Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

There is something so surreal about the way the late afternoon rays shone throughout the normally dim littered room, casting colors that could never be replicated across the walls and floor, amplified only by the unhindered height that rewarded those few privy to the audience of the great Port Mafia leader, Mori, a spectacular view of the vast city of Yokohama and the slowly setting sun that touched the furthest side of the ocean that gave the city her more commonly dubbed name by those who reside within her confines.

It was almost like a dream. The shadows and light both fought for space. Long, tendril fingers amplified the shadows attached to the lonely furniture, only to change direction in a movement as soft as the calm summer breeze until the vibrant reds, oranges, and yellows encapsulated the muted darkness, a constant push and pull.

A rivalry that would last for eons (and yet they coexist in sequence, day after day.)

“Stunning, isn't it?”

Chuuya nods respectfully, squaring his shoulders as he redirects his view to the man before him.

Mori boasts power. Not in his stature, for while he stands taller than some, his lithe build and relaxed posture tells tales that he had never been one for combat. It was his gaze. Sharp eyes that see everything, take it all in, analyzing every minute detail. Pulling apart every ounce of his subject, looking for the flaws to which he would then poke and prod like a child with a stick.

In Chuuya's opinion, he is not unlike a snake in the grass. Hidden from view, yet always watching with a steady gaze, just waiting to strike with venomous fangs. And once bitten, relives in the knowledge that those who had crossed his path would be forever traumatized—either by the residual poison that could never be leached out, or the fear of never entering a patch of grass with their guard down.

Chuuya has been bitten many times. More so when he was younger, naive, and believed that the world owed him more than he had been given. Less so as he aged and realised with gritted teeth that he had to make his place in the world. The shackles on his ankles restricted him to the call of the snake, however, he was no longer afraid to venture out into the field with bare feet.

“I do wish all my subordinates were as hastily as you,” Mori says with a sigh that sounds a little too forced, his elbow resting on the arm of his chair with his head supported in the palm of his hand. “Time is not on our side, and I do hate to be rushed.”

Nodding seems like the appropriate response, and even though Mori isn't looking at him, Chuuya knows he saw the action nonetheless.

“I'm somewhat surprised that you two weren't together when I called.”

The comment was spoken without jest, yet there was an undertone that bristled Chuuyas neck in a way that nagged to be careful.

Rolling his eyes, Chuuya adapted a feigned relaxed posture, slouching ever so slightly in his chair. “Who knows what the idiot is doing,” he says with a push of annoyance. “It's not like we're joined at the hip.”

“Oh?” Mori chuckles, the sound dry and full of darkness.

Luckily, Chuuya's next response is halted by a sharp knock at the door before it is flung open with glee.

Speak of the devil and he shall appear. Or in Dazais case, a demon. The demon prodigy.

His footsteps light, Dazai walks the short distance to sit himself on the arm of the chair Chuuya resides in and the more Chuuya moves to the opposite side, the more Dazai makes it his purpose to lean further over.

“Sorry I'm late,” he says with a handwave, his tone contradicting his words. “I was—”

“No one cares what you were doing.”

“Ah—” Dazai is silent for a beat, before unceremoniously throwing his entire lanky frame over Chuuya, sharp elbows and hips digging into his soft flesh. “But Chuuya's not no one!”

Gaining purchase on Dazais's side, Chuuya shoved him half-heartedly upright, his tone portraying a deeper anger than his actions. “Get off me, asshole!”

“But—”

“Children.” Mori's sudden clap echoed throughout the now rapidly darkening room, the soft glow making way for the enclosing night. “If you've finished your little play fight, we have important matters to discuss.” The seriousness of his jaw was a sharp contrast to the way his eyes shone brightly with a type of malicious amusement that wasn't out of the ballpark for Mori's sick sense of humor.

“What's up, boss?” Even though Dazai had angled his body forward, Chuuya knew there would be a slight upturn to his lips. The mind games Mori and Dazai played always put Chuuya on edge, and he was forever grateful that he had never been on the receiving end.

Dazai alone, he could handle. With Mori, he played the submissive subordinate. But those two together—the two demons of the Port Mafia, now that was the stuff out of nightmares.

“In light of recent events—” The pause was for dramatics, Chuuya knew that. So what if there were a few hiccups on their last job, they did what they needed to and the result was still the same. And in all fairness, it wasn't Chuuyas' fault. Dazai does what Dazai wants to do and Chuuya had learned a long time ago to just let the bandaged freak play his stupid fucking games, and instead focus his energy on damage control.

“I believe it is in the best interest of the Port Mafia that a temporary change of scenery is warranted. So, I am sending you both to Musutafu to work undercover as students at the hero school. There are a few persons of interest that I would like you to scout—to learn more about. I want to know all about their strengths, weaknesses,” there was a cleverly subtle pause that Chuuya nearly missed, “alliances.”

“Are you sure that is the best idea?” Dazai calmly asks, his words slow and calculating.

Chuuya has a lot he wants to say on the matter (like there is no fucking way he's going to be able to play nice around a bunch of fucking kids-slash-heroes), and in the confines of his own home, he knows he will splutter and rage. However, right here, right now, he knows he must remain silent, complaint. His anger is his armor, and like any shield, Chuuya knows he needs to use it wisely. And as much as he says he hates Dazai, Chuuya knows that Dazai won't purposely lead him blindly into danger. Chuuya trusts Dazai enough to follow the idiot into each and every mission. Not that he would ever tell the slimy fish as much

“Hm, I believe so.” Mori reaches over and holds out two manila folders that Chuuya hadn't noticed sitting on the small circle table beside him. “Your profiles are in there,” he says as he passes both folders to Dazai. “Exchange students, of sorts. A somewhat, gravel road to a truce between the cities. A crumbling foundation that I'm sure you both understand will only be beneficial to one party.” Sharp teeth show a smile that is just a tad too vicious.

“Understood.” Dazai stands with grace, bowing his head ever so slightly, a half-arsed show of respect to the man who had dismissed them by the way he had turned his body away, gaze looking over the light-sparkled city he rules once the moon shows its final colors.

Chuuya raises from his chair, bending at the waist. His jaw hurts from the force his teeth are clenched, and if his bow is ridgid, no one comments on it. He moves towards the open door, Dazai standing to the side to allow Chuuya through first.

“I will be in touch,” Mori's voice echoes. No matter what, he always needs to get the last word in. “You leave tomorrow."

“This is fucking bullshit!”

After meeting with Mori, they both made their way to Chuuyas apartment, a subconscious decision born from tradition and a muted understanding that needed no confirmation. At a guess, Dazai would say it's been a good twenty minutes since they arrived, and during that time he had been privy to Chuuyas famous tantrums that involved stomping loud enough that Dazai was sure the neighbour's two floors down heard, pacing to the point that upon close inspection, a certain patch of carpet was beginning to look a bit threadbare. And, Dazai's absolute favourite, Chuuyas uncanny ability to recite every curse word in existence and damn every god he knows the name of.

Dazai hums, not in agreement, per se, more because he knows that Chuuya needs a response in some form. As fun as it is to fluff Chuuyas feathers, Dazai is mildly concerned about the state of the walls if Chuuya unconsciously decides they would look better with a fist-sized hole.

He never understands the rage that seems to encapsulate his partner. Yes, he would be lying if he said it didn't amuse him and in some missions, allow them to gain the upper hand when brute strength becomes necessary. However, in times like this; Dazai believes it is unwarranted. Not that he would say so out loud, of course. He didn't rise the ranks so quickly because he was stupid.

“We are seventeen and work for the bloody mafia! How the fuck does Mori think we're gonna pass as fifteen-year-old wannabe heroes!” Dazai is unable to hold back the chuckle at the expression that showed across Chuuyas face at the mention of heroes. To which he was rewarded by a single finger forcefully jabbing in his direction.

Chuuya can be so predictable at times.

“I, for one, think that—”

“Make a smart arse comment about my height and I will fucking throw you through the window.”

Well, now there's a thought for later.

Dazai adapts an expression of shock. Mock shock, of course, but still shock, nonetheless. “I wasn't, but I'm glad that you acknowledge that you're short status would make your part in this little espionage easier.” Before Chuuya can shoot more jabs, both verbal and physical Dazais way (again, predictable), he continues his train of thought; “I'm looking forward to this little adventure!”

Chuuya stops his pacing to look at him with blatant disgust. “How am I not surprised.” His shoulders slump as he moves to bonelessly plant himself beside Dazai on the small two-seater, his body crumbling as the pent-up energy dissipates. He casts Dazai a weary look. “Of course. You would be excited to fuck with people's heads.”

“Oh, Chuuya! You know me so well!” Dazai rests his head on Chuuyas shoulder, nuzzling in like he has seen cats do to their owner (slave, because Dazai knows that cats own their humans, not the other way around). His affection is rewarded by a calloused hand to the side of his face, testily pushing him away.

“Of course I do,” Chuuya states matter-of-factly once Dazai has straightened up, and if their legs and shoulders are still touching, neither mentions it.

“Think about it though,” Dazai continues resuming his earlier train of thought. Sometimes when Chuuyas' stubbornness is so grand, Dazai knows he needs to explain his process to make the outcome of the mission more easily obtainable. Chuuya can be narrow-minded at times, short-sighted, and unable to see past the negatives. Sometimes Dazai chooses to leave Chuuya to stew in his ill hatred of the unknown, but this time, when their mission will be planting them into unfamiliar territory, Dazai wouldn't be a good partner if he didn't share at least a small portion of his insight.

“We are an enigma, an unknown to the rest of the world. We are going into this with the upper hand, the chips are all on our side, and we have the power to feed them what little information when and how we want. Plus, doesn't it make you curious what it's really like out there?”

“Nope.” The crossed arms and childlike pout on Chuuyas face really are a testament to the difference in maturity level.

“Aw, come on, Chibi! It'll be fun!” Dazai holds a hand to his chest, “it'll be like Alice in Wonderland! Falling down a rabbit hole, off to kill the queen and make friends!”

Chuuya snorts even though there is a small smile on his face. Dazai will take that as a win. It is nicer, after all, when Chuuya isn’t attempting to destroy everything within the confines of the room, and at the very least, at least he is listening. “For someone so smart, you're a total idiot.”

“Naw, Chuuya thinks I'm smart!”

“Yeah, as smart as a mackerel!”

“Well... Fish are generally considered to be intelligent creatures, and the Mackerel are—”

“Not another word.”

Dazai grins. The too-and-fro is such a common occurrence between them, as natural as walking, or fighting, or breathing. It is something that Dazai never takes for granted. It’s a nice escape from the mind games that Mori plays or the nausea-inducing submissive behavior of those of lower ranking within the Port Mafia. No, Chuuya has no filter and he is comfortable enough to throw insults towards Dazai like candy. There is something so unhindered, something so real behind their interactions that makes the time they spend in each other's company so entertaining and enlightening.

Not that he would tell Chuuya that, of course. Wouldn’t want him second-guessing his words or forcing the banter, because Dazai is sure that is what will happen if he comments on his observations.

Chuuya in the battlefield is a force to be reckoned with. Dazai would have tossed him to the curb years ago if that wasn't the case. He doesn't need to second guess, he acts and thinks on his feet, landing every hit no matter the barrier.

It's a stark contrast to the Chuuya in his day-to-day life. Without the adrenaline of a life or death situation, he is known to second guess his actions and words, even more so if they're pointed out to him like from someone he respects like Mori or Kouyou. It's subtle, a shift as minuscule as a fleck of dust dancing in the sunlight, but it's there, and Dazai notices it each and every time.

He wasn’t lying when he said he was looking forward to their newest mission. Yokohama had been cut off from the rest of Japan for much longer than Dazai had been alive. He never really bothered to read up on why, just, like those born and living within the city, accepted the fate for what it is. And in a way, Dazai is grateful.

Even though no news got out of Yokohama, that wasn’t to say that news didn’t get in. Everyone knew about the heroes, the quirks, and their strange mutations. The villains, the history, the schools, and the media that surrounded the top heroes and their agencies. Whilst some residents in Yokohama have abilities, they are a very limited number of the population. And from what Dazai understands, abilities and quirks are different—in what way, he's not too sure. He has yet to come across a quirk user, but he’s sure it’ll only be a matter of time before he gets to test out his theories.

“Well,” Dazai says as he stands with a stretch. He walks over and picks up the folder that he had placed on the kitchen table when they first arrived.  “I guess I should leave Chuuya to pack his bags. Everyone knows how high maintenance you are, with all your hair creams and tacky hats.”

“Fuck you!”

“I’ll see you in a few hours, don’t miss me too much!”

With a flourish and a wave (the middle finger Chuuya shot his way didn't go unnoticed but it was easily ignored), Dazai quickly made his exit. They only have a few hours until a car would collect them to take them to the airport. While the cities were within a day's driving distance, all roads had been blocked, thus the only safe and efficient route would be one of the small planes that the Mafia used on the very rare occasion when they needed to travel out of the country.

