Chapter Text
“Oi! You better be careful, there’s a gate reported near the station. The trains might be down.”
Izuku pauses while packing up his satchel and shoots a wry, tired smile at his well-meaning cubicle-mate.
“Thanks, I’ll keep an eye out.”
These days, when a rift appears, on the spectrum of inconvenience to catastrophe, it’s no more terrible than a collision on the freeway.
Sure, those can be pretty disastrous. There’s a chance of injury, death, but they’re also very, very common. It might only directly affect a handful of people, or less than that. There’s a system in place to handle them now.
When they first appeared some twenty odd years ago, it was this big, terrifying mystery that eradicated thousands, millions. No one knew what they were, why they appeared, or what was inside of them. No one knew the conditions, and most weren’t foolhardy enough to cross through these sudden rips in reality.
Because that’s what they are, rips—as if the fabric of our dimension has all the integrity of the bottom of a grease-soaked takeout bag. The rifts appeared all over the world simultaneously, a bright and colorful invasion. For the first twenty-four hours of their existence, they shimmer like harmless puddles. Some are no bigger than your average doorway, some are as large as three-story buildings. They vary in shade: blue, green, purple, and red. They were a horrific marvel, something to ogle from the imagined security of your window, until the timer that no one knew existed stopped counting down.
[ 0:00 ]
It was the greatest, global-scale disaster known to man.
The rifts are just as they appear to be—doorways to alternate dimensions. Or, perhaps just one other dimension. Perhaps, Hell itself. These dimensions, or dimension, is a monsters’ playground. Creatures of all shapes, sizes, and variety. Some are the type humans have conjured up in multimedia: ogres, insectoids, dragon-like creatures. Others are beyond comprehension. Once twenty-four hours rolls by, it’s as if the padlock on the other side of the rift snaps off. The monsters pour out like ants from a footprint in their hill. They kill, consume, and destroy.
While, to this day, we still don’t know why they first appeared, they’re handled with the same sort of professionalism you’d see after a collision on the freeway. They’re roped off, traffic is diverted, the surrounding areas are temporarily evacuated, and the local Guilds are contacted to clean it up.
When the rifts appeared, called ‘gates’ in these modern times, so did many [seemingly random] people experience a dramatic change. Two new classes saw their debut on the stage of human evolution:
Esper.
Guide.
To be an esper is to manifest an energy not of this dimension. It’s speculated to have originated from the dimension beyond the rifts. Just as the gates vary in difficulty, that energy manifests differently in everyone. It can be more or less impressive depending on the person who wields it, and it’s utilized uniquely—no two espers possess the exact same ability, though some might be similar. There is one universal, immutable truth that stands for every esper, however.
The more energy used, the greater the risk. It’s not something the body can process out organically, as it was never meant for a human vessel in the first place. When too much energy is used without proper relief, the threat of a ‘rampage’ looms. It’s exactly as it sounds. The rampaging esper completely, totally loses their grips on sanity and lashes out with every bit of energy left in them. If they aren’t put down by their fellows, that otherworldly energy will eventually rip their physical body apart.
Enter, guide.
While espers are overflowing, unable to siphon off their own disastrous energy, guides are empty, bottomless chasms. They have their own brand of interdimensional energy, though it’s based more in the realm of homeostasis—like a processing plant. Hot, volatile power flows in, and a guide’s body waters it down into harmless nothingness. In this way, one is necessary to the other. Espers need guides to live, while guides are motivated by a simple sense of duty and empathy.
[ Well, I can’t let you die, can I? ]
Thus, Guilds were born. The whole affair became commoditized, just another job to do to keep the world turning. It’s illegal to conceal your status, though you can refuse to join a Guild. It’s sort of like...a draft. You’re not obligated to fight or guide, but if the need arises, you can be called upon. There’s a registry that everyone must establish themselves with when that energy emerges, but...
Midoriya Izuku would rather die than be a guide.
While he has both a strong sense of duty and empathy, a guide’s life is neither enviable nor glamorous. Espers outnumber guides five to one, so the demand is high. They’re overworked, underpaid, and generally mistreated by the Guilds they’re contracted with and the espers they maintain. Guiding occurs through physical contact, and the more intimate the contact, the more thorough the process. Many guides are pressured into sexual relationships because of this, when simple hand-holding is generally enough to get the job done. Because the threat of death and insanity lurks in the shadow of every esper, they can become extremely possessive, competitive, and frantic in search of a compatible guide.
