

Katsuki exchanged a look with Sero as the latter shifted in place. His bones ached and his skin burnt as it grated against his shackles, but he forced himself to think clearly. It felt more like trying to part a thick fog by flapping his hands about. And yet, he was grateful to have something new to focus on. Anything other than Morana’s glazed stare.

“Any news about… us ?” Sero prompted carefully.

Sasaki eyed the rice held in her chopsticks like a picky eater—then she shoveled it down anyway and took her time chewing. A week ago, it would have made Katsuki’s blood boil at the disrespect. Now, he didn’t have enough energy to do so much as sigh in irritation.

“I don’t think I’m allowed to say anything about that,” Sasaki finally said, choosing her words carefully. “But I can say that they’ve found a good lead. You’ll probably be out soon.”

“How soon?” Ashido asked, barely wasting a second. 

Sasaki took a bit longer to consider her answer. “Before you all die, at least.”

Fucking great.

She took another mouthful of rice, and again chewed slowly.

“This isn’t really helping,” Kaminari said flatly. He held the rice container in his hands, looking as if he had no intent to eat much of it.

Saski chuckled dryly. “That’s the idea, kid. I’m not looking to get my head blown in because of a couple of kids.”

“So why tell us anything at all?” 

She paused, her chopsticks hovering in the air. “Because… it’s awkward sitting in silence? Because you look like walking corpses and it’s creepy?”

“We do not ,” Ashido said indignantly. 

“Kid,” Sasaki said flatly, “you aren’t gonna need contour after this to make your cheeks look nice.”

Ashido frowned disapprovingly. “My cheeks look nice all the time. Speak for yourself, lady.”

Sasaki raised an eyebrow, either amused or vexed. 

“Can you stop talking about makeup right now?” Kaminari interrupted. “We are in a cell. Underground. With a crazy lady intent on killing us. There are more important things to talk about.”

“Like?” Sero asked, with a nervous glance towards Sasaki. 

“ Like, ” Kaminari continued, looking pointedly at her, “can you bring us medical supplies, or something?”

Katsuki felt like a child; people talking about him while he was still in the room. 

Sasaki shook her head. “Against the rules.”

“How about better food?”

“What, you want three course meals from a five star chef or something?” Sasaki scoffed. “I don’t have the time nor money for that.”

“I think you do. You just don’t want to spend it on us,” Sero said. 

“And so what?” Sasaki bit back. “Why should I? It’s my time and money. I worked for it.”

“You don’t have to get so defensive. I’m just saying that you shouldn’t pretend that you can’t, rather that you won’t,” Sero replied.  

Katsuki noticed her jaw flex as she clenched it. “Fine. I’ll switch up the rice a bit. Don’t expect it to be amazing.”

Sero sat back, his expression having barely changed, but Katsuki recognised the triumph in his eyes. He exchanged a look with Kaminari. They’d definitely be fist-bumping if they were sitting next to each other, Katsuki could tell. 

“Anything else you want to ask me?” Sasaki drawled. “Now’s the time. Lunch’s almost over.”

A small murmur spread through the group as they continued grasping for an idea that could help the situation. Katsuki looked down at the container in his hands, and the small heap of rice inside. It had been barely touched. 

He tried, again, to scoop up something—anything—with his chopsticks. His hands fumbled, and the rice fell back.

A beat passed—a staring contest with the innocent grains.

He put the lid on the container and placed it on the floor beside him. He’d given up.

Katsuki looked up. Kirishima was staring at him, brow furrowed. 

He’d given up.

⬽—+—⤘

“Bakugou,” Akeldama muttered as she poked the syringe into his neck, as routine went. At first, Katsuki thought her voice was in his head. Then she continued, her voice quiet, “Bakugou, can I ask you something?”

He wanted to say no, but he was too tired to speak. (As well as the fact that he had a needle in his neck.) Besides, he liked the idea of her feeling ignored.

She pushed on anyway, her smile wide… and fake. He felt her quirk slip through the needle, into his blood. “I need you to keep an eye on someone for me.”

He said nothing. He didn’t know whether he should waste his focus on her or on the jarring feeling (he should probably be used to) her quirk created. 

“You wouldn’t have to do much. And it’d be a one time thing.” She took the needle out—yet only halfway through the pump. Her smile didn’t falter as she flicked the tip of the syringe, as if something was wrong with it. Katsuki knew there wasn't. She’s stalling for time. “There’s a guard I don’t trust, you see.”

Katsuki fueled his glare with as much vitriol as he could muster. “What?” he gritted. The hell was she talking about? Why now? Why to him?

Akeldama spared him a glance, her lips tight. Something akin to fear flashed in her eyes. She turned to the guards lining the room, though, and it was gone as quickly as it came. “Can someone take this away? It’s completely jammed, just bin it for me,” she commanded, her tone almost regal. A guard rushed up, took it from her delicately, and scrambled out of the room.

She moved behind Katsuki to find another, and came back a moment later. “With the heightened senses, I’m sure you heard me. If you do this for me, I’ll inject you with this one—it’ll cancel out the heightened senses for this session only.”

Her seriousness felt jarring. 

“Why me?” 

The grin turned a little more real, and a little less plastic. Familiar. “You’re the only one no one will believe.”

Katsuki lowered his eyes, casting his gaze towards his friends. She wasn’t entirely wrong. His mind felt so messed up, he wouldn’t even believe himself. “You better get a fucking move on telling me about it,” he muttered, with no little effort. “Talking for so long is…” 

She injected him with a click of her tongue before he could finish his sentence. “Quit the foul language!” she snapped loudly. He went to argue, before realising she was doing it for show. “It’s getting annoying, you brat.”

She leaned in, having removed the needle, and took a hesitant breath to speak.

“Keep an eye on Fuji, will you?” she said. 

Katsuki sensed the lights dim. It took him a moment to realise that it was her quirk undoing;  Akeldama must have felt that a deal was made, even without a spoken promise. But he didn’t bother thinking about that.

He made eye contact with the lime haired guard that stared from the back of the room.

She’d said Fuji’s name. Not Sasaki’s. 

Keep an eye on Fuji… He repeated it over and over in his head, even as Akeldama blabbered on behind him. He heard the slide of metal on metal. The knife—again.

Fuji scowled back at him from the shadows. 

Keep an eye on Fuji, will you?

Now why the fuck would she say that?

⬽—+—⤘

He repeated everything the moment the guards left their cell.

“Well shit,” Ashido said. “She really suspects him?”

“But he’s…” Sero failed to mould his thoughts into words. “Well, he’s him . Why would he betray her? He looks like he’s having fun, if anything.”

“Exactly,” Katsuki replied. “It makes no sense.”

“It’s still a weakness we can use, right?” Kirishima noted grimly. “If she’s suspicious of another guard—the head guard, too—it might not be that hard to make her so scared of betrayal, that this whole programme shuts down.”

Kaminari, his head back and body splayed out like a dead man, groaned. “Say it in baby terms. How the hell do we do that?”

Kirishima kept patient and slows his words. “If she’s so paranoid that she’s asking Bakugou, of all people, for help ? She must not have many choices. All we have to do is make her think that everyone is against her, and then the heart of this whole thing collapses.”

“But… that doesn’t mean we go free,” Sero said slowly. “What if her ‘collapsing’ means going insane and slaughtering everyone? Including us? I wouldn’t put it past her, man; she’s nuts. And what about her creepy Aunt? Or all the guards that decide we’ve got a big enough bounty over our heads on the black market to take us themselves?” 

Kirishima shrugged, his eyes a quiet sort of desperate. “Isn’t it worth a try?”

The room fell silent.

“I’ll talk to her tomorrow,” Katsuki said eventually. “Try to find out more about why and shit. And then… And then we’ll see what happens, I guess.”

It didn’t feel like a win. It probably should’ve. But no one so much as smiled.

As simple as it seemed, taking Akeldama down using her own paranoia would be harder in practice than in theory. And with Katsuki being the only one who could speak to her—despite being in a delirious and/or pained state 99% of the time he was on that stage—their chances looked meeker than ever.

It could’ve been a win to them at the start of this nightmare. But at that point, it just felt like false hope. 

And with six days left in the countdown Morana had given them?

Time wasn’t on their side anymore—if it ever even had been.

⬽—+—⤘

Two days passed. 

This one marked the third day with fucking nothing. No good news. No bad. There was no news at all and it was driving him fucking insane. Sasaki offered up nothing but scraps. ‘It was cold today.’ ‘We had a storm today.’ (Shit load of good that did them.) He didn’t speak as much. He didn’t eat. He’d thrown up again, that time right on the floor of the cell—so when he felt nausea turning in his stomach, he didn’t even pick up the box. He saw their concerned looks but he didn’t care. He was guilty for worrying them. He was guilty for not keeping his strength up for them. He could feel his fire dying.

He could feel his fire dying.

Akeldama hadn’t offered much else up when he’d asked, the day after she’d brought up her suspicions with Fuji. “I didn’t ask you to ask me. I wanted you to keep an eye on Fuji. So, what do you have to say?” Pathetically, he didn’t have an answer. He’d rehearsed one the entire night. Something made up; something that would scare her.

But his mind went blank. Dazzled with spots of black where important thoughts should’ve been. “Nothin’ yet, lady. Piss off.”

She was unimpressed with that, but she took it. And though they didn’t say it, he was convinced that his friends were disappointed too. He felt pathetic.

The day after, when all he could lie about was that Fuji spoke with another guard in whispers, Akeldama pursed her lips. “Not enough. I’m going to have to put you back on my quirk. Auntie is getting suspicious, you see.”

Katsuki scowled. It felt more like a desperate grimace. “Bitch,” he gritted, his throat choked.

In went the needle. Everything went vibrant. The last thing he saw before he squeezed his eyes shut was her fucking grin. 

She didn’t have a sliver of humanity in her. Katsuki wondered if she ever did.

He had a nightmare that night. He’d admit; he’d been having nightmares for the past few nights. Of Morana’s foggy eyes, of Kaminari back up in that chair, of Akeldama and the gut-wrenching pain .

But that one was the first he woke up choking on his own breath and tears to. 

He dreamt of dying. Of his friends taking his place one by one, reaching the same fate as him. Of Kirishima cursing his ghost— ‘You should have told Morana to get help when you had the chance. This is all your fault. Do you even care what happens to us?’ He dreamt of Aizawa, filling the screen in a press conference—his hair a mess, his face haggard with exhaustion now that he had to face yet another PR disaster that revolved around Katsuki. Would his teacher lie again and say that he’d had high hopes for him? Or maybe he’d tell the truth to the world and talk about how it was Katsuki’s fault that they were in this god awful mess. He dreamt of All Might watching the news headlines, thinking, ‘Maybe if I’d never saved him…’ 

Because yeah, maybe.

Maybe, maybe, maybe. Katsuki could bet that no matter what the outcome would be, the world would feel a whole lot better without him in it.

The best part is, when he woke up, the nightmare didn’t end.

And nothing he dreamt of was anything he hadn’t thought of before.

(And didn’t, even slightly, believe.)

Kirishima tried to talk to him before the session. He called his name at least three times. Katsuki didn’t reply. Fuji barrelled in and scowled, then laughed, when Katsuki could barely stand on his own. He didn’t react. Two guards carried him on either side by the elbow down the halls. He tried to ignore how his wrecked body ignored his mind’s command. The doors slammed open. He was thrown into his chair. The shackles clicked over his wrists. Akeldama said something to him. He didn’t reply. She was angry. She slapped him. He didn’t react.

Pitiful. 

If you asked him to recite everything that happened since he woke up with a heartbeat racing out of control—everything recited above—he wouldn’t be able to tell you. His mind felt lost. His body felt broken.

The lights were bright. His eyes never adjusted, he knew, so he didn’t wait for them to. He closed his eyes. 

And then something different happened.

He dragged his eyelids open. They felt as heavy as weights. He was more focused on the sound of water behind him. It sounded like the jet stream from a showerhead, like the ones back at Yuuei, hitting tiles. It shot off and on behind him.

Shhhp. Shhhp. Shhhp.

Had he finally lost his mind?

“We’re gonna… and try something new,” Akeldama said. It faded in and out of focus; his mind trapezing around her voice like a child’s that refused to pay attention in class. “Well done for lasting this long, though, I didn’t think you had the… but even the hardest and stone-faced of soldiers have… because it really might be the worst, most horrible method so far. So I’ve been told, anyway… I can’t help but fall in love with it.”

He felt a wet fabric—cloth?—place around his mouth and nose. He felt her hand hold it firmly in place from behind him as she pushed his head back, so that the cloth stayed on his face without her hand there to hold it. It fell over his eyes too. His instincts pulled a little at his gut, and he tugged at his restraints weakly. No wiggle room in the slightest. He shook his head, but Akeldama stopped him before he could shake the cloth loose. 

He heard the sound again. Closer.

Shhhp. Shhhp. “Just gotta test it,” Akeldama sing-songed. “Don’t worry. You’ll know when it starts.”

And yeah, the fuck he did.

Ice cold water slammed into his face. The cloth took the brunt of the force, but not the cold. It was like he’d been socked in the face with a snowball from hell. He felt small shivers spread to his chest uncontrollably, his body’s pathetic effort to keep him warm. 

Until he realised that wasn’t what he should have been worried about.

Water rushed up his nose. It cut his gasp midway. The moment he opened his mouth in a choked gag, he immediately regretted it. Oxygen suddenly seemed like a faraway concept. Water flooded his airways. It forced itself down his throat. His breaths were replaced with splutters that were replaced with chokes—then, full blown panic .

He couldn’t breathe. 

The water turned into a thick sludge. He couldn’t see it, but his mind definitely could; green slime in his eyes, his hair, his mouth. It’s pushing. It’s moving. It’s living, hellbent on entering. He wasn’t Bakugou Katsuki anymore, the Sports Festival winner; neither the boy who escaped the League of Villains alive; nor the student that ranked in top three in almost every class he took. 

He was a stupid kid who got himself into a shitty fucking situation—and wasn’t good enough to get himself out of it alone.

He wrenched his hands as hard as he could against his restraints. The white hot pain as the metal dug into his skin went unnoticed; barely a scrape compared to the anguish that pumped his blood. He couldn’t do this.

Green sludge forced its way into his body. 

He couldn’t.

The water let up for a moment. He choked and coughed, but he couldn’t seem to dislodge the liquid in his throat at the angle Akeldama was holding his head back. She didn’t seem to realise that. 

He didn’t get the chance to take a single breath, not even a shallow one. 

The water rushed in again.

Despite all odds—between the flashes of green sludge and the all consuming feeling of drowning—Katsuki could remember Aizawa’s lesson on this. On waterboarding. It hadn’t been an optimistic lesson, but the thing Katsuki remembered in that moment was when waterboarding, victims usually were strapped on their back, horizontal. Their head was tilted back too, so that water wouldn’t climb into their lungs. Subsequently, it wouldn’t kill them.

Katsuki was sitting, barely inclined. He could feel the water—sludge?— water in his airways. He felt like he hadn’t taken a breath in minutes, now.

He felt like he was dying. 

Maybe he was.

And maybe…

Maybe he just didn’t care.

⬽—+—⤘

When Kirishima realised that the jet of water had stopped for longer than the last break, at first he was hopeful. The session had felt quicker, but maybe it was over. He hurriedly wiped his tears and looked up from where he’d buried his face in his tucked in knees. Like a coward.  

He wanted to see Katsuki’s crimson eyes again. His scowl, practically a default expression. The downtilt of his lip. It didn’t matter if he looked dazed or pained or bleary—as much as it hurt him to his core to see. 

He just needed to watch him get back up.

But the room was silent. He swore he felt his gut wrench and plummet. He could feel his heart stop.

Katsuki didn’t cough. He didn’t choke. He didn’t struggle against his restraints as he had been when she’d started, he didn’t gag or take a heaving breath or even so much as sigh—

His chest didn’t raise an inch. 

Akeldama removed the cloth from his face with a gleeful grin that horrified him to the marrow in his bones. Her glee faltered when she saw his face, still tilted up towards the ceiling, out of Kirishima’s sight. His stomach twisted like a washcloth.

“Bakugou?” she called. It echoed emptily. She spared a concerned, unsure glance towards the back of the room, where Fuji stood. He watched intently, arms folded, but he didn't look happy.

Actually, he looked worried.

What?

“Bakugou,” Akeldama called again. She tapped his cheek lightly, then pushed his head forwards. His chin bobbed into his chest limply, like a wooden doll. His hands hung from the restraints, fists uncurled lifelessly. Shadows from the harsh lights obscured his face, but Kirishima saw his pale tint. His ‘default’ scowl was replaced by a void, emotionless expression.

He looked fucking dead.

“This is dramatic,” Akeldama mused. She walked behind him and found a knife. Kirishima freezed for a god awful moment—but she slanted the knife under his nose, and held it there. Is she… She had to be waiting for a breath. She held it there for almost a minute—and then, slowly, she lowered it to hang at her side. “Ah,” she said, staring at the blond. “He’s not breathing.”

The entire world stopped spinning.

“Well then. That’s not supposed to happen. Maybe I should’ve researched the method a little more,” Akeldama continued, putting her hands on her hips. 

From the very depths of his heart, Kirishima wanted to beat her bloody and bruised. 

She turned to face them with a grin. “Next up is Kirishima, yes?”

Ringing filled his ears as a guard nearby unlocked his chains and hoisted him up by the arm, dragging him towards the chair. He watched as Katsuki’s body was carried past him.

His cheeks were still brushed with colour. His lips were still flushed, though they were becoming shaded. If he ignored his sunken cheeks and the bruises and cuts and scars that painted his skin, Kirishima could almost imagine that he was just sleeping.

But that emotionless expression would haunt him for the rest of his life.

Fuji took him at the door, and then they were both out of sight. 

Kirishima took the seat his best friend died in.

The seat his unbreakable will was broken in.

Kirishima was already ‘broken’ before the shackles clicked over his wrists.

⬽—+—⤘

The cell was silent. No one made a single sound, save Kaminari—tapping anxiously away at the shackles on his wrist. As his leg bounced, so did the chains on his ankles. It was continuous. It didn’t falter, slow or speed up. He stared ahead at nothing, lost in his own mind.

Katsuki’s old shackles remained empty.

“Kaminari,” Sero whispered. His voice broke. “Dude… stop that.”

He did. For a moment.

Then it started back up again. Quicker, louder, he tapped his nail against the metal, a small tink tink tink tink —neverending in the small space. 

Kirishima raised his head, ready to snap, until he saw his close friend’s quiet stream of tears. His chest stuttered and started with silent, uneven breaths. 

“Kaminari,” Kirishima pleaded. He really, really wanted to give him a hug now more than ever.

“He’s dead,” Kaminari murmured between shaking, heaving breaths. He breathed out harshly and a sob escaped his lips. “He’s—He’s dead , man.”

“It’ll be okay, Denki,” Ashido said quietly, on the verge of tears herself. “It’s gonna be okay. We’re gonna—” she looked towards Kirishima. His hair was soaking wet, and his whole body shivered from the cold. He’d only had to go through the same thing Katsuki had twice before Akeldama had let them go. Katsuki had gone through at least six, before he’d stopped counting. You’re so fucking weak. Ashido swallowed thickly. “It’s… It’s just gonna be okay.”

Even as she said it, she didn’t look hopeful.

You could hear a pin drop in the silence.

Or, rather, footsteps.

Sero sucks his teeth sharply. “Someone’s coming.”

The locks on the door clicked, one after the other, in quick succession. Quicker than Fuji usually did. Quicker than Kirishima had realised they could be unlocked.

The door swung open.

It was Sasaki.

She shut the door carefully behind her. Kirishima noticed that she didn’t have any bags for food, and she didn't sit down. Her hair was a mess, like she’d run her hand through it one too many times, and her body looked overflowing with energy.

“I—” she stopped herself. She must have run there, because her chest heaved with harsh breaths. She squeezed her eyes shut in frustration, then opened them again with a groan. “Fuck. Fuck! I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t be—” Her eyes caught Kirishima’s, and something in her gaze turned resolute. “Okay. Whatever. Look, I shouldn’t be telling you this, okay? I just…” The words wouldn’t seem to come to her.

Sero slowly sat up. “What is it?” he asked wearily. 

Kirishima didn’t know if he could bear any more bad news.

“Bakugou is alive,” she said impulsively.

Everyone froze for a suffocating moment. 

“What?” Kirishima breathed.

“He’s alive .” For all her emotionless, no-fucks-to-give attitude—it definitely looked like a smile on her face. 

He could feel the hope bloom in his chest. “What the fuck?” he said. He almost laughed, but he was too scared to. False hope had become too common. “Wait, h–how?”

“Fuji took him at the door,” Sasaki explained. “He took his pulse, because he didn’t see Akeldama do it—and, sure enough, there was still a faint beat. He wasn’t breathing, but that didn’t mean he was dead .”

Leave it to Katsuki to pull the craziest fucking stunts. He was the only person insane and stubborn enough to come back from the dead.

“Since, technically, it goes against the rules—he hadn’t died on stage—they took him to the medical unit we have here. By her own rules, it counted as him giving up—not dying—just like what happened on your first day here when Kaminari was bandaged up. I think. I don’t know if Akeldama gave the official go-ahead, but maybe their excuse was that she was too busy with you to be bothered. Somehow, they got him back to life.” Sasaki shrugs, her breathing gradually slowing. “I came here as soon as he took his first breath. No one noticed me leave; the room was chaos. I… I thought you four should be the first to know.”

A beat of silence.

“Thank you,” Kaminari said weakly.

She didn’t reply. Her face was wracked with guilt. “God. I’m so sorry.”

“For what?” Sero asked. For the first time in what felt like way, way too long, his face was split in a grin.

But Sasaki’s mind seemed far away. “Everything. All you’ve been through…” Her voice goes quiet. “And… and all that’s left to come.”

There was yelling outside. “Where the fuck is that guard?”  

Sasaki jolted, muttering, “Fuck. I’ve got to go. I’ll see you for lunch, kiddos. And, hopefully… with the grumpy one. I’ll bring a surprise.”

The door swung shut behind her, and they were left in silence again.

This time, there was no tapping.

Chapter Text

Katsuki’s eyes fluttered open.

The first thing he registered was the soft gasp that coursed through his nose and down his throat. It filled his lungs and forced his chest to rise—swiftly and simply, without thought. It felt amazing, even if his throat felt raw and pain sparked in his ribs with each slow breath he took. 

As awareness trickled back to him, he noticed the pain rooted deep within his bones. It felt like a constant ache; like the bones themselves yearned to shatter, to let loose the tension inside. Like he’d just run more laps around Yuuei’s grounds than he should’ve. Like he was waking up in Recovery Girl’s office after pushing his body too far while sparring.

The harsh light that dug into his eyes was familiar, but the smell of antiseptic is what jogged the memory—a chiding voice, launching into an elderly lecture before he could even gather a coherent thought. Why, look who’s decided to join us! You ought to take more care in training, young man. That’s why it’s called practice, for heck’s sake! You kids and your reckless tendencies… Why, I ought to— 

“You’re awake.” The grave voice split through the memory like a knife. Katsuki startled. His body didn't jerk far. Straps around his wrists and ankles binded him horizontally—to what felt like a hard bed. There was something soft under his head, but the rest of his body lay on brick solid material. He yanked at his restraints. They held tight, and left painful sores. “Tsk. Stop moving.”

The owner of the voice came into view—blocking the harsh light in Katsuki’s eyes. A wall of shadow fell over his face, but he was recognisable by the disgusting hair colour and the shine of his tooth as he spoke. “ I said, stop moving. You’re only making it worse for yourself, brat.”

Katsuki bared his teeth. 

Fuji snorted over him and reached above Katsuki’s bed for a lever, barely in view. There was a kachunk , before the bed’s head started to rise until Katsuki could sit up properly.

“That comfortable enough for you?” Fuji asked, though he didn’t look like he cared what the answer would be. Now that the light wasn’t glaring into his eyes, Katsuki could see the planes of his face easier—though they were draped in stark shadows—and the bags under his eyes looked more prominent than before. 

They were in a small room. The bare bulb hanging over Katsuki’s head was the only lightsource in it. Wooden shelves and cupboards lined the walls, with a small fridge–looking box in one corner. There was a stand presenting what looked like an array of medical instruments, ranging from small and innocent to something he absolutely would not want anywhere near him. The door was past Katsuki’s feet, on the opposite side of the cramped room—it was metallic and hefty, like the one that sealed their cell.

His ankles were chained to poles at the end of the bed (though the mattress seemed more like a hard mat) and his wrists to bars that lined the sides, running from his thighs to where the bed folds inwards as a backrest.

“So,” Fuji started, grinning derisively. “You feeling alright?”

Katsuki’s tongue felt like sandpaper, but he wasn’t going to pass up the opportunity. “Fuck off, you prick.” It felt heavy in his mouth. 

Fuji’s lazy grin disappeared. “That’s the thanks I get for saving your fucking life?”

Katsuki stared at him. “Saving my life? When the fuck did you decide that?”

Like a cycle, Fuji’s grin reappeared. Wider. That time, it was more unsettling than annoying. “You don’t remember yet, huh?”

Katsuki scowled. “Remember what?”

Fuji took a slow step back and leaned on the cupboards, folding his arms. The only sound in the room was a faint humming from the bulb as it struggled to stay on. Fuji watched Katsuki as if he was expecting a show. “Go on. What’s the last thing you remember, brat?”

“Fuck off,” Katsuki snarled, even as something pricked at the edges of his mind. Something was wrong—really wrong. He should either be in that cell, or the torture room. This place was new to him. 

And that wasn’t a good sign.

Fuji raised his eyebrows expectantly. “Go on,” he repeated. Katsuki’s mind raced. “You were out of it at first, yeah, but…” Fuji shrugs. “I imagined the water was enough to snap you out of it.”

Water. Sludge.

Like a current, everything rushed back to him.

“Fuck,” he breathed. “Did I die?”  

Fuji bursted out laughing. “I fucking wish . But, of course, because you’re such a…”

Was breathing always this hard? Was it normal to feel his pulse in his fingers? Katsuki looked down at the palms of his hands. Were they shaking? Or was it just his vision, as it fell in limbo between blurring and tunnelling? 

Fuji said something, but his voice sounded underwater. He wasn’t laughing anymore. Katsuki wondered why. Then he wondered why his chest hurt. He wondered if he actually was underwater, a cloth over his face, because it really felt like he was dying all over again and fuck, did he die? Did he fail? 

“Bakugou,” Fuji snarled, suddenly inches away. Hands landed on both shoulders. They drove him back in their force. The back of Katsuki’s head hit the headrest behind him. It didn’t feel as soft as before. 

He looked up, wide eyed, and came face to face with Fuji—so close that he could see every pore of his face. He realised half-mindedly why his chest had been hurting—and he took a large gulp of air.

“Get out of your fucking head, brat,” Fuji spat. Despite himself, Katsuki flinched. “I’m not a fucking caretaker. Deal with your own shit in your own time.”

Fuji let go with one last shove. The bed’s frame gives a shuddering creak in protest. The back of his head felt bruised, but his breathing came easier. 

How fucking weak do you have to be? He could picture what the old hag would add to that if she saw him struggling to breathe of all things. 

Shut up.

He focused on calming his breaths.

Fuji watched him from the corner. “Something about you is real messed up,” he stated passively. Like talking about the weather .

Katsuki scoffed. “It happens, sometimes, when you're kidnapped at eight years old.”

Fuji raised his eyebrows. “You still held up about that? You escaped within the 24 hour mark, didn’t you? You should be grateful.”

“Grateful?” Katsuki repeated in disbelief. “I shouldn’t have had to escape in the first place.”

“Yes, grateful,” Fuji replied sharply. “You should be grateful that I didn’t kill you when I had the chance.”

“As if you had the fucking balls.” 

Fuji’s eyes narrowed. “Well, if you’d have preferred it the other way, it’s never too late to get your throat slit.” Katsuki said nothing. “That’s what I thought, mutt.”

A beat of silence drew longer than comfort allowed.

“Why did you take me in the first place?” Katsuki asked eventually. “Just to kill me?”

Fuji stared at him in contemplation. “No. I was going to sell you.”

Katsuki paused. “To who?”

Fuji shrugged, a smile curling on his lips. “Anyone on the market with enough money lying around. An unlimited supply of nitroglycerin could surely be of use. And if not that… kidneys sell for a nice chunk too.” 

Katsuki glowered. “How many children did you plan to do that to?”

Fuji’s expression went sour. “Don’t ask questions you know you won’t like the answer to.”

His face was looking real punchable. Katsuki’s jaw flexed. He decided to change the topic before the anger in his chest became uncontrollable. “Why are we still here?”

Fuji sighed again, now in annoyance. “What?”

“In this room,” Katsuki said. “Why aren't I going back to my cell?”

“Don’t tell me you miss it,” Fuji mused. “You can go back when fifteen minutes are up.”

“Why?”

“Because I fucking said so,” he retorted. “It’s the bare minimum to make sure your body doesn’t kick the bucket on you the moment you leave.”

Katsuki looked at him doubtfully. “Don’t you want me dead?”

Fuji grumbled. “You’re making me think you have a death wish, brat. What with the shit you pulled back on stage and the crap you keep spewing…”

Katsuki frowned. “What do you mean, the shit ‘back on stage’?” And Fuji had said he’d ‘saved’ Katsuki earlier. The implication that this dickwad did anything to help him was sickening.

Fuji’s smile twisted his gut. “You stopped breathing, genius. Everyone thought you were dead. It was amazing for a grand total of one minute…” He shrugged. “But you , of course—you asshole — still had a pulse. So, we had to bring you here and bandage you up… get you breathing again.” He didn’t sound pleased, as though he much rather would have strangled him to death instead.

Katsuki looked away. He tucked his words into the back of his mind, to stew over another time. For when he’s with… he frowned. A bad feeling rolled in his stomach. “What about the others? What happened after I… left?”

“Exactly what was supposed to happen in an event like that.” Fuji’s eyes bored into his with absolute indifference. “The red–haired brat took your place.”

It felt like he’d been punched.

Fuji noticed his expression. “Fucking hell, brat. What now?” 

“You need to tell Akeldama to put me back in that chair.” He said it without thinking. 

Not that he would take it back. 

Fuji stilled. “What?”

“In the next session,” Katsuki said. “Convince her not to put anyone on that chair but me.”

A beat.

Fuji threw his head back in laughter. “You’re taking the fucking piss, kid—”

“I’m serious, dickface,” Katsuki snarled. “You gonna do it or not?”

Still recovering from what had become a fit of chuckles, Fuji shook his head. “I was right. You’ve got a death wish. That’s what you got. But—tough luck for you—I don’t grant wishes.”

Katsuki clenched his teeth. “Why not? I thought you hated me.”

There was no trace of mirth in his expression anymore. There was something cold in his eyes. “Hate… is a strong word. And you aren’t worth that much to me, mutt. You’re more like an annoying fly.” He paused, gauging Katsuki’s expression. “No, I get it. Really, I do. To you, I took you when you were a poor eight year old kid with no one to turn to. With a story no one would believe, and reputation that hurt you. But to me, I’ve taken countless . To me, you’re just a kid that didn’t earn me the fucking money. So, no—I’m not going to risk my job for your little heroic act. I get nothing out of it.”

Katsuki swallowed thickly. The room was silent, save the continuous buzzing from the lightbulb. 

