Chapter Text
Act 1: Lethe
Lethe (le·the): a river of the underworld; the river of forgetfulness and oblivion
It feels like drowning.
This—the agonizing way his chest clenches as he stares into the dark windows of the warehouse across the street—is foreboding intuition. He feels it only on cold, rainy nights like this one. He breathes in and beats down the pervasive feeling for the benefit of his sanity. Such superstition is the bane of logic and reason: the pillars holding up the sturdy shelter of certainty from which he never wanders far.
Shouta perches atop a roof and fidgets with the hem of the binding cloth wound loosely around his neck. Rainwater skirts its edges and pools in places where the carbon-alloy fabric fold. Sleek, silver armor plates on his arms and shoulders ring with the pattering of raindrops.
The protection added to his costume is perhaps superfluous. On paper, the mission appears no more dangerous than any he has taken before. He wears the armor only to appease the Hero Public Safety Commission at the expense of his usual speed and agility.
A swift kick nudges his calf and knocks his squatting stance off balance.
“Oi, Dry Eyes,” a female voice starts. “You’re in my spot.”
Shouta shifts silver-slotted goggles from his eyes to his forehead, lifting the curtain of wet black hair from his face. His vision unhindered, he looks up at the woman standing over his shoulder and finds her hair, too, is saturated with rainwater. It cascades from the apex of her ponytail in heavy ribbon-like ringlets alternating indigo and pink down to the middle of her back. Her thick brows press together to create a discontented crease.
“Lady Nagant,” he addresses her, standing up. “Where is Hawks?”
The woman scoffs and brushes off the shoulder of her sleeveless black uniform. “Do I look like his keeper?”
She allows no time for response. Pushing past Shouta, she kneels in the space he used to occupy along the roof’s corner edge, folds her right arm, and rests a hand on the shoulder she just brushed off. From the bend of her elbow emerges the organic sniper rifle for which she’s famous, but, for the time being, she merely uses it as a scope. She leans her head into a spiraling cylindrical tendril branching from the rifle’s body and aims for the same window Shouta stared into not a minute before.
“Seen anyone come through?” she asks.
“No.”
“Good. I’ll let you know if that changes.”
Rain falls to fill their silence. Shouta studies the stand-offish way the sniper carries herself; a stark contrast to the easy-going persona she cultivates during the day. The contradiction is easy to dismiss. Most heroes wear public masks they shed in private. Not even his closest friend Hizashi is immune to the allure of a flashy facade to don on somber days. In this regard, Shouta considers himself fortunate to be an unknown underground hero. To exhaust himself maintaining false appearances rather than preserving energy for a future fight is illogical.
With almost as many years of heroism under her belt as both he and Hizashi combined, Lady Nagant—Tsutsumi Kaina—has worn her mask too long. The sinking shadows beneath her eyes betray darkness staining deeper than skin level.
“Eraserhead! Good to meet you!”
The voice chirps behind him, prompting Shouta to turn to a full view of vibrant red feathers. A young man stands confident there, his lean frame dwarfed by the crimson wings sprouting from his back. Dressed in an all-black ensemble—with the exception of white fur lining his jacket, white gloves, and a bright yellow diamond pattern emblazoned across the chest of his undershirt—the boy is skilled enough at stealth to have appeared so silently and suddenly on their rooftop.
The newcomer flashes a cocksure smile and raises a transparent yellow visor from his eyes to his forehead, pushing aside loose locks and revealing black-edged eyes as sharp as his feathers and as golden as his hair. “Name’s Hawks. So nice of you to show up to my funeral.”
“Funeral?”
“He’s being dramatic, it’s not his funeral,” Kaina clarifies, eye at her scope. “It’s his execution.”
Her matter-of-fact delivery casts doubt on it being a joke. Shouta turns to Hawks and waits for a better explanation.
“Ah, you didn’t know that?” the boy asks. His lackadaisical demeanor is broken by nervous tension not unnoticed. He shoves hands into his pockets. “I thought the Commission filled you in. What, uh… what exactly do you know about this mission, Eraser?”
“The report was brief. I know some yakuza are meeting at this warehouse tonight. The Commission needs me to subdue a fire user while you and Lady Nagant take in Nakai.”
The paper-clipped picture of a bulking bull-headed man returns to Shouta’s memory. According to the mission report, this particular yakuza syndicate is headed by Nakai Minato, owner of the quirk Bull. Endowed with the physique and temperament the name of his quirk implies, Minato has the theoretical advantage over Shouta in a fight. After all, Bull is a mutation quirk. While Erasure can curb the fury-induced power that would bolster the villain into a raging behemoth if left unchecked, it can never erase his natural muscle mass or the pair of piercing horns crowning his head.
No, Shouta is here to deal with Minato’s underling, a man whose only known characteristic is the ability to produce blue flames; in other words, a quirk easily extinguished under Erasure’s influence. Still, the lack of information on his target frustrates him, almost as much as the drought of information on his own team. Although he has never worked with Lady Nagant, he is at least familiar enough with her quirk and reputation to plan accordingly.
But Hawks?