He doesn’t want that for himself. He doesn’t want to be passed around a Guild or shackled to an esper’s side, living only to wait for them, to drain them of that darkness. It’s a miserable existence, and he’d know—his mother’s a registered guide. Thankfully, she’s retired now, and she managed to avoid imprinting with any one esper. She was a part of that first round of manifestations, when the world was writhing in chaos and everyone was stumbling blindly through this new, unwarranted way of life. When guides were discovered, persons with the ability to prevent a rampage, they were all but stripped of their human rights for the sake of the greater good.
He’d rather die than be a living drain.
The station is abuzz with activity, but not the typical hubbub of salarymen in a rush to get home to their neglected families or to Shinjuku for a nightcap. No, a crowd has amassed on the opposite side of the street from that aforementioned gate. The road had been blocked off a hundred yards down at both ends, and the gate itself is given a breadth of fifty feet. That never stops pedestrians and onlookers from swarming the barricades, eager for a glimpse of the returning espers. They’re like superheroes or celebrities to the common folk, especially those in the top ten of the rankings.
Izuku had come this route in hopes that the gate would be closed and he could take the train as normal. He stops at the edge of the crowd, turning to look across the street as one can’t help but rubberneck at the sight of something unusual and abhorrent. It’s a red gate, categorically the most dangerous. Not only is it red, it’s...massive. Izuku estimates it to be sixty feet high, forty feet wide. That eerie, crimson glow bounces off the glass and metal of surrounding buildings like a giant, neon advert: ”abandon all hope, ye who enter here!”
His stomach tightens with anxiety. Shouldn’t these people be...cleared out? Why hasn’t the Guild made them—
Oh.
It’s the Dynamight Guild.
They’re notorious for scraping up publicity in whatever way they can get it, boasting the country’s most powerful esper in their ranks. Legally, the public must be kept back fifty feet from a gate’s surface, but most Guilds abide by an honor system—no one is allowed within viewing distance of a red gate, even asking nearby tenants to temporarily vacate their homes in case the gate cannot be closed within the twenty-four hour limit. Dynamight, however, is confident that any gate can be closed under that limit by their contracted espers.
Namely, Bakugo Katsuki.
To their credit, they’ve kept to that standard. Whether Bakugo was present in a raid or not, they manage to close every gate they’ve been dispatched to. ‘Still...’ Izuku huffs to himself. It’s not safe , anything can happen. He turns to the man closest to him, calling his attention.
“Sir, pardon me.”
“Yeah?”
“Do you know how long it’s been open?”
“Uh, six hours, I think?”
So, not long.
Izuku glances around at the varying expressions of the onlookers. Some are nervous, wary, but most are curious, excited, and eager—awaiting a hero’s return from a brutal, bloody siege. The gates [and the abilities bestowed by them] are a source of fascination, obsession, even after all these years. They’re something beyond comprehension. Something unknown, supernatural, straight out of a manhwa. Izuku doesn’t possess that same enthusiasm.
It’s hot. The sun is well beyond set. He’s hungry, drained, and sleep-deprived. He doesn’t intend to stick around for the finalé, because loathed as he is to admit it, he trusts Dynamight to close this gate just like everyone else does. Swooping his neck in a stretch and hammering out a knot from his shoulder, he turns to leave the scene with nary a look back. There’s a cup of very appetizing instant noodles with his name on it.
“Oh, look, they’re—I think they’re coming out! It’s glowing!”
A cacophony of voices lifts at his back as the crowd begins murmuring, commenting, and shouting upon the party’s return from the red gate. True to their observations, the gate is beginning to shimmer into a ghost of itself. That terrible, vibrant red is fading into translucency and will inevitably disappear as if it’d never been at all. Unable to help himself, Izuku turns back to watch the espers emerge. It’s something he’d normally only see on the news, and sure enough, there are a string of reporters lining the front of the barricade, their polished lenses poised to capture whatever sight washes out of that carmine hell.
Shockingly, it’s one man.