Dazai is sure that Mori has covered all basis, for while Mori has his faults, Dazai would never say he wasn’t a smart man.

His hand swinging as he waits for the elevator, Dazai looks down at his folder. It is a lot thicker than Chuuyas, and Dazai wouldn’t be surprised if it held a few additional missions for Dazai to do while they were over there. It is a very Mori-like thing to do, and while Dazai doesn’t mind, for he has learned that keeping his mind occupied is the most efficient plan, it did mean that he would need to read over all the information before the car arrived.

Not that he needed much sleep, anyway.

Chapter Text

Much to Chuuyas’ relief and Dazais’ sorrow, they were collected from outside the Port Mafia headquarters and dropped off at a small airstrip with little to no fanfare.

As he stands beside his bag, watching with little interest as the small plane is fueled and all the necessary compartments checked, Chuuya can’t help but continue echoing to his partner how much of a bad idea this is. 

His file hadn’t given him much to go on. A few printed pages, which could easily have been found online. They gave a brief analysis regarding the birth of quirks. A short history of how they came to be of existence, the rise of the first heroes as well as highlighting the more prominent ones throughout history, and the snowball effect that branched out to include the many agencies for said heroes, and in turn, the influx of villain activity. And, of course, the schooling system that taught children to become heroes themselves. Apparently, that had now become the top career choice for kids.

Chuuya found that fact laughable.

The last few pages contained his new profile, and he was sure that Mori had the foresight to update his public profile to coincide with his new birth year and rose-tinted upbringing. There wasn’t any information about his ability, which was predictable, as much of the knowledge from inside Yokohama wasn’t public to those who lived outside her confines, even more so for her limited amount of ability users.

Concerning their actual mission—the missive was a simple half a page. A series of names Chuuya somewhat recognized, some he had never heard of. He didn’t spend too long memorizing them. He knew Dazai would keep him in the loop. That is whenever the smug bastard saw fit, which was, as a general rule, at the worst imaginable times. 

However, Chuuyas’ choice to think on his feet and run into situations blind has saved both their arses many times in the past, so until proven otherwise, he’s going to avoid all unnecessary paperwork for as long as he possibly can. 

While Chuuya is the brute, Dazai is the brains. As much as Chuuya hates to admit, he knows they make a good team. Like yin and yang, they balance each other in a way he didn’t think possible.

Two halves to make a whole. 

The infamous Double Black.

Dazai waves a hand, his expression giving nothing away, but the condensing pat to his head was enough for Chuuya to stand in silence for the remainder of their limited time on Yokohama soil.

Dazai doesn’t share his apprehensions, that much is unmistakable. And while it is beneficial for Chuuyas stability to get these overwhelming concerns out of his head, and anxiety off his chest–it doesn’t help when Dazai comments every time with a rehearsed and monotone; ‘Don’t worry about it, slug.’

They quickly finished the checks, and then they took off, heading towards their current mission. 

As soon as they reach the desired altitude, Dazai has his face pressed hard up against the small window. His voice squelched as he proclaims brightly; “wow, Chibi! Look at this view!”

Chuuya scoffs, folding his arms tightly over his chest as he moves further away from Dazai. As much as his seatbelt allows, anyhow. He’s not immensely fond of planes, he much prefers to use his ability where applicable—less confined and more freedom. The sweat gathering in the center of his palm is a testament to a deep-rooted dislike of confined spaces (and measured against the more commercial airlines, the plane they were currently occupying is minuscule), and the rational reluctance to be at the whim of gravity. Not that he couldn’t use his ability on the plane– but putting himself in a situation where there needs to be a backup plan. 

“It’s not that great,” he eventually says, making a point of looking down towards the cockpit. Dazai lets out a low, and long, and very fictitious whine. “It’s just clouds and the ocean. Nothing special.”

“Oh! I believe it is very much special—”

The rest of Dazais’ musings Chuuya zones out with ease. He catches the general idea ( “Look, slug, that one looks like a bunny rabbit!” ) but otherwise, his mind is very much occupied with thoughts about how much this fucking sucks. 

The Port Mafia has hundreds of employees, yet Chuuya can’t understand why Mori decided to send Dazai and himself. Dazai and Chuuya aren’t exactly known for their stealth, and Mori rarely sends them out on jobs to spy and gather information.

Sure, they are two of the youngest and highest-ranking members, but wouldn’t that mean they were more valuable back in Yokohama?

-

It wasn’t long before they were descending onto a dirt path surrounded by lush, overgrown grass and flowering weeds taller than Chuuya himself. A black car, common model and inconspicuous is waiting for them, and with much haste, one of the men that had made himself inconspicuous on the flight over ushers them into the vehicle and drives away with enough speed that it obscure Chuuyas’ view with dust clouds. The sound of stones hitting the side of the vehicle does nothing to help the headache forming behind his eyes.

Sitting beside him, Dazai stretches his legs out as far as he can within the restricted space. He blinks slowly twice before asking with an almost childlike curiosity, “Where are we?”

“How the fuck should I know?”

Dazai chuckles. Tilting his head to the side, he meets Chuuyas’ gaze with a complex mixture of innocence and amusement. “I wasn’t asking you, Slug.” He nods towards the driver, “I was asking him.”

The him in question bristles loudly, and the sound of his throat clearing carries clearly now that they were driving along a deserted asphalted road. Gone is the chaotic tinkering against the exterior of the car, and now Chuuya is greeted with the view of endless rolling mountains reaching high into the blazing blue sky.

“Uh, um, Mr. Dazai, Sir. We are currently en route to Yamanashi. ETA to Musutafu, two hours.”

“See,” Dazai says with mirth. “He knows where we are.”

“Whatever.” Chuuya folds his arms over his chest, his scowl deepening. “You don’t have to be such an asshole.”

Aizawa can hear the commotion before he even has the chance to enter the room. It isn’t surprising, for while the majority of the students at UA are dubbed chaotic, and each term there seems to be a scoring board to acknowledge the winner (to which his class is currently sitting at the top of the scoreboard for the third term in a row), the teachers and staff aren’t that much better than the children they taught.

There is a line that reoccurs in the curriculum; ‘to defeat a villain, you must first get into their mind frame.’ And through years of experience, a lot of the teachers had adapted the same principles in relation to their students, matching their energy and enthusiasm. 

Aizawa likes to think he’s the exception. Working two jobs and living in a state of constant exhaustion doesn’t leave much room for sporadic energy.

And so, Aizawa isn’t surprised by the sudden silence when he walks into the staff room. Ignoring the expectant looks he receives, he makes his way to the full and hot coffee pot (a rare occurrence, but Aizawa understands the gesture. And although he knows it’s an obvious attempt at gaining his favor, he’ll appreciate it nonetheless) and pours himself a drink.

It’s not until he sits down that Hizashi scoots the chair he had occupied only seconds before closer. “So?” He asks, his voice low. It was a gesture more than anything, because even Hizashis’ whisper was loud enough to carry to all four corners of the room.

“So?” Aizawa deadpans.

Hizashi leans back, out of Aizawas bubble, and grins wide enough that his eyes crinkle at the edges. “What did Nezu say? When do they arrive? What are their quirks? How old are they? What’s their names?”

The sun has barely risen above the city and already Aizawa can feel his patience tethering on the edge. As much as he wants to ignore all questions and send everyone present to Nezus’ office so that he doesn’t have to be the one to deal with this. Nezu, that cunning creature, had, in not as much words, left it up to Aizawa to relay what little information they had on the newcomers to the rest of the staff members.

There was a smile on Nezus face as he ended the meeting with a blunt reminder that he was not to be disturbed for the remainder of the morning as he had prior commitments that needed his unhindered attention. Aizawa knew this game well, and even if Nezu was a good boss and a great principal, his mind games were always accurately aimed at causing the most infuriation.

Aizawa let out a long, mournful sigh. He takes his time finishing his mug before speaking. “Nezu speculated that they’ve been here for the better part of a week already. The names on their file are Dazai and Nakahara Chuuya, both fifteen. Lucky me, they’ll both be in my class, and if they don’t fit in with the other students, then they will be moved throughout the classes until they find one suitable for their situation. As for their quirks,” Aizawa pauses, his lips tightening as he frowns, “they’re undisclosed. Nezu believes it may have something to do with Yokohamas privacy issues, or unwillingness to share information like that over email.” He shrugs. “Regardless, I’m sure we can ask them to fill in the blanks once they arrive.”

“I don’t like this.” Snipes voice carries easily through the pregnant pause, “something just doesn’t feel right.”

There is a chorus of agreement amongst the staff. Each nodding their head and sharing mumbled concerns with those standing closest. 

As far as Aizawa is aware, there has been no new developments on the relationship between Musutafu and Yokohama, nothing to give warrant to the sudden desire for the unknown city, shrouded in a heavy fog of mystery and secrets, to send two of their own children to study at the top hero school in the country.

Working as a pro-hero for as long as Aizawa has, notably one that isn’t in the spotlight and has witnessed the dark underbelly of society has given him a sort of danger sense—honed his ability through countless practice to feel when something just isn’t right.

He had told Nezu as much, yet the mammal had waved his concerns away, citing that they would be irresponsible and unjust to look a gift horse in the mouth. That’s not to say that Nezu didn’t share a small insight into his own theories behind the uncertain events. He had reiterated once, in a serious tone with a steady gaze that left no room for joking, that they should all remain vigilant and converse periodically regarding what they learn and any mannerisms the boys show that raise concerns.

That conversation did nothing to dispel the inkling, and as the days leading up to the boys’ arrival got nearer, Aizawas’ anxiety slowly yet gradually ebbed higher and higher.

His students, the rowdy, rambunctious, loud and strong class of 1-A are excited about the arrival of the new students. Only a few of the more world-wise teenagers were a bit more apprehensive than their peers, and Aizawa couldn’t help but mirror their expressions when the conversation between subjects inevitably rounded back to the speculations about what the Yokohama citizens and their city was like.

Aizawa had given a brief overview of Yokohama, as many had never heard of the city, which wasn’t surprising. Yet he made sure to gloss over the darker context, least his students paint a negative image of their new classmates before they even arrived.

“I have to agree,” Aizawa says, insuring to keep his tone level. “Nezu thinks it’s a good opportunity, regardless.”

“I’m looking forward to them being here!” Always the optimistic, Hizashi matched the enthusiastic tone in his voice with a bounce in his seat. “When do they start?”

“Later today.” The sound of his chair sliding back only just covers the elongated sigh that slips from between his lips. Dragging his feet over to the small kitchenette, Aizawa refills his cup. The birds are chirping loudly amongst the trees that are scattered throughout the exterior of the school, meaning that his students will be waking up in their dorms soon. 

Even though he has spent the last two days preparing for the newcomers’ arrival, Aizawas anxiety is forcing him to recheck that everything is perfect for when do they arrive. And, more importantly, that his students are made aware as soon as the school day commences, that the Yokohama citizens will be joining their class in just a few scant hours.

Mori has never been one to lavish his employees.

The Port Mafia headquarters is immaculate, obsessively cleaned and ensured that every corner of every room, on every floor is functional. If something is damaged or weakened, it is replaced as soon as the required paperwork lands on the proper desk. The same goes for his home, which Dazai has had the unfortunate privilege to visit many times over the years. 

Mori himself is always proper. Wearing only clothes that have been meticulously tailored to his frame, his hair always neatly styled and his movements heavily calculated.

That’s not to say as much as Mori wishes he wasn’t, he is still human. Dazai has been a witness to Mori, in total disarray. Sure, that’s only a small handful of times. And each circumstance had been worse than the last, but regardless, he had seen the chaotic mess Mori can turn into when overwhelmed by power, grief, or events that he cannot foresee.

The way he provides for his employees is a total contrast (with the exception of their provided uniform and weapons, of course). The shipping container Dazai called home is a testament to that fact.

That is why, when they enter the room they’ll be residing in for the duration of their stay, Dazai is perplexed to see that while it wasn’t as grand and furnished as Moris’ own office, it is nice—welcoming.

The warm summer sun shines brightly through the large windows, indulging the room in a stunning brilliance. It is open and spacious. A three-seater couch faces a dark wooden coffee table. Mounted on the wall was a large tv, a stark contrast to the pale wall behind it. Three closed doors, situated down the small hallway off the living space, opened up to the bedrooms and an enormous bathroom.

Chuuya has already dragged his bag to the first room, flinging the door open with enough force that it pounced off the joining wall before reappearing empty handed and making a beeline to the kitchen, his feet stomping loudly on the wooden floor.

“I’m fucking starving!” He moans, or rather whines, while he begins scavenging for assorted ingredients in the fridge and cupboards. What he finds, he places them hostilely on the counter. He easily acquires all the utensils he needs and begins heating a pan and chopping an array of colorful vegetables. Dazai turns around from where he was admiring the view of the bustling city below to find the sharp end of a knife pointing in his direction. “You’re having something to eat, too.”