The boy is a complete unknown. Nothing more than his hero name and the name of his quirk, Fierce Wings, was listed in the dossier. A cursory internet search provided no legal name, age, background, or official quirk registry. Basic familiarity is key to establishing an effective and cooperative team dynamic; even Shouta knows this, despite working alone more often than not. He had hoped the Commission would understand this too, but as he pressed their representatives for more details, he only became entangled in an endless loop of red tape.
Hawks nods as if to confirm Shouta’s unspoken concern. “Yeah, I guess they don’t want you to know much. It was a bit of a last-minute development to involve you in all this. Nagant-senpai’s idea. I’ve been infiltrating this yakuza group for a few months now, then last week they found out I fed them bad information. What they don’t know is I know that they know. Now Nakai wants to meet me in this warehouse to ‘clarify some things.’ He’s bringing a fire user—another new recruit, so I’ve heard. I never met the guy, but I’m betting he’s my executioner. Nagant-senpai doesn’t think I can handle fighting both of them on my own, so she convinced the Commission to let you on.” He finishes the mission summary with a bitter bite and a pouted lip. “So, basically, I’ll be a sitting duck in that warehouse until you launch the ambush and Nagant-senpai gives us ranged backup.”
“Your wings are flammable, kid,” Kaina retorts. She sighs and slumps her shoulders like she’s had this discussion a million times before. “It’s nothing personal, it’s common sense.”
Shouta scans Hawks over again. The boy exudes the confidence of a seasoned hero, yet, the roundness of his cheeks and undisciplined slouch of his posture suggests he’s seen fewer years than his confidence owes. “How old are you?”
“You don’t beat around the bush, huh? Just like Nagant-senpai.” Hawks’ grin grows wider. “I’m sixteen. Better remember that for my tombstone.”
Sixteen. Shouta absorbs the blow to his expectation.
Kaina snorts. “Shut up, kid. You ain’t dying.”
“I’ll try to see to that,” Shouta hurriedly adds to the promise she can’t make. “But are you sure you want to do this, Hawks? How did you get involved with the yakuza? Is this a work study? Is Lady Nagant your mentor?”
Hawks opens his mouth, but Kaina answers the questions.
“Something like that.” She turns to face Shouta, shooting him with a glare. “Don’t worry about the kid, Eraser. Hawks has a full hero license, graduated top of his class from a private institution. He’s no run-of-the-mill UA fledgling if that’s what you’re thinking.”
Hawks’ feathers fluff at the compliment, but Shouta bristles at the insult. What is he, if not a former run-of-the-mill UA fledgling himself? It was what Oboro was. Shouta looks at Hawks and sees not an exemplary young hero, but a child whose impressive credentials do not exempt him from his own mortality. His execution, staged as it is, need not be.
But he doesn’t have time to argue. A dozen red razors break away from Hawks’ wings and zip through the air at an alarming speed. Awe-struck by the free-flying feathers, Shouta watches as they infiltrate the warehouse through structural weak points no wider than a knife blade, demanding nothing less than utmost precision. Hawks covers his mouth with a hand as he plunges himself into deep concentration. Shouta struggles to tell the difference between sweat and rain dripping down the boy’s temple.
“No one’s inside yet,” Hawks concludes. He recalls rogue feathers into the fold of his wings. “I should get in there. It’s almost time.”
“What did you do just now?” Shouta asks.
“It’s my quirk. I can scout the area with my feathers, and—sorry, I don’t have time to explain more than that.” He slides his visor over his eyes and hands Shouta an earpiece. “I’ll get into position and signal you with a feather when it's time to start the offense.”
Shouta presses in the earpiece as Hawks casually walks off the roof’s slick stone edge. Before he can fall far, his massive wings spread and slow his descent into a gentle downward glide until his feet meet wet pavement. As it's past midnight on the outskirts of town, the streets are desolate and devoid of civilian activity, but Hawks, trained hero that he is, checks the area to be sure. Once he’s satisfied, he shoots an upward thumb to Shouta and Kaina, opens the warehouse door, and disappears into its dark maw.
“So, why did you really bring me on for the job?” Shouta asks the sniper at his side. His voice is barely louder than the pounding rain. “You have your own agency, don't you? A sidekick could have helped with this. The Commission didn’t need me to get involved.”
Kaina doesn’t look at him when she smirks. “I did a bit of research before deciding on who to recruit, and wouldn’t you know it, you’ve got one of the most useful quirks around. You’ve also got no civilian casualties, no public scandal, barely any collateral damage, a near-perfect capture rate, hell, your record is cleaner than some fresh-faced heroes just out of high school. You’re a natural pick for covert work like this. To be honest, I’m surprised you’re not a sidekick yourself. I’m sure All Might or Endeavor could get some good use out of you, at least more than… whatever it is you do on your own.”
He buries his stubbled chin deeper into his capture weapon. “I work better alone. Fewer liabilities.”
“You mean fewer kids to babysit.”
Absent is the snide undercurrent that had seeped into every other pointed jab she made that night. Instead, her voice grits and slips into a deeper register, as if speaking to the heart inside her chest. Her eyelids hang heavy as she stares into dark warehouse windows, where a boy half her age is preparing for his own execution.