Bakugo Katsuki closed the gate [a red gate], alone.
He looks...awful: shoulders slumped and trembling with exhaustion, clothes hanging off his large frame in ribbons, soiled head to toe in gore. His expression is impossible to gauge behind the grimy, blonde fringe pasted to his brow, but Izuku imagines he’s scowling. He always seems to be scowling. He’s swarmed by members of his Guild [Gate Operators], those tasked with controlling the scene, communicating with the necessary authorities, and providing medical attention and emergency guiding. Izuku tunes into the commentary around him without meaning to.
“Holy shit, it’s Bakugo!”
“He looks beat, I can’t believe they made him close it solo.”
“Made him? I’m sure he probably wanted it that way, you know...how he is.”
“But they let ‘im do it, because he’s the only one who can!”
“Damn, I’d hate to be one of his G.O.’s. He’s tearing that poor bastard a new one.”
True enough, Bakugo is barking and snapping at anyone who gets too close. While Izuku can’t make out what’s being said, the natural volume of Bakugo’s rasp carries. He practically shouts everything he has to say, even under normal circumstances. Tonight, it’s different, somehow. He seems more than just angry or tired. Something about him now is wild, desperate. His expression isn’t so much a disgruntled scowl, but a pained twist. His eyes—
Oh.
They’re bright, unnaturally so. It’s obvious even to Izuku, who stands over fifty feet away. Before long, the scene becomes dire. It isn’t just his eyes, it’s—his entire being, fire-bright energy licks off of him like smoke curling over a campfire. The G.O.’s for Dynamight are in a frenzy, and more than once, one of their guides attempts to encroach into his space. Bakugo lashes out like the fire he’s becoming, whipping flames in an explosive arc. It’s so bright, it’s as if lightning struck in the middle of the street. It’s so hot, it’s felt by the onlookers behind the barricade. Izuku flinches back, as it feels like someone had shoved a torch in his face.
The order comes on a loop through a speakerphone: “Evacuate the area immediately! I repeat, evacuate the area—!”
Bakugo Katsuki is about to rampage, and no one is stupid or curious enough to wait around and watch.
While Izuku doesn’t keep up with every new, disparaging headline, neither does he live under a rock. Despite Bakugo’s status as the most powerful esper in the country, he bears a hefty stigma. He refuses to be guided regularly, therefore posing a huge risk to public safety. He’s widely regarded as a ticking time-bomb. No one outside of his Guild knows why, but he’s only ever guided on the brink of a rampage, and even then he sometimes has to be sedated. However, as far as public knowledge goes, he’s never been this close to the brink. If he emerges from a gate with any sort of indication, he’s forced to submit to on-site guidance by an S-class guide.
What happened?
Why, now, is it any different?
Izuku is jostled about as the throng of bodies disperses with haste, fleeing in whichever direction is closest to home. He should be doing the same, fleeing. But…
Bakugo is…screaming.
It’s a throat-ripping, guttural sound wrought with enough rage, fear, and agony to become a new energy source in itself . One could power a small city with that much visceral emotion. He’s on his knees now, gripping his head between his hands like it’s a melon he means to crush. That blistering energy is radiating from him with force and speed, a whipping conflagration hot enough to melt the cement and brighten the night into an unnatural, pseudo-day.
Perhaps he’s the one stupid enough to loiter about and watch, because his feet are rooted to the sidewalk. Instead of the fear that should be consuming him, he feels…heartbroken. Izuku’s never seen a rampage before, not even secondhand through socials. He purposefully avoided the spectacle. Now, he’s watching a man endure the most painful death throes imaginable. Death by rampage has been described as a nuclear reaction setting off in your core, ripping you apart cell by cell, atom by atom. It’s...excruciating.
Izuku rips his steadfast gaze away, desperate for some sort of miracle on the horizon. Someone, something, that can put a stop to this. The G.O’s that were within fifteen feet of Bakugo have perished, their corpses roasting on the ground in the residual heat. The remaining members of his Guild are scrambling to erect barriers around his perimeter and radioing for outside assistance. More than that, Izuku sees…people. Pale, horrified faces peeking out from the windows of offices, shops, and apartments. They weren’t asked to evacuate on the gate’s manifestation, and now it’s too late for them to do so safely.
