Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Hands gripped his shoulders possessively, a silent reminder of who controlled the situation. The flashes of cameras blinded him, deep scarlet eyes blinked rapidly as they tried to adjust. A boy, young, who looked to be barely 14 despite being older, stood on the podium. His dark hair reflected in the light. Single strands of green shimmered faintly, almost invisible.

The room buzzed with energy, questions shouted left and right, a cacophonous blend of voice and sound.
The hand at his shoulder squeezed in what was meant to be reassurance, but he knew it as the warning it was.

“We will answer questions one by one, please be patient.” The man beside him, Aku, announced. Black eyes gleamed with satisfaction, voice commanding the room into silence. Unlike Mikumo, who wore a frayed, hand-me-down uniform, passed on from the first-year QDP members. Aku dressed in a well-tailored suit, which was smooth, and soft to the touch, with some expensive cufflinks on the sleeves. A stark contrast between the two, not that anyone seemed to care to ask about it.

As Aku’s words encouraged the reporters to calm down, an anticipatory silence descended on the room. He pushed his indigo hair back. “Please submit one question each, so everyone may get a chance to be heard.” The crowd hung on to his every word.
Scarlet eyes looked down, shifting his weight from side to side, discomfort radiating from his small frame. The hand on his shoulder tightened, pushing the air from his lungs.
His mouth pursed in displeasure, the grip on his shoulder only grew stronger, forcing compliance.
With a resigned sigh, he looked up to the cameras, shoulders relaxing as though he’d done this millions of times. Cameras flashed incessantly as he moved. They captured every detail of himself, from the lively smile, to the head tilt revealing a black collar snug suffocating around his throat.

The young boy smiled, “Hello, I’m Akatani Mikumo, I look forward to hearing all of your questions.” His voice was like the chiming of bells on a foggy morning, none of the earlier unease to be found.
The cameras zoomed in on him, his red eyes, his gentle smile, and his natural relaxed posture.

He bowed, “I am grateful for this opportunity.”
As he straightened, he noticed some reporters' wicked smiles, they reminded him of starved dogs looking at their first meal.

“We will be taking questions now,” Aku said, pointing to the first reporter in line.

The reporter’s smile is sharp, “How did someone quirkless manage to pass the exam?”

Aku's smile widened, turning over to Mikumo, “I’ll let our little Mikumo Answer that,”

Mikumo nodded to Aku foe gratefully, turning to the reporter, “I’ve known I wanted to be a hero since I was a kid,” He said voice filled with a practiced warmth, “Myself and a lot of my peers did,”

He glanced at the cameras, expression shifting to one of wistful remembrance. “Some grew out of it, but I still did everything I could. I trained for hours every day, just to get the smallest chance at reaching my dream.” His smile was radiant, stars sparkled in his eyes. “I couldn’t have done it without the QDP and my mentors,” He turned to Aku, despite his skin crawling when their eyes met.

“Do you feel bad for taking the spot of a potential hero who could have been better than you?” Another reporter asked, tone steely.

Mikumo’s facade didn’t falter, though his brow gave a minuscule twitch. “I feel bad for taking anyone’s spot,” he frowned sympathetically. But I am not about to throw away this opportunity.” His eyes grew determined. “I encourage those who applied, who didn’t get in, to try again.

I look forward to meeting you again when we are both heroes.” He finished with a dazzling smile.

“What do you think about Rule 809?” Another reporter asked.

For a second, Mikumo hesitated, eyes almost trailing to the man next to him. “I can see how it would be beneficial to have all people’s quirks registered on a database,” He said carefully gaging not the crowd's reaction, but Aku’s, “However, I can also see a lot of problems that could arise, quirk discrimination for one.”

“Did you cheat on the UA exam?” The next report asked, voice accusing.

Mikumo gained a wry expression. “To accuse me of cheating and getting away with it is like calling me the smartest human alive,” he replied mischievously, “I’ll take it as a compliment.” Then he shrugged nonchalantly. “But no, I didn’t cheat. It would be wrong first of all, but also I do not want to be a dishonest hero,” He looked around at the room of reporters, “I won’t dishonor myself,”

“Are you dating someone?” A reporter from a gossip magazine asked, their tone light and teasing

Mikumo almost laughs. “Nope,” He popped the ‘p’ playfully.

“How many of your housemates are still alive?” The next words cut through the air like a knife through butter.

His smile dropped instantly, eyes staring into foggy visions he could never truly parse out. 

He didn’t know, the truth was, the QDP moved him before he could ever get attached.

“They’re all alive,” he growled, voice low and threatening. “Were you hoping to get a good scoop on another to pour quirkless suicide?” Blood-red eyes burned the reporter in their seat, they shrank back not having expected the audible bloodlust emanating from the boy. A squeeze to his shoulder stopped him from saying more.

“Next question,” Aku interjected his voice unbothered.
The heavy silence hung thick in the air.

“What does a day in the QDP look like for you?” The reporter asked, trying to steer the conversation away from triggering topics.

Mikumo took in a deep breath, letting it out a second later. He smiled, making it look a little forced, “Well I wake up, have breakfast, go to class, have lunch, exercise, get dinner, and go to sleep,” he said, shrugging, “It's pretty normal,” He brushes his hair back and to the left.

“We’ve been told of the QDP’s exceptional education, can you elaborate on that?” A reporter pressed.

Mikumo turns to Aku, “I think Aku-sama can explain better than I can,”

The man nodded and began to explain the program's finer details. His voice was velvety smooth, entrancing the reporters to hang on his every syllable. His explanation was technical and intricate, he was pretty sure none of the reporters understood what they meant, since they were just a fancy way of saying ‘It's like an orphanage boarding school that teaches kids the quirked are superior while teaching them life skills like cooking and cleaning.

“Don’t you think it’s cruel, separating children from their parents, never to be seen again?” Another reporter challenged.

Aku’s expression remained calm. “Our results speak for themselves,” he replied smoothly. “We have seen a decrease in quirkless death since the program began, hundreds of new jobs have been created because our graduates went into business.”

“Why did you stop the yearly interviews?” Someone else asked.

“To protect the privacy of our graduates,” Aku explained. “We found an increase in attacks on them if interviews were published.”

“Then why is he here?” Another reporter pointed to Mikumo.
Aku-sama stayed silent, looking to Mikumo to answer.
So he did.

He smiled at the cameras, his voice steady “I want to be a hero, which means I will be in the public eye. This is good practice for me, and it allows the QDP to connect with the public like they haven't since its first years.”

“How do you feel about the accusations against the quirkless?” Another asked, tone laced with skepticism.

His eyes turned forlorn, “I’m sad people can’t move past discrimination,” he admitted, the warning hand on his shoulder suddenly all the heavier, “Next question,” He smiled.

“Katei from the Hero Times. Do you have a hero name?”

Mikumo smiled, this one was genuine. “Not yet,” his voice filled with determination.

Comments

HeroFan99
What Akatani did is insane! A quirkless kid in the hero program, that’s the first ever person with no powers to make it in! Rooting for you!

AllMightNo1Fan567
I’m sorry but I refuse to believe this kid passed the UA exam without cheating. It’s fishy. Anyone else think this is just a PR stunt?

BestJeanistJeans
@AllMightNo1Fan567 Exactly! This has been shady from the start. They’ll probably start pushing for more quirkless spots in heroics, then they’ll be everywhere. Quirkless people don’t belong in hero schools, period.

Anon231
@BestJeanistJeans That’s just you being quirkist. People without quirks should be given the same opportunity as those with quirks. Akatani clearly worked hard to get his spot and you’re just upset you didn’t work half as hard as he did and failed.

MyQuirkGoYee
I thought Akatani did pretty well, I’m surprised how despite this being his first interview he handled it like a celebrity or limelight hero. 
But that question about his housemates was just cruel, I hope the reporter gets fired.

Anon890
I’m quirkless, and seeing Akatani on stage achieving what no other has done before is inspiring. Maybe things will finally start getting better.

HeroSkeptic
“Do you feel bad for taking someone’s spot?” I would. If I was quirkless and took the spot of a hero hopeful who I know would be better than me, I’d give up my place, keeping it is selfish.

GossipLover
The dating question came out of nowhere! 💀I mean the public must know 👀 but I did not expect that 😭

FireQuickSupremacy
Dam that death glare he gave the reporter 🧍
What do they feed these kids??

HasCoolestQuirk
Anyone else notice Aku-san basically not answering?

APanda
I don’t have quirkless kids, but I could never send my child to the QDP, no matter how safe and beneficial it seems. Losing contact with my two boys would be like severing my limbs. It’s sad how many parents do this.

Anon293 
@APanda It’s difficult, I remember the moment I signed the documents. I regretted it. My little girl looked so happy to have the chance of becoming a hero, I can’t do anything to help her with my income, this is the only way I can support her. She’s being picked up tomorrow for her first day. I don’t know what I’ll do.

RabitEars
@Anon293 Can’t you cancel?

CatLover78
@RabitEars No, once the documents are signed it’s a criminal offence to go back on it. It’s essentially a sales contract with the way it’s worded. They get paid to give their kid to the project, essentially switching guardianship, but since Law 23.45 in 2980, quirkless people are considered property, so it’s more like selling your car to someone, once you get paid you can't get it back unless you buy it from them

TheAvaterButQuirks
@CatLover78 That’s so fucked up

UAAlum2999
I’m proud of Akatani for making it into UA! Also worried for him though, UA is very competitive, even people with quirks have to quit because of it sometimes. Heard a professor dropped an entire class on the first day a few years ago.

PowerHouse99
Why are we even considering a quirkless kid for UA? He’s going to be nothing but dead weight! Real heroes need real quirks, not just some kid who thinks he can play a hero.

Guardian7
The hate comments are heartbreaking to read, do some of you even have a soul?

NoPlace4Quirkless:
Hope he dies in the program, this whole acceptance toward the quirkless is getting ridiculous. Do people not remember we were the ones ostracized and killed by them? Stop quirkless advocacy!

VigilantesArentBad
Anyone else curious to see Akatani’s first villain fight? I wonder if he’ll just die on the spot, or surprise everyone with some mad skills. I’d die on the spot, I am not half as trained as this tiny war machine.

HearingQuirkRiiingg
I’m all for inclusion, but this is taking it too far. Akatani is going to be outmatched and outclassed in every way. The school should focus on keeping students safe, not on political correctness!

GlableAddict
I’m placing bets now, he wins the sports festival.

ArcheryHunting
My daughter worked so hard to get into UA, and now they’re letting in someone who’s quirkless? This is insane. They’re putting his life at risk and undermining the efforts of real heroes!

CockyDino
Anyone else like genuinely rooting for him? I hate to say it, but I’m tired of heroes with flashy quirks taking up my screen. Only a few percent of the population have them, it’s like an unattainable beauty standard.

Heroics4Life
Let’s be real here. Akatani is going to be the first casualty when things get tough. Why would we put someone without powers in the same league as real heroes? Quirkless kids have no place in a hero school, and the sooner everyone realizes that, the better.

EyesOfSage
Anyone else get a creep vibe from Aku-san? He just stood there the entire time with his hand on Akatani’s shoulder. Idk it looked creepy to me.

Mikumo sighed, the weight of exhaustion pulling him down. The barrage of questions was never ending, Mikumo half thought he’d be there til the next morning. He closed his eyes, rubbing the inside of his right eye, a not great attempt to push away his overwhelming fatigue.

Aku approached him, footsteps measured and deliberate. “You have another interview on ‘The Hero Morning’ broadcast tomorrow,” he stated.

Mikumo’s shoulders slumped without his permission. Muttering under his breath, “Why do I even have to do this?”

Aku glared at him, “Respect your superiors.” he snapped, the words slicing through the air like a whip.

Mikumo cast his gaze downward, “Yes, sir.” His voice subdued.

“Don’t ask stupid questions,” Aku continued, voice soaked in venom. He turned away sharply, heels clicking away. Mikumo trailed silently behind.
The tension in the air between them was practically visible, as they exited the building and made their way to the awaiting ride. A nondescript black van with tinted windows.
Mikumo looked back at the building they came from as it grew smaller with each step. A fleeting desire for something he could not have. Freedom

“Get in,” Aku ordered, voice cold as shackles and final as the end of a book. Red eyes clashed with black, for a moment, Mikumo could see the pits of hell reflected back at him. Aku looked down at him with disdain, a hand at his hip ready to take action if he did not comply. 
Without a word leaving his lips, Mikumo obeyed, stepping into the van’s unlight interior. It was oppressive, like an overbearing weight on his back, the inside was unlike a van used to transport passengers, but instead one for prisoners. Aku followed close behind as the doors closed with a dull thud.
The quirkless boy found his seat in the middle, the one with handcuffs and chains. He sat, the familiar clink of metals wrapping around his wrists and feet. Aku made quick work of strapping him down, before taking his own seat, just wearing a seatbelt. Mikumo settles into the hard nonexistent cushion, relaxing his shoulders with the familiarity of the weight around his arms and ankles.
As the van motor rumbled to life, he could feel its vibrations through the floors and walls. Shifting side to side as they turned. Mikumo stared at the floor blankly, mind drifting out of reality. Imagining increasingly more fantastical ways to escape the van. He never would. It was the only thing that would entertain him growing up. He would create elaborate plots where All Might came to save him, sometimes a faceless hero, even his mother and his best friend. As the years went on these fantasies slowly disappeared, leaving only one recurring theme, escaping alone.
Mikumo knew the truth he faced like he knew the beating skip of his heart when he lied.

He was quirkless.

That meant useless.

That meant powerless.

He was trapped.

He could never escape.

No one will save him.

Anyone who tries dies.

These were the unchanging facts of life for Akatani Mikumo.
Yet, he hung to the broken imagining of his younger self. How he’d pick the lock, break his collar, ram through the van doors, and never look back, run as far as his feet could take his, as much as his lungs could carry his breath until they burned out, where he could finally look behind him to see an empty street no one following behind. 
The van doors opened, flooding the interior with painful white light. Mikumo blinked, the brightness pulling him from his mindscape. Aku removed his restraints efficiently, key clicking with each lock opened.

