Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Sansa loves kids. They’re tiny, they’re cute. They smile big, beaming grins whenever they see him and sometimes they ask to pet his fur. Sansa always says yes. He adores hearing their enthusiastic chatter and seeing the way their eyes light up in excitement. It’s adorable.

The kid sitting in front of him is tiny, that’s for sure, about five years old, edging on six. But cute? Maybe. Adorable? That’s pushing it. He feels a bit uncharitable in his assessment, but look, anyone else sitting here looking at the boy would say the same. It’s in the way he slouches, bonelessly relaxed but with his core tensed. It’s in his eyes, heavily lidded but concealing something deeper.

His temperament is different too. One could call it unexpectedly mature, but it was a fine line between that and careless laziness. At least he isn’t upset. Any other child in his situation would be crying by now. Instead he looks remarkably unconcerned, which is a good thing for Sansa because he has absolutely no idea how he’s even going to start solving this case.

He tries to keep his voice peppy. “You’re sure you don’t remember any of your parents' phone numbers? Or any of the digits of your uncle’s number?”

“There might have been a one,” the boy drawls. “Or a three.”

“Right…” Sansa says, and tries to keep his wince internal. “Well, tell me if you remember any more, okay?”

He turns to his computer. “What did you say your family name was again?”

“Nara.” The boy leans forward, eyes sharp. “We used to have a lot of family here. So there should be other Naras. They would look a lot like me.”

Sansa examines him. Narrowed dark eyes and a spiky ponytail. Nothing too distinctive or easy to pick out in a crowd. He sighs.

Nara Shikamaru, he types, already knowing he isn’t going to find anything. Born in Japan, but has citizenship elsewhere, so he won’t be in the database. Sure enough, it doesn’t turn up any results. He backspaces and searches for just Nara.

He gets a few hits for this one, but scrolling through the results doesn’t land him with anything useful. None of them look particularly similar to the Nara sitting in front of him.

“Nara Fuyo?” Sansa asks aloud. The woman has dark hair and dark eyes but so does nearly every other person who’s not born with some sort of quirk mutation.

Nara stares at the screen intently, eyes scanning through the list. Sansa clicks through a few more pictures, but soon the boy’s expression seems to drip in disappointment before he masks it behind an impassive frown.

“Don’t recognize anyone,” he sighs. “How troublesome. Let’s just look for my uncle then.”

Right, but how? Nara hasn’t provided any information on the man. He’s not an actual uncle, just a close family friend. And apparently the boy doesn’t know anything about him, not his name, his phone number, or his address. He knew absolutely nothing. Sansa shakes his head. What parent lets their six year old child go on a cross country trip by themselves?

Well, all he can do is go over what he does know, which is very little. “He was supposed to pick you up from the train station, right?”

“He was supposed to pick me up and he never showed,” the kid says, slouching even further.

“And,” Sansa says helplessly, hoping something has somehow jogged his memory in the past few minutes. “You still don’t know his name. Or your parents' names.”

“Tou-san. Kaa-san.” Nara gives him a pointed look, then shrugs in a way that reads what can I do, I’m six.

Fair enough. And it’s not like that would help anyway, since his parents weren’t even Japanese citizens. Argh.

“Right.” Sansa says, and gives in, hunching over and running his fingers through his hair. “Do you know anything about your uncle? Anything at all? Approximately where he lives, or places nearby? Do you know his job? Maybe where he works? Even what he looks like?”

“I’ll know him when I see him,” Nara states. “But I do know something about my uncle, I know what his quirk is.”

Sansa’s head darts up. “You know his quirk?!”

He’s so excited to hear of the possibility of having something to work with that he doesn’t even process how dark and intense Nara’s gaze has become.

“It’s a special quirk; it’s really unique.” Nara starts. “It lets him do something like teleportation. But it also allows him to travel in time…” He hesitates for the briefest second before continuing. “And across dimensions.”

Sansa’s eyes widen. “Well that’s… very unique.” He’s personally never heard of a dimension travelling quirk. It’s possible, he supposes. Really strange and pretty unlikely, but possible. But if it’s in the database, it should be easy to find at least. He gives the boy a reassuring smile tinged with relief and turns back to the computer.

The first couple results are for teleportation as he wasn’t too precise with his starting search. Teleportation quirks are rare, but not unheard of. He’s even met some people with basic travel quirks before. Time quirks on the other hand… He’s heard of a couple time quirks over the years, but they usually weren’t time travel time travel exactly, just minor time manipulation. It’s possible Nara was mistaken, or maybe the uncle was just talking up his quirk a bit to impress an excitable young boy.

Not that Nara is very excitable.

He tilts the computer screen over a little so that the short boy can see it from his seat. “Are any of these people your uncle?”

Nara’s eyes dart across the screen, a little frantic, maybe, for how fast he scans the profiles. “No, they’re not him. And as I said, his quirk is powerful. It allows for time or dimension travelling.”

“Alright, I’ll do a more precise search.” Sansa scratches his fur and resumes typing. This time, the results are far thinner. There’s one called pocket dimension, but that doesn’t seem to be what the boy is looking for. Another is dimension gaze, but it’s not travel, precisely.

There’s one that involves portals. If you teleported through a portal did that count as dimension travelling? Sansa shows him the picture and then a couple other entries on people who can stop and rewind time and such. Nara carefully examines them all and shakes his head after each one.

They continue through the list and Sansa’s hope is really starting to fade when Tsukauchi comes through the back door carrying a few cups of coffee and a couple of chicken sandwiches. His eyes land on Nara.

“I see. I was wondering why you ordered two sandwiches.”

“Thanks for picking them up,” Sansa sighs gratefully.

Tsukauchi tips his hat. “It was no problem. I just finished my case and it was on the way. Now what’s going on here?”

“Nara-kun came to Japan to stay with his uncle who wasn’t there to pick him up at the train station. And he doesn’t know any contact information, so we’re just trying to figure things out.” He tries to send the boy a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry, it’ll all work out. You gave me some information on his quirk, so it won’t be long now, okay?”

Tsukauchi crouches down in front of the chair with a smile of his own. “How old are you, Nara-kun?”

“Six,” he says, blinking lazily.

Sansa knows Tsukauchi. He’s worked with the man for years, both on the field and in the interrogation room. He knows his favourite foods and sports, his tricks and tells. So he can immediately identify the faint twitch in his left eye and the way his fingers tense then relax.

“Are you really six?” Tsukauchi asks gently. “That’s pretty old.”

The boy barely moves at all, but something in his posture still seems to coil in anticipation. “Fine. I’m five and three quarters. I’m nearly six anyway.”

Tsukauchi’s eye twitches again, and now Naomasa’s frowning. “Are you sure you can’t tell us your real age? We’re just trying to help you.”

The air pressure seems to drop.

“I turned five in September,” Nara finally concedes. His eyes are glinting warily which is not a look Naomasa has ever seen on any other five year old.

Tsukauchi nods and breaks the spell. The world seems to shiver back to normal, almost as if he was just imagining it all. The room isn’t tense. The air isn’t strange. The kid returns to slumping in his seat, seemingly a perfectly innocent, if stubborn, small child.

“Thank you, Nara-kun. So, you’re supposed to be staying with your uncle?”

There’s a short pause, hardly anything, but longer than when he was talking with Sansa. Is Tsukauchi making Nara nervous?

“I need him to take me home,” is what the boy finally decides on saying.

Sansa shakes himself and picks up the thread. “Right. We’ll find him so you’ll be able to do that soon, okay?” He turns back to Tsukauchi. “We were looking into his uncle. Nara doesn’t know any names or numbers, but he does know what his quirk is supposed to do so we were going to find him that way. It’s supposed to be a time or dimension travelling quirk of some sort.”

“A time or dimension travelling quirk, hmm?” Tsukauchi murmurs thoughtfully. “Do you know what it looks like?”

“I’ve never seen it in use.” Nara says.

Tsukauchi scratches his chin. “Well, that’s definitely a relatively rare sort of quirk. So even without too many details we should be able to pin something down.”

Sansa nods, trying to give off an air of confidence in order to encourage the boy. “Alright, why don’t we look at some of the others on the list, and then you tell me if you recognize anyone, okay?”

Tsukauchi starts rustling through his paperwork as the two of them continue to go through the entries. They click through a couple more and Nara shakes his head each time. Eventually Sansa turns back to look at him.

“Are you sure there aren’t any more details you remember? What about appearance? What does your uncle look like?”

“Black hair and golden eyes with purple stripes around them,” is what Nara promptly tells them, and from the way Tsukauchi’s head darts up incredulously from his papers, it is a complete and utter lie.

Sansa… doesn’t really know what to do when he’s being lied to so blatantly from a child he’s trying to help. This must seem to happen to Tsukauchi more regularly though, because he recovers quickly.

“That’s a really specific description,” Tsukauchi prompts leadingly. “Are you completely sure it’s accurate?”

“No.” Nara says, apparently willing to tell the truth just as easily as his previous lie. His eyes glitter victoriously, but what he’s so pleased about, Sansa has no idea.

“I see…” Tsukauchi trails off. Sansa can tell that’s his helplessly perplexed tone of voice. “But if we know what your uncle looks like, it will help us find him faster.”

Nara doesn’t say anything for a long time.

“You do know what your uncle looks like, right?” Sansa asks desperately.

“When I see it, I’ll know.” Nara tells them, gesturing at the screen.

Tsukauchi meets his gaze. “Anything could help. What color is his hair?”

Nara’s half-lidded eyes slide further closed. “I don’t know. His hair could be brown, but it could be dyed.”

Sansa and Tsukauchi exchange glances. Tsukauchi jerks his head back to the computer screen. Go ahead, he seems to say.

With a deep sigh, Sansa continues scrolling through the list. There continues to be no reaction, until they reach the bottom, and one of the last people seems to catch Nara’s eye. Sansa stops, clicking open the page to maximize the photo attached.

“Is this him?” Sansa inquires, praying that they’ve found the man.

This man’s name is Matsui Hideaki. He’s tall and gangly with soft orange hair and wide rounded blue eyes, but the section in his profile that stands out the most is his very intriguing quirk. Plane shift, it says. The details section is quite sparse, but it does mention something about dimensional displacement. This could be it. This could be him.

Sansa keeps his eyes on Nara, eagerly awaiting an answer. He watches as various emotions flash across the boy’s face. What appears to be intrigue, shrewd analysis and smug satisfaction all zip by, appearing and disappearing so quickly Sansa can’t even categorize them properly. In mere milliseconds his expression is wiped clean, landing on blank neutrality without a hint of recognition.

He finally caves. “Is this your uncle?”

“Nope.” Nara draws out the word, then yawns widely. “Can we take a break? I’m tired.”

Sansa needs a break too. “Sure,” he says. “We’ll take a quick break, eat our sandwiches, then continue looking. Let’s go to the lunchroom. You coming, Tsukauchi-san?”

Tsukauchi sweeps his papers into a neat pile and taps them against the desk. After pushing in his chair, he grabs his sandwich. “Yes, better to eat now before I get too involved in this paperwork.” He brushes the pages off one last time before they head out.

As they’re passing through the hall near the entrance on their way to the lunch room, Nara sticks his sandwich into his pocket and starts fiddling with his hands. Sansa watches him twiddle nervously, interlacing and unweaving his fingers into various configurations. He’s just putting them back in his pockets when out of the corner of his eye, Sansa catches sight of a figure in the entranceway.

He startles instinctively. The man hadn’t been there a second ago, had he? It was almost as if he’d flickered into existence, but that can’t be right. Sansa waves down his initial feeling of unease to focus on analyzing the man.

He’s slouched, is the first thing Sansa notices. There’s so many distinctive traits about this individual but the slouch is what first catches his eye, maybe due to the strange similarity to the boy Sansa’s been looking after all day. They both stand and move in the same lackadaisical manner with their hands in their pockets and their spine curved lazily forwards.

But other than posture, the two couldn’t be more different. Nara’s hair is spiky, really spiky, tough and static. His hair is black, but shines a dark brown when catching the light. This man’s hair is done in feathered spikes, tufting out of his head jaggedly but in a way that would still feel silky smooth if tousled. It’s a dark liquid black, as if someone upended a bottle of ink over his head.

Most noticeable are his scars. Horrific purple wired burn scars travel up his sleeves, coating his wrists and most likely his entire arms. They’re under his eyes too, and around his jaw, creeping downwards towards his neck where they’re hidden under a scarf. Sansa’s seen people injured in the line of duty before, but he’s never seen burn injuries quite as bad as this. He does his best not to stare.

Beside him, Nara has no such qualms. He’s even walking towards the individual, appearing more and more confident as he moves forward.

Tsukauchi starts forward alongside the boy. “Hello there,” he says. “Can we help with something?”

Sansa’s turning to Nara. “Do you know him?”

“We know each other,” Nara says, stopping in front of the man.

“Are you Nara-kun’s uncle?” Tsukauchi asks, smiling pleasantly.

The man stops for a second, then signs something, fingers twisting into words. It doesn’t look like any sign language Sansa recognizes, too choppy and short. Almost military-esque. Of course Sansa’s only taken the beginner’s JSL course once, at least three years ago, so he’s very rusty. He can’t make out a single one of these signs, and guiltily considers that he should really go take the course again sometime.

“He can’t talk,” Nara tells them, and Sansa winces, averting his eyes from the sight of raw purpled flesh encircling his neck.

“That’s alright,” Tsukauchi says. “Do you know JSL? Or we have pen and paper if that’s helpful.” Sansa scrambles up a pen and notepad from off the sign in desk, holding them out to the man, but he doesn’t move to take them.

“I can translate,” Nara confirms instead.

“Ah, thank you.” Sansa says. “Just to confirm, this is your uncle, right? Or, a close family friend?”

The man’s fingers form more shapes, quick and efficient. Yeah, he should really retake that JSL course. These signs are completely unrecognizable.

“He says, yes, he’s my uncle, sorry he’s late, he accidentally got the time wrong.” Nara dutifully translates.

“...I see.” Tsukauchi’s voice trails off dubiously. He turns back to the kid. “You’re sure this is your uncle?”

“I know what my uncle looks like,” Nara complains, rolling his eyes.

“Good, just checking.”

“What was your name again?” Sansa asks. “I’m sorry, we didn’t catch it in all the confusion.”

Nara snorts, turning back to the older man. “I was just calling you uncle. I never call you by a name. Can we go now?”

The uncle nods, and starts towards the large doors, following Nara on the way out. He dips his head in thanks as the boy moves around to hold the door open for him. Tsukauchi and Sansa watch the odd pair walk out of the station in silence.

Weird kid. Weird, not very cute kid, but somewhat charming nonetheless. If you were charmed by lazy and strangely intense snark, that is.

“Well, that was eventful,” Sansa comments.

“The hair could have been dyed, but you would think the kid would remember the burns, at least,” Tsukauchi says thoughtfully.

“The burns could have been recent,” Sansa throws out, even though the ropey scarring looked like it could have been nearly a decade old. Besides, if they were recent enough for Nara to have never seen them before, he would have expected much more of a reaction.

“It is strange,” he finally concedes. “But Nara-kun wasn’t lying, right?”

“No,” Tsukauchi murmurs darkly. “He wasn’t lying.”

Sansa frowns. That was a strangely ominous tone to take for a statement that should have brought some measure of relief.

“I knew something about him seemed familiar,” Tsukauchi swears. “Deflections, evasive statements, unconnected truths… That glaring lie about his uncle’s appearance. Tamakawa, do you remember Aizawa’s kid? Shinsou Hitoshi?”

“Aizawa’s kid?” Sansa asks bewildered. He’s not entirely sure where this is going. “The mini vigilante? You think this has to do with him?”