“You wouldn’t be risking your job,” he muttered. It was a weak attempt.

Fuji scoffed. “You don’t understand. It’s more about the idea that you’re going to have to watch your friends go through the very torture you did, knowing exactly how it feels.” He grins. “Now that entertainment makes up for having to babysit five children every day. That entertainment makes up for the shitty manners I’ve had to put up with. I may not hate you, but there’s a strong dislike, mutt. I’ve been keeping an eye on you for a while now, and I've had it.”

Oh shit.

Keep an eye on Fuji for me, will you?

As the idea seeded itself in his mind, Katsuki steeled his expression. He built a wall over the anger that lashed from deep inside his heart and focused closely on the plan that started to bloom in his mind. He’d be damned if he let the hurt escape from his chest. 

It was a practised feeling, anyway.

“You’re gonna get me up on that chair,” Katsuki said simply. 

Fuji’s face soured. “Are you fucking deaf?”

Katsuki shrugged. “Half. Congrats, asshole, you’ve wasted your breath for a solid two minutes. You’re getting me up there whether you like it or not.”

Fuji’s nose wrinkled. “Enlighten me. Why would I do that?”

“Because Akeldama is getting paranoid,” he said, “and all she needs is a tip off—about, say, a guard planning to betray her, in a room with no cameras, suspiciously like this one—before shit goes tits up for you.”

“She’d never believe you,” Fuji dismissed—but his eyes betray his uncertainty.

It was Katsuki’s turn to feel bold. “No? Did she ask for evidence before killing Morana? She already suspects you. She told me herself.”

Fuji’s jaw flexed. “Liar.”

Katsuki lifted an eyebrow. “She made it pretty clear that traitors get shot when she killed Morana. She probably threw her body away like it was nothing. Think she won’t kill you too? You think you're the exception? Go on. Be prepared to bet your fucking life on it.”

Fuji’s eyes flashed. They stared each other down in silence. The lightbulb continued to hum, whirring with weak electricity, the only sound in the room. The next moment, it wasn't.

Bzzt... Bzzt... Bzzt... Fuji reached into his pocket, takes out his phone, and silences the alarm. He stared at the blank screen for a moment, even as it goes black. 

“You need to go back to your cell,” he said with finality.

Katsuki tilts his head. “Not yet, fuckface. What’s your answer?”

Fuji snarls and looked up to meet his gaze, dripping venomously. “Fine.”

Katsuki’s eyes bore into his. “Then lead the way.”

⬽—+—⤘

Katsuki had expected them to be angry.

He’d expected them to be ashamed. Disappointed. Disgusted, even—

But he’d expected them to yell. He could do yelling. He could take cursing, and screaming, and arguing. The whole march back to their cell, he planned parts of what he would to say in response.

‘Sorry,’ for one.

‘I swear I’ll do better,’ for another.

The door opened with a clank. A mirthless scoff from Fuji—then he was thrown into the cell and shackles were fastened tight. The door slammed shut behind the guards. They were left alone.

And the cell was fucking silent. 

He refused to look up. He knew the faces he’d see—and yeah, he’d prepared for it, and yeah, he was a coward for fearing them, but the idea of failing in front of them all, the idea that they saw him fail, twisted a dagger in his chest.

It was all he could do to stop his thoughts from spinning out of control. 

“Bakugou,” Kirishima called. His voice was hoarse. Fuji had said he’d taken Katsuki’s place. What had she done to him?

The rush of concern forced him to look up. At first glance, there were no gashes or bruises that split Kirishima’s skin. His clothes looked damp, as did his hair… but he was okay. The rope he hadn’t realised had been squeezing his heart loosens in relief.

Katsuki met Kirishima’s eyes. Red locked on red. 

And he realised that Kirishima was crying. 

“You…” Kirishima sniffed and wiped his nose on the back of his hand. “You really are alive.”

Katsuki swallowed the lump in his throat. He remembered the plan . “I’m sorry.” 

Katsuki hesitates at the light scoff that bubbles from Ashido’s mouth, because it didn’t sound cruel. Almost like a laugh. And when he looked, she was—she was smiling . It was hesitant, and full of thinly veiled concern, but it was there. “What for, you dick?”

“I couldn’t do it,” Katsuki said, his throat tightening so badly that it came out half–choked. “I passed out. I fucked up. Badly.” He looked back at Kirishima, his voice barely a murmur. “She did it to you, Kirishima.”

Kirishima tensed.

“Bakugou,” Sero said, deathly serious. “None of this was your fault, man.” Sero’s eyes were bagged with exhaustion, but resolute and determined all the same. It only made the swell of emotion knocking at Katsuki’s rib cage stronger.

He shook his head. “No. If—If I hadn’t argued—if Morana had gone to the heroes already—we wouldn’t even be here right now. It’s not bad enough that I fucking failed. It’s that I keep— ”

“Don’t even go there,” Ashido pleaded quietly. “None of us blame you for that. Not one of us. What’s done is done , Blasty.”

Katsuki grimaced. “You can’t say that. All I’ve done this entire fucking time is—”

“Bakugou, shut up,” Kaminari growled from the corner. When Katsuki tried to argue— “Do you —shut up, I said—do you know how shitty it is to feel like you’re absolutely useless in a situation like this? Where you can see your friends hurting and you’re absolutely powerless to do anything about it? All I’ve done so far is cry like a baby on stage, which resulted in you almost dying because I was too sensitive— And then what? I’ll tell you; nothing. I’ve done absolutely nothing to help anyone. I can’t even make a bloody joke!”

Katsuki frowned. “That’s not —”

“ Not the point,” Kaminari seethed—though there was no heat behind his words. Instead, he looked on the brink of tears and his voice shook as he spoke. “I’m not throwing a pity party, jerk. The point is, you’re doing everything. Man… you’re saving us. You’re taking the brunt of this shit, and yeah, it’s torture for us to watch it, but you’re the one doing it. If you weren’t here… I don’t know what I’d do. Cry even more, probably.” His voice shifted to something meeker. “Look, dude, if everything you’ve done is shit, then… well, then we’re something less than shit, okay?”

Katsuki’s brow crumpled. There was a lot he wanted to say, but only one took the forefront of his mind. “No, Denki, you’re not.”

Kaminari stared at him. It looked like he was having a hard time keeping his expression stoic. “Dude, don’t do that.”

Katsuki faltered. “What?”

“Don’t say it like that,” Kaminari said. His voice wobbles some more. “I was really trying not to cry again, man.”

Ashido let slip a watery laugh. “He cried the most when you… when you left.”

“Did not,” Kaminari sniffed, even as his eyes turned glassy.

Sero smiled, a little sad. “Sure you didn’t, buddy.”

Kaminari glared tearfully. “Shut up.”

“Bakugou,” Kirishima said abruptly, disrupting the flow of banter they’d found. 

Katsuki breathed through the pressure on his chest. He looked at Kirishima, though at a place somewhere past his shoulder, and tried to brace himself. 

“Bakugou, I’m glad you’re here.”

Something got caught in Katsuki’s throat. “Even though she…?”

Somehow, he met Kirishima’s eyes. The idiot was smiling hopefully, an answer in itself. Katsuki bit the inside of his cheek. “You seriously don’t hate me for the shit I pulled?”

Kirishima shook his head. “No one blames you for anything, much less hates you for it. Couldn’t if I tried, man. I’ll sit here all night convincing you if that’s what it takes. I definitely have the time.”

Katsuki looked towards the others. Almost pleading that one of them backtracks, because this wasn’t how it was supposed to go. They were supposed to be angry. They were supposed to be rightfully angry.

All he got returned were looks of reassurance. 

A knot loosened in his chest. 

He cleared his throat. “Did—Did I miss lunch?”

Sero shook his head. “Nope, Sasaki hasn’t come by yet. She said she’d be back with you, though. The hold up is… concerning, I’ll admit.” 

The thought of Morana weighed heavily in the air.

“She mentioned coming with a surprise, though,” Kaminari noted, shrugging. “Maybe she’s trying to bring us better food, like she said she would.”

Ashido pursed her lips. “It wouldn’t hold her back a whole hour though…” 

Her words were followed by the sound of footsteps outside.

Ashido smiled wryly. “Nevermind.”

The door opened and Sasaki stepped in, closing and locking it behind her. Locking it was new. Katsuki watched her carefully. She had a completely void expression on her face. It was almost scary to see; Katsuki couldn’t decipher a single thought or feeling the average person would usually betray.

She stood motionless long enough to exhale a long sigh. Her eyes slid towards Katsuki. Then she smiled.

“Welcome back, hedgehog,” she commented slyly, before taking her place with her legs crossed in the middle of the room. She started unpacking her bag without another word.

Katsuki snarled. “Fucking ‘hedgehog’?”

Sasaki glanced up. “Uh-huh. It’s a reference to the hair and the prickly attitude. Also because—fun fact—hedgehogs play dead. The more you know.”

Katsuki didn’t know what to reply to that. He glowered instead. 

Sasaki continued without hitch. “Because you lot are so unbelievably bratty, here’s your five star meal.” She slid each container she’d fished out of her bag over the concrete floor towards each side of the cell. “ Bon appetit.”  

Kirishima received and opened his first. His eyebrows rose, a telltale sign that he was surprised, but intrigued. 

Katsuki caught his eye, shooting a questioning look.

Kirishima shrugged, smiling as if he was amused. “Pizza?”

Katsuki’s own container slid to a stop near his feet. Popping it open, the familiar smell of bread crust and mozzarella floated into the air. And it’s still warm. He looked up. Kaminari and Sero looked delighted, while Ashido looked like she'd fallen in love. Sasaki seemed proud of herself, already biting into a margharita slice. 

Katsuki looked down at his own, and hesitated. Nausea threatened to rise in his gut at the sight of food.

Then his stomach rumbled, and he took a quick bite before his irrational side could convince him not to. He figured it was the best decision he’d made in a while. An explosion of colour erupted in his mouth like fireworks. It tasted like film nights curled up on the sofa between his old man and the hag, margarita pizza being bland for his spicy preference but still one of the best foods ever in his nine year old mind. It tasted like when he was midway through exam week and Kaminari knocked on his door to deliver some takeaway pizza he’d ordered, knowing that Katsuki would be too occupied with studying to remember eating. Cheese melted on his tongue, while the doughy crust felt soft and crunchy at the same time. 

Holy shit, he missed pizza.

“Why didn’t you jus’ bring ‘em in a takeaway box?” Kaminari asked between stuffed mouthfuls. “I thought for sure that you got us slop or something.”

Sasaki huffed. “I can’t be seen feeding the prisoners good food so obviously. Fuji still thinks this is slop.”

“Are we not allowed actual food?” Kirishima asked incredulously.

“Don’t be that surprised,” Sasaki said. “You’re still prisoners, and subjects to torture. Your stay isn’t meant to be pleasurable, it’s supposed to be a statement—a message to the heroes and their shitty corrupted systems. Giving you good food defeats that.”

“So, I’m guessing you share the same views?” Sero asked slowly, holding a pizza slice still. “That heroes are corrupted?”

Sasaki didn’t answer. 

Ashido frowned. “You… you agree with Akeldama, then? You agree with all of this?”

The guard shifted in place. “Not entirely . I think dropping to someone’s level and using the excuse of revenge isn’t a pretty move. Still, heroic society has been corrupted for years. Akeldama’s story is one of many.” Her eyes were unfocused when she glanced at Katsuki. “If you don’t scream at the top of your lungs, how will anyone hear, let alone listen?”

“That doesn’t mean kidnapping and torturing children,” Kirishima said, looking irked. “That’s not how you get your point across.”

“Which is why I said that I don’t agree with her entirely,” Sasaki remarked. “My point is that in order for the heroes to hear, you need to catch their attention. This is catching their attention. This is making the public listen.” She hesitated. “I’ll be honest with you. Some heroes are coming under fire for not getting involved in this. Big and small heroes alike. You’re big news, of course. No one’s forgotten about you in the least. But Endeavor, for example—he’s in the area, but he hasn’t spoken a word of it on socials and acts like the whole matter is below him, even though five children’s lives are on the line. He’s one of many. Mt. Lady. Kamui Woods. Missing persons cases aren’t as favourable to heroes, because they can’t just brute force their way through it. There’s no promise of fame and glory and money if leads are slow. It’s not like beating up a couple bad guys in a day, just for a missing persons case to earn the same amount in, possibly, a month.”

Kaminari frowned. “Investigating is the police force’s job anyway. That’s detective work. The heroes’ job is to launch the attack to apprehend the—”

“That’s not what happened in the Hassaikai Raid,” Sasaki cut in swiftly. “Nighteye’s agency was in on that way before an attack was organised. Nor in the investigations into the League—of which your own homeroom teacher is investigating, despite his career as a teacher taking the majority of his time. I think that makes it clear that if they wanted to, they would. It isn’t a question of how busy they are. Yes, it’s detective work too, but they’re supposed to work side by side. In a world of quirks, you can’t rely on detectives to stay safe while investigating. The lack of heroics support is so problematic right now because we’ve created a society that depends on heroes—-heroes that can’t seem to support that weight when it comes with a possible pay decrease or a break from the glory.”

The cell fell silent. 

Sasaki shook her head and took another slice of pizza. “Eat up. It’s gonna go cold.”

Katsuki took a bite of his own. Suddenly, it didn’t taste as magical. 

He put the slice down. “You said a shitload of heroes aren’t working on our case.”

She didn’t look at him, focused on her food. “Not my words, but sure.”

“So which heroes actually are?”

At this, she paused. “I know that… Eraserhead still is. An interview or two show a detective called Tsukauchi too, and obviously the police force is probably in this too. Hawks is, I think, as well as the majority of Yuuei’s staff and their agencies—All Might included. Allegedly, he’s using his influence to get things moving quicker. Especially after the first twelve hours you went missing.”

Katsuki remembered learning about the essential twelve hour mark after a person is first reported missing. Most are resolved by then, and if not, by the 24 hour mark. After that… It's not good news. He wondered what the heroes must be thinking. 

Sasaki smiled wryly. “Funnily enough, your classmates went looking too.”

Ashido’s eyes flashed. “What happened? Are they okay?”

“Well, they aren’t kidnapped and tortured,” Sasaki snickered. At Ashido’s expression, she has the decency to backtrack with a small cough. “They’re—They’re fine. I don’t know what lead they found, but the Midoriya kid and a couple others broke safety rules and left Yuuei. They got all the way to the next city over from here before heroes caught on and took them back. Media can’t figure out what prompted them.”

Katsuki knew for certain—as much as the nerd could be a fucking prick in the ass—Deku and their classmates had found something important. Like when they followed Yaoyorozu’s tracker at Kamino…

He could tell the others were on the same thinking track.

“When was this?” Sero asked.

“Two days ago,” she replied. “Technically three, but it was at night.” She said it casually, though the meaning weighed heavy. Whatever they found, it wasn’t good enough to rescue them. The small blossom of hope withered away as swiftly as it came. 

Then she blurted something so abrupt it took a moment for Katsuki to process it.

“The heroes are rescuing you the day after tomorrow.” She pursed her lips. “Probably shouldn’t have said that. I hate how good you brats are at looking like I kicked your fucking puppy—”

“W–Wait, what do you mean?” Sero asked, reacting first. “How do you know? Does Akeldama know this?”

“Of course not,” Sasaki scoffed. “I know because I told them to come. Or—well, I mean—I’m going to.”

“Why after tomorrow?” Kaminari frowned. “Why not now?”

“Because I have to time it right,” Sasaki replied incredulously. “Are you out of your mind? I like my brain being inside my skull. I have a plan, but it needs to go well if we have any hope of getting out.”

“Why don’t you just give them the address? Or the coordinates, or whatever the hell would lead them here. Then they can just raid this place, can’t they?” Kirishima asked. “Like you said. Hassaikai. Kamino.”

For a moment, Sasaki floundered for a response. “Well… I mean… I can’t really… do that.”

Katsuki narrowed his eyes. “Why… not?”

Sasaki startled slightly at his voice—but only slightly. She covered it up well. “I… Well… If I do that, there’s… a risk of Akeldama turning to violence. She might decide to shoot you all or something, just so that she wins before going down. I wouldn’t put it past her.”

The wording reminded Katsuki of what Sero had said a while back; back when he was half unconscious and Akeldama had unknowingly let them know of her paranoia. Something along the lines of ‘ What if she goes crazy and kills us? I wouldn’t put it past her… And what about her weird aunt?’

Katsuki frowned. “The Supervisor. What about that bitch? She’ll be hard to get around, if her name has anything to do with what she’s like. ‘See all, know all,’ type shit.”

This time Sasaki seemed absolutely speechless. She recovered with a blink. “How do you know about the Supervisor?”

Katsuki studied her. “Morana… I thought you’d know, since she told you everything before her murder. Right?”

Sasaki swallowed. “Right. I… Yeah. Well, I wasn’t there when she confessed. It’s good she told you about stuff like that… Sorry. She seemed like a real help.” She looked slightly nauseous. 

Sero pursed his lips. “Hey, it wasn’t your fault. Besides, you’re helping us right now, so if anything, we’re glad that it was you who was appointed instead of another soulless guard. She’d be glad.”

She didn’t smile. “Either way… I do have a plan for after tomorrow.” She looked towards Katsuki. “You can trust… um… You should know that I’ve already figured out a solution to every problem we could run into. You don’t need to worry about that.” Suddenly, her gaze turned a little more analytical. Cautious. “And Fuji… he told me about your choice. Or, rather, I heard him ranting about it. So, goodluck, I guess. That’s all I’ll say.”

Katsuki felt hyper aware of the stares trained solely on him. Crap. He wasn’t planning on bringing up the topic until he was forced to.

He gives her a curt nod anyway. 

“Thanks.”

⬽—+—⤘

Rain hit the streets of Musutafu like bullets as a storm swelled above.

Surrounded by the muffled sound of pattering rain against the windows of Yuuei, Eraserhead reread his email for the third time. It was beginning to darken outside, and he was the only one still at his school office on a Friday afternoon, but he barely considered going home an option . 

One line stood out to him, near the end of the rambling mess of a letter. He was paralyzed as he stared at it. Tsukauchi was either taking the piss, or he was telling him… He was telling him that the case was about to turn in a whole new direction.

Eraserhead, your kid was fucking right. 

Attached was an article. He didn’t recognise the news station reporting it, but it wasn’t based in Musutafu city. The headline forced his heart to skip a beat.

Dead Body Found in Unusual Circumstances—Finally Identified as Mystery Figure, Morana Maki.  

   Join us as we ask family and coworkers for answers in this updated report…

He steeled his expression, sat forwards in his seat, and clicked on the link.

Chapter Text

The Musutafu Mail
15 November
UA Students—Missing Yet Again

What should have been a pleasant Sunday outing for five UA students has once again gone awry. 

Earlier this weekend, at approximately 1 PM on a Sunday, students Bakugou Katsuki, Kirishima Eijiro, Ashido Mina, Kaminari Denki and Sero Hanta were last seen entering a merchandise store in the Musutafu local mall. Witnesses in the shop at the time claim they hadn’t noticed them leave—one source going as far as to claim that ‘they were there one moment, gone the next.’ 

Authorities suspect that a quirk was almost certainly involved in their disappearance. Detective Tsukauchi, the lead detective working on this case, was willing to speak to us about the matter.

“This situation is a strange one,” he admitted. “Five students—heroes in training—don’t just disappear in the middle of the day. And with so many witnesses, it’s incredible that no one actually saw what happened. Cameras both in the shop and surrounding it had all been coincidentally distorted at similar times, completely unnoticed. It’s very likely that a quirk was used, and in that aspect, it at least helps that we can identify what kind of quirk that may be.”

Eraserhead, the lead Pro-Hero on this case, has declined comment.

The five missing persons were all students in Class 2-A, in the heroics course that UA offers. Class 2-A is infamous for the attacks they were forced to brave back in their first year, including those dealt by the League of Villains. 

One of these attacks, occurring in Kamino and dubbed as the ‘Kamino Nightmare,’ or otherwise, ‘Kamino Incident,’ resulted in the kidnapping of Sports Festival Winner, Bakugou Katsuki. Though he’d been held captive for under three days, Bakugou reportedly emerged unscathed—-other than being under intense criticism from media and public alike for his ‘villainous personality’ and concerns about his compatibility for a career in heroics. 

Now that his name is in headlines once again, for a much similar reason, these concerns are resurfacing. One source we’ve interviewed argues, “There’s a reason that boy has been targeted twice. It’s about time that people start seeing him for a sixteen year old with a dangerous quirk, being taught dangerous information about heroic systems, and not a misunderstood child you can excuse the wrongdoings of.” They asked to keep their identity confidential.

However, some disagree and seem to have changed their tunes.

“I used to think that he was just really snobby, y’know?” another anonymous source shares. “But I feel like people who are blaming him for being kidnapped twice are just being cruel. I mean, at the end of the day, it’s the villains kidnapping a sixteen year old kid. He isn’t doing nothing himself. He isn’t kidnapping himself. He and his mates could be hurt out there, and everyone’s worried about the fact that they don’t like his vibes. I don’t know… It’s just real backwards, y’know?”

Until new leads emerge, our reporters will be working hard to update readers on the unfolding of this case. This story is ongoing.

(TLDR: a recap of the student's disappearance to the outside world. The public doubt Bakugou's heroism, again. And there aren't many leads, basically.)

Aira Times
18 November
Who is Aira's Mystery Figure? 

Many locals in Aira town agree that not much happens within its streets. News of happenings over in Musutafu City carry like gossip—similar to a faraway, fictional land, its local news couldn’t possibly be more different to ours. With headlines like ‘ Musutafu Citizens Worried Over Rise in High–Ranking Villains,’ ‘Will Nomus Ever Make a Comeback?’ and (one of their latest), ‘ UA Students—Missing Yet Again,’ it’s widely accepted that our town would never see that kind of action.

And yet, a mystery figure may have just roped us into it.

Early this morning, at 8 AM (according to CCTV footage), a figure was seen handing in an obscure envelope at our local police station. They didn’t stay long; they walked in and out, and although police working at the time had found this peculiar, they hadn’t any reason to chase them down. That is, until they opened the envelope to find abnormal photos and documents, hinting heavily to criminal activity.

The mystery figure was wearing all unbranded black, with a hood, trousers and trainers. They carried nothing but the envelope. The police officer at the desk it was handed in to describes the person as having brown eyes and hair, cut to a mini fringe. Suspected to be a woman, at about five foot, three inches. An illustration has been released of what they are believed to look like. The figure hasn’t been identified yet, and authorities ask anyone who knows anything about the matter, or has seen the figure, to come forward.  

Both images and documents themselves are being kept confidential as police are still trying to decipher their meaning and information may be sensitive. Authorities have reason to believe that the drop-off could be linked to the case of the five missing UA students, over in Musutafu, and are planning on sending the information in as aid to the investigation. As today marks the third day with no leads on their whereabouts, could this just be a desperate grasp to find false hope, linking two completely separate cases? 

Or could it be a vital clue in the discovery of the missing students?

Journalists will be working hard to ensure that this story will be delivered straight to its readers—biases and misinformation barred. Follow Aira Times as the story unfolds. 

(TLDR: a 'mystery figure' hands in an envelope that contains suspicious content. It has been three days since the students' disappearance. Aira journalists speculate that it could be important in the case.)

The Musutafu Mail
20 November
UA’s Missing Students—Is ‘Deja–Vu’ a Good Sign?

As we inch closer towards the end of November and the start of December, the case has already reached its five day mark. The five students of Class 2-A are still missing—and it may be taking its toll on those most affected.

Not too long ago, five students of UA left campus grounds and took public transport all the way to a town called Aira, just outside the Shizuoka prefecture, almost half an hour away from Musutafu by train. Led by Midoriya Izuku, the group consisted of Jirou Kyoka, Shoji Mezo, Momo Yaoyorozu, and Todoroki Shoto. Pro Heroes intercepted them as they stepped onto the train platform in Aira’s station, having travelled under detection and against rules. In doing so, the group broke security protocol UA’s staff had implemented; the demand that students obey a strict curfew and remain inside school campuses unless officially permitted otherwise. 

Many members of the public are raising concerns. It hasn’t been forgotten that only a year before, following a similar abduction case, five students from Class 1-A (now 2-A) also left UA grounds in hopes of launching their own rescue mission. Many are wondering if UA’s security is as top–notch as it promises, if so many breaches have been made in the past. 

In response to public concerns, Principal Nezu of UA has answered some questions for us. 

“Our security is being reviewed,” he reassured, at the press conference that took place only yesterday evening. “We are always looking to improve our security systems and ensure the absolute maximal safety for our students, and of course it is one of our utmost priorities at the moment. Unfortunately, we seem to have overlooked the dangers of students getting out, rather than someone getting in. The five students who left campus have received their due punishment and reprimands for the danger they put themselves in, and we are working on sharpening our student supervision.”

You may be wondering what prompted these students to risk punishment and travel half an hour outside of Musutafu, at night, with little to no guidance. We had the same question. Although our querying emails to UA students went unanswered, we managed to get an answer from the leading Pro Hero of this case, (as well as the class’ homeroom teacher), Eraserhead, at the last press release. 

“Currently, this kind of information is classified. We are investigating the possible reasons at this time, and whether or not you’ll hear about it is anyone’s guess. No, we don't believe Aira to be involved in this case at this time, and we will continue to investigate Musutafu and areas nearby before expanding our searches. It is worth taking into account, however, that while their actions were incredibly immature, this class has braved through a lot together. They have a tightly knit community going on, almost like family, and maybe that’s partially why they left so spontaneously. It’s only natural that they try to protect each other. We’re trying to take that into account, while making sure that it doesn’t happen again.” He declined to comment further.

On another note, some Pro Heroes based in Musutafu are being criticised for refusing to take part or even speak up in the search for the five missing UA students. Though we don’t have many updates, there will be more about this story on our website.

Until new leads emerge, our reporters will be working hard to update readers on the unfolding of this case. This story is ongoing.

(TLDR: Deja vu kicks in as Midoriya and a few others launch another rescue mission to save the missing students. They were stopped at a train station, before they could carry out their plan. Eraserhead gives a statement. Some heroes are being criticised for not taking part in the search.)

Aira Times
22 November
Aira’s Mystery Figure, Turned Corpse

It’s officially been a week since the five UA students have been seen last. With only slight breakthroughs every so often in the case, it was upsetting to find that the Mystery Figure who dropped off the ambiguous package four days ago had little to no correlation to the investigation. Although police over in Musutafu admitted the timing and material of the package seemed suspicious, no direct links could be made. 

Until a body was found early this morning in the outskirts of Aira. 

The story is a cruel one—Mark Ho, a binman making his usual garbage disposal rounds, came across one bag with a particularly nasty stench. The body was reported to the local police at 10:15 AM. Investigations quickly ensued. 

By the fingerprints on the envelope handed in to the police station and the description that the police officer had given, the body was quickly identified as the Mystery Figure that had made their appearance at 8AM on November the 18th and delivered that ground breaking envelope. 

The body seems to have passed under unnatural circumstances, and authorities believe foul play to be involved. Despite an autopsy yet to be carried out, the cause of death is almost certain to be a gunshot wound through the skull—a particularly gruesome one. Her description is being shared across platforms in hopes that someone knows the Mystery Figure by face and could provide further details.

Authorities once again urge that anyone who may know anything about the Mystery Figure to step forward with their knowledge. Theories are swirling that the death (or supposed murder) had a direct correlation to the prior incident of the Mystery Figure only a few days ago, and about what that might mean for the case. 

While the primary suspect had been the owner of the property nearest to the bin disposal, the idea of their involvement was quickly ruled out. The fifty year–old woman and her niece have been long gone for years now, after a destructive villain attack wrecked their neighbourhood. Many habitants of Aira are familiar with the event that displaced a quarter of the town's already small population. As heart breaking as it is, this widens the scope incredibly for the police—anyone could have thrown the bag into the bin without detection. 

We hope that our next updated report will shed light on who the Mystery Figure may have been, and what may have happened leading up to her death. Authorities are confident that the body will be identified shortly.

Our journalists will be working hard to ensure that this story will be delivered straight to its readers—biases and misinformation barred. Follow Aira Times as the story unfolds.

See: Dead Body Identified as Mystery Figure, Morana Maki… 

(TLDR: it has been 7 days since disappearance. The envelope was declared unrelated to the missing persons investigation in Musutafu. A body was found in Aira, on the side of the road and tucked in a bin bag; the owner of the house (and much of the neighbourhood) nearby hasn't been in town for years. Foul play is suspected. It's been identified as the Mystery Figure who handed in the envelope, but they're still trying to find out the circumstances surrounding her death and her identity.)

Aizawa didn’t click on that last link. He’d already read it; more times than he’d like to admit. The feeling of dread was intoxicating. 

Tsukauchi looked at him expectantly over the top of his work laptop. “Well?”

Aizawa gave himself a moment to gather his thoughts. “You think that they were right.”

The detective said nothing in return, but the glint in his eye spoke volumes. Aizawa closed the laptop softly, and glanced out of the window.

They were in the office again—the reminder that they sat there a week ago to discuss the case for the first time was a bitter one. This time, it’s well into the evening. The sky was a dark navy outside, but the streetlamps ensured that the streets were still well lit—even in the middle of winter, where barely anyone walks. There were cups of coffee on the table in front of them. That hadn’t changed, though Aizawa wasn’t really sure if he’d rather that it had. 

“This is big, Eraserhead,” Tsukauchi murmured. “I don’t mean to cause complications, but there’s every possibility that those kids were right. And, if they were…”

Aizawa inhaled, like it’s the only breath he’d taken in an hour. In a way, it felt like it. “Yeah.”

He understood the weight of their unspoken words. They both did. 

He continued instead, “Remind me of what Midoriya said in his statement?” As if the answer would change. 

Tsukauchi hesitated. “Something about how he frequented the shop—MyMerch. That he knew who did it, and that it was a regular of the place, and that he knew where to find them...”

“But he wouldn’t say who, exactly,” Aizawa muttered. He’d been repeating the exact same words to himself over and over, trying to convince and reason with… someone. Himself. A higher power. It didn’t matter, though. He was starting to see a picture he didn’t like the look of. “And he wouldn’t say how he knew… So we didn’t listen.”

Tsukauchi took a long sip of coffee. The paper cup clacked softly against the metal table when he put it back down. “Don’t beat yourself up about it. Anyway, we’ll need a plan of action.”

“What, interrogate them again?”

“Do you really think it’d work?”

Aizawa raised an eyebrow. “Sarcasm, Detective.” 

The ghost of a smile flickered on Tsukauchi’s lips. “We should investigate Aira first. I think we both agree that something over there is connected to this, right? I'll organise for a few officers to go take a look, then."

Aizawa bit the inside of his cheek. “I should go myself.”

“Why?” Tsukauchi asks, a crease between his eyebrows.

“I want to be sure that we miss nothing,” he said slowly. Simply. If anyone else went, and found nothing, he wasn’t sure that he’d believe them. He wouldn’t trust their judgement—whether it be just another police officer, or goddamned All Might. If he went himself, however, and still found nothing… then, at least, he would be able to blame himself, over a dutiful coworker.

Tsukauchi’s frown smoothened. The understanding in his gaze felt exposing. “Well, alright. I can arrange a meeting with the Aira Police Force for sometime soon. You read about the envelope that mystery person handed in, right?”