Kids. There are children clinging to their guardians, naïve enough to believe that’s all the protection they’d need in the world. His heart drops like a ten-ton weight into the churning, acidic pit below. Oh, God. Oh, fuck.
It’s probably…too late for him, too, isn’t it?
It’s so hot, he can barely breathe. Every inhale is scorching the moisture from his oronasal passages. Not only will Bakugo die, he’ll take a majority of the city with him upon detonation. An esper of his caliber has never rampaged to destruction before. There’s no precedent, so the repercussions are literally unimaginable.
‘Where are Dynamight’s guides? Where’s his support team? Why haven’t they come to sedate him yet?! He needs a guide, guide, guide, where are the—‘
Izuku’s frenetic train of thought slams into the side of his brain, a screeching halt.
‘I’m...a guide.’
It’s an objective truth, as much as he wishes it wasn’t. He is a guide, but does that really matter? Bakugo Katsuki is an X-class esper, and as far as rankings go, ‘X’ stands for—too much energy to be quantified, off the charts, over-powered. There are only eighteen espers in the world with this ranking, thirty-five in history. If an X-class guide exists, it’s anyone’s guess. The rankings are as follows, from greatest to least: X, SSS, SS, S, A, B, C, D, E. ‘E’ is the equivalent of—you can sort-of bend a spoon, good for you! Izuku isn’t registered, nor has he guided anyone before. He has no concept of his ranking, but he can’t fathom it being in the same realm as an X-class. For a guide, their ranking system is based on how much energy they can absorb and process at one time [without dying].
It seems he’s left with one of two choices—die, or die trying.
They tend to keep the office a bitter cold temperature, no matter the season, so Izuku keeps a hooded jacket in his satchel. He rips it out, drops his bag, and crams his upper half into the thick material. With the hood cinched around his face, he gathers what little nerve he has. He runs, and it’s like running across the surface of the sun . The pavement is melting through the rubber of his soles, each breath feels like he’s swallowing knives hot off a baking sheet, and the sweat gathering at his hairline drips into his lashes—blinding him, stinging tears from his sensitive corneas.
Thirty feet.
Twenty.
Fifteen.
The closer he gets to Bakugo, the more unbearable the pressure, the more deafening his screams. Bakugo’s flesh seems to be...cracking, like the delicate shell of an egg, with pure energy bleeding out between. His vessel is literally bursting. He barely catches the muted shouts of the Dynamight Guild’s G.O.’s, pleading with him to stay back. It’s much too late for that, isn’t it? He wants to, he does, but he’s already this close. Nothing to it but to commit. When there’s less than five feet between himself and Bakugo’s crumpled form, he launches forward.
They collide, and God, it hurts.
It’s jumping into a furnace, a vat of bubbling, liquid gold. More than the heat, the pressure of that unnatural energy—it’s flattening him, an impossible blanket of gravity for anyone to exist beneath. Izuku screams through his teeth, eyes pinched around tears that evaporate as soon as they coalesce. He’s here, so just—do it!
Do it, do it, do it—!
He sandwiches Bakugo’s face between his bare hands, acting on pure instinct. It works, because that energy begins to seep through his hands, rampaging like a river through his arms, settling in his core to be diluted. It’s the worst feeling he’s ever experienced. His body feels tight, thin, around that overwhelming influx of raw, sweltering power. He’s sick and full of dread, as through their physical connection, he’s able to gauge Bakugo’s reserves.
His energy is boundless. Whatever relief Izuku might provide, it’s no more than pouring a handful of cool water in the middle of a desert. Still, he has the capacity to take more. But, just cradling Bakugo’s face won’t be enough. Lifting onto his knees, he blinks his eyes open. Their faces are closer than he anticipated, and while Bakugo is looking at him, his incandescent gaze is unseeing. He’s either unconscious or no longer sane. Sane or not, his face is tight and gnarled with unbearable pain. There was never any time for contemplation to begin with, so without another useless thought to delay him—
Izuku slams their mouths together.
He hangs on for dear life, locking his arms together at Bakugo’s nape, as the esper reacts violently to the contact in those first few seconds. Izuku plays the part of that drain he swore he’d never be, choking down as much energy as he can take. It’s like kissing a stovetop, and if he lives through this, he wonders if his insurance will cover grafts.