“No, no,” Tsukauchi waves him off.

“Then what do you mean?”

“They act the same way,” he mutters. “Relaxed, confident. Prodding and testing my quirk until they find a way around it. Seeing what they can get away with.”

Sansa recalls black eyes full of unexpectedly mature wariness and shining satisfaction.

“So… you don’t think that was his uncle.”

“If he’s anything at all like Shinsou,” Tsukauchi says dryly, “then I would suspect we’ve just been played.”

“I never actually got the uncle’s name,” Sansa suddenly recalls.

Tsukauchi sighs.

Personally, Sansa still believes the kid’s a kid. Not a small conniving vigilante or whatever Tsukauchi seems to think – his colleague had never been quite the same following the babysitting incident. But he can admit that this past afternoon has definitely been a little suspicious, so it probably wouldn’t hurt to check.

They couldn’t have gotten too far. Pushing open the heavy doors, Sansa runs into the streaming rays of afternoon sunlight. There are people milling about, heading downtown or off to relax after school. Sansa casts his gaze down the street, searching for the pairing of a tall scarred man alongside a young child, but there are none to be seen.

He paces down the sidewalk, stopping at the end of the station. There are two teenagers laughing as they run down the street, and a businessman tucking his briefcase in the trunk before getting into his car. At the very end of the block, a man walks alongside-

Wait. No. Sansa rubs his eyes. A trick of the light? He squints into the bright sunshine. At the very end of the block, there’s a young preteen with spiky black hair who disappears around the corner.

They’re gone.

Sansa scratches at his fur and slinks back into the station. Tsukauchi is still standing at the desk with his sandwich unwrapped, having already gotten started on their extremely late afternoon lunch.

“Already gone, then?”

“Gone,” Sansa confirms with a sigh. He casts a glance over his shoulder, almost hoping they’ll waltz right back into the station. Alas, no such luck. “I hope Nara’s okay, though.”

Tsukauchi gives a low snort. “You saw the boy. Supposedly five years old and lost in a foreign country. And he wasn’t nervous at all, Nara was confident and in control that whole time.” He shakes his head. “I expect he’s doing just fine. We can still keep an eye out for him though.”

“And for that uncle…” Sansa says, already making a mental note. Mute, burn victim, dimension quirk. Shouldn’t be too hard to find. “Well. That happened, then. How are you so…?” He gestures at his coworker, who is casually leaning against the desk and taking another bite of his sandwich.

“I remain constantly aware that young people can do some crazy things,” Tsukauchi says wisely. “That and Shinsou. Mostly Shinsou.”

“...Right. So. Lunch?”

“Lunch.”

The chicken sandwiches were remarkably good.

Chapter Text

Going in, Dabi was prepared for a lot of things. Moldy walls? He can deal. Weird creepy landlord? He knows how to command a lot of respect these days. No hot water? He’d heat it up himself.

What he was not prepared for was sharing an apartment with a literal child.

“Ah, when you signed the forms I think you mentioned that you were adults?” The woman squeaks.

The boy stares blankly. “I am an adult.”

“In what world,” Dabi asks sarcastically, gesturing at the approximate twelve year old’s pint sized form, “are you an actual adult?”

There’s a long pause. “That’s classified.”

Dabi rolls his eyes, secretly amused despite himself. “Sure, kid.”

“The other signer, are they your guardian?” The landlord falters, looking as if she’s trying to convince herself. “Or at least someone responsible?”

This pause is somehow even longer.

“Shikamaru is very responsible.”

So that’s a no, then. Great, Dabi’s about to get stuck with a pod of twelve year olds. And he needs this place, damnit. It’s the perfect distance from the League headquarters and it’s the exact right amount of sketchy that will accept his questionable IDs but won’t end with him getting shanked in his sleep.

To make matters worse, not only is the kid a kid, but he’s the goddamn creepiest kid Dabi has ever laid eyes upon. His hair is a dark shiny red that would normally remind him of Endeavor, but instead somehow just gives the appearance of having been freshly dipped in a bucket of blood. A tattoo rests on his forehead, red as his hair. Dabi squints. It’s the kanji for love, funnily enough. Maybe it’s judgemental, but it’s definitely not the sort of tattoo Dabi would have guessed someone like him would pick.

His skin is alabaster pale and smooth. It’s like looking at a porcelain statue. This kid’s face has clearly never seen a pimple, which makes sense considering he’s probably not even a teenager yet. But the worst of it? His eyes. God, those eyes.

They’re rimmed in a thick black, almost like liquid eyeliner. It’s not actually makeup though. It could be bags under his eyes, maybe, dark circles of exhaustion. Is he ill? Or is he just that sleep deprived?

And as for the eyes themselves – they’re a pale, glassy green. They have a strange sheen to them like their owner is looking at the world through a thick haze. They’re cold eyes, blank eyes, lost and unfeeling.

So yeah. Creepy.

The landlord looks unsure, but she doesn’t protest. She can’t, really. The ad hadn’t specified much, and there definitely hadn't been any minimum age requirements. Just bring the money, no questions asked. The woman looks a lot more timid than the usual sort running these places, but everyone has a story. People gotta do what they gotta do. Even kids. Especially kids.

Dabi side-eyes the boy standing silently in the entranceway. He’s so still. Almost doll-like.

“Hey, I’m Dabi. So what’s your name, then?” He asks. He can be friendly.

“I am Gaara of the Desert.” There’s no breeze, but those bloodstained locks seem to sway eerily.

“...Right.”

Thankfully, the tour commences. They tromp back out to the narrow entryway at the top of a rickety flight of stairs.

“Here’s the entrance,” the landlord says, fidgeting with her hands. “I bought a mat, so uhm, it’s for you. To wipe your boots and things.” It’s a cheerful, bristled welcome mat, contrasting heavily with the dull surroundings. ‘I am here’, the bright yellow letters declare boldly. Dabi scowls.

It’s fairly cramped standing huddled together on the landing. “Sorry, there’s not a lot of room. There’s a closet inside, but it’s mainly for coats and shoes. It probably won’t fit… ah,” she waves uneasily at the odd squash looking thing propped up in the corner.

“Gourd.” Gaara of the Desert supplies. His voice is a strange growly monotone.

“Gourd,” Dabi says skeptically. “Why a gourd?”

He’d seen it coming in and thought it was some sort of pop art piece. Odd choice of decor for the locale, sure, but then again criminals are weird. He’s seen things these past few years.

“It holds my sand.” Gaara says, and doesn’t explain any further. Why sand? Dabi doesn’t know. He doesn’t push any further though, it’s not like he cares. It’s probably some sort of quirk thing anyway.

They move back into the apartment towards the closet. Pretty small is right. But it will hold a couple jackets and his pair of boots, so that’s good enough for him. They move towards the bedroom next.

“I thought you and Nara-san could take this room,” the landlord explains. The room is pretty spacious, with a sliding door hiding another closet and a bed tucked against the wall. The paint on the walls is speckled and flecked, but clean. Small windows, but all in all, it’s a nice room.

“You mentioned you were good with one bedroom, right? This one’s the larger one, so you could bring in another bed. I don’t have an extra though, so you’ll have to bring it yourselves.”

“I do not require a bed.” Gaara intones.

The woman bobbles her head. “Ah, yes, well, it’s more comfortable. I know some places that sell discounted furniture if you would like? There’s a place down the street and it’s really not that expensive at all.”

“Get a bed, kid. Trust me on this one.” Dabi’s speaking from experience here. He’s had to go many a night without a proper place to sleep, and he’ll never go through that again. A bed is worth it. It’s definitely worth it.

“You misunderstand,” Gaara says. “I do not require sleep.”

“You literally don’t sleep. At all?”

Green eyes blink back slowly. “That is correct.”

Dabi knows a lot about quirks. He’s read about and fought against an insane number of different types. And he’s never heard of something that allows the user to bypass the need for sleep. Doesn’t everyone sleep? Isn’t that just a thing?

The ink black circles surrounding the boy’s eyes tell a different story. Guess quirks are just bullshit. So what does he do with all his time at night then? Dabi imagines glassy eyes staring sightlessly at him from the foot of his bed and shudders.

“That’s your quirk?” The landlord asks meekly, clearly on the same thought process. “I’ve never heard of one like that.”

“Bad things happen if I sleep,” Gaara says solemnly, and Dabi pictures levitation and a lot of screaming like in a bad pre-quirk horror film.

“It tasted like blood for days,” he adds quietly, with a little wrinkle of his nose.

And that is – so much worse. The landlord starts laughing nervously.

“Okay!” She says loudly. “Let’s go see the bathroom then!”

Dabi chances a look back at the kid. He’s still standing there with the same blank expression, clearly not understanding what he said wrong. He looks slightly lost, which helps a little in mitigating the horror movie effect he naturally exudes. Dabi shakes his head and follows the woman to the bathroom.

The bathroom is brightly lit and with a freshly scrubbed linoleum floor. The landlord blushes fiercely as they eye the grout in the corner. “It’s very clean,” she protests, “It’s just that corner. I went over it three times and it wouldn’t come out.”

“It’s fine,” Dabi says dismissively. He’s dealt with far worse than a bit of grout. Gaara must feel the same, as he barely glances at it at all.

The kitchen is nice. Solid counters and a responsive faucet. There’s even a microwave, which is great. The fridge has a broken handle though.

The landlord flaps her hands when Dabi points it out. “It was my sister,” she says, fluttering aimlessly around the hanging edge. She tries to attach it to no avail. “She lived here originally. She broke the handle by accident, she breaks things a lot, really.”

Gaara nods sagely. “My sister breaks things a lot too.” He pauses. “Generally on purpose.”

“Oh, you have a sister as well!”

Gaara looks up, and his eyes hold more warmth than Dabi ever thought he could feel. “I have a sister and a brother,” he says haltingly. “I greatly look forward to seeing them again.”

“Ah,” Her smile falters. “You haven’t seen them in a while then?”

“It has not been too long yet, and if things go well I will see them again soon.” He trails off, and adds almost under his breath, “I wonder if they will miss me.”

“Well, I’m sure it will all work out, Gaara-kun,” the landlady says. “Do you have any siblings, Dabi-san?”

Dabi sees flowing white hair, gentle smiles and chubby cheeks. He sees bandages after training and hugs in front of the television. He sees anger and snarling and cutting words.

He feels blue tongues of flame burning it all down.

Dabi slams a hand down on the counter, wisps of smoke curling out from between his fingertips. “So how are we going to open the fucking fridge?” he growls.

The landlord skids back. “Ah, yes. Sorry, I’m sorry! It’s really not that difficult, you can just open it from the top!” She shakily demonstrates, forcing the fridge door to open and close. It makes a loud squeaking sound at the hinges.

“And next, I’ll show you your room.” She darts a glance over her shoulder and scurries towards the hall.

Dabi starts to follow, but Gaara is still standing there like a block of ice in the middle of the kitchen. He moves to shoulder his way past when the boy speaks up.

He’s frowning. “She was scared.” His raspy voice is tinged with confusion.

“Yeah, sure, whatever,” Dabi grunts. “You gonna move or what?” He pushes a little, but the kid is solid.

“I smelled her fear.”

Because even without any social skills whatsoever, he’s apparently some sort of fear sniffing bloodhound. Like that isn’t creepy at all. Dabi elbows a bit harder, but Gaara doesn’t even have the decency to acknowledge it.

Fine. Dabi steps back, scowling. “She’s scared. So what?”

“Someone taught me once that it is possible to deepen my bond with others. That there is a way to be seen and connected with that is not solely with fear in their hearts.”

Dabi wants to scoff, to laugh it off. He wants to say something cutting, to throw an insult, and just maybe give the kid a good old ‘fuck you’. What kind of statement is that, even? And coming from a prepubescent midget at that. But Gaara’s eyes are wide and imploring, shining with purpose.

“Right,” Dabi grumbles half-heartedly. “You’re pretty weird, you know that?”

He doesn’t respond to Gaara’s attempted life lessons for terrorists or anything. The boy must still see something in him though, because he finally moves aside and follows Dabi compliantly into the hall.

They meet up with the landlord in the bedroom. Her hands aren’t trembling anymore, but she’s holding herself with her arms tucked around her body. Self-soothing behaviour.

She’s too sensitive. Dabi didn’t even do anything. It’s not like he lit someone on fire and dropped them at her feet.

Dabi doesn’t go so far as to apologize. But he does lighten his tone and keep his hands by his sides. “Hey, so, this is gonna be my room, then?”

The walls are eggshell white with little blemishes, indications of additional layers of fresh paint plastered over. On the right rests a sturdy bed frame with a clunky wooden dresser pushed to the side. There’s even a short side table next to the head of the bed.

It looks okay. Dabi knows his smiles don’t always come across properly, with his whole patchwork face situation. He gives a short nod instead. “Seems pretty good.”

“Ah, yes. It’s smaller but still roomy and there’s a nice window. It gets a lot of light in the morning, and you can open it for some fresh air.” Her shoulders relax slightly and she shoots him a tentative smile.

He doesn’t return it or anything. Instead, he shoots a look over at Gaara, like ‘you happy now, you weirdo?’

Gaara isn’t even looking in his direction. Instead he’s focused on the woman now chattering about the view at dawn. As they leave the room, his lips tug up with the faintest trace of a smile.

Dabi’s bathroom is about the same quality as the rest of the rooms. Mediocre. Clean. Great, considering the location, but nothing to write home about either. There’s a large bathroom mirror in front of the sink, and another smaller mirror on the counter, one of those small circular magnifying mirrors that people use to do their makeup.

“Oh, this is my sister’s,” the landlord explains. “I already have one at home, so you can keep it if you’d like. You can use it for your skincare routines.”

As she’s saying this, Dabi can feel his scars stretching as his lips pull down into a snarl. The woman’s eyes dart jerkily away from his ugly purple scar tissue and stitches as she ends up directing the end of her sentence to Gaara.

“Your skin is so smooth. You must take good care of it.” Her words come out in a rush and her voice is a pitch higher. She raises a hand to her mouth.

The boy blinks, slow and languid. “I do not participate in skincare routines.”

“Let me guess,” Dabi drawls sarcastically. “‘You do not require skin.”

Gaara tips his head, and as he does so, cracks creep over the bridge of his nose and spread across his face, dividing into hard fragments of flesh. They both watch horror struck as the skin fractures off and his face fucking disintegrates.

The landlord gives a short scream that she cuts off quickly, muffling it with her own hand. Dabi doesn’t scream, but he can admit that his heart’s definitely beating a little faster. Gaara looks back at them from where he apparently has another face beneath his previous one. His new lips twitch down.

“You are scared,” he observes, and reforms his own face, which is only slightly less terrifying than the original disintegration.

“Not scared,” Dabi protests. “Just – give some warning next time, will you?”

Gaara nods firmly. “I will not do that again,” he promises. There’s a pause. “I apologize. For not warning you.”

“It’s okay,” the landlord stutters, recovering. “Ah, thanks for apologizing.”

Dabi wonders why the boy is so insistent on making everyone feel comfortable around him. It’s not like Dabi goes out of his way to scare people in day to day interactions, but neither does he particularly care if he happens to. People don’t like his melted flesh and his hard, angry expressions. Why should he do anything about it?

But Gaara, with his nonexistent knowledge of social cues and his awkward monotone drone seems to be fixated on preventing fear. He apologizes for shocking them. Dabi doesn’t know a single twelve year old who would do the same.

What sort of life has this boy lived?

They gather back on the edge of the kitchen right where it transitions into some sort of living room. There’s a short couch and chairs positioned as if gathered around something, but there’s no television.