She looks like she’s drowning.
“Is that what Hawks is to you?” Shouta asks. “A liability?”
Kaina’s fingers aimlessly trace along her rifle. “You can say that.”
“You don’t want him to do this, either.”
“Y’know, for being a loner type, you sure care a lot more about all this than I thought you would.” A smile pulls up on her lip for a second before it sinks into a frown. “What I want doesn’t matter. Like I said before, don’t worry ‘bout the kid. You’re not here for his safety. You’re just here to make sure everything else goes smoothly.”
“Everything else?” he asks. “What else are you expecting to—”
“Hush.”
Her shushing isn’t for the hell of it. She points to the ground below, where two figures—one large, square, and defined by wide-set horns and a pinstripe suit; one smaller, leaner, and swallowed by an ink-black trench coat—saunter to the warehouse entrance. Those are their targets, and that is their cue.
“Hawks, the targets are entering the warehouse,” Shouta reports via earpiece as he secures one end of his capture weapon to the railing of a fire escape.
“Got it. You ready?”
“I’m coming down now.”
Shouta rappels down the building’s brick facade careful to avoid its windows, not that it matters much if his boot happens to slip. The apartment complex they’ve been scouting from is abandoned, and every glance he takes into the rooms he passes by reveals evidence of squatting within. Graffiti mars the inner walls; trash heaps warp the wooden floors. Derelict and ripe for demolition, the place is no better off than its warehouse neighbor. At least, should a fight break out, they won’t have to worry about property damage.
He looks up at Kaina on the roof, catching the heel of an icy glare before she swiftly shifts her attention back to her scope. A chill runs through Shouta’s body. He attributes the chill to the rain.
Once on solid ground, Shouta loosens the capture weapon from its anchor, winds the slack around his forearm, and sprints to heave open the heavy warehouse door. A glimpse into its dark interior sinks his heart. Unending towers of tarp-covered crates and empty stacked pallets create a stretching labyrinth between him and Hawks. No doubt Minato and his henchman chose this spot for a reason; if they're the only ones who know how to navigate this maze of misplaced cargo, then they can hide murder evidence here long after the crime scene is fresh.
“Hey, boss! Long time no see! So, what’d ya wanna meet me for?”
Obviously meant for Minato, Hawks’ greeting emits from Shouta’s earpiece. Hawks must have left his comm line open for his teammates to gauge how much time they have left to strike before the situation becomes dire. Smart. Kaina is right; the kid is no rookie.
“Don’t play dumb with me,” Minato scolds. His booming voice ripples through brittle warehouse walls and grants Shouta a directional foothold to gain his bearings. He gropes at the contours of crates, inching his way onto what he hopes is the right path.
Minato resumes, loud, yet eerily controlled. “That tip you gave us last week was a bust. I lost a lot of hard-earned investments on that faulty hunch of yours. I’d hate to think you set me up, but what else am I ‘sposed to think? So, like the generous man I am, I’m giving you one last chance to come clean. Things'll be worse for you if you don’t.”
A dead end. Shouta gazes up at the junk blocking his path. It would be easier to simply leap over his obstacles, but doing so could alert Minato before Hawks’ safety is assured. Whatever his next plan will be, he needs to decide soon.
“Aw, c’mon boss,” Hawks punctuates with a flippant click of his tongue. “You know me. When have I ever led you astray?”
Something sharp pokes Shouta’s shoulder. He turns to find a single red feather beckoning him towards a new path between the crates.
A sly grin infuses Hawks' tone. “You can trust me.”
Cheeky. Taking Hawks at his word, Shouta follows the feather further into the warehouse. It flies so fast it blurs into a red dart cutting through the darkness.
“I wish I could trust you, Hawks,” Minato laments. “But you’ve cost me more than you’re worth, and you know far too much for me to let you leave.”
“So give me another shot! No one’s perfect. I’ll get it right next time!”
“I’m afraid there ain’t gonna be a next time.”
“No next time? But I… oh, I get it. You’re replacing me with this new guy, huh?”
“That’s one way to put it. Dabi here has got a fire in him. Tell me, Hawks, how well do you think those wings of yours would hold up in a real firefight?”
Dabi. At least now Shouta has a name for his target. He ducks and weaves through the maze of mess, his attention glued to the zig-zagging feather ahead of him. Minato’s voice is louder now. He’s getting close.
“My wings would… ah, you’re gonna make him take my wings, is that it, boss? I guess that’s a fair trade, but you know they’re just gonna grow back, right?”
“Not if you’re dead.”
“Wha–dead?! Whoa, whoa, whoa, that’s a little extreme, isn’t it?! I’m just a kid!”
“You’re old enough to know not to double-cross me.”
“N-no, you… you won’t… you can’t! Please! Let me try again! I won’t disappoint you ever again, I won’t! I s-swear!”
The fear in Hawks’ plea is palpable. Either he’s a first-rate actor, or he truly is as afraid as he seems. Shouta isn’t willing to bet on what is or isn’t real. The boy needs help; that is all that matters.
