Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

People love stories about underdogs. Those who have to struggle for years, pull themselves up by the skin of their teeth. They like them, because they relate to them. 

Everyone’s been an underdog at some point, right? Childhood bullies, teachers, bosses, parents. There’s an infinite list of things – and people – that look like they’re just dying to screw you over.

I know an underdog. I mean, who doesn’t? He’s only one of the greatest heroes ever. You know the name: Izuku Midoriya? Or would you recognise him better if I said hero Deku?

I know eighteen other underdogs. Heroes that damn near killed themselves, slaving their way to the top against all odds. Against a traitor, against a villain organisation that wanted them dead. Some of them, if I say their names, you might not really think they’re underdogs. I mean, Ground Zero? Even his middle school teachers knew he was going to be great! How can you call him an underdog? To that, I’ve only got one answer: there’s always things going on beneath the surface. Everyone is fighting battles you know absolutely nothing about.

 They call them the Golden Class now. But we call each other 3-A, still. Just for old times’ sake. 

They say there’s never going to be a class like us again, not in the unfurling history of UA and heroism. But you know what?

Evil is always standing in the ashes, waiting to be reborn. No matter how hard we try, there’s always people that slip through the cracks. Quirks are becoming so powerful that the human race could destroy itself ten times over if some poor civilian sneezes.

In my day, this shadow over hero society was called All for One. You might learn about him in your history textbooks, some dark, grainy picture taken on the battlefield. My classmates and I got a more personal experience; me – well, it’s a long story – more so than most. Many say that he represents a bygone age, that hero society will never let another like him rise up again. I don’t believe them. I think there’ll be more, just like him. Cleverer, quicker, faster, ready to learn from their predecessors’ mistakes. There are always heroes, so there will always be villains. That’s simply the way the world is. 

But that’s okay. 

Because there’ll be another class, just like us, waiting to do something about it. Ready to risk everything, just like we did. 

Deku gives a lot of interviews, and in one of them, he’s said that heroism is when your body moves on instinct. Honestly, I think he just clammed up. He does that pretty often, haha. I think that – what I said before – is what heroism means: seeing something wrong, and doing something about it. Being ready to risk everything.

My name is Hagakure Tooru. 

And this is my story.

Chapter Text

My name is Hagakure Tooru. 

Well, it was my name. In another lifetime, long ago. It hasn’t been my name for a very long time, but now it is, again. Many years ago, I wanted it back. I think that part of me is dead, now. Like everything else I touch.

It’s 8:15am; she’s here early. Her regulation-issue white-soled shoes make no sound on the wooden flooring, even though students around her are squeaking like a litter of mice. 

Invisibility isn’t a Quirk. It’s a mindset. 

However, she shouldn’t be invisible. Not here. Here, she’s Hagakure Tooru. She’s not used to the name anymore; it brings up old, dead memories. She hates the name Kageru, always has – but she’s worn it like a second skin since the age of five, and so it has its own dark comfort. Like a cloak that she can slip on. 

No. Here, she is hero-in-training Hagakure Tooru. And Kageru would move soundlessly even if she was wearing a pogo stick on each foot – but Hagakure wouldn’t. So Kageru slouches, lets her hands swing at her sides exuberantly, and her shoes squeak all the way to the massive door that marks Class 1-A. 

She stands in front of it for a moment, just looking at it. Drinking it in. Everything shines in this heroes’ school: the floors shimmer, the handle gleams. Even the white walls seem to be reflecting twice the light as normal. It’s such a stark contrast from her home that it’s easy, almost, to make that distinction. Kageru in the dark, and Hagakure in the light. Simple as can be.

Tooru knows Sensei would hate it, if she started calling herself Tooru in her head. Even if he’d never know. She wants to give herself this, one small seed of rebellion – but she doesn’t. Some irrational part of her is worried that somehow, he’d find out – and she can’t be punished, not again.

If Principal Nezu happened to check the cameras, he would see nothing of the ordinary. He would see a young girl, a budding hero-in-training, pausing nervously on the threshold of her new career. Kageru’s hands are twisting, a repetitive motion that feels strange because she knows Sensei hates it when she fidgets. It's a childish behaviour, and she’s anything but childish. But Hagakure Tooru is an excitable young girl, exactly the sort that hesitates in a doorway and wrings her hands. They won’t be able to see her fingers, not quite – but something is always different on camera, you can see the shifts of light that bend around her hands and work out what motions she’s making.

So Hagakure Tooru is dithering and trembling, but Kageru is gathering intel.

Five of her classmates are here already: Bakugou Katsuki. Iida Tenya. Midoriya Izuku. Ashido Mina. Aoyama Yuga.

She knows each one of her classmates; she’s studied all of their files. Bakugou’s glaring exactly like his photo; Aoyama looks more nervous, drumming his fingers on his desk with one hand, flicking through his phone with the other. Iida – somehow – looks even more straight-laced than his photo suggested. Ashido’s back is to her, but she looks unbothered, casual, even. Clearly a raging extrovert: no one else could be so comfortable in their new classroom in their new school. Midoriya Izuku’s hunched in a corner, his eyes flitting about as if someone was going to jump out of a wall and attack him. 

He was definitely one to watch out for. Everything about him screamed cornered intelligence, like he had a secret pile of notebooks with everything about their lives written down. Bakugou, too, radiated a kind of feral smarts that could make him dangerous. 

Be careful. Sensei had said. They’re smarter than they look at U.A., especially Eraserhead and Nezu. They’ll have a razor-sharp eye on whatever you do.

Understood, sensei. She’d replied.

The handle yields easily under her touch, sliding open with no resistance. 

“Good morning!” She chirps, bowing shallowly. “My name is Hagakure Tooru; Please take care of me!”

“Woah, you’re actually invisible!” Ashido cries, eyes sparkling as she jumps from her seat to take a closer look. Kageru hates being stared at, but tolerates it as Ashido eyes her like a bug underneath a magnifying glass. “That’s so cool!”

A little thrown by her obvious enthusiasm, Tooru takes a step back, trying to compensate by smiling. “I like your eyes. And your skin.” She offers, and refreshingly – because she will have to lie, soon – she’s telling the truth: Ashido’s skin looks like photos she’s seen of kimonos with cherry blossoms on them, the kind she’d desperately wanted to wear to Tanabata.

(She’d begged Sensei to let her go; big mistake. She’d cried when he’d refused; an even bigger one. Tools weren’t allowed to have opinions, and they certainly weren’t allowed to be angry with their superiors.)  

“Aww, thank you!” she gushes, looking thrilled with the compliment. Kageru already finds these children exhausting, exactly for that reason – they’re children. She doesn’t understand how they’re so carefree. If they’re all as bad as Ashido, it would be hell to survive three years here. Already, her smile feels pasted onto her face. “It’s because of my Quirk, it’s acid! Is your Quirk invisibility, or is that like a side-effect?”

If Kageru was a little less well-trained, she would have stopped dead in her tracks. As it was, she barely suppresses a gasp.

Because no one has ever, ever asked her that before. This, her most carefully-guarded secret, only Sensei knows about: because he’s trained, almost, if you can apply a word like that to someone like him, to dissect Quirks like bugs. Only she and Sensei have ever figured this out, because invisibility is such a trope that no one stops to think that they can’t see food in her stomach like they would if she was really see-through. 

Her quirk is Light Manipulation, and a girl she doesn’t even know – a girl who’s seen her for all of sixty seconds – has worked it out like it’s nothing. 

Kageru doesn’t know what to do. This was the very last thing she was expecting; is she meant to reveal it like nothing is wrong? Hide it? She doesn’t – she doesn’t know what Sensei expects from her, and not knowing always costs her something: food, sleep, blood. 

Her instincts take over. Her instincts always tell her to lie. 

“Nope, just my Quirk! It would be cool if it was a side-effect, though.” she mused, as if it was some strange possibility. 

“Yeah, it would! But invisibility is still cool. So, like, stealthy. Total ninja vibes.” Ashido kept going like Kageru’s world wasn’t rewiring itself in front of her. 

Sensei had identified five high-threat individuals that she would have to keep careful eye on for their intellect. High-risk opponents: Yaoyorozu Momo. Bakugou Katsuki. Principal Nezu. Eraserhead. Present Mic. All Might.

Ashido wasn’t even on that list, and she had just unwrapped Kageru’s secret like it was a cheap sweet.

This was a high-stakes game, for sure. And the price for failure – which now seemed imminent – was her life. 

Sitting and talking to Ashido, Kageru’s still gathering intel. They’ll be seated alphabetically according to U.A.’s rules, which means she’ll likely be further away, towards the middle of the classroom.

She doesn’t want to have an opinion – she’s not allowed to – but she would prefer to be at the back. Watching everyone silently, free to be Kageru where no one could see her. What would Hagakure want, though? Hagakure, bubbly and happy, would probably want to be in the middle, where she could talk to her friends around her. 

Kageru wished she and Hagakure could cooperate a little more, but alas. 

There’s a limp sleeping bag at the front of the class, which is definitely out of place with the rest of the squeaky-clean classroom that has professionalism written all over it. The sleeping bag is a strange shade of yellow, the zip’s silver surface has rubbed off to show the cheap copper under it, and it’s fraying at the top. 

By now, most of her classmates have come in; Yaoyorozu Momo has taken the seat beside her, right at the front. Typical, Kageru thinks with some amusement, remembering the perfect grades on her file: straight-As since primary school, and a teacher’s pet to top it all off. What was she doing when Kageru was training, going on missions, surviving? Probably her Chemistry homework, or some essay that just had to get a perfect score. It’s petty, and childish, but something dark and jealous stirs in Kageru’s stomach, turning her amusement sour. It’s so strong that she has to remind herself: she’s not a person, not like all of them. She’s a soldier, a tool, a spy. She is nothing more than her useful Quirk. 

The tiniest movement at the front of the room, and her eyes latch onto it immediately, so abrupt that Ashido falls silent in bewilderment and looks around as well. 

A person emerges from it, as unkempt as his sleeping bag, his hair tangled and unbrushed, but Kageru isn’t fooled: his eyes are clear and hard as flint, and they lock onto hers immediately with the tiniest flicker of surprise that she’s noticed this slow, noiseless movement of a trained covert operative. He can’t see her face, her wide-eyed stare, but he can see the instinctual reaction in her body language.

It lands in her stomach like a rock, this surprise. Because Kageru would notice it, yes – but Tooru wouldn’t.

Immediately, she tries to smooth her tense shoulders out, turn her body language into simple curiosity rather than a decade’s worth of instincts simply reacting. She tries to turn into Tooru.

The rest of the class are near-oblivious, but one by one they fall silent. Kaminari Denki – just as impulsive as his file suggested, it seems – huffs out a short “ wha-? ” before he manages to close his mouth. 

“It took you eight seconds to quiet down.” the strange man began seriously, yawning. “That’s irrational, and a liability in the field.”

The class, by now, is stunned into silence. Kageru still doesn’t know who this person is, but if he wanted an entrance he’s got it: her classmates would probably jump out of the windows if he affixed them with that glare and told them to. 

“My name is Pro Hero Eraserhead.” 

Midoriya – he must be a hero fanboy, Kageru thinks with disgust, rolling her eyes internally – gasps at the name. A few heads turn and he goes tomato red, bowing so hard it’s a wonder he doesn’t slam that idiotic head into his desk. Eraserhead simply goes on as if nothing has happened:

“Civilian name Aizawa Shouta. I’ll be your homeroom teacher throughout your time at U.A. High.”

The class erupts. Kageru can already see clear as day that these children haven’t been so much as scolded a day in their privileged lives, because they have the manners of zoo animals. Kaminari Denki is so excitable he’s stood up, and Sero Hanta is starry-eyed and high-fiving Kirishima Eijirou as if they’ve just won an arm-wrestle against All Might with the power of friendship. Aizawa’s jaw tightens dangerously. His eyes flash red, just for a second, and the room stills. 

It’s… strangely familiar, Kageru has to admit. This Aizawa is no Sensei – not her real Sensei – but that feeling of a room quieting in an instant at one sign of displeasure… It's almost nostalgic, strangely enough. She feels far more at ease – and then she corrects herself. She’s forgotten the first, most important rule: never let down your guard. 