“You could get a TV,” the landlord suggests. “There’s a plug right here, or use a laptop, maybe.”

“A ‘TV’,” Gaara repeats, over enunciating each letter.

“Yes, I’m currently watching the new show about an intern at one of the top hero agencies. He discovers this scheme and helps take down corruption, it’s really good.”

Gaara frowns. “A show. A puppet show?”

A puppet show? Dabi looks at Gaara incredulously. Is this boy even twelve?

“Ah, no. It’s live-action, not a puppet show. Never mind. But this is a good room to hang out in. There’s some extra folding chairs in the basement, you could have friends or family over.” As she reaches the end of her sentence, she winces in anticipation, clearly having picked up on the instigating phrase from last time.

Unfortunately, Gaara does not seem to share that same ability to read a room.

“I am not able to invite family over. Will you invite your family, Dabi-san?”

“No.” Dabi snaps, temper flaring up again in an instant. He tries to control it. While he can’t think about his former family without wanting to set things on fire, he’s not cruel enough to let his anger loose on some random kid.

“Are they dead?” Gaara asks conversationally, as if that’s a normal thing to just come out and say. He looks politely engaged, satisfied that he’s kept the conversation going, apparently unaware that most people would just straight up deck him in the face for that kind of question.

Lucky for Gaara. Unlike most people, this is not something that upsets him, instead filling him with unholy glee. Dabi has a lot of opinions on sentences involving his family alongside the word ‘dead.’

“Nah,” he says nonchalantly, feeling his scars burning into his skin. “But someone will be soon.”

The landlord gasps, quietly horrified. “…who?”

“My old man,” Dabi sneers. “Let’s just say…dead in a ditch is too good for him.”

“My father was found dead in a ditch.”

Well, fuck. Dabi shares an incredulous look with the landlord and then mentally berates himself for doing so.

Gaara nods. “He was killed and his body was thrown in a ditch.”

“In–in a ditch?” The woman says timidly.

“His body is no longer in the ditch.” Gaara clarifies, because that’s the part that needs clarification. “They moved him to the ceremonial grounds.”

Dabi may be a jerk, but he’s not completely heartless. “That sucks,” he says bluntly, then tries not to wince. He doesn’t do this consoling thing, okay?

“My father tried multiple times to kill me so I was not very upset at his passing,” Gaara says musingly, and now they’re back on familiar grounds.

“Yeah, fathers fucking suck.”

They exchange a look of shared solidarity at the conclusion to one of the weirdest exchanges Dabi has ever personally been a part of.

“Well,” the landlord blurts out, voice having gone up a pitch or two. “I suppose you’ve seen everything! Should we finalize the payment now?”

Dabi nods, doing one final scan of the place. Perfect location, no questions asked, and pretty clean with reasonable accommodations. Also comes with a wacko kid neighbour and his plus one, but you can’t have it all.

“I’ll send you an e-transfer,” he tells her.

“This is a suitable place to stay.” Gaara declares. He points to a brown paper bag sitting on the counter top. “Your payment is in the bag.”

Dabi is immediately suspicious. He stares Gaara down which reveals absolutely nothing. The kid’s expression remains as blank as always. Carefully, he approaches the bag. It crinkles under his fingertips as he uncrumples the top and lifts to look inside.

It’s a bag full of money. Rumpled bills and coins are strewn about and wafting out the top is the faintest scent of iron. Dabi pushes the topmost bills aside to unveil crimson droplets speckled on the dirty paper.

The landlord has been edging closer. “Is that blood?” She squeaks out. “What happened?”

“It is not mine,” Gaara informs them, in the least reassuring manner ever.

Her eyes widen even further. “Are you—are you a villain?”

So, Dabi is a villain. Dabi is currently in talks to join –get this – the League of Villains.

Dabi also has a credit card, so what the fuck.

“Kid, you can’t just pay people like that. You can’t do things like this in general. I know the ad here said no questions asked, but a bag of bloodstained money is pushing it.”

It shouldn’t need to be said. Even Dabi, when he was thirteen and stupid knew that much. But Gaara seems like he needs a personalized copy of a ‘How to Not Look Like a Serial Killer’ handbook.

Gaara frowns. “You will not accept this as currency?”

“I don’t think…” The woman’s eyes dart frantically away. Her hands tremble.

Dabi shakes his head. She should have known what she was signing up for. If you were going to be dealing with criminals, you couldn’t be weak and pathetic. Admittedly, most criminals have more subtlety, but Gaara clearly doesn’t do subtle. He’s creepy. He’s blunt. He’s a preteen kid out of contact with his family trying to rent an apartment in one of the worst districts in the city.

He leans forward to pinch the bridge of his nose. “Look. Just give it to me. I’ll deal with it. You’ll take another e-transfer?” He directs the last question to the landlord who nods, still looking vaguely in shock.

Dabi sighs and moves to take the money bag. Most people wouldn’t be able to exchange that at the bank, but Dabi has contacts. He’ll take it to the broker, who can…do something. He eyes the bloodstained contents. Yeah, Giran probably deals with this sort of thing all the time. Probably.

Scowling at Gaara, he sends off another sum of money. With luck, his meeting with the League will go well and then he’ll start receiving a solid income again. “Just this once,” he warns. “Next month you’re on your own.”

He finishes his transaction and looks up, but Gaara doesn’t appear to be even vaguely appreciative. He’s not quite stone, but that’s only due to the small downturn to his lips.

“This is the part where you say ‘thanks’,” Dabi snaps. “Do you even know what manners are, you weirdo?”

“I do not understand,” Gaara says.

Seriously? “Manners. The things we use so that people don’t just go around grunting and punching each other in the face.”

His mouth curves even further downwards. “I do not understand why you are helping me. You think I am weird and creepy. I am not one of your precious people and we do not have an alliance. It does not benefit you in any way.”

“Jesus, kid,” Dabi groans, but the truth is, he’s right. It doesn’t benefit him at all, in fact, it inconveniences him quite a bit. Rent is expensive. And sure, it’s a nice thing to do, but Dabi isn’t nice. He’s not kind; he’s not good. He knows that and accepts that he’ll do whatever he needs to do to see Endeavor ruined.

Still. Gaara is young and small. He is young and on his own with no family to take care of him. His father tried to kill him and now he’s hiding out in a bad neighbourhood surrounded by actual criminals and rooming with a villain. Dabi’s no hero – he doesn’t believe in heroes, and even if he did he certainly wouldn’t be one. But Gaara is young and alone and Dabi can help. So…he did. Just this once.

“Just take the money, kid. Then you can figure something out for the rest of it until you get back on your feet and,” he grits the words out. “Until you can see your siblings again. Sound good?”

Gaara blinks solemnly. “I wish to see them again. As for Temari and Kankuro…I believe they are starting to love me now, but they still may not.”

“Why wouldn’t they?” Dabi asks, with more positivity in his tone than he’s had in years. Look, if he’s already helping the kid out, might as well go all the way.

“They are still afraid I will crush them to death.”

“Figuratively?” The landlord asks weakly, already knowing the answer.

“No.”

Dabi looks up at the ceiling and wonders if he’s just made a gigantic mistake.

There’s a low snort and Dabi looks back at the doorway to see dark spiky hair and arms crossed tightly over the body of yet another small child. Frowning lips and sharp but exhausted eyes look back at him. It’s a new kid. A new kid that despite his age somehow perfectly manages to give off the aura of someone completely done with life. This is unfair. If anyone should be allowed to feel that way, it should be Dabi.

“Nice to meet our new uncle,” the kid says, promptly proving him right. “That’s what I told the police, at least. Hope Gaara didn’t scare you off too much. We’d have to find a new one and that would be too troublesome.”

Dabi has changed his mind. This was a mistake. This was a massive mistake and he sincerely hopes he’s still around to survive the fallout.

Chapter Text

The shadows are stretching in the deepening twilight when Shouta first catches sight of the figure. He nearly misses it. The shade of the thick vest blends in well, and there’s no shine reflecting off from the lamplight. Their movement is completely silent, and they leap across the rooftops with utter ease, belying years of experience.

Are they another pro-hero? Shouta considers it, but ultimately decides it’s unlikely. For one, this is his route. He would have heard if someone else was coming into his patrol area, it’s only polite. And if it were an underground hero or something similar, he should have had notice of that too. Shouta has a lot of connections, and closely keeps track of the underground scene. The appearance of another hero would have found their way to his ears by now.

So, not a hero. That leaves three options: civilian, villain, or vigilante. The figure makes another sharp turn, bounding off the edge of the roof and hitting the ground running as Shouta tries and fails to picture them as a civilian. They don’t seem to have any support equipment, he rationalizes, so they could be using their quirk illegally or they’re just good at parkour. They make another leap across a nine meter gap, crossing the distance with practiced smooth economy of movement.

Extremely good at parkour.

Then there’s the possibility of them being a villain. Fleeing from the scene of a crime most likely, he’s had to chase after many villains this way. Usually not over the rooftops though. Villains are generally aware that rooftop running is his strong suit where he’s very difficult to outrun.

The last option, of course, is vigilante. Shouta has a lot of experience with vigilantes as well, and that’s without counting Hitoshi. Again, with his frequent patrols and underground connections, he’s usually aware of most vigilantes before they cause too many problems, but it’s possible they’ve just gotten started or switched locations recently.

It’s always confusing when he doesn't catch them directly in the act. But either way, it’s probably illegal. Shouta will follow them, and if they just so happen to be an expert rooftop freerunner practicing their skills at two in the morning, he can always apologize.

Shouta latches his scarf onto the nearby chimney and vaults over the tumbling bricks. He follows at a distance for a little while, marking the individual’s odd turns, stop and start pace and annoying tendency to stay shrouded in the darkness. He’s so focused on trying to catch a glimpse of their identity that it takes him an embarrassing amount of time to realize that they’re not just hopping around for fun – they’re following someone.

He sees it once the figure makes a sharp turn, dropping across a balcony to arrive behind another shadow, this time cast from a long limbed man walking down the silent streets. His short tufted hair pokes out from beneath his hood and glows a soft orange under the lamplight. Shouta can’t really make out any other features, but from his comfortable stride and absence of any packages or weapons, he doesn't seem to be doing anything other than going for a nighttime stroll. There’s certainly no good reason for him to have obtained a stalker.

The orange haired man continues walking. His steps are muffled through the rubber soles hitting the pavement, but they echo loudly in the quiet night compared to Shouta’s stealthy approach and the figure’s near silent leaps. It’s an odd pattern of movement with the three of them each following in a line. Shouta’s still biding his time, trying to figure out the mysterious individual’s motives, when the man passes by a quiet corner, brightly illuminated by a store sign.

There are two younger individuals loitering just where the shadows reach the light. They step up as the man passes.

It’s hard to hear from where Shouta’s hiding behind a chimney, but he can tell the man is awkward and uncomfortable. The conversation continues in this vein for a little bit, the man shifting his feet while a young woman with red riotous hair leans in confidently. She puts her hand on his shoulder as the jacket fabric bunches and grows. It looks like something is bubbling up beneath the shirt sleeve. Shouta has half an eye on the interaction, but the rest of his attention is still on the figure, trying to track their reactions. Why are they watching? Is this a meetup?

From beneath the pulsing fabric, the red-head pulls a knife.

Shouta is ready to jump in, heedless of tipping the figure off. That’s when he sees them shifting from their perch on the rooftop. They slip stealthily around the tiles and land right in the shade under the sign, clearly prepared to act. Shouta stills his movements.

The scene carries on below him, all participants unaware of the new addition. It’s a mugging; it’s obvious now. The orange haired man slowly reaches into his pocket and takes out a soft leather wallet. His hands are shaking as he extends it towards the woman, who has gone on to reach for the trembling fabric over her other arm. The figure has not acted yet, so Shouta activates his quirk, glaring at the redhead. The billowing comes to a halt, but that doesn’t impede her.

With sharp, vicious movements, the redhead points the knife in the man’s face while her other hand goes to snatch the wallet. This scheme appears to be well practiced. She moves with smooth, violent motion, when suddenly, she stills.

The mystery figure has clearly made their move. Shouta deactivates his quirk. Behind his goggles, the faint glow of his eyes disappears. If they’re going to use their quirk so brazenly out in the open like this, he needs to observe. It will make it much easier to catch them if they turn out to be some sort of criminal or a vigilante.

The knife is frozen, edge glinting in the neon glow. The woman’s fingers, inches away from the wallet, hover in the air, motionless.

Shouta narrows his eyes and sneaks ever closer.

He can hear the knife wielder now. “What do you think you’re doing?” She demands. “I can’t move! Let go!”

“I- I’m not doing anything,” the man stutters. He backs up, eyes darting around frantically.

“Akame!” She yells over her shoulder. “Do something, you idiot!”

Three steps back, the other mugger’s body twitches futilely. “I’m sorry, I can’t move either.”

From beneath the towering neon sign, the figure appears miniscule. Tiny in perspective, contrasted by their shadow, which warps and lengthens unnaturally in the pulsing fluorescent lighting.

A paralysis quirk, Shouta deduces. Fairly powerful too. Something to watch out for.

The muggers are abruptly released. The one called Akame stumbles, nearly falling over, before taking off running. The woman’s arms lurch down as she’s let go, knife clattering to the pavement. The orange haired man hadn’t been paralyzed like the rest of them, but he startles too, dropping his wallet and scrambling backwards,

“Hey! Get back here, you coward!” The woman stoops irritably to grab the knife, but it’s not there. The movement had been quick and stealthy. She clearly hadn’t seen, and Shouta had barely caught it himself.

The knife flashes again as the figure twirls it between their fingers. Mocking. Attention grabbing.

The man jumps, hands protectively clutching at his jacket. “Wha- who are you?”

“Who-? That’s mine! Give it back!”

The figure shrugs casually. Then with a sharp motion, flings it through the air, deadly and true.

Shouta’s already in motion, prepared to hurl himself over the edge of the roof, when his eyes calculate the path of the knife. It’s not a lethal blow at all. In fact, it doesn’t even touch her skin, blowing through her hair to lodge into the wall. Crimson strands flutter from their pinned position against the brick.

The woman gapes, frozen mouth hung open as if paralyzed again. She stares at the knife for a long moment before her eyes are drawn back to the figure still lounging beneath the sign. With a truly terrible glare, she backs away.

“Screw you,” she spits, before retreating after her partner.

The knife remains buried to the hilt in the crumbling brick.

The gangly man peels himself off from where he’s also been pressed up against the wall. “Who are you?”

“How troublesome,” the figure sighs.

Their tone is weary and exhausted, embodying an old man staggering through life. But their pitch? It’s high, unbroken, the voice of a little boy who hasn’t even gone through puberty yet. They’re not elementary school age, but they're a preteen, no doubt. It’s a kid. The stalker doesn’t just appear to be short, the stalker is a child.

The child continues on, ignorant of Shouta’s revelations.

“I just had some things to discuss with you,” he drawls, “but then you had to go and get robbed. So here we are.”

“Discuss? With me?”

“Yes, you. But first.” He doesn’t raise his voice or tilt his head in the slightest, instead staying stubbornly still in his chosen place beneath the luminous sign. “You can come out now. I know you’ve been following me.”

Shouta raises an eyebrow, reluctantly impressed. He’s been an underground hero for a long time now and he’s very good at going unnoticed. But this kid managed to catch him. Shouta unfurls his scarf and makes his way into the light.

He lands lightly on the ground and palms the wallet, flipping through for a cursory inspection. Matsui Hideaki, Quirk: Plane Shift. The man stares back at him, shiny orange hair flopping over his wide blue eyes.