“Oh, Chuuya is so domesticated,” Dazai sings, a hand held to his chest.

“Fuck you,” Chuuya rebuts. The vegetables are added to the pan, followed by some sort of meat Dazai hadn’t noticed Chuuya dicing. “Were supposed to go to that stupid school today and I’m not having you pass out on the first day. When was the last time you ate anything—”

“Yesterday!”

“—substantial, you idiot. And no, canned crab doesn’t count.”

If it was anyone else, Dazais’ polished instincts would be on alert from the way Chuuyas piercing gaze drifted over his body. As it was, Dazai is accustomed, almost expectant, to the constant scrutinization from his partner. Be it for his general wellbeing, or a quick assessment of injuries after a fight.

No words needed to be said as Chuuya growled low in his throat, his face scrunching up into displeasure, yet he turned on his heel and focused his attention on the cooking food.

Knowing that he had some time before he was brutally forced to consume whatever concoction Chuuya was cooking, Dazai took the opportunity to sit down on the plush sofa with his laptop. Through secure means, including an encrypted data signal in the form of a USB, he sent through a brief, short worded report through to Mori.

Not that there is much to report. Sure, on their car ride over, they had seen firsthand the strange mutations that Dazai had read about and seen pictures of, and while he was more curious than shocked (unlike Chuuya, who had taken it upon himself to point out every single mutated person they passed), he knew that it wasn’t exactly noteworthy. In truth, from a visual perspective, it wasn’t much different from some abilities back in Yokohama, the only difference being that the citizens here couldn’t seem to be able to turn them off. Either that, or they were so accustomed to the visual changes, that they didn’t bother. Both theories held merit, and the desire to know more was firmly tucked into an easily assessable part of his mind.

The main objective of their mission isn’t to study the strange and prominent quirks. Even Dazai knows that such a simple task is beneath their skill level, regardless of the situations surrounding Moris abrupt need to get them out of Yokohama (repeatedly, what happened in their last mission wasn’t exclusively either of their fault). 

Rather, tucked hidden within an encrypted file on his computer, Dazai had the foresight to copy the missives Mori had included in his file. Some names Dazai recognized. How could he not when they were in the forefront of the media, and yet there were some that he had never heard of and all searches online had delivered nothing.

How Mori knows those names, Dazai has no idea. But he had long ago stopped spending precious time trying to figure out how Mori knows the stuff he does. Mori has his reach in so many places and it is decidedly way above Dazais paygrade or desire to spend more time than necessary thinking about how his boss’s mind ticks. (Dazai speculates it’s like a time bomb, and a small part of him is waiting gleefully for it to explode).

It isn’t long before Chuuya and Dazai are sitting around a small table, Chuuya practically inhaling his food at such a speed that Dazai wonders how he doesn’t choke, while Dazai pushes his around the plate, taking a bite now and then if only to please Chuuya. Not that Chuuya is all that subtle as he throws meteoritical daggers in his direction. (”Eat your vegetables, too, asshole! How are you not dead already!?”)

They eat in a comfortable silence, and it isn’t until Chuuyas plate is almost licked clean and Dazai had consumed enough to satisfy the other that Chuuya leans back on his chair.

“Fuck, I can just go to sleep now,” he says behind a yawn.

Dazai smirks, “no can do, slug.”

Chuuya opens his eyes that had drifted closed, the dark circles beneath them more notable as the sunlight hits his face. “What? Why? We’ve been travelling for god knows how many hours and this place is exhausting. Who the fuck wants to walk around with fucking horns protruding from their head. They’re all freaks here,” then as an afterthought, he adds, “even more than you.”

Standing, Dazai balances both their plates and cutlery and moves to dump them into the sink. “I know your mind moves a lot slower than normal when you haven’t gotten your ten hours of beauty sleep, but we’re expected to be at the school in,” Dazai pauses much longer than necessary. He always likes a buildup, especially when it’s at the expense of his Chuuya, “ah, twenty minutes.”

“What the fuck!”

Aizawa looks up at the sky. Not a cloud could be seen. It’s such a perfect day, and considering the torrential rain that had battered the region over the weekend, Aizawa should be enjoying the unhindered sun-gifted-nutrients his body so openly craves. Unfortunately, the events surrounding his excursion outside to where he is currently standing before the slightly ajar solid gate that block UA off from the rest of the city, waiting impatiently for the Yokohama boys to arrive, slices through the light, leaving a gaping wound festered in shadows. Beside him, Nezu waits with unhindered patience, a small smile on his face and behind him he can feel the tensive energy radiating off Ectoplasm and Ryo. 

Class 1-A is currently busy with English (much to Hizashis’ dismay as he wanted to be there for their arrival) and after their initial excitement at the news during homeroom, Aizawa told them, on no unnecessary terms that they are to give Dazai and Nakahara space when they arrive as to not overwhelm them. 

He’s unsure if they will listen. He hopes they do, if not for their sake, then for his.

Nezu had restated on their short walk to where they presently stand, that this is an important part of history. It is patching the way for future relations to not only Yokohama, but the other cities around the world that Musutafu does not yet have a rapport with.

“You never know what the future holds,” he had said wistfully. Cryptically. And Aizawa had half a mind to comment that he was sure Nezu had a good idea what may happen in the not so distant future. His biggest, most renowned strength is his mind, after all.

It doesn’t take much longer for a black car to pull up outside the gates. A quick glance at his watch shows that they have arrived exactly on time, not a second late or early. Nezu is nearly combusting with excitement, and as he takes a step forward, Aizawa watches as his paws connect behind his back while he rocks lightly on the heels of his feet.

The tinted windows obstruct the view of the passengers, but it doesn’t stop their muffled voices carrying the short distance. 

With all the dexterity of someone groomed in proper etiquette, the driver hastily exits the parked car, paying no attention to the crowd waiting and moves to open the rear door closest to the gate.

Before he can finish lifting the handle, a body falls out of the suddenly opened door, crumpling into a heap on the asphalt.

“Dick move, asshole!” The red-headed teenager groans loudly. Angrily.

“I did say ladies first,” comes a sing-song tone from the interior.

The driver steps to the side, his expression remaining unreadable and professional.

Aizawa raises an eyebrow at the scene before him, instantly reminded of his chaotic lot back in class, presumably running rings around Hizashi in anticipation. If he turns around, he would bet money that there would be a few of the more brave ones peering out the window. 

While he doesn’t condone excessive swearing or roughhousing, he swallows the instinctual scolding. It’s an action he has had to do many times this year already. He doesn’t like his students cursing, yet he knows that sometimes there are more important things to worry about than a few vulgar words escaping the mouths of a group of teenagers who had fought in life or death situations more times than any child their age should.

He doesn’t know what the school system is like back in Yokohama. There were no grades or test scores noted in their file. But Aizawa is sure to set some ground rules least his own children decide that all the work he had put in over the past few months can be thrown out the window. And the fall the teenager took looks like it would have hurt. The force he fell wasn’t playful or held back. It appeared to be of malicious intent. 

It only takes a second for the red-head to right himself, his back taught as he faces the other occupant, his ears burning a bright red, the color nearly identical to his hair.

Nezu claps. For a creature so small it crossed the threshold easily and Aizawa only just returns his attention back to the car in time to see a taller teenager emerge. “Hello boys! Welcome to U.A!”

The shorter of the two refocuses his attention. He turns around, instinctually stepping to the side, allowing the other boy to stand on his left, their arms brushing against one another. “What the hell?”

It’s spoken in a low enough tone that Aizawa only just hears it, yet he is unsure if Ryo and Ectoplasm do as well. 

“Dazai, what the hell is that?” An accusatory finger is pointed in Nezus direction, blue eyes wide in shock and confusion. 

Dazai sighs, low and long, like an old man explaining something to a child for the tenth time. “He,” Dazai says, shutting the door behind him with his foot, “is Nezu, the principal of this school.” The taller one; Dazai, smiles widely, and there is something about that expression that doesn’t sit right in Aizawas mind. “Right?”

Nezu nods. “Right!” he says with glee. “And you must be Dazai and Nakahara Chuuya.” He nods to each boy respectfully, to which they nod their head in confirmation.

“It’s a pleasure,” Dazai bows low, formally. He stays that way for an extra beat before turning towards the driver, the same smile still unmoving on his face. “You can go now. We will call when we need to be collected.”

If Dazais bow was formal, then the drivers is practically immaculate, if anything a second too short. Almost as if he is in a hurry to be somewhere, which as far as Aizawa knows, could be the reason. He doesn’t say a word before jumping back into the car and joining the heavy flow of late morning traffic. 

The boys enter the threshold with confidence. Everything about their posture is relaxed, no trepidation or reluctance, even as the iron doors closes loudly behind them. 

Aizawa notes their initial appearance; they’re both wearing similar colors, black and white and each of their outfits are covered by a large trench coat which Aizawa thinks is especially strange considering the heat that is directing down from the early summers sun, and it is bound to get hotter as the day goes on. Chuuya stands at least a head shorter than Dazai, and he holds himself in a more casual way, slouched slightly, hands in his pockets. His eyes meet all their faces for an elongated second before he looks over at the school and then back at Nezu.

Dazai stands straight, not ramrod, but he appears to hold himself in a more formal way. Peaking out from the neck and sleeves of his coat are pristine white bandages, wrapped tightly and meticulosity to perfection. His right eye is also hidden by a layer of bandage, and Aizawa cannot stop the speculations that race through his mind about what types of injuries would warrant such care. And then, logically, if they were injuries or just an unusual fashion choice. 

His thoughts, however, are interrupted by Nezus introductions, “as you know, my name is Nezu and this here is Aizawa Shouta. He will be your homeroom teacher and will help you get settled in—”

“Who are the rest of the welcoming committee?” Chuuya asks bluntly, his eyes lingering for a second too long on Ectoplasm. Dazai chuckles quietly. At what, Aizawa has no idea, but that odd feeling is yet to go away.

“That is Ectoplasm and Ryo Inui. We have a number of staff and teachers here at UA, and I’m sure, given time, you’ll have the chance to meet them all.”

“Oh, goodie.”

“Pup, no need to be so rude,” Dazai says mournfully, shaking his head slowly. Dazai returns to facing Nezu, and Aizawa notices that although Dazai isn’t directly speaking to himself, dark eyes keep flicking in his direction. “We would like to thank you for welcoming us into your city and school. And please excuse Chuuyas behaviour, he turns mean when he’s in a new environment.” A finger is touching his lips in what Aizawa could only call mock thought, “like an anxious dog. Don’t worry, though, like all good pups, he’ll settle down eventually.”

Nezu laughs like it’s a joke, not the hurtful insult Aizawa sees it as. 

Chuuya looks ready to punch Dazai, if the shaking fist at his side is anything to go by. Dazai swings an arm across Chuuyas’ shoulders and Aizawa waits with bated breath for a fight to ensue (which he knows he wouldn’t be able to stop himself from intervening), yet Chuuya just sighs and leans closer to Dazais side.

Nezu sighs sadly. “I do wish to speak to you boys at a later time, however unfortunate, right now I have a meeting I must attend to.” He beacons Aizawa closer, “Aizawa will show you around the school and where to put your belongings.” What belongings? Aizawa thinks. It looks like the boys have nothing but the clothes they are wearing. “He will answer any questions you may have before showing you to your class. Please enjoy our fine school and take a chance to look around. We have a grand collection of different classes and facilities within our grounds, so if there is any you would like to try, or know more about, feel free to approach one of my staff members. They will be more than happy to help.

“Furthermore, I do hope that this is the historic moment between our two cities, to where we can begin a relationship with each other and eradicate any misinformation.”

“Oh,” Dazai says a little too cheerfully, “I hope so too, Nezu!”

Nezu turns and walks back to the main building, Ectoplasm and Ryo also withdrawing from their post moments later, leaving Aizawa facing the two Yokohama boys who, with impeccable accuracy, both tilt their heads to the side in synchronization.

“So, teach—” Dazai begins.

“Aizawa is fine.”

Aizawa is tired. He didn’t know exactly what to expect from the boys, yet he realises upon the short introductions that he might just have his work cut out for him. He is absolutely asking Nezu for a pay rise during their next meeting. 

His first impression is that they’re normal teenagers, a little rough around the edges as most are, but that’s nothing Aizawa can’t handle.

He remembers when he first met his class; all the unique personalities, skill levels, hopes, and dreams crammed into a single, disorganized classroom. Aizawa thought they would never work well together, especially Midoriya and Bakugou, and many times within the first few weeks, Aizawa had spoken to Hizashi in confidence regarding how he didn’t know what to do to cut through the hostility between the teenagers. It wasn’t until they were faced with real villains that they put their differences aside and began on their path to understanding their peers and using the strengths and weaknesses of their classmates to collectively become a great group of heroes.