She can’t be at ease, because there are two cameras in every room, waiting and watching and recording. 

She can’t be at ease because no matter where she goes, at least one high-threat individual will always be near her. 

She can’t be at ease – because this is U.A. High. 

Tooru slips back to Kageru. Eraserhead sighs, and speaks again, drawing a P.E. uniform out of his sleeping bag. 

Ashido thinks she’s being subtle, leaning over and whispering. She’d make a terrible spy, Kageru thinks, she’d get killed within a day. Kageru takes pity on her pathetic attempt at stealth, bridging the gap between them casually enough to be passable. “He’s mad if he thinks I’m wearing a uniform stashed in his sleeping bag.”

Kageru coughs to hide her smile. It feels strange on her face when she’s not Tooru. Kageru doesn’t really… smile. Not for herself. She smiles if it would please Sensei, and on cover missions, but most of the time she’s running on autopilot, mistrustful. It’s a strange feeling, happiness. Airy, intangible. 

She returns her attention to the front; Aizawa’s gaze lingers on hers and she almost has to hold her breath. Except, she doesn’t. That’s not what Tooru would do, after all. So she meets his charcoal eyes with the open, honest body language of a sixteen-year-old girl who wants to be a hero. He can’t see her eyes, but the lines of her body are calm, casual. She swings her legs in her chair a little.

He looks away first: it feels like a small victory. 

“Put on your Sports uniforms and meet me at the P.E. Grounds. If you’re not out in the next-” he glances up at the clock, “-three minutes, it’ll be laps.”

“What?!” Again, Ashido thinks she’s being subtle, but the pitched whisper is louder than her normal speaking voice. Thankfully, she’s covered by the rest of the class, who are equally horrified by the – frankly reasonable – time limit.

Tooru leans forward, rocking on her heels even as she collects a Sports uniform from the front. “I know, right?!” she says, high-pitched, handing Ashido one too. Laps won’t be an issue for her, of course, but Sensei would be less than pleased if she was punished on her first day.

The two nearly sprint down to the changing rooms, Kageru eyeing the Training Grounds – where Aizawa’s already standing – on their way down, calculating how long it would take to get there. 

She changes rapidly; the two of them are the quickest there, barring Iida, and though Ashido changes in the open bench space, Kageru locks herself in a bathroom stall and pulls on her Hero uniform. Her body – her back and arms, especially – are covered in scars she doesn’t care to explain away. It’s not that she’s ashamed of them exactly – she’s only a tool, so it’s not as if scars really matter on her, even if her whole face was marred it wouldn’t detract from her purpose – but making up excuses that wide-eyed, innocent Ashido would accept just sounds… exhausting. 

Checking her phone as she slides it into her bag, her eyes widened as she raced out of the cubicle, finding an equally scared Ashido on the other side. The two wordlessly sprint down to the training grounds, arriving just as the timer on Aizawa’s phone chimed. 

Sensei nodded in – Kageru suspected it was as close as the surly hero could get – approval.

More of her classmates were there than she expected. It’s the first day, so it makes sense: even if they don’t have “punishments” to go home to if they fail, no one really wants to make a bad impression on the first day of school, especially when their teacher seems so strict. Kageru realises that this is probably the closest many of these kids have ever gotten to actual discipline; she remembers reading – in one of the precious few newspapers that Sensei had given her, when she was preparing for the U.A. exam – that schoolteachers were quitting at unprecedented rates these days, because children equated respect with Quirk strength more and more.

Yet another way heroism is ruining the world.

Yaoyorozu’s here already, looking unruffled. So is Iida, Midoriya, Asui Tsuyu, Kirishima Eijirou, Mineta Minoru, Aoyama Yuga, Sato Rikido, Koda Koji, Uraraka Ochako, and Bakugou.

Ashido leans over inquisitively, hands behind her back. “Whaddya think we’re gonna do? Do you think it’s gonna be some crazy heroics exercise already?”

“I mean… maybe? But that seems kinda crazy, even for U.A., dontcha think?” Tooru replied, slipping into the excitable voice. “Aren’t we meant to be doing orientation with the rest of the school?”

“Oh, really?” Ashido’s eyes grew until Tooru could see her entire iris, a gold ring inside an oil spill. She really was a child: she hadn’t even bothered to read the published schedule U.A. handed out. Instead of rolling her eyes, Tooru nodded, keeping a bounce in her step. 

“Huh.” Ashido shrugged, still smiling.

 Ashido was nice, Kageru was learning, she was nice just for the sake of it. Because Tomura wouldn’t try and work out what she was doing if she replied nonverbally, he’d just scoff and wait till she stumbled in embarrassment and replied verbally. Ashido, though, had narrowed her golden eyes and squinted so she could see the minute shifts of light around Tooru’s face, working out that she was nodding even though she hadn’t even bothered to exaggerate it.

This – this was useful. This kindness could be exploited. And Kageru would exploit it, because it’s her way in.

“You’re late.” Aizawa calls out, his voice serious and biting. The last few stragglers – Sero Hanta, Kaminari Denki, and Todoroki Shouto – don’t look particularly remorseful, though Kaminari does raise his hand shakily. 

“It was my fault, sensei, I left my phone in the classroom and Sero came with me to get it.” he admits, and Kageru has to admire his courage: he’s all but trembling, and evidently scared, but he’s still facing up to Aizawa-sensei without flinching.

It seems Aizawa has also decided to acknowledge that courage, because he just nods and turns to Todoroki, demanding, “And what’s your excuse?” 

“I don’t have one. Sensei.” Todoroki barely seems phased, shaking a few red strands of hair out of his eyes. His posture is strange – he’s standing tall and straight, almost like a soldier at attention, but without any of the fear that usually accompanies a posture like that. His eyes are almost entirely closed off, the puckered scar around his eye shiny in the light. 

Kageru appraises him, trying to see through his icy exterior. She’s been told a lot about him – Endeavour’s son, the file was particularly thick – but at the same time, she’s been told nothing. His file had his transcripts, photoshoots, interviews, candids of him at every Heroing gala since the age of six. 

One of him at his older brother’s funeral. 

Even in that photo, he seems strangely cavalier about the whole ordeal: close to his father, staring aimlessly into the air as if Todoroki Touya would appear in front of him. It’s not his reaction she’s interested in, it’s his family: the rest of the Todoroki siblings were clustered around their mother, with one – Todoroki Natsuo – glaring at Endeavour like he would kill him. 

Eyeing Todoroki again, Kageru wonders if he’s changed, too. Whether he’s still the boy clinging to his father’s trousers, or if he’s become another Todoroki Natsuo. Whichever it is, she can use it: either use his blindness, or his hatred, against him. Love and hate are equally destructive, and born into a hero family, Todoroki Shouto is sure to have either in copious amounts.

“Five laps in five minutes.” Aizawa decides it’s an appropriate punishment, and Todoroki bows before jogging off. Ashido huffs out a cool whistle, turning around to look at the size of the training grounds. Five laps in as many minutes is a punishing time limit, but – judging by the fact that he’s already halfway across – Todoroki doesn’t seem to find it particularly taxing. 

Aizawa yawns again. “Today we’ll be conducting a Quirk Apprehension Test. I’m sure you’ve all done the fitness tests in school, where you’re not allowed to use your Quirk?”

A scattering of nods, and Aizawa sighs like this is the worst news he’s heard. Kageru has to stifle a laugh at her classmates’ confusion: this Eraserhead isn’t exactly a typical hero, all flash and glamour. They’ve been so indoctrinated into hero society that they couldn’t recognise an underground hero if – like Aizawa – he came and hit them with his sleeping bag. 

“Completely illogical.” he declares. “Quirks have moved on – and are increasingly being used in society – and still, the Department of Education decides to be purposefully obtuse. Well, this is U.A., so we generally run our classes as we see fit. Any questions before we start?”

A shaking hand rises; it’s attached to Uraraka Ochako, who looks a strange mix between scared and affronted. 

“Sensei, I thought we were meant to be at orientation with the other classes? That’s what’s on the…” she falters at his dead-eyed gaze, “...schedule.”

“Damn, she’s brave.” Ashido looks impressed, her eyes flitting between Uraraka (shaking) and Aizawa-sensei (annoyed). Tooru nods back, a soft “ uh-huh ” leaving her lips.

“Like I said, this is U.A. We’re not your average school.” Aizawa seems content with his non-answer, but decides to add: “Teachers are given far more leeway with their classes here, which leads me to my next point: whoever places last in this test will be expelled.”

The class knows better, by now, than to riot, but there’s definitely a noticeable rise in chatter, Kirishima, Kaminari, and Sero – who seemed to have formed a small clique already – crying out in horror. “ What? ”

A few metres away, Midoriya Izuku’s expression has taken on the colour of whey. Kageru doesn’t really understand why: his Quirk’s registered as Super Power, and while it’s a pretty bland name, she can imagine he won’t exactly struggle with things like grip strength and ball throw. In fact, this whole test should be exactly the kind of thing he’ll have no problem with. 

Her, on the other hand… Light Manipulation. Invisibility. What could that help her with…? Her throat is suddenly dry; she can only imagine what Sensei would do to her if she got expelled on the first day. 

“What are you gonna do?” Ashido turns to her in genuine concern. “Are you really fast? Really strong?”

“I’m alright. I think I’ll do okay.” Kageru pulls on the Tooru-mask, injects more emotion into her voice. “You’ll see! I’ve got some tricks up my sleeve, hehe.”

Ashido looks cheered almost immediately, a sigh of relief leaving her. “Yeah, that’s good. I don’t think I’ll do amazingly, but I can change the pH of my acid so I can slide over it, kinda. It helps me run faster.”

“Oh, really?” Kageru’s back, soaking up the information like a sponge. She’d worried about the intelligence of her classmates, before, but if they were all so lax with what they revealed this would be the easiest mission she’d ever been on. Clearly, none of them know the power of information. Ashido just nods easily. Again, this is something she can use.

“Let’s begin with a trial.” Aizawa’s sharp voice cuts through the class like a knife; they fall quiet immediately and face the front. He consults a list, and calls out. “Bakugou, you placed first in the Entrance Exam. What was your ball throw score in middle school?”

“Seventy-nine metres.” he says gruffly. Aizawa nods, flashing a red-eyed warning glare at the impressed ooh’s and aah’s the class seems prone to falling into. If she was this disrespectful to Sensei… 

Silence. Darkness. Hunger.

She swallows, turning her attention back to Bakugou, who throws the ball from one hand to another casually, weighing it. She can’t let her body language falter: they’re in an open space, but she won’t make the novice mistake of assuming that she’s unmonitored. She can see three cameras: two in her peripherals, one in front trained right on them.

“When you’re ready.” Aizawa steps away. 

Bakugou revs up like an engine. A loud cry of “ Die! ” is ripped from his throat, and the ball sails away, launched by a massive explosion that causes it to fly out of sight. 

“Jeez, that’s crazy…” Ashido gulps, suddenly sounding less confident. Tooru turns to her, nudging her with her shoulder. It’s exhausting, being so nice.

“Don’t worry. There’s still nineteen more spots.” she smiles reassuringly and it bleeds into her voice; she keeps her body language open, flashes another thumbs up. “And two of them are saved for us.” 

“Plus Ultra, I guess?” Ashido’s smile is still a little wobbly, but she meets Tooru’s optimism with a determined face.

Plus Ultra is all they can do, for now.

Kageru speeds through the tests. She knows she isn’t placing well, and the curled up worry stoppers up her throat so she can hardly speak to Ashido – who’s doing just a little worse than her. She won’t come last, but Sensei won’t be pleased. She has to report to him tonight: she can anticipate the punishments already. 

She hopes it’s training, and not – the other thing. Anything but that. He might make her wear her suppressor again. But she can handle it, because it’s still better than the thing he could do.

She can train till she bleeds, till she drops dead, but going in there would be too much. She has school tomorrow – she almost laughs, it’s such a mundane worry – and she can’t afford to be off her game in any way. 