“Of course,” Aizawa said. “It’s creepy as shit. Definitely linked. I’ll take a look at it while I’m there.”

Tsukauchi shook his head, pressing his lips tight. “I can’t believe our department let this fly over our heads.”

“Have you already looked into who dismissed it?” Aizawa asked. “They could have—”

“Already done,” Tsukauchi sighed. “Sorry to shoot you down, but it’s a red herring. The man’s been with me for years. His reasoning was that the email Aira’s police sent sounded anything but urgent to our case at such a busy time. An envelope with 'abnormal content'? Forget about it. I took a look at the email, and it’s true that they didn’t quite make it convincing. It isn’t hard to believe that he would have seen it, swamped in a thousand other ‘urgent’ letters from around Japan, and dismissed it as unimportant.”

Aizawa tried not to let his disappointment show, but Tsukauchi picked up on it anyway.

“Don’t look so down,” he reassured lowly. “I’m certain that we’ll find something in Aira. The case is still ongoing.”

“That’s the problem,” Aizawa bit. “It’s still ongoing.”

Tsukauchi didn’t reply.

The office around them was silent. They were the only ones there; although Aizawa had seen some officers walk past at some point, talking to one another with hushed voices and nervous glances. 

It reminded him of his class. Midoriya and his group of friends huddled around one desk, exchanging quiet comments right before homeroom started—right before the night he and Present Mic had been sent to Aira to bring his students back. The train platform, with its stale, mechanic smell. The glare of overhead artificial lights, replacing the moon, and the public announcement overhead echoing as the train slowly slunk away.

Midoriya’s fierce, desperate eyes. Please don’t do this. You know that we’re right. You know that they’re here.

“I’ll need to talk to Midoriya,” Aizawa said eventually, eyeing his almost–empty coffee cup.

Tsukauchi watched him curiously. “And here I thought you were being sarcastic about interrogation.”

“It won’t be an interrogation,” Aizawa retorted. “But that problem child knows something. It’s obvious.”

“So, you’re planning on trying to get that out of him?”

Aizawa glowered at the cup miserably. “What else can I do?”

Tsukauchi sighed. “I won’t stop you.”

“You think it isn’t a good idea?” He wasn’t sure if it was a good idea, himself. As much as he was determined to do what needs to be done, he really didn’t want to have that conversation with his student. He hated one to ones, especially on a matter he'd fucked up as badly as this one. A single reasonable reason why he shouldn’t would convince him not to in the blink of an eye. 

Tsukauchi shook his head. “I think it’s a good idea, but he hasn’t been truthful for a reason. Why would he change his tune now?”

Aizawa wished he had the will power to keep quiet. “He might’ve thought we wouldn’t believe or trust his judgement. With this new information—the articles… If he knows that we’re on his side, he might be more inclined.”

Tsukauchi chuckled. “Then you have yourself a good plan.”

Aizawa sighed. 

⬽—+—⤘

Aizawa barely slept that night. It wasn’t unusual, but it did mean that he felt like a walking corpse when he arrived at Class A’s dorm building—Heights Alliance—at nine in the morning. The security guard standing beside the gate gave him a nod and a “Mornin’,” as he passed by. Aizawa only grunted in response.

He hated going out on Sundays. 

The gravel crunched beneath his boots as he walked slowly towards the entrance door. Birds tweeted quietly in the trees around. He could see his breath in the air, and feel the cold nip at his nose and cheeks. He kept his hands firmly in his pockets and his chin buried in his capture weapon until he needed to swipe his keycard and enter. 

The common room was quiet, and empty. He closed the door behind him. Now, even the wind and birdsong was shut out. The silence carried meaning; no mario kart tournament, no movie night, no arranged hang–out. Having fun must have felt impossible when there was a gaping hole in the normality of it. 

Two heads popped up from behind one of the green sofas.

He was wrong about the room being empty, then. 

“Mr Aizawa,” Tokoyami blurted first. Jiro watched, wide–eyed beside him. “What are you doing here?”

Aizawa took a last look around—no, this time he was certain there wasn't anyone else around—then walked towards them. The students stood quickly to greet him. He noted the two books discarded on the sofa’s plush cushioning. 

“Do you know where Midoriya is?” Aizawa asked. At the concerned glances they exchange, he added, “Nothing’s wrong. I just need to talk to him.”

Jiro nodded, fiddling with her ear jacks. “He should be in his room. I can text him, if you want.”

“That’d be appreciated,” Aizawa said.

As Jiro got out her phone, Tokoyami eyed Aizawa wearily. “Is it about the… investigations?”

Jiro looked up briefly, analysing Aizawa’s poker face, then looked back down hastily. 

Aizawa paused before he answered. “Yes.”

Tokoyami didn’t seem to react, keeping his expression schooled to silent contemplation, but Dark Shadow was quick to pull a grimace. Aizawa suppressed a wince of his own.

“He said that he’s coming down,” Jiro reported after a moment, sliding her phone back into her pocket. Her eyes were skittish in avoidance of Aizawa’s. 

“Thank you,” Aizawa murmured, something inside softening. “How are you two holding up?”

“Alright,” Jiro muttered. 

Tokoyami nodded. 

They weren’t being wholly truthful, but he wouldn’t know how to coach it out of them even if he thought he had a single comforting bone in his body. Hizashi could do that. Midnight could do that. Even Tsukauchi, somewhere in his tired gaze—Aizawa bet he was good with emotions. 

Aizawa was not. But it hurt to see his students so broken.

Especially when it was his shortsightedness that caused the main root of it.

He heard Midoriya before he saw him.

“Aizawa,” the boy greeted dully. 

Aizawa stiffened, and straightened his slouched back slightly. A feat saved only for these rare moments. “Midoriya. Thank you for coming down.”

Midoriya shrugged as he paced the room towards them. He was wearing a shirt that said ‘pants’, with a zip up hoodie and baggy camo trousers. Of course, he never parted with his red trainers, either.

“Jiro said you called,” Midoriya mumbled, sparing a quick, soft look towards Tokoyami and Jiro before fixing Aizawa with his scrutinising stare. He kept his hands loosely stuffed in his trouser pockets. Now that he was closer, Aizawa could see his tight lips and dark under-eyes clearer.

Aizawa nodded slowly. “I did. Something’s come up. I need to talk to you.”

Midoriya eyed him warily. “The case?”

“Yes.”

He took a little longer to reply this time. “Aira?”

Aizawa paused. “Yes. Walk and talk?”

Midoriya’s eyes wandered anxiously. “Yeah. Coat’s by the door.”

Which was behind Aizawa. He stepped aside so that Midoriya could rush past. Then Jiro caught his eye, fiddling with a loose string in the sofa’s fabric. “Do you two need anything, before I go?”

They both shook their heads. He could hear Midoriya shuffling to put on his coat. 

“Look,” he said slowly. “If that changes—whether it’s about something tangible or otherwise—my door is always open. I know at the start of the year I said that there were exceptions, but that’s changed. I don’t care if you need a night light or if someone’s dying. Email me, if you have to. Just… don’t bottle it up.”

Tokoyami went still, but Dark Shadow’s reaction was enough to temporarily convince Aizawa that he got his words across. 

Jiro chewed her lip. “Is… Is it good news? What you’ve found?”

Aizawa thought about the dead body. The gunshot wound. The bin bag, tossed to the side of a road like any other rubbish. 

And he tried not to picture familiar blond hair on that news article description.

“I think so,” he said. I hope so.

He looked back. Midoriya was standing, waiting with his coat buttoned up.

Aizawa looked back one last time. Jiro and Tokoyami watched him curiously. He nodded to them. “Take care.”

They nodded back.

END OF 1/3-ISH
⬽—+—⤘
START OF 2/3-ISH

“So, you’ve seen the articles,” Aizawa stated, slipping his phone back into his pocket. When he’d shown them to Midoriya, it had been easy to see through his paper-thin mask of surprise. He knew about them. He’d read them. And judging by the fact that he barely had to look for over a second, he’d read them on repeat. Burned the words into his eyes. 

Aizawa could empathise with that.

“I have,” Midoriya muttered. The trees rustled in the wind as they trudged the winding path through them. It was a path he had seen a few of his students run every morning. The memory of Bakugou and Kirishima running side by side, one talking animatedly and the other content to listen, left a pit in his gut. Midoriya looked up at him. “I didn’t realise that you had, too. When did you find them?”

“Detective Tsukauchi brought them to my attention, late last night,” Aizawa said. “You’re familiar with him?”

Midoriya nodded tightly. “‘Familiar’. He interviewed us, right? Leading detective on case.”

He knows he isn’t wrong, but Aizawa nodded back anyway. “Yeah. When did you find them?”

Midoriya hesitated. “I… I subscribed to the news station when I, um…” 

“When you realised the case had a link to Aira,” Aizawa supplied. Now he knew that he isn’t wrong, but Midoriya nodded back anyway. “Which means that you saw the last one on the 22nd—yesterday. Why didn’t you say anything?”

At this, Midoriya’s expression turned awkward.  “I–I… I didn’t think you’d believe me. And–And I didn’t want you to dismiss the lead just because I brought it up, so…”

Aizawa exhaled through his nose. “You were going to run off again.”

“N–No, I was j-just—”

“Denying it will only earn you detention, Midoriya.”

“W–Well, what was I supposed to do?” Midoriya argued. He stopped walking and Aizawa stopped as well, turning to face him. “Sit on it?”  

Aizawa shook his head, his brow furrowing. “You could have told me.”

“And get arrested on a train platform again? No thanks.” 

Aizawa glowered. “You know fully well why I had to do that. ”

Midoriya glared and crossed his arms in retaliation. “Yeah, alright. I was gonna go back to Aira. As far as I’m concerned, m–my plan hasn’t… changed.”

“That’s bold, kid.”

“That’s honesty, sir. No matter what measures you put against me, I need to find my friends.”

Aizawa stared at the kid in front of him for a silent moment. The kid that clawed his way out of multiple attempts of abductions and murders. The kid that teared up at the sight of needles and the thought of climate change. The kid that currently had his respect, along with the rest of his shitshow of a class. 

“Okay,” Aizawa gritted. “Here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to tell me why you suspected Aira that first time. You will then tell me what you’re planning. Everything. And then,” —he held up an authoritative hand, silencing Midoriya before he could get a word out— “then, and only then, will I decide what happens next.”

“This is—This is very obviously unfair and not at all a balanced—”

Aizawa’s stare shut him up effectively enough.

“Don’t leave out a single thing,” Aizawa demanded. “Why did you suspect Aira?”

Midoriya grimaced. “Y-You can't punish anyone involved, okay?”

Aizawa looked him in the eyes, analysing their insistent gleam. A pause. “Okay.”

Midoriya nodded, becoming more sure of himself. “Okay. So… the MyMerch shop. That’s where it all started. Me and Kacchan—” He faltered. “We… We went, sometimes. I went more times, though, and I guess I became a sort of regular.”

What he was saying tracks so far. Aizawa could remember seeing the recording of his interview—and his statement. He’d mentioned that Bakugou and him were regulars, but he hadn’t expanded on it. He didn’t seem to find it very important, either—no one did.

“Well,” Midoriya continued, avoiding his eyes, “it turns out that the shop owner was happy to show me the CCTV footage.”

“We went over that footage countless times,” Aizawa interrupted, ignoring that Midoriya went behind his back, making his own investigations. Old news, at this point. “Or what’s left of it, anyway. It was completely wiped. There was only complete static and white noise left.”

“Except for the day before,” Midoriya corrected. “And the… other days before. As it happens, most security cameras wipe their memory fairly quickly. MyMerch kept its tape for at least two weeks. We could see everything from the Sunday they went missing to the last two Sundays before. And… And I found something there.”

Aizawa bit his tongue, on how he couldn’t have possibly caught something that entire hero agencies, high ranking heroes, and the collective police force missed. Something that he missed.

“It was—It was by luck,” Midoriya smiled. It was forced. “I went into MyMerch, that Sunday. That Sunday before the Sunday, I mean. I’d almost forgotten that I had, but I saw myself on screen, standing in the All Might aisle, and everything came back to me. A lady walked past, and I saw myself startle. Then I walked out. I never bought anything. Seeing it reminded me of what actually happened.”

Midoriya took a pause, rubbing the back of his neck. “My—My danger sense went off the moment I got to the All Might aisle. A huge jerk, right down to my stomach. Probably one of the worst. That’s the startle I saw on the footage. Back then, I thought it was because seeing all of All Might’s merch still made me sad, which somehow sparked Danger Sense. Because… well, you know.”

Aizawa does. It comes with flashes of Toshinori's coughing fits; blood splattered handkerchiefs clenched in frail hands; news articles with the headlines, 'What does Peace mean if its Symbol has fallen?'. 

Midoriya looked away. “Well, anyway. It reminded me of the week before. I went in after school, with Uraraka and Todoroki. Same thing happened. So bad that I almost bumped into a lady passing by. Danger sense hits me like a bus. This time, I chalk it up to being near Endeavour’s section. Hate the guy. Would–It would make sense. Right?”

Yeah, Aizawa thinks, picturing an ugly scowl and harsh flames. A lot.

Except, by the way he was telling it, he was about to explain why it doesn’t.

“It happened a few more times,” Midoriya said. “I’m sure a few times I wouldn’t remember. But each and every time… there’s a lady walking by.”

Aizawa blinked. “So?” 

“What do you mean, ‘so’?” Midoriya cried. “Sir, it was the same woman every time. I’m talking at least four times in the past two weeks that were on the footage. For whatever reason, danger sense was going off like crazy whenever she was there. And the fact that I kept bumping into her in that shop—despite only going there a healthy amount—wasn’t a coincidence. In all seven of the tapes the owner showed me, she was in five of them. Then, in all the tapes following that Sunday, she disappears. Never seen again.”

Aizawa considered it for a moment, doubtful. “Maybe she didn’t want to go into the same shop five aspiring heroes disappeared in.”

“Mr Aizawa,” Midoriya stated severely, “she never bought a single thing. Not a single thing. I’d get it if she was just browsing, or if she didn’t have enough money and wasn’t planning on buying a thing, but if there’s one thing about her that I know for certain, it’s that she wasn’t the type to hang around in stores that sell collectibles.”

“And you… would naturally know,” Aizawa replied slowly.

Midoriya’s stare was withering. “I would know , sir. She never spared one look at those ultra–rare, diamond–status trading cards. They came out last month! If she was too short on money and not planning to buy a single thing, why would she waste time looking at the cheap, useless stuff? I checked out the CCTV footage from other places in the mall, too. She always came straight to MyMerch. Her intentions were not well.”

It was so stupid, Aizawa was tempted to laugh.

And yet it may just have been stupid enough to make sense.

“So, how did this epiphany lead you to Aira?”

Midoriya shrunk a little. “This is the part where things get slightly illegal. And you really can’t punish us, okay? We would’ve driven ourselves crazy if we hadn’t at least tried.”

Aizawa chewed the inside of his cheek. “If it’s murder…” 

Midoriya looked guilty. “Of—Of course it isn’t murder. Iida didn’t e–even take part this time.”

“What, so it’s trespass? Thievery? Breach of privacy? Which one?”

Midoriya averted his gaze timidly. “It’s… not murder.”

Aizawa closed his eyes and sighed deeply, straining to think. He listened to the birds singing and the trees rustling in the wind. When he opened his eyes again, Midoriya was kicking at the ground again like an ashamed animal. “Okay. Fine. I’ll keep quiet about it— unless it becomes a big problem.”

Midoriya nodded. “It—It won’t.”

“Then, by all means, continue,” Aizawa said.

“I… went to Hatsume, about the footage. I wanted to see if she had a way to identify the woman in the tapes. She didn’t, but she offered to find out where she lived.”

Aizawa saw how the illegal activity came into play.

“Why would you want to find out where she lived?” Aizawa asked tentatively. He swore to God, right there and then—if he was planning to confront the lady at her home, Aizawa would not hold back on the cleaning duty.

“We figured that if we found out where she lived, we could… um, watch the house. Find out where she worked. And, maybe—” Here goes. An elaborate plan to stalk the poor woman, he bet. “Well, maybe, if the situation got worse, we could try to talk to her or follow her to her work place and ask questions there.”

Aizawa bit his tongue, deciding not to go there.

“And how did that work out?” he asked instead. 

“We hacked—” A pause. “We came across CCTV footage from around the city. The woman got into a car and we traced her plate all the way to a train station. She always took the same train; the train to Aira.”

“She had a vehicle. Why would she travel by train?”

Midoriya shook his head. “It was so tricky to track her, because she kept taking roads that had no CCTV. It added an extra ten minutes on the journey to the train station, but she did it every time, on purpose. She’d take a turn, disappear off of the footage for a few minutes, then reappear only to cross a busy road. Then, we’d lose sight of her again. Hatsume managed to make a map of the streets she may have taken, taking into account the time the woman took, if you want to see that. Anyway, we found out that her car was rented. We checked the nameplate against the most popular rental services and found her under a different name than the one she paid train tickets with.”

“Who gave you permission to go rooting through rental service’s records and train payments?” Aizawa questioned, narrowing his eyes.

Midoriya shifted on his feet. “Uh—you know, it was… It–It was tricky, trying to figure out which train ticket she was using, but she was the only one that took the Aira train so many times, at the same time each day. A–Also, the name she used for her car didn’t actually appear anywhere in the train station’s records, so—so we guessed pretty quickly that she had an alias.”

The deflection clearly didn’t go unnoticed. 

Midoriya rushed to continue. “Anyway, as soon as we realised, we immediately started planning a trip to get there. A few others in class A found out and wanted to join in. I couldn’t refuse. Which… leads me up to the point at which you arrest us on the train platform.”

Midoriya looked up, his eyes part guilty, part wary. 

It was that last part that bothered Aizawa. 

“I had to, Midoriya,” he said. “You’d broken the rules put in place to keep you safe.”

“I was going to find them,” Midoriya muttered. “They were so close. You knew it too, deep down. You couldn’t have given us a chance?”

Aizawa’s chest tightened. “No. I couldn’t—of course, I couldn’t. You weren’t telling us a single thing to back up your theories.”

“Because I knew you’d get angry at us for going behind your back and… doing slightly illegal stuff,” Midoriya retorted bitterly, looking away at a bird that landed and started to peck at the soil. Though he tried to hide it, Aizawa could see his eyes start to mist.

“That’s true, I wouldn’t have accepted it well,” Aizawa said. “But I would have at least heard you out, like I am now.”

“Would you have, though?” Midoriya asked, doubtful. His voice was close to breaking.

Aizawa sighed. “You and your class are stubborn and at times brats, but I’ll always hear you out.”

Midoriya glanced up, blinking quickly, yet still unconvinced.

Problem child. But in a cool, totally professional way, and not at all fond. 

“Do you know how many families I’ve had to talk to in the past week about this case?” Aizawa asked carefully.

Midoriya wiped at his eyes and sniffs. “Five.”

Five, for the five students that had been missing for an entire week.

“No,” Aizawa said. “Sixteen. Eleven of them were concerned parents, needing reassurance that their child would not be next. One of them was your mother. She was no different.”

Midoriya looked up, his eyes red rimmed and wide in realisation. “Mum called you?”

Aizawa nodded. “Twice, actually. First, the day after the disappearance became public. A second time when the news came out that you’d tried a rescue mission.”

Midoriya chewed his lip. “Oh.”

They stood in silence for a moment. Aizawa breathed in the cool air. The sunlight shining through the trees’ foliage in speckled beams did nothing for warmth, but admittedly cast a beautiful glow on the grassy floor. Maybe Hizashi was right. He had to get out more often. He nestled into his scarf deeper, then sighed.

“Imagine that we weren’t there to stop you,” Aizawa continued slowly. “You go into Aira. You find the woman, or whatever you were planning on doing.”

Midoriya fiddled with a loose string on his coat. 

“Then, we never see you again.”

Midoriya said nothing. His fingers paused on the loose string.

Aizawa averts his eyes, frowning at the frosty breeze. “I want, as much as anything, to find the missing students. But there is protocol. And it’s there for a reason. We still don’t know how they were taken—a quirk, yes, but a dangerous one.” He pauses. “You were right. I made five condolence calls to the five parents whose children were already missing. But I don’t want to have to make a sixth, kid.”

As a bird starts to tweet somewhere above, Midoriya nodded. “I’m sorry, Mr Aizawa.”

Aizawa’s eyes softened. “Just keep it in mind, the next time you get the bright idea to stalk down a civilian.”

He took a step forward, back on the path. An offering of sorts.

Midoriya hesitated, then followed his example. They started walking again, their paces slow.

“I was planning on going back to Aira, and asking their local police about the Mystery Figure,” Midoriya admitted quietly. “Or about the letter she turned in before she… died. To get something, you know? Anything.” He looks up in realisation. “Oh, wait—you didn’t say. Are we… getting punished for this?”

“Punished for what?” Aizawa grunted.

Midoriya frowned. “The—The plan we had.”

“Not quite sure what you’re talking about,” Aizawa replied, stifling a yawn with his scarf. “You refused to tell me anything.”

Midoriya took a moment to piece it together, but once he did, a smile snaked across his face. Aizawa didn’t think he'd seen him smile in a while—not a giddy one like this. One he was so obviously trying to wipe off of his face but was failing miserably at. 

“I said I’d decide what would happen next,” Aizawa grumbled. “And I think I’ve decided.”

Midoriya looked at him curiously. Aizawa was glad to see a lack of wariness about him. There was a glimmer of similarity to the naive, innocent boy who scored last on his very first quirk apprehension test.

“I’m going to Aira today to investigate,” he explained. “Tsukauchi organised it quickly… but I’m sure he won’t mind you tagging along.”

Midoriya gaped. “Me? Why me?”

Aizawa gave him a dissatisfied look. “Kid, you’re the one that flagged Aira way before it was even on our radar. It’ll help to have another pair of eyes.”

Midoriya positively beamed. He managed to stop himself from exploding and instead said, “Thank you. Thank you so much, sir.”

“Don’t mention it.” He paused. “I mean that literally too. I know it’ll be hard, but keep it on the low. We need as few people knowing about this as possible.”

Midoriya nodded obediently. “Yes, sir—of course, sir.”

Aizawa gave him a sceptical look.

Midoriya faltered. “What?”

“Nevermind.”

END OF 2/3-ISH
⬽—+—⤘
START OF 3/3-ISH

Tsukauchi’s exhausted stare flicked between Aizawa and Midoriya. The two police officers flanking them exchanged awkward looks. Folding his arms, Tsukauchi leaned back against his car’s bumper. “Aizawa… No.”

“He won’t be a hindrance. He’s a good kid,” Aizawa insisted. “He’ll shut up, unless he notices something important—in which case, it’ll be in our benefit.”

Midoriya nodded vigorously beside him, miming to zip his lips shut.

Tsukauchi narrowed his eyes. “You—You just can’t bring a minor into the centre of a nation wide—”

“He’s my student, Detective,” Aizawa protested. “I can take him anywhere I want. He’s got guardian’s consent. From me.”

Tsukauchi looked unconvinced, though there’s a chance that he might be swayed, with the right words. 

Aizawa grimaced, knowing exactly what those words were. “I’ll buy you a week’s worth of morning coffee.” 

Tsukauchi popped open the back door. “Fantastic. Get in.”

It took just under half an hour to get to Aira. By train, and with the detours Midoriya described her taking, it must have taken at least a little over thirty-five minutes for the woman. The car was silent for almost the entire journey, although Midoriya made quiet conversation with the police officer that sits with him in the back seat.

“Are you a cat or a dog kind of person?” Aizawa heard him whisper to Sansa, the police officer with a tabby cat head. ‘Whisper,’ except loud enough to be heard by pretty much everyone in the car.

Sansa laughed quietly. “If I said I were a cat person, I might get in trouble with my boss.”

Aizawa looked in the rearview mirror to see Midoriya frowning curiously. “Why?”

“Because he’s a dog.”

“Oh, yeah,” Midoriya murmured. “I met him once, though I don’t think he liked us.”

Now it was Sansa’s turn to frown, his cat ear flicking. “Why? You do something criminal?” He said it like he was joking, but Aizawa knew what’s coming next.

“Yeah. It was bad.” Midoriya sighed, then said nothing else.

Aizawa understood that he wasn’t allowed to talk about the whole ‘we hunted down Stain, the hero killer’ incident, but surely he didn’t need to leave Sansa hanging to his own imagination like that. 

They passed the train station Aizawa had stopped Midoriya and his classmates at. From there, the town only grew more and more desolate. The buildings and houses were smaller than what they were used to in Musutafu. Some looked run-down, while others simply looked lifeless. In the first few streets they drove down, Aizawa counted only about five to ten people passing them by. None of them paid any attention to the car. 

As they reached the centre of town, more and more people passed them by. It almost looked like any other neighbourhood Aizawa had been to; front gardens, neatly trimmed hedges, the lot. Except that there was a strong atmosphere of mind-your-own-business here, and surprisingly, Aizawa wasn’t sure if he liked it.

Tsukauchi pulled up to the local police station and turned off the ignition. “We’re here. I’ll talk to them first, and then they should be letting us take a look at that envelope, and whatever other leads they have on the case for the victim. As always, obey protocol and don’t do anything the boss would fire you for.”

The inside of the police station was slightly smaller than the one they had in Mustafu, but you wouldn’t really call it ‘small’, either. The officer behind the desk stood to bow and shake Tsukauchi’s hand with a worn smile. They exchanged a few words, then he led them around to a door beside the desk. They followed him down a hallway with a flickering light, through another room, and finally to the evidence room. The layout was much like Musutafu’s, but Aizawa was biassed—he preferred the welcoming blue walls of the one at home, rather than the worn-down grey ones of theirs.

The officer scanned his keycard and entered a six digit code before letting them into the evidence room. It was full of rows and rows of shelves; each aisle holding boxes labelled with their respective investigations.

“Here,” the police officer said, lifting a box off of one of the shelves. He placed it down on an examination table near the door with ease; it didn’t seem heavy. “This is all the evidence we have. The body is still at the morgue for an autopsy, so we’re still awaiting the report.”

Tsukauchi thanked him and stepped forward. He opened the box with gloved hands and hesitated before picking up the lonely envelope, protected in a ziplock bag.

The envelope Morana handed in before she died.

“That’s all?” Sansa asked quietly. His whiskers leaned back towards his cheeks in displeasure.

The officer nodded. “That’s all. The bin bag the body was found in is still being examined, but this envelope already has been, way before the body turned up. We aren’t expecting much from a bin bag, but we’re being thorough.”

“Great. Can I ask for the report of the bag to be sent to our department, when you receive it?” Tsukauchi asked. His professionalism made his voice sound hard. “And the autopsy, if you would.”

The officer nodded again. “Of course. We were already planning on it.”

Tsukauchi unzipped the see-through bag and carefully slid out the envelope, as if he were handling an ancient artefact. The envelope was pristine white, the cheap kind you could buy at the post office or a corner shop. The contents inside were the more valuable pieces.

Four printed photos, cut to size, in rectangles no larger than a palm, fell onto the table. They’d been printed on flimsy white paper, just like the sheets handed out in class are, and the edges were cut haphazardly. 

“Christ,” Aizawa heard himself mutter when his eyes landed on one picture in particular. Most of it was a blur of reddish brown. If he focused hard enough, he could make out a steel structure, glinting crimson. A metal chair, bathed in blood.

Something sickening twisted in his gut.

Midoriya reached out with a gloved hand and slid one picture across the tabletop. His face was ashen, but his eyes were set in determination. “I think… I think that’s the lady,” he mumbled.

This picture was different. Lighter, clearer. It was much better focused; the shot was looking into a room, from what could be a door’s window. Yes—there was the tip of a metal handle, in the bottom left hand corner. The lady in the picture was what caught Midoriya’s attention, though. Faced off to the side, her mouth opened mid conversation, speaking to someone else in the room. The lady wore a black suit and a furious glare. 

But her snowy white hair, dyed and cut to her shoulders, was what must make her so recognisable.

“What lady?” Tsukauchi asked. 

Midoriya's eyes widened like a deer in headlights, but Aizawa spoke before he could. “A lady in the CCTV footage he noticed. I’ll tell you about it later, detective.”

Tsukauchi arched his brow, displeased. “Well, on a separate note,” he said, changing topics smoothly, “take a look at this one. That can’t be legal.” He held a photo up to the light.

Aizawa squinted at it. “No, I don’t think it is.”

It was more glittering metal—blurred, like the one with the blood–stained chair, but clear enough to see each individual weapon on display. Knives. Several of them. Long. Short. Blunt and sharp. Multi–tipped. Then there were spears. Tasers. Hammers. Quite a few bats and axes; even more needles. They all sat frozen in a display case; frozen in time. Some of them were bloodied.

“It looks like whoever took these photos were doing it in a rush,” Sansa noted grimly. His fur is slightly fluffed up, disturbed. “There’s no effort to stop and take a clear shot, it’s just… while passing. It must’ve been secretive.”

“And in vain, too, given her body’s in for an autopsy right now,” Tsukauchi muttered under his breath, bitterly. The room fell silent as they stared at the pictures together.

The last picture glared up at them defiantly. Aizawa frowned. “How about this one?”

A building towered up from the perspective it had been taken from. Weathered brick walls and grimy windows hid in the shroud of night, away from the moon behind it. There was a sign in the right hand corner of the photo, but the words had long been worn away and covered with spray painted graffiti. Only half of it was in shot, anyway. He could decipher an ‘S’, and maybe a ‘C’.  It could have been an abandoned flat—although, admittedly, there’s every chance that it might still be running. 

It looked just like all the other apartment buildings in town, after all.

Sansa breathed out a hollow curse. It was a perfect presentation of Aizawa’s inner thoughts. 

“Have you located this building?” Tsukauchi asked the Aira officer.

He shook his head. “Not yet, but we’re working on it. We’ve got officers driving all over town, trying to find a match. And we’ve released it to the press.” He tilts his head. “You’d think it’d go faster, since this place is so small that we only have two working schools. One even shut down a while back, after a villain attack wiped out the houses nearby. No one could attend, so it lost its funds. And yet, a small town also means that every building looks the same, and we’ve hardly got enough staff to go round, I’m afraid.”

Tsukauchi nodded. “Well, if you find it…”

“We’ll notify you right away,” the officer finished. His patience seemed to be waning, but Aizawa could see in the tense posture of Tsukauchi’s shoulders that he didn't care. The detective was as determined as Aizawa not to miss anything out.

“Thank you,” Tsukauchi muttered anyway, distracted. “Much appreciated.” He turned the envelope upside down and let the papers inside slip out. “What else is in here?”

“A letter,” the officer supplied, “and a document. Some kind of contract.”

Aizawa picked up the letter. It was handwritten, in scruffy cursive. “ ‘I’m hoping’, ” he read slowly, “ ‘that this envelope may contribute to the investigation and do some kind of good right now. Hell, the world needs it. By the time that you’ve pieced it all together, I’ll either be missing or… dead. I don’t know which I hope for, and which is fated to happen. Maybe missing, on my own terms. But most likely dead—and not.’ ” He paused. Again, he thought of the bin bag, the body, and the words ‘foul play’ in the news article. “Shit.”

“Keep reading,” Midoriya asked quietly. His eyes were already glassy. A knot formed in Aizawa’s chest, but it was too late to regret bringing the poor kid. He was here now, and he’d only leave kicking and screaming. 