The lone feather breaks out into an open area where Minato, Dabi, and Hawks have congregated. The ambush starts.
Shouta boldly leaps into the fray, where he has only seconds to assess the situation. Minato stands to his left, Dabi to his right. Both have their backs turned to him. They’ve been too absorbed by Hawks—sitting casually on a crate in front of them—to have noticed anything amiss. Hawks spots Shouta across the way, blinks away faux tears, and smiles wide.
His fear is just an act.
Hawks spreads his arms almost as far out as his wings. “Well, it’s been fun, but I think we’re done here.”
“The hell are you talking about?” Minato balls his fists, unable to conceal the anger he had tempered until now. “Enough of this! Dabi, do it!”
Blue flames engulf Dabi’s arms. Shouta blinks. Black hair lifts from his eyes and clears his vision long enough to lock his stare onto the fire user’s form.
Nearly a second after igniting, blue flames die.
With a whip of his wrist, Shouta launches one end of his capture weapon toward Dabi. The man ekes a startled cry before the sturdy strip of cloth binds his arms to his chest and restricts his lungs. Shouta primes his target for quick incapacitation as he raises a knee, grabs hold of the capture weapon’s slack, and starts the sharp pull that will deliver Dabi’s skull to the blunt force of his kneecap. It's a crude maneuver, but it has always proven effective.
Until he sees Dabi’s face.
Despite the off-color skin grafts that mar most of Dabi’s features, there is no denying the boyish roundness of his cheeks or the wide-eyed surprise of an inexperienced child in over his head. He couldn’t be much older than Hawks. Perhaps he's even as old as Oboro when he…
Shouta aborts his attack before Dabi’s body can reach him—the whiplash of abandoned inertia brings the boy to his knees. Still bound by the capture weapon, Dabi can’t move much more than his legs or his head, yet he moves neither. Instead, he stares up at Shouta in silent bewilderment, his ice-blue eyes piercing through fringes of black hair.
His fear is real.
Smoke rises from Dabi’s skin and saturates the damp and musky air with the pungent smell of burning flesh. Had his own blue flames done that to him? No, that couldn’t be…
In Shouta’s peripheral, Minato swells with rage. Polished shoe heels scuff the concrete floor as he rears up for an attack of his own. Shouta can’t look at him, can’t avoid him, can’t fight him. If he takes his eyes away from Dabi for even a moment, then blue flames will burn through the capture weapon and the ambush will be botched.
A veil of feathers shields Shouta from Minato’s view.
“What’s the matter, boss?” Hawks taunts. “Seeing red?”
He hovers mid-air and drapes the full tapestry of one wing's plumage beneath his arm like a matador’s crimson cape. No, Hawks isn’t a rookie, but he is too cocky for his own good.
“Focus,” Shouta warns. “This isn’t a—”
Minato plows into Hawks’ wing faster than Shouta can blink.
And Shouta does blink. He has no choice. The crates behind Dabi explode from the impact of Minato’s horns and spew splintered debris over their heads. Goggles protect Shouta's eyes from larger shards, but the particulate left unfiltered through its slots irritates his eyes and forces them shut.
Erasure, for a brief moment, is no longer in play.
A brief moment is all Dabi needs. Blue flames devour carbon fiber threads until his restraints turn to ash. Once free, Dabi scrambles towards the back of the warehouse, setting fire to toppling towers of wooden boxes along the way.
“The fire user is on the run!” Shouta shouts as he unsheathes his combat knife and severs the still-burning end of his capture weapon. He sprints in pursuit of Dabi, but cumbersome armor, smoke plumes, blurred vision, and a maze of flame slow his progress. He can barely even see Dabi before the boy opens a backdoor and disappears into the black of night. At this rate, he’ll surely lose him.
Kaina’s voice blares in his ear. “Dammit, Hawks! Go help him!”
Hawks instead ushers a swarm of sharpened feathers to restrict Minato’s movement before he can recover from his missed attack. “I have to arrest Nakai first!”
Kaina answers with a hardened composite of swirling indigo-and-pink fibers, which breaks through a nearby window and shoots clean through Minato’s left leg.
Hair like bullets, feathers like knives. The heroes Shouta is working with are living weapons. He’s thankful they’re on the same side.
“I’ve got the bull pinned here,” Kaina says, barely heard over the anguished moan droning in Minato’s chest. “If he moves again I’ll put one in his other leg. Now go help Eraser, that’s an order!”
Whether he likes it or not, Hawks obeys the order. Feathers once devoted to containing Minato now rush to the ceiling and pierce through the roof. Rainwater gushes down from new openings and douses the few fires Dabi left in his wake. Without the veil of smoke and flame, Shouta sees a clear path to the exit.
He takes a step forward, but his foot never touches the ground. The scarf-like folds around his neck pull taut and drag him up roughly by the scruff like a kitten in the jaws of its mother. Shouta glances up and finds yet another red feather hooked into his capture weapon, lifting him up over the debris and bringing him to the exit doors in half the time it would have taken him to do it himself.