Even the bonds between Midoriya and Bakugou were strengthening. At a very slow rate, but it’s still a steady pace, nonetheless. No longer was Bakugou threatening to murder Midoriya and the end of every breath, and Midoriyas self confidence has amplified many times over. There will always be the ghostly remains of their rivalry, however, now they could work, and even live together in a somewhat harmonic union. 

These two, though. Their initial relationship is nothing like Aizawa has experienced before.

“Okay, Aizawa-teach!”

Chuuya raises a hand and hits Dazai on the back of the head. It wasn’t lightly either and yet Dazai just laughs. “Just Aizawa, you stupid mackerel.” And then more quietly, “do you want to piss off the teacher?”

Cooing lightly, Dazais eyes light up. “I don’t think Aizawa is pissed off, are you?”

“First off, no,” he says gruffly, turning on his heel and making his way beneath the pillars separating the pathway from the vibrant green foliage on either side. “Secondly, we don’t condone abuse of your peers or excessive swearing at this school.”

“Oh, for fucks sake.”

“Now who’s gonna piss off the teacher, slug!” Dazai appears suddenly to the right side of Aizawa, the natural bright sunlight making his eye color emerge as a bright maroon. It wasn’t far for the teenager to move, yet the swiftness and silence of his actions surprised Aizawa more than he let on. “You don’t have to worry about us, Aizawa. We can be model citizens if we want.”

There was something about the way those particular words were spoken that made Aizawas gut churn ever so slightly. He grunts in response, not trusting his words, and takes a moment to look over at Dazai, who he realizes now that he’s standing so close, is nearly the same height as himself. Dazai wears a carefree expression as he hums lightly, his arms swaying in time with the slow steps they take, his coat billowing out behind him like a shadow.

Aizawa speculates that all these feelings, all these negative thoughts, may be because he was on edge because of his prior trepidation regarding their enrollment. That may have tainted his image of them, and that could explain why he has a sinking feeling that there is a lot more to these two than what they’re portraying. Luckily he is surrounded by some, if not the best pro heroes, whose danger senses are just as pointed as his are. Without wanting to condemn these boys before knowing their story, their background and just more about them, Aizawa forcefully shoves the feeling into the back of his mind.

There will be a chance to liaison with the other teachers over the next few days, once they have met Nakahara and Dazai. And if they are all feeling the same way he is, then he will organize a meeting with Nezu to voice his concerns. Because for now, they’re nothing more than speculations. 

Like he tries to teach his children, there needs to be more truth to necessitate further action. If he starts trying to fight ghosts, the only person that will lose will be himself. 

Chapter Text

Dazai likes Aizawa.

A general rule of thumb dictates that back home—back in Yokohama if the Demon Prodigy likes someone, that’s not exactly a good thing.

Bad things happen to those liked by Dazai.

Chuuya appears to be the only exception to the rule (although he has certainly run into more trouble since he started spending time with the slimy fish.)

He contemplates giving Aizawa a heads up, but ultimately, and quite quickly, decides otherwise. Let him find out the hard way.

At the moment, Dazai could call up his demons from hell and set the school alight, and Chuuya would be overjoyed. Unfortunately for him, he can’t see that happening as he stays a step behind Aizawa and Dazai, picking up on the words Dazai says in the form of humming.

It’s something Chuuya had cottoned onto during one of their missions when they were still new to their partnership. Chuuya had moved left when, according to Dazai, he was supposed to move right. The irritating low hum Dazai had been echoing off the walls of the run-down warehouse had been the signal to do so. Yet Chuuya hadn’t known that the idiot was sending messages through a mindless tune. If he did, it would have saved him the irritation of a concussion.

After he wasn’t in the danger zone from his injury, Dazai had taken it upon himself to spend two sleepless days attempting to teach Chuuya the most difficult form of communication. If it had been up to Dazai, he would have continued teaching for many more days after, in a type of sadistic glee that was so fitting for Dazais personality. Much to Dazais' dismay, Chuuya had by that point perfected his aim to that of deadly accuracy using the various objects sitting around his apartment, and Dazai had supported more than a few deep purple bruises for the next couple of days.

Over the next couple of years, Chuuya had, much for the benefit of his safety, picked up on what Dazai had tried fruitlessly to teach. And sure, there were some things he got wrong—not everyone was a prodigy like Dazai is, but most of the time, he got the gist of what was being relayed.

Truth be told, it was very efficient when it came to stealth missions. Far easier to communicate with no visual input and without alerting their target. Not that Chuuya would communicate that fact with Dazai. He already had a big enough head. If it inflated much more, it might burst.

Now, though, Dazai is just throwing words around, names that make little sense and sound like what Chuuya has heard Elise dub her soft toys. Yet they trigger a memory of the information Chuuya had read within his folder. Hero names, he can vaguely recall, if only from the amusement of how stupid and childish they sound.

Rather than enter through the main doors, Aizawa had taken them around the inner grounds surrounding the massive buildings. They didn’t venture into the trees, but Chuuya could tell by the darkness and the thickness of the trunks shown in the furthest reach of his vision that the forest would be easy to get lost in. Chuuya would be lying if he said he wasn’t surprised at how overwhelmingly massive the school is. Considering the school is nestled not far from the busy city center, and the view they had been granted when they had driven nearer didn’t show the enormous scope of the grounds.

In a tired, almost bored tone, Aizawa had briefly explained what the different areas were for, and his lack of enthusiasm made Chuuya wonder if he had drawn the short stick when it came to who was to be their tour guide. He sounded as if he didn’t want to be doing this, and Chuuya thoroughly shared the feeling.

“How many students are enrolled here?” Dazai had asked questions strategically. Sprinkled here and there, none too in-depth, yet rather an idle, faux, curiosity. The type of questions that require simple yes and no answers. The type of questions that Chuuya could see slowly lowering Aizawas guard.

Aizawa seems to think for a second. His steps paused. They are now standing in front of the main doors. “Around 600, spread over 11 classes and three years.” He reaches up and tucks a loose strand of hair behind his ear. “To get into the school, the students must pass a written and physical exam, and even then, the acceptance rate is very low.”

“Wow!” Chuuya doesn’t need to see Dazais expression to know it’s that stupid star-struck one he wears so damn well. “And to think the school just accepted us as easily as this! How lucky are we, Chuuya!”

Chuuya grunts in reply. He wishes they had put them through the exams the other students went through—the physical he would have passed easily, but the written would have been his demise. Not that he minded because he knows that Dazai would have been the opposite but the same outcome. And thus, neither of them would have been accepted, and they would both be back home. Chuuya sleeping, because fuck, he was so damn tired, and Dazai probably planning his next suicide.

Today would have just been like any other normal day in their lives.

The look he receives from Aizawa is intense, and Chuuya can’t stop the knee-jerk reaction to screw his face up. He’s never been the best at reading others. He has always been, and always will be the type of person that expresses his feelings openly and violently.

He will shout if he’s angry. Cry if he’s sad. He’s not afraid to tell someone to stop being a dick if they’re pissing him off. He’s been told he wears his heart on his sleeve, and he doesn’t mind. There is no beating around the bush when others actually use their fucking voice, and not just look at him in a way that makes him feel on edge and agitated.

Whatever Aizawa is directing towards him only lasts a second longer than necessary before he turns and opens the main doors.

The entranceway is isolated and quiet. Yet it doesn’t have that eerie feeling like the Mafia Headquarters does during odd hours.

The light shines brightly through the glass exterior, bathing everything in a soft, serene glow. It’s clean, pristine, and everything Chuuya would expect from such a prestigious school.

At some point, Dazai had slipped from his post beside Aizawa and was now poking Chuuya in the arm. “I wonder if you would have gotten accepted?” Chuuya knows Dazai is just trying to wind him up, but to have his fault spoken out loud in such a condescending way does nothing to calm his gradually erupting fury. He is going to level the asshole if he doesn’t watch out. The mission can go fuck itself.

“Speak for yourself,” he rebuts through clenched teeth.

“Hm, I would have been fine,” Dazai says in a tone laced with tooth-decaying sweetness.

“Bullshit.”

“What is the schooling system like back in Yokohama?” Aizawas gruff voice cuts through their bickering like a hot knife through butter. They’re standing in the middle of the room, Aizawa naturally relaxed as he waits with the patience only a teacher could have for an answer.

Chuuya meets Dazais eye. He hadn’t even thought to talk to Dazai about keeping their stories synchronized, a fact he regrets right at this very moment. Dazai grins like a cat that caught a bird, all teeth and cunning. The silence is lingering for far too long. Chuuya can see the confused look Aizawa is sending their way and in his mind, Chuuya is damning Dazai to the fiery depths of hell, and not for the first time in the past few hours.

“It’s shit,” he mutters, digging his hands further into his pockets and hoping that Dazai can feel the hatred he is throwing towards him.

“Oh?”

There is an expression on Aizawas face. One that reminds Chuuya of the times he had seen parents scold their children and then tap their feet impatiently, waiting for further explanation regarding their wrongdoing.

Fucking stupid teachers. Chuuya, while nowhere near the level of Dazais manipulation, hardens his features and narrows his eyes.

“Care to elaborate?” Aizawa asks in what Chuuya would call the most bored tone he’s ever heard. And that’s including Akutagawa, the morbid, sad, little child.

“Not really.” Beside him, Chuuya can feel tremors running down Dazais arm, and as much as he appears to be trying (which Chuuya specialties isn’t very hard), Dazai can’t seem to stop the chuckle that escapes. Chuuya turns his attention to the sadistic maniac. “And stop your fucking cackling before I concuss you.”

“Chuuya is so mean,” Dazai moans through a smile, like the bastard he is. He’s still a bastard even as he waves a hand nonchalantly and addresses Aizawa who is now watching their interaction with furrowed eyebrows. “What the slug forgot to mention is that we are both home schooled.”

“I see,” says the man of many words. It looks like he wants to ask another question, yet the shrill ring of a bell interrupts him and Chuuya is lucky that Aizawas’ attention had drifted to the stairwell, otherwise, he might have seen the sudden movement of surprise. It doesn’t go unnoticed by Dazai who looks at him in amusement.

It’s not his bloody fault that the only bells or alarms that sound in their day-to-day life only ever signal danger and disaster.

Aizawa sighs again, and Chuuya starts to wonder if there is a quota the strange teacher must meet before the day is up. “Let’s keep moving.”

“Aye, aye, Captain!” Dazai flourishes, his expression looking thoughtful for a split second before it’s masked with a casual, relaxed smile.

Yes, Aizawa decides that he deserves a pay rise. No doubt about it.

He ensures his steps are slow, and he waits until the stomping of students’ feet moving between classes, or grabbing books out of their lockers (as by the slamming of said lockers) has subsided before he ascends the stairs to begin the tour at the cafeteria.

He would briefly open a door, give the two boys a brief description of what the room is used for, and then carry on to the next destination.

Dazai asks a lot of questions. They’re simple and inconspicuous. A general curiosity that Aizawa would expect from a teenager when entering a new school. There are no questions asked concerning quirks or the heroes, which confuses Aizawa somewhat. He has to wonder exactly how much Yokohama knows, but he knows better than to bring it up now. Rather, deciding to wait until they’re more settled in before seeing what he can find out from the two of them.

Nakahara is quiet in the background, always staying a few steps behind and glancing into each room with obvious distaste. The only times the near-permanent scowl leaves his face is when Dazai throws some condescending remark his way, to which he replies quickly and full of wit.

Not unlike an intense tennis match, Aizawa muses. The back and forth, while dizzying, is flawless. And regardless of the way they act toward one another, Aizawa can tell they’re actually quite close.

“This is the nurses’ office.” He steps to the side, allowing the boys a glance inside. The stink of antiseptic is overwhelming and from the corner of his eye, Aizawa can see Nakahara scrunching up his nose. Dazai hums lightly and takes a step backward, an obvious sign of his disinterest and desire to continue their tour. “Do you need to see Recovery Girl, Dazai?”

“Girl!?” Nakahara nearly spits, and Aizawa didn’t notice him moving closer toward the open door until his eyes were flicking around the room, searching. “The nurse of a hero school is a girl, like, our age, girl?” He says with a mixture of humor and distaste, loud enough that it echoes off the walls.

“Well, not exactly,” Aizawa says, running a hand through his hair. Instead of addressing Nakahara, who is looking between Dazai and himself with a mixture of disbelief and amusement, he turns towards Dazai. “Do you need Recovery Girl to look over your injuries?”

“No thanks, Aizawa!” He says brightly, still with the same cheer he has shown since they arrived.

Aizawa carefully inspects what bandages he can see. While he’s not a doctor, and only has basic first-aid training, Aizawa has seen his fair share of wounds during his time as an underground hero. From scrapes and bruises to the extensive loss of limbs.