That makes it worse: Sensei will probably put her in there just because she has school tomorrow, so he can punish her more for making another mistake. A tool isn’t supposed to have feelings, so she’s not supposed to be affected by that place. Except she is.

Ashido’s struggling less now that the sprint is over and she’s found her groove. She’ll likely place around tenth or eleventh.

No, what – or rather, who – Kageru is truly interested in is Midoriya Izuku. His Quirk is Super Power. Judging by Uraraka’s rambling, he was impressive during the practical Exam. And yet he’s stumbled through these tests practically Quirkless. 

Kageru eyes him as he steps up to the circle for the ball throw. He’s quivering like a leaf, white as a piece of paper. Kageru doesn’t have much compassion for him, but Tooru probably would. So she turns to Ashido and says with as much concern as she can muster, “Poor guy. He looks terrified, doesn’t he?”

“I know, I’m kinda scared for him too.” she mumbles back, twisting a lock of peony-pink hair around her finger. “Even that purple-ball guy did well on the sidesteps.”

“Uh-huh,” Tooru nodded along, thinking back to Mineta Minoru’s ridiculous – but effective – strategy. 

Midoriya, evidently concentration, draws his arm back. A green lightning crackles to life around the limb, weaving its way up like tentacles. But just as he let go–

“Huh?” he sounds devastated, but not surprised. Kageru notes it immediately, eyes shifting to see if Aizawa’s also noted this slight inconsistency. What kind of hero-in-training expects their Quirk to malfunction? Not a normal one. She doesn’t know who this Midoriya is, exactly, but she knows for sure that there’s something about him that she doesn’t know. 

Sensei would want to know about that; she files it away mentally. 

“I erased your Quirk.” Eraserhead’s hair falls back down as his eyes go back to their usual grey hue. “What were you going to do? Break your arm again, like in the Entrance Exam? That’s hardly logical… in the field, you’ll end up making yourself a liability to be rescued over and over again.”

“Damn, that’s kinda harsh.” Ashido whispers sympathetically. Kageru wants to argue, but she’s not Kageru, right now: she’s Hagakure Tooru, who’s a ditzy, emotional, bubbly girl, and so she nods along, clasping her hands together so Ashido – and the CCTV – can see she looks genuinely worried for her classmate of half a day. 

Aizawa isn’t being harsh: he’s being logical. Rational. If Midoriya goes into the field with a Quirk like that, and breaks his arm at the first punch, he’s more of a problem than the villain he’s meant to fight against. He’s a defective tool. No one tolerates defective tools; they should be disposed of at the first chance. 

Kageru doesn’t understand why Aizawa-sensei isn’t doing exactly that, instead of humouring Midoriya by throwing him the ball again. 

“Last chance.” he rules. “Get it over with.” 

What? Midoriya’s a non-functioning tool, he can’t even use his Quirk. How will he survive at U.A.? How will he be a hero? Kageru’s disgust deepens: if teachers at U.A., the best hero academy in Asia, have to treat their students like glass, it was obvious why heroes all round the world were so corrupt. They were being coddled like infants from day one. 

Midoriya considers, his lip trembling, and if there weren’t eyes on her from all sides, if this was an assassination, Kageru would happily put a knife in his skull, because she’s not defective. She’s a good tool. She knows how to do her job. 

And then he throws. A cloud of dust flies off the ball as it soars into the distance, and though his eyes are shining with tears Midoriya smiles, carefree as a bird, clutching his broken finger. It’s bruised purple all over like crushed fruit. 

“Sensei…!” he grits his teeth and keeps on smiling, idiotic – because he’s still compromised. If this was real life he’d have to fight with one broken finger and his mind elsewhere. “I can still move!”

Aizawa gives a strange smile, all teeth and glittering eyes. “Hm, that you can.”

Bakugou Katsuki growls, guttural, explosions popping from within his clenched fists. Kageru locks onto the sound immediately, stepping back on instinct. It takes every fiber of willpower she has to stop herself reaching for a knife, to check the small movement and look simply ordinary . Thankfully, Aizawa hasn’t seen her this time, too occupied with restraining Bakugou – who’s jumped onto Midoriya like he wants to eat him. 

“What the fuck, Deku? Did you seriously lie to me for ten years about being Quirkless, you fuckhead?” he snarls. He looks remarkably like a rabid dog, and Kageru looks to see what punishment Aizawa will give him. 

His eyes are red again, his Quirk activated – which explains why Bakugou isn’t blowing up the entire training ground right now – but he still looks relatively serene. “Calm down, and stop making me use my Quirk. It gives me dry-eye, damnit.” 

Kageru pounced on the information, filing it away. Good: the more she could offer Sensei, the less likely she would be to go in there. Aizawa was a high-risk opponent – finding chinks in his armour was important. But still, the ease with which he’d handed it out… it was more than possible that Sensei already knew. 

“And my capture weapon’s a carbon-fiber alloy.” She knew that already. “You won’t be able to break out of it.”

Bakugou finally stops thrashing in the bindings, and Midoriya relaxes when he realises he’s not getting pounced on like prey. 

Aizawa continues like nothing’s wrong. 

No punishment? She has to work to mask her bewilderment, keep looking absolutely normal: like Hagakure Tooru would. Her posture’s still lax, slouchy – if she acted like this in front of Sensei, he would certainly have something to say about it. 

“Here are the results.” A hologram materialises above his wrist, and the class crowds around. Most of them start reading from the top, which inevitably leads to cries of disappointment. 

Kageru knows better; she starts at the bottom. 

20th - Midoriya Izuku

19th - Minoru Mineta

18th - Jirou Kyoka

17th - Kaminari Denki

16th - Sero Hanta

15th - Aoyama Yuga

14th - Asui Tsuyu

13th - Sato Rikido

12th - Koji Koda

11th - Hagakure Tooru

A balloon sits in her lungs, expanding, expanding. She can feel its heavy weight, filled with air. She knows that Sensei won’t like this. She doesn’t know if any information she gives will be enough to stop herself going in there after this abysmal result .

And it’s selfish of her, because Sensei doesn’t want to hurt her, he doesn’t like it. It always makes him disappointed. She forces him to do it, when she acts like this, and it’s selfish and childish of her. 

Kageru – no, Tooru – dredges up a cheery smile and congratulates Ashido, who’s scored ninth. She reciprocates, jumping up and down with joy. Kageru knows she looks fine, from Nezu’s CCTV view, but inside she’s barely breathing for fear. 

She’s a tool. She’s not supposed to even feel fear. In a way, she’s just as defective as Midoriya is. 

Speaking of Midoriya, a tiny whimper leaves his mouth. Uraraka pats his shoulder: she’s clearly trying to be consoling, but it comes off more as condescension, especially when Kageru sees she’s placed tenth. It isn’t an amazing score, but then – Uraraka probably doesn’t have a punishment waiting for her at home. Her parents will probably praise her for coming in tenth place. Petty, worthless bitterness bubbles up in her that she squashes immediately: Uraraka deserves softness, because she’s not rotten to the core. Not like Kageru is, anyway.

Aizawa opens his mouth, and Kageru hardly feels anything for Midoriya. Defective tools need to be disposed of.

“No one’s getting expelled.” Aizawa looks entirely too pleased with himself as Midoriya breaks into a sob. Weak. “It was a logical ruse designed to draw out your full potential.”

The class, for once, is stunned into blissful silence. 

“I’d have thought that was obvious.” Yaoyorozu Momo pipes up, elegant accent dripping with confusion.

“It wasn’t.” Midoriya looks as if he’s about to cry, or throw up, or both. Aizawa grins again, creepily, and tells him to go to Recovery Girl’s office. 

And just like that, it’s over. Their first test, on the first day, and though it isn’t with flying colours Kageru has passed, and that’s all she can ask for.

Their curriculum sheets are on their desks back in homeroom, Kageru studies it carefully. She notes that they have Heroics lessons four times a week, which seems far too little. However, they also have P.E. four times a week – which she suspects is just another name for more Heroics. It’ll likely be Quirkless, hand-to-hand combat maybe. If she were capable of being excited she would be.

“Woah, we’ve got Heroics tomorrow!” Ashido chirps, bouncing from foot to foot. “That’s so cool! I can’t wait to wear my costume, can you?”

“Oh my god, yes!” Tooru squeals, though she knows – as Kageru, of course – that her costume’s hardly anything to be excited about. Sensei had her design it, but he made it exceedingly clear that utility was the only thing she should have in mind when doing so. It does become invisible with her, though, which is, she supposes, interesting. “I can’t wait to see yours, Ashido-chan!”

“Oh, just call me Mina. Or Mina-chan, I don’t mind.” Ashido flashes a winning, easy smile. Tooru grins back like this is nothing, like it’s normal, as if Ashido – Mina – isn’t the first person she’s called by their first name since Tomura. 

Even with the Tooru mask on, she has to suppress… what, exactly? Some childish reaction to a childish show of friendship that she doesn’t need. Doesn’t want. She’s a tool, a spy, and she has one mission. Becoming friends with Ashido Mina is just a means to an end. 

“Call me Tooru, then.” she replies, bouncing to mirror the other girl’s happiness. 

“Well, this is where we part, I guess.” she says awkwardly, rubbing the back of her neck in a forced tic. She – Kageru – has never done that in her life. But Tooru does, now. 

“Yup!” Mina leans forward, coming in for a hug. Tooru doesn’t flinch, leans forward and returns it calmly. 

She drinks in the warmth, the real solid softness of it. For a single second, she allows herself the luxury of being just Hagakure Tooru, who’s going home to kind, loving parents after her first day at school. 

Then Kageru takes back half of her mind, and she lets go. Smiles, brightly. “See you tomorrow!”

“See you!” Mina replies, turning away and waving. Kageru watches her go, the smile dropping from her face, her body language again ramrod-straight, settling into a soldier’s posture. 

Then she turns on her heel and walks the twenty minutes home. 

The lock clicks behind her, but she doesn’t relax. She’s found four security cameras so far, and she knows that there are more, without a doubt. She just can’t be seen searching for them actively; Sensei wouldn’t be happy. 

Kageru slips off her shoes, hangs up the keys, casts a longing look at the kitchen, and makes her way straight to the TV. There’s a sofa right in front of it, plush and comfortable, but she doesn’t sit there. She never has. Even when she’s not giving reports, she knows he can see her if she sits there, and she doesn’t want that to happen. She wants to pretend she’s not under constant surveillance

She kneels on the tatami mat in front of it instead. “Good afternoon, Sensei.”

Immediately, the television crackles to life, Sensei’s mask occupying the screen. “Ah, Kageru. Your first day of high school. My, this day’s been a long time coming.”

She doesn’t speak. Her hands are still folded demurely in her lap, her gaze trained on the silver knobs on the wooden television stand. 

“Anyway.” his false smile tapers off, and it’s almost a relief. This cold tone of command is familiar. “Report.”

“My classmates are all fairly nervous.” she begins. “Todoroki seems… strange. Aloof. He was late to class, offered no excuse, and was punished with five laps in five min-”

Sensei clicks his tongue, a sound of displeasure. Kageru flinches on instinct, curling in on herself before she exhales shakily, and continuing, skipping the parts she knows he deems irrelevant. Stupid. Who cared about how many laps Todoroki had to do?

“Midoriya seemed strange as well. He only used his Quirk for one of the tasks, and the first instance – when Eraserhead erased it – he seemed upset but not surprised, as if he’d expected it not to work.” The information pours out of her – anything to escape that punishment. “Eraserhead’s Quirk gives him dry-eye, and my–”

She cuts herself off. Freezes. Swallows, and continues, like nothing happened. 

“My observations were that his hair raises when he uses his Quirk. And his eyes flash red.” she’s running on autopilot as she tries to compose herself. 

Because she wasn’t going to say anything about Eraserhead at all. She was going to talk about Ashido. And she was about to say “ my friend, Ashido ”.

“A girl in my class, Ashido–” her name feels like ash on her tongue, now, “–her Quirk is Acid, and she can alter its pH at will.”

It goes on like that, for some time, her listing the Quirks she’d seen during the assessments, trying to work out the unfamiliar feeling coiling in her stomach at thinking of Mina – no, Ashido, she couldn’t call her Mina here – as her friend. 

