Chapter Text
The café looked a quiet place, at first glance. A little shabby, a little worn. The paint covering the door was old, distressed around the edges. The windows were clean, but the frames were nicked, pocket marked by age and use. A perpetually full bowl of cat food sat to one side of the door.
The sign was perhaps the only truly cared for part of the cafe, and even it was just— simple. Plain, even. Clear white lettering against a black background said Black Cat Café. It was not a proclamation, not even an invitation, just a statement. Here is a café. Come if you want damn good coffee without any frills. All told, it was not a place most would give a second glance to.
But then again, appearances had always been deceiving.
It sat comfortably in a small district of Tokyo. Two blocks to the north was one of the biggest underground crime centers of the nation, a conglomerate of villains and people with nefarious intentions.
Two blocks to the south sat Endeavor’s Hero Agency.
It was fitting, that the café sat between these two places. It straddled both worlds, after all, a safe place for villains and heroes both. Each group knew the three Very Official Unofficial Rules of the Black Cat Café— no violence, no shop-talk, and above all else, no getting between the owner and his coffee.
The owner had not originally designed it that way, but well, he could hardly have helped it. Not with his quirk, not with his temperament, and most especially not with his damned morals.
The inside was a contrast from the shabby exterior— the smooth lacquer tables were well cared for, smooth and shiny in the dim lighting. A hulking espresso maker stood on a long mahogany bar, industrial and imposing. Rows of small white coffee cups lined the edge of the counter, a barrier between coffee-maker and coffee-drinker. This was by design.
Behind the bar now stood a man with pale blue hair. His posture was slouched, and he was blanketed in a black hoodie twice the size of his torso. He looked at once sullen and fragile. This was deceiving, as he was far from fragile.
His hands worked quickly over the espresso machine, pinky fingers perpetually raised. The smell of fresh coffee hit the air like a bomb, and he slid a small cup across the counter without sparing a glance at the waiting customer. This was usual, and the customer took no offense.
This man— barely twenty, so perhaps young man was more appropriate— was not the owner. But he was important.
Low conversation filled the café, interrupted only by the occasional burr of the grinder. In the background could be heard the sound of crooning jazz, soft enough to be a lullaby.
And it often was, for the owner.
His hair was as unkempt as the outside of the café, and just as deceiving. Dark sunglasses covered his gaze, as was usual— the glasses never came off. Behind the glasses, his eyes were tired, dry, and a perpetual red. A loose shirt, wide collared and soft, completed the disheveled look. He was sitting, now, in a small corner table, leaning back into the soft embrace of the leather armchair with a cat’s grace.
It was a prime spot, secluded and slightly raised from the rest of the café. Far more comfortable than any other table. Still, no customer ever sat there. They knew better than to risk it.
Redeye was a dangerous man, when angered, and no one wanted to be on the wrong end of his glare.
Before logic had won out, he had considered going by Eraser. The soft, sentimental side whispered close, it’s close enough. But he was nothing if not a practical man, and in the end, he discarded the idea. He was done with that life— done with the endless fight against humanity, done with seeing the worst of the world. He had something important to protect, now. There could be no reminders— no tracks to find him.
If he sometimes remembered the name, if his eyes sometimes gentled at the thought of Eraserhead and the person who had given him that moniker, well. No one needed to know, and no one ever would.
Aizawa Shota received his hero license at the tender age of sixteen. He spent eight years doing good with a low profile, committed and terrifyingly talented. No one knew his name, but villains soon learned to fear a man wearing goggles.
At twenty-four, he disappeared. No friends could track him down, no family knew his whereabouts. The police looked into the possibility of kidnap, but could find no evidence.
For all intents and purposes, Aizawa Shota no longer existed.
His closest friends— a young Midnight and a younger Present Mic— searched for him. They called in favors from heroes around the nation, but there was nothing to find. Shota had erased his own existence as thoroughly as he erased quirks.
They never gave up the search.
Some days, Hizashi will see a hint of scruffy black hair and tired eyes around a corner, in an alley, he’s right there—
His nightmares are worse, on those days.
It is no surprise they do not find him. Saying Shota is good at stealth is akin to saying a cat likes milk. It is not wrong— but it is a foolish understatement.
And Shota— Shota has had six years to hone his skills. He has new scars, newer habits. Some days, he thinks Hizashi wouldn’t be able to recognize him.
His nightmares are worse, on those days.
As he stood there, eyes red, poised over the crying form of a twelve-year-old child who had just dissolved his father into dust, Shota just couldn’t understand. How had the world come to this?
The boy picked up a bloody hand, small fingers shaking. “Pa-papa?”
How had it come to this?
Shota closed his eyes against a rush of familiar bitterness, and the hand dissolved under tiny fingers. A scream tore through the room, high and so very fragile.
His eyes opened again, flashing red before the child could harm himself. They would stay red for the next five years.
He took the boy.
That was the day the hero Eraserhead vanished, the day Aizawa Shota went truly underground. It was the day that changed the path of history irreparably.