He holds the wallet back out to the man, license face out in his other hand. “I’m the pro-hero Eraserhead. Would you mind waiting just over there for a minute?”

“Ah, yes sir,” the man says, stumbling over his words. He eyes the license nervously before snatching his wallet back and scurrying across the sidewalk.

That’s one down. Now it’s just him and the kid.

“It’s two am,” Shouta sighs. “What are you doing out so late? How old are you anyway?”

“Old enough,” the boy says, tone tinged with annoyance. “You’re a pro-hero, huh? Why were you following me?”

“Why were you following that man?” Shouta retorts, setting the age issue aside for the moment. He would be coming back to it later, but for now– “What sort of conversation makes you feel the need to go and stalk someone from the rooftops in the middle of the night?”

The boy’s upper body is still encased in shadows. Shouta can make out the curve of his vest and a slight tilt to his head. The bottom half is lit in lurid pink, light bouncing off plain dark pants and strange open toed sandals.

“An important one,” the boy says, tone heavy with exasperation. “Now you can go, thank you. I understand you’re trying to protect your civilians, but I really just want a conversation. A conversation and a request, but I’m not going to attack anyone.”

Protect your civilians. Shouta ponders the odd turn of phrase. The way he had said it seemed to imply that he wasn’t one. That he saw himself as a total outsider.

“You attacked that woman,” Shouta points out.

“I protected the man.”

“You’re a kid. You shouldn’t get involved in fights. Besides, it’s a pro-hero’s job to protect people.”

The boy sighs, long and deep. “I’m not sure why I even bother. Look, this has been a waste of time. I’m just gonna go home now and take a nap.”

“It’s not that simple,” Shouta says dryly. “You were using your quirk illegally. You know it’s against the law to publicly use a quirk without a license.”

“Except in cases of self-defence.”

“That was not a case of self-defence.” Shouta runs tired fingers through his hair. Why can’t things ever just be easy. He didn’t want to be dealing with an argumentative problem child today, but here he was nevertheless. “And that’s not even getting into why you were stalking the man in the first place. Do you know him?”

“I wasn’t stalking. I wanted to talk to him, but I wasn’t going to just rush in.” Shouta can feel the judgemental look from here. “I’m not Naruto.”

As far as Shouta knows, most people don’t perform extensive recon before beginning a conversation, but sometimes kids are weird. At least he has a name now. Naruto. A very strange name, probably not a common one either.

“Not Naruto, right. What is your name then?”

“Akimichi Chouji,” he says easily.

Shouta narrows his eyes. “And I’m sure that’s your real name. You’re not lying at all.”

The shadowy folds slope down, in an approximation of a shrug. “You asked.”

So it’s a total lie then. Oh well, what did he expect?

Shouta changes tactics. “Were you worried about talking to that man? I can understand why you might have wanted to make sure he was safe to be around. Come with me to the station and you can get your conversation and make whatever request you want. Provided you understand he’s allowed to refuse.”

It’s unlikely this is going to work. The preteen didn’t show any signs of being scared, no faint tremor in his voice, no uncertainty in his movements. Shouta still needs to get him to come into the station.

There’s a loud groan. “I get that using my quirk was illegal or something, but I didn’t hurt anyone at all. And now you want to take me to the police. You’re probably going to try and stop me if I leave, huh? Man, this is such a drag.”

Shouta tenses slightly, tightening his grip on the capture scarf. “You did break the law.”

“I guess so,” the boy says, lackadaisical. “Well. Bye.”

As soon as he starts moving, Shouta strikes forward, flinging his scarf out. He’s in the advantageous position here. The boy is pinned between the base of the sign and the neighbouring building, tucked up against the corner. While he had previously easily slipped down from the rooftops, it’s far harder to make your way back up. And Shouta has no intention of giving him the chance to try.

That paralysis quirk could certainly come in handy, but unfortunately for him–

Shouta activates his quirk. From beneath his goggles, his eyes begin to glow.

The capture isn’t easy, but it’s not overly difficult either. The boy is extremely fast, impossibly dodging around the first volley, but Shouta has him cornered. He gets him with the second swing, wrapping his upper body tightly and pinning his arms to his sides.

“I’m going to bring you to the station.” He states. “Will you cooperate? The police will just call your parents and ask you some questions and they’ll sort everything out from there.”

“So you really are good with that scarf,” the boy says, as he completely ignores Shouta’s question. His tone hasn’t changed at all, still lazy and slow. “It’s not the weirdest weapon I’ve ever seen. Man, I thought this would be easy.”

“It’s illogical to be overconfident when you don’t know the abilities of your opponent,” Shouta criticizes. His eyes are still wide open, fixed on the boy’s motionless form.

“It really sucks but I guess I’ll have to put some work in,” he sighs.

Shouta keeps his gaze straight, scanning the kid for weapons. He never used to do this, but having Hitoshi as his child makes him rethink a lot of things. There’s no obvious bulges, but it’s hard to tell in the darkness. What he can see is a black pouch strapped to the boy’s upper thigh. A holster?

Shouta steps closer, boots mingling with the dark cast of the kid’s long shadow.

He freezes.

What? Shouta can’t move his head at all, it feels stuck in place by a paralyzing, unyielding force. But his gaze is still fixed on the boy and his quirk is still activated. How is this possible? Did he miss something? Does the boy have backup?

“Shadow paralysis complete.” He intones.

Shadow paralysis. Shouta feels like an utter amateur. Maybe his quirk stopped working on the boy once he went and stepped into his shadow like a complete idiot. He tries to shut everything out and focuses on wriggling his fingers. They barely even twitch. Could it be similar to Hitoshi’s brainwashing? Would enough pain break him out? He can’t move though, so this is going to be difficult.

“It isn’t that bad,” the preteen says, correctly interpreting Shouta’s pained expression. “You’re good, but I couldn’t lose once I figured out your quirk.”

“You figured out my quirk?” Shouta’s lips say. He still has control over his eyes and mouth, thankfully.

“That woman’s quirk cut out when she was trying to form a second weapon. She looked surprised, and it definitely wasn’t Hideaki. And then you activated it again as soon as we started fighting. Your hair gives it away. But it didn’t seem to do anything. So, it’s some kind of canceling quirk. And with that type of quirk, you’re obviously going to use taijutsu. That means getting close, so an ideal opponent for shadow paralysis.”

Shouta was majorly impressed. This kid was clearly an excellent tactical thinker. But… “Should you really be telling me all this?”

The boy snorts. “Guess I’m just used to having to explain it to everyone.”

“Look, kid.” Shouta says. “You’re clearly smart and fast. You’re talented. But I’m worried you might decide to start going the vigilante route. You can’t just use your quirk illegally like this. You’re young, but if you start veering off into criminal territory, you could get in a lot of trouble.” He pauses. “Have you ever considered becoming a hero?”

“A hero?”

Shouta gets an uncomfortable feeling. He hears Hitoshi’s voice, small and resigned. No one would want a hero like me.

The preteen’s response isn’t quite that, but it’s not much better either. “Doing your job doesn’t make you a hero. And being a real hero is just a good way to get yourself killed.” His tone sounds lecturing, like he’s said this multiple times before. “I wouldn’t want to be a hero anyway. Putting so much effort into things for fame and fortune? That’s not my style. I just want a simple life.”

“A simple life in a cell,” Shouta says. He doesn’t really mean it – look what he’d ended up doing with Hitoshi. But he needs this boy, so relaxed and incapable of seeing the wrong in his actions, to know that he can’t continue to break the law so flagrantly. Not only that, but he’s a kid out alone at night. If he’s not arrested, he could be killed or worse.

There’s more than a few similarities to Hitoshi actually. The silent footsteps, the smooth confident movement, the precise aim and brilliant mind.

The kid releases yet another sigh. It’s like they’re both competing for the most tired of this whole situation. “Yeah, yeah. Alright, time to go.”

Shouta is still standing directly in front of him, cornering him into the base of the sign. “You’re stuck,” he states. “If you drop the paralysis, I can easily subdue you.”

In the dark, Shouta still catches the glint of teeth.

Then his hand starts moving. His fingers twitch once, twice. Shouta tries to fight it, but something has him in an unyielding grip. It’s bound to his skin, and slowly pries his fingers open one by one. With an ominous swish, his capture scarf falls out of his resisting hands.

The boy steps out into the light.

Shouta steps with him. He’s bound to the boy, bound to the unnaturally thick shadow that connects them both. He feels doubly incompetent now. The shadow paralysis isn’t just paralysis, it’s more than that, some sort of control ability that lets the kid dictate his movements. It becomes more obvious once the kid moves a hand and reaches down towards his holster. Shouta’s forced to follow the motion, arm reaching down and grabbing nothing at all. He doesn’t have a holster, but his body is still pulled along like a puppet on strings. That’s what this is. It’s a mimic quirk. He has to perform the exact same movements as the kid.

Shouta’s contracting hand holds nothing but empty air. In the kid’s mirrored hand is a knife.

“Kid,” Shouta starts. “Kid. You don’t want to do this. You want a simple life? We can talk, we can sort this out. I understand, sometimes things are hard, sometimes you don’t know what to do. I can help you. I want to help you.”

The light glances off the spiky hair and lidded eyes. Out of the shadows, it’s easy to see his face now. It’s a young face. Shouta was right about the age. Thirteen maybe, probably younger. About Hitoshi’s age when they first met that night in the alley.

“I’m not going to kill you,” the boy grumbles. “You don’t have to worry. And I wouldn’t have had to do this if you just let me go in the first place, would I? This is so troublesome.”

He’s… not going to kill him. That’s good then? Shouta had been slightly worried, but while the boy exuded hidden danger, he didn’t feel like a killer. No, what Shouta’s mostly concerned about is finding the kid later. Shouta knows how to read people, but most importantly, he’s a parent. Even under that unbothered and confident facade, he can still see the stress and worry emanating from the boy. He needs help.

At least he’s not bleeding out. It could be worse.

The kid walks closer, Shouta dragged along. The shadows wind around his body, moving his feet continuously forward. They close the distance together until their bodies are feet apart.

The kid raises the knife, pommel tipped forward. The diamond shaped blade reflects a fluorescent neon blue. It’s a kunai, Shouta realises. He hadn’t known that much about specific ancient knife types before, but the kunai is one of the types Hitoshi favours.

Shouta can see his eyes now. Narrow and determined.

“Please let me help you,” he blurts.

“Troublesome,” the boy mutters.

The handle flips and swings. Shouta’s arm is pulled through the air.

The last thing he sees before he goes unconscious is the silver gleam of a familiar swirl tipped leaf.

Chapter Text

In his many years of interacting with various members of the criminal underworld, he’s been to a lot of shady hideouts. This place is definitely a standout. It’s a lovely bar, all varnished oak counters and plush luxurious stools. The lights are dim but not too dim, emanating from the tasteful electric bulbs dangling elegantly from the ceiling. There’s velvet curtains and smooth brick walls. The bartender is in a suit, tie neat and crisp. It just has a certain ambiance, that’s what he’s trying to say.

The man sitting in front of him does not fit that ambiance. Scraggly ungroomed hair, wrinkled black shirt, and dead hand plastered over his face. No, he does not fit in at all. Nevertheless, he’s the one who’s paying out all that money, so Giran could care less.

“I’ll go bring them in now,” he says, smiling his crooked-toothed grin at Shigaraki.

Shigaraki grunts in return. Articulate. Doesn’t matter, he’s still getting paid for this.

Stepping out the side door leads him to the back alley where he’s kept his investments waiting. He arrives directly into the middle of a rather heated argument.

“-the hell are you doing here?”

It’s Dabi, narrowed eyes and clenching fists towering over the miniscule form of his latest find.

“Ah, calm down now,” Giran interjects, raising his hands benevolently. “I see our third member has finally arrived. Dabi, this is Gaara of the Desert. Gaara, meet Dabi. And of course the lovely Toga Himiko is our last member.”

“That’s me!” Toga exclaims. “I can’t believe I’m joining a team with you, Gaara. You’re just so adorable!”

“No one has ever called me adorable before,” Gaara muses, head cocked.

“Well, you are! I want to see if you’re just as adorable on the inside, hah-”

“I know he’s Gaara of the fucking Desert,” Dabi interrupts angrily, successfully redirecting the previous line of conversation which had quickly taken a turn into the disturbing. “What I want to know is what the hell you’re doing here?” With this last sentence, he rounds back on the tiny boy.

“I have come to join the League of Villains.” Gaara answers dutifully.

“That’s right!” Giran moves to clap a hand on his shoulder, but hastily redirects when a sand tendril appears out of nowhere. “And what a talent he is! They’re going to love you.”

“You smell delicious,” Toga says dreamily. “Like iron and sun and love. I definitely love you, Gaara-kun!”

Dabi takes Giran aside and steers him behind the door. “He’s thirteen,” the man hisses. “You can’t let a thirteen year old join the League of Villains!”

“He’s more than capable,” Giran placates. “You seem to know him, don’t you? Then you have to know what he can do. He’s a prime candidate!”

“I do know what he’s capable of, that’s the problem,” Dabi spits. “He’s thirteen, he’s a socially incompetent mini moron who doesn’t even know how a TV works. He doesn’t understand showers; he can’t even cook!”

“I can cook,” Gaara says plaintively from across the alley where he’s fending off Toga’s advances.

“You can’t,” Dabi shoots back.

“I made dinner–”

Dabi turns away from Giran to glare at the boy. “You went on a trip to the countryside, returned with five lizards, skinned them directly in front of me with a random knife tucked in your tunic and then asked me to set them on fire. That is not cooking.”

Gaara stares back, undeterred. “Fried lizard is a very popular dish.”

“Fried lizard–” Dabi gnashes his teeth and spins toward Giran, eyes wild. “You cannot let this child into the League of Villains.”

In the short amount of time Giran has known Dabi, the man has made quite an impression. He’s the guy hanging around back alleys and getting into fist fights, blood on his knuckles, ripped bandages, blistered skin. Giran knows his ultimate inspiration is Stain, the Hero Killer. He’s tough and he doesn’t take back talk, putting down any challengers with a deadly burst of pure incinerating flame.

It’s that hardened nature and brilliant blue flame that has gained him an introduction from Giran himself. He’ll be a good fit with the League. That’s one top dollar asset, and Shigaraki might pay a bit extra for those two fitting characteristics. It’s strange then, to realize that ultimately, Dabi might just be a mother hen.

But even though he’s such a prize, Giran’s still not conceding to Dabi’s demands. If Dabi is the top dollar asset, then Gaara is the one in a million jackpot. That much talent at such a young age? His quirk granting him absolute mastery over sand is unreal. He may be only thirteen, but this boy is sure to be going places. Places like the League, where Giran will receive a generous finder’s fee. And besides.

“Gaara was the one who approached me,” Giran tells him ingenuously. “Of course I would never seek out such a young child as a prospect, but I couldn’t simply turn him away now, could I?”

“Yes.” Dabi says flatly. “You could. Whatever. Gaara, you idiot, what the hell were you thinking?”

“We can’t keep the League waiting!” Giran says, cutting off the reignited argument. “It’s time for introductions!” He steers a happily chattering Toga into the bar. Gaara follows.

Dabi tries to catch him by the arm. “Don’t walk away from me.”

“It’s time for introductions,” Gaara repeats, stepping through the entranceway.

“You little– I wasn’t done talking–!”

They burst through the entryway, velvet curtains swaying in their wake. Giran’s client barely bothers looking up before waving a hand dismissively.

“Get rid of them.”

Kurogiri pauses over the rim of the latest glass he’s cleaning. “I believe we should hear them out first. They’ve only just arrived.”