There is no swelling that he can see (Dazais slim, almost skinny limbs are slightly alarming in their own right), and there is no sign that blood has stained the still crisp and clean bandages in the time since they entered through the front gates. If it was anyone else, if it was one of his other students, Aizawa would force them to get a physical check, if only to ease his mind. However, he knows that he doesn’t yet have the rapport with the boys that he does with his other students. He can only speculate that if he does try to force Dazai into the room, it won’t work in his favor. Teenagers are notoriously stubborn, and he suspects that Dazai and Chuuya are no different.

“She probably wouldn’t be able to help the stupid mackerel,” Chuuya says in a fatigued tone. He had now given up on his visual search and was standing beside Dazai. On his blind side, Aizawa mentally notes. “You can’t fix idiot.”

“The dogs right,” Dazai adds, which earns him a neck-snapping heated glare.

Aizawa waits to see if they’re going to add anything else, and when they don’t, he lets out a loud sigh before shuffling his feet further down the corridor. He knows a losing battle when he sees one, and by what Nezu had relayed to him, he has enough time up his sleeve to pry more into Dazais bandages at a later date.

It isn’t long before they finish the initial tour and they’re standing before the closed oversized doors that block the entrance into his class.

Anxiety has always been his friend, enemy, and acquaintance. It’s a feeling, a disorder he has had for as long as he can remember. Held close to his chest, invading his mind during every waking moment, and sometimes trickling in even as he sleeps. The level, on an average day, is like a bruise; always there, but only hurts when acknowledged, pressed, or prodded. Sometimes, like right now, it’s more like a week-old festering wound.

Everything is screaming at him to turn around, to storm into Nezus’ office and declare that he wants no part in this, and sequentially, neither should his particular class of misfits.

It might be irrational thinking and extremely selfish, but after everything, his children have gone through during their first few terms under Aizawas guidance, the rational desire to want a bit more stability for his class is strong, considering all the changes they’ve had to endure. Strong enough for him to hesitate a moment longer than what is probably socially acceptable.

“You alright there, Aizawa?”

Aizawa spares a glance to the side. Dazai is still as relaxed as ever, grin unchanging. The way he is looking at Aizawa, it reminds him of a cat stalking its prey; focused, and intense, and unwavering, with a slight edge of what he wanted to call dominance.

As if in this situation, Dazai holds the winning hand. This can’t be true, it must be his mind playing tricks on him. He has to admit; that he is even more exhausted than usual today.

There is nothing to explain the look. From Aizawas understanding, the only motive between these series of events is the beginning of a relationship between the cities, a mutual understanding of sorts. One that while he can understand the benefits, it doesn’t mean he has to like it. He blinks, and suddenly whatever was darkening the edges of Dazais eyes is gone.

It isn’t until he hears Chuuyas groan that Aizawa realizes how long he has been stuck in a visual match with the teenager. “Are we going in or not?” He asks, his tone heavily coated in annoyance. “And Dazai, stop being a dick, leave Aizawa alone.”

Dazais grin (finally) drops, making way for a childish pout. “But, Chuuya—”

Aizawa ignores the rest of the sentence in favor of pushing the door open.

The first thing that Dazai sees is a woman. Tall and seductively dressed. His first thought was wondering if she would be interested in a double suicide, a question that would have to wait for later. Secondly, he notices the whiteboard behind her, scattered hastily with names and rough drawings, anatomy his mind supplies helpfully. He wants to get closer, the curious part of him wanting to see more, to understand what it is exactly they’re learning about. To see if the names he doesn’t recognize are linked to the ones he does, to see if he can connect the dots.

Chuuya has scolded him plenty of times in the past for being nosey. For involving himself in situations and discussions that have absolutely nothing to do with him, yet it’s like an itch. A desire to know. A want to know. He needs to be privy to what is going on around him.

Mori, even if his moral compass is completely fucked (not that Dazais isn’t close behind), has taught him that it’s better to know. Regardless of what it is. Being kept in the dark can cause serious injury or even death. And Mori, in his morbid way of teaching, has shown Dazai exactly how important knowledge can be.

His foot moves to get closer to the interior of the class, but Aizawa stops him by raising a hand—a universal sign that even children can understand.

Before he can ignore Aizawa and carry on with his entrance, Aizawa (literally) drags his feet into the silent classroom like a man four times his age. “Sorry to interrupt, Midnight” he murmurs to the woman.

“It’s not a problem,” she replies smoothly, “we were just finishing up.”

Aizawa looks up towards something Dazai can’t see from his vantage point hidden just behind the doorway. A clock, Dazai assumes, if the rhythmic ticking is anything to go by, and Aizawas back slouches even further forward.

He gestures to Midnight to continue, while he stands with his back to the wall, his eyes flickering over the class, back to Dazai and Chuuya, then back to the class again.

Without more context, Dazai doesn’t know what thoughts are coiling through Aizawas mind. But he knows from the little he has observed during their short time together and the posture he has taken, that they’re not exactly good ones.

“This is still bullshit,” Chuuya whines quietly, and Dazai steps away from the doorway to stand a few paces back. He’s not too sure exactly how good the teachers and students' hearing is, and he wouldn’t be surprised if one of the many quirks held by those present in the room enhances specific senses in some way.

“So you’ve been saying.”

He doesn’t completely understand Chuuyas' reluctance to their current mission. It’s not exactly Dazais forte, either. The intellectual side, sure—that’s his personal flavor. Yet the fact he’s catering his services in a city, not their own, isn’t.

Dazai knows better than to spend the whole time complaining and digging his heels in at every turn, not that it would be something he would do, anyway. He is making the most of the opportunity presented to them to learn and understand. To observe how this society functions, and more importantly, what makes them tick. Their strengths and, more importantly, their weaknesses. The more time they spend here, the more invested Dazai is becoming in this mission.

He didn’t initially know what to expect. Sure, he had a general idea. The internet certainly provided a lot of beneficial information, but being here and experiencing what little he has seen so far has certainly exceeded his expectations.

“Just look at this place,” Chuuya continues. He is slouched over, hands in his pockets. Still, the way his feet stand shoulder length apart is a tell tale sign that he is alert and ready for trouble at a moment’s notice. Whilst Dazai is almost certain that they won’t be attacked anytime soon, he appreciates the gesture. “I bet they spent millions getting the school to look like this, while kids are starving out on the streets.”

Dazai hums in agreement. Poverty is no stranger back in Yokohama. On their drive over, all he had seen were clean streets and freshly clothed strangers. That’s not to say that on the outskirts or within the more run-down portions of the city was the same, though. And Dazai makes a mental note and files it away for later review; wondering exactly how far the hero’s reach is. It could even be a case that what is shown in the media and online is only what they want the viewers to see, keeping the darker underbelly in the shadows where they are unable to garner any attention.

“You’re probably right,” Dazai replies, earning himself a shocked look.

Chuuya spluttered for a moment before saying slowly and carefully, “Wait, you’re agreeing with me?”

“Well,” Dazai continues while waving his hand around, “what you said does have some merit. Maybe we should go for a little walk later this evening. Have a look for ourselves.”

“And where would you two be off to this evening?”

“Oh, nowhere important,” Dazai says without looking up.

There is silence for a beat before the teacher, Midnight, flourishes in the corner of his vision and slowly Dazai gives her his divided attention while flashing a friendly smile. “You’re Midnight, right?”

Midnight nods her head, the movement subtle. “Yeah, and you’re the new kids from Yokohama.” She is more open with her expression than Aizawa. Not that winning that prize would take much work. Her frown is deep, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. She holds her back straight, making her appear taller than Dazai. A show of dominance and power.

Dazai ensures to not rise to his full height as he waves, “It’s nice to meet you! I’m Dazai and this is Chuuya.”

She almost seems taken aback by his actions, yet she manages to hide it quickly. Her frown is slowly disappearing and being replaced by a cautious smile. “Likewise,” she says. “I teach modern art history. I hope you’re enjoying the school so far.”

“So far, so good!” Dazai exclaims.

“Art?” Comes Chuuyas disgusted tone from a few feet away.

Midnight nods, her eyes automatically zoning in on Chuuya who had been silent until this point. “Do you like art?” Her tone is sugary sweet with just a small bite of bitter. It’s not hard for Dazai to know that she is trying to sound friendly and welcoming. He is doing the same thing.

Midnight is one of those heroes that loves the spotlight. Dazai is almost positive that thousands of articles, links, and fan pages describing her flaws and weaknesses would pop up if he searched her name. He can’t fathom how being so public would benefit anyone in the long run. While Dazai is known by many back in Yokohama. He is the Demon Prodigy, after all. Not all of his secrets are made public. Dazai is sure that even Chuuya and Mori don’t know everything about him, and that’s not for lack of trying on their part. If anything, when he encounters someone who knows of him, they only ever show fear—which isn’t exactly a bad thing in his line of work.

Chuuya mumbles a response rudely.

“Chuuya, we can’t understand grumble,” Dazai coos. And he has absolutely hit his daily quota of glares from his favorite slug.

“I said; some, you stupid mackerel!”

Midnight appears to be torn between scolding Chuuya, asking more questions to keep up the faux friendliness, and escaping down the corridor. Lucky for her, she is saved by Aizawas’ voice echoing out from the classroom, beckoning Chuuya and himself inside.

Dazai quickly bows, allowing her to escape. “I look forward to learning more about art with you, Miss Midnight.”

She acknowledges his words with a nod of her own before quickly walking down the corridor, her heels echoing sharply on the polished floor.

“Suck up,” Chuuya says as they stand before the threshold of the classroom entrance.

Dazai just throws him a grin. Yeah, he is. But if he needs to be nice to a few strangers to get the job done, then so be it.

Class 1-A is a brew of excitement, and anger, and trepidation regarding the new arrivals to their class. Slowly, the days have been ticking down, and the gentle reminder from Aizawa at the beginning of each day has solidified how important their arrival is. Even Nezu had stopped by and, in his constant cheerful tone, reminded the students that they were setting an example. They were showing Yokohama what Musutafu is like, what their hero school and the hero society are like.

No pressure or anything.

Aizawa calls out to them, and it’s fair to say that all eyes follow the two teenagers as they enter the room. It isn’t until they’re standing in the middle of the room that Aizawa speaks again. “Class, this is Dazai and Nakahara Chuuya from Yokohama. They will be joining us for the next few months, and I expect you to all make them feel welcome.”

“Hiya, class 1-A,” Dazai waves cheerfully without missing a beat. “It’s nice to meet you all! I hope we can all become friends.”

Nakahara scoffs quietly beside him and Izuku is sure he only hears it because he is studying them so closely. Izuku knows that first impressions aren’t everything. The last few terms have really honed in on that point. But that doesn’t stop the part of his mind that studies others. Studies their actions, their words, and their ticks. He can’t turn it off, no matter how hard he tries (and he has tried too, many times). Sometimes the only way to quiet the overlapping thoughts in his head is to write it down in a notebook. An action that he can’t bring himself to do at the moment, so he sits there, watching, studying with his hands wringing together subconsciously beneath his desk.

When Aizawa first told them about the change to their class numbers, Izuku had spent almost the entire evening online searching for any information he could on Yokohama. The general, webpage-based searches didn’t show much, and even when he ventured further into the web, looking for keywords and scouring any forum or blog that looked as if it might have something more, all Izuku ended up with were rumors and speculations. Nothing solid or concrete to add to the small amount of notes covering only a single page in his notebook.

Izuku has an inkling that Momo knows more than what she’s been letting on.

Her tight-lipped reluctance to add anything to their evening discussions was proof of that. She had muttered, a few days ago, that her family had once attempted to reach out to a company in Yokohama for trading purposes. From Izukus understanding, filling in the gaps, and coming up with fathomable theories, they were immediately shunned. Brick walled from all further communication without so much as an explanation.

“And this,” Dazai continues, gesturing with one hand lazily to the redhead at his side. “Is Chuuya. Don’t worry, he can speak. Sometimes he just grumbles, though, but I’m happy to translate at any time!”

“You fuckin—”

“Oh! And he was a sailor in his past life! He’s exceptionally fluent in cursing.”

Izuku doesn’t need to look to know that Kacchan is scowling.

Kacchan had been the loudest in his anger and resentment towards the newest members; his righteous fits of anger only backing being that it was unfair that they didn't have to go through the preliminary tests like most of the other students did. And, not that he said in as many words, but the point was still there, loud and clear; there was a mutual understanding between everyone in the class—after everything they had gone through, and now they were just dumping two strangers into the mix.

“Unfortunately,” says Aizawa, and Izuku doesn’t think he sounds as disappointed as his words portray. If anything, he looks even more exhausted than after one of the many villain attacks they had had the unfortunate luck to go through. “We don’t have time for more of a meet and greet. All Might will be here soon for your hero studies lesson.”

Right on cue, (almost as if All Might was standing outside the door waiting for his name to be mentioned) All Might bursts into the room as flamboyant and proud as ever, booming a loud ‘good day, kids!’ as the door slams shut behind him.