Before long, the atmosphere shifts. Instead of Izuku forcibly ripping the energy from Bakugo’s body, Bakugo must’ve instinctively realized the benefit of ridding himself of it. His large, scalding hands are sudden shackles around Izuku’s biceps, and whereas previously their lips were just mashed together limply, it becomes the sort of kiss that shouldn’t be privy to an audience. Izuku barely registers Bakugo’s tongue sliding across his molars through the onslaught of energy that’s being dumped into him.
It’s like trying to pour the entirety of the universe into a teacup.
He’s radioactive with it, a live wire. All that visible energy is lighting up his nervous system through his skin, fine lines brightened to intricate branches. His core is on the verge of a supernova: too full, unstable, hot. The scary thing, it’s only a fraction of it—Bakugo’s energy. He feels violently nauseous. His vision is spotting. His hands are cold, clammy. Unbeknownst to him in his foggy state, that intolerable heat is receding. His guidance, against all odds, is working. Whether he lives through it, that’s a different matter altogether.
Feeling as if he might combust at any moment, and knowing Bakugo isn’t able to stop of his own volition, Izuku tears away from him with what little strength he has left. He scrambles back, sucking in each breath like there isn’t enough oxygen to satiate him. It’s loud, the offbeat huffs and grunts of their ragged, desperate breathing. Izuku lifts his head, and Bakugo is staring at him dazedly, blinking against the blur in his vision. They’re no longer bright with excess energy, and while he’s in terrible shape, he’s no longer an esper on the verge of a rampage.
He opens his mouth, but the words he’d been trying for don’t come—just a weak croak. He coughs, suddenly attempting to sit or stand. Izuku flinches back, because it’s a wake-up call. His ears are ringing, his stomach is churning, his limbs are gelatin, but—
He has to get the hell out of here.
“Bakugo, hey! Can you hear me?! What’s going on?!”
The G.O.’s are starting to breach the perimeter they’d set up, gauging their esper for signs of consciousness or continued rampage. Izuku struggles to get to his feet and replaces the hood over his head, tightening it around his jaw. He staggers in the opposite direction of the approaching G.O.’s.
“Hey—!” Bakugo tries to shout, voice in a crackle, but interrupts himself with another hacking cough. “Fuck, wait—!”
Izuku definitely does not wait. He gets away only because the Guild’s G.O.‘s are more concerned with securing the scene and aiding their esper than chasing down a nameless guide. He’s not one to look a gift-horse in the mouth, so he retreats with nothing more than adrenaline pounding through his liquescent muscles.
He didn’t die immediately, at least.
—
[ 46:03:29 ]
Despite the different manifestations of their ability, every esper is blessed with some form of accelerated regeneration. The more energy one possesses, the quicker and more thorough they heal. It’s a bit of a conundrum, considering that very same energy has to be regularly siphoned off via guidance.
This is why, over two days later, Katsuki wakes feeling like a crisp million bucks—despite his body coming close to shredding at the seams not long ago. In fact, he’s never felt quite so good, not since manifesting. The burden of power is often a physical one, and he’s learned to adapt to it over the years. Some days are better than others, but there’s always, always a vague sensation of weight bearing down on him, a threat of being crushed. His shoulders are always stiff with it, his temples always thrum with it, and chronic discomfort plagues him in near every capacity.
If he’d submit to regular guidance, as the higher-ups are always bitching at him to do, it’d surely be less of an issue. His burden might be eased. But, respectfully, fuck that.
Guidance hurts.
It’s fucking torture, actually. It doesn’t matter the guide’s class, he’s never achieved a compatibility rating greater than 27%. He’s been accused of resisting the guide, which might contribute to his abysmal ratings, but that’s blatantly fucking untrue. He does his utmost to tolerate the rating tests and the sessions he’s obligated to participate in. Guidance feels like...each presynaptic terminal in his body is being jabbed with a microscopic cattle-prod. He can’t stand it for longer than two or three minutes at a time, and that’s nowhere near enough to make a real difference.
Thus, this latest incident.