Shigaraki sneers. It’s hard to tell from behind the hand, but Giran can still sense it. “They’re everything that I hate. A rude guy, a brat, and a toddler. Get rid of them.”

Gaara scans the group, confusion brimming in his eyes. “There are no toddlers here,” he says uncertainly.

“He means you,” Dabi mutters.

“I am not a toddler.”

“Well you sure act like one.”

“Ahem.” Giran clears his throat. If they could have just a little bit of professionality, please? It was probably too much to hope for.

“Do not be so quick to turn them away, Shigaraki Tomura,” Kurogiri cautions, breaking the silence. “You know we are in need of personnel for the next phase of our plan. Besides, they could be valuable assets. This broker has an eye for talent. I’m sure the people he has procured are of extremely high quality.”

And there’s his cue. Giran steps forward, straightening his glasses. “Well, I hardly care what you ultimately decide to do with them, but you should know that my assets are always top notch. Either way, you’ll make sure I get my money, won’t you, Kurogiri-san?”

The black smoke emanating from the stiff neck brace bobs in affirmation. “Yes, you’ll be well paid no matter what the final decision is.”

That’s really all he needs. Even though it would be nice to get a hefty tip for the quality, and maybe a good review or two, the initial commission is more than generous. Still, Giran can’t help but think that his client is being very childish. More childish than the actual child even, though the constant bickering might eventually change his opinion.

“Then I’ll go ahead and introduce them, shall I?”

He starts with Toga. She’s the resident crazy, but she’s still somehow the easiest to explain out of the three of them. “This one here looks like a cute high school girl, but don’t let that fool you! She’s currently on the run as the primary suspect in a case involving a series of deaths from blood loss.”

Toga flashes a peace sign and a wide grin, sharp teeth glinting in the electric light. “My name’s Himiko Toga! I just want to live and love my way, but they make it so hard. I want to make it easier! Just like Mr. Stainy! I want to kill Mr. Stainy!”

Yes. That’s the crazy one, all right. Shigaraki looks on, appearing very unimpressed. He opens his mouth to say something and Giran prepares to defend his choices with a lot of flattering and blustering when they’re both interrupted by Gaara.

“You wish to live your own way,” he says thoughtfully. “Act in a manner that lets you feel alive.”

“That’s right!” Toga claps her hands and jumps up and down. “No one’s ever said it like that! No one’s ever understood. Can you really understand how I feel, Gaara-kun?”

“I understand,” he affirms. “You wish to prove your existence. But–”

“I don’t,” Shigaraki cuts in. “I don’t want some psycho on the team. She’s crazy! And the boy isn’t much better.”

“Whaaat?” Toga pouts at him, cat-like eyes narrowed. “You just don’t understand! I thought you wanted to remake society. Well, I want to remake society into a place where I can live the way that feels right to me. So c’mon, Tomura! Lemme in!”

“She has motives,” Giran adds. “Motives that align with your own.”

Shigaraki growls, severed hand casting menacing shadows across his face. “I want to kill All Might to show them all how rotten this world is. It’s dangerous and harsh and they all keep smiling like someone’s gonna save them no matter what. So I’ll kill him. I’ll kill the Number One Hero.”

Giran winces slightly as spittle flies out from between the preserved fingers. His client is…maybe not the best spokesperson for recruitment. You have to be convincing and charismatic in order to make connections and get people on your side. Shigaraki is certainly convinced of his cause, but convincing? Not exactly. And he’s hardly charismatic.

“That’s your cause?” Dabi snorts. “I suppose I can get behind that. Thinking a little small, but alright.”

“Who the hell are you?” Shigaraki spits.

Giran rushes into the next introduction. “Of course, of course. This next prospect is fairly intriguing. No flashy crimes, but he does claim to follow the Hero Killer’s ideology.”

“I’m still unsure,” the man says. “The idea is okay, but you’re not exactly fighting for a just cause, so I’m not fully convinced yet. Especially if you let the girl join.”

Shigaraki scoffs. “She’s crazy, but the girl’s done more than you.” He pauses. “Wait, first give me your name. You’re an adult, then?”

“You can call me Dabi. And yes, I’m an adult. Unlike certain others in this room.”

Toga beams widely while Gaara’s lips downturn.

“I am-”

“No, no, you are not. Hey, Shigaraki, you recruit children into your League?”

Shigaraki twitches. “I’m not here to babysit a bunch of brats–”

“What he means,” Kurogiri interrupts smoothly, “is that we are open minded and consider them on a case by case basis.”

Dabi looks unimpressed. “Well, I’m certainly not babysitting. Get an age limit.”

“You’re rude,” Shigaraki repeats. “I don’t like it.”

“We can set aside Dabi’s proposal for another time, perhaps,” Kurogiri suggests. “For now, I believe we have one last potential recruit who we haven’t heard from yet.”

“Everyone’s been so hung up on Stain,” Shigaraki says, voice darkening. “What’s next? Are you here for Stain too, brat?”

“He is not,” Giran jumps in. One last introduction, then he can take his money and go. “Our final one here appears to be an innocent little boy, but his true power is hidden underneath his cute facade!”

“Gaara?” Dabi sputters. “Cute?”

Giran can see Dabi’s point. The glassy green eyes are a bit off putting, but the boy is still a tiny thirteen year old. Cute could certainly apply. Nevertheless, he continues. “No crimes on record, but he approached my office, the one in the, ah, busy parts downtown. Came in the middle of the night at peak traffic and got dragged off into an alley. He was the only one to emerge unscathed.”

The boy nods in confirmation. “I am Gaara of the Desert.”

Shigaraki leans forward, table creaking. “And why are you here, Gaara of the Desert?”

“Kurogiri.” Gaara says promptly.

“Kurogiri?” Dabi asks.

“Kurogiri?” Toga echoes.

“Kurogiri?” Tomura seethes, rage darkening his voice.

Behind the bar, Kurogiri points a black smoky tendril at himself in bewilderment.

“It’s true,” Giran cheerfully interjected. “Gaara managed to find his way to my office all by himself saying he’d heard of my services from a knowledgeable acquaintance. And that same acquaintance was aware I could put him in contact with you, Kurogiri-san.”

It had been quite a surprise to arrive back at his office for a midnight snack only to find a stack of unconscious men and a pint sized, hollow-eyed child choking out a final offender. Deadly shifting sand curled around his throat, and as he’d dropped, the child had turned and in the next breath, requested his services. How could he say no to a find like that?

Dabi, on the other hand, seems to have caught onto something else. “A knowledgeable acquaintance,” he says. He sounds instantly suspicious.

Yes, the acquaintance. Gaara hadn’t revealed his source, but Giran can take a guess. There’s been news stirring the underground lately about a shadowy figure roaming the streets, taking interest in specific people. He rarely acted directly, so he probably wasn’t a vigilante. An information gatherer, most likely, Giran speculates.

“What do you want with Kurogiri?” Shigaraki barks.

“I am interested in Kurogiri’s quirk,” Gaara says bluntly. “I have heard it is a quirk that involves transportation across great distances and portals. If I could get more information on this quirk, I would be willing to join your League of Villains and provide my help and possibly the help of an ally as well. I would assist with some of your future endeavors, provided they are short-term. And depending on the details of the quirk, I would ask for a favour involving a single use of it.”

Shigaraki’s fists clench. “You want to join my league just to use Kurogiri’s quirk, then quit?”

“Yes.” Gaara agrees. “I am very powerful and I will ensure the total completion of two missions with the League for the information and favour concerning Kurogiri’s quirk.”

“Very powerful?” Shigaraki pushes himself off the bar countertop and sways to his feet. “Jeeze, you’re arrogant, aren’t you? Are you gonna prove it? Come here.” He stalks towards the group.

Gaara barely hesitates before approaching. They meet in the centre of the floor in a strange faceoff, Shigaraki’s hunched, gangly form towering over the small redhead.

“Kid…” Dabi starts uncertainly, but he doesn’t say anything else.

Giran doesn’t quite know what to think of this. Shigaraki is dangerous, certainly, but something about Gaara seems silently menacing, a violent storm brewing just beneath the surface. Still, so long as Giran doesn’t get caught in it himself, he doesn’t care. He shifts a little to the side to lean against the far back wall just in case.

“You think you’re so good?” Shigaraki says, glaring down at the boy. “What are you going to do about this?”

“Do not, Shigaraki–!” Kurogiri cries, but he’s seconds too slow. Shigaraki reaches out with lightning speed to grab Gaara’s arm, expression shifting into gleeful anticipation.

Murderous fingers curl around flesh. Giran winces. Gaara is powerful, but power means nothing when he just stands there, so still and unmoving, leaving himself perfectly open to attack. All five fingers have made contact, meaning it’s too late now. It’s a shame the boy’s such an unknown. Giran hopes there’s someone who might pay for information on his demise.

Around Gaara’s wrist, flesh blackens and crumbles, sending cracks travelling down the length of his arm. With a hollow thunk, chunks of disintegrating shards crack off his skin and fall to the ground. Shigaraki removes his hand, smirking.

Beneath the ravaged flesh, is an identical layer of untouched porcelain skin.

Dust and sand swirl off the floor to coat his arm, reforming a layer of tan sandy armour. Colour creeps through flesh until Giran is staring at a perfectly normal arm once more.

“Yeah,” Dabi comments to the silent audience. “He does that.”

Shigaraki shrieks in frustration. “You cheat!” He lunges forward and grabs the arm again. The crumbling dust falls very anticlimactically back onto the floor, before returning to its previous place around Gaara’s skin.

Gaara stares blankly.

“Do his face next, it’s super creepy.” Dabi suggests helpfully. “He can give you his horror movie doll impression.”

“I do not understand this game,” Gaara says plaintively.

“You–” Shigaraki whips around, mad eyes coming to rest on Dabi and Toga. “I don’t feel good. You’re all no good!”

He throws himself forward, bursting past Gaara, with both hands thrusted out towards the other two candidates. They’re already moving too, charging to meet Shigaraki, knives and flames at their fingertips. Gaara looks on in alarm.

“No!” Kurogiri orders, and this time he’s able to act. Dark smoke emerges from his fingertips, turning into portals. None of the attacks connect, each arm becoming disconnected as they reach through the fog.

Well, none of the attacks connect except Gaara’s. Giran’s the first to see the coiling sand curling up Shigaraki’s leg. It pulls and tightens threateningly.

“Do not,” Gaara warns.

“Let go,” Shigaraki says, incensed. Through the portal, his hand is trembling with rage.

“Please let Shigaraki Tomura go,” Kurogiri says evenly. He dismisses the smoke and everyone’s limbs return to their respective owners. “You have demonstrated your abilities.”

Gaara stands still for a long moment before inclining his head. The sand winds away and seeps back into the strange object he has attached to his back. “If you do not attack us, I have no reason to hurt you.”

Dabi steps away with a deep scowl while Toga bounces backwards with a grin on her face. “Aw, you’re protecting me, Gaara-kun? You’re so sweet!”

Shigaraki angrily scratches the back of his neck. “I don’t want him in my party,” he whines. “I hate him. I hate them all.

Immature. Giran never likes to speak ill of a client, but Shigaraki Tomura is far too young to be leading the League of Villains. Even after such an impressive demonstration, he refuses to consider the advantages of having someone like Gaara on his team. He’s too caught up in pride without any planning. Giran idly wonders who else might pay for an introduction.

“Party?” Gaara asks aloud.

“You just want to get an invite to the party for the easy quests so you can take all the loot and ditch,” Shigaraki fumes.

Gaara blinks wonderingly. “I have never been invited to a party.”

“It’s not a party,” Dabi sighs. “You’re not being invited to a party, kid.”

“Oh.”

“Look, just… Can we talk outside for a sec?”

Gaara turns towards Dabi. “But what is loot?”

“Loot? It’s… uh…” Dabi pinches the bridge of his nose. “Video game slang? You know? Nevermind, you wouldn’t, because you live under a rock and don't know anything about anything. It’s like good stuff you get in a game, I guess. It doesn’t matter.”

Shigaraki is still ranting. “And you’re a total noob! I guess your abilities are kind of buffed, but you don’t have any XP.”

“What is noob?” Gaara turns expectant eyes back towards Dabi.

“I said, it doesn’t even matter.” Dabi sighs again when confronted with the unrelenting stare. “Noob. Like, newbie. It means you’re new.” He groans, long and loud. “I can’t believe I know this shit.”

“You don’t even have a kill count!” Shigaraki continues.

Gaara shifts focus. ”197,” he interrupts.

Giran’s eyes widen.

“What?” Shigaraki demands.

“My kill count.”

“So… you actually do play video games?” Despite his question, Dabi’s tone does not sound at all optimistic.

“No.”

“Yeah, I didn’t think so.” Dabi sounds very tired all of a sudden, before his exhaustion quickly turns into indignation. “Wait a second! Why were you feeding me all this love and bonding nonsense when you’re a thirteen year old with an insanely high kill count?”

“It was once my way of proving my existence,” Gaara explains patiently. “I would love only myself and protect only myself. But I met someone who showed me I could be strong through the bonds of others. And now I wish to become more like him.”

“So you’re telling me you’re trying to repent,” Dabi says skeptically. “Move on and change your ways.”

“Yes.” Gaara dips his head.

“By joining the League of Villains?”

“...Yes.”

Giran stares at Gaara, seeing the boy with new eyes. 197 kills. At thirteen. How was it possible he’d never heard of this kid before now? That was ridiculous. Word should have gotten around. Was he posturing? Giran doubts it. Gaara hardly seems the type to lie, and definitely not about something like this. But how exactly did he start? Who were the victims? Why did he do it? He must have started extremely young for that number of kills. Was he pushed into it? Criminal parents? A hidden organization, maybe? Giran vows to find out somehow.

Toga seems to be on a completely different train of thought. She dances around excitedly. “You want to be just like someone? You really are like me! I want to become Mr. Stainy! Who do you want to become?”

“I want…” Gaara pauses. “I want to become like Naruto. He has gone through so much pain, but he endured. He sought the love of his village, he found his precious people, and formed bonds that gave him strength. He is much stronger than me. I wish to one day be like that too.”

“Ah!” Toga squeals, and hugs herself. “You love him! I can tell! So much that you literally want to become him, I’m getting all emotional just thinking about it. I would go and carve him right up! Take all his blood and drink it to be just like him!”

Gaara’s green eyes fill with confusion. “You’re saying I could be like Naruto if I carved him up and fed on his blood?” He sounds slightly doubtful.

For the first time, Toga appears marginally perplexed, manic expression fading. “Well, now that I think about it… It works for me?”

“No.” Dabi says firmly. “Just no. If you tried to do that to him, he would run away screaming bloody murder. Because that’s what you’d be doing. Bloody murder. I feel like this is pretty self-explanatory, Gaara, but I’ll say it anyway. Murder doesn’t give you better morals.” He holds out a hand. “Wait. Unless you’re murdering assholes. But you’re thirteen. So, just no.”

Gaara nods once. “I do not want to kill Naruto.”

“Aw.” Toga slumps. “But you love him! And if you really wanna show your love, you gotta cut them up! It just makes me all gooey inside, that feeling you get when you wanna take all the blood from the people you love. Killing them and drinking their blood is just the proper way to show it, you know?”

Giran’s smile tightens at its corners. He knew this girl was disturbed, but hearing it now really hammers it in. He’s glad he’ll be rid of her soon. The League better take her.

Dabi leans back. Gaara’s expression remains still as stone.

“I killed people before because I hated them. I loved only myself, and I killed the ones I could not stand. When you care for someone, you can’t kill them. Killing them is painful. And pain is bad.”