It was hard to miss the way Nakahara bristled and moved silently, yet swiftly, closer to Dazai, his whole body facing the door, hands flexing at his sides.

Into a defensive position, Izukus’ mind supplies kindly.

The side of Nakahara not on show to the class is touched by Dazais’ hand and Nakahara visibly relaxes as if they had communicated by touch only. Shoving his hands back into his pockets, he doesn’t take his eyes off All Might. Nakahara scoots backward, pressing himself against the taller of the two.

As to be expected, after a few seconds the muscular form disappears, leaving All Might looking skinny and frail. He continues to still boast a proud smile, and for that, Izuku will always look at All Might as the number one hero.

No matter how many times Izuku witnesses the transformation, it doesn’t make it any easier. He’s aware that All Might’s looks don’t reflect his true strength. With brains and experience, he can find his way to the ideal outcome in almost any situation. He might not have the physical power to develop the winning blow, but that’s why the entire school, class 1-A especially, is training so hard under his and the other staff members’ guidance. So they can be All Might's power, his fists, his kicks, his finishing blow.

“What the fuck!”

All eyes shoot towards Nakahara, who is the perfect representation of the word shocked.

Dazai chuckles, leaning his body slightly forward (Not that there’s much distance with how close Nakahara is to him), and rests his chin on Nakaharas’ shoulder, a lazy smile on his face.

“Oh, you ugly slug,” he says. “You really are living up to your name today.” As soon as Nakahara opens his mouth, Dazai continues flawlessly. Izuku can’t help thinking that maybe these two would fit in with their class more easily than he and his classmates initially anticipated. “This is All Might,” Dazai doesn’t bother looking at All Might, but rather keeps his relaxed gaze focused on a point that Izuku can’t see. “He is, well, was, the number one hero for many years. Until recently, that is.”

“Ah,” Nakahara replies, without any genuine interest in his tone. “So what the hell is up with the sudden injection of steroids?” He looks All Might up and down. “You guys have some fucked up drugs here or some shit?”

Dazai chuckles airily, and Izuku nearly misses the small but subtle way it has a hollow undercurrent to it.

Izuku spares a glance around him. Those he can see have their faces either screwed up in disbelief or lips tight in disgust. The atmosphere is tense. Prior, it had been calm, if not a bit thick with anticipation. Now, it was as if a void of complex, not-quite-positive emotions was hanging low over their heads.

Beforehand, All Might had been watching the interaction between the two newcomers with quiet, focused curiosity. It was such an intense look that Izuku wondered if this was the first time All Might was meeting them. Now, however, All Might’s reaction to the crude comment is visibly startled, showing his anger even as he tries to mask it with a forced smile.

“Of course not, young heroes,” he says. Nakaharas expression changes to that of downturn lips, while Dazais grin widens freakishly large. “We do not condone any drugs or body and mind-altering substances here. Or anywhere else within our city, for that matter. Now, the reasoning—”

“Yeah, yeah. The mackerel will fill me in later,” Nakahara interrupts rudely.

“Only if Chuuya is a good doggy.” Dazai quips neutrally.

Nakahara ignores Dazai in favor of glancing over to where Aizawa is standing, watching the scene with an annoyed look. “Where do you want us to sit? Ideally on opposite sides of the school, if possible.”

Clearing his throat, Aizawa shoots All Might a look before returning his attention back to Nakahara. “There is no point assigning seats at the moment. We are going to do some on-site training today.” He redirects his next sentence to the class. His voice, while not raised, still cuts through the atmosphere sharply. “Go get changed and we will meet at Ground Gamma.”

-

“They’re certainly interesting,” Ida is saying.

Izuku blinks back into existence. Their short walk to the locker room had been much like any other day, full of excitement and wonder about what today’s training exercise would entail. However, unlike any other day, after changing, they found themselves all standing in the small space between the locker rooms. Discussing not what was happening next, but the newest members of their class.

“I think they’re funny,” Mina pipes up. “Especially Nakahara!”

Kirishima, standing next to Kacchan, elbows him in the arm. “He kinda reminds me of you,” he says with humor, effortlessly sidestepping the swipe Kacchan makes for him. “Loud and aggressive.”

Izuku can see the initial resemblance Kirishima is referring to, but he doesn’t vocally agree like many others in his class do. Thankfully, Kacchan directs his short tethered wrath towards everyone who unfortunately did pass comment of agreement.

“What do you think of them?” Ochako asks him. Kacchan’s angry shouting and Kirishima’s pleas almost drown her question. If it wasn’t for their proximity, then Izuku might not have heard her.

He thinks for a moment, organizing his thoughts into a more linear response. Izuku has a lot of opinions, a lot of theories, and speculations. Until he knows more about them, he finds it ill to voice his honest assumptions based on only the short time he has been in the same room as the Yokohama teenagers.

Instead, he says carefully; “I agree with Ida, they’re interesting. I think they’ve known each other for a long time. They were standing really close…I don’t know what the culture is like back in Yokohama, but they seem very protective of one another.” Quickly he adds, “which makes sense, considering they’re in a new city and school. Anyone would be a bit nervous or anxious.” Izuku remembers his first day here, and how apprehensive he had been.

What he doesn’t comment on is the way he had seen Aizawa looking at them. Almost like he doesn’t trust them. Maybe it was just his mind working in overdrive, but Izuku had seen that look on the teachers’ faces during their interactions with the villains—on edge, observing, and just waiting for the other shoe to drop.

In a literal sense, Izuku could understand. After everything with All For One, the League of Villains, and then the sudden arrival of two more unknowns, grouped with Aizawas protectiveness over his class. Of course, the Underground Hero will be expecting something to happen.

“I don’t like them,” Mineta squeaks. “That Dazai one is scary.”

Jiro rolls her eyes. “You’re scared of your own shadow.”

“I wonder what their quirks are.” Until now, Shoto has been characteristically silent. Izuku looks over at him, but he has his eyes focused on the doors leading to the corridor. “With the way Aizawa was looking at them, I wonder if he even knows.”

“Of course he would know,” Momo scoffs, flipping her hair over her shoulder. “But we’re not going to find out unless we hurry up and get to the lesson.”

Aizawa looks up at the sky. Slowly, more and more clouds are appearing, and while the brief coverage from the sun is nice, the darkness of the clouds isn’t forecasted. Even the musky, telltale scent on the low drifting wind foretells the unmistakable arrival of rain in the very near future. How very fitting, Aizawa muses to himself.

Yagi, Dazai, Nakahara, and himself are standing at the beginning of Ground Gamma. The spiraling industrial site looms before them. Twists and turns stretch further than the eye can see, creating dark hollows and overly bright rises where the natural light of the sun reflects off the iron pipes and machinery, almost blinding in its brilliant shine.

The Yokohama boys are still wearing the same clothes they arrived in. When Aizawa had asked if they wanted to get changed into something more suitable, Nakahara had scoffed rudely, while Dazai politely refused.

“Hey, slug, want to place a bet?”

Nakahara rolls his shoulders, sparing a glance at Dazai before looking back at the training area. “With you? Hell no.”

Dazai slumps. Only for a second before he turns his attention to Yagi, who had been standing off to the side, furiously typing in his phone since they had arrived. While not uncommon for Yagi to be bombarded with urgent emails and messages throughout the day, considering he is the former Number One Hero. It does leave Aizawa in an uncomfortable position. “What about you?”

“What about me,” Yagi murmurs distractedly. He blinks comically and raises his gaze. “Sorry, were you talking to me?”

Humming, Dazai repeats his question. But, before Yagi has the chance to reply, Nakahara snorts loudly.

Aizawa doesn’t have the energy to hold back the deep sigh he could feel brewing in his lungs. Today has been a long day so far, and it’s not quite over yet.

“Bit of advice. Don’t play games with the stupid mackerel.”

There is no sinister undertone, yet why is there an odd feeling pricking the back of his neck. Yagi must feel it too because his eyebrows bunches and the corners of his lips turn down. “What do you mean?”

“Chuuya is just a sore loser,” Dazai answers instead.

“I am not!”

“Oh, yes, you are.”

“Stop talking shit, you bandaged freak!”

“Enough!” Aizawa massages his temples roughly, a futile attempt to elevate the pounding in his head. Where the hell was his class? It never takes them this long to get ready.

“Smooth move, asshole,” Chuuya grumbles, turning, so he is facing away from Dazai.

Aizawa looks over at Yagi and finds the other already looking at him. Concern and confusion were evident on his gaunt face.

“Where are the children, anyway?” Yagi asks after a minute's pause. Aizawa knows that’s far from what he wants to ask. With the two points of discussion standing right there, Aizawa is glad that Yagi has enough tact to wait for later.

As if on cue, his hoard of misfit children round the corner, their voices carrying across the distance, easily, and Aizawa catches glimpses of the many conversations taking place. Even without context, he knows what and who they’ve been discussing. He is sure the Yokohama boys know too, and a quick look shows that their expressions remain unchanged.

While Aizawa is still trying to find a more straightforward solution to the scribbles and twists Nezu has thrown them all into, he is glad that the boys have tough skin. He would feel partly responsible if they were to feel alienated, especially on their first day. It’s obvious that Nakahara isn’t happy with the situation, yet Dazai, ignoring the strange feeling that overcomes Aizawa at odd intervals, appears to be friendly enough, and taking the changes in his stride.

His students feet aren’t dragging, per se. But they’re certainly not in any hurry as they meander their way closer to where Aizawa and the others wait.

“Are you guys training in that?” Asui asks as soon as they stop, a finger pressed to her lip.

“Yep!” Dazai chirps, adding no further explanation. Which is more or less the same response Aizawa had received.

Aizawa clears his throat, quietly proud at the immediate hush that befalls the small crowd. “You have all wasted enough time. Let’s hurry before we run out of time. All Might is a busy man, after all.”

Ignoring the crestfallen expression on Yagis' face is easy.

“Much like your entrance exam, you will not be placed into teams. If you wish to group with others, that’s your choice. In the field, you will need to think on your feet and gauge if the situation requires just your own specialties or if you need to enlist the help of others around you. Choose wisely, as you will be scored depending on your decision. Like some of the other training exercises you’ve had, robots have been placed in various locations throughout the grounds. There are sixty in total, roughly three per person. Yet, unlike the other times you have fought these robots, Nezu has upgraded their intelligence, so be aware that they may attack and defend differently than all the other times.

“To assist All Might and myself in keeping track, each robot has a yellow tag attached to some part of its exterior or interior. You must collect these tags and after the forty-five-minute time limit, come back here and we will tally the results.”

Aizawa turns his attention to Dazai and Nakahara. “You two will be at an obvious disadvantage, not knowing the layout or having previously fought against the robots.” He levels his class with hard eyes. “I expect you to offer assistance to Dazai and Nakahara where and when you can. Think of it as if a hero came to the scene from a different city. You must be quick and smart in your wording, conveying what information you can while not taking too much time, as the minutes will not stop while you converse or work out a plan.”

He nods over to All Might, passing the methodical baton to the other man. All Might pulls out a small controller from his back pocket and presses a button. A loud rumble echoes from the rumbles, puffs of smoke billow up toward the sky and the ground beneath their feet shakes as the screech of metal can be heard.

“Good luck, kids,” All Might says with a smile. “Your time starts now.”

Chapter Text

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” There is concern written on Yagis’ face as they stand side by side, watching as the teenagers race into the arena. Except, that is, for Nakahara and Dazai, who casually stroll amongst the chaos. Not a word is conversed between them as they take their time walking deeper into the maze until they are hidden within the copious amount of looming structures and twisting beams. “I know the kids will be fine. But how much do you know about the other boys?” 

“Not much,” Aizawa replies honestly as he reaches to tie his hair up into a loose bun. But this isn't my idea; it is Nezus.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out two sets of earbuds, handing one over to Yagi. He explains, “Inui, Snipe, and Hizashi are in there, too. As a precaution.” 

As soon as his own set is placed firmly into his ear, Aizawa hears the others check in from their various locations throughout the grounds. He responds in turn, and after confirmation, the connection dulls to only the low, nearly inaudible buzz of static. 

“Did you find out what their quirks are?” Yagi asks.

Off into the distance, it doesn't take long for the first sound of battle to rattle the ground beneath their feet. Birds fly skyward from the surrounding trees, calling angrily in their haste.

“No,” Aizawa says with a grimace. “Can't say I've had a chance to ask.”

“Wait, so you just literally threw your children—” 

“My class.”

“—your children, into a battle simulation with two kids of unknown quirks, that came from one of the only cities that we don't have any solid information on, other than that the Mafia runs rampant?”

Aizawa has to admit when the situation is worded like that, it does sound pretty bad. “Yes. Nezu thought it best to do it this way. I don't agree, in fact, this whole situation doesn't sit right with me. But you know how Nezu works. And, he is our boss.”