Logically, it’s a smart call. If Hawks can transport him faster than he can move on his own, then there is no reason not to accept the help, especially when time is of the essence. Emotionally, however… he prefers not to dwell on the emotional toll, though the slight sting of humiliation accompanies the frustrating void of autonomy.
Hawks flies alongside him, then edges ahead, as if racing against his own feather to be first to the cramped back alley. The feather nestled in Shouta’s capture weapon sets him down on wet asphalt, then rockets to the left, out of the alley and out of sight. More feathers follow behind it, and others still are sent in the opposite direction. Hawks has that intense look about him again; he’s concentrating, probing, sensing which direction Dabi may have run off to.
“He went this way,” Hawks proclaims with a finger pointed right. They set off in that direction together, and while Hawks lets Shouta run on his own two feet this time, he flies overhead and sets a frantic pace with which Shouta struggles to keep.
It’s not that he’s out of shape—on the contrary, he’s far more agile than most of his peers—but Hawks’ swift flying speed would pose a challenge for anyone not blessed with a super-speed quirk. Shouta rounds the corners of winding alleys, vaults over dumpsters, jumps fences, fights to follow on Hawks’ heels. Burning lungs nearly burst inside his chest before Hawks slows at the end of the trail, where narrow paths converge on a deserted street corner. This part of town is quiet and dark; the only landmark of note is a convenience store still open at this late hour.
A figure robed in black steps inside the store and assumes the facade of a late-night customer, ducking into aisles and taking refuge within the shelves of sugar snacks and cheap baubles.
“There he is.” Hawks lowers himself to the ground, his eyes locked on the young man seeking fragile sanctuary. “How do you want to do this?”
Shouta pauses, silently catching his breath before speaking. “I’ll talk to him.”
Hawks shakes his head. “Talk to him? He’s a villain. You know, the villain that just tried to kill me? We can’t just talk him out of there.”
“Then what’s your plan?”
“With all due respect, sir, we should arrest him as quickly as possible, before he can hurt anyone else.”
Of course, that plan is obvious. Hawks is reciting protocol, the only rational solution to this problem. Logic. Reason. Those have always been the values dictating every facet of Shouta’s life, so why now does the idea of following protocol feel… inadequate?
“You’re right,” Shouta concedes, but not without condition. “Go back and help Lady Nagant with Nakai. I’ll handle Dabi.”
“Are you sure? I can help.”
“We can’t risk it if your wings are weak to fire. Besides, I work better alone. Fewer liabilities.”
Or… how did Kaina put it? Fewer kids to babysit.
Hawks shifts his sharpened gaze once more to the shining eye-sore of a store. The boy seems different. His posture is obscenely straight and his face is nigh emotionless. Whatever cocky kid he was has since been replaced by a stoic soldier standing at attention. Which Hawks is the real one? He already proved himself a fine actor; it’s possible the real Hawks hasn’t yet shown his face.
“Eraserhe—um, Aizawa, sir?”
Shouta lifts his goggles and shoots a curious eye. Referring to other heroes by anything other than their hero name on missions is, technically, a minor breach of protocol. While Shouta himself occasionally lets slip “Yamada” or “Kayama” over “Present Mic” or “Midnight,” those are personal exceptions, ones subconsciously made. Hawks, on the other hand, just made the conscious effort to refer to Shouta by name. Why?
“Hawks?” he answers, with no other name to address him by.
The boy clears his throat. “Before I go, I want to apologize for what happened in the warehouse. I was reckless. I wasn’t thinking about how my actions would affect you or your quirk. Working with other Heroes is still new to me. I’ll be better, going forward.” He bows.
The apology confuses Shouta, but not because it’s undeserved. He shrugs. “It’s fine, but you might want to save your apologies for your mentor.”
He assumes that is Lady Nagant, although “mentor” seems an ill-fitting word for whatever their working relationship seems to be. Hawks understands well enough. “Yes, sir. Report back to us when you’re finished. Be careful.”
With a nod, Hawks turns, stretches his wings, and flies in the direction they both came.
Be careful. Shouta takes quick stock of his gear: a capture weapon, a knife, and a pouch of caltrops. He doubts he’ll need any of it. Dabi, once stripped of his quirk, is a boy of average strength and ability—this much Shouta gleaned from his easy initial capture. How Dabi will react to a verbal confrontation is still unknown, but Shouta is determined to do this with as little force as possible.
The brief stroll to the storefront leaves Shouta soaked in heavy rain. Red neon signs hum in the windows, and when he walks inside, the white fluorescence overhead hums even louder.
A pointed cough from the corner of the store catches his attention. A portly, balding man stands behind the register, scanning Shouta with a suspicious eye. “L-look here, sir, I don’t want any trouble here,” he asserts, nerve-racked.
Shouta sighs. This mission is outside his usual district; his relative obscurity and the ambiguous alignment of his hero costume do him no favors here. He must have taken for granted the privileges his underground reputation earned him back home. Night shift store clerks learned not to question his hero status, some even volunteered to become informants so long as he protected their shops from villain raids. In this new town, he’ll need to build trust from scratch.