Aizawa took a deep breath in and out before continuing. “ ‘Please use the papers attached to serve Musutafu’s investigation. They are still alive, and there’s hope. This is me testing the waters. I’ll try my best to bring better leads, once I get more confidence. Please, please, use these well. Thank you.’”

That was all there was. Aizawa turned over the paper, hungry for anything—anything—more. 

But the page remained blank. No sign off, no name, no date, no leads.

Tsukauchi turned the other sheet, a contract, over in his hands. “It’s a contract, all right. An NDA.”

“What for?” Sansa asked.

“The location,” Tsukauchi paraphrased, reading off of the sheet. “The ‘events that may happen, inside said location’. The ‘actions you may be asked to carry out, inside said location’... What the fuck?”

Tsukauchi was a man of few words, and those few words rarely contained expletives.

“She was trapped,” Midoriya realised. He stared at the contract. “She was trapped, and this was her attempt to escape.”

Aizawa looked down at the letter again. ‘They are still alive, and there’s hope.’ He placed it down on the table, but his eyes never left the words. “Not just that. She was trying to free our missing students.”

He could hear a fan somewhere whirr, a continuous droning sound he suddenly and desperately wanted to shut out.

Midoriya’s hand shook as he picked up the photo of the bloodied weapons. He stared at it for a hard moment. “She—She died trying. How are we supposed to find them? What if they were… killed too?”

‘... and there’s hope.’

The words echoed like a choir’s song in Aizawa’s mind.

“Something tells me they aren’t,” he murmured. “If their goal was to plainly kill them, they would have done so before word could get out. As far as we’re aware, they were alive four days ago, and they still are.” They had to be.

They just had to be.

Midoriya looked down at his trainers. “Right. You’re right.”

There was a tremble to his voice.

⬽—+—⤘

They settled back into the car in silence. The officer had promised to update them with anything they found, and sent them away. For a beat, Tsukauchi sat in the driver's seat with his hands flexing on the wheel’s rubbery leather. He was deep in thought, staring pensively at the car in front.

Then a van drove past, and he blinked. “Everyone good to go?” he asked. No one objected, so he adjusted gears and pulled out of the parking space. 

They drove in silence. When the police station eventually disappeared round a corner,  Aizawa started to feel the disappointment truly settle in his chest. He’d thought that they would see something the Aira Police hadn’t. That they’d find something that could lead them to the truth.

But he hadn’t.

They’d found nothing but a bloody chair, illegal weapons, a nondescript building and a suspect he could only put a face to. Not to mention a dead woman’s last words. 

That’s a bright thought.

His phone vibrated in his pocket. For a moment, he didn’t have the heart to look—and he dreaded the idea of what it might be. More press, questioning his every move? Nezu, with more work for his teaching job?

But behind him, Sansa shifts. “Oh, Christ,” he says. “There’s an email.”

Aizawa frowned. In the rearview mirror, he could see Sansa staring at the glow of his phone. Tsukauchi’s eyes flitted nervously between him and the road. “What?”

Sansa looked up. “The entire police department—and Yuuei staff. A few hero agencies. There’s been a mass–sent email.”

 Aizawa scowled and relented, fishing his phone from his pocket. “What’s it about? Is there a problem in Musutafu?” 

Sansa pressed his lips tight. “Not quite.”

Aizawa found the email. It’d been the notification he didn’t want to look at, only minutes before. 

From: Anonymous (This contact is not registered with…)

To: Eraserhead-direct.agency, Musutafu_PoliceForce, UA_Official, and a few others.

    You don’t have long, now. The countdown's almost over. You’ll find an answer in the place meant for enlightenment, yet betrayed by your own systems. Hurry.

He read it aloud, for Midoriya and Tsukauchi’s sake. 

Tsukauchi clicked his tongue. “Why waste time being so cryptic for no reason? These criminals—I’m reaching my limit with them.” 

Aizawa looked through the rearview mirror at Midoriya. He was staring at the email on Sansa’s phone, muttering quietly to himself. 

“What is it, problem child?”

“ ‘...The place betrayed by your own systems’ ,” Midoriya read. He met Aizawa’s eyes. “They want us to figure it out. They’re trying to lead us there, but only at the pace they need us to.”

“So we'll just need to figure it out quicker," Sansa mumbled.

Midoriya thought hard for a moment. “‘A place betrayed by our own systems’. ‘Our systems’ have gotta be the justice systems in place, right? That’s the only system that all the people it’s been sent to have in common… Yuuei, the police force, the hero agencies.”

“As for how those systems have ‘betrayed’ a place of enlightenment…” Tsukauchi trailed off, expression tight. “A place that justice betrayed…?”

Aizawa crossed his arms. “It’s got to be that picture, doesn’t it? The one with the building.”

“Must do,” Tsukauchi muttered. He lead the car into a turn, and they trundled off of the motorway.

“So… an apartment building that’s been betrayed by justice?” Aizawa scowled. “Tad bit dramatic.”

“How is an apartment building a place of enlightenment, though?” Sansa questioned from the back seat. “I don’t think it’d fit.”

“Mr Sansa’s right,” Midoriya said. “It wouldn’t. Unless there was a cult or something, there’s no enlightenment there.”

“A cult?”

“Yeah,” Midoriya explained, “you know, like people were being taught stuff. I heard of a story where a cult rented out a whole building for its members and taught people about that kind of stuff in it. ‘Enlightenment’.”

“Teaching…” Aizawa narrowed his eyes. “Like a school?”

“Yeah, I guess,” Midoriya shrugged. Then he caught Aizawa’s expression. It took him a moment, before his expression mirrored Aizawa’s perfectly. “Wait.”

Tsukauchi frowned, eyes darting between Midoriya in the rear view mirror and the road ahead. “What is it?” 

“A school,” Midoriya repeated. “A school. The one that the police officer mentioned—a villain attacked it. It wiped out all the houses nearby, and shut down. They could be referring to the fact that our justice system failed to stop it from happening, and took no action to help the school from shutting down.”

Tsukauchi didn’t seem convinced. “But that’s too convenient. Too obvious.”

“Not if you think about it,” Aizawa said slowly. “We’re from Musutafu. Had it not been for luck, we would’ve never even considered coming to Aira. We wouldn’t have heard about the school, or the dead body, or even the envelope. Why would the opposition have any idea that we have Aira on our radar if we didn’t only yesterday?”

“But the news articles,” Sansa argued. “Midoriya and other students of Yuuei were in the articles for trying to get there themselves. That would have sent up a few flags, wouldn't it?”

“And yet they wouldn’t have known what leads Midoriya had,” Aizawa said. “That was kept private. And there’s nothing out there about how we’re following that lead. Publicly, we didn’t believe them in the slightest. Publicly, we have nothing to do with Aira.”

Tsukauchi narrowed his eyes. “And… we’ve shut down the link between the Mystery Figure and the case, as far as the press is concerned.”

“Exactly,” Midoriya said. “So they must think that by receiving this message, we’d go straight to looking for places in Musutafu. Maybe we would’ve thought of a school, but even then, we wouldn’t have had the pictures or the letter to guide us. By the time we’d realised it wasn’t there, or decided to look elsewhere—ask the Aira police about it, for example… it would have been too late.”

Aizawa could see the gears in Tsukauchi’s head turn as he weighed his options.

Take the risk, call for backup, storm an abandoned school and potentially expose their link to Aira…

Or get back to Musutafu and hope the analysts and hackers in the force could make it in time.

The countdown’s almost over, the email had said.

Midoriya met Tsukauchi’s eye. His expression was thunderous, lightning in his glower. “Detective…” Aizawa was convinced that if the car kept driving even a yard further away from Aira, the boy would jump out of it while the wheels were still turning. If that's what it would take to find his friends, Aizawa had no doubt in his mind that he’d do it.

And maybe a part of Aizawa would do the same.

Tsukauchi slowed the car as they came across a few houses, now a few minutes out from the motorway. It trundled to a stop in the middle of the empty road. “Are we sure about this?” he asked, turning to Aizawa, then Sansa and Midoriya in the back. “We’ve got to be sure about this.”

Midoriya nodded firmly, a feral glint in his eye. “If you don’t turn back, I’ll run all the way back myself.”

Tsukauchi’s expression was unreadable as he turned back to the road. He hesitated for a long second, the seconds ticking by on his watch like gunshots, then switched gears. The U–turn he made was so sharp and quick that it threw them to the side. They raced down the road in a squeal of tires, back where they came, and suddenly Aizawa felt a fire ignite inside.

Is this it?

“Sansa,” Tsukauchi said, his voice surging with authority. He was pushing the speed limit. The roads were still mostly deserted. “Tell the station back in Musutafu to alert the hero agencies involved in the case. Ask them to report in for an ambush in Aira—we may need an emergency warrant, too. Contact the Aira police about that.” They passed a sign that said 'AIRA, 12 MILES'. It ripped past. 70 miles an hour would get them there in, hopefully, about ten minutes.

Tsukauchi adjusted the rearview mirror. “Tell them that we have good reason to believe that we’ve located the missing students.”

They were actually getting somewhere.

He just hoped that it wasn’t already too late.

Chapter Text

“By tomorrow, all five of you will be dead.”

Katsuki’s voice was as sharp as his glare. “No shit.”

The lights were bright. Still too bright for Katsuki’s liking, though that had never changed. He didn’t spare a glance to his friends’ expressions, so as to not feel the full hit of guilt that washed over him. Despite his efforts, it was painful all the same.

He hadn’t yet been moved directly to the chair, still rusted with dried blood. Instead, Akeldama stood before them with her arms crossed and her slim smile splitting her face like a bloody crescent moon. They were locked up, as usual, but this time in the same place as they had been before everything started. In their own places, two feet or so apart, facing the stage that Katsuki had been hogging for the past nine days.

All in all, the same place they’d been in before they knew what they were really in for.

“Really?” Akeldama crooned. “You won’t beg? You won’t cry? But that just won’t do.”

“We won’t waste our breath on you,” Ashido spat.

Akeldama arched her brow. “So you’ve given up?”

Katsuki remembered what Sasaki said. Heroes were coming for them. He just had to endure one more day. One more session.

And then it’d be over, one way or another.

“No,” Kaminari said coolly. “We haven’t given up.”

Akeldama moved away with a roll of her eyes. “Jeez. If this is how every operation will go, I’m not so sure I want to kidnap an entire school full of you heroes anymore.” Then she paused, and laughed to herself. “Oh, what am I saying? I can’t wait.”

Katsuki narrowed his eyes. There wouldn’t be any others. No matter how this went down, he’d make sure of it.

Behind them, someone cleared their throat, urging her to get a move on. Katsuki would take bets that it was Fuji. Akeldama looked up and scowled over their heads.

“That reminds me,” she said coldly. She locked eyes with Katsuki again. “Someone has convinced me that you deserve a second round. Just to finish off our time together. Are you up to it?”

Sero scoffed. “Of course he’s not.”

His confidence seemed to shake a little at the small quirk of Akeldama’s smile. The room fell into silence. Katsuki felt the anxious glances sent his way, but Akeldama had his full attention.

Would she decide that she’d had enough of Katsuki—decide that he deserved to sit back and watch his friends take his place? The only torture he truly wouldn’t be able to bear.

Or would she take the bait and choose Katsuki?

Akeldama stared at him silently. Her authority gripped full control over the room, and Katsuki found that he couldn't look away. 

“I’ll give you the choice,” Akeldama finally decided. She said it with a smooth voice—like her offer was kind. Like she was appeasing a crying child. “Do you want another go, Bakugou?” 

His ‘choices’ weren’t great. A swift bullet or a blunt knife. And, really, he’d either be stupid or cowardly to take the latter.

Katsuki lifted his chin. “I’ll do it.”

Kaminari sucked in a sharp breath beside him. 

“Bakugou, don’t do this,” Ashido whispered faintly. “Not again.”

He still couldn’t take his eyes off of Akeldama. Her lips curled with mirth. “I should have expected this from you, hm?”

Katsuki gritted his teeth. They ache dully.

“Alright.” She sighed and crossed her arms, analysing him. Her red eye glinted in the light. “Half of you will go today. The other half, I’ll get through tomorrow. I’m afraid that we’ll need to hurry this along… but you’ll each get your moment.”

By tomorrow, all five of you will be dead.

A jolt of panic shot through Katsuki’s gut. 

That wasn’t how it was supposed to go.

Fuji’s voice almost didn’t register in his mind, a low growl from behind. “Those aren’t the rules, Akeldama.”

The atmosphere shifted to something a little sharper. A little darker. Akeldama clicked her tongue like a snake, voice flat and quiet. “What?”

“They aren’t the rules.” Fuji’s radiating defiance could almost be a match for Akeldama’s mounting anger, if there wasn’t such an imbalance in status. “Don’t you think that—”

“To hell with the rules,” Akeldama bellowed, like an erupting volcano. “Have you forgotten who made them? Don’t tell me about my own rules,” she spat, her stare unwavering to the guard behind them. “You, of all people, Fuji—you should know well why I decided to do this.”

Fuji was sure to keep his voice eerily calm. “I made a logical decision, based on what I believed would please you—” 

Akeldama barked out a bitter laugh. “You know what would please me right now, Fuji? If you could shut your face for a single moment.”

It went quiet.

Akeldama breathed a shallow sigh of relief. Her eyes flickered to meet Katsuki’s again, but it felt like she was looking through him. She mutters, “What the fuck do I pay these people for, hm?”

Katsuki fists clench anxiously. “What if I don’t give up? If I don’t die?” 

Akeldama scoffed. “Listen to the words coming out of my mouth, child. You were brought back to life . Those weren’t my wishes. You ought to be dead, and yet you aren’t. I explicitly gave orders not to bring you back, and yet—and yet .” She sent a glare over their heads. Fuji clicked his tongue behind them. “Now Aunty is pissed, I have one more day to make things right, and the plan is lagging behind schedule. Everything is going to shit!”

Other than the fact that he was reminded yet again of how he’d evaded death (and how soon, there’ll be no escape from it), something rubbed Katsuki wrong about what she’d said. If she explicitly ordered that Katsuki stay dead, why had Fuji bothered? He’d told him that he’d only done it to comply with Akeldama's rules, but… it didn’t work.

That excuse didn’t fit into the puzzle anymore. Katsuki had water in his lungs. He’d been deprived of oxygen for longer than he should have been able to handle. Fuji and his guards would have had to work hard to get him alive again, and it could have been easy—too easy—for him to lie. Say that Katsuki was too far gone to save, and Akeldama wouldn’t bat an eye. 

So why risk his job—just like he’d said in the infirmary—to help a kid he cared nothing about?

“In that case, take me,” Kirishima seethed, ripping Katsuki out of his thoughts. A glimpse of the past flashed through his mind; screaming Kaminari’s name, feeling nothing but pure, unadulterated panic. “Torture me instead. You can do whatever you want to Bakugou in the next session.”

A session that (they hoped) would never come. 

Akeldama seemed to consider this for a moment—but it was short lived. “No. He’s made his decision—and Bakugou’s almost dead anyway, so it’ll save me some time instead of letting him heal.” She sighed at their faces. “Don’t worry, I’ll still torture you before I kill you. And don’t look so depressed; I’ll let you go next, darling.”

Sero looked murderous in the harsh light. His voice, however, a painfully contrasting sound, came broken and meek. “But that’s not fair.”  

Akeldama tilted her head. “Nothing is fair, child. I lost my family. My lifeline. Now, in return to the damage the heroes have caused me, they’ll lose their dearest too. An eye for an eye. A life for a life.”

Kaminari shook his head. His eyes were glassy, and he didn't wipe away the tear that escaped. He couldn’t even if he tried; not for the shackles that locked him down. He was powerless. 

They were all powerless.

Akeldama’s eyes hardened. “Guards. Bring Bakugou to the front, if you will.”

It’s routine. Katsuki knew to tense his shoulders so that they didn’t pull, and when to tuck his feet so that they didn’t drag painfully on the floor. He knew to press his wrists into the metal armrests so that the clasp didn’t catch on his skin when it fastened. He knew to avoid looking at the blinding lights, or his friend’s faces—he knew the exact spot on the ground, a slightly discoloured tile, that he used to ground himself. 

And he knew not to move when the needle slid in. The lights became brighter. The metal became colder.

“Ready?” Akeldama asked. She had a dagger—one she hadn’t used on him before. It was straight, held no curves, and its tip was as sharp as a needle.

She’s saved the best ‘till last.

Katsuki, for one, didn’t like the look of it. He bit down on the inside of his cheek, bracing himself. 

Akeldama smiled as the blade glided on his skin, dragging over his forearm. At first, the touch was almost tentative—a scrape, barely breaking skin. Then, with a harsh push, it slid deeper. He took a sharp breath in. He could feel the blood start to slip out of the open wound, and her quirk lit his entire arm with agonising fire.

Even so, thanks to the last nine days, it wasn’t unfamiliar. It wasn’t the worst he’d been through. The sound of water (death) flashed in his thoughts and he tensed. If it continued like this, a random thought whispered, he might be able to get out of this session alive.

Except, it won’t. Even if he had enough blood to spare, Akeldama had made it clear that he was to die. No matter what he did, it would be the end. 

She yanked the dagger from his flesh with a jerk. He breathed through the surge of pain and watched the blade as it gleamed in the light. It was coated in blood, dripping like crimson sap. There was no relief; it hurt just as much as it had with the knife inside him as out. He clenched his teeth so hard that he hoped they would crack, even if only for the distraction, as she moved behind him to his shoulder blade. It wasn’t covered by his tattered tank top. He could almost see the thin line of red in his mind’s eye as the knife carved through. Overlapping the white, silvery scars, cutting into old bruises. 

It occurred to him that these wounds would never heal, if he died. They’d never become their own scars, each with their own stories. He’d never hear someone ask where he got them and be able to answer. He wouldn’t watch them fade over time, the nightmarish memories of their creation slowly being forgotten alongside. 

He’d never see his older wounds heal, either. He doesn’t mean the physical ones. The old hag came to mind. Would she ever know what happened to him, or that he didn’t mean it when he snapped back at her from time to time? His old man, too. Their last conversation as a family had been all shouts and yells, with no apologies in sight for the scathing curses exchanged.

As Akeldama ripped into his tank top and the skin beneath, his thoughts moved to his teachers. He screwed his eyes shut as his body seized. ( Shit. His skin felt alight with scorching flames.) 

All Might. Eraserhead. His mind clung to them like they were his only tethers to reality. They’d believed in him, at some point. They were the only other adults in his life that had. (Best Jeanist’s sneer and Midnight’s watchful glower came to mind.) 

He wished he knew if they still did. If they forgave him for everything he’d fucked up. 

As for his classmates—Deku, Jiro, Uraraka, even fucking Koda, everyone—he wondered what they’d think. How quickly his desk in Class A would be filled. That purple–haired eyebags fucker would be ecstatic, he was sure. And he’d deserve it. 

But mainly he wondered if his closest friends, the ones stuck in this hell with him, would be okay once the heroes bust them out. (He couldn’t afford to think sceptical about that part. He couldn’t afford to picture one of them being left alone in the end, clear pictures of their bodies in mind, clear memories of the exact way they’d each died in mind as they’re forced to suffer the same fate.) 

He hoped they’d move on and become better heroes for it. A part of Katsuki hoped they forgot all about him. A scared part hoped they never did.

A sharp jerk of the dagger brought him crashing down to reality, and he realised he’d started to float. 

Akeldama moved slowly, but deliberately. Every so often she’d tug the knife carelessly on its way out, or thrust it just that much deeper, until all Katsuki could do was strain against the chair in vain. He couldn’t seem to clamp down on his cries quick enough. He could smell the blood; feel it; taste it. He must’ve bitten through his tongue, or cheek, he wasn’t sure—and neither did he care.

Agony overtook his mind. Like a wave of torment, it muddled his thoughts until he forgot that anything existed other than the chair, the knife, and the pain.

The excruciating pain. 

“Bakugou?”

He wanted to scream at the top of his lungs. He’d forgotten why his subconscious wouldn’t let him, because his body yearned for it. As if it might get rid of the pain, or at the very least distract him. 

“Bakugou.”

The sound was muffled. He realised that he couldn’t feel the knife in his skin and looked up sluggishly. Akeldama stood in front of him. Her silhouette was blocked out by the lights behind her. He squinted. He couldn’t see her expression. The outline of her hair glowed like a halo. It flowed over one shoulder when she tilted her head at him. “How do you feel, Bakugou?”

He opened his mouth, but his voice wouldn’t work. He released a shaky breath (that sounded too pitifully like a sob) and found he didn’t have the strength to keep his head up anymore. His shoulders scorched, as if they’d been mauled. He was pretty sure there was so much blood that it was dripping from the tips of his fingers and pooling at his feet. He didn’t know when he had closed his eyes, but he was content with the darkness. It was quiet. He liked the quiet. 

A voice ruined it. Akeldama, again, supplied the working part of his brain. She asked another question. It jarred the silence he’d been falling in, and he frowned.

Leave me alone, his mind whispered.

“Come, Bakugou.” Her voice, tinkling as she sang his name with a twisted sense of humour, was sharp. It echoed—or is that just in his mind? He cracked his eyes open again. The tip of the knife was positioned at his heart, piercing his thin top. “Say your goodbyes.”

His mind could hardly process her words. They sounded like gibberish and rang in his ears. He’s stuck in a limbo between the welcoming arms of sleep and the itching subconscious thought that he should be doing something. He shouldn’t be sitting there, his eyes begging to close, waiting for death to come knocking. 

The words were instinctual, like a reflex to the thought of giving up: Of course he shouldn’t. He’s Bakugou fucking Katsuki.

Or did that part of him wither away?

“No,” Katsuki muttered. He refused. He refused—he wouldn’t fucking die like this. Not like this. His sight sharpened. His ears pricked. Adrenaline mounted, pumped his heart faster. The danger it put him in was clear, even with an addled mind—a higher blood pressure meant a quicker rate of blood loss—but he figured he was dying there anyway. One way or another, this was it. 

He may as well kick up a fuss about it.

Akeldama slowly tilted her head upright. “That didn’t sound like a goodbye to me.”

He ran his tongue over reddened teeth and glared daggers (hah) at her silhouette; at where he thought her eyes must be. He spoke slowly, roughly. His body yearned for sleep. He ignored the pain. “It wasn’t one.”

She said nothing, and took the blade away from his skin. For a moment, Katsuki wondered if she’d changed her mind. If maybe his luck wasn’t so rotten.

Twisting the hilt in her hand, she raised the dagger over her head. It blocked out the light that had been blinding him, so that he could see her smile through the shadows. “That’s okay. I didn’t get to say goodbye either.” 

Guess the heroes are too late after all, he thought bitterly. 

(It wouldn’t be the first time he’s thought it, but it might finally be the last.)

The blade gleamed crimson in the light.

She drew it back impossibly slowly, relishing the moment. Glinting lethally; like something ethereal. Maybe it was just his mind that slowed it down, and made him wonder if death was supposed to be pretty. And he really must have been starting to feel the effects of blood loss, because it felt like the chair was trembling under his shaking hands. 

Shouts and yells—muffled, faraway, but still there.

No. 

Not blood loss. The whole building shook, and his mind couldn’t possibly make that up. Right?

Akeldama froze, her grip faltering on the dagger as she met his eyes, and he felt something stir deep in the centre of his chest. It resembled an awful lot like hope. 

The door burst open. She turned sharply. The skirt of her dress twisted like a blooming rose at her legs. 

A guard, breathing heavily as if he’d sprinted to get there, stood in the doorway. The shouting was still muffled—not entirely all that close, and maybe a floor or two separated them, but if Katsuki could hear it…  

Akeldama narrowed her eyes. “What is it?” she snapped.

The guard hesitated, a mess of anxiousness and fear, then hurried up to the stage. Akeldama lifted her chin as he came to a stop before her. He spared Katsuki an anxious look, then leaned in, cupping his hands to cover his mouth as he whispered something. 

From the murderous look on Akeldama’s face, something had gone terribly wrong.

Her eyes snapped to the guards at the back of the room, watching. “Someone, take these brats back to their cell. The rest of you, leave.”

No one moved. A stunned silence fell over the room.

Akeldama fisted the dagger with wrath that could rival Katsuki’s in his prime. “What the hell are you morons waiting for? Get moving. GO!”

At her control, the room erupted with urgent shouts and orders and footfalls, a clamour that echoed painfully in Katsuki’s ears like shitty blasting pop music. His head hurt. He shut his eyes against the glare of the lights. He wished he could clamp his hands over his ears. Everything hurt.

Someone shook his shoulder. He lifted his eyes open again. Akeldama’s gaze was pitiful. 

She was holding the dagger.

“We may as well end this now, Bakugou.”

He felt its cold tip press against his skin.

One way or another, this is it.

Fear. It curled around his heart, tightening his throat. It was pathetic. It was stupid. 

But he’d faced death before in this place, and he’s got a feeling he won’t be let off as easily now.

The knife presses harder. It pierced skin. He heard someone scream his name. He felt the building shake again, one of the harshest, and the blade jerks, slips, then jabs again. 

Shink.

The world tilted. 

His head ached. Bile threatened to rise in his throat.

Akeldama swore. He looked down. It was embedded in his side. She ripped it out again. Everything melted away. His dark shirt slowly stained darker. The wet sound of the blade echoed in his mind. 

Shink.

He stared, transfixed, as the dark stain grew. 

Shink.

He blinked, and Akeldama wasn't there anymore. 

Neither were most of the guards.

Something was flashing red above. An alarm? One of the glaring artificial lights that Katsuki hated so much was flickering, swinging from taut cables.

He hadn’t realised that his clasps had been unlocked until strong hands clamped down on his arms, lighting the whole world in agony, and yanked him up. It was a weird experience. Everything was blurry and bleak, and everything was sharp and defined. He was dreaming. Was he dreaming? He felt like he could see his heartbeat, and that didn’t seem good. As the guards who’d pulled him up argued— is this even worth it? He’s already got one foot in the grave—amongst themselves—just drag the fucking kid back to his cell, for crying out loud— he raised his head with the last slivers of power he could muster.

Fuji met his eye from the back of the room, his burly arms crossed over his chest, and did nothing but stare. Guards bustled and panicked around him. He stayed fixed in place like an omen. His gaze was unreadable, even if Katsuki had half the mind to try and analyse it.

Then Fuji turned and left, too.

⬽—1/3—⤘

Someone was snapping their fingers in front of his face.

“You still in there?” A guard. Katsuki blinked, then scowled instinctively with the little energy he had left. The guard curled his lip and fisted the back of Katsuki’s shirt tighter, the only force keeping him upright as he stumbled. The guard scoffed wryly. “What a far cry from the arrogant bastard at that stupid school festival, eh? So much for the Beast of—”

“Hey,” another voice called, apathetic but familiar. They said something else, but Katsuki didn’t hear. Didn’t listen. His eyes threatened to slip closed. He was really fucking tired, and this headache would kill him if the hole in his stomach didn’t. He’d made it this far; doesn’t that mean he got to sit down, now? If he died, it wouldn’t be at Akeldama’s hands.

Technically.

Someone squeezed his shoulder and shook it. He clamped down on a cry. He didn’t know where the wounds ended and the sticky blood started, but any kind of touch felt blazingly painful. His eyes snapped open. They meet pure purple. Wide and alarmed. Sasaki. She was frowning. “Don’t close your eyes again, you hear?”

Katsuki swallowed a coppery taste. “Don’t tell me what to do.” It must have come out slightly garbled, because Sasaki’s frown crumpled further. He looked away.

They were in the halls, a familiar stink of shit and metal. The guard who had been holding him up before must have left at some point, and now only Sasaki's tight hold was stopping him from collapsing. The walls were clean enough to be new, but ugly enough to testify to the horrible conditions the place is in. He’d walked through them a dozen times, and yet he couldn’t remember his first impression of them. Had they been cleaner before? Did they have that same rusty red paint smeared unevenly, like a toddler’s masterpiece? He had the same shade of paint on his hands. On Sasaki’s hand, the one she’d touched his shoulder with. 

Sasaki swore. “He’s bleeding a lot. This isn’t looking good.”

“He has nitrogen in his blood, or something, it slows his–his blood pressure, I think, maybe—but he… It’s gotta be helping somehow.” Kirishima appeared next to her, rubbing his wrists as though they were sore. His handcuffs were gone. Belatedly, Katsuki realised his own cuffs were gone, too. His skin was scarred where they had been. Scorched, cut, stained with blood. The cuffs still lingered as a shadow.

Kirishima slung Katsuki’s arm around his shoulder. When had he approached? It hurt.

“I know,” Kirishima mumbled, meeting his eyes as his lips pressed tight. Katsuki still saw them tremble. “I know, I–I’m sorry. But—But it’ll be quick. We’ll get you help quick.”

Someone took his other arm. Pink. Yellow horns. Ashido’s cheeks were tear stained, her voice shaky. “We’re getting out of here, okay?” 

They started to walk forward. Slowly at first, coaxing him to limp along, and then they were power walking. He hissed each time his wounds pulled, and somehow he could feel almost every injury he’d sustained here now that he was moving around so much. His ribs stabbed with pain each time he jostled them, and his face ached with bruises. He couldn’t bear to look at the stab wound, or his shoulders. His arms were slick with blood as it is. He felt bad that Ashido must be getting it in the hair she takes the time to style and take care of each day. And Kirishima—his shirt would be stained.

“The medical room is only a minute or so away,” Sasaki said quickly, marching (almost jogging) ahead. Sounds of metal clashing, bullets whizzing and people yelling sounded from above. 

“Heroes,” Katsuki muttered. “They’re coming. They’ll help.” He’d thought it would reassure them somehow, but instead he just gets a handful of concerned glances.

“Did you not hear?” Sero, hurrying beside Sasaki, looked at him with a pinched expression. “Those aren’t—”

“Shut up, Sero,” Kaminari snapped, voice raw as he paced alongside. Katsuki frowned. That wasn’t very Kaminari–like. “He doesn’t—He doesn’t need to know that right now.”

Sero’s jaw tightened and he faced away. Katsuki couldn’t read his expression in time. “When do we tell him?”

Katsuki didn’t like that their messy footfalls and the fighting going on in the floors above are the only sounds that echo. He also didn’t like that he couldn’t see anyone’s face. They all avoided his eyes. He was barely walking by himself, his feet scrambling on the dirty floor as Kirishima and Ashido bore most of his weight. And fuck, was his head splitting open? He stumbled along as best he could, like a fool, and almost didn't catch Kaminari’s delayed answer.

“When that’s not the only thing he has right now to hope for.”

Who were they talking about?

They took a sharp turn. Ashido stumbled, but caught herself. Shame and guilt burned in Katsuki’s head. He tried to pull his arm away, tried to walk by himself, but their grips on both his arms held strong. His legs would have buckled if not for them.

“Don’t do that,” Ashido gritted, “asshole.”

Katsuki couldn’t even muster up the strength to apologise. 

“Over here,” Sasaki commanded, slotting a key into the lock of a heavy steel door and swinging it open. Kirishima and Ashido rushed Katsuki in, hurriedly and carefully laying him on the plastic bed. He hissed and groaned at the jerk to his injuries. It was the same place he'd spoken with Fuji; the same bare bulb, the same horrifying tools, and the same shelves upon shelves with medical treatments. He wondered, now, why they’d invest in a medical room if their intent was to harm as best they could.