Humming slowly, Yagi moves his attention back to the grounds. The look of concern only growing more predominant. “That's why the others are here too,” he says quietly, almost to himself, as if he's connecting the small amount of dots available to them.

“Correct.” He lets out a breath and does a quick, yet thorough check that all his gear is safely secured and within easy reach. Aizawa is confident that between himself and the other three teachers, any conflict or issues that arise will be quickly taken care of. Even so, that doesn't mean he can dull down the constant worry that is robbing his senses and invading his mind. “You stay here. I'm going to go scout for a bit. Keep the radio live in case there are any issues.”

Yagi gives him a flourishing thumbs up, the action a sharp contrast to the worry that is etched on his face. “You do what you need to do.”

He nods sharply before using his capture weapon to pull himself up onto the beams hanging from the first building. 

-

Aizawa almost feels bad for the carnage that greets him as he ventures further into the training grounds. His class isn't exactly known for its subtlety. The damaged structures, wayward pipes, and loose plates of metal and limbs from the villain bots are proof of that. 

So far, there are no issues, not that he expected any to arise so early on. Intermittently he would hear voices echoing through the static in his ear, relaying the current results, who was doing what, and who had grouped with who. More often than not, the near play-by-play came from Hizashi who is known to love a commentary gig, no matter how small his audience. When there is nothing to update on, the chatter ebbs into nothing more than idle conversation. 

The latter, Aizawa is glad for. If they're throwing casual remarks back and forth, it can only mean that there are no issues happening at that moment in time. 

With his capture scarf securely locked around a high-hanging beam, Aizawa pulls himself skyward, landing with the type of grace that can only be perfected from years of practice. From his high vantage point, he looks over the arena, his eyes catching glimpses of his students' outfits, glad that many of them opted to go with brightly visible colors that contrast greatly against the grey steel of the industrial grounds. He makes a relaxed note of which area they're in as he comes across the groups they had organized themselves into, ensuring not to focus too much on tracking their exact location as they race to not only cover more ground but add more tags to their collection.

Everything is going smoothly. As he moves from beam to beam, balancing carefully on the thin yet sturdy structures, Aizawa wonders if the time frame he had given the class was too much. 

A quick glance at the large haloed numbers counting down the remaining time on one of the nearby buildings confirms that it has just gone fifteen minutes since the exercise began. Though Aizawa has no official tally, he would have to, at a guess, estimate a little over forty robots were remaining.

“And that's another one!” Hizashis voice echoes through his headset. “Damn, these kids are fast.” 

“What do you expect with a teacher like Shota,” says Snipe, the metallic sound emitting from the mask he wears only further amplified through the technology wedged in Aizawas’ ear. 

Inuis’ response comes through as a gruff noise of agreement.

Aizawa doesn't know if Snipes’ comment is supposed to be an insult or a compliment. He makes a quiet sound of amusement regardless. Sure, he may be strict on his students, but given what's conspired so far and much more importantly; what the future holds for the newest generation of heroes, he knows that their lives would be abruptly cut short if they were tiptoed around and taught in a gentle, coddling manner.

Speaking of tip-toeing around. Aizawa reaches up, a finger lightly touching his earpiece prompting his microphone to turn on. “Has anyone seen Nakahara or Dazai?” 

His question is greeted with silence and Aizawa takes an educated guess that the other three are searching for the two boys much the same as he is at that moment. 

He still doesn't know much about the two newest members of his class. Actually, scratch that—he doesn't know anything about them. And that includes their fighting abilities and style. In foresight, he should have asked this question beforehand, or at the very least, checked if they were comfortable proceeding with the exercise unprepared.

The search for the boys is coming up fruitless. And from the silence still flowing through his earbud, it appeared the others weren't having much luck either.

A part of him had initially speculated that, at the very least Nakahara, would be as easy to find as Bakugo usually is. Bakugos brash, and loud, and booming voice mixed with his explosive attacks are hard to miss amongst a crowd. Like now, even as he is currently on the opposite side of the grounds from where he had initially spotted his student, he can still hear the boy's shouts and the telltale sound of his attacks.

Nakahara appeared to be similar in terms of personality. Aizawas' educated guess was that Nakahara would be equally as bullheaded when it came to battle. Charging in without much of a plan, focusing all his energy on offense and leaving defense and strategy to Dazai. When they had walked around the school grounds, Aizawa had gotten the impression that of the two of them, Dazai was the brains, with Nakahara being the brawn. He hadn't missed the subtle way Nakahara would glance at Dazai when prompted with a question, almost as if he was looking for guidance. 

The fact that he hadn't spied any sign of was making him worry.

Inwardly, Of course. He has no reason to alert the others—at this stage, anyway. 

“No.”

“Nope.”

“Negative. Not since they first entered the grounds.”

Aizawa, first making sure that his mic was switched off, let out a loud, and long and very exhausted sigh. Sure, he hadn't explicitly told the others to follow Nakahara and Dazai, just that he required their assistance to keep an eye out and watch for anything that seemed off. But maybe he should have told them his concerns in a more direct, more abrupt way. 

Regardless there is no point complaining about it now, especially when his lack of communication is mainly at fault. “Snipe, scout out the location of the boys and report back once you've found them.” 

Out of the three he had chosen, Snipe is his best bet when it comes to being subtle about his motives. Hizashi is loud, and if trouble happens to arise; his voice will easily carry to the other students to alert them that they need to report back to the entrance. And Inui is as fast as his nose is strong. Being able to follow or hunt them out at a moment's notice would be how Aizawa would utilize his quirk. 

“Are you sure that is wise, Shouta?” Snipe asks, known for being the voice of reason. 

Aizawa mulls over the question for a moment. He wants to trust the boys, but he can't yet. Not until he knows more. And it's not like he's asking Snipe to interfere, he just wants to know their location—their movements.

“Yes.” 

“Rodger that.” 

“We're going to lose at this rate.” 

While the rest of the wannabe heroes had raced into the grounds, guns blazing, quirks on full show–not unlike a car revving its engine before a big race—Chuuya and Dazai had taken their time. It didn't take Dazai long to find a hiding-slash-vantage point near what Chuuya could assume was the center of the arena. 

Nearby, projected onto one of the few flat surfaces hidden within the maze of sharp corners and bendy turns, with technology Chuuya doesn't have the thought process for, not that he cared about the logistics, anyway, bright red numbers counted down the time remaining.

Chuuya expected Dazai to give the go-ahead to start gaining some points in this shitty training exercise. However, over ten minutes had passed since they had taken refuge in the building and the prompt was still yet to come. As each digit slowly turns into the one before, Chuuya can feel his eyelids becoming more and more heavy, his bones aching with a deep set of exhaustion.

“Ah, I would have thought that Chuuya would be used to losing by now,” Dazai quips happily. He is currently sitting on the window ledge, his back just touching the glass, body facing the empty, plain-looking room. His visible eye focused intently on the scene unfolding out their third-story window.

His expression remains unchanged, that same stoic mix of nothingness that he shows more often than not. Chuuya likes to think he knows most of Dazais ticks—the subtle little movements that he's not even sure Dazai himself knows he does. Like the way his jaw would clench ever so slightly when he's displeased, or the way his breathing pauses for just a moment when he is taken by surprise. So when his eye hardens just the tiniest amount around the edges, Chuuya turns to see a group of kids running past; one with green hair, one wearing a ridiculous outfit of pink and black, and one with—

“Is that tape coming out of his arms!?” Chuuya does a double take, and yes—just before they move out of his immediate line of vision, the tape guy indeed pushes white tape—fabric—something, from his elbows and swings himself up and over one of the lowest beams.

Dazai hums. “That’s Sero Hanta,” he says with no inflection.

“And he is somehow supposed to become a hero, with an ability like that,” Chuuya scoffs, rolling his eyes as he pushes himself away from the window, knowing that if he didn't move soon, he was going to fall asleep standing—not that it would be the first time that's happened.

Thankfully, Dazai follows his lead and with the type of grace that Chuuya could only wish to have, hops down from his perch, stretches up to his full height, and walks past Chuuya who had been slowly dragging his feet towards the door. “From my understanding,” he begins, and Chuuya knows that what Dazai is about to say isn’t just simple speculation like he would want one to believe. Dazai is smart, probably one–if not the–smartest person Chuuya knows. And that includes Mori. “Once someone gets their hero license—” Chuuya shoots Dazai a confused look, and the stars must be aligning for him because Dazai elaborates with a simple flourish of his hand; “a hero license allows them to use their quirks in a public space.”

“Wait,” Chuuya interrupts. “You’re telling me that these kids, regardless of the situation, aren’t allowed to use their abilities outside of the school?”

“Quirks–not abilities. But yes. They get in trouble with the law if they do, even if they’re fighting an enemy.”

“That is so fucked up.”

Dazai just smiles. He doesn’t agree or disagree. Chuuya has learned during their years of partnership that unless it is regarding something deeply personal, or (and the thought always makes Chuuyas heart beat a little faster) something to do with Chuuya, Dazai doesn't have an opinion. Or if he does, which Chuuya leans more towards because the bastard is human after all, he keeps it strictly to himself.

Shaking his head slightly, which he plays off as an adjustment of the awkward length his hair seems to have stalled at, Chuuya focuses on the thoughts at hand. 

He can’t fathom how the rules around public usage of quirks make any logical sense. Would the law rather these kids, or even the general citizens of their city, just roll over and die instead of protecting themselves using the abilities—no,  quirks—they’re born with? What the fuck is wrong with this place. 

“Anyway,” Dazai continues, breaking through Chuuyas' fleeting chain of thought. They’re now walking down the narrow staircase towards the ground floor of the ridiculously obvious fake building. “When the students of the hero schools have graduated, most don’t tend to work solo. They join an agency and work alongside other heroes. So, a quirk like Seros’ would be helpful alongside someone with say, an offensive quirk. The offensive hero can subdue the enemy, and then Sero can capture them using his tape until the police or other government officials arrive.”

Okay, when it’s put like that, it does make sense. Chuuya has to admit the way hero agencies operate sounds similar to how the Port Mafia runs. Sure, sometimes the mission only warrants a solo employee for the best chance at success, but mostly they work in pairs or larger groups. Most of the time the groups consist of employees with varying degrees of intelligence and skill sets, each with their own strengths and weaknesses. 

Much like Dazai and himself. Their flaws are less noticeable when next to each other.

Chuuya is careful to hide his surprise that Dazai bothered to take the time to explain the process to him. Normally he would be outright ignored, or told to research the reasoning on his own—which he hardly ever did. Fleeting thoughts like this never plagued his mind for long, unless it was something that interested him and had some major part to play in their either current or upcoming mission. Considering said thought only ticks one of those boxes, Chuuya knows that he would have otherwise forgotten his musings rather quickly.

“Ah,” Chuuya says for the simple effect of saying something to acknowledge what had been explained to him. He knows better than to comment outright. As if Dazai needs more fuel to add to his stupidly massive arsenal of stupid remarks. 

He opens the heavy steel door and steps to the side allowing Dazai to exit first. Old habits are hard to break, and if this was a truly dangerous situation, Chuuya is always the first to survey the area, considering his ability is better suited if the target is either behind the door or hiding while anticipating their arrival. 

Here, though, this is nothing more than a silly little game created by foolish teachers for equally foolish kids. Of course, Chuuya doesn’t consider Dazai or himself as mere 'kids'—if life skills and experience are the criteria, they’re practically adults.

“I see chivalry isn't quite dead,” Dazai says with a mixture of mild surprise and gleeful amusement.

Rolling his eyes as loud as physically possible, and hoping that the stupid bastard hears the action, Chuuya follows Dazai through the door.

The smell hits him full force as he slams the door loudly behind him. It’s a thick, suffocating mix of rust, steel, and iron, all laced with the unmistakable bite of burning fire. Not more than a few dozen feet from where they stand, poking out from the side of one of the buildings is one of those odd green-colored bots, laying discarded with sparks snapping angrily from the loose wires spilling out from its interior. 

Above, the blue sky from earlier is quickly succumbing to the darkness of the gathering clouds. The air is heavy with the promise of rain, moisture gathering in invisible particles. 

Dazai doesn’t look fazed in the slightest as he points further—deeper into the maze. “We should go in that direction.”

“Why that way?” Normally, Chuuya wouldn’t question Dazai’s decisions, but today is different. So fucking different. In the back of his mind, the gnawing knowledge that time is slipping away—slowly, yet all too quickly—eats at him. At this rate, they’re going to lose, and Chuuya has never been a good loser. If Dazai would just stop messing around, Chuuya knows that, no matter how far behind they are now, it wouldn’t take long for him to push them into first place. ”Are we actually going to participate, or are we just going to walk around twiddling our fucking thumbs. This is shit, shitty Dazai. If we’re not going to play their stupid game, can we just leave so we can go back to the shit hole we’re staying in?” 