“It’s alright,” he says softly, trying not to alert the villain he hopes is still here. He holds up his Hero license for the clerk to see. Predictably, he relaxes at the sight of it.
Washed with newfound confidence in a Hero’s presence, the clerk motions him closer. “Say, you wouldn’t happen to be looking for a kid, would you? Black coat, got a bad look about him?”
Shouta nods.
“Good, thought so.” The man reaches his arm over the counter, extends it even further, then… the arm keeps going. By the time Shouta realizes the elastic limb is a quirk, the man’s left hand is already at the other side of the store, quietly pointing down one of the aisles.
Shouta nods again, acknowledging the tip. Apparently, cleaning up the riff-raff is enough to earn the trust of civilians around here.
He follows the lead, cautiously peering down the aisle and finding Dabi still there. The boy pretends to browse the selection of bottled beverages, sticking his hooded head so far into the refrigerator that it looks like he’s trying to make his escape through the narrow gaps between the shelves. It’s amusing to watch.
Without a sound, Shouta approaches Dabi and places a firm hand on his shoulder. The boy jumps at his touch—his head lurches into a shelf.
“Ow, fuck,” Dabi hisses, his voice raspier than Shouta expects. His hand rubs at the sore spot on his head. There are skin grafts on the boy’s wrists.
“Come with me,” Shouta orders with a sharp tug on Dabi’s shoulder.
Dabi retaliates with equal force, jerking himself out of Shouta’s grip. “Can’t you see I’m busy getting a drink?”
Foggy breath rises out from Dabi’s hood. He seems comfortable in the refrigerator’s chill. Maybe his fire quirk is keeping him warm.
Shouta gestures to the shelves. “Alright. Which one?”
“What?”
“Which drink do you want? I’ll buy.”
Dabi turns to him, his blue eyes barely visible in his hood's shadow. There are skin grafts beneath his eyes, too. “Are you crazy?”
“The sooner you get a drink, the sooner I can get you out of here.”
Like the petulant teenager he is, Dabi rolls his eyes and returns his attention to the refrigerator. “Why, so you can kill me someplace more convenient for you? Fuck that.”
“Kill you? Who do you think I am?”
“Hell if I know. Someone’s grunt, I’m guessing. You work for someone who wants to take Nakai out.”
Shouta flashes his hero license for the second time that night, twice more than usual. “I’m a Hero.”
“Right, sure you are,” Dabi says, less convinced by the piece of plastic than the store clerk was. “What’s your Hero name then?”
“Eraserhead.”
“I’ve never heard of you. Besides, Heroes wear flashier costumes than that. No one’s gonna get far up on the charts in a cheap ninja getup.”
“Underground Hero,” Shouta clarifies. “I’m not on the charts.”
Dabi scans him over again, relaxing yet still on guard. “Then you won’t kill me. You’re not supposed to, anyway.” He shuts the refrigerator and shoves a can of iced coffee into Shouta’s hand. “That one.”
Shouta nods and escorts Dabi to the front counter, where the store clerk stands his ground.
“One iced coffee,” Shouta says, ignoring the clerk’s crossed arms and defensive posture. He deposits the money on the counter, but the man doesn’t take it. His eyes narrow on Dabi.
“I thought you were gonna arrest him.”
A false excuse comes to Shouta far too quickly. “The boy’s a runaway. I was charged with finding him and bringing him back home. His parents have been worried sick.”
The man strokes his chin as he reconsiders the apparent runaway. “Ah, I see… then I suppose there’s no harm in a small purchase before you go.”
Blind trust in Heroes must be common around here.
The clerk rings up the coffee and hands it back to Shouta. He tosses the can to Dabi, who stuffs it deep into his trench coat pocket.
With a thank you and goodbye, Shouta leaves the store with Dabi in tow. The boy has the good sense not to resist; even if Dabi doesn’t know what Erasure is or how it’s triggered, he knows it’s futile to run while he’s in line of sight. Shouta corrals him to the storefront beneath an awning where the rain can’t reach them.
“You lied to him,” Dabi says plainly. “Aren’t you underground Heroes supposed to be righteous or something?”
“I prefer to think of it as a logical ruse.”
“Sure, whatever helps you sleep at night.”
“What about you?” Shouta asks. “You were going to murder someone tonight. How would you sleep after that?”
Dabi shrugs as he digs out a cigarette pack from his pocket. He slides a single cigarette between mismatched lips and lights the end of it with a blue flame on his thumb. “How should I know? I’ve never killed anyone before.”
Smoke bellows from Dabi’s mouth. The fresh smell of rain entwines with the bitter smell of tobacco.
“How old are you?”
“Are you asking 'cause you think I’m too young to smoke or 'cause you think I’m too young to kill a guy?”
“Both.”
Dabi sighs. “Seventeen.”
With that, Shouta’s intuition is vindicated; his curiosity, however, is not yet satisfied. “What’s a seventeen-year-old doing with someone like Nakai?”
“You don’t know anything, do you? Everyone around here knows yakuza hire teenagers off the street to do their dirty work for them. It’s not like there’s a shortage of us. We all know we’re expendable, but plenty of hero-school rejects still line up at his door with something to prove ‘cause no one else will take them seriously.”