“We can’t stay here too long,” he heard Sasaki warn. “Here, give me that gauze, it’s in the bottom cupboard—the disinfectant, it’s there too. Quick.”

Kirishima held Katsuki’s relatively limp wrist amongst the frantic movement around them—checking his pulse, probably—and his breath hitched. “He’s pale. Really pale.” Then, shakily: “The blood, god, the blood.”

Katsuki can hardly hear what anyone else says over the drums in his ears. He watched, bleary eyed, as silhouettes moved around him like a puppet show. Someone moved to stand over him, blocking the glaring light of the bulb, and he thought of Akeldama. The crimson gleam of the blade as she held it high. 

Shink.  

He couldn’t stop thinking about the sound it made.

The person leaned closer, purple eyes narrowed as she stared. He blinked. Under her breath, barely there, Sasaki whispered, “You’d better be fucking worth all of this.”

It was so quiet, so unexpected, that Katsuki doubted what he’d actually heard. Maybe he was becoming paranoid; his mind warping everything around him until it mirrored his internal state. That is, his hell of a fucked–up state. 

Sasaki’s lips set anxiously. Frustration or concern? Katsuki never was very good at knowing the difference, and his pain-addled mind didn’t fare much better. 

She moved away before he could properly decide. He had to squint to avoid being painfully blinded by the lights her shadow gave way to, and if he had enough of a mind to stay rational or enough energy to enforce instinct, he might have turned his head away. Or snapped at someone to dim them. Or hissed and scowled until someone got a hint and spared him from his fucking misery—

The wound in his side flared with agony as if a thousand blades had speared him through twice. Acid enveloped his torso, body seizing. Darkness shrouded his vision for a snapshot of a second. He couldn’t even shout through how tightly he clenched his jaw, though he was sure some kind of cry escaped. 

Something clasped over his fist—warm, soft, gentle. A hand. He anchored his mind to the touch, like it was the only thing stopping him from being ripped into the current, under the waves. But while it seemed strange—shameful, weak, stupid—that he, with hands made to scorch and hurt, actually wanted someone to hold them for once, he had greater things to think about. 

As something scratchy and firm wrapped around and pressed down on the hole in his side—bandages, they must be—he kept his mind clinging to the warm hand holding his. Its presence never left, though it grew firmer each time he writhed; a constant that kept him from letting everything go and drifting. 

The pain eventually receded to a dull ache. He laid, eyes shut against the shitty, stupid lights, and his body wanted almost as badly as he did to never get up again. His eyes ached from shutting them so fiercely. Everything ached.

Something pricked the crook of his elbow. Similar to the one he usually felt in his neck, but instead of heightening every sense to an unbearable level, he felt the pain in his side lessen. The lights—suddenly they weren’t so bright. 

Like a calm wave washing ashore and pulling back out again.

Had he finally reached heaven?

“Bakugou,” Sasaki’s rough voice snapped. “Get up.”

Apparently not. He pried his eyes open, against the grogginess his mind yearned to lean into. It felt like his eyelids were attached to a weighted anchor. Sensory overload was shittier than he’d realised—the sudden reprieve felt like he was floating on cloud nine, even if he couldn’t remember a time when breathing didn’t rattle his chest. 

A hand grabbed his arm, pulling a hiss through his clenched teeth. His wounds twinged in alarm. 

“We don’t have all day,” Sasaki scowled. Yelling and clanging still sounds in the distance; a storm approaching. Her face was pale in the light, and her hair was scruffed as if she’d raked a hand through it too many times. “It’s either that you get up now, or we’re leaving you behind.”

Her words barely processed in his mind before Sero spat from the doorway, “No chance in hell that we’re leaving him behind, Sasaki.”

“Then you’d do better to get him up yourself,” she said, letting go of Katsuki’s arm as she glared down Sero, “else we’ll all be dead meat.” 

Ashido’s strong hands hooked around Katsuki, gently lifting him to a sitting position. She glared defiantly at Sasaki. “No one’s dead meat. Let’s stop wasting time and help him up.”

“I—I can do it myself,” Katsuki defended. 

All eyes turned to him.

Kirishima, his arms folded as he stood at the corner of the medical bed, set his mouth in a grim line. “No, Bakugou. No, you can’t.”

The emotion that flickered in Katsuki’s chest must have been some cruel mixture of indignation and shame—maybe a little betrayal, too. Of course he could do it. He just—He just needed a stick, or something. A teeny little bit—a very teeny little bit—of support. But he could do it himself.

He could.

Sasaki clicked her tongue. “He should have relatively less pain, but the drugs I gave him only lessened Akeldama’s quirk effects and gave him enough energy to move around despite the blood loss. The wounds themselves are still very much there. If he can somehow ignore it, maybe with enough adrenaline, he could walk with a little help. But we'll have to be quick. He certainly isn't gaining any blood, and once he starts moving, it'll only get worse.” 

Kaminari stepped to Katsuki’s side and grabbed his arm from Ashido, hooking it around his shoulder. “Alright. Let’s go quickly then.”

Kirishima frowned, lifting a hand as if to do something. “Kaminari—”

“It’s fine. You carried him this far,” he argues. Katsuki took this as a prompt and eased himself off of the bed before any protests could be made—standing on shaking and aching legs, and leaning heavily on Kaminari’s shoulder, but still standing. 

Still standing.

The thought was enough to fuel the next few stumbling steps towards the door, where Sero’s hand lingered on the doorknob nervously.  

Then Katsuki hesitated. “Wait. The heroes—”

“Bakugou,” Kirishima murmured tentatively, letting his name trail off into silence. They all refused to meet Katsuki’s eye. "They... They aren't-"

“They aren’t coming,” Sasaki snapped from behind. “Okay? They aren’t—The people fighting out there are rebelling guards. I’ve told the heroes to meet us a little way away from here. We have a meeting point.”

Shink.

Katsuki tried not to think about being stabbed (again), even though somehow, Sasaki’s words seemed sharper than Akeldama’s blade. 

He winced. “So, the plan is to just… get out, before anyone stops us?” He would be embarrassed by how quiet and weak his voice comes out as, if he weren’t already ashamed of how defeated he must sound.

“With a bit more tact, yeah,” Ashido muttered. A pause.

“Alright, just, look. The second we get out of this room, we run, okay?” Sasaki ordered, her voice grave. “We’re going to need to cut through the torture room. The original path has been compromised.” 

“How do you know that?” Kirishima asked. 

Sasaki tapped a small device Katsuki hadn’t noticed before, attached to her hip. A pager? “I have inside help. This place isn’t very secure, it’s practically falling apart—”

“Inside help?” Kaminari repeated. “Who? Another guard?”

Sasaki’s lips thinned. “Yeah. Whatever you like, but the clock’s ticking; we need to go. Like, now.”

Sero met Katsuki’s gaze. He could see the fear swirling in his eyes. Katsuki swallowed back the taste of blood, and hardened his face. He hoped it looked more like determination than whatever ugly emotion it was that actually twisted in his chest. “We can do it.”

It was the surest thing he’d said so far, even if it’s too sappy and soft for his liking. Go through a week (or a month? How long has it been?) of torture, and apparently that’s what happens. The moment they got back to safety, he’d be sure to cut that out. 

Hey, that was even more optimism. The drugs and bandages that wrapped his arms, torso and waist may have been saving his mind as well as his life. (Even if the red slowly invading the white fabric may be cause for concern at some point.) 

Sero breathed out. “Yeah, for sure.” He turned the knob carefully, as if forcing himself. Sounds of battle carried outside from other hallways. “We can do it,” he echoed.

Kaminari readjusted Katsuki’s arm. Sasaki’s impatient glare burned. 

With one last self assuring exhale, Sero opened the door. They set off running. Their footsteps echoed down the halls, nowhere near as loud as the gunshots nearby. Katsuki ignored the burning of his stab wound, or the hot, slick feeling of blood pumping externally. He hated the feeling of dried blood on his hands. He focused only on the adrenaline through his veins. The heartbeat drumming in his ears. The heartbeat proving that he was alive, and that he’d made it this far, and that if he just pushed through the pain one last time—

Just one last time, he begged his body. One last surge of power, and then he swore he’d sleep a whole day. He’d eat his favourite foods, ignore the calorie labels, and laugh whenever he wanted without spears striking through his ribs. 

And on the day that he mustered the strength to go for an early morning run again, he’d feel the wind in his hair and the power in his legs and he’d see another sunrise emerge from over the pine trees and city blocks. 

He’d see another sunrise, he swore it.

They turned a sharp corner. Kaminari didn’t falter, even as Katsuki stumbled, and he didn’t know how to say thank you, but he was certain he’d have to start a list of all the thanks he owes pretty soon.

They reached an intersection, where one path is littered with rubble and broken cement. A wall looked like it’s been broken through. Sounds of fighting reverberated. They took the other path. Sasaki hurried them past.

When they got to the torture room, it was a mess. The blood hadn’t been cleaned. The assortment of Akeldama’s weapons were jumbled from the building’s tremors, some having fallen to the floor. A light hung from taught cables. 

Wait, he saw that fall. During the explosions from up above, the ones that shook the building. Why didn’t he remember that?

(And why would rebelling guards need, let alone have, explosives?)

“Quickly. Don’t slow down,” Sasaki snapped, closing the heavy door behind them, “just cut across. The exit to the stairwell is in the corner, there—hidden behind those boxes, you see it?”

No one bothered to reply as they scurry behind her, following like sun starved, malnourished rats. Katsuki had never bothered to pay attention to the boxes at the sides of the stage, tucked into the corner. Now, Sasaki pushed her weight against one of them—they were huge, almost up to Katsuki’s shoulders—and with Ashido and Kirishima’s help, it gave way to reveal a hidden door. Metal and heavy–looking, like the one in their cell.

It was just their luck that there was a padlock on its sliding bolt.

Sasaki cursed to herself and kicked the door full force. “Damn it,” she scowled. “Paranoid bitch.”

Katsuki saw Kirishima flex his hands, like he usually did before a battle. He must have considered using his quirk, before realising that none of them had them back yet. Worry shadowed Katsuki’s mind. When would that happen? Would it even happen? She couldn’t have permanently taken them. Right?

As footsteps echoed in the hall they’d come from, coming closer and closer with brisk pace, Katsuki yet again threw away his train of thought for the greater concern approaching. 

“Fuji!” they heard Akeldama shout. Her voice climbed in volume as she screeched, “ Fuji! You good for nothing— ”

A string of curses and swears followed. 

And Katsuki thought that he had a potty mouth. 

“Hide,” Sasaki hissed. She backed away behind one of the boxes. Sero joined her, dropping to one knee as he peered around the edge, while Kirishima and Ashido took another box to the left. Barely exchanging a glance, Kaminari and Katsuki found the box nearest to them, to the right, and stumbled behind it, sitting down heavily. The force jolted a few of Katsuki’s wounds. Fire raced up his shoulder and ribs, and he bit his tongue hard in a fight to keep silent. Shit. He felt a bone shift in his chest.

The door banged open. 

“Fuji!” Though he couldn’t see Akeldama, he could picture her fine; black hair strewn messily, makeup smeared, the elegant, celebratory dress she wore torn at the hem—yeah, he could picture it well. Right down to her sneer, like an ugly hell hound’s snarling maw. He hoped she’d tripped on the damn dress at some point and busted her nose, too.

Akeldama muttered to herself as she paced the room, her breathing harsh and angry. Katsuki couldn’t make out what she was saying. 

Sasaki caught his eye. She was messing with her snowy white hair, frustrated and exasperated as if Akeldama were the least of her worries. Then, eventually, she produced two pins; black, sleek and metallic. Bobby pins. Her hair looked messier without them, but they’re a thousand times less fucked with them. It was almost enough to make Katsuki grin. As she got to work bending and shaping them, Katsuki locked eyes with Kirishima. His brow furrowed tightly in concern, and that was when Katsuki realised that he wasn't looking at him—more so, looking at his bandages. 

The crimson had come close to overtaking the white. When he touched his stomach’s wrapping tentatively, his fingers came away tinted softly red. Come to think of it, his skull buzzed with a dizzy haze he’d felt before. Except, before, it had been where Recovery Girl could reach him.

He startled as Akeldama kicked a chair, still stuck knee–deep in her tantrum, and shouted, “Fucking hell!” It stabbed at his eardrums. Katsuki could imagine that kicking a metal chair (drilled into the floor, no less) in pointed high heels might hurt, and he took pleasure in it. Enough to let him ignore the red seeping into the white, at least.

Sasaki’s finished with her bobby pins. It almost felt like he’d skipped a few seconds, because he couldn’t remember seeing her do it. She eyed the padlock wearily. It was in the open; presumably in full view of Akeldama. 

Beside Katsuki, Kaminari shook his head at her with a scowl. Clearly, he didn’t think it was a good idea.

Sasaki took no heed. She peered around the edge of the box. With eyes sharpened and alert, she waited for a beat. Then two. Then—she darted to the lock, falling into a crouch, and hurriedly started to pick it. 

Akeldama threw something at the wall with another screech and a loud clang. “Ugh! You trust someone once—” (another clang,) “and they stab you in the back the first chance they get.” 

Sasaki swore under her breath and took back her pins to bend them further between her teeth. She dived back into working on the lock, sparing quick glances towards Akeldama.

“I should have listened to Auntie,” Akeldama wails. “No, I should have done it all myself! Damn those heroes. Damn them all!”

Another reverberating clang. They sounded metal—knives, maybe. Each one sent more stabs to his dizzied head. He closed his eyes, breathing out as quietly as he could, though it was shaky. He couldn’t dispel the nausea, nor the pain. He tried to drift as best he could; he pretended that he was back in that chair, and surprisingly, it was easier than ever to sever his mind from his body.

Kaminari shook his shoulder. He heard him whisper after a moment, “Bakugou. Bakugou, please. Open—Open your eyes. Please, come on.”

Despite the fact that it was genuinely the very last thing he wanted to do, the break in Kaminari’s voice was motivation enough. He opened his eyes groggily. Kaminari’s golden ones were wide as they flicked between Katsuki’s. “Not good,” he murmured under his breath.

There was a clang from Akeldama. Another rage induced yell.

“I’m fine,” Katsuki muttered.

Kaminari’s lips pursed and turned down. “No. We need to get you moving again. The adrenaline’s wearing off.”

“I’m fine,” Katsuki repeated. He had a slight suspicion that what was coming out of his mouth didn't sound how he’d like it to. His mouth moved too slow. His tongue felt like rubber.

There was a heavy click. He looked up, right in time to see Sasaki fumble with the padlock—and drop it.

⬽—2/3—⤘

The dull impact echoed slightly, conveniently at a moment in which Akeldama had fallen silent. 

For a moment, nothing happened.

Then, Akeldama seethed. “You.”  

Shit . 

“Shit,” Sasaki mumbled. Slowly, carefully, she got up. “Boss. Good to see—”

A knife embedded itself inches away from Sasaki’s head. Katsuki watched as a strand of white floats down to land near her foot. Sasaki looked up again, mildly perturbed, and moved a hand behind her.

Akeldama’s high heels clacked lowly as she stalked closer. “You,” she hissed again, “why, you little, bloody—”

Sasaki twisted the door handle down with a clunk. She stepped aside just as another knife rebounded off of it, right where her head had been, and swung it open. Stairs ascended into darkness. 

Into freedom.

Akeldama shouted in rage, and Sasaki’s quick glare was enough of a signal to get them moving. Sero stepped out from behind his box. Ashido and Kirishima did the same—but they didn't move towards the door. They moved towards Katsuki.

Which, Katsuki’s mind panicked, was closer to Akeldama. 

He tried to get up himself before they could try to hoist him up, but his legs buckled. The weakness in his knees took him by faint surprise, but he could barely think straight now. Kirishima caught him, looping one arm over his shoulder again, and Kaminari took the other. Ashido and Sero hovered for a moment, looking torn.

“Will you please hurry up?” Sasaki snapped. She dodged another knife that whistled past her ear and picked it up to hurl right back. By the sound of it clattering a little way off, she may have missed her mark. 

Kaminari and Kirishima lead Katsuki closer to the edge of the box, but they barely manage to peer around before another knife whizzes past. It dug into the wall beside Sasaki.

Akeldama growled. “I will gut you and hang your lifeless corpse on your own intestines if you don’t—”

Sero had moved back into the open before Katsuki could realise it. He swiped the two knives from where they’d clattered and slid one across the floor to Ashido. She picked it up without hesitation and joined him. 

“I’ve been wanting to do this for a while,” Sero said. He glanced back at them. “Go; get out. We’ll catch up.”

Barely wasting a second, Kirishima and Kaminari made a move towards the door. Katsuki finally caught a glimpse of Akeldama, standing alone among the wreckage of her beloved room. Knives littered the floor; she held two in one hand. Katsuki had been right overall about her appearance, with her tattered clothes and messed up hair. Just no split lip. 

(Yet , he hoped.)

“Being heroic?” Akeldama scoffed, barely sounding sane. “That won’t end well, child.”

“No?” Sero replied coldly, stalking forwards. He adjusts his grip on the knife’s hilt. “We’ll see.”

Ashido grinned. With the blood that stained her shirt and matted her hair, she looked slightly insane. “I’m in favour of this.”

The fight broke out with a stab that missed. Dull clashes echo in the room with each block and parry. 

Kirishima tugged on his arm, leading him towards the door, but Katsuki resisted. He wasn’t strong at all, but he dug his heels in as best he could anyway. 

“No,” he mumbled. It was tiring to push the words out, but so be it. “Can’t… We can’t split up.”

Kaminari’s expression looked pinched. “He’s… He’s right. If we get split up now, anything could happen.”

Sasaki’s eyes narrowed. “You want to stay in a place with knives shooting past your goddamn head?”

Kirishima looked conflicted. “It’s not safe to—”

Knives clattered to the floor behind them. Anxiety clenched Katsuki’s gut as he turned to look.

But it wasn’t Sero’s—or Ashido’s. Akeldama whimpered as Ashido held a knife to her throat.

“That was over quickly,” Sasaki muttered. Then, she called to Ashido, “Can you get it over with, already? We need to get a move on.”

Ashido ignored her and locked eyes with Sero. “Your call.”

“Just kill her, already!” Sasaki snapped.

Sero’s back was turned. They couldn’t see his expression as he threw his own knife to the side. “No,” he said, “she doesn’t deserve it.”

Akeldama’s wide eyed expression slowly morphed into one of smug fearlessness. She started to laugh. “You know what, I—”

Sero drew his fist back and punched her so hard that a wet crack echoed, before she went slack in Ashido’s grip. Ashido let her fall to the floor with no remorse. Their torturer didn’t move from her slump. Not quite the split lip Katsuki had been hoping for, but that worked too.

For a moment, no one said anything.

“Did you just kill her?” Kaminari asked in a small voice.

“No,” Sero eventually replied. “She’s still breathing. She’ll just be out ‘till next fucking week, and by then, she’ll face a life rotting in Tartarus.” Then he meets Katsuki’s eyes. “She deserved a whole lot worse.” 

They drag Akeldama over to where they had been chained barely a half hour or so before, and lock her up like she had to them. Desperate now, they rushed up the steps of the stairwell. An automatic light flickered on to help find their way. Katsuki’s legs barely worked with him as he tried to put one foot in front of the other. And the space was so narrow that Kirishima decided to take Katsuki’s dead weight alone. Sounds of battle were almost completely muffled, if not gone. They stumbled more than they ran. Sasaki’s glower felt worse than the shame that burned in his gut (or is that the stab wound?) and everything in his body felt so jumbled and broken and wrong that he couldn’t bear to think about the red that had completely overtaken the white.

But in the end, there was still freedom.

Sasaki threw open the exit door at the top of the staircase. It gave way to an open area; a car park of sorts. Yelling and fighting still clashes through the air. And sirens. Police sirens. For a moment, Katsuki considered asking about them, but remembered their impatience before, and kept quiet. Evergreen trees lining the area marked black silhouettes against the winter night sky. They rustled in the wind.

Katsuki breathed in.

Wind. Fresh air. He tried not to falter (not that it made a difference) as the cold hit him. He’d never been so grateful for a frosty breeze like this before, and the shivers that racked his body felt freeing. It snatched away the stench of blood he hadn’t realised had been following him like a cloud. He could feel the breeze in his hair, he could feel his cold breath in his lungs—he was halfway there to seeing the sunrise, judging by the first slivers of morning light that seeped in from the horizon.

“Come on,” Sasaki ordered, tone brisk and cold. “Don’t stop.” She led them to a van. Someone was sitting in the driver’s seat, and she had a heated conversation with them before running around the side and unlocking the back doors. 

They stumbled towards it, hungry for a seat and some rest. Katsuki was planning to sleep the moment his arse hit a cushioned chair. He didn’t care if it had that specific sort of car stink, or if the seats were stiff. As long as he could sit or even lay down in a place other than that concrete cell, he’d be happier than ever.

“Not long now, man,” Kirishima grinned, a murmur in Katsuki’s ear. He couldn’t muster the strength to reply, but he did manage a faint smile. “We’ll be back before you know it.”

The back of the van didn’t have seats. Sasaki shoved them in, strangely uncaring, but they did as she said. Katsuki didn’t care about how his wounds jostled—that one broken rib would probably be cause for concern, if they weren’t so close to the heroes already—and he sat in the corner of the van, ready to fall unconscious the moment his head found a comfortable position. Which is to say, any position. He let his eyes slip closed.

Oh, bliss.

“Wait,” he heard Ashido call before Sasaki could shut the doors. “How long is the ride?”

Sasaki paused. “Not too long.” There was another pause. “Hey. Don’t let him sleep. Wake him up.”

Someone shook his shoulder. Katsuki groaned as his injuries shifted. They shook him harder. “Please, man, come on. You can do this. Just open your eyes. Please?”

Resigned, Katsuki scowled weakly and, for what he really hoped was the last time, opened his eyes. 

Sasaki stared at him impassively. In the darkness of the night, he couldn’t see her expression well enough. Not that he’d be able to focus on it anyway. “Don’t go to sleep, kid. You could die. Then it’ll all have been for nothing.”  

Katsuki couldn’t do anything but stare back through bleary, half lidded eyes. 

Sasaki shook her head. “Walking fucking corpses,” she muttered to herself.

The doors closed, the lock fastening securely, and they were enveloped in darkness.

⬽—+—⤘

He’d lost track of the amount of times someone had to shake him awake by the time the van stops. He had no idea how long they’d been travelling. Five minutes? An hour? Katsuki had a bad taste in his mouth, though he wasn’t sure if it was to do with the blood or the spit. For all he knew, it could have been a day since they’d left their cell last.

There were voices outside. Familiar… 

But bad familiar. He couldn’t quite decipher what that meant. For a bit, nothing happened. 

The doors opened. The sky was lit in purple and pink hues.

First light, was Katsuki’s first, bleary thought. Sunrise soon.

His second wasn’t as peaceful.

His heart dropped, stomach suddenly writhing with acid. For once, he was the first to process what’s right in front of him. For once, he couldn’t deny the fear that gripped him. 

“Fuji,” he whispered. 

Traitor, his second thought hissed. Traitor. Fucking traitor.

Because as Sasaki came to step beside Fuji, her violet eyes cold and remorseless, he knows he fucked up in trusting her. 

Fuji grinned, his golden tooth gleaming. “You didn’t think I’d let you get away so easily, did you?”

Bandages crimson, blood staining his skin, head dizzy and hazed, he wondered how Fuji could possibly make such a situation worse.

As it turned out, he didn’t need to use his imagination.

They'd been taken to a warehouse. (Just like all those years ago.) Katsuki’s mind was hazy. It flickered between past and present, until his hands looked eight years old again and he couldn't help but wonder what Mama must be thinking. He could barely focus on the voices that drifted around him. His hands were pulled roughly behind him, and he was thrown to the ground, tied to a fence post. He felt sort of numb at this point—-but he did feel the ache. The constant, excruciating ache. When the harsh hands finished tying him up, he let his chin hang into his chest.

He was done with trying. It was only defeat after defeat after defeat. A never ending cycle. He’d never expected to get this far anyway. Hoped, maybe.

Now that he had, it felt pointless. 

He let himself be ripped under the waves. He didn’t care anymore. He couldn't.

“Bakugou.”

What a lovely sense of deja vu. 

Shink. He could hear the knife again. Replaying in his ears, ringing like church bells at a funeral. He could hear Akeldama’s laugh. Say your goodbyes.

A hand clenched a fistful of his hair and yanked his head up. He locked eyes with Fuji.

“I've been doing some thinking. And you were right, you know. You, the kid who didn’t earn me the money,” Fuji mused, voice low and gravelly. “I’ve realised that I do hate you. You’re a mutt through and through. Today's the day that I finally finish what I started those years ago.”

Katsuki could do nothing but stare, exhaustion fighting to drag his eyes closed. He didn't care anymore.

“Don’t you dare,” Ashido seethed, somewhere beside Katsuki. “Don’t touch him. Don’t even talk to him.”

Fuji spared her an amused glance, then let go of Katsuki. “Really? What are you going to do about it?”

Katsuki could barely think. It was a wonder he could focus on the man's words at all.

“Should I be scared of this one?” Fuji asked, laughing. “Of the terrible beast? Will he hurt me if I do—this?”

His boots shifted on the gravel underfoot. There wasn’t much warning before he drew the boot back, and pummelled the metal cap of it into Katsuki’s stomach. A cry ripped through his throat before he could stop it. He curled forwards, gasping for breath—too late to block another hit to his ribs. Weak. Pathetic. Defenceless. His hands were still tied behind him.

That broken one might be a problem now, he thought, detached, as coughs wracked through his throat and splattered blood on the ground. Spears of pain erupted in his chest with every cough, but he couldn't stop. He fought for breath as yelling that wasn’t his filled the air.

Is this how I die? Choking on my own blood from a busted fucking lung?

Somehow, he regained control. He swallowed a mouthful of blood, then another, and tried to breathe as shallowly as he could. The thought of blood clogging his throat again (like sludge) tormented him.

Fuji chuckled above him. “Thought you might die, there.”

“Fuji,” Katsuki heard Sasaki’s voice warn. Was it tainted with concern or contempt? Katsuki still didn’t know.

“It’s fine,” Fuji snapped. “You never heard of those 'Nomu' shitheads? He might even be worth more dead. I bet a corpse is easier to experiment with.”

Sasaki didn’t speak again. There were more orders thrown around, maybe a few arguments, then Katsuki’s binds were loosened and someone hoisted him up. He couldn’t hear much over the white noise in his ears, as he’s dragged wherever they take him. 

But he did hear Sasaki. When she knelt in front of him, and leant forwards. When she whispered, “I’m sorry.”

He kept silent. The cold concrete he’d been gently sat against felt too much like the cell he’d spent too long in before. Had he even escaped? He tried to think of the breeze in his hair and the rustle of trees only earlier that night, but he couldn’t envision it. Maybe he had gone mad after all. Maybe he’d never left that cell. Maybe Sasaki was right.

Nothing but a walking corpse, he thought. And even then, he couldn’t walk. He’d laugh at the stupidity in that if he could. If his lungs weren’t slowly filling with blood. If the hole in his side wasn’t constantly losing it.

At a gentle light shining into his eyes, he fought his damned hardest to open them one last time. The last time. He’s in another cell, alright. Alone. Sasaki had left. Concrete walls box him in, act as his only company.

But this time, just opposite him, there’s a little window. It glows orange. 

His breath catches on blood, lungs aching and stabbing. 

Looks like he didn’t make it out in time, after all.

It’s sunrise.

Chapter Text

Katsuki remembered it.

It all started with the bell; an ear splitting ring that signalled the end of the school day. The class they’d come out in was steadily shrinking, each kid running up to their parents faster than Katsuki could keep count. He ignored Deku when Auntie Inko came to collect him; matching beaming smiles, matching overenthusiastic waves, matching gazes that lingered on Katsuki for longer than he liked. It's not like he cared.

But his teacher, a woman he couldn’t remember the face of, had smiled down at him. “Are your parents picking you up today, Bakugou?”

No. They were travelling to Sataka in the afternoon, and Katsuki was almost certain that they’d be too preoccupied with packing for their overnight stay to be picking him up. That’s what usually happened.

But… you couldn't blame him for hoping.

He’d scanned the quickly dispersing crowd of adults and, with all the grand matureness any eight year old should have, he squashed down the sad twinge in his chest. No hair matching his, scowl matching his, eyes matching his. Not like Inko and the stupid nerd. 

But that’s a good thing, he thought. It’s embarrassing for mums to come and pick you up.

“No,” he told his teacher, “I don’t think so.”

The last child in the group squealed and ran towards a father, who’s good natured wave was reciprocated by their cheerful teacher. After a moment, Katsuki felt her eyes on him again.

He could feel her gearing up to say something—so he said it before she could. “They aren’t coming.” It burnt his mouth like poison. “I’ll just walk home by myself.”

Like he had been for the past month or so.

The teacher had a strange expression his young mind couldn’t quite decipher. It was another smile, but it didn’t quite meet her eyes. “Okay, Bakugou. As long as you look both ways when you cross the road, and make sure to—”

“Keep myself safe,” Katsuki drawled, holding back an eye roll, already walking away. He’d heard it enough times already. You’d think she was his mother.

“Goodbye, Bakugou,” his teacher called after him, humour tainting her tone. “See you back on Monday, okay?”

Katsuki made a noncommittal grunt. “Bye.”

There was a park on the path home. Katsuki used to love stopping by to play with other kids there, until eventually Mitsuki, pissed off after an argument between them, told him he was a baby for wanting to play all the time. She’d dragged him all the way home kicking and crying, but the next day he didn’t go. He didn’t want to be a baby.

Now, he slowed his pace slightly when he saw the swings’ chains glinting in the sunlight. They were desolate and lonely, and for a moment, he considered setting his bag down and playing on them alone. He could imagine himself pushing higher and higher, until the world melted around him and he could only see his black school shoes and the blue, brilliant sky. 

Like he was flying; flying away from everything that dragged him down.

... How stupid.

Katsuki looked away from the swings. He had bigger things to think about. Like what he was going to make for dinner. What chores he might need to do. How much time he’d have to watch TV between it all.

But as it happened, he didn’t need to worry about any of that at all.

The black van at the side of the road popped open its doors.

⬽—+—⤘

The moment Shota saw the chair drenched in blood, he turned to Midoriya and said, “Go back up the way we came. Avoid any fights, just get back up and stay there.”

Whatever they found from this point on, Shota didn’t have much faith that it’d be healthy for the boy’s young mind to see. Not only was he underaged, but he was also close to the victims. Shota never should have thought that this was a good idea.

Midoriya’s face was pale and sickly as he stared at the crimson. “N–No way. I need to… I–I need to find…” He opened and closed his mouth, but nothing came out. Finally he put his fist over it, as if holding back vomit, but still he couldn’t seem to wrench his eyes away from the chair.

The chair from the picture. It was even more haunting in real life.

Shota stepped in front of him, cutting off his view, and waited until his glassy eyes met his.

“Go back upstairs,” Shota demanded firmly again. It came out soft. “That’s an order. Don’t make me repeat that, kid. Okay?”

A pause.

“We’re getting them back, Midoriya. Trust me, please.”