“Out,” he commanded
Mikumo did not need to be told twice. He knew the drill, heading straight for the sterile examination room. A painfully familiar scene greeted him. A metallic table with straps in the center of the white room, along with a rolling chair for the doctor. The room itself was always freezing, making goosebumps form quickly as he took a step inside.
He took his seat on the table, body tense in discomfort at the lack of cushioning or warmth, his body absorbing the cold where his clothes and skin made contact with the metal.
Right on time another door cracked open. A tall man in a doctor's coat entered. He was older, sporting black graying hair. Mikumo could never read him. Nothing about this man ever stood out, no personal effects, nothing to hint at his quirk or life outside of the facility. All he knew was that the man had a daughter. The boy did not even know his name.

“Ah you’re back," the doctor spoke, taking a seat on the chair as it rolled toward him, clipboard in hand. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine,” He replied, voice flat.

“No blackouts then?” The doctor pressed.

“None,”

“Hm,” He scribbled in some notes, the sound of pen on paper grating in the silence.

“What’s your name?” He asked.
Mikumo was always unsettled by these questions, they were unusual.

“Akatani Mikumo,” He nevertheless responded.

“Date of birth?”

“March 15 3001,”

“Gender?”

“Male,”

“Place of Birth?”

“Musutafu,”

“Quirk?”

“I don’t have one,”
More notes, more silence. 
Mikumo’s muscles tightened, bracing for the inevitable.
The doctor stood, pulling a syringe from his coat pocket, the liquid inside shimmered a light gold all too familiar to his eyes.
Mikumo’s eyes followed the syringe like a hawk. His breath hitched slightly.

“I’ll administer your medicine now, You’re overdue.” the doctor said, voice clinical, almost bored with the proceedings. The words' meaning washed over Mikumo, delayed by the fog creeping into his mind.
He could remember the last time they took him off the medication, barely a few weeks ago. Mikumo could remember how his body betrayed him for insanity, how his skin felt as though someone was using a potato peeler to strip away one layer a day. It was his hellscape. Only having finally subsided on the day of the entrance exam. It forced him to take the test while his body sweat like a pig, and his limbs trembled. He could barely pick up the pencil.
Mikumo nodded mechanically, watching as the needle disappeared into his arm. The familiar cold liquid entering his bloodstream made his skin prickle and crawl.

“It should take effect in about 20 or so minutes,” the doctor continued, words dull and distant. “Let's proceed with what we can in the meantime.”
The doctor leaned under the table, pulling out a small stool, then setting a tape recorder on it. “Do you mind if I listen to some music?” The question was more a formality than a request.
Mikumo shook his head, his attention fading by the second. The doctor pressed play on the recorder, a grainy, distorted tune filled the air. More like noise than music, there were words, but they were inaudible, sounding instead like a broken disk with somewhat soft music lost in the background. It was a strange choice of music.

“My daughter's favorite movie is on right now,” He retrieved the remote from the table as well, “would you mind if I play it? I’ll keep it on mute.”

“It’s okay,” Mikumo mumbled, his voice thick as if words fought through syrup. His vision blurred more, the edges of the room smudging like wet paint. Concentrating was becoming an uphill battle as the seconds dragged on.
A projector flickered to life against the wall. His eyes were finding it hard to focus on the shaky, ghostly images. His eyes squinted, trying to parse the scenes out, it cleared for a few seconds at a time. Where he noticed something.
He’d never seen this before… Yet somehow he knew the words from somewhere he could not place.
A boy made of wood, a puppet who wanted to be real. Pinocchio. 
The doctor continued with the physical exam with detached precision, he would adjust Mikumo’s arms or legs like one would a mannequin. 
As the screen played the movie, his eyes were fixated. The little puppet boy skipped happily down the street, wooden limbs becoming distorted with more colors as time passed.

“It’s been 20 minutes,” the doctor noted, his tone detached.
His head was so heavy, he tried turning to the doctor, but he just could not keep it balanced, rolling side to side like a puppet on strings.
The words registered slowly as he blinked, not noticing time passed so quickly.

“Can you tell me your name?” He asked the boy.
Mikumo frowned, confusion clouding his thoughts like fog. Hadn’t he already answered that? “Akatani Mikumo,” his voice slurred together.

The man’s frown deepened. “Could you tell me what you see on screen?”
Mikumo shifted his eyes as ordered. 
A cat and fox danced with the puppet, their movements going from smooth to jerky as his eyes shook side to side.
Mikumo blinked.
There was a puppet show now, the colors blended into one and another, reds yellows. They swirled together like watercolor blobs.
He stared at the screen blank-eyed. The pictures were still moving, they were just different, like a filter was applied to them and the world around him.
Something was placed on his head, hands twitched instinctively trying to see what it was, but something held him down. 
Colors flickered in his vision in and out, red, yellow, red, yellow. Shapes that made his heart race like a jackrabbit, dystopian images of colors, faces flickering in and out of his vision, fragments of reality blended to form a collage of sound, pictures, and tastes. There was metal on his tongue, then there was bread, then it was something sweet, then-
…
The cold metal table felt distant as if it was someone else’s body lying there, another mind drifting through the fog. The music recorder morphed. Strange whispers woven into its melody, so faint he could feel grasp one and slip through his fingers. They pulled at something deep within him, something that was supposed to stay buried. 
The lights flickered, or maybe just his vision. Time lost its meaning as he lay on his cloud. Mikumo’s head lolled to the side, thoughts slowing to a crawl. There was something there, in the corner of the room. A shadow seemingly moving by itself. His eyes blinked sluggishly, the shadow gone, replaced by the faint colors against the white walls. 
The doctor's voice penetrated through the haze, asking something Mikumo couldn’t catch. He it mumbled a response, not even aware of what it was he it was saying anymore. The doctor did not seem to care, as he finished writing on his clipboard before taking his leave. The door clicked shut, leaving Mikumo alone in the room with the music, the whispers, and ever persistent cold.
The whispers, clear against his ears, chanted, over and over and over. A command, a directive he could not stop himself itself from completing, but the words weren't for him, for he could not understand, but it could. Breathing became shallow, his its chest tightening with anxiety. He it wants to scream, to fight against what was happening to him it, but his its body was not in his its control.
Minutes passed like hours as the ‘medicine’ twisted his its mind, the whispers continuing their relentless assault against it. Its his brain pounding against its his skull trying to break free from the voices. There was a sensation, unlike the snap of a bone popping back into place. The drug’s grip loosened its hold, the whispers ebbing away into the background. The pit in its his gut remained strong, a heavy weight pressing it him down, suffocating. 
The music stopped, the tape recorder clicking off. The whispers stopped suddenly. The silence was deafening. Unease seeped deep into its his bones. Its breathing was ragged now, pulse racing to the point it could hear it in its ear, pumping blood from its heart. It struggled to find footing in this not unfamiliar reality, but the lines were blurred beyond recognition. 
Once again the door opened with a creek as the scientist returned a clipboard still in hand. He looked at the specimen, analyzing its reactions. 
It looked at the man. 
Cameron, it recalled. 
Quirk: Mindstate, can look at someone’s mental state by making skin contact with the person. 
Job: Programs Scientist, Graduated with a degree in chemistry and psychology in an undisclosed university. Works with QDP and HPSC.

“Serial number?” He asked it, voice as cold as always.

“0009.1800333.3006,” It was still floating, doing its best to come down to earth.

“Address?”

“ABU 099,” It said, grasping at identity.
The scientist looked into its eyes. 
ABU 099 stared at the ground, as is custom. It is not worthy to look into the eyes of the quirked.

“Return to station.” He ordered.
The tool did so, leaving through the side door that would lead it to the main facility. Tempted, it looked at the screen. In the scene, the puppet boy is caged, the man who imprisoned him holds an ax. 099 leaves before the scene can continue, though it plays perfectly in its mind, sound and all.

“You will make good…” The man throws the ax, ripping open an old broken puppet. “Firewood!” The man laughs as the puppet boy panics. 

ABU 099 did not stop moving, legs carrying it through the hallways on autopilot. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, their hum almost drowning out the screams in its head. A fog clung to its mind, colors flickering in and out of existence like a faulty signal. Each step teetered on the edge of reality, thoughts unraveling like yarn and snapping back together like magnets, the cycle threatened to consume it. The station, it clung to the thought. That's where it had to go. Where it would receive orders.

It arrived at the locker room, its movements mechanical. Shedding the hand-me-down clothes, its frayed fabric was replaced with the rough, unforgiving tactical gear. The helmet came last, like a motorcycle helmet but with a void where its face would be, a black hole that hid any trace of humanity. The black clothes scraped its skin like sandpaper, each abrasion a reminder of its existence. It didn’t flinch. The discomfort anchoring it to reality.
It made its way to the station, where a guard stood waiting, the door lock clicked open with cold finality. ABU 099 stiffened but stepped inside. The container was a metal cube, its walls dark and suffocating, barely large enough to fit 099. The space was more like a display case. The lock behind it clicked closed, taking away its only source of light, not even a glimmer of it remained, only a dark oppressiveness that weighed on it. 099 shifted side to side, eyes straining to see anything in front, it knew nothing of what was outside. It stood at the ready, muscles tensed, shifting its weight on its toes. It was ready to fight, it had to be. The knives in its hands were the only comfort, a promise of violence when needed.

Suddenly, metal slammed nearby, the sound sharp and jarring in the stillness. Instinct took over, and it lunged forward, slamming against the front of the box. The impact sent a shock through its body, the cold metal biting into its skin. Its helmet absorbed some of the force, but the pain was real, grounding.
Voices murmured outside, indistinct but maddeningly close. ABU 099 rammed the wall where the sound came from, but the box didn’t budge. It was trapped.
Fragments of memory clawed at the edges of consciousness. When the stations were not a thing, when it did not have to sit still like a rabid dog, waiting on a target to attack. Faint whispers slithered through its mind, mingling with the hum of distant machinery and subtle vibrations underfoot. The box moved, from place to place jostling it from side to side. Reality blurred, the line between the now and the then fading into nothingness.

Chapter Text

There was a caterpillar on the floor.

Or well a homeless man in a bright yellow sleeping bag that looked like a caterpillar. Mikumo blinked. The man was completely wrapped in the sleeping bag, leaving only his face exposed, deep eye bags, a permanently furrowed brow, a scruffy beard, and tired ash-gray eyes staring back at him.

Mikumo frowned, furrowing his brows, ‘what the hell?’ he thought.

Scarlet eyes look away and into the classroom. A group of over-excited teens meets him, their voices too bright and loud. 

He sighed, making his way to a desk. There didn’t seem to be assigned seating. He took one of the seats by the window, an easy escape if needed. Settling in, he relaxed his shoulders and took out a notebook to pass the time. 

A shiver crawled down his spine. His skin tingled, hairs rising like static, as if something unseen had entered the room.

Mikumo looked around at each student, there was a blonde in front of him, his feet on the desk. Another blonde boy with a black lightning streak in his hair. A girl with pink skin. A boy with flat black hair and a mutation quirk on each arm, it looked like tape. They talked to each other like old friends even though they had just met. Minus spiky blonde, who ignored them. Mikumo turned his head to the back. 

His eyes met with red and white hair.

!

His breath hitched. Something felt wrong. 

The classroom buzzed with chatter, but beneath it, another sound, low, droning, impossible to pinpoint.

His neck cracked with how fast he turned back around. 

Ants. Crawling under his skin. 

His skin tingled. His throat tightened.

Flies buzz from his throat, it constricted trapping them inside his body, where they eat him from the inside out. 

There were colors, red and yellow. 

The sound sharpened, transforming into whispers, then voices.

Red and yellow.

“Not a real boy,”

Red and yellow. Red. 

 “Firewood!” 

Red and yellow. Red and.

There is music and whispers, unintelligible words injected into his mind. 

Red and yellow. Red and yellow.

The world warped. The air stank of metal and sewage. Mikumo gasped, nausea curling in his stomach. His body was there, but it felt... disconnected. His hands trembled, cold and foreign. He reached up, as if to ground himself, but it wasn’t him doing it. A specter tugged at his mind.

Red and yellow, red and yellow. 

Stop it.

Red and yellow red and yellow.

His tongue tasted like acid, metal clinging to him.

Redandyellowredandyellow.

The feeling of crusting dried  blood on his skin.

Redandyellowredandyellowredandyellowredandyellow.

He stood abruptly, the chair scraping back violently. Before anyone could look up, he was running. Down the hall, to the bathroom, his feet carrying him without thought.

Desperately he ran to the toilet. Hands making contact with the cold ceramic.

Vomit escaped from his mouth, there was no food. Hadn’t he eaten? He poked at his mind, only for it to fight back with greater ferocity. Launching another convolution of stomach acid up his esophagus. It scratched and burned on the way up. The smell didn’t help his case. Mikumo sat there silent, waiting to see if it was over, the flashes.

His head hurt, his eyes blurry. He spat, but it was nothing, just bile, bitter and sharp. The flashes came again. White hair stained red with... Blood. Dead eyes. Mikumo’s breath caught in his chest as a sharp pang of panic hit him. His throat closed, too tight, but it was nothing. Just memories, just... nothing.

He coughed again, but nothing came out.

Tears ran down his face. Not sure if it was because of the vomiting or the memories.

No more waves came after a moment, so he stood up, flushed the toilet. His hands shook as he washed his face in the sink. 

The cold water was a relief on his skin. Mikumo looked into the mirror.

Glassy red-rimmed eyes looked back, dulled by time and experiences he could not recollect. An unease grew from looking at them, tho he knew not why. He looked like a train wreck. His eyes and nose puffy, hair a rat's nest. Mikumo stared into his eyes. 