She was a tool. She didn’t have friends. Even Ashido wasn’t friends with her, not really – she was friends with Tooru . 

“And how did you do?” Sensei inquires, his tone deceptively calm. “In this Quirk assessment?”

Ah. There it is: the question.

“I placed eleventh, Sensei.” She lays it bare: he prefers it like that, he always gets angrier when there are excuses, attempts to explain herself. No point in saying that the test was biased, geared to physical, flashy Quirks. No point in saying that neither invisibility nor light manipulation could really help her. All she did – all she could have done, without arousing suspicion – was manipulate the light on the sensors to display slightly higher numbers.

“Eleventh.” It isn’t a question, so she doesn’t answer. Kageru can feel his anger rising like the tide. 

“You placed fourth in Japan – the entirety of Japan – for the written tests. You placed seventh in the practicals. Eleventh – the bottom half of the class – seems like an excessive downgrade, does it not?”

“I apologise for my errors, Sensei.” She can’t hide the tremble in her voice as she bows, her head touching the mat. Pointless, again, to say that this wasn’t a written test, that the robots from the entrance exam were machines – and so easy to trick with illusions of light, heat the wires inside them, camouflage herself and disable them from the control panel. 

Sensei hummed. It was like an electric fence, a sharp, dangerous buzz. “Do you know what I do with defective tools, Kageru?”

She hates that name. She hates it in his mouth, how the kage rolls off it like insubstantial air before the ru, harsh and cruel, catches up with it. 

“Dispose of them, sir. I understand. I- I apologise.” Her voice is wavering even more, a stray stutter finding its way in. Her hands feel like ice as they curl into themselves. Her nails are carving crescents into her hands. 

“What punishment do you deserve for this?” He asks. Here, too, Kageru knows what she has to do. Her voice shudders and trembles, and she knows he can sense her bone-deep fear.

“Whatever you th-think is right, Sensei.”

He laughs cruelly, low and long. “Do you want to go back in there ?”

Her breath hitches. She can’t help it; her shoulders shake as she curls up in on herself. Her head shakes almost without her consent. She’s the picture of scared, and he thrives off it, sick as he is. As only he can be. When he does this she thinks it can’t possibly be true that he hates punishing her. The regret in his eyes is always fake. 

“Do you not?” He’s the portrait of innocent confusion. “But you’ve brought me such terrible news, I thought it meant you wanted it. Why else would you perform so badly, Kageru?”

“No. No,” it’s harsh, gravelly, ripped from her throat. She bows again, desperately, “Please, Sensei, I-I can’t go in there again. Please, I- I’ll do better. Please- Please don’t make me go in there.”

He pretends to consider it. Her heart races, fireworks set off one after the other inside her chest. “Oh, very well.”

Static fills the air. Her lungs just about collapse with her relief. “Thankyou- Thankyou, sensei, I-”

“But I still have to punish you somehow, don’t I?” Kageru doesn’t care. He could throw her right off the roof of U.A. and she would still thank him, because it’s not the room. Anything’s better than the room. 

She replies on instinct, almost babbling. Her hands are still shaking with relief. “Yes, of course, sensei.”

“Training, tonight. Don’t expect it to end early.” he warns. Before she can even thank him – he likes it better when she does – the monitor turns off. Kageru sinks back into the plush sofa with a shuddering sigh. 

Her head aches already. Her phone chimes.

Training will begin at six promptly. 

Kageru almost sighs, but the cameras are always watching. So she just nods and switches off her phone, unpacks and packs her bag for the next day after checking her timetable. She knows she won’t be back until midnight, later, even. She’ll be running on fumes tomorrow, but it’ll taste like nectar inside her because it’s one more day away from the room.

At five-thirty, she changes into her training clothes, slips on the suppressor with shaking hands that take three ties to fasten it, and walks out into the brisk Musutafu air. 

There are people all around her: couples, holding hands, wrapped up warm. Children with their parents, walking fast through the cold air. A girl on her father’s shoulders, looking down at him with so much love it makes Kageru’s heart ache. 

Her heartbeat drums, an insistent chorus of greed, envy, coveting something she could never have. I want I want I want, all confined within the prison of her ribcage. 

It’s a long, cold walk to the meeting point. Kurogiri’s waiting for her already, and his eyes flicker with something like sympathy – or, at least, as close as he can get to it. He lets her wipe her eyes before extending the portal. 

The mist is warm around her when she steps through.

Chapter Text

The room is cold, achingly cold. It’s strange – she’s only been living in her new apartment (though it isn’t hers, of course, not really) for a month, but she’s gotten used to the small comforts it offers. The warmth, the light. 

It means she’s gotten weak.

Kageru knows it; Sensei knows it. 

Her head is aching already – the stress of a first day at school, she supposes, not that she’s ever experienced it before – but she walks steadily, like she’s been preparing her whole life for this one blood-and-bone night. 

The doors to the training annexe open with a hiss; Sensei’s already waiting for her – electronically, at least – when she walks in, bows deeply. She stands like a soldier, arms behind her back. 

“Kageru. Five minutes early, as usual.” His voice is tinged with amusement, tinny from the speakers. His face twitches on the monitor, like he’s about to smile. He knows she’s early out of fear of being late. “We’ll start with something light. Get ready.”

Kageru wheels around just as the door hisses, a monster – a Nomu – barrelling into the room. It raises its head, its front legs rearing up as it sniffs the air. 

Invisibility isn’t undetectability, but it’s still a blessing. But right now, she’s not even invisible. She’s exposed. 

Nomu’s reptilian eyes lock onto her body with a predatory snarl. And then it pounces. 

Kageru has hardly a second to react: one second, she’s on her feet, her dagger in her hand, and the next, the beast’s leaping onto her, batting at the dagger in her hand with its claws. She takes an unsteady step back, rebalances herself. Weaves around the beast to stab at it from the back. 

It’s almost like a dance, with this beast. It moves like something feral, each move raw but lethal. She has to duck, curve around it, distract it with the flash of her dagger before she can attack. 

The minutes blur together. Claw, dagger, slash, stab, screech, they all meld into one terrifying second, her breathing short and sharp, her heart hammering in her chest. It lashes out again, it’s scaled skin rippling, almost, under the lights. 

She pivots, parries. 

She isn’t fast enough. 

A gleaming claw rips through the fabric of her dagger arm, draws blood. The wound burns like gasoline on fire; tears are dragged from her eyes almost involuntarily. She doesn’t drop her dagger, though, but grips onto it tighter, stabs at its arm. She rips through the skin, blue blood – slick as an oil spill – gushing out as the creature gives an animalistic screech. Its skin begins to knit together, but it’s slower than other Nomu she’s seen the Doctor testing. This one’s just a reject. 

The thought should relieve her, but it just fills her with dread. If she fails – if she loses – against a low-level Nomu, she’s as good as dead. 

Copper fills her mouth – blood, or fear – and she presses her advantage, lunging forward in a blur of body and blade. The Nomu attacks again, again, stumbling back, but fear is a powerful tool, the motivation to live an even stronger one. Kageru doesn’t look at the monitor where Sensei is surely staring down at her. 

Soon enough, she stabs her dagger straight through its throat. Its golden slit-eyes roll wildly, and she stabs it again, and again. Arm. Ribcage. Throat. Stomach. Leg. And then she watches, pressing on her bleeding wound, as the light fades from the inhuman thing’s eyes. 

“Not bad.” Sensei isn’t pleased – he rarely is, not with something as damaged and useless as Kageru is – but he’s also less angry than he was before. Which means no room, not today. Kageru bows, using the one second where her hair covers her face to let out a shaking breath, her face still impassive as ever when she straightens. 

God, she really is losing her touch; she’s already tired. Her legs ache, her arm aches, her head aches, and the dim, flickering light isn’t helping. She wants to sit down. She wants some water. Her throat’s dry. 

“Again.” Sensei says it ruthlessly, and she turns around again as more Nomu pour into the annexe.

They blur together, her controlled movements and their feral lashing arms and legs. One of them has a beak that rips at the flesh in her shoulder, and she kills it without a thought, slamming her elbow into its head before slashing its throat to shreds, spinning to parry the claw aimed right at her face. 

She doesn’t know what time it is: there’s never been a clock, no matter where she trained. Here, time is whatever Sensei makes of it. He’s hers to use as he sees fit, and so if he wants her to train until time stops, he can. He probably will, tonight. Her lungs burn, the pain mingling with the one in her shoulder and her arm. Her blood mixes with the Nomus’ on the floor. It stains her turquoise hair red.

Her throat is dry. So dry she can feel each swallow pulling at the flesh. A Nomu half-punches, half-slaps her across the face. She kicks it away blindly, ignoring the static in her head, her bleeding nose. 

Soon – later? She doesn’t know anything beyond her rising, falling, chest, her blood carving a lurid trail down her arm, seeping into the black material of her gloves – the Nomu are a pile of dead bodies around her. One or two were obviously programmed to self-destruct, their bodies a pile of ash that mix into a disgusting paste with the blood around them. 

“I see today must have been a once-off.” Sensei’s voice is still cold, but she’s grown up listening to every note of his body language: he’s undeniably placated. She’s convinced him that she’s still useful, and she feels her knees almost buckle under her with the weight of relief. “That was passable. I’m impressed.”

Like any good tool, her gaze is pinned to the floor. She focuses on trying to calm her racing heart; she knows they’re not done yet.

“One more thing.” There it is.

“I’ve got a new recruit for you to spar with, a man by the name of Dabi. He’s interested in joining the League, and – at the end – I’d like for you to tell me if he’s a good ally for us.”

She doesn’t respond, of course. She doesn’t speak unless prompted to do so, that’s a surefire way of getting hurt. Her thoughts race incessantly, though, behind her blank mask. Sensei is a careful man. Meticulous, almost obsessive. He values Tomura’s safety above all else, which means that to let this Dabi – an outsider – into their base, their stronghold, it means that he’s already decided to let him in. Meaning there’s another reason – when isn’t there? – for their sparring. His Quirk, most likely. 

Sensei wants to see her break. 

Kageru doesn’t cry, even though the realisation crumbles her relief into dust. She doesn't let herself shiver or shake. She just nods once, professionally, and bows again. 

His voice, suddenly, is cold, like the annexe, like the crisp air. “Get ready.”

She can feel the hair on her arms stand up, her arms bare – vulnerable – from bicep to wrist. The wound is still bleeding sluggishly. 

The door hisses open, and – backlit by the dim fluorescent bulbs in the corridor – a slim man strolls in. Instantly, Kageru’s on the defensive. He’s much taller than her, which means he’s got a longer reach. And she doesn’t know his Quirk: it’s a trifecta, except it could end in her being permanently disabled if she’s not careful. She knows that Sensei isn’t patient enough to end this fight without blood being drawn, not after today. And, god, she’s already so tired. Her head is ringing after the Nomu fight, she feels tense and drawn-out like a rubber band. 

He steps into the light. 

His face and neck are stapled together, patchworks of skin and purple something held together by clumsy staples that glint meanly in the light. He looks almost surprised to see her, his cold blue eyes widening just fractionally as he looks her over. From her heavy breathing to the wound on her arm to the dagger in her hand. The purple, rough skin looks burned – so, a fire Quirk. Long-range. He wouldn’t need to get close to attack.

“Sensei, am I to continue fighting Quirkless?” it’s a risk, asking, but she’s already so tired. She doesn’t know if she can win Quirkless, not right now. Not against a long-range Quirk. 

“You may fight Quirked.” he allows. “Remember it is a privilege, Kageru, that can be revoked at any time. To compensate, let your dagger go.”

Kageru swallows. Letting go of the dagger – her one advantage – is almost painful, but she does it, dropping it and kicking it away. The metal rings out dully against the cold floor. She keeps watching her opponent, who makes no move to attack. He’s still slouching, his hands firmly in his pockets. He couldn’t look less threatening if he tried, but Kageru’s not fooled. She moves slowly, slipping the strap out and putting the bracelet into her pocket. Immediately, she fades out of sight. One press of a button later, her suit also fades from sight, the material woven from her DNA and connected – she doesn’t know how – to react when she does. 