“Is that why you signed up?”
“I didn’t sign up for shit. Nakai asked for my help on a job and I gave it, that’s it. He’s nothing to me. He’s just a means to an end.”
“What end?”
“What does it matter to you?”
“I’m just trying to do my job.”
“Yeah? Was it also your job to use Bird Brain as bait back there? He’s a teenager too.”
“That wasn’t my decision—”
“You went along with it. You Heroes like to pretend you’re better than us, but you always stoop to the same level and call it fair.”
Shouta stares into an empty street. Red neon signs reflect off its wet surface, creating the illusion of a red river cleaving the town in two.
Dabi knows where to hit where it hurts. His age aside, he’s more observant than most street thugs. Then again, Shouta doesn’t often take the time to talk to the villains he intends to arrest. Maybe his intentions with Dabi are different.
“You’re right,” Shouta admits, swallows, and ignores the uneasy pit eating a hole in his gut. “I went along with it. But Hawks isn’t just a kid we picked up off the street. He’s trained, he has a license. On paper, he’s as much of a Hero as I am.”
A mocking chuckle escapes Dabi and stirs shame in that pit again. “On paper, right. You old guys will say anything to justify dumping your problems on kids.”
There may be truth in that, but Shouta doesn't care to validate it. “Old? I’m twenty-four.”
“Yeah. That’s old.”
“Come back to me when you’re twenty-four. We’ll see how old you feel then.”
Dabi lowers his chin into his trench coat collar and mumbles under his breath. “As if I’ll live that long.”
Between Hawks and Dabi, the youth of today may be more fatalistic than Shouta's generation was at that age. Maybe these kids are more aware of what it really means to become a Hero or a Villain. An earlier dose of that reality might have done him some good back then. It might have saved him the heartbreak.
Shouta rubs the back of his neck beneath his capture weapon. “I heard Nakai call you Dabi. That’s not your real name, is it?”
“I go by Dabi. That’s all you get.”
“Do you have any parents, Dabi? Someone I can bring you back home to?”
“No,” he answers firmly. The light at the end of his cigarette burns a little brighter.
“Is there any other family that can take you in? I’m trying to keep you from going to prison. I don’t think that’s what someone your age needs.”
“You think if I had a loving family to go home to that I’d be out here right now?” His ashy voice cracks on the verge of crumbling. “Come on. You pity me. I’m just a child to you, that’s why you went easy on me at the warehouse. If you actually thought I was worth anything then you would've arrested me by now, so if you’re not gonna do that, just… just leave me alone. You don’t know what I need."
Shouta prepares his protest, but the sight of red running down the boy’s cheek freezes the words.
“Are… are you bleeding?”
Dabi doesn’t react immediately. He stares into the street for a few moments, then, with a thumb, casually wipes away the blood. A smudge of it remains on his pallid face. “It’s nothing.”
Shouta’s eyes follow the faint red trail up his cheek to the skin graft beneath his eye, where another drop of blood is coalescing on his eyelid. “Your eyes are bleeding. You need medical atten—”
“You don’t know what I fucking need,” he repeats with fury in his throat. He rubs the new tear away, erasing evidence it was ever there. “I burnt my tear ducts off a while ago, alright? I can’t cry. Not like how I used to.”
The tear ducts, the skin grafts, the smell of burning flesh. Dabi is the victim of his own quirk. If he keeps using it, then his fate will only be a matter of time. Maybe the boy would be better off in prison if that means he can’t become the catalyst for his own premature death.
But what kind of life would that be?
Pushing the uneasy thought aside, Shouta clicks open a pouch and procures a small green plastic bottle. “Here,” he says, offering it to Dabi. “Your eyes must be dry.”
Dabi takes it and studies the label. Curiosity peeks through a raised brow. “Eye drops? You carry this around with you?”
Shouta nods.
The corner of Dabi’s lip pinches in disgust. “I’m not using the drops you’ve used on your crusty old man eyes.”
“That’s fine, it’s a new bottle. Take it. I have plenty.” He proves it by pulling out another bottle and shaking it. Saline solution sloshes in its sealed container. “My quirk dries out my eyes too.”
Dabi turns the bottle over in his long bony fingers again, inspects its contents, and contemplates what it would mean to accept the gesture. After a few moments, he shoves it into another one of his pockets without further comment. Either he took the olive branch or didn’t have the energy to argue against keeping it. Shouta is content not knowing which it is.
“So what now?”
Dabi’s question rings in Shouta’s ears, accompanied by the thrumming of rain against the awning overhead. Indeed, what now?
The proper thing to do—the logical thing to do—is to arrest Dabi. He may not be tried as an adult, and the strongest sentence he could see for this attempted crime is some time in juvenile detention. Still, without a strong support system, the kid will see prison eventually. Shouta is sure of it.
But letting Dabi go free would pose a greater risk to public safety than the Commission can afford. Even if Dabi has truly never killed before, he agreed to do just that for seemingly no reward. The untold damage he could do if allowed to become a full-fledged Villain would be more than enough for the Commission to justify locking him away for life. After all, he’s unpredictable, calculating, self-serving…
Shouta glances at Dabi, at the fingers he uses to pull the cigarette from his mouth.