“What? Pain?” Toga twirls a previously hidden knife around her fingers. “No way! It means I love them!”

“Perhaps you do not understand pain. I did not for a long time, but I was stabbed in the shoulder once. It was bad. It hurt a lot.” Gaara hesitates. “Would you like me to stab you in the shoulder to demonstrate?”

“No one is stabbing anyone in the shoulder,” Dabi hisses. “God. No.”

Gaara tilts his head in thought. “Then would you like me to head butt you? That is what Naruto did for me.”

“No one,” Dabi emphasizes, “is doing anything to anyone.” He levels a glare at Gaara. “We are going back to the apartment. It is definitely too late for you to still be out. I will personally drag Nara out of bed so that he can keep an eye on you and make sure you don’t go anywhere else. At least he’s somewhat responsible.”

Gaara frowns. “Shikamaru is not in bed at the moment.”

“Why,” Dabi grits his teeth, “Not?”

“Shikamaru finds that two to four am is the best time for stalking as well as breaking and entering.”

Dabi makes a sound like a tea kettle about to explode.

“Ah,” Kurogiri hastily cuts in. “Well it has been a pleasure to meet you all. Shigaraki Tomura, have you made a decision? If what you wish is to come to pass, we must increase our organization’s numbers. Your goals can be met, and these are truly powerful assets. I believe they can certainly aid you in your quest.”

Shigaraki stomps across the hardwood floor. “Fine. I guess. Kurogiri, you deal with the boy.”

“You wish for me to tell him about my quirk?”

“I don’t care.”

“Shall I-”

“Shut up.”

“I-”

“Shut up.” Shigaraki stomps loudly out the door.

They all listen to the sound of thunderous feet against the floorboards getting quieter and quieter.

His client really is immature. Giran can hardly blame him, though. The three new recruits seem to be quite a handful. They were already a bit much individually, but together… Giran shudders. He’s very glad that he’ll be able to take his money and get out.

“Shigaraki Tomura has left, but I believe we have reached an answer,” Kurogiri says politely, breaking the silence.

Dabi shrugs. “He disgusts me, but he’ll help me fulfill my ambitions. So. We’re in?”

Kurogiri’s glowing eyes slit upwards.

“Welcome to the League.”

Chapter Text

The heat of battle is an electric, dizzying mess of flashing lights, earthshaking explosions, and pure, brilliant chaos. So why does Hitoshi feel so calm?

It must be the calm of battle. That artificial chill that settles in his veins and forces him to slow down, to see each movement second by second. Others would find it strange that he feels more centered in a fight than in day-to-day life, but that’s the way it is for a shinobi. If a shinobi can’t keep their cool, they’re dead, so battle becomes that perfect moment where his mind is perfectly honed and steady. He’s zoned in; he’s at peace. All his senses are firing, but he manages it with total tranquility.

That must be how he’s able to take in the ten meter tall sand avalanche with barely a second glance.

Okay, fine, maybe he does give a second glance or three, but it’s for a good reason. Riding on top of the gigantic wave of crushing sand is a small red haired boy. An oddly familiar red haired boy. At first, Hitoshi thinks he’s just imagining things. But out of all the things that he could possibly have conjured up in his screwed up mind, why in the world would it be Gaara of the Desert?

It isn’t even possible. And even if it were possible, it’s hardly the most important thing at the moment. They have bigger things to worry about, like the League of Villains being after Bakugou, Aizawa missing somewhere in the forest, and, oh, the gigantic tidal wave of sand about to crush them all to pieces.

“Go!” Hitoshi orders, shoving Kaminari, who had been gawking a bit too long. Todoroki and Midoriya are already moving, but Bakugou is going the wrong direction. Hitoshi grabs the boy by the shoulder and hauls him along with the rest of the group.

“Hey! Get the hell off me!” Bakugou shoves his arm off.

“We shouldn’t fight, Kacchan,” Midoriya says worriedly. “They’re all looking for you! We need to get you someplace safe.”

“I’m not going to quiver and hide like a coward,” Bakugou snarls. “If they want me, they can freaking have me!”

“Keep running!” Hitoshi barks. “We need to regroup back at the main lodge.”

“But there’s villains everywhere,” Kaminari huffs. His eyes dart between the shadowed trees in frenzied distress. “We’re going to run into more, I know it! What are we gonna do?”

“We will deal with them,” Todoroki states evenly. Unlike Kaminari, he’s easily keeping up with the fast pace Hitoshi has set. He’s by far the most relaxed out of the rest of Hitoshi’s classmates. Not quite a shinobi attitude, but good enough to work with. The others are more fidgety than first-year academy students.

“Damn right, we’ll deal with them! They deserve to get pounded for showing their faces here again! I’ll kill them all!”

“I found you,” a monotone voice says. From the underside of a branch, the small red haired boy stands, arms crossed.

“-Hah?” Midoriya yelps. “But you were just- just… How are you doing that? You’re able to control sand, you made that sand wave, so you’re really powerful! But can you produce sand- no, it’s coming from that container… And how are you using it to stick to the tree?”

“Focus, Midoriya,” Hitoshi mutters. He doesn’t take his eyes off his opponent.

“Hey, what are you doing with the League of Villains?” Kaminari questions. “You’re so young! You can’t even be in high school yet!”

“I am an adult,” the boy says irritably. “I do not understand why everyone questions me on this.”

“You’re like, twelve!” Kaminari laughs. His shoulders have relaxed, and he’s clearly more at ease around this younger boy. Hitoshi wants to smack him over the head. Never underestimate an opponent, no matter what their age is. And never underestimate a shinobi, period.

Because that’s what he is. It’s clear now. No one in this world can tree walk, not in the way a shinobi can. The boy defies gravity so casually, sticking to the trunk with utter ease. It looks absolutely strange, but deeply familiar, and Hitoshi can feel a tugging sensation in his chest. The posture, the clothing. The worn down shinobi sandals on his feet. The scuffed hitai-ate around his sash.

The symbol isn’t one he lives and breathes in his sleep, but it’s familiar nonetheless. Sunagakure, the village hidden in the sand. And the owner of the hitai-ite was Suna’s very own Kazekage. Up close, the facial features make it obvious. Who else has those sleepless, green eyes and bloody kanji scrawled across their forehead? But something seems different. He was fifteen the last time Hitoshi saw him, on that crazy race across the desert. But now? Kaminari did have a point. The boy looks practically genin age.

Gaara sighs, putting a pause on his racing thoughts. “I am here for Bakugou Katsuki. Please come with me.” A hovering sand platform extends towards the group.

“What? Like hell I’m going with you!” Cracks and sparkles emanate from Bakugou’s clenched fists.

“I do not wish to harm you,” Gaara says calmly. “Please come now and there will be no need for you to get hurt.”

“He’s not going with you!” Midoriya shouts, eyes shining with determination. “Why are you even working with the League?”

“We have entered a temporary alliance in return for a favour,” Gaara says. “Now will you come?”

Hitoshi knows he has to act. His classmates are in danger, and none of them truly know what it is to be locked in a life or death battle. While he believes Gaara when he says he doesn’t want to hurt anyone, he also knows that shinobi do what they have to do no matter what. If his mission is to bring Bakugou in, no first year heroics students are going to stop him.

And he knows Gaara. He should speak up. Konoha had an alliance with Suna, so shouldn’t Gaara listen to him? But he’s not Konoha, not anymore. He hasn’t been for a very long time.

“We cannot allow you to take our classmate,” Todoroki intones, as the temperature begins to drop.

“I understand,” Gaara says. “He must be precious to you. I apologize.” And with that, the torrential sand returns, streaming through the trees and pouring down, as if ready to bury them all alive.

Hitoshi leaps into action, trying to get up high. He attempts to scale the tree, but he’s too slow. Without chakra, he’s barely a match for any genin, never mind a full blown jinchuriki. The sand burrows down and traps him at waist height. Hitoshi struggles to break free, but it’s holding him too tightly. It’s not uncomfortable exactly, but it’s definitely a firm hold. He grimaces. At least it’s not a sand burial yet.

Kaminari looks like he’s gearing up to launch a large blast, but the sand takes him too. Todoroki gets a little farther, pushing the sand away with huge blocks of ice. Bakugou attacks alongside him, explosions propelling him forward. “Die!” He screams.

“Wait,” Midoriya says desperately, struggling to push through the sand. His legs spark green, but it doesn't seem to be helping. “We can talk about this!”

In front, Bakugou crashes into a tree, burning fists cracking through the bark. “Where– Hey! You idiot! Where’d you go!”

Shunshin. The most basic of shinobi techniques, and one that his classmates are not at all prepared to counter.

“I am here,” the voice says from behind them. Bakugou whirls around, but he’s not fast enough this time. The sand swallows him whole.

“Kachaan!” Midoriya screams. Sparks fly as he nearly breaches the top, but then the sand takes him down again, burying him to neck height.

Todoroki tries to freeze the area around him, but the sand’s already crawling over, replacing the ice and grinding itself free. They’re all just too slow. With Hitoshi’s left eye, he sees the openings and movements he could make, but his body can’t keep up. In the blink of his right, Todoroki is buried with the rest of them.

The sand sphere that encases Bakugou starts to rise into the air. Hitoshi can hear muffled screeching from inside, but it holds firm. He knows Gaara is able to contain even Deidara’s greatest masterpieces. There’s no way Bakugou will even be able to make a dent.

“Kachaan!” Midoriya cries again.

“Bakugou!” Kaminari shouts.

Gaara barely spares them a second glance, forming a sand platform and starting to float away.

Is this really how it ends? He’s spent his whole life grappling with the loss of Konoha, knowing no one will ever truly understand what he’s lost. And now it turns out he’s not alone after all, Gaara is somehow here and he’s about to kill them all. Is he really this helpless? This incapable without his chakra?

“Wait!” The words come flowing frantically from Hitoshi’s lips.

For the briefest of moments, Gaara’s head tilts in his direction.

“What favour did you need? Maybe I can help!”

He hopes– he prays–

“A dimension–”

Hitoshi latches on and tugs as viciously as he can. The connection forms, a buzzing string that pulls his mind over Gaara’s. Gaara stares dazedly into the air, hovering in place. The ball of sand containing Bakugou idles beside him.

If he can get Gaara to let them go, if he can just tell him what’s going on, maybe he’ll have someone on his side. Someone who can understand. But right now, he needs to stop the attack. So he’ll brainwash Gaara, and afterwards, he’ll take him aside and discuss when no one else is in earshot.

“Let us all go,” Hitoshi orders.

Gaara’s hand moves jerkily, forcing the sand to crawl back. The sand coffin breaks open, sending Bakugou free falling through the air. He lands harshly, cushioned by his own explosions.

“Shinsou?” Midoriya whispers, shaking the sand off his costume. “Is this your real quirk?”

Hitoshi ignores him, focusing on his quirk. The connection feels frayed. Maintaining it takes a lot more concentration than usual, making his mind feel taut and strained. “Come down to the ground,” he says.

Gaara’s eyes are still blank. The sand platform begins to move, descending with erratic movements. And that’s when it all goes wrong.

There’s a sharp, piercing pain in his head. He hears an earth shattering roar, then feels blinding terror.

The connection snaps.

“Ha, ha, ha!!” A deep rolling laughter emanates from Gaara’s mouth. It sounds unearthly and demonic. His skin cracks and peels back, seeping down his arms and transforming into giant claw tipped paws. His face turns dusty brown, his pupils shrink, and the whites of his eyes darken. Behind him, a massive, layered tail is starting to form.

“Shinsou!” Midoriya squeaks. “What’s going on?”

He may… have just made a massive mistake.

Gaara continues to grow, taller and taller, sand piling out of the earth and sloping up his sides. Ears tip back out of his head, and tattoos crawl across his skin. He’s massive now, towering above their little group, above the trees. The shaking tail thickens into barbed points. Gaara swings it, crushing a small section of the forest. Except it’s not quite Gaara anymore, is it?

“I’m finally out!!” The Ichibi roars to the world, sending the earth trembling. “I’m ready to kill! And I have you to thank, human. I’ll make your death quick.”

“What is that??” Kaminari screams, waving his arms wildly at the enormous bijuu.

“It’s a demon,” Todoroki whispers, eyes wide.

“What,” a voice says, deadly calm, “did you do?”

Emerging from the trees, is another child. The boy has spiky, dark hair and sharp, narrowed eyes. He wears the traditional chunin vest and shinobi sandals with a hitai-ate tied around his arm. Hitoshi’s gaze fixes inexorably on the Konoha leaf symbol and he can’t seem to tear his eyes away from it.

“Tell me exactly what you did, and do not try whatever it was on me. I’m the only one who knows what that is, and if you take me out, we’ll all die here.”

Hitoshi has to respond, but the words are stuck in his throat. It's the Konoha symbol, it’s a comrade, things he’s been hoping desperately to see for all his life. Not only that, but he can feel the chakra now. He imagines regaining his chakra sometimes, dreams about the rush and the power. He wishes he could feel it pulsing through his veins just one last time, and now he finally has it.

In the form of the terrifying, dizzying aura of a full blown bijuu on a rampage.

It takes him straight back to that night. The visceral feeling of death in the air, the palpable waves of burning chakra. Nine vivid orange tails as deadly instruments of destruction.

Hitoshi breathes and steadies himself. There’s no time to panic. Right now, what they need is action. Action and a miracle, but he has to work with what he has.

“My quirk is brainwashing,” he says bluntly. This is a briefing, now. They’re in mortal danger and it’s no time for secrets. “I can take control of someone when they respond to me. When I tried to take control, something pushed me out.”

“Alright,” Shikamaru says, eyes fixed on the bijuu. “Ice, explosions, brainwashing. You two. Quirks? Anything helpful for containing the Ichibi?”

“Me?” Kaminari gawks at the Ichibi. “Uh, electricity. And, no way.”

“You’re working with the villains?” Bakugou snarls. “Why the hell should we be listening to you?”

“Would you rather have the whole forest get flattened?” Shikamaru snaps. “Brainwash. Ice. You’re with me, we’re going in close.”

Hitoshi nods and joins him immediately. They start moving through the woods towards the Ichibi. “You want me to try again?”

“That’s right,” Shikamaru says. He instinctively turns towards the trees, but ultimately seems to realize they won’t be able to follow, so they all proceed on foot. “And ice- can you do water as well? Wet sand will be harder for him to control. And if you can scale up your attacks, an ice prison might be worth a try.”

“My name is Shouto,” Todoroki says. “I can’t do water, but I can make an ice prison.” Hitoshi is slightly surprised by how easily he seems to have joined up, but the utter scale of the bijuu and the way its tail demolishes everything in its path is very convincing.

“Troublesome,” Shikamaru hisses, and unlike usual, seems truly troubled. “Then I guess I’ll try to hold him. Shouto, protect Brainwash. Make sure he gets his chance. It should work. Gaara’s probably trying to fight it, so it should give him the chance to break out. If not…” He grimaces.

Hitoshi feels for the clearly out of his depth chunin. The Shikamaru he knew was tactically brilliant and composed in all situations. This Shikamaru is clearly still smart, but he’s younger, and lacking experience. Lacking experience is not a good thing when facing a bijuu.

“Don’t worry,” he assures the chunin. “I can do this.” He has to. If he can’t… All Might could certainly face the Ichibi and win, but All Might isn’t here. He can’t think of anyone else who stands a chance. And unfortunately, there’s nothing like Konoha teamwork in this world. Even if they all worked together, it would be messy and disastrous. They were bound to take casualties.

Shikamaru shakes his head and flexes his fingers. “Right. Shouto, get up there. Don’t let Brainwash die. When the Ichibi stops moving, start talking. I can give you ten seconds at the very most, so work fast.”