Her opponent looks intrigued for a second before his face slips back into uncaring coldness. His eyes flicker up to Sensei at the same time hers do, waiting for his signal. 

“Begin.”

Kageru raises her arms to defend, but his were already up. Before she could react, work out what he was doing, a fire erupted from his palms, searing her world into blazing endless light. 

Her eyes take a second to adjust as she stumbles backwards, blinking, trying to dispel the afterimage seared into her eyes. Light. She can manipulate it, but with a fire so bright, it also makes her more visible. Her opponent can effectively see her, see the slight outline of her features. 

She’s as good as dead. 

Kageru raises her arms, weaves out of the way of the wall of fire roaring towards her, rolls away just in time as it hits the wall. The heat is almost obscene after the chill earlier. She re-orients herself.

Dabi’s still backlit as he advances, but this time by his own blue flame. He moves slowly, cockily. He expects to win. The realisation burns something in Kageru’s stomach: not pride, but that omnipresent fear. Sensei’s surely watching this assurance. It makes her look weak. 

Again, fear carries her through, making her faster, more reckless. She lunges at Dabi, unbalances him. He’s not used to fighting close-quarters and it shows as he stumbles backwards, his hands heating again. A wave of fire passes too close, and Kageru feels the hairs on her arm sizzle down against her skin. She kicks out at him, using the movement as a distraction to land a hit against his chest that he combats with – surprise, surprise – another wave of fire. 

Good. This was good, it was fine. She was holding her own. Dabi wasn’t holding back.

She’s breathing fast. Far too fast, her breath nothing but short, fragmented gasps of pain. 

Dabi lashes out again, palm white as fire coils in it, fighting an invisible opponent. Except not, because of his fucking fire lighting her up as clear as a torch. She can see him tracking her outline, watching her with something unreadable in his eyes. Like he’d rather not be here. 

She collapses as a wave of fire sears her ankle, gasping, stars exploding behind her eyes. She shields her eyes as she drags herself away like a wounded animal, fruitlessly, waiting for the fire to end it all. Her eyes even flicker to Sensei, hoping against all hope that he’d – what? Intervene?

Dabi still hasn’t attacked, and – guard be damned, she could barely walk – she drags herself to her feet with a groan of pain. 

She can feel herself shaking, her outline warping in the air as her Quirk spikes with each stab of pain rocketing up her leg. Her nerves feel raw, flayed open. 

Kageru tries to fight again, she really does. She’s just so fucking tired that really, she doesn’t stand a chance. Dabi might not be able to see her – and her warping outline does do her some favours as he punches at empty air – but he could still burn her, waves of indiscriminate fire rolling off him that she had to duck, roll, sprint to avoid. 

She moves to punch him – and he pulls away, grabs her wrist and twists, pain spiking as her closing wound rips open again. She lands awkwardly, her hip taking all the force of the landing as he steps back. 

“Get up.” Sensei hisses, and fuck, she’s trying. But her ankle won’t support her weight anymore and she can feel herself shaking violently. Dabi can see it, too, judging by his carefully-blank expression. 

“Get up, Kageru.” He always says her name. She hates it, she thinks fuzzily. He always slips it into the sentence as a way of snapping her back to attention. It always makes her feel like some punishment’s about to come. 

Her fingers are white from the effort of trying to get up. Dabi’s watching her floundering almost impassively. His jaw’s working, like he’s thinking about something. Her ribs scream, her head aches, her blistering ankle burns. She looks pathetic; she wants to die. 

“Kageru, I said get up. ”

“She can’t.” Dabi speaks for the first time, sounding almost bored. Kageru’s head whips up so fast she almost faints. 

A beat of silence. Then another. Kageru can feel Sensei’s displeasure like a physical thing, the temperature in the room plummeting to subzero. Dabi looks like he barely notices it, insulated by his Quirk and jacket, but in her thin workout clothes shudders rip through her body one after the other. 

“That’s not your call to make, Dabi. ” Sensei hisses. 

Dabi’s eyes flick up, long lashes framed by the light, and then down at her again. Something well-concealed flickers in his eyes. Pity. Memory. Kageru doesn’t know whether she’s hallucinating, but she could swear he sees someone else in her place. 

“Whatever. I’m just stating a fact.” he shrugs. 

Kageru forces herself to a kneeling position, her suppressor fastening around her wrist, trying to work up the stability to stand. She won’t beg. She won’t plead. Dabi glances down at her like he’s surprised. 

Sensei takes her determination as the tacit agreement it is, sounding almost pleased when he says, “Again.” 

Like he’s showing off how good, how utterly broken his little toy is. 

“She’s done. Look at her,” Dabi gestures roughly at her, still kneeling, shaking like a child. “If you want your little soldier alive, just end this here. If you want a corpse, keep going.”

Sensei doesn’t speak for a while. Then he lets out a cold, dry chuckle. “Interesting.”

Kageru can’t help it: her eyes whip to the monitor in shock. Then to Dabi, as if she’s checking that this salvation is real. He doesn’t look back, just shrugs again in Sensei’s diction.

“Well, Kageru–” he lands heavy on her name, and she flinches, dropping her head, “–this is mercy. Remember it.”

The monitor blinks off. 

Kageru collapses, legs numb with the effort of keeping her up. Dabi looks down, his blue eyes widening again, just slightly, before the shutters roll down again. Emotionless. 

“Get better.” he says. Not cruel. Not kind. Kageru nods. Then he lights a cigarette, and walks out the way he came. 

Walking back to her apartment is… difficult, though she doesn’t want to admit it. She lays on the cold floor for god knows how long, trying to breathe. She manages, eventually, to pick herself up. Pull on her hoodie. Limp out the door. 

Walking to school the next day is excruciating. Though she’s bandaged the worst of her injuries, they still sting and ache almost unbearably. Being invisible doesn’t help when her school skirt ruffles with every limping step she takes. 

By the time she gets to U.A., she feels half-dead already. But still: the cameras activate from the front gates, and Sensei could be watching them any time. So Kageru draws herself up, shoulders her backpack, and marches in like nothing is wrong. 

Ashido’s waiting for her: though she’s talking to Kirishima, her eyes keep flickering to the doorway. The two of them definitely know each other from before U.A., though – their body language is casual, Kirishima’s face more relaxed than it was yesterday. 

Kageru knows she doesn’t have the luxury of lingering here, not like she did yesterday. It isn’t the first day anymore. So she adjusts her skirt, pulls on her jumper a little, pretending to use the glass of the door as a mirror, and steps through. 

“Tooru-chan!” Ashido – no, Mina – jumps up immediately, leaving Kirishima halfway through his sentence with a put-out expression. 

“Hi!” Tooru squeals back, reaching out to hug her with a well-hidden grimace. Mina’s hands felt like hot-iron rods across her back, her shoulder screaming out beneath the bandages.

“Come meet Kirishima!” she suggests with an impish smile, leading her over to where the red-headed boy smiles uneasily. Kageru doesn’t know his Quirk, but his hair can’t be an indication – she can see the gel, and slightly black roots near the middle, so it’s clearly dyed. His teeth, though, are sharp, serrated like a shark’s. A mutation-type, then? With a specific activation requirement?

Kirishima waves, projecting an extroverted expression. “Hey! Hagakure, right?”

“Yep, that’s me! Nice to meet you!” Tooru grins back, focusing her emotion into her voice as usual. She bends a little light away from her so her expression is slightly more visible, the distortion where light passes from the air to her skin more obvious.

“Eiji and I went to the same middle school. It’s a lucky coincidence that we both managed to end up in U.A., especially considering how competitive it is.” Mina fills in the gaps of the conversation, dragging a chair up to sit next to them. Iida stiffens with an affronted gasp, but decides not to intervene this time. 

A kind streak. Useful. Kageru files it away. 

“Oh, really? That’s cool. Where was your middle school?” she asks, still in information-gathering mode.

Kirishima replies, nipping at his lower lip absently. “About two hours from here by bullet train! Near Kyousai.” 

“What about you, Tooru-chan?” Mina asks, her head tipping to the side. 

Kageru doesn’t miss a beat, remembering the information in her file. Her edited, planted file. “I grew up close to Musutafu. Just a city over: Miyagawa-cho?”

“Oh, that’s convenient. You take the bus to school? Train?” 

“Nope! I just walk. It’s not too far.” Tooru replies brightly, regretting her answer slightly as it leaves her mouth. She doubts these sheltered children think forty-five minutes isn’t “too far”, but it’s too late. 

Failure. Her burns ache under the bandages. She hopes Sensei isn’t watching the cameras, but her breath comes faster anyway. She can’t fail again. She can’t – she can’t – 

Kirishima’s saying something about Heroics. Kageru bites down on her tongue. She’s a tool, just a tool. It doesn’t matter if she’s disposed of, because she’s barely a person. She can’t go away like she does sometimes, not here. 

“...ited about your costume?” She only hears the tail end of his sentence, but she can work out what he’s asking from his expectant tone, the excitement in it. She’s a useful tool. She won’t fail. 

“Yep! So excited! It goes invisible with me, so it’s like, all stealthy and stuff. What about you?” That’s it, deflect. Move the focus away from her so she wouldn’t have to say anything. Just nod, listen, invisibly. 

“It’s kind of boring.” Kirishima begins sheepishly. Kageru homes in on it, the sentence adding to her mental map of his personality. A nervous streak. Shyness. Easily embarrassed. “It’s inspired by my favourite hero, though!”

Kageru can feel her eyes glazing over. Hero society was nothing but a curse. She’d never met a single hero that wasn’t in it for their own gain. Except… except…

The hero was still smiling at her. “Don’t worry, kiddo. I know you don’t want to.”

“Huh?” It leaves her lips by mistake, an accident that shouldn’t be happening. The hero smiled even wider, somehow. It was grotesque: his white teeth, and the blood running down his cheek.

Except one. But even then, he’d tried to kill Tomura. So who knows how unselfish he truly was?

Tooru has to reply. She keeps her voice light.

“Really? Who?”

“Crimson Riot!”

Shift. Slouch. Change position. Kageru repeats her routine, resists the novice urge to look up at the cameras. She’s a trained tool – she would never slouch, never be a child – so she’s worked out how someone who wasn’t a trained soldier would do it. She looks natural. She looks like Tooru.

“I’ve not heard of him,” she muses. “Is he an old hero?”

“Kind of.” Mina – Ashido, Kageru reminds herself, she has to keep that distance between them, especially when she’s already failing – says, shaking her hand to indicate the middle ground. “From about ten, fifteen years ago maybe. His peak on the Hero Billboards was, like, seventh or eighth? I think?”

“Yeah, seventh.” Kirishima corroborates, and Tooru nods thoughtfully. 

Aizawa cuts off the buzzing conversations, clearing his throat to start roll call. “Aoyama?”

Kageru’s head is heavy; it doesn’t take the effort it usually does to slouch, rest her head on her hand. These tics of a tired student come easily today. It’s almost ironic. Sensei was right after all: she needed this punishment, to teach her how to behave. She really was a malfunctioning tool. She’d let one day of being around these hero students corrupt her into thinking Mina – no, Ashido, she had to keep that distance between them – was her friend. Could ever be her friend.

No. Of course not. Ashido was friends with Tooru, Hagakure Tooru, a simple girl with parents that love her. Who’s never heard of All for One or Shigaraki Tomura or the League of Villains. Ashido’s never heard of these people either. 

“Hagakure?”

“Here, sir.” 

Her voice doesn’t tremble. It doesn’t shake or waver under her injuries, it doesn’t betray anything abnormal under her shiny surface. Because she – is – a – tool. And she’s a good tool. And she knows her mission. 

Even if she’s half-dead, she’ll do her best. 

No matter if she has to step over her classmates’ dead bodies to do it. 

The morning lessons pass quickly. Kageru placed fourth in the written tests; she’s certainly not struggling with these classes. They start off simple, anyway: all Ectoplasm’s teaching for now are statistics: cumulative frequency, histograms, box plots. They’ve all done it in middle school; it’s just a way to ease them into U.A.