They’re shaking.
Shouta mentally runs through his options again. If he can’t make up his mind soon, he might as well—
A spot of red catches Shouta’s attention, a different red from the glowing neon illuminating their backs. This red is tangible and thin, sprouting out from the top of Dabi’s black boot like a blade of grass. Before Shouta can ask, he knows what it is.
It’s the stem of a familiar feather, and now he knows what to do.
“Wait here,” he orders Dabi. “It’ll only be a second.”
“Are you seriou—”
But Shouta is already back inside the store. The ringing of the welcome bell alerts the clerk, who jerks his head up from a magazine and twists his face in reignited worry.
“Still here, are you? What happened to the kid?”
“I’m dealing with that. Do you have a notepad and a pen I can borrow? I need to write something down for him.”
“Oh, uh… sure. Here. Be quick about it.”
The clerk stretches his elastic arm to hand the supplies over, a measure meant to keep Shouta at the door. Apparently, trust too easily earned does not run deep.
Shouta quickly scribbles what he needs to on the paper, rips it off its pad, and hands back the rest. He exits the store to see Dabi still standing outside.
“You waited.”
Dabi sniffs, stomping out his cigarette on the sidewalk pavement. “I figured I’d make things worse for myself if I ran and you caught me.”
“You’re right. Then I wouldn’t have given you this.”
The piece of paper passes between their hands. Dabi squints at its scratchy handwriting, reads it over a second time, then looks at Shouta. “What’s this?”
“My phone number.”
Dabi squints at it again, this time out of suspicion. “Yeah, right.”
“It is.”
“Why the hell would you trust a Villain with your number?”
Shouta rubs his fingerless-gloved hands together before burying them into his pockets for warmth. “I’m letting you go, but you won’t make it very long on your own without Nakai. I’m giving you another choice.”
“I never needed Nakai, and I definitely don’t need you. I’ve been doing just fine on my own.”
“Is that so? The way I see it, I'm the only thing standing between you and a future prison sentence. I wouldn’t consider that ‘doing just fine.’”
Dabi scoffs and leans away, concealing the eyes he’s probably rolling. “So you think the answer is this flimsy scrap of paper, then? What do you even expect me to do with this, call you up for a free therapy session?” He laughs, unsure of his own sincerity. “It isn’t real. You lied to that guy in there, what’s stopping you from lying to someone like me? This has to be a setup.”
“There’s a payphone over there if you want to test it.” Shouta points to a phone booth across the street and fishes out two coins from his pocket.
Incensed, Dabi snatches the coins and marches off into the street. His trench coat coattails ripple behind him, skirting along the edges of worn boot heels. On the street’s rain-coated reflection, he resembles an apparition floating across a red-stained river, gliding from one river bank to another. A chill seizes Shouta’s spine again.
After crossing the street, Dabi enters the booth, feeds coins into the machine, and picks up the phone. A second later, the cellphone in Shouta's pocket rings.
He answers immediately, never breaking eye contact with the boy in the booth. “Told you.”
“So you are crazy.” At this distance, Shouta can’t discern much more than Dabi’s silhouette as he leans against the payphone. “You still haven’t told me what I’m supposed to do with this.”
“It’s simple: if you’re in need of help, call me. I’d rather you reach out to a Hero than a yakuza boss.”
“That’s all?”
“You also seem familiar with the area. If you let me know if you see anything—”
“I’m not a fucking snitch. Find someone else to be your rat.”
“Don’t bother with that, then. Just keep the number for when you need it.”
Dabi pauses; only his raspy breath sounds over the phone in the interim. Then, he raises a hand, pinches the piece of paper between his fingers, and sets it aflame. In a blink of an eye, it’s reduced to ash.
“I told you to leave me alone.” The demand tremors deep within Dabi’s chest. “I don’t need your help, Hero.”
Shouta sighs. It’s not the desired outcome, but it is the expected one. “Then I’ll warn you now: if you turn to crime again, I will arrest you.”
“Oh, yeah? How will you know if I have?”
“I have an eye on you.”
Dabi’s fingernail taps on the phone booth glass as he mulls over his words—an added instrument to the rain’s percussion. It drones on like a metronome ticking away the seconds that pass by without a word.
Dabi ceases his tapping. “Alright, Eraserhead.” His voice grates against his throat, as if scrapping ash out from corrupted lungs. “Then you better keep both eyes on me.”
Even from across the street, Shouta can hear the tinny ding of the payphone as it violently slams against the switch. The call ends.
And that’s all.
Shouta turns and walks back towards the alley he came from. There is no sense in staying any longer; to wait around and watch Dabi is a waste of time, and anyway, he needs to report to Lady Nagant and Hawks before they come looking for him. It is punishment enough to leave Dabi confused and seething in the claustrophobic shelter of a phone booth.
But his threat was far from an empty one. He will have an eye on Dabi, that much is true—it just won’t be his eye.
It will be the eye of a hawk.