Hitoshi and Todoroki exchange glances.

“I understand,” his classmate says. “Good luck.” He forms a towering ice sculpture below their feet. Hitoshi grabs on as the ice boosts them both into the air.

Up above, the Ichibi is laughing uproariously. Patches of forest are being flattened beneath its massive paws. In the distance, Hitoshi can vaguely see flashes of light and harried motion. Heroes and villains alike are trying to fight it, but they aren’t getting far.

“You!” It howls. “If you go making yourselves targets like that, you better put up a good fight! I’m itching for some blood!”

Todoroki stiffens and prepares to send a glacier or two in its direction.

“Wait,” Hitoshi murmurs, Sharingan tracking the small shadowy figure darting through the trees. “Almost there.”

The Ichibi rears up on its haunches and starts bounding in their direction. Its tail waves frenetically, sending gusts of wind tearing through the leaves. Its paws are tipped with razor sharp black talons.

“Shinsou,” Todoroki says urgently.

“Wait,” Hitoshi hisses. Shikamaru is there, at the base.

The Ichibi swings a massive claw towards their precarious ice tower.

And freezes.

Thank Kami. Shikamaru did it. He was always excellent with shadow possession, but shadow possession on a bijuu is no easy feat. Ten seconds at the most, he said. So Hitoshi has to make it count.

“What about your people?” Hitoshi shouts, projecting his voice as loudly as possible. “How will you protect your friends like this?”

“What friends–”

Hitoshi seizes control, hanging onto that fraying thread for dear life. The rush of bijuu chakra washes over him, but he pushes through, grappling with the Ichibi’s forceful mind. Gaara, he calls, wrestling for the second consciousness tucked in the back. Gaara, come back.

And right as he’s forcefully booted out, he thinks he can feel the vaguest sensation of a small hand reaching for him, smooth eyes blinking open.

Hitoshi comes back to himself with a jolt and nearly falls right over the edge of the glacier. Thankfully, Todoroki catches his arm and he regains his balance quickly. The Ichibi is melting, sand curling down its sides, and body shrinking into itself. Sand peels back from its face revealing pale skin and wide, green eyes. Gaara is back. They did it.

Todoroki smooths the ice out, allowing them to slide down back to the forest floor. In a cacophony of noise, their classmates burst out from the trees.

“How did you do that?” Kaminari shrieks. “It was a gigantic sand-monster thingy! And then you went and turned it back into a little kid again!”

“Todoroki! Shinsou! Are you alright?” Midoriya’s words come out in a panicky rush over top.

“We’re alright,” Hitoshi groans. The backlash was really bad this time. His head feels like someone’s trying to drill their way out of his skull, but he can’t relax yet. This isn’t over. “The boy’s back in control. We still need to get back to camp. Come on.”

As much as he wants to catch up to Shikamaru and interrogate him on his whereabouts up to this point, he has his classmates and Shouta to worry about. They had a temporary alliance fighting the Ichibi, but now they’re back on opposite sides. He’s got to end this fight, then afterwards he can take care of shinobi matters.

“You went and worked with that villain,” Bakugou says, glaring. “I could have fought him. Next time I’ll do it, and I’ll win! You hear?”

Kaminari laughs nervously. “He was a massive monster though! Just saying, that's kinda impossible to fight head on…”

The others seem to be relieved that the fight is over. They’ve relaxed and let their guards down even though they still have many enemies roaming the forest. Hitoshi knows better though, which is probably why he’s the only one to jump out of the way when the shadows start bending.

“You really are troublesome,” Shikamaru groans. He puts his hands on his head, forcing the rest of Hitoshi’s classmates to do the same. “Look, I don’t even know why they want to recruit Bakugou. But they do, so that’s what I’m doing. You don’t have to worry about your friend. They want him, so they won’t hurt him much.”

“Apparently you’re working for a favour,” Hitoshi says, keeping his eyes on the shadows. It’s hard to tell in the dark forest, which shadows are natural and which belong to Shikamaru. He backs up into a small patch of dirt lit up by the moonlight. “If you tell me what it is, maybe I can work something out?”

Shikamaru rolls his eyes. “Hey Bakugou, those must be grenades, right?” He moves to hook a finger around his waist, forcing everyone to reach down and do the same. Bakugou’s hand curls around his own grenade and slowly brings it up to chest height.

“Let go of me, you stupid fuck!” He howls. “Let go, we’ll fight and I’ll kill you–”

Shikamaru brings up his other hand. Bakugou does the same.

“Wait, you can’t,” Midoriya pleads. “We worked together, and now you’re going to kill us?”

“It won’t kill you,” Shikamaru drones. “You’ll be fine.”

“No, we won’t, Kacchan’s explosions are super powerful–”

Hitoshi grits his teeth and palms a kunai. He never fights with them anymore, but the cool metal feels welcome and familiar beneath his fingers. “Your friend mentioned something about dimensions. Dimension what? If you need help, I know people.”

Shikamaru doesn’t respond, just moves his fingers. Bakugou’s gloves tighten over the pin.

The kunai zips through the air. His throw doesn’t have anywhere near the same force that it once did, and Shikamaru has no trouble ducking, pulling his four classmates into awkward crouches alongside him.

Shikamaru’s mouth tightens, clearly ready to finish this. He raises the grenade, forcing Bakugou to follow. Reels his arm back, ready to throw. His other hand comes up, twists the pin, pulls it out–

“Stand down!” Kakashi bellows, channelling every ounce of angry ANBU commander into his voice. “That is an order from your superior, chunin!”

Shikamaru halts, grenade poised.

He doesn’t have much time. “Eagles cry over light through the leaves.”

“Acknowledged,” Shikamaru says stiffly. He drags his hand back to his side, and Bakugou hooks the grenade back into place. “Can I get your identity or is that classified?”

All his classmates’ backs are still to him. Kakashi shrugs, and activates his Sharingan, feeling his energy seep even lower. He palms his face and mimics covering his eye diagonally with his hand.

Shikamaru’s eyes widen, then thin again as they scan searchingly over his body. His hands twitch at his sides, another identity check in Konoha sign language. Kakashi’s rusty fingers answer with the correct code, confirming his status as a jounin of Konoha.

“What’s going on?” Kaminari asks, his voice slightly choked with either fear or relief. “Are you bombing us or not?”

“It’s fine,” Kakashi says calmly. “As it turns out, I know him. They’re on our side.” He sends a piercing look at Shikamaru, who nods shortly. He lets go of shadow possession jutsu, and his classmates collapse back into themselves.

“Die!!” Bakugou yells, and tries to rocket towards the chunin, but Midoriya catches his arm.

“Wait! Kacchan! Shinsou has it under control, I think. They’re going to work with us now!”

“That bastard nearly blew us up!” Bakugou snarls. “And now we’re just gonna trust him?”

“He’ll listen to me,” Kakashi repeats.

“Guess I will.” Shikamaru rubs the back of his neck unhappily. “So. Orders?”

The boy is clearly confused and displeased, but he’s listening to Kakashi nonetheless. That’s the power of a jounin with years of experience. He has the authority, and any subordinates are required to obey him no matter what. He doesn’t enjoy pulling the rank card, but it sure gets results.

Kakashi dizzyingly recalls that his years of experience are hardly his; they’re from a different life and they feel a million miles away. He’s not really a real jounin anymore. He’s not even Kakashi anymore, not really, but- but…

He shuts it all away. Doesn’t matter. Right here and right now, he is what he needs to be.

“Primary objective is to protect all UA students and staff,” he orders. “We’re regrouping at the campsite. Their safety is top priority, meaning we need to get rid of the League of Villains.”

“Get rid of them,” Shikamaru trails off leadingly.

“Anything goes,” Kakashi confirms.

Shikamaru hesitates. “One of the members has a certain quirk that could help with… getting back.”

“Not a concern,” Kakashi says. “Orders remain the same.” He pauses, then taps his eye meaningfully.

He doesn’t mean to mislead the boy. It’s true he’s never really thought about using his Mangekyou to get back, hadn’t even thought it was a possibility. He had died, he was dead and there was nowhere to go. But seeing these young versions of people he used to know makes him think that maybe his world isn’t just a distant memory. Maybe it’s connected somehow, linked in a way that makes it traversable. And if that’s true, then why couldn’t he use his Mangekyou to bridge the gap?

There’s a part of him that shivers in hope and anticipation, and another that lurches with dread. He ignores both.

Shikamaru nods, a distant look in his eyes. “Right. Okay. Gaara? You can come out now.”

Gaara appears in a sudden whirl of sand. Bakugou swears and tries to punch him while Midoriya startles and jumps back. The Suna shinobi casually blocks the punch with a wall of sand.

“You are obeying him now?” He asks curiously.

“Yep. Change of plans. This just turned into a protection mission.” Shikamaru pats himself down, picking out a communicator, before pointing at Kakashi. “That guy is our superior, so we’re listening to him for now. He also has our way back.” He throws Kakashi a look. “I’m still the team leader, though.”

Kakashi tilts his head. Fair enough. There’s been far too many oddities to completely give up control. “We’re heading back to the campsite,” he repeats. “Protect all the students and teachers and make sure they get back safely.” He glances at the black communicator in Shikamaru’s hand. “What’s that?”

“Getting rid of the League.” Shikamaru raises the device to his mouth and holds down the button. “Target is captured, repeat, target is captured. The mission is now completed. You have five minutes to return to the collection point.” He drops the communicator. “We’d better get moving. You can make sure the students get back, and Gaara and I will take care of the League.”

“The collection point,” Kakashi says thoughtfully. “Henge as Bakugou? Gaara can take him.”

“The fuck do you think you’re doing as me?” Bakugou growls.

Shikamaru frowns, eyeing the ill-tempered boy dubiously. “I can henge, but I don't know if I can pass for that.”

“I can henge,” Gaara suggests.

Kakashi and Shikamaru exchange decidedly skeptical glances.

“It’s fine,” Kakashi dismisses. “We don’t have to trick the League, we just need them to get out of here. We need to regroup all the students and then make our way there to push them out.”

“I will protect the students and teachers,” Gaara confirms, as he steps onto a sand platform. He does some quick hand signs, and three small eyeballs appear, hovering in the air. “My third eyes will allow me to find them quickly and bring them back.”

“Can you identify them?” Kakashi asks.

Gaara pauses. “They will be… colourful.”

“I’ll come with you,” Kakashi decides. “Shikamaru, escort the rest to camp.”

Shikamaru’s a brilliant chunin, and although his classmates are just kids, they’re still very powerful in their own right. He can trust that they all get back safely. Besides, he’s not going to let any one of them go alone with Gaara. While he doesn’t appear to be returning to bijuu mode anytime soon, they still probably couldn’t handle Gaara.

“Double back to the rendezvous point afterwards,” he adds. “Where is it, exactly?”

“East of the facility, marked by a giant bush. Gaara knows where it is.” Shikamaru turns towards the camp. “Alright, let’s go.”

“Are you just trying to make a fool out of me?” Bakugou demands. “I’m the best! I can beat them all!”

“No, you need to get to camp and collect anyone else you see,” Kakashi says. “You’re all strong. Protect each other and our other classmates.”

“We can’t leave you, Shinsou!” Midoriya protests.

“You can,” Kakashi says. “Don’t worry, I’ll be fine. Gaara is very strong- I know them both quite well.” He squints his eyes, and tries to give them a cheerful eye-smile.

“You didn’t say so before,” Todoroki observes.

“Ah, it’s a long story. Time to go!” He doesn’t leave his classmates any more time to argue. He hops right onto the sand platform, letting Gaara fly them away.

He drops the cheerful facade as they soar through the air, instead focusing on looking for any signs of fighting. In the distance, there’s a blast of blue flames. Gaara immediately turns his head in that direction. Hitoshi looks too, and his heart drops when he sees a flash of a scraggly white capture scarf.

“Set us down over there,” he orders.

Gaara complies. They land with barely a jolt, and Kakashi immediately runs over. The flashes of blue are even brighter up close, and he can feel the intense heat. It’s far hotter than even Todoroki’s flames.

“Hitoshi!” Shouta sees him, swinging off a branch. “Get out of here, kid! Get back to camp!”

“...Gaara?” On the other side of the fight, a young scarred man with vicious burns stretching across his face does a double take. “What are you doing here? You have four minutes to rendezvous, go!”

Kakashi eyes Gaara. “You know him?”

“Dabi,” Gaara says. “I apologize, but I cannot allow you to harm the UA staff or students.”

“What are you talking about?” Dabi grunts as he’s physically tackled from behind, hitting the floor with a loud thud. “Gaara, go! He can remove quirks!”

“The rendezvous?” Shouta asks harshly, twisting the man’s arm behind his back. “What’s going on there?”

Dabi laughs maniacally even as Shouta increases the pressure. “It means we’ve completed our mission. You’ve failed, hero. We’ve captured one of your precious hero students!”

Gaara blinks. “We have not,” he says.

“Not what?” Shouta’s body is tense, but he doesn’t remove his gaze from Dabi’s form beneath him.

“Gaara–” Kakashi starts.

“We have not captured Bakugou Katsuki.”

Kakashi sighs.

“Why not?” Dabi asks incredulously. “That’s what your friend reported.”

“It was a ploy,” Gaara tells him.

Kakashi pinches the bridge of his nose. “Maybe you shouldn’t have said that,” he suggests. “As it rather defeats the purpose of a ploy.”

“You said we didn’t need to trick the League, we just need to get them out of here,” Gaara reminds him.

“Well, maybe we should try to trick them a little bit.”

“Hitoshi. Who’s the kid?”

“His name is Gaara,” Kakashi informs him reluctantly. He’d prefer not to introduce the shinobi at all, but it really is too late at this point. “I know him. He’s working with us now.”

“You’re–” Dabi starts heatedly. “You’re working with the heroes?”

Gaara inclines his head. “It appears my plans have changed. I apologize for the inconvenience. We will have to reschedule the salted tongue.”

“I don’t care about the stupid salted tongue!”

“Oh.” Gaara droops slightly. With his large guileless eyes he looks so pathetic, Kakashi can’t help but feel a little bad for him.

It appears Dabi feels the same way. He inhales roughly, as much as he can beneath Shouta’s weight. “Fine. Whatever. You know, people don’t normally want to have dinner with you when you betray them.”

“I made my first friend when I betrayed their alliance. But I suppose he has never asked to have dinner with me,” Gaara adds thoughtfully.

Dabi narrows his eyes. “Is this the guy who stabbed you through the shoulder?”

Kakashi vaguely imagines Gaara and Sasuke out on a dinner date, making small talk and murder plans. He shudders.

“No.” Gaara’s dull voice sounds almost offended. “It was Naruto. We bonded over our terrible childhoods.”

“Childhood?” Shouta murmurs. His grip is still punishing, but he’s clearly more than a little confused. “You’re still a child.”

“That’s what I keep saying,” Dabi says, trying to gesture emphatically. The motion twists his arm, and he grimaces, looking very displeased at being vindicated by someone about to break his arm. “Wait… Naruto?”

“We tried to kill each other, then he headbutted me and taught me about friendship,” Gaara says serenely.

“If he can put up with you, that kid deserves a medal,” Dabi comments.

Kakashi’s not so sure about that. Could you even be in a relationship with Naruto, and not be the one putting up with him? It seemed impossible. He feels like he hasn’t thought about Naruto in ages, but now all the memories flood back. That orange jacket, that cheerful smile… Kakashi misses him so much it physically hurts.

“Enough,” Shouta says. “Dabi, will you surrender?”

“I don’t really have a chance, do I?” Dabi says. “Hey kid? Don’t fall for the heroes. And make sure you get out of this okay.”