Mikumo blinked, confused. His heart was hammering in his chest, but he couldn’t remember why. The world felt like it was moving too fast, but his mind was still stuck in a place he couldn't name.

His eyes trailed to the toilet stall. Poking and prodding at his mind to remember why he was so upset. There was nothing there. The unease gnawed at him, but no answer came. His hands trembled as he traced the edge of the sink. It was all so... alien.

As he was walking back, Mikumo stared at the homeless man in a yellow sleeping bag next to his classroom door. He ended up just ignoring them and opening the door instead. There were more students, as he entered, he got stopped by the brunette from the entrance exam. Or well, Uraraka now, since they were finally acquainted. 

Exhaustion weighs heavy on his shoulders, pulling him down. He wishes he didn’t have to speak, a rock was caught in his esophagus, unable to work his vocal cords properly. Then again… 

Iida Tenya stood in front of a blonde with explosive hair, the blonde boy was reclined in his desk, feet resting on the table. The indigo-haired boy, Iida, stood slashing at the air as he scolded the boy. He wore a UA uniform that was customized to his size rather than sticking to the normal small, medium, large type measurements. As Mikumo approached, Iida caught sight of him, glasses reflecting deep wine red eyes and a deep furrow between his forehead. His hair neatly parted down the middle, not a strand out of place. 

Before Mikumo could speak to one of the targets, the boy beat him.

“My deepest apologies for criticizing you in the exam, clearly you knew about the rescue points,” His voice was like a drill sergeant, hands continuing to slice the air in half.

Scarlet eyes crinkle at the corners, his lips quirk upward, “It's alright, I just wanted to help.” Mikumo looked at Iida, ‘it was not okay.’

Iida nodded in acknowledgement. Going on to speak about how heroic he was for rescuing someone in need. Mikumo nodded and smiled at the right moments, all the while his mind drifted away. 

“If you’re just here to make friends then pack up your stuff and leave.” A gruff voice spoke from the floor.

It was the homeless man, standing up and unzipping his sleeping bag. “It took eight seconds before you were quiet. Time is limited,” He looks forward, to the class, “You kids are not rational enough,” Mikumo stares, he just realized, that’s a hero.

Despite how shabby they look, their uniform is made of reinforced fabrics and their gear is top notch.

“I'm your homeroom teacher, Aizawa Shouta, nice to meet you,” He says in an emotionless monotone.

Mikumo blinks. 

“It's kind of sudden, but put this on and go out onto the field.” He points to the UA gym uniforms, then leaves. No direction to the field, no mention of where the dressing room is, just leaves. 

Mikumo sighs, grabbing a uniform and resorting to find a map.

The changing rooms weren’t too difficult to find. Luckily, there was a map around the corner, he just followed it to the locker rooms. 

As Mikumo changed, other students began to trickle into the room, changing as well. 

“Wow, that's a lot of scars,” Someone behind him said.

Mikumo turned to see who they were addressing, everyone was looking at him.

There was a moment where Mikumo didn’t know what they were talking about, looking around to find who they were referring to. He looked at himself and noticed the map of raised skin on his body.

“Oh, don’t worry it’s normal.” He said, continuing to change. 

Everyone looked skeptical. “Dude, that is not normal,” The boy with red hair spoke, his mouth turned down into a frown.

“Quirkless bodies are much more fragile than others,” He spoke factually, “We scar with practically anything.” Thats what he’d learned at least and it made sense. 

“I thought that was a myth,” The voice came from the other side, as he turned he met eyes with a blonde boy, the black lightning bolt streak in his hair standing out. 

It made Mikumo’s mind fog strangely. The boy, something about him, the name. He poked at the fog, receiving nothing.

There was something wrong. He couldn’t grasp it, couldn’t put it together. Mikumo’s head buzzed like a broken radio, static filling the space. The unease was a heavy weight in his chest, but he couldn’t remember why.

“No, I don't know a single quirkless person without scars, par for the course,” He said calmly. 

The boy’s brows furrowed, “Oh, interesting.”

“Anyway,” Mikumo finished changing, “See you in the field,” He waved.

Leaving the room before anyone else could say anything. Mikumo’s feet carried him away from the locker room without thinking. His body moved on its own, away from the voices, away from the feeling that was gnawing at him. 

‘What’s wrong with him?’

Mikumo stepped onto the field, the morning air crisp against his skin. 

He was the first to arrive. In the center stood their homeroom teacher, eyes glued to his phone, posture loose but not lazy.

Then their eyes met.

Aizawa’s gaze was sharp, cutting through him like a blade, unraveling him like a threadbare book. Mikumo tensed—had his hands been shaking? He fought the urge to check.

Mikumo forced himself to calm. To pass the time, he found himself stretching on the floor as he waited for his classmates. Some entered alone or in small groups, while others had already befriended half the class.

It was announced to be a quirk assessment test. A few students wondered about the assembly, but honestly, Mikumo was just happy he wouldn’t have to sit in a chair for 2 hours and stare at someone give the most mind-numbing speech imaginable. 

Once everyone arrived, Aizawa straightened. “You took too long changing, we’ll have to work on that.”

The students straightened. 

“We will be doing a physical assessment, you will be able to use your quirks as you wish,” Murmurs began as Sensei spoke. 

“Bakugou,” The boy looked up at his name, the blonde who was getting harassed by Iida in the classroom.

“What was your ball toss score in middle school?” Aizawa asked, Bakugou took a second to think about it. 

“76 meters,” 

Aizawa nodded, “Toss the ball, this time with your quirk.” he pointed at a circle drawn on the ground, “Don't leave the circle.”

The grin that formed on Bakugou’s face was wicked. The boy strutted to the circle, like a prideful lion.

His arm coiled back.

“DIE” 

The explosion ripped through the air. The impact echoed in his ribs before his brain could catch up.

His body reacted before his mind did.

Fight.

He wasn’t in the field anymore. Not really. The world blurred, sound warping into static.

Red.

Blood. Gunfire. His hands seizing, muscles primed to strike.

Yellow.

His fingers burned. Nerves screaming, but no real pain.

Target.

Move. Attack. Survive.

Mikumo forced himself to breathe, to focus on something—anything—other than the phantom scent of smoke. 

His nails bit into his palm. 

He was here. 

He was fine.

He was fine.

“This will be fun!” A voice said from the crowd of students.

It felt like someone attempted to ram his head open with brute force. His brows furrowed in pain.

“Fun you say…” Their sensei glared at them. “You have three years to become a hero. Will you have an attitude like that the whole time?” He asked the class, a few looked ashamed. “All right.” He relented.

“Whoever comes in last place in all eight tests will be judged to have no potential...and will be punished with expulsion.” The silence was palpable, before an explosion of sound.

“That’s not fair!” The students protested.

Mikumo felt another slam, each time a student protested.

“Natural disasters, big accidents, and selfish villains. Calamities whose time or place can't be predicted. Japan is covered with unfairness. Heroes are the ones who reverse those situations.” Aizawa Sensei finished his speech. Looking at each student. “You have to put your all into this, I will take no other option.”

Some students looked determined now. Others were still upset.

His head was pounding. Smashed in with a hammer. 

Red and yellow…

Red and yellow..

Red and yellow.

‘They know nothing,’ his subconscious raged.

‘They’re kids,’ he responded.

‘Idiots,’ it corrected.

The pain disappeared in the next second. Like nothing happened. Face going blank, red? Eyes relaxing. The fog, it made it hard.

‘You need to pay attention,’ his mind said.

He silently agreed.

“Bakugou Katsuki, Akatani Mikumo,”

He looked at the blonde boy move to the start line. 

“Akatani,” He turned to see who the professor was talking to. 

Grey eyes looking at him.

He stared back…

He flushed, reality hitting him. Mikumo rushed to the start line, a blush on his face.

An exasperated sigh was heard from behind. For some reason, that sound made him feel as though he was no longer useful. It reminded him of Aku and long hours of pain. 

A robotic voice spoke, “On your mark,”

Mikumo tensed.

“Ready,”

“Go,”

Explosions went off next to him, but he reached the line. 4.50 seconds. 

That was worse than what he usually did.

Next was the Grip test. All students were handed a device to squeeze. 

Mikumo did so, 56kg. He was disappointed seeing what the others got, but knew that was the max he had been able to go.

While waiting to be called for the long jump, he decided to approach a target. Momo Yaoyorozu. He smiled at her, opening his mouth to introduce himself. 

“Hi!” He said cheerily, a glowing smile plastered on his face. “You’re quirk is really cool, what’s it called?” He asked.

The black haired girl smiled, “Oh, it's called Creation,” she said.

“Makes sense,” he nodded, extending a hand out to her, “Nice to meet you! I’m Akatani, I hope we can be friends!” 

She smiled a light of joy shining in her eyes, “Yeah, me too, it's nice to meet you, Mikumo. I’m Yaoyorozu,”

“Akatani,” called their professor.

He waved as he walked to the next task, Mikumo approached a sandbox. He had never used one before, so he assumed it was like a parkour jump. Taking some steps back, he ran, and jumped as far as possible. 

“8.01,” said the robot. 

While Mikumo waited for his turn on the side jumps. He decided to assess the boy, the one who made his skin crawl like nails on a chalkboard, Todoroki. 

Beneath layers of makeup and careful posture, Todoroki was hurt. Bruises, a limp disguised as stiffness. Mikumo had seen that kind of pain before—the kind you’re expected to pretend doesn’t exist.

Red met blue and brown.

Red and Yellow.

His stomach twisted. Something about Todoroki made his skin itch.

That quiet, waiting storm in his eyes… Mikumo had seen it before. In the mirror. In the program. In ghosts.

‘Don’t underestimate him.’ His mind reminded.

He did not approach the boy. Eyes looked back toward the side steps, waiting patiently for his turn. 

His eyes trailed back.

Todoroki turned to him, no overt gesture was made, but there seemed to be a question hanging in the air. 

He looked away. Mikumo stood there and adjusted his right shoulder, ‘Are you injured?’ the gesture asked.

Then it froze. 

Mikumo’s brow furrowed in confusion. That made no sense for him to do, what even was that?

From the corner of his eye he started again.

‘Will you hurt me?’ He wondered. 

‘Of course he will,’ said a part of him, fog coming closer.

As it did, Mikumo could only try to blink away the haze. Nothing, it seemed to only make it worse, practically a visible gray. So instead it looked away again. 

He turned around and said nothing, walking away from the conversation that never started. 

Mikumo watched as Uraraka launched her ball into infinity. Eyes not expressing any emotion, though internally impressed. 

“Akatani,” He It flinched. 

Aizawa looked at him, definitely annoyed now.

He took a deep breath, relaxing his posture, not that it needed to look more relaxed. Making his way to the circle, grabbing the ball. He had a choice to make.

The ball was fairly normal, nothing it could exploit at the moment, maybe with some tools. Mikumo felt their stares. Curious. Expectant. Some of them didn’t know.

Quirkless people had once set records—before quirks made those records obsolete. The best he could hope for was 75 meters. Maybe 80. Not enough.

He smiled, wide and easy. 

“You’re Uraraka, right?” He asked the brunette from this morning.

She blinked, startled. Then, her cheeks tinted pink in embarrassment. “Uh, yep! That’s me.”

“Would you mind helping me?” His smile dimmed just enough, uncertainty slipping in. “I know you already did your test, so I shouldn’t have-”

“No!” She clamped a hand over her mouth, mortified. Then, quieter: “I mean, of course! I don’t mind!”

He gasped, eyes shining. “Thank you so much!”

Uraraka turned redder.

He held the ball with all five fingers, “Don’t mention it, it’s the least I could do,” She smiled, “You did save me in the exam,”

He was handed the ball, “Don’t even mention it,” He smiled embarrassed. 

Mikumo threw the ball up.

Aizawa signed, “Infinity,”

He smiled at Uraraka, who smiled back.

“Thank you,” 

“Anytime,”

All the students were lined up, ready to begin. 

“Go,” Called out Aizawa Sensei.

Everyone began to jog. A few of them started using their quirks as soon as possible. Yaoyorozu, Todoroki, Iida, and Mina were among those.

Mikumo ran at a good pace. As students fell behind, as minutes went on while they jogged. Some took seats as the time continued. Mikumo could not help the sweat that ran down the back of his neck, expecting… something.

BANG

He jumped, almost falling over. 

Tears came to his eyes. Red crept from the corner of his vision, viscous, vibrant. As scarlet eyes turned to the bench, two images overlay the scene. 

He It reminded itself, yet, he still felt its gut drop to the floor when it saw another student get out.

Students chatting happily, bodies.

099 kept jogging. By this point half the class was out.

“You are 1 hour in,” Aizawa sensei shouted out.

Mikumo relaxed. He could run for a long time, so all that needed to be done was to outpace the others.

More students dropped, soon only a few students were left. Bakugou, Iida, Todoroki, and Yaoyorozu. Top 5, he thought to himself. 

Soon Bakugou had to drop from quirk exhaustion, he screamed in frustration, but took the loss fairly well based on his personality. 

They were 2 hours into the exercise. Mikumo could still keep going.

Todoroki was next.

Blood on the ground

Followed by Iida. 

Just Mikumo and Yaoyorozu, who was on a skateboard.

“A tie for first, let's move on.”

The rest of the test went as expected. Everyone did sit-ups, not a lot of people could use their quirks with the exercise. Mikumo ended up in 3rd place.
It was a surprise to see so many struggle with seated toe touches. This was Mikumo’s happy place, he just folded in half and relaxed. Students looked at him like they would a horror movie.
A small part of him was amused by it.
Push ups were last, and he did fairly well in them. Other than those who had a strength quirk, he was one of the students with the most pushups in 1 minute. 

As each exercise continued, he found the fog from earlier in the day grew closer by the second. Mikumo was blinking sluggishly, trying to stay awake. There was no reason to feel like this.

“Here are your scores,” Aizawa Sensei projected their scores on a screen. 