Midoriya released a trembling exhale and nodded again. He turned and left, heavily ignoring the crimson sight Shota blocked, fast enough to outrun how quickly his mind might change. 

Shota switched on his intercom and turned back to stare at the chair. He could feel his own vomit climb the back of his throat. “This is Eraserhead speaking,” he told his earpiece. “Yuuei student Midoriya Izuku, by the hero name of ‘Deku’, is returning above. Please be sure that he is well looked after—I’m talking specifically to you, Detective Naomasa.”

There was a crackle. “Detective Naomasa speaking. Message received, Eraser. We’ll be waiting for him.” 

Click.

A groan echoed through the space and ice ran in Shota’s blood. Someone shifted nearby, handcuffs clinking together and glinting in the dim red light of the alarms. A bloody dress and a bloodier face.

He wasn’t alone.

⬽—+—⤘

Katsuki didn’t remember much of what happened straight after the van. A warehouse. Other children, trembling with a horrible combination of cold and fear. Just the three of them.

Three too many.

They’d been forced to line up. Gagged with stinky, dirty cloth. Have their hands locked behind their backs, chained to each other. The girl in front of Katsuki, with blonde pigtails, looked a year or so older than him. When she’d glanced behind to meet Katsuki’s eyes, she’d given him a small, reassuring smile.

Katsuki hadn’t smiled back, but if the girl had been offended, she hadn’t shown it. She turned around to face the front, and Katsuki found that he wanted her to smile at him again. It was distracting from the cold that pricked his fingers and ears, and the glower that a lime–haired man was radiating from his watching post in the corner. 

They were told to sit, in their line, against the wall of the warehouse. Men with knives and guns strapped to their waists paced the ground in front of them. Each time their eyes crossed, they’d spit or sneer like hyenas stalking their prey, waiting for them to drop dead.

Katsuki had tried to use his explosions. For whatever reason, he couldn’t even manage a spark. He’d tried to break his handcuffs. All that came out of it were fresh bruises and an ache that wouldn’t leave. He’d tried to yell and shout through his gag. A man had stepped closer, yelled at him back, mocking him with teases and taunts, then hit him around the head, harder than Mama ever had. Stars flew. Black moths unfurled their wings before his eyes, flitting over his sight, so blurred it made him dizzy.

He didn’t speak again.

After what felt like hours, Limehead barked out a few orders to the others. The sun had almost set, now, and a van had pulled up. They filed into it one by one, still attached to each other with chains, like the prison inmates he’d seen in American films. Only, instead of orange jumpsuits and cool tattoos, most of them wore school uniforms.

They’d been taken to another building, shoved through the doors one by one under the shadow of a starless night sky. Here, through overhearing snippets of the men’s conversations, Katsuki finally learnt Limehead’s name. Fuji . Later on, he’d search it under every search engine he had access to. He’d come up with nothing. He’d nag police officers at the station every other day, then week, then month (until eventually he’d give up), and he'd email every hero agency he could think of on his dad's computer until the night turned morning—but they’d have no answers, either. 

It was also here that Katsuki made his first true impression on Fuji. When he’d gone to leave the room, he’d found Katsuki sitting in the way. He’d wandered there by accident—hadn’t even realised there was a door behind him—but that didn’t matter, not to Fuji.

“Move, brat,” he had scowled. Katsuki did nothing but stare through narrowed eyes. “What? You wanna say something?” With rough hands, Fuji yanked Katsuki’s gag down. “Go on, mutt.”

Katsuki glared as venomously as he could, then spat on Fuji’s shitty boots.

And that’s how he received his first beating of the night.

⬽—+—⤘

“Cameras?” Aizawa repeated.

Akeldama, as she’d introduced herself, nodded slowly. She had a crazed look in her eye. As a sharp grin stretched across her face, Aizawa thought she must have fallen off the deep end long ago. 

He took a deep breath to keep his cool. The police officer beside him, Sansa, cast him a wary glance. The interrogation wasn’t in the most formal setting; ambulances and police cars were parked haphazardly around them on the road, officers and heroes alike discussing and regrouping after a mission Aizawa deemed a failure.

Because his five missing children—students—were still not found. 

The woman, who had caused all of the pain and regret and anger that had been swirling in Shota’s chest for over a week now, smiled innocently at him. She was sitting on the edge of a police car’s boot, her hands and feet chained together. Two uniformed officers gripped both her arms to stop any possibility of escape, but she paid them no mind. 

The smell of smoke and blood filled the air, a fitting match to the sirens and orders ringing through it. Aizawa didn’t know where the hell Tsukauchi was, or where he’d taken Midoriya, but he was slightly hoping they didn’t cross paths too soon.

We’re getting them back, he’d told the boy. Trust me.

What a sick fucking joke.

Shota exhaled. “Cameras. Alright. Where are they? Do you save the tapes?”

Akeldama giggled. She had a concussion, so it was a pity Shota couldn't punch her. That, and the fact that he was supposed to be a composed hero. “Dunno. Ask Auntie. We probably keep logs somewhere…”

Shota exchanged an exhausted look with Sansa. “Who the hell’s ‘Auntie’?”

Akeldama giggled again.

An officer passed them by and leaned in to mutter, “She may be referring to a woman we found in one of the upper floors? She’s reserving her right to stay silent now, but she did mention a niece when we originally questioned her.”

“Ugh,” Akeldama laughed, “she’s so annoying, isn’t she?”

Shota eyed her warily, then murmured back to the officer, “She say anything about CCTV, by any chance?”

“CCTV?” the officer echoed. “Um, no. Would you like me to ask?”

Shota sighed. “Sure. And see if you can find anything about the car park, too. There are fresh tire tracks, and… traces of blood. We need to find out what happened there.”

The officer pursed his lips, then nodded with an affirmative. He left. When Aizawa looked back to Akeldama, her shoulders were shaking with silent laughter. 

Now he couldn't stop his temper from sparking, fists from clenching. His blood boiled with anger. “What’s funny?” 

Sansa put a tentative hand on his shoulder. “Eraserhead, she’s completely out of it…”

“I said,” Aizawa gritted, ignoring him as he takes a step closer, “what’s funny?”

Akeldama looked up with a snort. “The way you’re calling it.”

Aizawa clenched his teeth so hard he could hear a click. He wished, for a moment, that looks could kill.

“It’s not called CVTT,” Akeldama drawled, rolling her eyes like a drunkard. 

“CCTV,” Aizawa corrected under his breath.

“CT—whatever,” Akeldama scoffed. “They aren’t there for security—the cameras. If our plan had gone normal, as it shoulda, we would’ve sent the footage over to you lot. It was going to be fun. Auntie said it’d make for a nice little message.”

Aizawa’s blood ran cold. He ignored the prickle on the back of his neck and instead asked carefully, asked slowly, “What message? What were you recording?” 

“His screams,” Akeldama told him. “Every single one—up to the very last.”

Then she threw her head back, and laughed.

⬽—+—⤘

Katsuki often thought back on the night that followed. He couldn’t even remember what the room looked like, but he could remember the important parts crystal clear. Even years later, he’d remember the bruises blooming on his ribs and arms each time he got dealt a hit while sparring, or each time he became swallowed by memories and dark thoughts in the shower. Sometimes it even resurfaced late at night, or in the form of nightmares. 

But then, of course, the sludge villain and the Kamino incident gave him (ever so slightly) better material to think about.

It had been dinner—a strange slop, like porridge, but infinitely worse—that Katsuki, gag finally removed and as free to speak as anyone could be in his situation, eventually pushed just that much too far. 

Katsuki refused to touch it. Fuji had seen this with a scowl. “Eat.”

“No.”

Fuji had stood from his corner, shouldering his rifle, the one each of the kids were scared of, and came to crouch in front of him. “Yeah, you will. Or I’ll shove it down you and hope you choke. Alright?”

Katsuki said nothing. He had the urge to spit at his face again, but his ribs ached just thinking about it. He scowled instead and made no move to eat.

Fuji stood, towering over Katsuki. “Eat.”

“No,” Katsuki whispered. He’d meant to say it louder. Something akin to fear stopped him.

He wanted Mum’s food. He wanted Mum’s hugs, even though she hadn’t hugged him in… in a while. He wanted to go home.

And that, he thought as Fuji snarls, is exactly what he was going to do. 

“Damn mutt,” Limehead spat. “You’re refusing a gift, you know. I went out of my way to find you brats some food, and this is what you do?”

“I’m not eating it.” Katsuki pushed the box away. “It’s yuck, limehead.”

Fuji stilled, taken aback for a long second. “What did you just call me?” he asked, eyes darkened.

“Limehead,” Katsuki replied. If he imagined that Fuji was another asshole on the playground who wouldn’t pick on people his own size, it was easier to push the words out. “Be–Because your head is like a huge, stupid, yuck coloured—”

That night was painful. The worst part came when he was done with the kicking (Katsuki had quickly grown to despise those metal capped boots), and he’d pulled a bruised Katsuki up by nothing but his hair. Put the rifle to his head.

“You act out again,” Fuji promised, chest heaving with rage, “and I won’t hesitate to pull the trigger.”

Katsuki blinked back his tears well enough, but the unsteady, quick breaths he was taking wasn’t fooling anyone. 

No one slept after dinner. 

⬽—+—⤘

Shota felt sick.

The shouts and screams on the video tapes echoed in his mind, even though he’d long since paused the footage and walked away from the monitors. He’d thought the electric shocks were bad—the first of horrors to come. But now, he couldn’t get the image of Bakugou’s motionless body out of his mind, drenched in water. Then the same boy, drenched in crimson. The last time he appeared on camera, he practically had both feet in the grave.

Detective Tsukauchi handed him a cup of coffee, keeping one for himself, and leaned beside him on the side of the police van. “How are you holding up?”

Shota looked into the dark liquid, and for once, he didn't want it. “Lightyears better than those children.”

Tsukauchi didn’t say anything to that, and took a slow sip. They stand in silence. “The tapes… Did you find anything?”

“No,” Shota muttered. Part of him wanted to leave it at that. The other part was a Pro Hero. “There were no cameras in the car park. The others all disconnected at the start of the raid anyway.”

Tsukauchi nodded slowly, otherwise silent. They didn’t speak for almost a minute, until Shota cleared his throat. “How is Midoriya?”

Tsukauchi stalled for time by drinking some more coffee. “He… He doesn’t know about the footage yet.”

Shota nodded. “Fine. It’s best if he doesn’t.” He considered telling the detective about what he’d told the boy—we’ll find them, trust me—then decided against it. He’d never said ‘alive’, and now it haunted his mind. 

Nausea lurched in his stomach. 

“I think Bakugou might be dead.” He said it before he can think not to. More impulse than not.

Tsukauchi looked at him sadly, but he clearly wasn't surprised. “The tapes?”

Shota thought about how the boy had been dragged off screen by two guards, blood trailing behind him like paint, before the footage had been cut by shaking infrastructure. “Yeah. The fucking tapes.”

Tsukauchi released a shaky breath and looked up at the starless sky. “So, the blood trail…”

Shota nodded slowly. “I don’t think he would have left on his own terms in the state he was in. If he was alright, then… then he should have realised that heroes had arrived. Right? Wouldn’t all of them have? He wouldn’t have left the building like that, not alone, not without medical help, but how would he get that? And—And I don’t think his classmates would have left him behind, not in that state, not unless—” unless he was already dead?

“Calm down, Eraser,” Tsukauchi said carefully. “Breathe for a second—”

“I am calm,” Shota said firmly. “I’m just…”

A beat passed.

“Upset,” Tsukauchi said quietly. “I get that. But don’t fall down that rabbit hole. It leads to nothing productive—you know this.” 

Shota said nothing. He’d been thinking of ashamed. Or angry, but not at anyone other than himself. 

Because he should have listened to Midoriya on that train platform. He should have found them quicker. He should have been quicker on his way down the stupid school building.

Maybe, if he had, he would have intercepted the trail of blood before it stained the tarmac of the car park.

“We’re still in the woods,” Tsukauchi said. “Even if Bakugou… didn’t make it. Maybe the other four did.”

Shota didn’t comment on how shitty he thought the chances of that were.

“Come on. They need us out there,” the detective said. Shota didn't stop him, but neither did he follow, when Tsukauchi stood and walked back into the open—where all areas of the force rush about to do their various tasks. Taking statements. Taking inventory. Taking evidence back to white tents, set up for forensics.

Forensics on the countless blood samples they’d gathered.

Shota shut his eyes tight and rubbed his temples. He had a splitting migraine from all of this.

They must be feeling tenfold worse. 

That is, if they’re even ‘feeling’ anymore at all.

He flinched despite himself. He ignored the sickness that clenched his stomach and gulped down the rest of his coffee. It was lukewarm. He held back a gag once he was done. 

When he stepped into the open, he spotted Midoriya sitting in the boot of an ambulance car, a shock blanket draped over him. He was talking with a paramedic, but his polite smiles didn't reach his eyes.

Shota turned away. Though the chances of the boy somehow spotting him in the gloom of night are slim, he didn’t want to chance it. The kid needed him—he knew that, he knew he needed someone to lean on right now, and it was tearing him apart inside—but he couldn’t face Midoriya. Not now. He couldn’t talk to anyone, because as far as he was concerned, if he heard Bakugou’s name again in a single person's mouth, he might just snap. His phone buzzed in his pocket and he ignored it.

Then he hesitated.

Because he’d seen this play before.

Like a collective wave, police officers stopped what they’re doing. They looked at their phones and pagers. They each glanced around, comparing with each other. A murmur spread through the area, climbing in volume until someone yells through the night— 

“We’ve got them!”

The area exploded in a frenzy. 

Officers shouted orders. Heroes rushed to put on their gear and regroup. He saw Tsukauchi amidst the chaos, shouting commands, orders, ‘GO, GO, GO!’ 

Shota took out his phone.

He read the string of numbers and letters sent in the email that’d been mass shared. He stared at it for a long moment. An officer shoved past him with a muttered apology, and it jerks him out of his haze just enough to force his feet to move.

He didn’t know if it was safe to hope yet, but he’d call this the best twist of fate he’s had yet.

Coordinates.

⬽—+—⤘

Katsuki’s plan of escape was simple.

Every few hours, a guard would come in to switch shifts with another. Fuji always stayed in place, declaring that he didn’t trust the ‘knuckleheads’, but the guard with him would always change. They’d step out, leaving the door slightly ajar, and a moment later, another would step back in. Which meant, for a very little window of time, the door would be left unlocked.

And that was his window—to freedom. 

If he was quick enough (and he was the quickest in his year, so yeah, he was quick enough), he might be able to dodge Fuji and slip out, right after the other guard. What did he have to lose, anyway? Whatever they did to him if they caught him couldn’t really be too much worse than whatever they’re planning for. He’d heard stories of quirk traffickers—and he knew that his explosions had more than one use.

But Katsuki wasn’t stupid. He knew the holes in his plan; Fuji’s gun, for one. He couldn’t outrun a bullet, and he’s seen enough action films to know that it only takes one hit to potentially kill. And the other kids, too—snot nosed crybabies as they were, he couldn’t leave them behind. That was out of the question.

His third problem was the biggest one. One that dwarfed the others. One that kind of ruined everything, because as it turned out, he couldn’t do a single thing until it was fixed.

His explosions. 

He didn’t have his explosions.

⬽—+—⤘

Ashido’s eyes were wide and fearful.

Shota knelt in front of her. She grasped her shock blanket tighter around her, her hands shaking with tremors. The flashing lights of the ambulances they came with bounced off of her horns. Bounced off of the blood that stained them. 

The warehouse nearby swayed in the wind, its unstable structure creaking.

It looked haunted.

“Aizawa,” she whispered brokenly. Her breath caught. She sucked in the air painfully, then exhaled shortly, hyperventilating. “I don’t know if— if he— Aizawa, I don’t know what happened, I swear, I—I tried—”

His cold, brittle heart broke. He pursed his lips, still breathing hard—his cheek ached from the futile punch he’d received from the man with green hair—and held out his hand for her to take. She flinched, at first. He wanted the earth to swallow him whole. 

Then she took it, latching onto it like a lifeline, and held it as tightly as she could.

It wasn’t that tight. 

He coaxed her through the breathing exercise he could remember teaching them once in a rescue lesson. There’s the breathing method, where you count your breaths, he had lectured, and there’s the grounding method, to ground you in your surroundings. These are only two of the many ways to calm a victim down, but…

He didn’t try the grounding method. He didn’t want her to smell the stench of metal in the air, or feel the dried blood that sticks to skin. Listen to the wail of the ambulance’s sirens; watch the warehouse sway slightly in the wind. The other three children they’d been able to recover were being checked up by paramedics in the other ambulance, most too deep in shock to make much sense, or too injured to be held up by questioning, and he certainly didn’t want her to think about the missing fifth member. 

He wanted her to focus only on herself, her breathing, and Shota. 

“How are you feeling?” he asked gently. She shook her head, sniffled, and said nothing. It was a stupid question. He tried again, “Can you tell me what happened here?”

Ashido exhaled shakily, almost a sob, then burst, “She tricked us. She said you would meet us here, but you didn’t, and instead that shitty Fuji came, a–and—” She meets his eyes, suddenly panicked. “You found him, right? He isn’t dead, right? Please. You found him, please say you did.”

Aizawa frowned. None of that made sense. “Ashido, who are you talking about? Who's 'he'? And who's 'Fuji'?” 

Now, did he know who the hell this guy was? No; but he hoped it was the one with green hair. The one he knocked unconscious, then kept hitting. The one sporting a mangled, bloody face.

And not the one that got away. 

Ashido stared at him in horror. “Bakugou. I’m talking about Bakugou.”

The entire world stopped.

“He’s alive?” Shota breathed. It was the worst possible thing he could have said in that moment, from the perspective of a Pro Hero—but any regret came swiftly carried away as soon as Ashido nodded vigorously. A fleeting thought worries about her concussion, then is whisked away by a barrage of questions that arise.

“He was, last I saw him,” she said, determination and fear fighting a fierce battle in her eyes. Her voice, however, shook. “B–But he—he was coughing blood. And—And he wasn’t…”

Shota didn't need any more detail. “Where is he?”

Ashido’s expression crumpled. “I don’t know,” she cried. “She carried him inside. I don’t know, but she took him inside.”

His mind was already made.

He ordered a paramedic to take care of Ashido, then took off towards the slowly swaying warehouse. Before he knew it, he was sprinting. He heard Tsukauchi cry out behind him, demanding what he was doing, maybe something about a warrant, but the wind snatched away his voice. He listened only to the steady beat of his heart in his ears. Each footfall that struck the earth.

He ransacked every doorway. Every hay bale big enough to hide something. He tore through every obstacle in his way, and he didn’t even realise he was yelling his student’s name until he wasn’t anymore.

He was silenced, winded, by the sight.

In the room furthest away from the warehouse’s entrance, against a wooden fenced wall a healthy Bakugou would have been able to knock through even without a quirk, he found a body slumped in a pool of blood.

Fuck. Not a corpse, Shota couldn't help but think. Please, not a corpse.

He stumbled to his side, already ordering through his earpiece for paramedics, and fell to one knee. He clasped Bakugou’s shoulder, and pushed at it carefully. His head rolled limply. His eyes were shut—no movement there. They barely fluttered. Not a single muscle twitched in response to Shota’s touch.

Did his chest even rise?

He felt sick. He took the boy’s cold, bloodied wrist—barely any skin has been left untainted, but he takes care not to touch the cuts—and pressed two fingers against the blood vessel there. 

A moment passed. Nothing.

Was his mind slowing time down?

“Please,” he muttered, “please. Stay a little longer, kid.”

Because he was looking at a kid.

A child.

Maybe even the corpse of one.

⬽—+—⤘

Katsuki did it.

He was so proud of himself—he did it! Not escape, not yet, he was still working on that one. But he could get his explosions back, and the key to that was in one word: handcuffs.

All it took was a little bit of attentive listening as guards spoke between each other—a hushed conversation over the use of each child’s quirks developed into one comparing them. One stupid guard joked that they should take off the ‘quirk cancellers’ and put them in a fighting ring. Another spat back that there was no way in hell that they’d be allowed to take off the cuffs.

Translated in Katsuki’s mind? Handcuffs = No quirk.

Fuji had hit them both upside the heads and they’d shut up quickly enough.

Too late, Limehead, he’d wanted to jeer, triumphant. Just too late.

He considered banging the handcuffs against the wall or floor—dent them enough to slip out—but he’d tried that before, anyway, and it hadn’t worked. Not to mention, it would be time consuming. Time, which was of the essence, as the saying goes. Maybe picking it could work—if there were a conveniently placed wire he could use.

Which there wasn’t.

He couldn’t squeeze his hands through them. He couldn’t break the chain, either.

And so, he figured—why not nick the key?

⬽—+—⤘

Fifteen pairs of expectant eyes stared up at him.

Shota gripped the desk tighter, and tried his best not to look in Midoriya’s direction. And not at the five empty desks, either. Homeroom had never been so quiet.

“The past week or so have been stressful for everyone,” he started. He wasn’t used to having his chaotic class’ full attention like this, but then again, he still wasn’t used to having five of the loudest students gone. “Your integrity has been most admirable. You may have heard about the raid carried out yesterday—” a guttural, choked scream. It was Ashido’s—she’d broken through the wall of paramedics and policemen trying to stop her—and her eyes were fixed on the bloody mess of her classmate.  

No, she’d sobbed, fighting and clawing to get closer to his body. No, no, no. This is not happening. I–I can’t, I won’t— 

Aizawa faltered, pushed down the memory, and continued. “I’m grateful to be the one to tell you that the mission achieved all of its aims in recovering the missing students.”

No one cheered. No one so much as smiled. 

They could sense something wrong.

The silence is deafening, and Shota took a deep breath. “It’s too early yet to decide when—” or if— “your classmates will be joining classes again. As usual, I will try my best in updating you along the way, but in the following week, things may be a little up in the air as we plan the next steps. If you ever need to take a break from lessons, there is no pressure to attend. Hound Dog, Yuuei’s counsellor and therapist, is always open if you need someone to talk to—and, as you know, so am I.”

He let the class fall into a mellow silence for a beat—then Yaoyorozu slowly put up her hand.

Shota nodded her way, and she lowered it tentatively. “Will we get any updates on their health, in the meantime?”

Midoriya was burning a hole through Shota’s skull with only his eyes. He didn’t even need to look to see his stare. 

Shota swallowed thickly. “In the coming week, as long as their guardians allow it, yes. You probably will.”

“Could we get a quick update right now?” Uraraka blurted from the back. “I mean, I get that we aren’t allowed to see their medical records or whatever, but just, like, just so that we know they’re okay? We still don’t know what even happened to them, or what their captors wanted. No one’s told us anything. Are they hurt, any?”

This time, Shota couldn’t help but glance at Midoriya. The boy shrunk in his seat, lay his head on crossed arms. 

What could Shota say?

‘One of your classmates is fighting death as we speak. Their captor’s only goal was to break them and to have fun doing it, under the guise of sending a twisted, futile message. All five of them probably have enough trauma to qualify as retired pro heroes before they’ve even graduated, but just think positive, and it’ll be fine.’

Again—what a fucking joke.

He wished he had a guidebook for this. Something other than cold, hard protocole. Don’t sugarcoat, but be gentle, informative and patient with your replies— yeah, okay, tell him something he didn’t already know. He’d much rather have a script of sorts. Something that told him exactly what to say and how to say it. 

Shota didn’t have that. So he’d just have to make do with that responsibility.

“They are… injured,” he admitted carefully, ignoring the part of him that whispered understatement of the fucking century, “and they are being treated. I’m not promising anything, but if they and their guardians agree, you may be permitted to see them in hospital sometime this week. I’ll be speaking to parents tonight, if time allows.” He tried to push past a wince. “They have yet to transfer out of Aira hospital, though. You’d need permission from a guardian or Pro-Hero to travel.”

Murmurs rose between classmates. They knew what it meant, the fact that the students hadn’t been able to transfer hospitals only a train away. 

They were more observant than they probably should be, at their age.

“So, they’ll be okay?” Jirou asked, expression hesitant. She knew something was wrong.

They were missing for over a week, a bitter part of Shota thought. She was wholly right to be hesitant.

The apologetic face of a doctor came to the forefront of his mind. Shota’s shoe tapping quietly, the sound dwarfed by doctors’ loud orders from inside the ICU and other patients’ distraught cries. The waiting room cramped. Screaming, crying, yelling. He remembered wishing he could hear Bakugou too, just like he could the other patients, if only to know that he were alive. 

The hours passed like years.

He remembered the words, ‘finally stable, but in critical condition.’ He remembered the words ‘repeated bodily trauma’, ‘too much blood loss’, ‘pierced lung’. He remembered the words, ‘where is he? I need to see my son. Please let me see my son. You found him, right? Alive? Please—’

So, will they be okay?

He was doubting it himself.

“I think so,” Shota found himself replying. He thought the exact same words he had yesterday, in his conversation with Tokoyami and Jirou. I hope so. “Doctors have confirmed that they’re all stable. Any more questions?”

The room fell silent. 

He nodded, mouth dry. “Alright. If anyone needs to talk to me, I’ll be available after class.”

Midoriya didn’t lift his head off the desk for the rest of the period, and Shota didn't even consider telling him to sit up. He didn’t consider telling most of them to pay attention, when he noticed their eyes wander or glaze over. He let teaching become a distraction, simply background noise. He ignored the gaping hole in his class—a quarter of them actively being treated in a hospital, not even in the same city—and hoped that by putting up a strong front, the students that watched him as their guide won’t feel so lost.

Even though he couldn’t get the image of Bakugou’s slack, beaten face out of his mind.  

⬽—1/3—⤘

Nicking the key turned out to be harder than Katsuki had anticipated. If he’d learnt nothing else from this whole shitty ordeal, he could at least say with confidence that the way to steal a key had nothing to do with stealth, but rather all to do with being an annoying little shit.

He also found that he had a talent for drumming, though, and that had to count towards something too.

“Will you shut up for one minute?” Fuji spat, eyes glaring daggers. Katsuki stopped drumming his hands on his legs and scowled back, every action calculated and planned. 

Could this be it? 

The guard beside Fuji snorted, then checked the heavy, pricey watch on his wrist. He said something to Fuji, then stood and left. The door didn’t close properly behind him; left unlocked.

This was his chance.

Fuji eyed Katsuki suspiciously. He knew by now that Katsuki had it out for him. So, sure enough, Katsuki started up again. It was a basic beat, a simple left, right–right, left right–right, left–right—

Fuji got to his feet, startling Katsuki enough to falter. He crossed the room in the blink of an eye. 

“Do you think that you’re funny?” Fuji snarled. He towered above Katsuki like a mountain. “Do you think that all of this is a joke?”

Katsuki hesitated. 

He fought every instinct telling him to cower, to shy away, to hide. He’d come this far, he couldn’t back out on his plan now. The door was open, unlocked, his window to freedom. And besides—only babies were cowards.

So he nodded.

There was this brief moment of stillness, where the only movement was the tightening of Fuji’s snarl—

Katsuki was forced to dodge the kick sent his way. He stumbled to the side, clumsy as a newborn fawn. Fuji’s boot collided with the concrete wall and he shouted in outrage. Katsuki’s hands might have been tied, but they hadn’t bothered to chain the children's feet. Katsuki would make them regret it. 

The other three kids watched, wide eyed, as Katsuki darted around Fuji. The man couldn’t keep up; fists swinging, teeth bared, gun clinking on his back with every jerk. 

And, well, Katsuki was amazing. He felt higher than the stars, light on his feet, like lightning itself. He’d always known, since the very moment he heard of heroes and villains, that he would do all in his power (and then more) to become a hero. But in this moment, one where the other three kids with him watched with a mix of horror and slowly growing hope, as Katsuki felt that he might just win against this stupid lime–headed son of a bitch—he felt alive. He liked the adrenaline. He liked the danger. He liked the idea of sourcing those children’s hope of freedom.

He had a purpose, he thought, and it was this.

Then his hope was shot dead.

Fuji found a purchase on the front of Katsuki’s shirt—he couldn’t dart away in time. 

He’s lifted up into the air. His feet didn’t even graze the ground, and he was slightly concerned that his shirt might tear under Fuji’s claw–like grip, but even more so of the murderous glint in his eye. 

Fuji didn’t bother with the gun at his back. (Maybe it was too big for a small job like this.) He reached into his coat and pulled a handgun from his waist. The feeling of cold metal pressed to his temple sent Katsuki into a panic. 

The room might as well have been spinning. Out of control, like his heartbeat, like his mind. He heard a click as the safety turned off. He was the rabbit in a fox’s grasp.

Forced to keep almost stone–dead still. Forced to stare death in the eye.

Only his chest rose and fell, short bursts of inhales and shuddering exhales. He was panicking, like such a fucking baby, he knew that, but he couldn’t help it. His eyes didn’t move, trapped under lock and key with Fuji’s brown ones. They were clouded by anger; drunk on rage. 

To Katsuki, it was familiar. He’d seen it in his mother when he didn’t do as she said properly (especially when he talked back), in the teachers that called him troublesome and tricky (it was only retribution to call them names in return), and most of all, in the mirror. He couldn’t ever stop the fire welling up inside him, lashing out through insults and shoves, through things he never meant to say or do, things he never wanted to happen.

So he knew that whatever came next—clouded by anger, drunk on rage—it wouldn’t be reasoned with. 

“I warned you,” Fuji said. The words were crystal clear in memory. He could still hear echoes of them years later.

Somehow, along the way, Katsuki had blatantly refused the possibility that he might actually die.

He was vaguely aware of the sounds of crying somewhere.

The world tilted, one last time.

Bang.

⬽—+—⤘

“No,” Mitsuki whispered.

It was so unlike her. She’d never refuse something so weakly—if she were to refuse something, she’d do so with a full heart. A sharp tongue. She’d waste no moments with pleasantries or boot licking behaviour—not a single ‘if that’s okay’ or ‘but what do you think?’ 

She’d put her foot down, and she’d have a barrage of reasons why to back it up. Whether that ranged from a fiery ‘ because I fucking said so’ to a cold and icy analysation and breakdown of everything wrong with the opposition’s perspective, she would always say ‘no’ with confidence.

It was what she taught her brat, after all.

The thought forced a clench in her chest. She exhaled shakily, trying her damn fucking hardest to get rid of the wetness in her eyes. Because this—this ‘emotions’ thing? She didn’t do it. She just didn’t. She was stronger than that. 

The teacher of her son watched her with unreadable eyes. Aizawa, the depths of her mind supplied her. She could remember the times her brat might go off on a tangent about him on calls, or over dinner, whenever he came back for the weekends and breaks. 

Caterpillar bastard fucking marked me down for ‘endangering myself’. Like, what the fuck? A hero’s gotta do what a hero’s gotta fucking do to get people out alive. And I got out of it fine, anyway. Barely got injured.

He has a damn point, brat, she’d huffed. You’re no use to anyone dead.

He’d rolled his eyes. That’s what he said, hag. Bunch of fucking shit. You should see what Deku does—he doesn’t have a self preserving bone in his fucking body.

She’d slapped him lightly on the back of the head, earning a frustrated grumble. Don’t try to shift the focus. And you’re going overboard with that fucking swearing—you’d better tone that shit down, alright?