Despite his stability rating being deep in the red, a whopping 78%, he insisted on dispatching to the gate in Chiyoda. There were stipulations, of course. He’d receive guidance en route, no less than ten minutes of it, and would submit to a thirty minute session upon closing the gate. Except, it didn’t go quite like he expected it to within the gate. The underwhelming, lukewarm guidance he gritted through beforehand did next to nothing for his stability.
He got...a little carried away, if he’s being honest. The monsters weren’t necessarily challenging, there were just many of them. He’d spent the entirety of those six hours slaughtering endless hordes of goblin-class creatures, each wave a higher class than the one before it.
It was fun, until it wasn’t. Emerging from the gate, he could feel the repercussions of weaponizing so much of his energy keenly . He’s come dangerously close to the precipice of a rampage many, many times, but he’s never tipped over the edge before. Even then, there was some instinctive part of him that recoiled from those attempts at emergency guidance. He couldn’t stop himself from lashing out. It was as though that connection from brain to body had been severed, and his energy was a living entity yanking the wheel to and fro.
“Finally up, huh?”
Katsuki groans through his teeth.
“Looks like it.” He scoffs. “I’m not in the mood for a fuckin’ lecture, so—”
Aizawa Shota, his direct supervisor in the Guild, drops into the wide-armed chair at his bedside. A tablet is lax in his hands, and he regards Katsuki with his typical brand of apathetic displeasure—though a little sharper. His eyes aren’t as hooded with exhaustion, more thin with ire.
“No? I won’t bother with the lecture, then. You’re suspended for at least two weeks.”
“Excuse the fuck—?!”
Aizawa smacks the tablet against his upper thigh. “What in God’s name did you think would happen, Bakugo? You’ve never been stable, but that shit you pulled? That wasn’t close to a rampage, you were rampaging. You get the difference, don’t you? There were casualties this time. No civilians, thank Christ, but some of our guys. The general public doesn’t want to see you anywhere near a gate, and the Guild agrees. So do I, frankly. If you won’t accept guidance, you’re forbidden from entering the gates.”
Katsuki’s mouth tightens into a thin, pale line. Then, he asks, “who was it?”
“You mean the guide?”
“Who the fuck else would I mean? Yeah, the guide.”
“Don’t be a cunt.” Aizawa sighs, slouching back into the chair. “We...aren’t sure.”
Katsuki turns big, disbelieving eyes onto the older esper. “How...? Why aren’t you sure? How is that possible?”
“They weren’t with our Guild. As far as we know, they were a bystander. No one’s come forward, and none of our guys caught a look at their face. They...left the scene.”
Katsuki gapes. “That bastard was able to walk away after...?”
“Guiding you out of a rampage, yeah. Though, from eyewitness accounts, it seemed they more limped away. Do you remember any identifying information about them? I mean, do you remember anything—?”
“Yeah, I fuckin’ remember.”
It was the type of guidance he’s always heard about from other espers, but never thought he’d experience for himself. He always figured his class was too high, that had to be it. Why else would they describe it as the apex of physical pleasure, while it’s never been more than a grueling necessity for him? But, at that time, for the first time, it felt just as they’d said—good, better than anything. Even before his consciousness returned, his reptilian hindbrain recognized the sensation as something addictive, something to be craved.
It was like cool, crisp water sliding down his parched throat. That feeling of utter relief spread through every corner and crevice of his body, dampening the inferno of his power into a tiny, fragile pilot light in the protective cup of his guide’s palms. Even now, he’s benefitting from it. He’s...lighter. He’s never felt so in tune with his own energy, now a soft buzz beneath his skin instead of a noose tightening about his neck. He’s never felt so powerful.
“What’s my rating right now?”
“You sittin’ down?”
Katsuki shoots him an acidic look.
Aizawa looks...vaguely mystified as he glances at his tablet, and that already speaks volumes. “You’re in the green, 27%.”
Bakugo Katsuki has never, not once, been in the green.
Unfortunately, he can barely remember the kid’s face. He was halfway blind when he came to. He isn’t sure of anything [man, woman, young, old], but his gut alleges it was a younger guy—maybe even a teenager. Dark hair, freckles, the sort of rich green that blooms...
Katsuki is sure he’ll recognize the kid upon seeing him again. He’s positive, actually.
What kind of shit-class esper would he be if he can’t recognize his own guide?