Momo Yaoyorozu 1st

Shoto Todoroki 2nd

Katsuki Bakugou 3rd

Tenya Iida 4th

Fumikage Tokoyami 5th

Mezo Shoji 6th

Mashirao Ojiro 7th

Eijiro Kirishima 8th

Mina Ashido 9th

Ochako Uraraka 10th

Koji Koda 11th

Rikido Sato 12th

Tsuyu Asui 13th

Yuga Aoyama 14th

Mikumo Akatani 15th

Hanta Sero 16th

Denki Kaminari 17th 

Kyoka Jiro 18th

Toru Hagakure 19th

Mineta Minoru 20th

Mikumo stared at the score.

15th place.

He had braced himself for the last. The numbers didn’t make sense. A strange warmth bloomed in his chest, hesitant but growing. A fragile smile tugged at his lips-

“Akatani Mikumo, you’re expelled,” Aizawa said flatly.

The world stopped.

Red eyes widened, breath catching in his throat.

“What…?” His voice was thin, brittle—like cracked porcelain, ready to break.

“But he wasn’t in last place,” Kaminari called out, confusion sharpening his tone.

Aizawa didn’t so much as blink. “You have no potential for heroics.”

A rush of whispers.

“He’s the quirkless student?”

“The one from the news?”

“I didn’t even recognize him.”

“He looks so different…”

Mikumo forced himself to stand still. To breathe. But something inside him was burning, crawling up his throat like bile.

'You are a hypocrite.' His mind growled.

It slammed into him, vicious and cold. His hands curled into fists. Head fogging, he could not see the man in front of him, only a grey blur.

Aizawa raised a brow, unimpressed.

Then the realization struck, like a bull in a china shop.

This was always going to happen.

His use had run out. This was an impossible mission, a suicide mission. To fail was to die, and he just failed.

The fragile dishware fell, shattering against the harsh reality.

“You are free to go.” Aizawa turned, walking away as if he hadn’t just signed Mikumo’s death sentence. As if this moment was nothing.

His grave had been dug, he will be buried alive.

Mikumo didn’t remember getting to the locker room. Didn’t remember changing.

Everything was static. A muted hum in his ears, like an abandoned radio channel.

The others avoided his gaze. Some sent pitying glances. One didn’t.

“That was so fucked up.” Kaminari’s voice was taut with anger.

“Kaminari! Please refrain from such language!” Iida scolded, chopping the air.

“No! Are you seriously going to pretend that was normal?” Kaminari turned, scanning the room. “All of you?”

Silence.

Iida adjusted his glasses. “Quirkless people are fragile. Understandably, Aizawa-sensei made this decision.”

Yellow eyes flashed. “Didn’t take you for a quirkist.”

“It’s not quirkist—it’s fact. Even Mikumo said so.” Iida turned to him. “Isn’t that right?”

Mikumo didn’t react.

Couldn’t react.

The fog was swallowing him whole.

He reached for his shirt, his hands trembling.

Mikumo ignored his surroundings. The fog was all he could see, all he could hear, all he was. There was no life outside of the fog, no body, no soul.

As he was about to put his shirt back on, something cold made contact with his shoulder.

The biting cold of metal.

Red.Yellow.

Redandyellowredandyellowredandyellowredandyellowredandyellowredandyellowredandyellow…

“You will make good,” The man laughs, “Firewood!” 

The screaming of the wooden doll faded.

And like that the fog took his body, Mikumo was no more.

...

...

...

...

...

...

The slam against the lockers.

The impact was sharp, a dull thud of bone against metal.

His hand, his hand was-

Choking?

Choking!

Air. 

Struggling. 

Iida’s hands clawing at his wrist.

Mikumo slammed back into his body.

He let go.

Iida dropped, gasping.

“What the hell!?” Sero was at his side in an instant, eyes sharp with disbelief.

Mikumo staggered back, chest heaving, not enough air. His fingers twitched, phantom sensations still clinging to his skin. The snapping of neck, the handle of a knife, the metal of a gun.

Ojiro stepped closer, tail flicking. “That was an overreaction.”

Mikumo’s stomach churned. His thoughts swarmed, hundreds of ways to kill- to end the room, flickering like headlights in the dark.

"Lay off him," Kaminari snapped. 

Mikumo didn’t wait.

He grabbed his jacket and ran.

Out of the locker room. Away from the whispers, the fog, the bugs under his skin.

Faster.

Faster!

But no matter how fast he ran, the thoughts followed.

‘Snap neck.’

‘Stop it.’

‘Stab throat.’

‘Shut up.’

He turned a corner too fast, slamming into someone. He hit the floor, dazed. But before he could look, before he could register who it was, he was running again.

His breathing was ragged. His pulse was too loud.

He shoved open the bathroom door, stumbled into a stall, and folded in on himself. Knees to his chest. Arms locked tight.

If he were clay, he would have molded himself into a ball.

The sharp corner of the wall digging into his bones.

The door creaked open.

Mikumo froze.

Footsteps. Slow, deliberate.

“Hey, Listener. You okay?”

An adult male voice. Light, easygoing, but not careless.

Mikumo didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. The fog bristled, coiling tighter around his mind.

“My name’s Present Mic. What’s yours?”

Silence.

‘Claw out his vocal cords.’

‘Slash his heels.’

‘Twist his neck.’

The thoughts gnawed at him, intrusive and automatic.

“That’s okay.” The voice was closer now. Unbothered. “Mind if I listen to some music in here? Need a little break, y’know?”

Mikumo tensed.

Mind if I put on some music?

Mind if I put on some music?

Mind if I put on some music?

Mind if I put on some music?

The whispers

The static

Then

Music.

Not the sharp, distorted notes he expected. No grating instruments. No warbled voices.

Soft piano. Gentle guitar. A slow, rhythmic beat.

A voice, low, smooth, singing in English.

Warmth, where he expected fire.

The tension in his shoulders loosened, just a little.

They sat like that.

One song. Then another. And another.

No one spoke.

No one moved.

“How’re you feelin’, Little Listener?” Present Mic asked eventually.

Mikumo hesitated.

“…Let’s try this.” The man’s tone remained light. “Knock once for yes, twice for no.”

A pause.

Then, one knock.

“Great job, Little Listener.” A smile in his voice. “Are you hurt anywhere? Would you like me to call the nurse?”

Mikumo searched his memory. The locker. The sprint through the halls. The thoughts that tore through him like claws.

Two knocks.

“Good to hear.” A beat. “Are you feeling better than before?”

One knock.

“I’m happy to hear that.” A short pause. “Would you like me to stay for a little? No pressure.”

Mikumo hesitated.

For some reason, the man’s voice reminded him of something distant. Something buried.

A warm bed. A quiet room. The hum of a radio playing late at night.

He knocked twice.

“That’s okay, Little Listener.” No disappointment in his tone. Just understanding. “Can I ask you one more question before I go?”

One knock.

“Would you like me to call someone for you? Maybe a friend or a guardian to take you home?”

The reaction was instant.

Two knocks, rapid and firm.

“...Alright.” Present Mic exhaled softly. “It was nice talking to you.”

The footsteps retreated. The door clicked shut.

But the music stayed.

Chapter Text

Red.

The floor.

The walls.

The door.

The light flickered, casting the room in crimson, rust, and black, layers of red, old, dried, and flaking.

Its shoulders burned. The ache had settled deep, a pressure locked into bone, so familiar it knew no life without it. It hung there. Days? Weeks? No clock. No sun. No moon. Only the slow creep of blood drying, flaking off. Endless dark. Shadows danced across the walls and at the corners of its eyes, taunting.

It blinked, sluggish. The dark was safe. The light hurt.

It shut its eyes. The void called.

As metal bit into bone, the chains clinked, the only sound in thick silence. They gnawed through flesh, grinding deeper day by day. 

It shifted, breath-catching, a silent gasp. Legs trembling, it stretched onto tiptoes, just enough to breathe, just a short break. Relief flickered, then vanished.

The air clung too thick to its skin, reeking of a sharp, sour sulfur and pungent sewer. Every breath scraped its throat raw. Stagnant. Dry. Searing. It filled the lungs like fire.

The suffocating heat of midday sun, of fire licking too close.

It swallowed. Lips cracked. It drank its own spit, desperate to keep any trace of moisture.

The phantom pain lingered, a whisper of old wounds.

The door opened.

“Rolling,”

A man sits, his charming smile making the crowd swoon. He wore a crisp suit, hair neatly combed back, eyes warmed with a practised glow. The kind of person you’d have coffee with, someone to tell your secrets to, trusting they’d never leave his lips.

“Welcome back to The Little Morning Show, everyone, I’m your host Hanashi Kiku!” he beams.

Applause erupts from an unseen crowd of onlookers. They clapped in sync, but the rhythm felt oddly artificial like they were following an unheard beat. Somewhere, a whistle cuts through, too sharp.

“Now, you know what this show’s about, heroes. Not just Pro Heroes, but people who inspire, who lead. And today’s guest? You’ve definitely heard his name lately.” His voice is smooth and practised. 

The crowd listened, hanging onto his every word.

Hanashi lowers his voice, almost unnoticed. “We’re talking about quirklessness, especially after UA’s controversial expulsion of their first-ever quirkless hero student.”

An attentive silence waves over the crowd, polite nods, and bland faces.

Then, his grin returns, easy and disarming. “And then, oops! They unexpelled him.” He laughs. “Fastest re-enrollment in UA history. Am I right, Akatani?”

The audience claps, chuckling on cue.

“Beat the record by 3 hours,” he calls. Mikumo walks from behind a curtain, smiling brightly and waving politely at the crowd. He wears a casual outfit, the fabric soft and comfortable, strange to his nerves. 

His collar showing prominently on his neck. A distinct lack of skin on display, even wearing gloves. Only his face and upper neck to be seen. 

From his neck, a white outline extended from the collar, an irritated red surrounding it, a large fern-like pattern extending from the side, almost reaching his face. 

He walks with the grace of a dancer, confidence exuding as he greets the camera, eyes bright and sparkling. He gratefully shakes the hand of his host before taking a seat.

They take a seat across from each other. 

“No offence, but you look… normal. I mean, quirkless? I half expected a sign or a… I dunno, a glowing wristband or something.” The host blurts.

Mikumo laughs, “Yeah, I understand what you mean. Typically, the assumption is we’ll have black, brown, red, or blonde hair. And only black, brown, green, or blue eyes. But we look the same as everyone else.” Mikumo responds.

“How do people identify you?” The host asks.

“I feel like this is common knowledge, but the only way is the extra pinky toe joint. The QDP doesn’t like people knowing that, says it’s too dangerous.”

“The QDP…” Hanashi hesitated, smile still present. “Not exactly known for their, ah, public work, are they?” 

A beat.

“Sorry, what I meant was, people were surprised they were sponsoring a candidate.” He explained. “They’ve had little to no public appearances, especially not with one of their charges. How does that make you feel?”

“Honoured, I’d say. I am representing all they believe in and hope to support.” Mikumo said.

“Of course, I completely understand that. Speaking of, how do you feel leading the international program?” 

Mikumo is silent for a moment, “I am nervous, but it's a big responsibility, more I’m excited to see the end result, and how many quirkless lives it will help in the long run.” 

“What does a typical day look like for you in this new role?” Hanashi asks.

“Honestly? A lot like this, interviews, and meetings with heroes and political leaders. As well as providing resources to other parts of the globe.”

“That sounds like a lot of stress. What do you usually do to relax after that?” 

“..I like to dance, maybe at the gym.” Mikumo looked off into the distance, a fog creeping closer. “Watching movies, things like that. School work too,”

“You relax while doing school work?” He sounded flabbergasted.

“Yeah, it's quite peaceful. I like the challenge that comes with figuring out a problem.”

“UA has one of the hardest programs in existence, and you think it's fun?” Hanashi deadpanned.

“...Yeah.” He looks away for a second, “I dunno, maybe I’m just weird, but something about solving equations helps me forget the rest of the world’s on fire.” He forced a laugh.

“I mean to each their own right?” He chuckles. “How do you like the hero program?”

“I mean, I haven’t really been in it for that long.”

“Good point, what exactly happened there?”

“Well, I got expelled for reasons I’m not allowed to disclose,” Mikumo shrugged, “I’m not all that sure myself, but I believe the principal re-assessed my expulsion and found an error in the reasoning.”

“People have been saying it was because of the protesters who gathered outside UA.”

Mikumo shook his head. “To my knowledge, that had no factor on the staff's decision.”

“How does that make you feel? People gathered outside to protest for your right to participate in the heroics program.”

“I feel grateful, and warmed, seeing how people fought for me, it gave me strength to be the best version of myself,” Mikumo smiled gently, “It made me want to go plus ultra.” He joked slightly.

The host chuckled. “It brought you to the spotlight, all eyes are on you, how does that make you feel?”

Mikumo takes a moment to think. “I’d say there is a lot of pressure, but there isn’t. I want to show the world what I can bring to the table as a quirkless person. What all of us can do. This is my path, and I thank every one of my supporters every day.”

“What would you tell them?”

Mikumo looks at the camera. An expression of sincerity, “Thank you. From the bottom of my heart. Thank you, for being here, for seeing me and deciding to follow on my journey, for giving me the time.”

“I’m sure they’ll hear it.”

Mikumo nods with a smile, “I think so too.”

“We haven't even gotten to the fun questions, gosh, look at us,” The mad grins jokingly.

Mikumo laughs, “Sorry, sorry, I'll give shorter answers, don't want to bore the audience.”

“Nah, they’re loving this. Isn’t that right?” Hanashi turns to the crowd. As cheering erupts.

Hanashi gestures, “See?”

Mikumo chuckles.

“Onto the good stuff. Tell us about yourself, I feel like we know very little about you despite the number of people you’ve been interviewed by.”