She remembered feeling somewhat eased, knowing that Katsuki had a teacher good enough to discipline him properly. Because as much as the brat talked shit, it was clear he respected Aizawa—and whoever one of the Bakugous respected, they all did. She’d been glad that he was being looked over by a respected Pro Hero. She’d thought he’d be safe with him. 

She cut that train of thought quickly. It wasn’t fair to think that way.

But nothing about this is fair, is it?

Mitsuki took a deep breath in. She breathed out. She could feel Masaru’s hand rubbing slow circles on her back, and the lump in her throat didn’t leave, but it was more manageable. 

“No,” she repeated, somewhat steadier. “Not right now.”

They were standing outside of Katsuki’s room—not the one at home. The hospital had calmed now, after the raid. (It’d been deemed a success. Mitsuki couldn’t bring herself to think so too.) The doctors and nurses that passed them weren’t in much rush to be anywhere, even though their faces were grim. 

When Aizawa had asked to see Mitsuki and her husband, they’d taken a step outside of the hospital room to talk with some semblance of privacy. She hadn’t realised how suffocating it had been in there, surrounded by trailing wires and beeping machines and an all too motionless body, until she’d stepped out into an empty hallway. 

“That’s perfectly fine,” Aizawa said, his voice as calm and monotone as she remembered. But she wasn’t blind. She could see the exhaustion that dragged his shoulders down, the cocktail of emotions that fought in his eyes. “I understand. It can be stressful to have people visiting at a time like this.”

Mitsuki winced and shook her head. “No, it’s not that. Maybe when he’s a little better, I’d be alright with it. I’m sure they’re good kids, really. I’ve met some of them before.” In actuality, all those she’d really met are in the same hospital. All four of them. She was really thinking of whoever might be ‘Earlobes’, ‘Halfie’, or ‘Kirby’. There were others he’d mentioned, she was certain, but their nicknames escaped her, too enveloped in bitter grief. “I just… I don’t want them seeing Katsuki like this.”

Breathing only with the help of a mask. Body functioning only with the help of the tube attached to his forearm. Silent. More so than she’d ever seen him. 

Looking as if he were fucking dead, if she didn’t know any better. And the doctors said that while they’re confident that he has a shot at recovery, there’s also the chance that something could go wrong. An infection? A stroke? She didn’t know most medical terms other than that, so she feared them all.

Aizawa nodded again. “Of course. It’s thoughtful.” Or selfish, part of Mitsuki couldn’t help but think. She ignored that part, and looked away, at the door. Its frosted window stopped her from seeing inside, seeing her son.

“I… I will say, his classmates are worried,” Aizawa said quietly. She refused to meet his eye. “Again, it’s alright to decline. Would you consent to sharing his medical updates with them? They don’t know much about what’s happened, other than the fact that your son and four others were… kidnapped.”

It drove a spear into her chest to hear that word again.

She looked towards Masaru, an unspoken conversation flitting between them, then looked at the door again. She heard Masaru take a deep breath and say, “Yes. That’s alright. And we’ll let you know when… when we feel ready to let them visit.”

“Alright,” Aizawa said. A beat passed. Right before Mitsuki thought he was going to bid his goodbyes and turn away, he bowed. A low one, at that. She blinked, dumbly, at his back. “I’m sorry this happened. Please know that I don’t say it lightly; I wish I could have been there to stop it. I… hope that your trust in me—and of course, in Yuuei—isn’t completely broken—”

Masaru waved his hand. “No, no. Please, stand up. You—you couldn’t have done anything. This was that woman’s fault. Her actions caused this, not… Stand. Please.”

Aizawa straightened, though he did it as if he didn't want to. As if he’d rather they yell at him for the things they didn't—couldn’t, really—blame him for. 

He should know that they wouldn’t. If Mitsuki had wanted to, she’d had the chance to do it yesterday. She’d swept into the hospital like a storm, tearing through and bulldozing down anyone that stood in the way of her and her son. She’d cursed everyone out—the doctors, the heroes, the police—until she found Aizawa amidst the sea of it all, and he’d sat down with her and he’d explained everything. He hadn’t sugar coated it, like anyone else would, and she’d appreciated that. He’d laid all the facts on the table, all the fuckups they’d made and all the wins they’d nonetheless secured. And when she’d gotten angry, when she’d started to lash out, because why wasn’t her son safe in the arms of the people who’d sworn to protect him? He hadn’t told her to calm down. He hadn’t treated her like a chore to take care of, another fallout from the mission that had ended in disaster. He understood her.

And so she hadn’t once told him to go to hell like almost everyone else that night, because she may be hot–headed and angry and upset at this shitty situation, but she wasn’t so far gone as to not realise the underlying effort and emotion the man had tackled this whole shitty, piece of shit ordeal with. (Even in her mind, that sentence left her breathless.)

And… And she supposed she recognised something there, something to be respected, that her brat had, too.

So, again, if one of the family respected him, they all would.

Mitsuki looked up wearily, red eyes boring into black, and recognised his pinched expression. She remembered that he was younger than her—only in his thirties, at least a decade or so younger—and she sighed.

“We can’t always be there to protect them,” she said, the softest her voice would go. “Please. You are at no fault.” 

It was what she’d told Inko, all the way back when her son had been hospitalised from fighting that muscle–freak bastard. It had been the same time that her own son had been kidnapped, but when she’d said it, he’d only been taken for less than a day. She had the positivity to spare; talk had been hopeful of getting him back, as they had done, in the end. He’d escaped from evil freaks once or twice before Kamino anyway, and she had full confidence in her son’s ability to plough through it. 

She’d been in the same mindset this time for around the first three days of his disappearance. By the fourth, she’d been holding on to the last, fleeting slivers of hope, and by the fifth, nothing could console her. The days after those were a blur of tears, regrets and sleepless nights.

“Thank you.” Aizawa pulled her back to the present with a stiff nod. “If you need anything—anything at all—you have my contact. I’d be honoured to help any way I can. Have a good day, to both of you.”

As they watched his retreating back, Mitsuki sighed again. She didn’t think the hero believed her when she’d said what she did. If someone had said the same to her, it was true that she might not, either.

But, casting a look towards the door her son was behind, she knew that it was a fact all the same. It wasn’t Aizawa’s fault. It wasn’t anyone’s but that crazy bitch and her shit–headed army, just like Masaru had said. (Only, perhaps, with slightly softer wording.)

Her son was alive right now. 

No schrodinger type shit anymore. No endless debate in her mind over whether her only son was dead in a ditch somewhere or not. Sure, he was breathing through a tube, and the amount of blood he’d lost had made her nauseous when she’d found out about it through his doctor’s mouth—but you fucking know what?

He had a solid shot at a life past 15 thanks to Aizawa—and she thought he’d better believe her words when a slightly altered, colourful variant of them came out of Katsuki’s. 

Because they would. He would wake up.

Otherwise, she’d kill the damn brat herself.

⬽—+—⤘

Bang.

The gun went off so close to Katsuki’s head that it’s as if the ringing never went away, even years later. 

What happened after that bang was a blur of adrenaline, panic, and fear; a mess of images he couldn’t properly piece together in the days following. He couldn’t tell you his thought process if he tried. 

He knew that one of the other kids had lunged at Fuji, who had staggered—taken by such surprise that his grip on Katsuki had slipped, right as his finger tightened over the trigger. He knew that the bullet had embedded itself into the wall behind Katsuki, and no one’s flesh, which had been one of the biggest reliefs in the moment. 

The rest of it, he didn’t know so much. The kid that had lunged at Fuji—it had been the girl with pigtails, the smiley one—kept the man distracted in a dangerous sort of dance, dodging and dealing strikes like a military trained ballerina. Only her expression betrayed her fear; scared shitless, like them all. Looking back, Katsuki couldn’t have been schooling his expression much better. 

The other two kids there took about two seconds to stare at the scene in shock, before diving in themselves. Fuji’s roar was furious, battling three rabid children—-children he valued too much to use the gun in his hand.

And Katsuki’s feet moved before he could think. 

As Fuji twisted away, trying to wrestle Pigtails off of him, Katsuki swiped the silver key off of his belt. It unclipped smoothly. No one had even noticed. But he didn’t have much time. Pigtails was thrown off of Limehead’s shoulder with a yelp, and he had the crybaby kid’s collar clenched in one meaty hand. The other child, one with two ram-like horns (a mutant quirk, must be), looked torn between fight or flight. Katsuki only had so long before the other guards came back, anyway. Before the door was locked once more, the window to freedom shut—

Maybe forever.

His plan had gone completely off the rails—he hadn't expected the intensity of Fuji’s anger, nor the integrity of the other kids—but he was determined to make this new situation work. That’s what heroes did, right?

The key clicked in his handcuff’s lock. They fell to the floor with a clink. 

His hands crackled with power, and he grinned.

⬽—+—⤘

“Have any of you seen Bakugou yet?”

Denki sat in his cold hospital bed, cross legged, and tried not to wilt too much when all he received were shaken heads. 

“His parents aren’t allowing anyone in to see him,” Kirishima said quietly. Before this, Denki hadn’t seen the combo of both his hair down and his dark roots so overgrown in weeks. He’d usually quip something along the lines of, you look so different! Like a whole new man.

He didn’t say it now. The fact that the entire friend group looked completely different than they did when they entered that MyMerch shop on that blasted day means that he didn’t even need to consider saying it. 

“To be fair,” Ashido said quietly beside Denki’s bed, “it’s only been two days since the raid. We haven’t even asked his parents ourselves.”

“Yeah, but Todoroki said so,” Sero muttered. “He said that that’s what the class has been told. They haven’t gotten any medical updates from him, either.” 

The ‘it must be bad’ went unsaid, though it hung in the air. 

Denki didn’t have his phone, so he had no idea what was going on other than what people told him. It’d been taken by Akeldama by some point. Probably smashed to pieces by now, though in the last week, he’d been thinking with some kind of misguided, naive positivity that they’d just kept all of their belongings somewhere safe, under lock and key.  

He’d also been thinking that they’d all get out of this alive, but that was looking less and less likely. So.

“How are you guys feeling, though?” Denki asked, if only in efforts to loosen the tightening of his chest. “Anyone get to leave, yet?”

“Not me,” Kirishima said. He was sporting a heavy bruise on his temple and an arm in a cast. Denki could vaguely remember how he’d tried to fight Fuji at some point and got knocked down, instead. (He could still hear the sickening crack his arm had made under the man’s boot.) “I’m supposed to rest up, so that Recovery Girl can heal me next time she comes round. But... that’s the same for everyone, right?”

That was another thing; while most of their injuries were nothing life threatening, Recovery Girl couldn’t help them if they didn’t have enough energy. When they’d been brought to Aira’s hospital for the first time and Recovery Girl had arrived an hour or so later, Denki had been rendered unconscious almost immediately. He’d slept all the way into the next day’s afternoon, almost twenty-four hours. Even then, he was in and out of it and barely able to hold a conversation, before he’d gone unconscious again until that morning. 

His family had been distraught. All three of his siblings came to see him, even his older sister, who was usually caught up with her electrical engineering work over in Tokyo—and the huge mess of a hug they’d shared, the subsequent flood of happy tears ready to rival Midoriya’s, almost made everything seem okay. 

From the sounds of it, the rest of the friend group’s stories were similar (bar their fifth member, not that Denki thought it had to be said). None of them had been discharged yet, not until Recovery Girl could assess whether they had enough energy for a second kiss—if they did, they’d go under again and be discharged once they woke up. If they didn’t, well, they’d have to rest some more until they could. 

“Yeah, it’s the same for everyone,” Ashido said. Her tone was so empty, it was impossible not to feel the weight of the missing person in their little group. But it was especially true when Denki remembered that Ashido had seen Bakugou before he was brought to hospital. The only one in their group to have done so, at that. She hadn’t said a word about it, and no one had asked. Their imagination was probably safer to stick to. 

Denki, personally, imagined him with that scary, ‘I’m going to commit murder and get away with it’ grin he did, the one where he knew he was going to win and then he actually went and did it. And it's almost like there was a block in his head, like a child safety lock, because he simply couldn’t conjure up the image of a Bakugou who’d… who’d lost the fight. Ashido mentioned he was unconscious. It didn’t match the fearless picture he had in his head.

“I only had a sprain and a few knocks to heal up, though, so they think I’ll be out pretty soon,” Ashido continued. She smiled, but it didn’t meet her eyes. Denki really hoped that it’d meet her eyes soon, because he wasn’t liking this subdued version of her. “It’s you guys that are looking at a few days more.”

Sero nodded. He was looking out of the hospital window, but Denki had a feeling that he wasn't actually seeing. Did that make sense? It did to Denki. 

He knew what it felt like to feel detached from the world. 

“I… I barely got injured,” Sero murmured. His knee bounced anxiously. “Only a few nicks in that last scuffle with Fuji. It’s mostly the energy I’m lacking, you know—couldn’t walk for the first day here.”

Denki could relate—mostly. He’d spent yesterday traipsing in and out of consciousness. This was his first day fully awake, and the doctors wouldn’t let him out of bed without supervision. On the other hand, he was leaning more towards Ashido’s musing; he definitely was looking at a few more days, at least. His shoulder had been hurt pretty badly in that first session—the one with the hot iron rod.

He grimaced just thinking of it, and tried to press down the memories that flashed behind his eyes. Akeldama was gone. Locked up. Never to stab a kid with a hot iron rod ever again and oh my fucking god that was terrifying.  

He had scars now. The injuries had been left too long for Recovery Girl to be able to revert his shoulder to how it used to be completely—and so he’d been left, tainted, stained, by the polka dot, starburst pattern that marred his skin. They’re ugly and they’re raw and they still hurt to touch (whether it’s that his skin was still tender or that his own mind had decided to torture him with phantom pain, he didn’t care to know).

But he talked to his dad when the rest of the family left for a toilet break, and his words echoed in his ears. ‘It’s okay to not like your scars, buddy. It’s normal to hate a reminder of something bad. But that doesn’t mean it defines you, or that it tarnishes you. You can grow past this. You’re strong, Denki, alright? I’ll always be here to remind you of it.’

Okay, he cried. Okay, he was, like, 90% sure that his father was Master Oogway reborn. Did those things matter? No. What mattered was that he felt slightly less disgusted by the scars now (and he’d feel tenfold better if a certain guy on the brink of death woke the fuck up right now).

He was going off topic. That wasn’t the point. Not the point of anything. The point was (and the parallels aren’t lost on him, o–ho, they aren’t), apparently, his shoulder had been sprained. The result of careless, sadistic stabbing with a little too much force. He hadn’t even considered that outcome at the time (figured his pain tolerance simply needed work), but he didn’t say it because he knew how bad it sounded—and he really didn’t have the energy to be subject to even more misdirected concern. 

Either way, it hadn’t healed properly, leading to a whole bunch of complications when it got plopped on top of the wounds made by that iron rod. Denki wouldn’t pretend to understand the medical–slash–scientific side of it. All he knew is that, by lumping that hot mess with the common problem he and his friends had found (their lack of energy from a cocktail of malnutrition, dehydration and sleep deprivation), he was forced to spend more days in this cold, hard bed.

“Yeah,” Denki said simply, “I’m probably staying a bit longer here. My shoulder’s giving me shit. You too, Kiri, right?”

Kirishima nodded stiffly. “Yeah. My arm’s still broken, and I had a bit of a concussion when I came in, which didn’t help anyone. And they said they had to get rid of a bit of water in my lungs before anything else, in case it made everything worse through infection. ‘New–iona’, or something.”

Bakugou would know what it was called. Then he’d thwack them upside the head for not knowing it.

“Pneumonia,” Ashido mumbled, “probably.”

Yeah… That was a pretty common medical term. Definitely thwack–worthy.

Kirishima nodded, giving the ghost of a smile. Maybe he was thinking the same as Denki. “Yeah. That.”

They fell into an uneasy silence.

A knock at the door split it like a knife through butter, and it opens. 

He half expected a doctor to be the one behind it—to usher his friends out of the room under the orders of yet another check up. Or his parents, complaining that his little sister has too much separation anxiety now to leave him alone for over two hours. He wouldn’t even bat an eye at Aizawa, there with his somewhat soothing, monotone drawl—the one that betrayed more emotion than the untouchable hero must think. (At least, to Denki. Because if Denki was useless at everything else, he at least prided himself on people.)

Instead he saw a familiar shock of pale blond hair. 

Sharp, narrowed, crimson eyes. 

His heart leapt into his throat—

“I hope I’m not intruding.” 

Then the air rushed out of him silently, shakily, just as fast. He hadn’t even realised he’d taken the hopeful breath until it was gone. Because this wasn’t Bakugou.

“I’m Katsuki’s mother,” Mrs Bakugou continued, as if she ever needed an introduction like that. “We’ve met, once or twice before.” No one said anything as she lingered in the doorway hesitantly; their minds must have been on the same track as Denki’s. That is, stuck on a blank. He’d met her before, yes, but never under these conditions. Never with every painfully scripted apology—every intricately planned plea for forgiveness—that have been simmering just under his skin since he woke up in hospital. Mrs Bakugou (the name felt weird) took a small step further. She was still holding the door ajar. “Do you mind if I speak with you all?”

Kirishima snapped out of it first. He got out of his seat like it had electrocuted him (not the best metaphor, for old time’s sake) and grabbed a chair that’d been pushed against the wall. 

“Not at all,” he said, positioning it beside his own, to the right of Denki—opposite where Ashido and Sero sit, side by side. He offered the seat to Mrs Bakugou. “Uh, sit, if you like.”

Mrs Bakugou smiled weakly, and took him up on his offer. She sat rigidly, refusing to soothe the tension in her figure, and clasped her hands in her lap. 

It was alien to watch. Denki was aware that he was staring, but he couldn't help it. He stared at the stiffness of her posture—so alike to Bakugou’s whenever he’d been dragged to a social setting—and the slight upward turn of her brow in the middle. It looked tentative, hesitant, unsure. He’d never seen that expression on her face, in the short interactions he’d had with her, and he’d never seen it on Bakugou’s, either. It replaced the usual scowl, or the rare snarkish grin. 

She was worried. And, Denki thought, for good reason. 

“Thank you,” Mrs Bakugou told Kirishima. Even her voice was warped; soft around the edges. It was impressive, though, how she still managed to make it sound bold and confident. It was one semblance to normality Denki took pathetic comfort in. She looked at each of them when she spoke again. “I’d asked to see you all at the same time, but it looks like I got lucky. Eraserhead told me you’d all be in here.”

No one knew what to say to that. (Look how useful his ‘people skills’ were now.)

Right when Denki thought Mrs Bakugou was about to speak again, Ashido blurted, “Is Bakugou okay?”

Mrs Bakugou took a deep breath. Slow. She used it to fill the few seconds she took to piece her words together. “He will be,” she finally said. Her face betrayed nothing; a wall of motherly determination. “The doctors say that he’s stable, at least. That—erm, that recovery hero from your school, she said that she can’t start healing him with her quirk yet. They have to wait at least a day or two before she can even think of trying, but—yes, I think he’s going to be okay.”

The relief was palpable. It left him dizzy, how swiftly the elephant crushing his chest lifted. He felt almost weightless, as if Uraraka had slapped him on the back, as if he could float out of the bed and walk fine and use his shoulder fine and be fine. 

“Have you received any updates at all?” Mrs Bakugou asked, brow knitting. Denki must be fragile now, because the sight looked so similar to Bakugou’s scowl that he wanted to cry. “I gave the go–ahead yesterday. I guess things haven’t been arranged properly yet.”

“We haven’t, no,” Sero mumbled. He looked at Mrs Bakugou as if she held the answers to the universe. “How is he? Is he awake?”

Mrs Bakugou shifted in her seat. “No, not awake yet. He’s in a short, medically induced coma for the time being. I don’t really know much about medical procedures, but he’s experienced a lot of blood loss.” She paused. “Dangerous levels of blood loss. That, on top of his injuries—” She caught herself again, and this time, didn’t elaborate. 

“You don’t need to tell us, if it’s too heavy to talk about,” Kirishima said quietly. “I’m—we’re—just glad to hear that he’s doing good. The last time we saw him, he—” He frowned, lost in his mind for a moment. “He didn’t… We didn’t really know what to think, I guess. So, thanks. For that.”

Before Mrs Bakugou could say anything further, Denki latched onto the chance to speak. 

He’d kick himself for years if he didn’t take it now.

“I wanted to apologise to you, by the way,” he blurted, voice slightly rough. Mrs Bakugou frowned, about to object, so he added, “I know it doesn’t change anything, but I… I have to say it. I mean, I just—when we were back there—” (cement walls, cold chains, the stench of blood—) “things were looking pretty bad.” Hopeless. Stupidly fucking hopeless. “And I think, the only thing that got us through it, really, was Bakugou.” 

He wouldn’t have made it without Ashido’s rational soothing. Without Sero’s blunt jokes, or Kirishima’s mature assertiveness. 

But without Bakugou taking the brunt of their literal torture? Without Bakugou chiding them for thinking negatively even while taking a single breath is a struggle for him? His sacrifices trumped any and all the rest of them could make. 

Without Bakugou, Denki would be dead. 

“And—And it’s been bothering me,” he stammered, “how we got out with, like, barely anything wrong, while Bakugou—well, he’s—he isn’t even awake right now. And I just—I’m so sorry, Mrs Bakugou.” It should have been me. “We’re supposed to be heroes.” And I failed in every aspect. “I’m so sorry it turned out like this. I’m so sorry that I–I couldn’t—”

“I’m going to stop you right f— right there,” Mrs Bakugou said. Her voice had become sharp. Rough too, like his.  

“You four have been through more than I ever have, and more than I ever fucking will,” Mrs Bakugou continued. The curse seemed to slip out without her realising, and it was nicer to hear than she probably realised. “Don’t ever apologise to me, or anyone, for being hurt. Whatever Katsuki did in there, he—he knew full well what he was getting into. What he was committing to. I’m certain that any shitty actions he made in there were of his own volition, no matter how goddamn misguided, which means that it is not your fault. No one controls that brat—not even me, half the damn time. He wouldn’t blame you. I sure as fuck won’t, either.”

She took a deep breath, her gaze turning faraway. “If anything, I’ve been meaning to thank you. I heard about how there was a fight, just before the heroes arrived. Written in your statements.” Despite the pain and injuries sustained, that was the least shittiest part of the whole ordeal. Getting to see Fuji be battered a little was just that much worth it. “I’m told that if not for you, that bastard might have shoved you all into another shitty van and driven off to the next meeting point, before the heroes could ever receive the coordinates to the first damn one.

Ashido shook her head. She had a strange wobbly smile. “It wasn’t—it wasn’t enough. Bakugou’s still…”

“Katsuki is still alive,” Mitsuki finished firmly. “And I’ll be forever grateful for all your efforts.” 

Then went the one thing Denki thought would never happen. 

Mitsuki stood and bowed as far as she could. “Thank you. Honestly. Thank you for being there for my kid.”

Denki looked away when he realised that her eyes were glassy, like his own. He tried to swallow the lump in his throat, though it’s pretty futile. Mitsuki straightened and blinked quickly. “Hm. I’d almost forgotten what I came to say. When I heard about Katsuki, I almost didn’t believe it. I had to see him, in person, to properly believe that he was alright. I gave it some thought, and I figured it might be the same for the four who have, well, gone through hell with him.”

Denki’s brow crumpled. Did she mean...?

She smiled. It looked just like Bakugou's, in the few rare moments it slipped out. “So, if you’re ready, his hospital room is open to you for visiting.”

⬽—+—⤘

The house was silent.

No movement in the dark windows. No voices behind the door. Katsuki dragged himself up the last step, exhausted, and knocked.

No reply.

He scowled, so ready to throw a tantrum despite the bone–deep ache, and banged again. Harder. Still nothing. He waited, listening, for a few moments—until his eye caught on the driveway, and he realised belatedly that the car wasn't there.

They weren’t there.

Katsuki breathed in and out, shakily. Maybe the hag got worried. Maybe they were at the police station right now. Maybe that’s where he should have headed to in the first place, instead of prioritising a hug and the sight of home.  

Like a baby, his mind muttered. 

He lifted the welcome mat on the doorstep. There was always a key there, kept for whenever they come home late, or leave on work trips, and Katsuki came home to an empty house. Like right now.  

He slotted the key into the lock, remembering to hide it under the carpet again, and shut the door behind him. The smell of home—indescribable yet somehow warm—washed like a peaceful wave over him, washing the stiffness in his form with cool relief. 

He called out to the empty house, just in case someone was in, and hadn’t heard the knocking. 

Still, no one replied. 

Before anything—before washing the grime from his skin, sitting down to rest or eat, taking off his muddy shoes, even—he beelined for the landline. It was in the kitchen, on the counter. He knew his parents’ numbers by heart; they’d taught him before they’d left for their first work trip. He had to go on his tip–toes to reach it, but when he did, when he managed to unhook it from the receiver, punch in the numbers, it was easy sailing from there.

It rang five tones before the hag picked up. “Katsuki?” she said, the speaker crackling.

He wanted to cry at the sound of her voice. He didn’t. That’s what a baby would do. “Mama,” he replied. He hated the wobble in his voice, and he knew Mitsuki would, too. “Where—where are you?”

“Driving,” she replied, preoccupied. Quieter, away from the phone: “Masaru, take a left there…”  

‘Driving’. Simple. Short. Made him want to cry harder, but whatever. He was no baby.

Reading into his silence, Mitsuki added, “From Sakata, Katsuki—we set off two hours ago, we’ll be home soon. Why didn’t you answer any of our calls sooner, brat?”

Sakata.

Work trip.

Miles away. 

How had he forgotten that? Katsuki all but flopped against the wooden kitchen cupboards, marble tiles hard and cold under his skin. He drew his knees up to his chin, cradled the phone to his face, and spoke past the lump in his throat. 

“When did you leave?” His voice had turned into a broken whine. It’d never been this painful to talk—not even when he had a sore throat—but it wasn’t because of sickness. Not unless you counted loneliness as sickness. 

There was another pause, now, but it was from Mitsuki’s end. “Leave from… home? Yesterday, Katsuki. Something came up. We had to leave early, we couldn’t say bye… Didn’t you see the note? Why didn’t you call us sooner?”

Again with the same question. How could Katsuki say, without sounding utterly lost, that he wasn’t able to call them because he was too busy being trafficked? He didn’t like that word. It hung heavy in his mind. He’d heard the word in news reports before, asked the old man what it meant, folded the meaning away so that he’d look clever for knowing it—but he’d never thought it’d apply to him. 

Now that he looked, there it was. A sheet, torn from a notebook, lying innocently on the dinner table. He couldn’t read what it said from here, not past the blurring of his sight, the tears that welled up, but that was it, wasn't it? That’s the note he never got to read.

“Something happened,” he sniffled, breath catching. He thought of vans, metal capped boots, and guns. He’d never seen a real gun so close before, only now did he realise. He blinked back more tears. “Something bad. Please come home.”

Now the old man’s voice filtered through the speaker, a little further away. “Is that Katsuki? What’s wrong?”

Everything’s wrong. How come he hadn’t gotten a hug yet?

“Just drive faster, Masaru,” came Mitsuki’s voice again, angled away. He wasn’t old enough to read the tone in her voice. Mitsuki talked to the phone again, voice sharp and controlled. “Katsuki, we’re on our way. What happened? What’s wrong?”  

“There was a–a man,” Katsuki hiccupped, speaking before he could think through his sentences. “He said you—he said he was—that you—”

“Katsuki, you aren’t making any sense,” she said. Anyone else would say that she was snapping, but if she were, Katsuki would know it. No; she was impatient and frustrated, it was clear, but her concern trumped everything else. He could at least recognise that. It calmed down the nerves buzzing in his veins slightly. She prompted him, and he was grateful for the guide: “Restart, kiddo. Slow. There was a man?”

“There was a what?” Masaru was still listening. He sounded concerned and panicked, but Katsuki had enough panic on his plate, so he decided not to answer that.

“Yesterday. After—After school,” Katsuki said. He tried to calm his stuttered breaths, swallowing to get rid of the lump in his throat. “He said you—that he was your friend from work. I didn’t believe him. And—But there was a–a van, and it was all dark—I don’t know what happened—they took me somewhere—”

“Katsuki.” Her voice was icily cool, pointed like a knife. It clamped his mouth shut by force. “You’re home, yeah? Are you safe right now?”

“I think so,” he whispered shakily.

“The windows are locked, like we showed you? And the doors?”

He spared the windows a wary glance. It was still early in the morning, so it wasn’t scary. There was no gaping blackness that stared back at him, no; instead a happy, pale blue sky, dotted with fluffy clouds, and an empty street. No one was awake yet, not on a Saturday morning.

The windows were closed, though, and locked, he could see from the way the handles were turned. He staggered up, despite the yearn of his body to stay sitting for the next year, and crossed to the front door. He rattled it. It was locked.

“Katsuki?” Mitsuki urged.

“Yeah,” he finally breathed. He stumbled over to the staircase, just opposite the door, and sat on the bottom stair. He hiked his knees up to his chin again and clutched the phone to his ear like a lifesource. “Yeah. Locked.”

Something crackled over the speaker. A slow exhale. “OK. Now, are you hurt, Katsuki?”

He swallowed. He had a cut on his arm, nicked by a blade, or a branch from a tree, somewhere along the way. His front ached, where he was sure there must be bruises blossoming. His wrists were chaffed and sore from where the handcuffs had been, and his forearms shook from exertion. It felt like the worst muscle cramp he’d ever experienced; he’d never had to use his quirk so much. And then there was the headache; the pounding migraine not painful enough to properly hurt, but not mellow enough to ignore.

“Not really,” he muttered. “Head hurts a bit. But I’m fine.”

Another blow of relief. “Fuck, Katsuki. OK.”

“Is he?” a panicked Masaru said. “Is he okay? What did he say?”

“He said he’s alright,” Mitsuki replied, voice quieter as she angled the phone away again. “Katsuki’s okay.”

He may not have received an actual hug, but this verbal one would have to do. While Katsuki would never outright admit it, he’d always been the kid to hide in shops or tempt danger almost enough to get a broken bone. If you asked why, he’d say he liked the adventure. He wasn’t a coward, scared by the mere chance of injury.

But, really, he’d always secretly been hoping for this. Proof that his parents cared, even if they said it from time to time. Just to see if they’d really be worried. 

If they’d scoop him into their arms like Inko did Deku. 

He’d just have to settle for hearing Masaru’s tired sigh over the phone instead. That’s enough for him. That’s proof enough. Right?

“When—When are you gonna get here?” Katsuki mumbled, rubbing his nose.

There was a pause. “Half an hour, Kats. Maybe less, if there’s no traffic.”  

Katsuki’s chest felt tight. Half an hour was a long time. Thirty whole minutes. “OK.” His voice came out unstable.

“There’s food in the fridge, don’t forget that, if you get hungry.”

He sniffed. “OK.”

“Don’t hang up, Katsuki, yeah? Sit tight.”

“OK.”

A pause. They murmured something between themselves that Katsuki couldn’t make out. Then: “Katsuki, maybe you should go to the police station. You’ll be safe there. Do you know the way?”

His gut twisted. Going to the police station meant opening the door. Opening the door and walking down the street. What if Fuji was waiting outside?

He pictured his eyes, staring, watching—that gruesome grin—and resolutely decided that he’d been enough of a hero for the day. Maybe for the entire week. He was allowed to be a bit of a baby now, right? Surely.