A text buzzes on her phone, so she takes advantage of her invisibility to reach slowly into her bag and pull it out. 

See me tonight. It’s from Sensei, and it vanishes precisely seven seconds later. 

Kageru bites at the always-open sore at the corner of her mouth, just below where her lips meet. The miniscule pain has always helped her think. Sensei doesn’t sound angry, which means that it’s just a regular meeting. Tomura will likely be there, as well as Dabi. If Sensei’s decided to allow him in, which he likely has. He’d certainly make for a useful ally, with his fire. 

Embarrassment curls inside her at the thought of seeing him again, as well as fear. He’d saved her life, essentially. He’d seen her weak. So few – so few people ever saw her like that. Which is why Sensei probably had her fight him. A way of showing her how insignificant she really was. Pulling her down a notch. 

Fear, because he’d saved her life. She owed him. And he would extract that favour, at some point. She didn’t like owing favours.

Kageru’s thoughts turn to more practical uses: analysing Ectoplasm. His Quirk is useful – he uses it infrequently in lessons, a clone dispatched to whichever classmate had small questions if he was still teaching. His clones are exactly the same size as him: Kageru wonders whether he can alter their size or if they’re fixed – by his Quirk Factor cells – to the size they know from his DNA. They’re made of ectoplasm, uninspiringly, which likely means he can vary their size. Useful to create a meat shield of sorts, useful if he created miniatures for recon. 

She can’t honestly see many weaknesses apart from overextension. Obvious usage, because that slime would appear before the clone, so it should theoretically be possible to slash – or otherwise damage – the ectoplasm before the clone materialises from it. He would likely be able to control his clones with ease, but forcing him to create more and more would slow his – the original’s – reflexes, forcing him to think about more things, more actions, at once. It’s a dangerous Quirk. One that could be used against them far too easily. 

Ectoplasm dismisses them. It’s more for show, because for their first month of classes, they don’t move – the teachers come to them. A way for them to familiarise themselves with the classes, teachers, and layout – which they’ll study as part of Intro to Heroics – before having to move around. 

Their second lesson – English – is equally boring, but for the fact that it’s taught by Present Mic. Like with Ectoplasm, Kageru eyes him carefully. 

His Quirk is less versatile than Ectoplasm’s, but no less dangerous. His highest recorded decibel level is 197: enough to instantly deafen any opponent. He usually keeps his screams down to 130, but that still isn’t negligible. It’s still louder than a jet plane taking off at close range, would lead to eardrum damage. Kageru wonders if he could manipulate perceptions of space with vibrations, something like the Doppler Effect. Disorient his opponents by making them feel as if they were going backwards when they were going forwards by changing the pitch of vibrations. 

Weaknesses – muted, he was useless. Any sufficiently sophisticated noise-blocking device would dull his abilities severely. Even if they didn’t nullify his Quirk, they would render him near-Quirkless. Completely Deaf people were also near-immune. And from what Kageru had seen of his fights, though his hand-to-hand was certainly impressive, he was certainly not impossible to defeat. 

Mic calls on her to answer a question; she answers it without pause, and gets a small word of praise that she dips her head at. She’s practicing lowering her invisibility consciously, making sure her teachers and classmates can see the outline of her face and hair rather than cloaking everything. Giving outlines, but not colour. Not concrete shapes. 

Everything is training, if you try hard enough. 

Before long, Heroics rolls around. 

Ashido keeps up a steady flow of chatter all the way to the training ground. Kageru chips in with cheery responses where she needs to, but it’s harder than ever to be Tooru when her injuries are just so painful. Sensei could have healed them, but he usually doesn’t. And of course he wouldn’t, after she’d been essentially left alive by Dabi’s mercy. 

“I can’t believe we’re getting taught by All Might himself!” Ashido gushes, practically dancing in her excitement. Tooru jumps to match her, pretending it’s the best thing ever that the symbol of everything wrong with Hero society is teaching them how to be a perfectly shiny hero. 

It sickens her. 

Ever since the Entertainment Industry got involved with heroism, nothing has been the same. All Might saves between 10,000 and 20,000 civilians a year, counting team-ups and natural disasters, but he gives around 500 interviews, too. Not to mention being the face of brands, advertising, selling merch, fan meets and signs, photo ops, and countless other pointless activities. 

The statistic no one shows is that, in the time All Might spends with all these useless activities, over 6,000 more civilians have died. More than half of All Might’s lowest saved per year. 

Sensei’s told her all about it; she knows Hero society is rotten to the core. If all the heroes in the world were about to die, and all she had to do was press a button to save them, she wouldn’t expend even that second of energy for a single one. There wasn’t a single hero she’d lift a finger for.  

So no, she doesn’t think it’s the ‘best thing ever’ that she’ll have to put up with All Might for a year. 

The very hero himself is standing, puffed-up and grinning, those idiotic twin pieces of hair standing up like radio antennae. He looks, frankly, like an overblown balloon. 

“Hello, herolets!” he shouts, still flashing that all-American smile. “Today is your introduction… to the world of Heroism. Before me are zygotes, waiting to mature into the heroes inside you!”

He’s certainly media-trained, she’ll give him that. The dramatic pauses scream television host.

“So now, put on your costumes, and show me the heroes you’ll one day become!”

By the time she puts her costume on, the chatter still hasn’t died down. Every so often, she hears a ‘so cool!’ from her classmates: irrational, illogical, and dangerous. It’s dangerous to hero-worship someone like that, and these idiots don’t even see it when it’s right in front of them.

All Might’s career won’t last forever. Even notwithstanding Sensei – who wants to kill him – if he somehow manages to survive, hero society’s very foundations are built around him. What will these stupid civilians do when their central hero collapses?

Meeting Ashido with her costume on is… jarring. It’s such an eclectic mix of colours and patterns that – on anyone else – it would be incredibly off-putting. The blue-and-pink bodysuit is an insult to camo print. The fluffy neckpiece is a walking ‘stab me here’ sign. Her chest is exposed. The only good thing about this costume are the boots. 

But aside from all the safety concerns, it’s a good costume. A pretty costume. It suits Ashido, with her pink skin and fluffy hair. She looks like some kind of cute alien. Even if Kageru has no idea what’s cute and what isn’t, she can see her being popular. Even if there’s a million and one things wrong with the hero system, and she isn’t friends with Ashido, she can be a little happy that someone she knows will be successful.

But Tooru wouldn’t have these thoughts.

“It’s gorgeous!” Tooru says, brainlessly. She lets a bit of Kageru’s thoughts slip through: “It’s so you! ”

“Thanks!” Ashido twirls around, the better to show off her costume, and looks Tooru up and down. “Oh my god, yours is so cool! So ninja-core! You kinda look like Edgeshot, in a way!” 

Kageru’s uniform is just that – a uniform. It’s practical at its core: Sensei only approved it because it was similar to her training uniform. Its base is a black bodysuit, reinforced with flexible bulletproof material across her chest and back. There’s a utility belt at her hip, black, again, with red accents, spaces for daggers, first aid materials. Her shoes are rubber-soled, soundless. 

There’s a jacket, too, against the cold – she had to beg Sensei for it – but she isn’t wearing it, right now – it’s hardly even chilly. 

But Ashido looks at her like she’s just hung the stars in the sky. It makes her smile almost involuntarily .

“It goes invisible with me.” she says, demonstrating just that. It’s not a full truth: though the materials chosen are picked specially to help with her abilities, she’s the one orchestrating that invisibility by bending the light around the costume, too. The utility belt, too, is thin – more like a belt with pockets than anything else. Her dagger slots are regrettably empty, since U.A. doesn’t allow weapons until second-year, but for now she’s had them filled with bandages, burn cream, plasters. 

“Woah!” Again, that insatiable excitement. Briefly, Kageru wonders if she would have been this excited had she been raised like a child. It sounds exhausting, always being this happy. “That’s so cool! How does it work?!”

“It’s woven with my DNA.” she says simply, her costume again visible as they start walking down. Of course, it’s a blatant lie – her genes have hardly anything to do with her invisibility, except naturally bending light around her body. With a little more effort, she can expand the radius of ‘invisibility’ to encompass her costume, too.

All Might’s somehow smiling wider when they reach the training ground, looking more like an idiot than usual. It’s almost inspiring how stupid he looks. He faces them, spreading his arms wide. 

“In front of me,” he begins with what Kageru assumes is another interminable speech. Still, she stands as if riveted – because Tooru would be. “Are the heroes of tomorrow. So, wearing your costumes for the first time, never forget that, from now on…”

His eyes flash. Ashido’s hand snakes to hers and holds on tight. 

“...this is your Hero Academia! Plus Ultra!”

All Might takes what feels like years to explain the task at hand: a Battle Trial. It’s a little sudden to throw them into the deep-end so quickly, Kageru thinks, which means everything will be monitored. She can use that to her advantage. 

Someone complains about the teams being picked randomly; someone else explains that it’s because heroes often have to have random teamups in crises. It’s laughable how little her class knows about heroism despite growing up gorged on hero propaganda. 

“I hope we’re on the same team.” Ashido whispers, squeezing her hand gently. Tooru nods back.

They pull the slips; they aren’t on the same team, regrettably. Kageru’s with Ojiro Mashirao, against Todoroki and Shoji. The cold look in Todoroki’s eyes doesn’t promise teamwork, nor does the way he clenches and unclenches his fists while eyeing up the battle ground. Adding evidence to her theory, a few wisps of cold air escape from his hands. But surely he wouldn’t…

Tooru grabs Ojiro’s sleeve. “I think Todoroki’s going to try to freeze the whole building.”

“Uh, really?” Ojiro scratches the back of his head, sizing up the massive building. “Are you sure?”

“Not a hundred-percent,” Kageru allows, “But I think it’s pretty likely. We should at least have some kinda plan for it, right?”

Ojiro shrugs, looking uncertain. Kageru keeps the friendly smile on her face, but she’s already rolling her eyes inside. How did these children even manage to pass the Entrance tests acting like this?

“Right.” She takes charge as they enter the building, locating the fake bomb quickly. It’s an overblown thing, a caricature of a weapon. It looks more like a water balloon than anything else, but this is the first true test she has after the Quirk Assessment. She can’t afford to fail, which means they have to win. “If that really is Todoroki’s plan, one of us should fall victim to it. But he’ll be expecting both of us, which means that it has to look like I’m also incapacitated.”

Tooru thinks for a second, her eyes falling on her boots. A second later, her smile lights up her face. “I’ve got it! So this is what we’re gonna do…”

Ojiro’s drumming his fingers on the wall. It’s an irritating, repetitive noise, so when the battle starts Kageru’s glad to have an excuse to tell him to stop – Shoji has a sense enhancement Quirk, so it’s simply logical that they don’t give away their location. They’re both standing dead-silent, so Kageru hears the ice crackling up the walls lightning-fast just before it arrives and engulfs the room. 

Even with their plan, it’s almost too much. The sheer amount of ice in the area is simply brute-force, Todoroki’s plan to overwhelm them with raw power inspiring – but unoriginal. Kageru’s survived for years against more powerful opponents; Todoroki, by comparison, is child’s play.

She yanks her feet – already on tip-toes in preparation – out of her shoes, shimmers into invisibility. Now, the only thing left in the ice are her boots, but she’s invisible. Todoroki will assume her body’s also there. 

He’s hardly even quiet. He’s walking down the hallway like he owns it, like he’s won – because in his mind, he has won. The two of them are conveniently incapacitated, and the weapon has a circle of untouched ground around it. 

It would be a good plan – a great one, even – if Kageru was a normal first-year. 

But she’s not.

His loud footsteps mask any echo hers might have made. It’s almost laughable how easily he goes down, his hands pinned behind his back, flat against his own sides – sure to hurt himself if he tries to use his Quirk. It hardly even strains her injuries. 

Kageru ties the capture tape around his hands tightly, hauls him up. She has to remember to soften, look calmer as she spins him around. She presses his hands to the ice at Ojiro’s feet. 

“Melt it.” 