“I guess so.” Mikumo hums, holding a gloved hand to his chin. “I like heroics, I know that is a basic answer, but everything about it is captivating, deep down I'm still a huge fanboy, could never grow out of that.” He looks away, thinking. “I don’t really know what I do and don't like.” A distant look glazes over his eyes.

“You grew up in the Quirkless Dream Program. What can you tell us about that?”

Mikumo’s gaze drifts past the glowing stage lights, pupils shrinking as the flicker of red sends a phantom ache to the back of his skull.

Red.

A hand travels to his neck, breathing suddenly hard. A finger tries to curl under his chain. 

Yellow.

A high-pitched ring, coming closer by the second. 

A fast, sharp jolt of heat echoes from the collar, burning.

He blinks.

The host is laughing. The crowd chuckles along.

“-can’t imagine. Anyway, how about you?” Hanashi asked.

Mikumo’s face burns. “Could you repeat the question, I never had my morning coffee,” He scratched his neck bashfully, gentle fingers outlining the leather.

“Oh, don't worry, we’re almost done, all the crew members know I cannot function without my morning cup of joe,” He laughs. “As we were saying, the QDP opened many pathways for you, but why heroics? Out of all the choices?”

Mikumo was silent. Confusion hid behind a thoughtful smile. “I’ve wanted to be a hero since I was a child, like many other hopefuls. But I wanted to be someone who brings people hope when they see me. Not because I’m strong and can fight anything, I wanted to be the person people look to and go, ‘If he could. I can too' that might be slightly pessimistic, but it’s my truth.”

The audience and host look at him silently. 

Mikumo looks back with a light smile. “I also wanted to wear cool costumes to work.”

The audience laughs slightly.

Mikumo rubs his wrists. 

“It sounds more like you’re doing this for the people.”

“I guess you could say that.”

“Who inspires you?”

Mikumo is silent. “Call me basic, but-”

“All-Might.” They both say unanimously.

The audience cheers at the mention of All-Might. 

“What about him?” Hanashi asks.

“His smile. It’s a symbol of safety to the people he rescues and one of fear to villains. In general, he is very strong, not only physically.”

“Yes, and he always wins, so no matter how bad a fight is, when he shows up people relax, knowing they’ll be ok.”

“Exactly. He’s just-so cool.” Mikumo says with a large smile and stars in his eyes.

“You sound like a big fan. Do you keep up with stories about him?”

“Absolutely, I have my news notify me of any sightings of him.” Mikumo flushes after admitting that.

The audience laughs with the host.

“Is there a way for people to do that with you? Social media, anything like that?”

“Yes, I don’t have much other than places I have business in and a few hero posts.”

“What is your address?”

Eyes went blank. 

█████▓▓▓▓▓  O)0(.!*)OE##.)0)^  ▓▓▓▓▓█████

He smiles, “Akatani.MK+Ultra, I’ve only recently made it.”

“I’ll make sure to check you out, but I think that wraps up the show. Thank you, Akatani, for coming.”

“It was my pleasure,”

“I hope to see you again,” 

“You as well, this was a lovely experience.”

Hanashi turned to the camera, Mikumo following along, eyes staring into the glowing red light. 

“One to watch, folks,” Hanashi said, smiling into the camera. “It’s rare to see a future hero with so much... discipline.”

He glanced at Mikumo, eyes twinkling. “Let’s hope it sticks.” 

Mikumo smiled politely at the comment. 

“Alright folks, I hope we learn together, tune in next time, Bye!” Hanashi ended with.

Mikumo's smile falters, just for a second.

The lights flicker red.

The crowd cheered as the camera panned toward the audience, and the light went dark..

Cameras off.

“This one is your worst one yet,” Aku said coldly. 

Mikumo stayed silent, hands behind his back, standing at attention, looking at the floor. 

“You were too personal and went off script multiple times.” He began listing, “You spaced out, forgot a question, looked cold, were not charismatic enough, made the conversation stagnate, and worst of all.”

Aku looked down at Mikumo, lips scrunched up, face contorted into disgust. “You smudged your makeup.”

Mikumo said nothing. His limbs felt too light, attached to his body.

A hand gripped his cheeks, nails digging into the skin, leaving red crescents. 

“You’re not here to have thoughts. You’re here to look good and smile. You're our symbol. Keep the cracks off camera.”

Mikumo looked into the middle distance. 

Sound turning muffled.

Far away. 

His heart was strangely calm.

Words were coming out of his mouth.

Memory left after they escaped his lips.

It was an ocean where he lay.

The room didn’t exist.

He was floating.

The world going grey.

Aku’s voice was muffled.

A hand yanked his hair.

He blinked sluggishly.

Black.

He apologised, voice smooth. “I didn’t realise the-”

His hair was yanked back. A hiss almost escaped.

He stood still. Like a statue. Calm.

“Did I say you could speak?” Aku asked coldly.

If eyes could change colour, Mikumo’s would be as black as night.

The water rippled around him, pulling him closer to the surface.

He did not move a muscle. 

He stayed quiet.

He waited.

For the verdict.

The silence was alive like an oncoming train. Loud in its absolution. 

“Get in the van,” Aku spoke.

Mikumo did so.

The room was stifling. The bright fluorescent lights made his head hurt. Perfectly symmetrical white tile floors, one square after the other, except for in one corner, where a tile was cracked with a zig-zagging line across it. 

“You say there can be no negotiation until our charge is present, and yet you refuse to be competent adults and follow your word.” Aku clipped.

A squeaking voice responded, “We are unable to accommodate your request. There’s no way a student can be privately assessed by a corporation outside of supported staff. Even if they are from the HSBC.” The stoat explained once again. 

“Ridiculous, the Hero Public Safety Commission is more suited to this assessment, you can have an observer, but we will conduct all examinations personally,” Aku stated.

“We can’t do that, already we are taking a chance-”

“One, you only allowed because of public backlash.” 

“... We will not allow a student to be assessed by outside sources, they are too easily swayed, not to mention biased.”

Mikumo looked at the floor, standing next to Aku, who sat comfortably in a plush chair. 

Professor Aizawa stood against the wall next to the principal. His hair was tied back in a ponytail. Unlike the hero outfit, he was seen during class. Now he wore a long-sleeved black sweater, jeans, and combat boots. It was a strange contrast.

Grey eyes met Scarlet. 

Mikumo snapped his eyes back to the floor and the crack in the corner. 

“At least allow the physical assessment to be conducted by us. Information about quirkless people is quite sensitive and if leaked, can cause great harm.”

“I assure you our security is top of the line, there is no risk of things getting out.”

Aku sat silently, a stern expression.

“I’ll allow it if you sign a non-disclosure agreement and allow us to keep all paperwork associated with the check-up.” He said finally. 

“We can do that.” Nezu nodded.

“When would the combat assessment take place?”

“We were thinking tomorrow during Heroics, we’ve modified the original lesson of the day to include the assessment.” Nezu interlocked his paws. His ears twitched as a shine came to his eyes.

Aku inhaled a frustrated breath. “Ok, and the interview?”

“Oh, I was thinking right after this meeting.”

“...I see.”

“Unless your charge needs time to prepare?” He almost mocked.

Mikumo stood silently, awed at the principal's forwardness with Aku. Unseen stars glowed behind his eyes, followed by a hollowness in his gut.

“Not at all,” Aku gritted. Emotionless mask cracking.

The principal clapped his hands, “Wonderful! Well, is there anything else that needs to be disguised?” 

The silence thickened. 

“Perfect! Akatani, could you stay in the room? It was wonderful speaking with you, Mr. Aku.”

“Likewise,” Aku stood, his hand landing on Mikumos's shoulder. 

He didn’t react, not when it squeezed in warning, or when it left his shoulder with a flare of pain.

The door closed.

…

“I do not believe we’ve spoken before,” A paw extends out to him, “My name is Nezu as you may already know, I am the principal of UA High School.”

Mikumo took the paw firmly, shaking it. 

Scarlet eyes met black, he could see his reflection in them.

He settled into his bones like a second skin, a smile coming to his face, eyes lighting up. “It is good to meet you,”

“Please take a seat,” Nezu gestures.

Mikumo sits on the other seat, the one Aku did not touch. 

“Now, I’m sure you’ve been in a lot of interviews, seeing how you’re quite often in the public eye.” He commented, pulling out a tea set and chessboard as he spoke. “Would you like some tea?”

“Im alright, thank you,”

Nezu pours his cup. “Have you played chess before?” He asked.

“Not regularly, but I know the rules.”

“Would you indulge me in a game?”

“Of course.” 

Nezu placed pieces down, white on Mikumo's side, Black on Nezu's.

“Your move,” Nezu gestured. 

Mikumo looks down. His eyes glazed over.

In all honesty, he knew nothing about chess. Only how the pieces moved, but somehow. His fingers held the pieces like he’d been here before. 

‘a4’ his conscience supplied. Mikumo unquestioningly followed.

Like this, the game flowed. Only his internal voice to guide him, not a thought behind it.

‘Bishop c4’ He silently hummed in acknowledgement.

‘Knight d2’ He moved.

Only stared blankly at the moves of his opponent. 

“So Akatani, what do you plan to do if you graduate?” The principal asked.

He smiled faintly, eyes not quite meeting Nezu’s. “Help people. That’s what heroes do, right?”

“That’s what you always say is it not? But tell me, how do you plan to save the hearts of the ones who wish not to be saved?”

“I won't. I can’t save everyone, I would destroy myself.”

“And do you not care for these lives,”

“I do.” 

Mikumo picked up the queen. The weight of the piece sat heavy in his palm. He placed it two spaces forward, directly into the line of fire. 

Nezu raised an eyebrow. His eyes calculating, trying to find the strategy behind the moves. Mikumo wished he knew too.

The black bishop takes the white queen.

Black eyes stared back, Mikumo only smiled plainly.

The game continued. 

‘Pawn h3’

“How do you like your guardian?”

“He’s nice, as a guardian is expected to be.”

“Hmm…” Nezu hummed.

Pawn taken.

“How are you handling the balance of school work and QDP errands?”

“They’re fine.”

‘Knight d2’ His fingers moved before he understood why.

“You got one of the highest scores on the exam. How do you feel about that?”

He shrugged, “Proud, I guess.”

“Did you do anything special after? Treat yourself for the achievement?”

He shuffled quietly through paperwork. The USB copied all the information from the CEO’s laptop. Footsteps approaching- 

“No, nothing special.”

“A shame, you should reward yourself for such a feat,” Nezu commented.

The silence hangs only the sound of chess pieces moving from square to square. “Quite strange though…” He takes a sip of tea.

Knight taken.

Mikumo looked up, wondering where this question would lead. “You didn’t know some of the basic information about quirk theory.” The principal finished.

A silent fire started from his chest. Mikumo moved his next piece at the voice prompting. ‘Bishop f6’

“Only the quirkless section… Same with history. Anything that had knowledge on the quirkless,  you seemed to fail.” Nezu commented as though he were looking at some nice cutlery for his kitchen. “Why is that?”

Mikumo stayed silent. A flush appeared on his cheeks. 

“Your move,” Nezu gestured. Taking another sip of tea.

Mikumo looked down. The board blurred for a moment, pieces becoming shapes, shapes becoming nothing. His fingers reached forward on their own.

‘e4,’ the voice said.

“The QDP has much more advanced information on the topic, seeing as they take care of quirkless people for a living.”

“Does a dog breeder know more than the vet?” Nezu asked casually as he took the white Bishop. 

“Excuse me,” Mikumo asked, the fire growing cold, if fire could take the form of ice.

“Is a dog owner more knowledgeable than the vet?” He asked differently than before.

Mikumo stayed silent. The room was warm, but a chill traced Mikumo’s spine. Nezu’s voice was gentle, too gentle. Like silk draped over a blade. He realised who it was he sat across from. The smartest being known to mankind. And he was being read like a book.

Nezu holds his tea in his paw for a moment, taking a sip from it before speaking. “Does the dogfighter know the wants of a dog? Or does it just know how much to push before it breaks? Maybe it doesn’t care if the dog breaks. It will only go to the breeder and get another, or take one from the owner.”

Nezu lifts his cup. The soft clink on porcelain echoes.

Mikumo blinks.

The room is red.

Mikumo’s heart raced. 

There was barking, there was yelling.

There was blood on his knuckles and the floor.

A boy is standing over him, running, a feral look in his eyes. 

He gets pushed to the ground, nails scratching, teeth gnashing, like a wild dog.

Saliva dripping from his mouth, desperately he kicks, and lashes out, reaching for anything.

Gut-wrenching animalistic sounds escaping both of them, the pain was not.

Only the fight, his teeth nash at anything available, a finger.

Warm liquid squirts from the stub left behind.

He bit and lashed at the other.

Only one would live.

Survive now.

One hour.

One minute.

One second.

One moment.

“Halt!” The command stopped both of them in their tracks. 

Mikumo holding, jaw locked onto the other’s hand. 

Hand extended, holding back their neck.

There was an ear on the ground.

Heavy panting is the only sound.

“How wasteful,” It said.

“Finish it.”

There was blood in his mouth.

Poisonous green eyes looking down at the two…

Dilated pupils stared at the glossy yellow eyes of the other.

The pieces blurred, then snapped back into focus, just in time to move the knight.

The smell of blood wasn’t in the room, but it clung to the back of his throat anyway.

He placed another piece down. Memory is strangely distant from him. Almost dream-like.

A red light. A pawn burning.

All the pieces gone… except the king. Trapped. Cornered.

“Checkmate,” Simultaneously, Nezu and the voice whispered in his mind.

Mikumo looked at the stout. Eyes far away. “I think it doesn’t matter who knows more. The dog is a dog, and it has no choice in whether it wants to go to the vet, the owner, the breeder, or the fighter.”

Nezu looked at the boy. Red eyes, messy black hair. His neat white fur fluffed. “People don’t beat their dogs for disobedience, not because it’s wrong, but because one day, the dog might bite back,” Nezu says, his tone calculating. “So they pin them against other dogs, so they learn to bite them instead.”