Maybe that came out a little more harsh than he anticipated, but Chuuya is so fucking tired. It’s taking all of his willpower to not find a half-decent spot to take a nap in.

“Nope,” Dazai answers simply. Chuuya doesn’t know what question he is answering, but he doesn’t have the patience to bother asking for further clarification. 

Dazai looks at him, his eye searching for something. 

There are many things Chuuya doesn't like, and one of those things is being under the vice of scrutiny. Especially when it's coming from someone like Dazai, whose stare is intense even if it's just a quick glance. Dazais eye softens, just the tiniest amount, yet he doesn’t say anything as he begins to idly stroll in the general direction he had pointed. 

Chuuya screws his face up, playing with the idea of commenting on Dazais' strange—well, stranger—action. Ultimately he decides otherwise and follows his partner, his hands shoved roughly in his pockets, body slouched forward. He feels his luck has run dry for the time being.

All around them, the echo of faux battle continues. The sound of metal on metal booms loudly from somewhere to their left followed by equally loud cheers and compliments towards someone called Froppy. 

From the corner of his eye, parallel to them but within the next block over, Chuuya spies a kid with duo-toned hair racing back the way they came, a cluster of yellow tags bulging out from his pocket. 

He has half a mind to follow him. Aizawa never said anything about not being allowed to steal tags from the students. Sure, it's a bit unethical and it probably wouldn’t put him in the good books with the other kids in the class, but that’s not his problem, it's Dazais. And as such, he is the one who can deal with the repercussions.

Chuuya knows that it's not completely Dazais' fault that they’re here. But Chuuya is smart enough to know that if he blames Mori then he’s sure, in some weird way, that his insubordination would somehow get back to the boss, and he likes his job. He has only been employed by the mafia for a little over two years, and in that time his life— in materialistic terms—has improved exponentially. He would also be lying to himself if he didn't admit that he has gained more than a few friends, and the benefits given to him from his various connections aren't so bad, either.

And, there's also Dazai. 

Carnage is littered over the ground, creating a carpet of rubble and destruction. More than once they had to alter their linear path to walk around a fallen bot. Dazai would stop each time for no more than a few extra moments, a thoughtful expression on his face as he either critically examined the fallen target with nothing more than his eye, or, much to Chuuyas' annoyance, prod and poke the metal exterior, and, one time only (due to Chuuyas yelling, and his hand still hurts from how hard he hit the stupid bastard before pulling him away forcefully) he had gleefully started inspecting the sparking wires.

It takes them only a few more minutes before they reach a sudden clearing. A crane sits off to the side, the wrecking ball attached to the end of its hook half submerged in the side of one of the nearby buildings. 

“That looks like fun,” Dazai says and Chuuya isn’t naive enough to think that Dazai is talking about operating the machinery. 

The stupid suicidal bastard. 

A short distance away, Chuuya can hear the sound of someone running, heavy feet hitting the ground becoming louder and louder until Chuuya spies a small group of kids racing toward them. 

Chuuya instantly recognizes the one at the front—a boy with messy blond hair and an angry scowl. Sparks flicker sporadically from his clenched fists, crackling loudly as he barrels toward them.

“Get out of my fucking way,” loud and annoying yells, his face glowing darkly with rage. 

Judging by the way the boy appears to be making a beeline for them, Chuuya prepares for an attack, adjusting his stance and baring his teeth as he smiles. Something in Chuuya is awakened with a happy delight. He is ready—Chuuya is past ready to pummel something—someone, and it’s just his luck that a willing target is coming straight for them. And, best of all, Chuuya can forcefully plead innocence in the matter. Self-defense is allowed, right?

When the kid is only a mere few feet away, he faces his palms down and releases what looks like an explosion. The force pushes him up and over them, and Chuuya turns his head, unable to keep the disappointment off his face as he watches the kid stumble before he regains his footing and then he is off racing again, his feet kicking up dust in their haste.

“Shit, guys! I’m so sorry about him!”

His focus had been so intently honed in on the front kid that Chuuya hadn't even noticed the two others running behind him. His surprise must have shown on his face because Dazai let out a low chuckle.

“It’s okay, Kirishima,” Dazai says, smiling a little too wide for Chuuyas liking. 

The one with the red hair, Kirishima, Chuuya deduces, stops a little too close for Chuuyas liking—panting hard with his hands on his knees as he struggles to remain upright. “Wait,” he says between heavy breaths, “how do you know my name?”

The other kid, who has equally weird blond hair like the exploding hands guy, tugs on Kirishima's arm. Chuuya notes that he not only looks exerted—he looks dizzy, too. “Come on, we can’t stay and chat! We’ve got to catch up with Bakugou!” 

“Crap, you’re right!” Kirishima stands upright, exhaustion plain on his face as he takes a deep breath before sidestepping around Chuuya and Dazai, waving a hand over his shoulder. “See you guys later!”

“Yeah, bye!” comes the awkward, unsure call from the other blond one. They waste no time in racing after their classmate, calling out his name and begging him to slow down. 

Dazai waves enthusiastically in the direction of their fleeing form. 

“They’re like fucking tornados,” Chuuya scoffs, looking up and over at Dazai who just hums happily in response. 

It has felt like forever since they last had the opportunity to participate in a training exercise that didn’t somehow involve a real life or death situation. Sure, they had spent time in the gyms and other arenas perfecting their moves, strengthening their quirks, and in Izuku’s circumstance, getting used to controlling the past users of One-For-Alls’ quirks. 

He still remembers the last time they were in ground gamma—it's hard not to, considering he had lost control of black whip and what damage he might have inflicted upon his friends still haunts him to this day. 

Despite that, Izuku feels a newfound sense of control. The powers, which once felt foreign and uncontrollable, are starting to feel like his own. He’s fully aware that they’ll always be borrowed—accessible only to the current wielder of One For All—but at this moment, that doesn’t matter. What matters is that he’s no longer uncertain; he knows what he’s doing, understands what to expect, and is steadily moving closer to his ultimate goal.

“Deku, maybe we should go back the way we came,” Ochako looks worried as she looks up at the remaining time. She's not known for being overly competitive, per se, but over the past few weeks, it is hard not to notice the changes in not only her personality but her drive, too.

It’s not just Ochako that’s changing—they all are. Every student of class 1-A, class 1-B—the whole school—is pushing themselves more and more, reaching further towards their goal—further towards the enviable end game. 

“I agree,” Sero adds. He looks off into the distance behind them, “I thought I heard something over there, we should go check it out. I think it might be another bot.”

With a nod, and no other formidable plan, Izuku leads the group in the direction Sero had directed.

So far, between the three of them, they have 14 tags tucked away on their persons. Divided equally between Ochako, Sero, and himself—a strategic option in case they get separated or their plans change.

With the grounds being as big as they are small, their travels had ensured they passed various other members of the class, and Izuku was proud to say that everyone they spotted had at least a few yellow tags securely tucked away.

Sure, it is a competition, and judging from what Aizawa and All Might had said at the beginning of the exercise, they will be scored at the end. Izuku speculates that those scores will play a part in their end-of-term grades. But that didn’t mean they couldn’t still look out for one another. 

Since he isn't sure how they are going to be graded on the other aspects Aizawa had mentioned, Izuku ensured that he first and foremost focused on defeating each and every bot they came across. 

That's not to say it was easy. Aizawa hadn’t been exaggerating when he said the bots had become more challenging. Their attacks are faster, stronger, and more coordinated, while their intelligence has grown exponentially.

“Hey! Deku!”

Izuku slows his movements. The scenery that had been passing quickly comes into focus as he looks back at Sero who had been keeping up using the tape protruding from his elbows as leverage to swing his body from beam to beam—a skill that he had surely been practicing due to the speed he was able to not only stick the tape to whatever leverage he was using, but release it as well. 

“Someone is standing over there. They might be hurt!”

Frowning, Izuku digs his heels into the ground, using his momentum to quickly change direction. He catches up to Ochako, running alongside her with Sero in the lead. 

A few short seconds later they arrive at a clearing—the same clearing that is currently occupied by the newest members to not only their class but also their city. 

Izuku would be lying to himself if he said their attendance hadn't been playing on his mind. Near the beginning, not long after they had collected their first tag, Izuku had asked Ochako and Sero their thoughts about seeking out and helping Nakahara and Dazai in the exercise. Aizawa wasn't lying when he told them that they were at a heavy disadvantage. Not that he had expected any different, they had both agreed enthusiastically to help however they could. 

It had appeared that finding them was more of a mission than previously anticipated. They had all kept their eyes sharp for signs of the two strangers—even going so far as to ask anyone else they came across if they had seen them. Up until now, they had been completely elusive.

Thankfully, at first glance, they both look uninjured but as Izuku skids to a stop a few feet away from them, he asks regardless. He's seen how easy it can be for some people to hide a major wound from view.

“Pfft,” Nakahara says at the same time as Dazai chirps; ‘A’okay!’ “How the fuck can we be injured if this shitty mackerel”—a thumb points in the direction of Dazai who is blinking owlishly as if he doesn’t know why Nakahara is so upset—“won’t let us do anything more than hide and walk around like a couple of complete idiots.”

That wasn’t the reaction Izuku had expected. Before he could even process a response, Ochako speaks up, her voice kind yet tinged with confusion. “Why don’t you just go out on your own then?”

Nakahara rolls his eyes in a way that reminds Izuku of Kacchan. It isn't a casual movement, as if he is merely annoyed. It is full of frustration and the longer Izuku looks, the more he notices. The way Nakaharas’ posture slumps forward, the tightness in his jaw and neck, the downturn to his mouth. “If I leave the idiot to his own devices, he’d probably just get killed.”

“What! Why?” asks Sero. He turns his attention to Dazai who is watching them with a friendly smile on his face. “Is your quirk not suitable for this type of training exercise?” He shows them his elbows. “My quirk is called Tape, it’s not very good when it comes to offense, but teaming up with Deku and Uravity means that we can work together and still get points.”

“In a way,” Dazai replies airly, tilting his head slightly to the side. 

The plan from earlier pops into Izuku's head like a bubble bursting. He looks over at Sero and Ochako, who are both looking at him in return. They tilt their heads down, an unmistakable affirmation of what he's about to ask. “Why don’t you two team up with us? We can help you get points, and we’re dividing them equally between all of us so it's fair.” He gestures to the few tags he has tucked into his belt. 

“Hell no.”

“No thanks!”

Well, that was unexpected. Not just the response, but also the lack of hesitation, speed, and synchronization of their reply. 

From what little Izuku had seen of the two strangers, which exactly counted for the brief introduction in the classroom and the past few minutes they’ve been standing here, and also judging by what he had gained from the way they spoke; he had initially assumed their personalities were complete opposites. Much like Kacchan and himself. 

The past few seconds made him double back on that line of thought. Not once has he and Kacchan been on the same wavelength as Nakahara and Dazai seem to be.

“Oh, okay,” says Izuku, momentarily deflating, but not completely ready to give up.

Aizawa had said to make them feel welcome and sure, Izuku knows that he isn’t exactly the most outgoing person—his nervous habits and muttering attracted more bullies than friends during middle school. Now was a different story, and even though he's had months to adjust to having so many friends surrounding him—true friends at that, he still can't call himself completely extroverted. 

But that didn't mean he was ready to just leave them to lose this training exercise. Not if there is a way he can help them get at least one point. He remembers how nervous he was the first time Aizawa had thrown them unprepared into a training exercise, and the only explanation he can think of for Dazais' refusal to participate is those same nerves.

And, it may be a little selfish, but a small—large—part of him wants to know more about their quirks. 

Physically, there is nothing that Izuku can see that might give him a hint at what they can do, but he knows better than anyone that looks can be deceiving. 

Izuku makes sure to face Dazai before he begins speaking. “Before Cellophane saw you, we were actually on our way to a bot. We can take you to it if you want, then you’ll at least be able to get a point. We can help you, too—tell you where its weak points are, and what they do before one of their big attacks. Like Aizawa said, you’ve never been on these grounds before or fought the robots, so you’re kinda at an unfair disadvantage.”

“We don’t need your help,” Nakahara nearly spits through clenched teeth, his tone a strange mixture of boredom and malicious venom. 

Izuku stammers to apologize, but is interrupted by Dazai.

“Actually!” Dazai holds a finger up in the air. “That almost sounds like a great idea,” his grin is so wide that it’s showing teeth and there is something odd about the way his visible eye appears to darken that's not caused by the murky grey sky above. “How about this; we follow you and then you can show us, rather than just tell us? It's a win-win. Your team gets another tag, and Chuuya and I gain knowledge. You can teach us!” The last part is spoken in a giddy sort of way. The same way a child gets excited when its parent presents it with an ice cream covered in sprinkles. 

“Sure thing!” says Ochako, without missing a beat. Her energy is flawless as she smiles brightly. “Come on then, before the clock runs out. Sero, you lead the way!”

“Right!”