He looks up at her insolently, looking mutinous at the failure of his plan. Kageru sighs. It would be so much easier to threaten to break his arm, but the video-feed is monitored and her classmates can hear everything. Though, they are meant to act like villains, so it’s hardly out of character if she…

“Do you know, there’s five ways I can break your elbow right now?” She even affects a fake laugh, her normal intimidating mannerisms adapted to caricature. “I can try any of them out. I don’t think you want me to, though. So melt – the – ice. Now. ”

And just like that, he does. Kageru’s surprised All Might didn’t intervene, but he seems to have swallowed the fake – except, not really – villainy as just a bit. 

Ojiro casts a concerned look at her as soon as he’s freed, propping Todoroki up in the corner of the room. “Are you okay? You don’t have shoes on.”

“Oh, don’t worry about me! I’m totally fine.” Tooru grins, flashing a thumbs-up. She glances out of the window, seeing Shoji still outside, seemingly waiting for Todoroki to secure the bomb. “About Shoji–”

“What if I run down and attack from the front? So you can sneak around and attack from behind?” He volunteers, tail flicking sheepishly behind him.

Kageru almost falters at him putting her exact plan into words: it’s a welcome change from watching her classmates blunder around like idiots all the time. 

“That’s exactly what I was thinking. Make sure you run loud, and attack flashily, make him think I’m not there.”

Ojiro nods, sprints down the corridor. Like Todoroki, he makes no effort to disguise his steps, and Kageru’s grateful for it: it’s much harder to be silent when running, and though she’s close to soundless she knows that if Ojiro was quieter she’d be heard clearly. 

Kageru practically throws herself down the stairwell, exiting the building through the fire-escape just in time to see Ojiro charge at Shoji. She creeps up from behind, analysing the mutant boy’s Quirk: the webbing between his limbs is translucent, which means it would hurt to rip through. His extra limbs make him harder to flip, but again, not impossible: he relies on his upper body, which means she can easily tackle him. He wins with brute strength, but she has speed – and surprise – with her. She’ll be favouring her right arm slightly, but if she goes in fast enough he won’t be able to tell.

She takes a second to appreciate Ojiro: he’s clearly well-versed in martial art, leaving few openings for his opponent to take advantage of. That blind charge was clearly a feint, then, and a good one at that: she’d expected a novice, but he deftly worked against Shoji’s Quirk. 

He couldn’t hold on forever, though. Kageru waited, and waited – and then, when he overextended herself, she went in. 

Knee, ribs, sternum, pin. And Shoji was down. Ojiro took his cue, throwing himself onto the boy’s legs so Kageru could tie his hands together. 

“Villains win!” All Might’s tinny voice came through her speaker, and she smiled with pleasure at Ojiro. He grinned back.

“Let’s go!” she cheered, pumping her fist in the air as Ojiro helped Shoji up with an apologetic smile. He quickened his pace to walk beside her. “That was very good martial arts, Ojiro-san. How long have you been training for?”

“Since I was about three.” he seemed – like the rest of 1-A – happy enough to answer her questions. “My parents own a dojo, so it was kind of natural. And as I grew older I realised I had to compensate for my fairly plain Quirk.”

“I see. What martial arts do you do?”

Ojiro flushed as he answered, his tail flicking faster. Kageru notes it, files it away: his tail moves according to his mood. “Karate, judo and tae-kwon-do. I’m a black belt in all of them.”

A cold feeling brushes its hands down Kageru’s spine. Stupid, she chides herself mentally, digging her nails into her palms to ground herself. All this time, she’d been mindlessly appreciating Ojiro’s abilities, completely forgetting her true purpose. His martial arts didn’t make him interesting or cool. It made him dangerous. If she ever had to fight him, they’d be similarly matched. It would be a difficult fight. 

And she’d been fool enough to forget it. If she needed any more proof that U.A. made her sloppy, here it was: her first reaction to an incredibly dangerous opponent had been interest rather than caution. 

In the field, for a spy, that was unforgivable. If Sensei knew, if he felt even a hint of what he’d call disloyalty, it would be the room for sure. 

And Kageru would kill to avoid that.

All Might praises them lavishly when they get back to the training room. He yaps for about five minutes straight about their plan, their teamwork, their coordination, Ojiro’s martial arts prowess, Kageru’s expertise and quick thinking. 

“Can anyone break down this team’s strengths and weaknesses?” he asks. Yaoyorozu’s hand shoots up immediately.

“Todoroki was confident in his Quirk’s power, and had an innovative strategy. However, he had no backup plan in case his own failed – which it did. He was overconfident and didn’t use stealth, and also didn’t utilise his partner well. Though Shoji put up a very good fight against Ojiro and did what he could, he shouldn’t have gone with Todoroki’s plan. Also, he should have worked out that something was wrong after Todoroki didn’t respond via comms. Ojiro fought well and worked well with Hagakure, who thought of a very impressive plan and freed her teammate after laying a trap. The two of them could have used their comms devices better, though.”

Sensei was right: Yaoyorozu is nothing short of lethal. She’s consistently ranked first place across elementary and middle school in her entire district, and Kageru can see why. Even All Might looks nonplussed, settling for a weak nod. 

“Indeed! Thank you, young Yaoyorozu, for that breakdown. For this battle, I’d like to name young Hagakure as the MVP. Can anyone tell me why?”

Again, Yaoyorozu’s hand shoots up. Kageru wants to roll her eyes: doesn’t it get tiring being such a teacher’s pet? Though – her mind flashes to Sensei, reading his microexpressions – she’s hardly any different. 

Todoroki breaks her out of her thoughts by speaking unprompted. “The initial plan was – I’m assuming – her idea. She took advantage of my overconfidence, pinned me efficiently, and forced me to free her teammate once she had me in a compromising position. Afterwards, she attacked Shoji with precision, incapacitating him quickly. She made sure she was hidden at every turn.”

He speaks monotonously, almost robotically; it’s almost scary how lifeless his eyes are when he speaks. His brows furrow, though, after he’s done, locking onto Kageru with an intensity that burns. She wants to stare him down, but Tooru wouldn’t. So she ignores it, pretends she doesn’t feel it at all. 

All Might clearly isn’t cut out to be a teacher; he flounders for something to say after that concise explanation. “Quite right, young Todoroki!” he manages to praise eventually. 

Todoroki’s still watching her, even after All Might switches topic to the next battle and Ashido finds her, grabbing her arm, gushing about how cool she looked, how well she fought. 

It’s unnerving; she doesn’t know what he wants. 

But she knows that she’s certain to find out soon.  

Chapter Text

The rest of the Battle Trials are fairly nondescript. Midoriya and Bakugou’s trial is more interesting than most, and Kageru notes down what she sees: long-term rivalry. A malfunctioning Quirk. Bakugou’s battle instincts, which – for a first-year – are fairly impressive. He works fast. He doesn’t hesitate. It’s a good place to be in, at the start of the year. Midoriya’s Quirk does come through, finally, and it wins them the battle – but what Kageru is more suspicious about, is All Might’s reluctance to end the battle. 

She wants to follow when she sees Midoriya sneaking off to talk to Bakugou: she knows there are answers to find there. But it’s too suspicious: the security cameras would see, and besides, Ashido’s calling her to come to homeroom before Aizawa gets mad. 

Whatever secrets Midoriya’s hiding, they’ll have to wait. 

By now, it’s predictable that whenever Aizawa says something exciting, 1-A just can’t help but explode into noise.

This time, it’s the announcement that they need to pick a president and vice-president. 

Kageru doesn’t particularly care – although being in a position of authority would be good to show Sensei she can do her job well, she knows that the roles are more symbolic than anything. At most, she might be asked to supervise homeroom if Aizawa had to leave suddenly. No matter how hollow, though, Class Presidencies still suggest some kind of respect, the students in question tend to be more respected and favoured by teachers as well. The perfect role to gather intel.

Iida’s hand shoots up, stiff as a tree. “Aizawa-sensei! How should we pick who is elected to these prestigious positions?”

Aizawa yawns: it seems to be his perpetual state, tiredness. “I don’t care. Just don’t bother waking me up.”

With that, he goes to sleep – or seems to. Kageru keeps her face tilted normally, but out of the corner of her eyes, she watches him like a hawk. If he really was sleeping, he wouldn’t have gone limp the second he entered his sleeping bag. It was a way to make him seem like less of a threat—and it was working, because the class had devolved into muted, but still heated, squabbles about who was going to be president. 

If Aizawa’s watching, Kageru has to stand out. And if that means organising this rabble of a class…

Well. She’s had to do far worse. 

She raps her knuckles on her desk. Immediately, the rest fall silent, looking around for the noise.

“Why don’t we conduct a vote? Each person gets one vote, and people can’t vote for themselves. Then someone counts the votes, and the person with the most becomes president, and the second-most becomes the vice. Easy-peasy!”

Granted, she just repeated what Iida was already mumbling about, but with more gravitas. It’s a skill he should learn, and better now than never. Screaming at his classmates constantly won’t make him well-liked. 

“That’s a good idea.” Yaoyorozu nods at her, already pulling pieces of paper out of her arms. Kageru was about to pull out her refill pad, but if it makes Yaoyorozu happy then she won’t argue about it. Hopefully, suggesting the vote was good enough for Aizawa-sensei’s view of her. 

Kageru scribbled down Yaoyorozu’s name on her slip of paper before folding it and handing it to Iida, who had volunteered to collect the votes. Yaoyorozu and Iida counted each slip out, adding them to the pile. 

Apparently, a vote was not at all ‘ easy-peasy’ , especially when conducted with students who knew nothing about each other. 

“Um…” Yaoyorozu’s face was drawn into an uncertain frown. “It appears we have a three-way tie. Between myself, Iida-san, and Hagakure-san.”

She glanced at Aizawa—still faking sleep—helplessly. Her? What on earth has she done to make these heroes pick her for a position of power? Yes, she’d tried to organise the vote, and she was pleased that she’d managed to play Tooru well enough to sway them, but she hadn’t actually thought she’d be selected for the role. 

The classroom, for once, was quiet. She floundered a little, then spoke up with more conviction. “Perhaps we should have another vote from that pool of candidates?”

“That sounds- acceptable.” Iida spluttered, red in the face as if someone was accusing him of rigging the votes. 

This time, Midoriya handed out the papers and Sero—who volunteered to help him count them—collected them in: apparently, the president-elects couldn’t be trusted not to rig their election. So much for U.A. being a pillar of democracy . 

“Right! So, with ten votes, Yaoyorozu-san!” Midoriya said, looking up and smiling nervously at her. “With six votes, Hagakure-san! And with, um, four votes, Iida-kun.” He aimed a sympathetic smile — that looked more like a grimace — at the latter, who gazed down at his desk in dejection. 

“Congratulations!” He said, his voice cracking. It was hardly that important; if Kageru didn’t need to prove to Sensei that she was making friends with the heroes, gaining their trust, she would have given him the position in a heartbeat. The most important thing was, she’d done well. She’d been Tooru, through and through.

And it had been easy. 

Which meant she could do it. She could fulfil her role.

If Kageru really was Hagakure, she might have found it endearing how much Ashido talks. For now, though, it’s simply infuriating. 

She keeps up a steady stream of chatter all the way down to the cafeteria – Kageru’s realising that it’s a theme, with her – and though she finds the energy to respond properly, the adrenaline wearing off means her arms and back are aching worse than ever. 

One advantage of being in an overfunded hero school, though, is the lunch. 

With just one word, she can eat whatever she wants. One course, two, three, even five if she wants it. Lunch Rush can make it in mere minutes. She can go back for food as many times as she likes. Of course, she won’t – eating too much leads to sloppiness, and that’s the one thing she can’t afford. Sensei, too, wouldn’t be pleased if he saw his tool gorging itself in the middle of the day. Like a child without restraint.

But… it’s nice to know that, after a long day of training, after the room if she has to go, there’s at least one way she can draw comfort from her mission. 

Kageru eyes the featured meal: it’s miso soup, filled with seaweed, tofu, vegetables. After heroics, it makes her mouth water even looking at it. She wants it, and badly: she can imagine the warm broth, the tofu soft in her mouth. 