Mikumo said nothing. All too aware of how his body shook, legs trembling, ready to bolt out of the chair. Yet there was no panic in his mind, it was calm, “The dog will never learn any better. At that point, it’s better to put it down, and end its life after its use runs out.”

Nezu placed his cup down with a soft clink. “If a dog obeys its owner to the letter, yet kills the wrong man… what becomes of the dog?”

Mikumo's pulse jumped. He didn't answer. Just stared at the board, where his rook lay toppled.

Nezu didn’t press. He simply watched, waiting, like a man who already knew the answer.

Nezu is silent. “There are those who take in dogs like that. Teach them that life is not pain.”

“What a foolish waste of time.” He said coldly.

Nezu is silent, looking down at the dog.

“Thank you for speaking with me.”

Mikumo nodded, nothing more.

“I hope to see you again during your examination.”

“Likewise.”

Chapter Text

Mikumo stared at the ceiling. 

The concrete surrounded him like wet gauze's cold embrace, clinging like rot. Every ridge and crack imprinted onto his spine.

He used to count them.
He stopped once he memorized each one. 

Hands folded on his chest.
Legs rigid.

Still.
Unmoving.

A living..?
A corpse?

The silence pressed down, broken only by the rasp of breath through dry lungs. Like the scrape of a stone.

He counted each breath like a prayer.

A ritual. A tally.
Proof.
He was alive.
Right?

Dust coated his throat.
It tasted of forgotten corners and decay.

9,982. Inhale.

9,983. Exhale.

Or so he thought.
Maybe he’d lost count again.

Eyes fixed forward. Blank.

His bones ached, but he didn't shift. 

To move was to think.
To think was to die.

Four walls.
No lights.
No sound.
Only him.

Only him and the cold, seeping through cloth, through skin, muscle, into bone.
Heavy. Saturated.
Like a corpse floating in a storm, a drowned sea.

His nose burned. Fingers numb.

Each inhale stabbed his nostrils like needles up.
Each exhale slow, the only warmth left to him.

Somewhere in the fog of thought, a voice whispered.
‘How long will we be here?’

The silence pressed gently back against his forehead.
‘Soon,’ it answered.

So he waited.
9,985.
9,986.

…

The lock turned.
The sound split the dark like a bomb. 

Light flooded the room, harsh, searing.

He blinked rapidly, vision crawling back in broken fragments. 

A silhouette stood at the door, seemingly appearing from thin air. 

Glossy black heels clicked against grey concrete.
She loomed over him.
Black tailored suit, sharp enough to draw blood. 

Silver hair twisted into a knife-point bun.
She'd kill the strand that dares fall out of place.

Creed Royal Service drifted into the cell before she did, money, metal, and claws.
The scent hit like a violent slap of perfectly manicured acrylic nails. 

“Get up.”

Limbs moving before his mind even caught up. 

Not obedience.
Programming. 

A reflex.
As tho a gun pointed at his head. 

Pain lanced through him.
Muscles stabbed by disuse.
Not a twitch on his face.

She watched.
Expression stoic unreadable.

“You’re to clean up and get ready for UA.”
A pause.
“Unless you want to go out looking like a corpse.”

Her lip curled mid-sentence, like even saying it cost her something.

He didn’t move. 

Neither did she.

Silence thickened. Viscous like blood.

She didn’t repeat herself. 

She did not need to.

Scarlet eyes forward. Blank. Waiting.

Click.

The static at the door cut like a throat.
The constant buzz, gone.

His body moved.
No thought. No hesitation.

Like a police dog on a loose leash.

Mikumo’s scuffed red high tops squeaked against the tile, too loud, too bright, like a warning flare on clean marble.
He froze.
The hallway stretched forward like a tunnel, endless and lifeless.
Though it was quiet, the noise inside his skull was deafening.
A phantom crowd roared behind his eyes.

He tried to breathe.
Calm.
His heart trembled like a fly caught between panes of glass.

The classroom door stood in front, too large, too close.
Handle unassuming like a trigger.

‘Just do it’, his mind urged.

His hand rose with mechanical care.
It trembled, barely steady.

‘For fuck’s sake’ the voice snapped, harsher now.

Mikumo yanked the door open, like a bandaid.

The noise hit him like a slap.
Chairs scraping.
Laughter.
Voices.

Overlapping like crashing waves. 

Too loud.
Too unfamiliar.
He slipped in, quietly. 

A light breeze among the tornadoes.
He hoped they wouldn’t notice.

“Akatani?”

Like a whip crack, the name silenced the room.

“He’s back?”

“Wait seriously?”

Chairs shifted. Heads turned.
They stood. Waving. Smiling.
Like it was just any other day.

“Akatani! You’re back!” 

Kaminari’s voice barreled toward him, nearly kicking over a desk.

Mikumo smiled.

click…

A twitch beneath the left eye.
Barely noticeable.
The room felt colder.

Kaminari’s smile faltered. Brows pinching ever so slightly.

“Is that Akatani?” Asked Uraraka, poking around the door frame.

“In the flesh,” affirmed Kaminari. 

“It’s great to have you back,” Yaoyorozu added gently.

They gathered around him. Warm voices, warm faces.
His skin crawled.

“Thank you all,” Mikumo said. The smile he gave them shone too bright, like headlights on a mannequin.

“I saw your interview!” Ashido beamed. “You were so cool!” 

Uraraka nodded emphatically, “You’re amazing with the press,” 

“Thanks,” He responded. Voice steady, polite.

“You were so manly!” Kirishima grinned, shark teeth flashing. 

“I didn’t know the QDP trained you that hard.”

Something behind his eyes convulsed.
A shiver down his spine, a sensation unlike a needle dragged down his back.

“What?”
His voice was colder.
Flat. Detached.

            Click.

            Red.

            Metal.

            Yellow.

            Screaming.

▓▓▓▓▓  O)0(.!*)OE##.)0)^  ▓▓▓▓▓

Kirishima blinked. Smile dimming a shade.
“You know… in the interview?”

Fragments scrambled.
A disjointed puzzle, of sounds, sensations, feelings.
The question. The answer. What did he say?

He laughed.
Too quick.
Too sharp.

“Damn my memory is awful, I don't even remember half of it,”

Kirishima laughed too, “Bro same! I forget what I had for dinner last night.”

Mikumo mirrored it.
A burst of sound too clean, too practiced.
His eyes shone a little too much. 

“Tell me about it,” He said. 

“I was so nervous, I barely remember what I said.”

“You were saying you wake up at 4 AM every morning to train with your handler,” Kirishima grinned. “Then train until 9, and even sneak out to train again later. You’re on another level.” 

Relief swelled in his chest, the air after drowning.

He laughed again, softer. “I completely forgot about that.” 

“God. Mr. Aku’s going to kill me when he sees that.” He looked away bashful. 

“Is that your guardian?” Urauaka asked.

“Oh, yeah he’s cool,” 

A pause.

“Everyone! Please move to your seats the first bell is about to ring!” Iida’s voice boomed across the classroom.

As the class moved to their desks, low chatter continued.

“You missed yesterday’s lesson,” Kaminari said walking beside him. “We got to wear our hero costumes and everything! You’ll never guess who our heroics teacher is.”

“All Might,” Mikumo said, smirking.

“What?! How did you-” Kaminari blinked.

“The press was screaming about it at the gate stupid,” Jirou jibed, rolling her eyes.

“Oh… right,” Kaminari mumbled, flushing as he looked away.

Mikumo slid into his seat behind the explosive blonde.
His posture was perfect.
Too perfect.

Scarlet eyes skimmed the room. 

Teenagers.
Loud, but relaxed.
Normal.

It felt… fake.
Like watching a zoo exhibit.

They moved with unearned ease.
Like nothing could touch them.
He couldn’t remember ever being like that.

Then-
-someone two rows ahead rubs their left eye.

He froze.

            White light. Sterile. Silent.
            Ten chairs. Then figures. 

            All collared. 
            All expressionless. 

            All copies of each other: 

            White gowns. 
            White hair. 
            Buzz cut. 
            Black eyes.
            B lack collar.

            The oldest, raised a hand to rub their left eye. 
            ‘How are you physically?’

            The girl at the end, no older than ten. She had an identity. A mission. 

            She brushed her bright blue hair behind her left ear. 
            ‘I am injured’

            Her yellow eyes flicked up.

            Looking at the rest of the table.

            Empty.

“Akatani?”

Mikumo blinks. 

Kaminari sat next to him, brow furrowed.

Mikumo’s hand moved first, brushing through his hair.
‘I’m alright.’
He didn’t speak.

Kaminari’s frown deepens.

Under the desk, Mukumo’s fingers curled into a fist.
‘I need a moment.’
A smile on his face.
He hadn’t spoken that either.

His thoughts locked up. 

Something writhed under his skin.
The hum of the lights was too loud.
Chatter stabbed at his skull. 

The room was wrong.

Too full.
Too warm.
Too alive.

He smiled at Kaminari again.
Giving a thumbs up with stiff fingers.

The door slid open.
The room went silent.

Professor Aizawa’s gaze swept across the class.

It passed right over him.
Not a pause.
Not a blink.

“Change of plans,” he said. “Put on your hero costumes and meet me at Ground Beta.”

He leaves the classroom with a crowd of confused students looking to each other for an explanation.

The class gathered at Ground Beta.
Concrete towers loomed like silent sentinels, the artificial cityscape baze in a warm morning light.
Windows glinting like malevolent eyes.
Somewhere, a gust stirred loose paper against the pavement, a ghost town.

At the front stood Aizawa, hands in his pockets, flanked by the rest of the UA faculty.
Their faces unreadable.
All except for Principal Nezu, whose eyes filled with anticipation.

A faint tension buzzed in the air. Like the static before a storm.

Mikumo stood apart from the others, near the back.
Watching.
Waiting.

The others' hero costumes were flashy, bold colors, impossibly designed.
Some caught his eyes for their brightness. Others, for their impracticality.
Kirishima’s bare chest.
Bakugou’s gauntlets.
Todoroki’s ice half.
Yaoyorozu’s lack of protection.
Iida’s Armor. 

And…
The collar.

Black leather, snug at Kaminari’s and Jirou’s throats.

He almost raised a hand to his own, hidden beneath the scarf.

Inside the helmet, the world was muffled.
Distant.
Distorted behind smoked glass and the steady rasp of filtered breath.
He inhaled, mechanical and hollow.

He looked like a hero.

Matte navy-blue armor clung to him like a second skin, fitted but not constrictive, broken only by the silver lines tracing down his body. The scarf wrapped his neck in quiet elegance.
From afar, it looked sleek. Efficient. Approachable.
Made for flashing cameras and shouted questions on sunlit sidewalks.

And yet in his shadow…

Reinforced plaiting, pressed beneath the fabric, at his ribs, shoulders, and spine. Flexible for fast movement, tough for head-on collisions.
A combat vest hugged his chest, masked beneath stylized seams and polished angles. Meant to distract from its true weight.
Combat boots, layered with internal metal plating, cushioned footfalls. The soles grip the earth, like teeth.
The helmet bore no identifying marks. Only a smooth visor, a shimmering black hole.
Along his jaw, the half-face respirator curved cleanly, filters embedded in seamless ridges, protected by reinforced Kevlar.

A suit made to grab eyes.
In the hand of one trained to hide.

He knew what he looked like.

A statue misplaced.
A figure cut from the wrong piece of cloth.
Cut from the dredges of sewers, draped in the bright light of the loving sun, stitched with agony and blood.
A ghost in polished armor, haunting a space built for dreams.

Though that was his view. 

In the eyes of the masses, there was nothing wrong with the thing that wore it.

“Um, Mr. Aizawa, we already did our Hero Lesson yesterday. Is tomorrow’s being moved up?” Asked Yaoyorozu.

“No,” Aizawa said, “This isn’t a class. This is an exam.”

Confusion rippled through the crowd.

“I thought we didn’t have an exam until the 3rd week.”

“Why now?”

Others had similar comments.

Mikumo turned his head. A figure crossed the glass of his visor.

“Is that class 1B?” Voiced Sero.

“What are they doing here?” Added Mina.

Across the field, Class 1-B gathered. Their murmurs echoed class A’s confusion. Their homeroom teacher stepped up beside the UA staff.

“Now that we are all here,” Principal Nedzu spoke, raising a paw and gesturing at the gathered crowd. “We may begin,”

“Yo! Who’s ready for this test? Yeah!” Present Mic spoke.

Mikumo flinched.
Not at the volume.
At the voice.
It was the same as the one in the bathroom.

The class didn’t respond, only silence.

“Tough crowd,” Mic muttered.

A deep sigh. Aizawa stepped forward, tone as flat as a razor.

“This is a joint assessment exercise. You will be graded individually, on combat, teamwork, and decision making.”

More murmurs. Tension building.

“Are we fighting class 1B?” Asked Jirou.

“No,”

“You will be going against one opponent.”

The murmuring spiked. 

Comments of ease rising.

“You will capture them with this,” He lifted a pair of metal cuffs. The clink echoed in the stillness.

“You’re goal is to restrain your opponent, or put them out of commission for the exercise"

“Their goal,” he added. “Is to do the same.”

“Wait you mean-” Uraraka started.

“Yes,” Aizawa confirmed “One versus everyone,” 

Silence blanketed the field.

“Are we fighting a third year?” One from class B asked.

“No.” 

Aizawa adjusted his scarf. 

“Akatani Mikumo, please step forward.”

All eyes were on him now.

“Wait him,” Mineta’s disbelief echoed across both classes.

Knuckles popped.
“This’ll be a piece of cake,” Bakugou sneered, a killer grin on his face.

“That’s impossible!” Yelled one of the 1B students. “He doesn’t even have a quirk,”

Protest erupted:
“This is unfair!”
“He won’t last!”
“It’s discrimination!”