“What are you talking about?” Shouta growls. “Just–”

“Let me know before you just leave,” Dabi continues. “Send me a note or something.”

“Wha–”

Dabi gives one final heave, trying to flip Shouta and wrench himself free. Shouta immediately tugs, cracking the arm out of place. With a strange slurping noise and a gush of liquid, Dabi melts down into a pile of goop.

Gaara stares at the puddle of liquid intently. “A clone. Dabi must be at the meeting spot.”

“The meeting spot?” Shouta gets to his feet, eyes blazing behind his goggles. “Hitoshi, just what is going on?”

“The villains should all be gathered at a specific spot for extraction. I know some of them, so they’re on our side now. They informed the League that they got Bakugou, but obviously that was a lie.”

“So you were with the League.” Shouta stares at Gaara and sighs deeply. “I’ll deal with you after. Both of you, get back to camp. Protect the other students. I’ll go to the meeting spot.”

“I’m coming,” Kakashi says automatically.

“You are not,” Shouta stresses. “We don’t have time. Tell me where it is.” He turns to Gaara expectantly.

Gaara frowns. “He is my superior. If he says he is coming, then that is the plan.”

“Your superior,” Shouta draws out. Kakashi winces. Yes, thank you Gaara, that’s exactly what he needs right now.

“There’s no time,” he says instead. “Gaara? Let’s go.” If he gets grounded, then so be it. He has bigger things to worry about right now. They need to rendezvous and make sure all the villains actually leave. If they realize they were tricked too early on, this night might just get a whole lot worse.

“Hitoshi,” Shouta snaps from behind him, following them both through the trees.

“I’m trying to help,” Kakashi says. “Gaara, can the clones transmit memories? Do they know we’re coming?”

“They cannot,” Gaara confirms. “It is the jutsu of the man named Twice. He can copy anyone if he has taken measurements, but they are not very strong and do not transmit memories to the original.”

Right. Kakashi nods. That still gives them the element of surprise.

Another figure jumps out of the darkness, matching their pace effortlessly. “I left the students at the camp, but they didn’t look happy about it. If that other teacher can’t control them, I’d give it about five minutes until they come after us.”

“You’re–” Shouta startles, rushing forward. “You’re that kid. You’re with the League?”

Shikamaru glances backwards and slumps. “Oh. It’s you.” His tone is the most unenthused it could possibly be.

Kakashi tilts his head thoughtfully. “You’ve met?” He never heard anything about it, unless… It definitely had to do with the sudden influx of Konoha based questions. He’d just assumed Aizawa’s child soldier ring theory was getting out of hand again, but if Shikamaru had gone and added fuel to the fire…

“He was running around stalking someone in the middle of the night,” Shouta accuses. “I was worried about you, kid.”

“I knocked you out,” Shikamaru shoots back. “You should be more worried about yourself.”

He huffs. “Nevermind. We’re here. They should be mostly gone by now, but we’ll have to push the last ones out. Kurogiri makes the portals, so you could try to threaten him, but he’s a tough fight. Hitoshi, you could try to brainwash him. Eraserhead, we’d prefer them gone, so don’t erase Kurogiri’s quirk. Gaara, you’re the key. Let’s go.”

They breach the clearing.

A man in a top hat fiddles with his gloves. A high school aged girl jumps to her feet. Dabi and another man in a black bodysuit look up from their spot next to the portal. Dabi’s fingers start sparking vivid blue before dying out at Shouta’s glare.

“What are you–? Nara? Where the hell is Gaara?”

As if on cue, a gruff voice comes from behind them. “Ah.”

Ash blond hair. Narrowed red eyes. Enormous green gauntlets and a bright orange ‘X’ across his chest.

“I am captured,” Bakugou Katsuki intones.

Shouta gawks. Behind his goggles, his eyes are as wide as they could ever be, and Kakashi can’t blame him. Shikamaru, to his credit, rolls with it. His shadow lashes out and captures ‘Bakugou’ in an instant.

“I’ve got the target. Get in the portal!”

Top hat nods, slipping through the swirling darkness. “I see I was mistaken to doubt your talents. Farewell, heroes!”

Dabi, on the other hand, squares his shoulders. “Where’s Gaara?”

“He got held up,” Shikamaru says shortly. “Get in. He’ll meet us afterwards.” The chunin spins back facing Kakashi, and reels Gaara towards him, placing a kunai to his neck. “You can stop right there. You don’t want to risk your student’s life.”

Shouta stops, scarf poised in the air. “You don’t want to do this,” he says slowly. It’s convincing enough, but Kakashi can hear the threads of confusion interlacing his tone.

“We shouldn’t leave him,” The body-suited man protests, before quickly changing his tone. “Let’s just go, I’m not waiting for the slowpoke!”

“Go.” Shikamaru repeats, kunai unwavering.

The man nods and disappears.

“You’re rather quick to ditch your friend,” Dabi says suspiciously. “How’d you even capture Bakugou, there? He looks practically dead.” He eyes the unprotesting hostage.

“I will kill you all,” Gaara pipes up. “Go to hell, you stupid bastards.” He enunciates each swear very carefully. “Die.”

To be fair to Gaara, for only knowing the guy for less than five minutes, he seems to have gotten a pretty good grasp on Bakugou Katsuki’s vocabulary. It’s just that the tone seems more like a bored university lecturer than a kidnapping victim.

“Fuck,” Gaara adds, sounding quite pleased with himself.

“Hold up,” Dabi says. “You’re supposed to be that asshole ego driven hero student?”

“Yes,” Gaara states, blinking solemnly.

“…Gaara?” Dabi asks incredulously.

Shikamaru groans and reaches for a second kunai. Kakashi follows, slipping into position.

“I am not Gaara,” Gaara says. “I am Bakugou Katsuki. Die.”

“You can stop now,” Shikamaru sighs, removing the kunai to the throat. “I don’t even know why you did that, it wasn’t the plan.”

“Hitoshi told me to trick them,” Gaara informs him, thoroughly throwing Kakashi under the bus.

“Ah–” Kakashi starts. Shikamaru shoots him the rare, but deadly Nara evil eye, before he decides it’s better to shelve his protests. “Nevermind.”

Gaara frowns and drops the henge, hair poofing back to its usual blood red, and gourd reforming on his back.

“Gaara-kun!” The girl squeals. “You never told me you were just like me! You can kill that boy and drink him after all!”

“You cannot,” Dabi starts automatically, before his thoughts catch up to him. “Wait- what the fuck. How did you do that?”

“Dabi, Toga, it’s time to go.” Shikamaru says. “Get in the portal.” He presses his fingers into the ram seal.

“We are not–” Dabi swears as Shouta jumps him. “We’re not done here, Nara!”

He goes down in a toppling mess of black fabric and capture scarf. Dabi and Shouta start to scuffle. There’s a couple hits, then the villain gets a good punch in, knocking Shouta’s goggles aside. Kakashi still isn’t overly concerned. He knows what Shouta is capable of.

He’s proven right when Shouta elbows him in the face and stomps on his chest. He kicks his legs back and pins him, wrestling a wrist into a pair of handcuffs.

Meanwhile, Toga faces Gaara, knives tucked to her chest. “You’re working with the heroes?” she asks, distressed. “Heroes don’t understand our normal. Heroes won’t let us live the way we want to live.”

“I apologize,” Gaara says formally.

Her deep frown transforms into an angry snarl. “Then I guess I’ll have to love you in death, Gaara-kun!”

She rushes towards him, but doesn’t get far. With a wave of his hand, Gaara sends sand sweeping out, catching her by the legs. He catches Dabi too, yanking him off the ground, out from under Shouta.

He rolls, hitting the dirt with his shoulder. “Kid,” he bites out, frustrated.

“Kid,” Dabi yelps, struggling in the encompassing sand.

Gaara directs his sand through the air, shoving the villains through the spinning black hole. Toga goes first, screeching loudly as she falls through. Dabi goes next. He strains his head looking back as he’s pushed towards the portal.

“Come on, come with us,” he grunts. “There’s no such thing as real heroes, they’ll use you, they’ll fucking kill you, Gaara–”

“I apologize, I am not coming back,” Gaara says. He pauses. “I appreciate your help. You can keep our stash of kunai in the front room closet and the shuriken under the floorboard. And the salted tongue.”

“I don’t want the fucking salted tongue–!”

The portal snaps closed.

Shouta pins Gaara with an evaluating gaze even as he moves to berate Kakashi. “I told you not to come here,” he snaps. “I realize you know these children somehow, which we will be talking about, but I ordered you to leave. You’re good, Hitoshi, but you’re still a student who I am responsible for protecting.”

Thankfully, the lecture is cut short by the arrival of several of his noisier classmates.

“He said it was east,” Midoriya cries. “Come on! We have to go help Shinsou!”

Shouta’s head snaps around like a homing beacon finding its mark. “You will do no such thing. Why are you not back at the campsite?”

Midoriya skids to a halt, throwing up streaks of dirt. “Uh, sensei–”

Kaminari, Kirishima, Bakugou and Yaoyorozu stumble out behind him.

“None of you should be here,” Shouta barks. “When I gave the order to use your quirks, it was for self-defense in order to get to safety. Not to go running into a fight. All of you, back. Now.”

“Any casualties?” Kakashi calls urgently.

“C-casualties?” Midoriya stutters. “Uh, no. A lot of people got hurt, but it’s mostly okay. Jirou’s still unconscious from the gas. The worst was Tsu and Iida… B-but! They’re going to be fine! I’m sure!”

No casualties. Injuries, but nothing overly serious. Kakashi breathes a sigh of relief.

“Good,” Shouta says. He turns to the rest of them. “Gaara and Nara, correct? You’re coming back to camp. We’re going to have to ask you some questions.”

Beside him, Shikamaru sighs, and gives Kakashi a pointed glance.

“Right,” Kakashi says hazily, then turns back to Shouta. “Right. Let’s go.”

They start to make their way back to camp. In the dark, his eye is burning. It isn’t activated, but he can feel a strange pull nonetheless. It must be all in his head.

He knows what he needs to do. It’s his duty to help Konoha shinobi. He is a jounin of the leaf. He’s a shinobi. That doesn’t go away, right? Even if he loses his life, loses his body, isn’t he still himself?

And if he can get through, manage a portal with his Mangekyo to get the younger shinobi back to the elemental nations, isn’t it only right that he follows? It’s what he’s been wishing for this whole time. Doesn’t he want to step through the gates, to breathe in the fresh leaves, to greet his precious students once more?

He does. He wants it more than anything. But would he really belong? He’s different now, he can’t so easily slip back into his role. Besides, Gaara and Shikamaru are both years younger than the day of his death. Who’s to say there wouldn’t be another Kakashi already there, who wouldn’t take kindly to being replaced?

Shouta glances at him out of the corner of his eye, face drawn tight from stress. He drops back to run beside him.

“Hitoshi,” Shouta murmurs.

Hitoshi. Kakashi. Is it a cover? Is it an identity he can slip on like a temporary henge? He doesn't know. He doesn’t even know.

“I’m glad you’re okay,” Shouta says.

They run the rest of the way in silence.

Chapter Text

The atmosphere is different these days.

Iida’s still there, hands chopping and imperious tone ringing out. It’s difficult for him to run now, but the physiotherapy is supposed to get him back up to speed soon. Two months, they said. It’s a long time, but with Recovery Girl’s help, they might be able to cut it down a bit more. It could have been worse. It could have been so much worse.

Bakugou is the same as ever. Angry. Biting. But he hates villains more than anything now. He especially hates that he was ever the target for recruitment. Monoma came to bother the class the other day. He brought up Bakugou’s villainous tendencies and nearly got his face blown in for it. Nobody talks about it anymore, not even Ashido when she’s teasing.

And then there’s Midoriya. He writes in his notebook a lot, nothing new, but there’s new entries these days. There’s a full spread at the back, chock full of detailed drawings of sand tsunamis and giant towering monsters. The notes are even more elaborate. Split personalities, puppeteer abilities and types of knives are all mentioned in that frantic scribbled handwriting.

Aizawa-sensei is different too. He gave them all a very long talk on why it was very stupid of them all to rush into battle. Afterwards, he put them all on punishment duties and made them write lots of reflection essays. It wasn’t a bad punishment at all, really, but the worst part is seeing the look in his eyes. They’re still that same shade of coffee black with pink lines of exhaustion. They still blink rapidly, angry and dry. But now there’s pure emotion where there wasn’t before. Pain, maybe. Grief. A deep sense of loss.

Todoroki isn't too good at categorizing emotions, but if he could describe any of them, it would probably be those three. He thinks he’s been feeling them a lot these days. He’s used to pain, and he’s used to grief. Loss, though? He’s never really lost anything. Lost his brother, lost his mother, lost his childhood, sure, but sometimes it feels like all those were never really his to lose. He barely even had them, after all.

He feels it now. Everything’s different after losing a friend.

Nobody knows why Shinsou vanished. He was there at the camp, helping with the cleanup. He was there talking with the child villains, and he was there when they all described what had happened to them that night. It had been mostly chaos, but organized chaos, Todoroki thought. UA had done the best they could. They’d accounted for all the students and made sure everyone got treated for their injuries. They’d added security and there were cameras everywhere.

It didn’t help. By the next morning, Shinsou was gone. And the child villains were gone with him.

Nobody seemed to have seen anything, and the children had been in a locked room, but they’d vanished anyway. Had they taken Shinsou? That’s what Todoroki wants to believe, but Shinsou is so talented. Even with Gaara and his demonic powers, he doesn’t truly think anyone could have taken Shinsou anywhere he didn’t want to go. So did he leave of his own accord? He’d taken his knives and his sweater that had been previously draped by the bed. It didn’t make sense. Why would he leave?

The first week, Todoroki had tried to investigate. Shinsou was his friend. He needed to try. He’d spotted Aizawa-sensei once, poring over a file. The name Nara Shikamaru had been on the top, followed by a drawing of a young preschool aged boy. He’d seen designs scattered around too, that same design Shinsou traced out on his papers sometimes. That spiraling circle capped with a tiny pointed tip.

But even if he had theories, none of them translated into action. By the time the second week rolled around, Todoroki was out of leads. And now all he can do is wait, wait and hope. Sit through the mind numbing lectures on quirk usage laws and watch the look in Aizawa-sensei’s eyes get darker and darker with each passing day.

The classroom is quiet except for the Aizawa-sensei’s subdued voice. Even he doesn’t seem very involved in the material he’s teaching. Todoroki can’t concentrate and he doesn’t want to, so he looks out the window instead. There are birds flying by, cheerfully chittering away, uncaring of the somber mood. The gates are more protected now, and Todoroki can see the numerous cameras. And down below, far beneath the window where the path curves towards the back entrance, Todoroki can make out the slightest hint of–

Silver?

“Todoroki,” Aizawa-sensei calls tiredly, breaking his daze. “I know you have already memorized these laws, but the point isn’t just to know them, but to also follow them.”

“Sorry Sensei,” Todoroki says, and Aizawa continues on. Even though he had bothered to discipline Todoroki for not paying attention, the critique had been unenthused, lacking his normal severe tone.

The lecture goes on. Todoroki can’t help from zoning out again. He looks around the classroom blankly, finally settling on staring at the door. He doesn’t want to be here in this class with all these people, everything the same except for Shinsou. Where is Shinsou?

The door creaks open.

“-distress or present danger, but only if authorized-” Aizawa-sensei breaks off in shock.

“Sorry I’m late,” a familiar voice says softly. “I got lost on the road of life. But… I’m here now.”

He’s here now. And that’s all that matters.