“No,” he mumbled. “I don’t want to.”

Another pause. “Katsuki. Why not?” Her voice was becoming sharp again, how it was when Katsuki is stubborn over something childish. “It’s safer to—”

“I won’t,” Katsuki insisted, a whine crawling into his voice again. “I don’t want to—I won’t go outside.”

There was a murmur over the phone again. He recognised the low gravel of Masaru’s voice. 

Then Mitsuki spoke again. “OK, brat. You win. We’ll be there as quick as we can. Until then, keep everything locked, don’t reply to anyone, and don’t fucking do anything I’d tell you off for. OK?”

“OK.” Katsuki had said that a lot, he realised—it was against his usual rebellious code—but he didn’t care right now. 

Right now, all he cared about was for them to come back.

⬽—2/3—⤘

If there was an omniscient, all powerful God, Hanta would like to punch the bastard.

He’d never believed in a higher power, and he wouldn’t start now—because it's easier to believe that everything happens spontaneously, rather than some huge asshole knowing fully well what was happening and not lifting a finger to stop it. 

Bakugou looked dead. There was no skirting around a fact like that. His skin was paler than ever, his hair somehow muted. The first time they saw him since the raid, he could only breathe using an oxygen mask. Needles and wires attached to his arms gave him the nutrients he needed to survive, forget thrive, and the heart monitor beside his bed was the only sound in the room. 

Other than the crying. But Hanta wasn’t one to point fingers this time (considering he’d let loose a few sniffles himself). 

There was a certain maturity you had to be to see one of your closest friends so lifeless like that (not once, but twice) without going insane, and Hanta thought that he was only toeing the line. He was sixteen. Sixteen, like, not old enough to worry about taxes yet. How come he was worrying about whether or not his friend might turn into a corpse in the next business day or two? 

OK.

Backpedalling from that trainwreck.

Bakugou at least looked a little better, four days now after the raid. With nothing better to do, the friend group gathered (whole again, a part of him whispered tiredly) in his little hospital room, every single one of the days that they were allowed. They’d wait, when Bakugou’s parents wanted to see him alone in the mornings, and they’d come around midday to eat lunch together. Kaminari had said he’d never complain about Lunch Rush’s food ever again, after trying the hospital food, even though he’d never complained about the hero's food before. Lunch Rush’s food was some of the best, ever, so he’d never had to. If Hanta was being honest, he’s pretty sure the sentence had included Morana’s name in it, instead, before it made its way from his head to his mouth. 

Or Sasaki’s. 

But no one spoke about them, because it was taboo. Because it was somehow even more painful than being half–starved for a week. Though Hanta wouldn’t know if it were more painful than being stabbed with a hot iron rod; having your arm broken under a metal capped boot; seeing your closest friend the closest he could possibly be to the grave; even being that friend, the one dancing with death. He could imagine, maybe, through the countless nightmares that ripped apart his sleep schedule like a monster hungry for revenge—nightmares where it was him who was offered the chance to die—but he’d never really know.

Because nothing had happened to him. He had no scars.

The thought came with a sharp pang. One deep in his core, as if someone had screwed, coiled, pressed his chest tight. 

Look. No matter what Bakugou’s–Mum said, the truth of the matter was that her son’s stuck in a hospital bed for the next however–many–days (maybe even weeks, fuck), while Hanta’s just received the go ahead to be discharged. 

He had no scars. He had no aches. He was completely unharmed, thanks to Recovery Girl, and it was killing him.  

Was that even possible? Hanta was starting to think so. He’d heard stories of swans dying of broken hearts—could he die from a guilty one? 

“Sero?” 

He blinked, focused on Ashido’s face, concern woven into the lines of her face. He must've zoned out again. He’d been doing that, lately. He couldn’t help it. “Yeah?”

She hesitated, then mumbled, “You haven’t eaten anything.” 

Bakugou looked tired. His hands shook, clenched around his little takeaway box like it was taking all of his strength to do so. Only Kirishima had the courage to speak—you haven’t eaten anything, Bakugou. Are you okay? 

‘I’m fine.'

Fine, his ass. What a useless question. 

Hanta didn’t know how much longer Bakugou could go on for, and it scared him.

Hanta thought about the heart-broken swans again, and wondered if, were he connected to a heart monitor like Bakugou, it might flatline. 

Hanta Sero. Dead from a broken heart.

Yeah. Well. It had a dark sort of ring to it.

Hanta looked down at his food; shitty cafeteria food, really, and it reminded him of middle school. Ashido was right. He hasn’t so much as touched it. “Yeah. I guess I’m just… not very hungry. Want some?”

Ashido smiled faintly. It was more like a grimace. She’d brightened up ever since they’d been allowed to see Bakugou, but she hadn’t yet returned to how she used to be. Maybe none of them would—ever. “Nah. Eat as much as you can, though, otherwise RG’s going to beat you with that stick she’s got.”

“Not if I get to you first,” Kaminari reminded him, reaching over to elbow him. They sat side by side in cold, plastic chairs. Ashido sat with Kirishima on the other side of the bed. 

The silent, motionless bed.

“You can’t talk,” Hanta replied, hoping the huff in his voice is enough to make visible the humourless laugh that died in his throat. “You’ve barely touched yours.”

Kaminari smiled. “I ate a mouthful, as a matter of fact, which is more than you.”

“Girls, girls,” Ashido said, rolling her eyes. “Stop bickering and eat your food.”

Kaminari jerked his head back in false offence. “Um, that’s actually a sexist and outdated joke, Ashido. Shouldn’t be making those.”

Hanta nodded solemnly. “Yeah, Ashido. Very harmful. It’s stereotyping girls, pushing them into unfair and unjust expectations. Be more mindful, next time.”

Ashido narrowed her eyes and scoffed. “I don’t care if you’re on the opposite side of this room or the world. Don’t think I’ll hesitate to—”

“Violence?” Kaminari gaped. “Violence! Is this a threat? How dare you be so emotional, Ashido—”

Ashido ploughed through, talking over him. “Stick this fork up your—”

So did Kaminari. “Not very ladylike, honestly—”

“So far up that you’ll be spitting out metal prongs—”

“Oh my god, this is all because of the—”

“Until next fucking week—”

“Human Rights Act of, like, 1984 or something—”

“I knew you’d get that wrong!” Ashido barked. “Human Rights Act of 1998, thank you very fucking much.”

Somehow, Bakugou still seemed to have an influence over the room, even when he was sleeping.

Kaminari laughs, one right from his chest. In Hanta's opinion, it was one of the best sounds he'd heard in a while. Kirishima caught Hanta’s eye across the bed, and they traded a small smile. Kirishima hadn’t said much today, but he seemed content to watch from afar. As, now, was Hanta. Quiet, yes, but not completely broken-hearted. And that was the thing, really, wasn’t it? The thing Hanta missed, in his wallowing.

A swan died of a broken heart because it was alone. 

Hanta was not alone.

⬽—+—⤘

They eventually hung up with a goodbye and a goodluck.

Katsuki didn’t put away the phone. He held it in a tight grip and pressed its speaker to his forehead, using the cool, smooth texture to ground him. He didn’t get off of the stairs, either. He hadn’t slept since Thursday night, but he didn’t care. He hadn’t eaten since Friday’s lunch, but he didn’t care. He stayed planted there, no matter how long it took, even as his eyelids threatened to drag shut, through every minute that ticked laboriously by, until he heard the car pull in outside.

(But it could be someone else, so he waited some more.)

Until he heard a hushed argument on the doorstep.

Until he heard the key in the lock. It didn’t fit. Someone hissed a curse. The key stopped abusing the lock, and then another took its place.

The door creaked open. 

Red met red.

“Oh, Katsuki, kiddo,” Mitsuki murmured from the doorway. 

His throat felt tight. “Hi, mum.” His voice came out wetter than expected, like Deku’s. Like the crybaby kid. Like a baby’s.

But… 

His mother didn’t seem to mind.

⬽—+—⤘

The train back home was a long one. (Maybe it felt longer than it actually was.) Mina took it with Sero, the only other one in their friend group cleared to leave—Sero, and two armed guards. They sat across from them with stone hard faces, betraying no emotion, guns strapped to waists. 

Mina felt stupid in her alien–patterned jumper, her fluffy pink slippers. It’d been her mother’s work, prioritising comfort over style when she’d asked for a change of clothes from home. Which, in Mina’s humble opinion…

Nah. She was too tired to argue.

The carriage was practically empty, otherwise. They were travelling in the evening, in that twilight hour that wasn’t too early to catch those coming home from work, but not too late that it was clamoured with clubbers. 

The carriage shook as they went round a bend, and Mina stiffened. She knew it was stupid, but leaving the hospital meant leaving safety. They said that they’d apprehended Akeldama, and the supervisor, and Fuji. But who was to say that the League weren’t still hungry for a chance to strike? The League, or any other villain out there, she supposed, convinced that they’d be the one to somehow change… well, the structure of society itself. What tended to naturally happen, when you put someone on a pedestal closer to God than to the people; corruption. 

Because, of course, traumatising a few teenagers was the best way to achieve that.

Another rattle. She weaved her fingers together in her lap, squeezed them together tight. Her nails dug into her skin, little crescent indents, but it wasn’t the worst she’d ever been through, was it?

Not by far. (She thought of Bakugou’s motionless form, and found that it was still somehow not far enough.)

She was pulled out of her, quite frankly, depressing mind by a slight tap at her shoe. She looked down. Sero’s trainer nudged her’s; his plain, dark grey and white design, a contrast against her fluffy explosion of pink. 

She glanced to the side. He watched her expectantly. 

“I’m okay,” she replied quietly to his silent question. “You?”

His smile turned softer. “Yeah. Think I will be.”

She nudged his trainer back.

They arrived at the Musutafu Station soon after. A police car was waiting for them, ready to pick them up. 

The doors opened. Out stepped Aizawa to greet them, and Mina hugged him before she could feel embarrassed about it. “Thank you,” she murmured. "Thank you so much, sir."

That’s all. If she said everything that ran through her mind, they’d never set off. In fact, they might instead drown in the waterworks that’d ensue. So she stepped away, rubbing her nose to mask a sniffle, and Sero put a gentle hand on her shoulder.

Aizawa didn’t seem to know what to say. He bowed his head, eyes soft. It said more than words could. Then, “Come. Let’s get you kids home.” 

“We’re going to the dorms, right?” Sero asked.

Aizawa tilted his head, a small pause. “Unless you’d rather stay with family. Which wouldn’t be a problem—”

“No, no,” Sero backtracked quickly, shaking his head. Mina could remember him complaining about too many cousins and aunts and uncles. She snorted, elbowing him, and he grinned sheepishly at Aizawa. “No, that’s alright, I’d… rather stay in Height’s Alliance right now.”

After all, fifteen classmates was a smaller family to manage, right?

The car drive was quicker than the train had felt. Without the serious stares of the guards to silence them, the car grew loud with discourse and banter. Aizawa even huffed a quiet laugh at one of Sero’s jokes, and bickered with Mina over whether a three-day weekend would be better than the two-day one. It ended with a, "You know what, I can't argue with that. I think you probably deserve as many three day weekends as you like, after this."

Because Mina always emerges victorious, obviously.

When they get there, glass doors glowing with warm light from inside, Mina couldn’t stop the buzz in her chest to see her second family again. They’d visited her in the hospital, sure, but it felt different when it was here. When it was home.

They pushed the doors open, put their bags by the door. Someone had put on the heating, and they were hit by a wave of warmth. The frost outside didn’t reach inside. And the icy stare of paranoia on her back couldn’t reach, either.

Uraraka was the first to see them, tucked in her usual place on the sofa. She stood, wide eyed, and sent Mina’s huge grin right back. 

They ran to tackle each other in a hug, laughter bubbling carelessly, and when Uraraka finally pulled away, she breathed, “Oh my god. You’re finally back.”

Mina beamed brighter. Her cheeks ached in a way they hadn’t for a while; she hadn’t smiled this hard, for a while. 

Yeah, she thinks. They’re finally, finally, back.

⬽—+—⤘

Mitsuki and Auntie Inko were two very different people—that was no secret. Where Inko could be timid, cautious and bashful in any situation even slightly alike to a confrontation, Mitsuki handled almost everything with fire and passion. 

Almost everything.

But Katsuki had seen Inko hug Deku with the same fierce passion he’d seen in his mother’s anger. And he knows Mitsuki regarded shows of love the same way Inko regarded confrontation; something to be reserved, kept for only the worst situations. Something to be avoided until you couldn’t any longer. 

So, in that strange way, it was as if they swapped temperaments when it came to love.

In turn, Katsuki didn’t get his hug. 

(He didn’t after the sludge villain either, or Kamino, but by then he’d grown to expect it.)

Mitsuki crouched in front of him, a child too young to match his mind, still sitting pitifully on the stairs like a dog awaiting its owner. Masaru watched from the door, worry creasing his brow. Katsuki wanted to run up to them, tackle them in a hug, but it wouldn’t be the same as if they opened their arms first. 

Instead, Mitsuki reached out a warm, manicured hand, and tousled his hair. It came down to cup his cheek gently. Tentatively. As if too much affection could hurt him. 

“Katsuki, baby, you’re all dirty,” she muttered, rubbing at a spot of dirt on his cheek. The warm hand went away. He wished he’d leaned into it, or held it in place, just anything at all to have stopped it from leaving. There was a lonely, cold feeling in its place. “Why didn’t you take a shower while you waited for us to get back? Or at least change out of your school clothes… And—oh, the damn floorboards, Katsuki… the mud… You didn’t think to put your shoes away?”

A lump rose in Katsuki’s throat. Stupid. Why hadn’t he? He should have. 

“Mitsuki, go easy on him,” Masaru said gently—but he didn’t outright deny that Katsuki had done something wrong. Maybe he thought that Katsuki was stupid, too. 

“I’m just saying,” Mitsuki replied over her shoulder, her voice somewhat softened. It didn’t stop her words from stinging. “I’m not blaming anyone. It just means that we’re gonna have to do a bit of cleaning. Oh, shit, should we do that before going to the police? Masaru, what if it stains?”

“It can wait,” Masaru said firmly, shaking his head. “We don’t know what happened to him. He’s probably tired and scared… aren’t you, kiddo? Let’s get it over with, yeah?”

Mitsuki sighed quietly and nodded, looking back at Katsuki with unreadable eyes. He felt like a chore, for a moment. (Maybe a little longer than a ‘moment’. Maybe that feeling never quite went away.) 

“You’re right,” she said. “You up for a car ride, brat?”

Katsuki shrugged. He didn’t speak, because if he spoke, he knew he'd cry.

“Just… before we do, can you do something for me, Katsuki?” Mitsuki said softly. Her lips pressed together, almost guiltily. “If they ask, just tell them that we got home late last night. Don’t tell them that we went on a work trip, okay? Can you do that for me?”

He could tell they needed an answer; they look at him expectantly. The lump was hard to speak around.

“Why?” he managed.

They exchanged a look Katsuki couldn’t understand.

Not yet, anyway.

“What happened after school yesterday—it was a bad thing,” Masaru explained patiently. His words came out stilted, like he was forcefully pushing them out. “And the fact that we weren’t there to make sure it didn’t happen isn’t good. We… we thought you were mature enough to handle yourself for one night, just as you’ve done before.” The way he said it meant that he thought Katsuki was no longer mature enough though, right? Stupid, stupid, stupid. He should’ve ran the moment the van opened its doors. Maybe it wouldn’t have made any difference. Maybe it would have made all of it.

Masaru rushed to add, “You are mature, Katsuki, it’s just that… you were there at the wrong place, at the wrong time. The police won’t understand that though, okay? You are mature, Katsuki, you’re very clever and brave and behaved, but if you tell them that we weren’t there, that this happened because of it, they’ll think… otherwise.”

That last word came out weak, tone tilting upwards, like he was unsure of what he was saying himself.

But Katsuki didn’t hear that. He only heard that if he said this one little lie, no one would think that he was a baby anymore. And maybe he’d get a hug, too, as a little bonus.

(He won’t.)

“OK,” he said. He tried his best to mirror the smiles they give. It came out tight. He’d been taught to smile a pretty smile, one fit for the cover of fashion magazines, but he didn’t use it very often. And right now, he couldn’t seem to pull its corners up properly, like he should.

So they left the house, drove to the station, and talked to policemen who sported scary frowns.

But, before they did, Mitsuki swept away the mud clumps from the floor with a broom. It was a rushed job, one that left dark, moist patches in its place. Masaru said they didn’t have time for a proper clean. But Mitsuki did it anyway. 

Better safe than sorry, she’d muttered. 

Better safe, than sorry.

(They left on another ‘work trip’ a month later.)

⬽—+—⤘

“Any progress?”

Tsukauchi slid the coffee cup over the table’s surface. The steaming liquid sloshed carelessly inside, threatening to spill over the rim. It didn’t. Shota took a sip the same time his coworker did, and they grimaced in synchrony. Too hot, too bitter. 

Still caffeine, nonetheless. 

Tsukauchi shook his head. “Not really, not with the villains. Fuji’s reserving his right to stay silent. He just keeps repeating that he wants to talk to… to Bakugou. We aren’t telling him much about the kid’s status, so he’s getting frustrated.” Tsukauchi sighed and rubbed his temples. “On the other hand, Akeldama and her aunt shared a lot, once we made it clear that it was over for them. We told the aunt that her niece had spilled almost everything anyway, and vice versa for Akeldama. Some might call it unethical… I’d call it tactful.”

“So, anything we don’t already know?” Shota asked.

Tsukauchi took a deep breath, stalling for time. “She thought… that she killed him, back there.”

Shota chewed the inside of his cheek. He’d almost started to think that he’d become desensitised to these things. Nope; that sentence stole something from Shota’s chest, left it barren, an empty shell that held only the forgotten whispers of what ifs and if only s.

“Akeldama’s aunt had ordered her to kill all five children, the same day of the raid,” Tsukauchi continued, like every word tasted worse than the hot, bitter coffee. “She’d tried to kill Bakugou first, a procedure we apparently interrupted. When she realised she wouldn’t be able to kill all five in time without sacrificing a shot at freedom, she tried to stab Bakugou in the heart. She said that she remembers the building shaking, right before she went in for it, and her hand slipped. But she’d figured that a stab to the abdomen was fatal enough, and that the idea of a… a slow death, wasn't so… actually, I won’t repeat the rest of that. You get the gist.”

Yeah. Shota didn’t want him to.

They sat in silence for a beat longer, but it wasn’t awkward. They were comfortable with the silence—early mornings in the police department’s break room weren't as bad as they might sound. There was something peaceful to it, like the quiet smell of ozone before the storm. 

An undercurrent of stress and panic and exhaustion, sure, don’t get him wrong. But moments like these felt like the gulp of air you take before getting ripped under it. Before being submerged, back into a hero’s reality. The cycle of heroism, the template for every tale; there’s a normal, before it’s plunged into tragedy. But the normal, that short lived peace you eventually fight back to—that’s the part that made it all worth it. 

Tsukauchi was the one to rekindle the conversation. “Do you remember that mystery figure from Aira? Morana Maki?”

How could he not? “Yeah,” Shota replied. “Of course.”

“Well,” Tsukauchi said, somewhat tentatively, “her brother’s reached out. He was her only family. He had no clue that… he didn’t know what her job was until he was informed by the police.”

Shota winced. “Christ. Is he alright?” 

Tsukauchi looked pained. “I’ve never spoken to him directly. I don’t know how he’s holding up. But his sister took him to an agency nearby shortly before she went missing, and they’re taking care of him right now. I believe it’s Fatgum’s agency, but I’d have to check that. My knowledge of the situation is all over the place.”

“Of course,” Shota managed, even as a heavy feeling settled in his gut. “How… How old is he?”

“He turned seventeen two months ago,” Tsukauchi said. 

Not much older than his students. Still a child, yet he’d lost his entire family. 

What a shit show.

“He wanted to see the five students,” the detective continued. “At least, that’s what’s been relayed to me. If they did meet, it might have to be after Bakugou wakes up, and I recognise that will also be a rather… hectic period of time, before things settle down. I wanted to pass it by you before any decisions are made, in case you wanted to object.”

Of course he wouldn’t object.

“And not their legal guardians?” Shota mused, though his amusement fell flat.

Tsukauchi raised an eyebrow. He repeated, “Before any decisions are made, Eraser. Which includes asking their parents. Besides, you have partial guardianship over them all, don’t you?”

Shota smiled warily. “Uh-huh. This is just an excuse so that you can get me to do the dirty work, isn’t it?”

“Dirty work? I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about,” Tsukauchi dismissed. “On a separate note though, you wouldn’t mind asking their guardians for permission yourself, would you?”

Shota huffed and took another sip of his bitter, now slightly cooled, coffee. “Bastard.”

⬽—+—⤘

“And so, what happened when you unlocked the handcuffs?”

This was starting to feel like an interrogation.

Katsuki shifted in his seat. His parents sat beside him. They didn’t offer any support; nothing more than Masaru’s hand on his shoulder. “I used my explosions to distract him, and I told the others to run. They did, they got out through the door. I don’t know… what happened to them after that.”

The officer across the table nodded and wrote something down in his notebook. The camera behind him could be recording, but Katsuki wouldn’t know. It’s red light wasn’t on, at least, so he didn’t think so. 

Still, it did nothing to relieve his nerves.

“You’re doing very well,” the officer told him. He didn’t smile, and looked up with hawk–like eyes. Katsuki thought of Pigtail’s smile, and found he couldn’t picture what colour her eyes were. A dull ache took to his chest. “Continue, if you can, please.”

Katsuki swallowed, rubbed the dirt and goosebumps on his arms. He hadn’t been allowed to shower yet, and the room was cold. “W–Well, he got even more angry. I can’t remember what happened much, but at one point he picked me up again and he still had his gun and I panicked, so I hit him. With explosion. I think a tooth coulda broken. There was, um, blood.”

The officer hummed. Katsuki took it as an impatient sign to continue, please, you’re wasting our time.

“I escaped while he was surprised,” he said, voice quieter. “I got outside and… and I ran. As fast as I could. There was a forest nearby. He was chasing me, so I lost him there. Then I found a river, and followed it until I found a road, and followed that until I found houses.”

It must have taken hours. Hours of terror at every snapped twig, passing fox, every shadow that looked too much like a man. Could there have been bears? He didn’t know, didn’t care.

He was more scared of Fuji than he was of any bear.

“Did anyone stop to help you?” the officer asked. He didn’t sound interested in the answer. 

“No,” Katsuki said quietly. “I recognised the houses, and the signs. Made my own way back.”

The officer wrote something else down, letting them wallow in tense silence for a long second, then clicked his pen and snapped his notebook shut. “Great. Thank you. I’ll just need a bit of paperwork from you, Mr and Mrs Bakugou, then you’re free to go.”

And just like that, it was over.

⬽—+—⤘

For almost a minute, Bakugou woke up.

“Wha’ fuck?” is the first thing he slurred, blinking blearily.

Shota startled, eyes snapping open to meet his. At first, he didn’t know what to say, and they stared at each other. Then Shota did the mature thing and pressed the call button beside the bed. Bakugou seemed to find this fascinating.

He leant back and restrained from exhaling a long, tired sigh. “Bakugou. You’re awake.”

Bakugou squinted at him. “‘M not dead? Wha’ fuck?”

Shota squinted as well, ignoring the pang in his chest, because the fact that Bakugou was talking at all was good news, dammit. “No… Not dead. You are high, though, from the looks of it.”

Then a smile snaked across Bakugou’s face, a dumb one he’d never seen before, and he said, “Kite. Crack?”

“No,” Shota said, immediately, because what else do you say to that? He frowned. “What does that even mean, from you?”

Bakugou snickered. “Never.” He drew out the ‘r’ as long as it’d go.

Shota was concerned. Shota leaned over slowly, pushed the nurse call button again. “Okay, kid. The world is your oyster.”

“Damn right, die,” he muttered. Then he blinked, and frowned. “Not dead?”

“Not dead,” Shota affirmed. He wondered if Bakugou would remember any of this conversation later.

“Pigtails?” Bakugou mumbled. 

Shota squinted again. “Wh… You want pigtails in your hair?”

“Nah,” Bakugou rasped, struggling to keep his eyes open, now. “Pigtails. Lost her.”

He frowned, a weight settling heavy on his chest. Oh. “A… nickname. Who’s Pigtails?”

Bakugou’s expression turned upset. It looked harder to keep his eyes open, now, already tired out. Such a huge fire of passion, rendered to a flickering flame. “Dunno. Lost her. All of ‘em. Lost every’on.”

Shota pressed his lips into a firm line. He made a mental note to ask about this conversation later, once his mind wasn’t clouded by drugs. It didn't sound very happy-go-lucky, and if it was troubling his student, he had to at least try to help. “Okay, kid.”

“Every’on,” he repeated. His blinks were slow, now, eyelids fluttering before they were dragged open. His eyes had turned unfocused, and he scowled weakly. “Where’s everyone?”

“Waiting,” Shota replied. “They’ll be here when you come back.”

“‘M not going anywhere…”

Shota raised an eyebrow. “If you’re tired, go back to sleep.”

“Not… fuck’n tired.” 

The door opened and a nurse stepped in. “Everything alright?”

“Yes, sorry,” Shota said, standing to greet her. “He woke up for a minute, talked for a bit, though he didn’t make much sense. I thought I should let you know, just if…” 

By the time he looked back towards the bed, the boy was already pulled deep under a wave of sleep. 

Not tired, he’d said. 

Shota couldn’t help but smile.

⬽—+—⤘

“Where did that cut come from, Kacchan?”

It was Monday.

Katsuki hated Mondays.

“Kacchan? Did you get into a fight? Where did those bruises come from?”

It wasn’t enough that he’d barely gotten any sleep. It wasn’t enough that there was physically no position he could sit or lie in that would be comfortable, that would give him a break from the aches and pains, that would let him finally, for just one moment, find some sort of peace.

“Hell–o?” Deku dragged out the ‘o’. In that moment, it grated on his nerves more than anything in the world. “Kacchan, what happened? Does it hurt?”

It all wasn’t enough for the universe. Because on top of all of that—

“Kacchan, why won’t you answer me?” There was a tearful whine to his voice. “You’re making me upset. I don’t like it.”

On top of all that, he still had to play Deku’s fucking mom. Treating him like glass was exhausting when he couldn’t stop acting like he wanted to be shattered.

He couldn’t even make his hands pop to warn him off, because the doctor said that he used his quirk too much already. Something about ‘drawbacks’. He said that the cramps in his forearms would only get worse if he used his quirk too soon, and anyway, it made writing in class hard enough as it was; painful, a bit like fire, but manageable, he supposed. After all, it didn’t hurt as badly as the metal–capped boots.

Wasn't as scary as the gun to his head.

Shit. Why wouldn’t Fuji’s face just go away? He kept appearing in his head—his voice, his eyes, ‘I warned you’— he just wouldn’t go away. And Katsuki didn’t know how the hell to get rid of him, other than pushing it down somewhere far, far away. Somewhere he wouldn’t be able to hurt him.

Like the cramps in his forearms, he just had to pretend it wasn’t there.

Because he didn’t want anyone to know about what happened on Friday. Anyone else, he should correct, since of course, his teacher already knew. His parents had told her, because, in their words, she would be able to help if he had any problems. 

You know, since they weren’t there to do it themselves.

Well, Katsuki wouldn’t have any problems. He was fine; he couldn’t afford not to be. He had to shake his teacher’s stupid pitying glances somehow, like ants on his skin. He had to stop his parents from arguing over work somehow, and the weird, quiet, guilty looks that were so different to how they usually were.

He was fine. (But if Deku kept probing, they might all see that, really, he wasn’t.) 

“Kacchan, I don’t know what I did wrong,” Deku blubbered. Katsuki had been planning to avoid him the entire day, but he should’ve known that plan was futile. “What happened? You’re hurt, I’m worried about you, and it’s making me upset—”

Me, me, me.

It was making him upset? Katsuki didn’t want to imagine how Deku would hold up in his own shoes. It wasn’t a proud thought—it came from more of a bitter place than he’d like to admit. A not–so–little voice asking, when is it MY turn to feel upset?

He lifted his head from his arms and glared over his shoulder at Deku. “Will you shut up?”

In retrospect, he was aware that could be taken as mean. But he’d needed a way to make his prodding go away, and snapping at him was the only way he knew how. After all, that’s how Mitsuki shut him up.

clouded by anger

'I warned you'

drunk on rage

He wanted the image of Fuji’s shitty fucking face to GO AWAY.

Deku’s eyes welled up with tears. They remind him of the crybaby boy.

They remind Katsuki of his failure to save him.

“B–But Kacchan—”

“Just shut up,” Katsuki snapped. “It’s none of your business what happened. Nothing happened. So—So go take your stupid feelings and cry somewhere else, Deku, ‘cause I don’t need it here. I don't need you here.”

He didn’t need Deku’s tearful fretting. He certainly didn’t want it.

Katsuki would manage this—pull through it—alone. He didn’t need his parents’ stupid hugs. He didn’t need his teacher’s stupid pity. He didn’t need Deku—not his company, not his concern, not his constant, constant, nagging.

So from that moment on, he made it a silent rule he’d abide by.

He didn’t need anyone’s help.

So he wouldn’t take it.

⬽—+—⤘

On the seventh day following the raid, Katsuki woke up. Properly, this time.

Mitsuki met his eyes, the same shade of red somehow clashing so horribly, as it always had done, and the sigh she exhaled released some kind of tightly wound knot in her chest that had been festering for a while now. “Oh my god. Katsuki."

"Mum," he whispered.

She didn't know what to expect before, but the stifling silence that shrouds the room isn't it. "You’re awake.”

Katsuki swallowed. “And… alive.”

His voice was scratchy and hoarse, but otherwise, strong as ever. They stared at each other for a long moment, majorly because Mitsuki is trying to focus on not crying, before Katsuki frowned. “So I really didn’t die.” 

Mitsuki ignored the lump that threatened to rise in her throat. “Well, I mean… You did,” she admitted, quieter than she’d meant to say it. The doctors had said that he'd died for a moment, hadn't they? She'd almost blocked it out of her mind completely. “For a moment.”

Mitsuki looked down at her hands, fists tightening in her lap so tightly that her knuckles turned white. She didn't know what to say. She had a million and one things on her list, and she was so scared that her baby would be taken away from her again before she could say them all—but she was also too scared to even get the words past her lips.

How childish. She was acting like a baby, really.

A snort slipped past Katsuki’s lips. She looked up at his snickering, blinked, then frowned. “Brat, are you fucking laughing?”

Now he couldn't seem to stop, barely able to control his giggling. She didn't know whether to be worried, confused or insulted. Probably all three. “Fucking hell, you goddamn brat, you can’t just laugh in a situation like—”

“Hag, I was fucking dead,” he snarked, matter of factly, pushing himself up to lean back on his elbows with mild difficulty. Just to glare at her with a ferocity she hadn't realised she missed so fucking much. “That’s twice now, and you know what, this is some complete and utter fucking bullshit, and so goddamn stupid, I mean, what? Does death want a fucking fight? I'll end that bastard. I will fucking annihilate him. I'm this fucking close to hunting his sorry ass down, old hag, you have no fucking clue—"

Oh, how she missed her son.