Mikumo didn’t move.
Eyes forward.
Breath even.

Tap… Tap.. Tap.

Scarlet flickered towards the sound.

Oxford shoes.
Indigo hair slicked neatly back.
A crisp suit.
Eyes flat black, like a closed casket.

His voice didn’t rise, it sliced.

“The Quirkless Dream Promise Program has been granted the authority to oversee this examination.”

Aku’s gaze pinned Mikumo through the visor like an insect in a frame.

Silence fell again. Even the faculty seemed to still.

Aku adjusted the cuff of his suit with surgical precision. 

“Given the recent concerns regarding institutional bias within hero education,” he said with calculated bite, “we found it prudent to ensure the well-being and fair evaluation of our ward remain…” 

A pause.

“Impartial.” he finished.

He let go of the suit cuff. Seemingly satisfied.

Nezu’s ears twitched. Still smiling. A smile looking more like the baring of fangs.
“UA is a private institution,” he said factually.
“The HPSC has no sway over its education.”

“No,” Aku agreed.
“It does not.”
He turned, pulling out an envelope from his inner pocket.
“We had a few concerns with human resources tho, and well…” 

He handed Nezu the letter.

“You know how it is.” he didn’t smile, but there was a shift in his coffin eyes.

Silence.

“Rest assured Principal,” Aku said, his tone dripping in honey. “Our presence here is not to interfere. Only observe. And ensure Akatani Mikumo is given the equal opportunity he is promised.”

Mikumo stood motionless, body ever so more tense.
But behind the visor, his throat burned.

He swallowed.
Tasting the bile he'd choke down later.
The sun was too bright.
The sky too clean.

Somewhere in the back of his mind was a recoil, a game dog’s teeth baring in fear.

“Akatani.”

The name snapped like a rubber band.

Mikumo twitched, just slightly.
Unseen behind the helmet.

“You get ten minutes to prepare,” Aizawa said flatly.

Mikumo nodded. Obedient.

“One moment,” Aku interrupted, his smile softening into something paternal.
“May I speak to my ward?”

Nezu hesitated, a heartbeat too long.
Nod.

Mikumo felt it.

The shift.
The way the sky grew too wide above him.
The way his ribs tightened like wire.

The students filed away, their voices hushed.
Some laughed, too loud, careless.
A few looked back, curious, unconcerned.

Aku watched them leave with the gaze of a gardener tending poison ivy. 

His eyes landed on Mikumo once they were gone.

“Be careful out there,” His words were gentle.
His smile softened.
Not into kindness.
Something worse.

Concern.
It was the kind of concern a wolf might wear after licking blood from a lamb’s throat.

The words slithered into Mikumo’s veins, slow and freezing.
A sedative.
A curse.

“I’ll be watching,” 

Tap.
A finger against his collar.

“Don’t worry about a thing.”

The contact spread like a ripple of needles.
Fast, sharp, deep.

Part of the role they play.

He didn’t flinch.
Nor breathe.

“Just do your best,” 

It sounded like another language, foreign. 

Empty.

“Okay?”

Mikumo’s eyes lifted.
He saw the devil.
Not horns.
Not fangs.
But his eyes glowed like dead embers of coal.

“Don’t worry about me,” Mikumo answered, almost tripping over his words.

The voice, cheerful.
The mask, polished.
The soul, caving.

“That’s my boy,”
It landed like a blade.

His eyes did not change, always empty.

Slicing deeper than any reprimand, almost making him take a step back.

Not in pain.
Or panic.

In the echo of something sweet.
A reward never given.

And then-
-arms wrapped around him.

Mikumo returned it, automatic.
Trained.
Collapsing into it.

But he’d never had this before.

Not in the shadows on the wall.
Not in the cold water clinging to clothes.
Not in the mannequin they practiced on.

Behind the visor, his lips trembled.
Eyes wide.
His stomach turned and twisted like a swallowed wire.

Aku pulled away, hands framing Mikumo’s helmet like a warm goodbye.

There was no love in his eyes.
Only the indifference he’d been subject to all his life.

Aku turned to go.

Mikumo didn’t call.
Didn’t follow.
He stood.
Started.

A stray dog left behind, feeling the first touch of a human palm.

A chasm formed in his chest, no pain, no fear.
Hunger.

His fingers lifted halfway.

Reached-

-stopped…

…

Chatter was endless.
Laughter echoed through the field in front of the gates.
Postures relaxed, a light-hearted air flowed through the group like floating dandelions.

The gates groaned open. 

The chatter faded like the summer sun.
Until the last voice echoed into the vacant cityscape. 

There was a singular moment. Where the silence crushed them as though the wide expanse of buildings had collapsed over them.

“How are we supposed to find one person in all of this?” Kaminari muttered.

BOOM!
Bakugou launched himself into the rooftops in a blast of smoke and fury.

Kyoka hissed. The sound stabbed through her eardrums like splinters.
“Ugh, moron,” she grumbled, lowering to one knee and sliding an ear jack into the pavement-

FWSSH

A sharp burst of compressed air.
Then, pinprick.

“Agh!” She exclaimed, hand slapping her neck on reflex.

Her fingers met glass.
She yanked out a slim syringe, thin as a pin, capped with a tiny empty vial.

Two more.
Two cries.

Shoji stood a dart embedded into his arm.

Koda’s body jerked violently.
Entangled in a mesh of thin, electrified wire.
He didn’t even scream.
Just collapsed, eyes rolling, limbs twitching.

“Shit,” Kyoka whispered, breath catching.
She crouched, her muscles already going numb from the tranquilizer. 

A pulsing burn spread from the wound.
Her thoughts began to fog slightly.

“Jiro!” Exclaimed Yaoyorozu, dropping to check on her.

“Mm okay...” She slurred slightly.

He hadn’t missed.
Not even a little.

She fought the fog, tuning back into the scene. 

Trying to find any hint before the anesthesia took effect.

Kyoka twitched, explosions.

Then-
Subtle.
Measured.
No energy wasted.
A breath in.
A breath out.
No panic.
No tension.
A heartbeat like a clear blue sky. 

Her stomach twisted.

With her last flicker of strength, she raised a hand pointing toward the rooftop.
“There,” She whispered.

It all went black.

“The hell?” 

Katsuki’s boots scraped the concrete. Four extras out cold.
One of ‘em, Earjacks, had her arm outstretched, finger trembling toward a rooftop.
His grin sharpened.

BOOM.

Smoke and sparks. He launched into the air, the explosion blasting him from rooftop to rooftop in a blur.

A flicker of blue.

“DIE!”

Katsuki twisting midair, firing.

BOOM!

Scorched concrete, but nobody.

Then-
Behind.
A kick, blocked.

A blue cartoonish glowing smile.

Gone.

He snarled, launching into a barrage of attacks. 

One-
Two-
Three-

Damn it!

Missed-
Every-
Damn-
One!

His wrist twinged. He ignored it.

Sweat glued his shirt to his spine.

Smiley bastard danced between the hits, sliding beneath, over, around blasts, like smoke turned human.

Each failed contact only made his anger burn hotter.

Katsuki pivoted mid-air.

BOOM!

The smiley bastard ducked low, pivoted, under Katsuki’s legs, twisting as he went. 

No wasted motion.
No sound to indicate.

Behind, ice cracked.

A chill cut through the heat of Katsuki’s explosions.

A spike shot upward.

“OI! WATCH IT!” Katsuki roared. 

Half-n-half’s eyes narrowed.
“You’re the one in my way.” The bastard responded coldly.

Katsuki lunged, firing.

Blast missed.

Always missed.

Everywhere and nowhere all in one.

Attacks only meet air. 

Ice slicked the roof beneath him.

“You’re in MY way!” Katsuki barked.

The bastard raised his right hand, slamming it on the ground. 

Jagged ice bursts forward.

Smiley shit vaulted over it.

Katsuki jumped to the side.

“Get the fuck off my roof!” He yelled at the stupid Elsa wanna-be.

Click,

Smoke swallowed the rooftop. 

Katsuki growled.

BOOM-BOOM-BOOM

Clearing the air.

A blur.

Bakugou surged forward, arm cocked.

The helmeted freak side-stepped, just enough. 

A hand caught Katsuki’s wrist. 

Twist-

His balance broke-

Crackle.

Electricity teased his neck.

Red eyes wide, looking to the cheerful blue of the smile. 

The bastard, who was frozen in place.

BOOM!

Contact.

Gone again.

Ice snaked across the rooftop.

Trying to enclose the Smile freak.

BOOM!

The blast shattered the ice.

“Get out of my way.” Icy snapped.

“I was here first! Find your own!”
Katsuki kicked down, explosion propelling him forward. 

Smiley freak smoothly slipped to the right. 

The explosive blonded following.

Punch-
Kick-
BOOM-

Ice enclosed the two’s feet. 

“AGH!” Katsuki shouted, blasting free.

Smiley already moving in on half-n-half.

An ice spike arched toward Smiles.

He twisted mid-air-

Threw something.

Beep.

WHITE.

He was blind.
Flashed.
Frozen.

He blinked the spots away from his eyes. 

Finally the outline of a shape.

White and red hair.

Collapsed.
Unmoving.

“Todoroki Shoto has been eliminated.”
The speaker’s voice echoed.

There was no blue. 

No blur.
No sound.

Wind.

Just rooftop.
Just Katsuki. 

Left behind.

Explosions sparked from his palms, lighting up the roof like fireworks. 

His breath came fast and shallow.
Red eyes burning under his scowl.

That freak left him. 

Like he wasn’t worth the effort.

He’d kill him.

Ice crackled as Todoroki bridged in the direction of Jiro’s pointed finger.
“Todoroki!” Iida shouted, too late.

BOOM.
Explosions rattled the sky.
Bakugou must have seen the finger too.

Todoroki’s silhouette already halfway up the rooftop. 

Denki stared at the ice left behind. A sigh escaped him. 

Welp. That was short-lived.

“Jiro Kyoka, Shoji Menzou, Koda Kouji, and Shinshida Jurota have been eliminated.”
The announcement cracked through the air.

“What?!” Denki spun to face 1B. 

Laying on the ground was a student, wide build, sharp nails, and teeth. 

The dude was built like a bear.

Whispers rippled around the rooftop, some surprised, others skeptical. Denki's gaze dropped to the downed bodies across the training grounds.

Jiro.
Shoji.
Koda.
Shishida.

Four students. 

Gone in the first minute. 

Not even a flash of movement. 

Just... gone.

He swallowed.

Okay... that's kinda badass.

“Should we just wait here,” wondered a moss green-haired girl from 1B.

“Yeah, guess so,” Added Ojiro, “I mean those two are the strongest in our class, Akatani’s done for.”

A scoff.
A blonde student in a magician costume. “You must all be stupid,”

“Monoma!” Reprimanded the orange-haired girl.

“You too, Kendo.” He snapped.
He gestured at the downed students.
“We just watched as he took down four people in less than 1 minute,” 

Denki blinked.

A warm fuzz spread in his chest.
It felt nice to see others defend Akatani.

Iida puffed up. “Yes, he surprised us. But you cannot expect a quirkless person to defeat the two strongest in our class.”

Some nodded.
A few looked at walls or the ground.

Denki’s eyes narrowed.

“Is that how we are going to treat villains?” A voice snapped. 

Denki turned. 

Silver almost white hair, with long lashes, or was it a mask?
“Because they are weak, we ignore them?” He asked.

Yaoyorozu’s voice cut in, calm, but firm.
“Todoroki and Bakugou are incredibly strong, yes. But Akatani isn't fighting with brute strength,” she said, arms crossed thoughtfully. “He’s not stronger than them, he will be smart about his attack.”

“So what, he’s gonna win?” an insect-looking student from 1B asked skeptically.

“Not necessarily, but we should still make a plan,” Yaoyorozu said.

“Why?” Satou mentioned hesitantly, “It’s Bakugou and Todoroki.”

“There is no point if there is someone already on the job,” Answered a girl with white hair from 1B. 

“Really, I’m just surprised it’s gone on this long.” She crossed her arms.

Denki bristled. 

“Yeah, he must be good at running.” Mentioned a black-haired boy from 1B.

The sound of explosions and ice remained as the only sound.

“Regardless,” Yaoyorozu cut in. “We should plan for-” 

Silence. 

Nothing.
No explosions.
No ice.
No life.

Wind.

“Well, thats over.” The green moss girl acknowledged, turning away-

“Todoroki Shoto has been eliminated.”
The announcement cracked like a whip.

The calm before the storm. Then-
“What?!” gasped several.

“You said he was the strongest in your class!” snapped a 1B student. “How weak are you guys?

“Maybe it was a mistake,” Mineta stammered. “There’s no way that Preek actually took Todoroki out-”

BzzzT.

Denki’s fist clenched.
Sparks hissing like wild snakes.
“What the hell did you just call him?”
Denki’s voice was dark, it made the classes pause.

“What ‘Preek’?” He asked. “That’s just what he is.”
He said it like there was nothing wrong with it, like it was just a description of Akatani.

No one laughed.
Some flinched.
No one spoke.
Some looked away.

“Don’t call him that,” Denki said.
Low.
Deadly.
Calm.

“Why not? He doesn’t even have a quirk. That freak shouldn’t even be in the-”

“Everyone!” Iida jumped in, hands raised. “We still have a test-”

“Damn the test!” Denki barked.
Electricity lit his hair like a fuse, raising it like a bristled cat.

“Kaminari, this is not the time to be getting upset over-”

“Over what?” Another voice snapped.
“Nothing.” Monoma.
Cold.
Furious.

“That is not-” Iida defended.

“You don't even see the problem, do you?” The grey-eyed boy questioned.

Iida stayed silent.

“Monoma-” Kendo hissed.

“No,” Another voice joined the argument. Kirishima.

“You’ve all been treating him like he’s not even worth looking at,” Kirishima growled. “At least Bakugou and Todoroki went after him. They took him seriously.”

“You’re no better,” Came another voice.
The white-haired girl spoke.
“You stood here. Watching.”

The shame crept in.
Denki took a step back.
They were right.

Denki stared down at his sparking hands, his voice quieter now.
“Well let’s do that now.” He spoke determinedly.

Silence followed.

Yaoyorozu glanced at the tense group, then raised her voice gently. “Akatani is not what we expected, but that doesn’t mean he’s not capable. He’s part of our class. We owe him the same respect we give each other.”

A pause.

There was a sigh from 1B.

“So what’s the plan?” Asked Kendo.

She couldn’t take it. The arguing. The not-so-subtle jibes at Akatani. 

Tooru crouched at the edge of the rooftop. No one noticed her leave, or be left behind. She sighed quietly.
It felt like everyone had forgotten she was even there.
Wasn’t new.
The city was silent. It was all wrong. Even her presence felt loud like she was taking up space where she shouldn’t exist.

She was invisible.
That should’ve been an advantage.

She crept along the alley entrances, peeking her head through each for any sign of movement. Careful to avoid loose gravel. She steadied herself against a rusted pipe, leaning in to peer down the corridor.

Nothing.
No shadows.
No shapes.
No sign of-

FWSSH

She flinched.
Ducking down.

Where did it come from?
Behind?
Above?
She turned all around herself.

Nothing.

She let out a breath of relief.

She froze.
The hairs on her neck stood on end.

Clink.

“Hagakure Tooru has been eliminated.” The announcement crackled.

He ducked through the alleyways, unconsciously slipping past every camera’s eye.

Muffled noise. He crouched on all fours. Waiting.
“-lot of ground to cover,” A feminine voice spoke.

“You think he’ll actually pose any threat?” Another asked, it was unfamiliar, probably class B.

“Nah, it was probably luck.” The group came into view. 

Six people. Class 1B.

Some costumes made their quirks obvious.

Like the mushroom girl: A red polka dot mushroom hat. A red polka dot dress. Even polka dot shoes.
The mutant quirk user was harder to read, broad build, taut jaw. Probably a secretion type. Eyes or mouth.
And the other mutant: comic panel for a head. Ambiguous. Could be paper constructs, summoned characters, or just visual noise. 

The others were more difficult. Costumes generic with no hint of their potential power. 

His eyes narrowed. 

Unknown quirks mean unknown variables.
The highest threat.

Mikumo stopped behind a rusted service door. 

They laughed. Talked.
Footsteps loud on gravel, every step a broadcast.

He knew this alley.
He’d set the trap twenty minutes ago.
Narrow. Bottlenecked. Littered with stray rebar and trash bins. One vent shaft hung low above the corner. 

He left the scene before the trap was set off, no need to be near that, he knew it would work.

He ducked into an alleyway, up a fire escape. Reaching the roof he saw the red smoke of his “knock out gas,” he scoffed at the idea of it. Such a thing did not exist, but it was a good way to get people moving the direction you wanted them to go.

Fear made people predictable. Predictable made them easy.

“Kinoko Komori, Nirengeki Shoda, Kosei Tsuburaba, Manga Fukidashi, Kojiro Bondo, and Reiko Yanagi have been eliminated.”

The air felt like it stopped. 

Neito looked up at the sky like the announcers would explain.

“...he just…” The voice was stunned, Kodai.

“Six,” Kamakiri muttered, “six people, all at once.”

“He must have set a trap,” mentioned Kendo.

Neito stood from the group, arms crossed. 

“Maybe we should regroup, you know take him down all together, he wont have a chance then.” Honenuki mentioned.

“I think we just keep on the lookout. We know to look out for traps now.” Kendo said.

Neito scoffed looking away. It irritated him, how they still doubted Akatani just because he was quirkless.

He froze.
“Guys…”

A blue cartoon smiley face looked at them from the shadows.

The silence snapped like a bone.
A banshee screech.

His hands slammed, covering his ears. The sound stabbed into Neito’s skull, each echo rebounding inside his head like a metal bat on concrete. It didn’t matter how hard he pressed, nothing stopped the sound.

Fshhh!

Two gas canisters were thrown at the group. A dense white gas left from one, a black smoke from the other. 

Tsunitori slammed his hands against the ground. It softened like wet cement. The figure was gone.

At first, it was just smoke, white, and black combined like watercolor paints.

He saw the moment the first taser victim fell. Honenuki collapsed.

Neito activated Shoda’s quirk, snatching a piece of gravel from the ground. It launched at the figure.

Akatani snapped his head back, gravel missing him by an inch.

Neito did it again. Grabbing rocks, pebbles, and useless items he wore.

Akatani did it again, twisting like wind. 

His eyes stung, gravel probably.

Neito looked, gas not having fully engulfed them yet. Kendo’s eyes began puffing up lightly, like she was about to cry. 

Kamakiri launched an attack with his blades. Slicing the through air. 

Akatani jumped and weaved, unbothered by the attack. 

In a flash, he was behind Kamakiri.

“Kamakiri!” Kendo yelled.

A snap of a hand to the neck. The boy fell limp. 

Neito gasped, activating Tsuburaba’s quirk. 

He choked. Deactivating the quirk. Did something happen?

He coughed, it felt like nothing hed felt before, it felt like the itch of a sick throat and the sensation of swallowed dirt. The air burned like a fire down to his lungs.

He coughed again.
They all did.
A cacophony of coughing. 

Deep.
Racking.
Involuntary.

The smoke surrounded them.

There was a scream.
One of pain.

“Kend-” 

He doubled down, eyes squeezed shut. His lungs rejected him, trying to exit up his oesophagus. His nose ran like a faucet, throat clenching with each breath attempt. His sinuses felt like they were being sanded down from the inside out.

He was still in a fight, he opened his eyes.
They refused to focus, clouded by fog and tears and pain.

He cried, because it hurt.
He tried to call out, anyone. 

But opening his mouth only invited more agony.
Each breath scraped like glass, each syllable a burst of blood.

Someone screamed.
Not far.
Maybe he screamed.

He grits his teeth.

Hands stretched out attempting to find something. Someone.
But instead, he swam through fog, blind.

With any shift of movement, he lunged toward it, a punch flying from his fist. Only to meet air and trip over himself.

Hands grasped air. Then cloth. Then an arm, thin, tense, twisting.
Neito grabbed tight.

The next thing he knew, cold pavement. 

His fingers empty. 

His grip lost.

There was silence in the room.
Shouta leaned against the back wall, arms folded, grey eyes trained on the feed in front of them, nothing but smoke.

“Is that-” All Might started.

“Tear gas.” Power loader said flatly.

Mic blinked, turning to the QDP agent standing with them.

“Yo, uh,” He hesitated. “Is that legal?"

“No,” Deadpaned Shouta.

“He’s licensed,” Aku responded.

“Ah,” Mic made a noise of acknowledgment.

Onscreen, a group of students moved in staggered formation. The camera feed flicked slightly, showing a flicker of blue, a cartoon smiley face, before vanishing behind smoke.

“He’s ambushing them,” Mentioned Vlad.

“Uh-” Midnight squinted at the screen. “Is that a-”

BZZT!

They all winced as a scream cracked through the audio. A student hit the ground, spasming from a taser hit to the shoulder.

“Good aim,” Snipe mentioned.

Powerloader nodded. Attention solely on the boy on screen.

Another student was taken off guard with a flashbang.

Shouta twitched a brow. “They have no spatial awareness.”

“They’re kids,” Added Yagi.

“They still need spatial awareness.”

The gas rolled in faster now, swallowing the group. Shapes flailed, some ran, others fought. It was hard to tell who was still conscious.

Shouta’s gaze slid to the man beside him. Aku’s eyes didn’t leave the monitors. His mouth curved in something too small to be a smirk. It was the same expression someone wore while watching a car crash they planned.

“He’s very determined,” Aku said, as if he were observing the weather.

There was a hum of agreement from All Might.

“He’s good for someone quirkless,” Vlad said.

“He’s excellent,” Aku replied, like he was correcting someone's grammar.

On-screen, more students dropped, coughing, stumbling, falling limp in clouds of gas.

“Are chemical weapons allowed?” Midnight asked, squinting.

“They’re not... not allowed,” Powerloader shrugged.

“...Right.” 

There was a long pause.

They watched as the quirkless boy took out five more students bringing his capture count to twenty-one. More than half the first-year hero course.

“Mikumo is one of the most resilient and headstrong of his year,” Aku said, his voice not matching his words, he said it with no pride, no care, just detachment. “He’s trained a lot to get here.”

Recovery Girl’s frown deepened. “That boy’s shoulder is dislocated.”

The room went quiet. The monitor showed Akatani grappling with a student, arm hanging at an unnatural angle, fingers still moving through the injury.

Shouta said nothing, a child does not fight like that unless they’ve been taught how.
Or they’re stupid.

“Like I said, Mikumo is very…” Aku paused, eyes dark. “Stubborn.”

The silence that followed, was way heavier than before. 

Nezu sipped his tea, hiding the gleam in his eye behind his cup.
“He is quite resourceful, creative, and adaptive.”

Everyone stayed silent, unsure where the principal was going with that comment.

Nezu turned to the agent, eyes glinting like night-vision glare from a predator’s gaze.
“How would you feel about me taking him on as a student?”

A shiver crawled up everyone's spine. 

Everyone, except Aku.

“No,”

His tone never changed. Like he was swatting a fly away distractedly.
The silence was only interrupted by the sound of fighting in the background.

“Hmm, we’ll discuss it later.” The rat turned back to the screen.

Silence again.

On-screen, Akatani pulled a pin from another canister and lobbed it into a stairwell without looking.

Mic winced.

He leaned closer to Shouta, hand shielding his mouth as if that would dampen the delivery.

“Hey,” he whispered badly, “remind me to start carrying a gas mask.”

Aku’s eyes slid to another monitor, this one tracking the remaining students.
“Which one’s that?” he asked casually, like he’d asked it before.

Shouta glanced at the screen, then didn’t bother.

“Monoma,” Vlad supplied.
Before Aku could ask, Vlad continued.
“His quirk is Copy,”

“Ah,”

A beat.

“What the hell just happened?”
Shock rippled through the room.

Neito hit the ground.
Hard.
The impact punched the air from his lungs.

The next inhale was as painful as a cactus being shoved down his throat.
He coughed, needles stabbing his lungs. 

His fingers twitched against the cracked pavement. His ears rang. His eyes streamed. There was something metallic in his mouth, blood or gas residue, he couldn’t tell.

He couldn’t see.
Couldn’t breathe.
Couldn’t stop.

He moved.
He has to.

He rolled, forcing himself to his hands and knees. 

He couldn’t see.
Couldn’t breathe.
Couldn’t think.

Stumbling to his feet with the grace of a newborn foal. 

Shaking.
Blind.
Ringing.

The gas hadn’t cleared.

He stood on unsteady legs, turning. Tetsutetsu’s quirk at the ready.

There wasn’t a sound, or a shift. It was more like a feeling, one of being watched, sharpening.

His skin toughened, a smooth metallic shine coming over him. Plating over in metal.
It hit like a weight, every step like wading through molasses in full armor.

He threw a punch, wide, nothing. Empty air. 

He dropped the quirk. Activating scales. 

He spun wildly, shooting.

Blind.
Nothing.
Still nothing.
He was fighting a ghost.

Neito deactivated again, heart pounding. 

He ducked low.
Anticipating a strike.
Hoping it would be aimed at his upper body.
Wind shifted across his back.

He grabbed rubble, something, anything. 

Activated Shoda’s quirk. Threw.

He threw it with all the force of a dying mouse held by a house cat.

He didn’t know if it hit.
He couldn’t see.
Could barely think.

The coughing returned, violent, deep, sharp.
The needles in his lungs growing sharper.

He sobbed, chest burning, throat shredded. 

It felt like fire, his eyes, his mouth, his throat his lungs. 

He swung blindly with Kendo’s quirk. A wide desperate arch-

Something hit.
Something moved.
Something flew.

Neito froze.

Chest rising and falling in ragged stabs. 

His fingers curled.

No way.

That attack, it shouldn’t have knocked anyone out. It wasn’t strong enough. It wasn’t clean. It was sloppy, it was half-formed.

It shouldn't have worked. 

There came no attack.

He crouched lower. Eyes stinging.

His body screamed to run, his instincts cried to crawl.
But he stayed.

The fog of gas and blur of his eyes prevented him from seeing.

He could still feel it.

Crawling forward on all fours like a wounded dog.

Hand outstretched feeling for anything.

Air, only air. 

His hand trembled expecting a very much moving Akatani.

Still nothing, he crawled blind.

Feeling.
Reaching.

Then-
-contact.

A jolt. 

He snapped his hand back, stung.

A cry escaping, unheard under the static of his ears.

Akatani’s hand curled slightly on the ground, spasming. 

Neito reached forward, toward the face, another shock.

‘Did he electrocute himself on accident.’ He wondered.
He must have.

He needed to find the source, he could get permanent damage from that.

Neito tried to see through the tears and fuzz in his eyes. For a taser, or a wire, something. 

It was by pure accident he glanced a hand too close to his face, his neck.

“Agh, Fuck-” His voice, unheard by his own ears. The shock was stronger.

‘Was that his collar?’ He wondered.

He sat on the ground unmoving.

There was no way.

He went to grab, to test. 

…

No shock.

A hand met thick leather and skin.
The scarf the boy wore having fallen in battle.
And beneath it, raised lines, puckered and warped like melted plastic.

He stilled, a feeling of wrong so visceral he’d never felt before.

Neito looked, barely a shape through the fog. The glowing cartoon smile had gone dark.

He breathed heavily, following the shoulder to the hand, and locking it with a cuff, then the other.
Then the other.

Click.

“Akatani Mikumo has been eliminated.”

Neito didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

His hand still hovered near the collar.

Like it might bite.