She tears her eyes away; asks Lunch Rush for cold soba. It’s served with vegetables and tofu, too, so she can’t complain that it’s less nutritionally rich. Miso just has so much salt. She remembers eating it once, on a mission. It was so salty she felt sick; she could imagine Sensei’s disappointment at her lack of control clear as day, even now. 

So she takes the cold soba and pointedly ignores the miso soup even when Ashido takes it, picks a table for them to sit down at. All the while, the soup is calling to her. But she ignores it, because that is what it means to be a soldier. Control. Discipline. It’ll make her a better tool. 

She finally decides to tune into what Ashido is actually saying instead of just responding with cheerful interjections. “...do all that?”

“Hm?” she asks, tipping her head, pretending she’d been absorbed in her soba. “Sorry, what’d you say?”

“Oh, I was just wondering where you learned to do all that, like, restraint stuff. That you did on Tod’roki.” The last word is slurred – more than a little – around the mouthful of soup Ashido takes. “Seemed r’ly cool.”

Tooru laughs sheepishly, rubbing the back of her neck as if she’s embarrassed by the praise. “Aw, really? Thank you! I honestly just watched a ton of tutorials, since I didn’t really have access to a martial arts tutor or something.” 

If tutorials were the same thing as Sensei watching from a screen – or sometimes, before it, in person – then, technically, she wasn’t lying. 

Except she shouldn’t care whether she was or not in the first place. Kageru’s stomach is cold, her head aches, and she doesn’t understand why she keeps getting these little thoughts excusing her from her necessary actions. She has to do this. She wants to do this. She can’t – won’t – just excuse herself like that. She has to lie. She will lie.  

It’s an inevitable fact, one that she’d accepted easily even before coming to U.A.

So she won’t let the knowledge sting. She’s thought the thoughts, but they haven’t shown on her face. Which means she hasn’t failed – yet. She can still correct this. She isn’t Kageru here, she’s Tooru. 

She can keep going.

Kirishima comes down late. 

As he’s eyeing the cafeteria for an empty table, Ashido spots him and waves him over enthusiastically. 

Kageru sighs. 

He’s not the worst person to be talking to, but he’s hardly the best, either. His enthusiastic personality’s clearly a facade, and the skittish behaviours behind it are off-putting at best, frustrating at worst. 

But Tooru wouldn’t think that. 

“Hey, Kirishima! How’d you find the Battle Trial this morning?” she asks, well and truly in Tooru-mode. Kirishima looks overwhelmed by the warm welcome, but replies quickly enough, setting down his tray. 

“Oh! It was pretty good, I was with Sero against Tokoyami and Asui.” He peels the packaging off his fibre bar as he speaks, “They won, but it was still a good experience. Watching Tokoyami’s Quirk at work was seriously cool.”

“That rhymed.” Ashido chips in, grinning. “Quirk at work.”

Kirishima throws her a smile in acknowledgement, addressing Kageru again. “Your battle was so manly. It was amazing how you managed to just, like, restrain Todoroki in one shot! Especially when he’s got such a strong Quirk.”

“Thanks so much!” Tooru ducks her head a little under the praise. “I mean, the Quirk isn’t everything if you can’t defend yourself, you know? Like, everyone has their weak spots.”

Ashido taps her chopsticks on the edge of the tray. “That’s what I said!”

Kirishima’s shoulders hunch in a little as if he’s sheepish, his hand rising to scratch his head. “Yeah, yeah, I know.”

“Something wrong?” Tooru interrupts, tilting her head. If Kirishima’s ashamed or mistrustful of his Quirk, it would be useful information. 

“Oh, um…” Ashido’s face suggests she wanted to take what she’d said back, looking at Kirishima uncertainly. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have brought it up; it’s kinda private.”

Kageru wants to pry. If there’s weakness to be found, she wants to access it. But there’s time, and the most important thing right now is being Tooru. A kind, respectful girl who wouldn’t pry into others’ secrets. “Oh, I get it! Don’t worry, it’s totally fine.”

“No, I don’t mind.” Kirishima’s tone is somber, but he meets her eyes with determination. “I guess, I’ve never really thought I had a heroic Quirk. Between growing up with no heroes that looked like me, and – um, this is kind of hard to admit, but – I was bullied in middle school, so my self-confidence wasn’t really… very high, you could say.”

“Kirishima-kun, I’m really sorry…” Tooru spoke in a hushed, reverent whisper – already bored. She might as well go back to her salad. So what if he was bullied? Millions of children dealt with bullying. Thousands dealt with worse. If bullying – just some cruel words or small physical problems – were the limit of her issues in her childhood, she would have counted herself lucky.

“No!” Kirishima shakes his head emphatically. Tooru can just feel the speech coming, and has to work not to let her eyes glaze over or her body language falter. “I don’t wanna dwell on it, and I don’t want sympathy. I’m here now, so all I wanna work towards is just being a hero. The best hero I can be!”

“Plus Ultra!” Mina grins cheesily to defuse the serious atmosphere, and – impressively – it works. Kirishima softens, smiles at them both more calmly. 

“D’you know wh’t we’re doin’ after lunch?” Ashido swallowed her mouthful of soup in the middle of the sentence so her last few words came out unslurred. Of course she still hadn’t looked at the schedule. At this rate, she’d probably walk into Heroics when they had Japanese Lit. 

“Hero lessons again.” Tooru supplies. “It’s kinda weird how they’re split across lunch. I feel like it’d be more efficient to have them in one block, right?”

“Totally. I mean, there’s only so much you can do in fifty minutes, so having it as one three-ish hour block woulda been perfect.” Kirishima nods along. 

Ashido hums thoughtfully, stuffing her face with another tofu-rich mouthful. It makes Kageru feel sick again, so she takes a large bite of her salad to try and ignore it. “But wha’ about if people get injured? Then I guess lunch is a good break to go to Recovery Girl, right?”

Kageru concedes the point, still eating her salad. She’s always been a quick eater – ten minute lunch breaks do tend to have that effect – so it’s gone in another few bites. Ashido gapes at her like she’s an alien, ironically. 

“Where did it go? ” she cries, waving her soup spoon at her incredulously. “What the heck? It was literally just there?”

“Where did what go?” Kirishima sighed, apparently unsurprised by his friend’s theatrics. “You watched her eating it.”

Ashido stuck her tongue out. “Yeah, but it’s been, like, three minutes! No one eats that fast! Did you inhale it or something?”

“I’m just a fast eater.” Tooru shrugs, smiling. Most of Ashido’s miso soup is still in the bowl.

“That’s not just fast, though, that’s like, alien speed.”

“If anyone’s an alien, isn’t it you?” Kageru slipped through for a second, the blunt, laughing comment falling out before she could help herself. She freezes, tries to course correct – but luckily, Ashido has thick skin. 

“Shut up.” She laughs it off easily. “You could be the ugliest person ever under that invisibility, and I’d never know. It’s actually unfair.”

“So you think I’m ugly?” Tooru banters back. It’s… nice, this easy veneer of friendship. If she keeps it that way – just a veneer – then she can have it. It’s okay, because she knows it’s fake. Even if she pretends it’s not. And now she knows: Tooru can be sarcastic. Tooru can be fun and say things that come to mind naturally. The heroes won’t notice. 

Ashido doubles down. “Uh-huh.”

“ Rude. ”

“You called me an alien! ”

“Was I wrong?”

“Well–” that shuts Ashido up. She clearly thinks for a comeback, but comes up empty, eventually settling for fake-pouting and taking another bite of her miso soup. Tooru laughs airily, joined by Kirishima who’s also finished his lunch. 

“Didn’t you literally want your hero name to be Alien Queen anyways?”

Ashido howls, “ Eijirou! The betrayal! Really? You’d sell me out like that for someone you met yesterday? ”

He laughs, hard, the shyness falling away. Kageru much prefers him like this. Mina pouts again, hugs her tray like it’s the only thing she can trust anymore. 

Kirishima opens his mouth to speak. 

An alarm rings out, disorientingly loud. Kageru sees first-years around her panicking immediately, but their upperclassmen — much more experienced — jump into ‘crisis mode’, remaining calm, standing up to corral students towards the exits. A fire alarm?

“ Students! There has been a Level 3 facility breach! Please make your way calmly to the fire exits where you will be met with your homeroom teachers! ” A chirpy, high-pitched voice calls out — Principal Nezu?

Ashido’s frowning, still caught between surprise and confusion. Kirishima – aligning with the nervousness Kageru had found in him — looks paler, gripping the edge of the table. She pulls a scared, confused look onto her face, speaks fast and loud. 

“What? A breach? As in, there are people on U.A. grounds? But isn’t this one of the most secure places in the world?” she cries as the three of them are swept away in the crowd to the exit. The third years are trying — unsuccessfully — to restore some form of order, but their efforts are mostly derailed by first-years screaming, pushing, and overall acting like children. 

Kirishima looks more composed now, but still frantic as he yells back, “It’s supposed to be more secure than Tartarus! I don’t get it either!”

“Come on!” Mina takes charge, directing them to a pocket of space where there’s room to breathe. “Let’s wait here till the crowd clears out.”

“Do you think there are villains here?” Tooru asks, voice high and afraid. She could laugh — she already knows there are villains in U.A., because she’s the living poster child for them. She honestly suspects Sensei has another mole, but she can’t tell for sure. Possibly in Business or General Studies.  

Ashido shakes her head emphatically, but she’s biting her lip as she does. Interesting — she’s putting her own fear aside for their sakes. “Definitely not! And besides, our teachers are all heroes, and All Might himself is here. They can’t do anything while All Might’s here, surely?”

“Yeah!” Kirishima nods fervently, cheered by the mention of All Might. “He’ll definitely defeat any villains hanging around.”

“You’re right.” Tooru smiles in relief, trying to inconspicuously look around the crowd of students at the gate. 

It’s nothing but paparazzi. The sight should bring her relief — it does for Ashido and Kirishima, who clutch each other with a sigh — but instead, it sets her mind spinning. She pantomimes safety with her classmates, but her eyes are still fixed on the press pouring through the gates. 

The gates, which are strangely warped, the metal almost falling away… wait.  

The gates, which have been decayed. 

Tomura. 

Kageru turns around, strains to see over the crowds of students. Trying to see if — against all odds — she can spot that blood-red gaze or that shaggy light hair. 

Because right now, Shigaraki Tomura is in Japan’s most secure facility. Undetected.

The situation’s cleared up fairly quickly: apparently, Iida had the bright idea to have Uraraka levitate him above the crowd and clear up the misunderstanding. Exit Sign Iida, his friends have taken to calling him. 

Aizawa seems less than impressed: more than anything, he seems annoyed that the incident interrupted his nap. There’s short-sightedness there, Kageru observes, taking the break-in at face value. He’s not thinking seriously. Or, worse for her, perhaps he is — and it’s hidden. There could be an investigation going on right now. 

“Any questions before my announcement?” He asks, looking more than ready to move on as he shuffles the papers on his desk. 

Yaoyorozu stands up. 

“Sensei! I would like to withdraw from the Class Presidency and nominate Iida Tenya in my place.” She starts. Kageru’s eyes snap to her almost instantly. Resign? What for? “He acted with speed and calm during the security breach and alerted his fellow students to the false alarm, an action befitting of a leader.”

And just like that, Kageru’s eyes glaze over. Heroes and their fake morality. But Tooru thought differently: so Kageru raised her hand. 

“Come on, I don’t think that’s fair.” She says with a frown. “I mean, the class voted for you for a reason, right? It’s the second day of school, you can’t say you’d be a bad president just from one incident!”

“I agree. We often lack the foresight needed to make such shadowy predictions.” Tokoyami—seemingly for the first time—chimes in. More than a few heads turn at his grave proclamation, but Tooru nods along.

Yaoyorozu hesitates, drawn between wanting the position and her stance. “Well… I still feel I’m not completely suited for the position.”

“That sounds like something a leader would say, but I dunno.” Someone—Kaminari?— speaks up. Yaoyorozu looks like her resolve is about to crumble, wavering and looking around the classroom uncertainly. 

Aizawa still hasn’t spoken. It might be apathy, but Kageru’s starting to sense something else from him. His propensity for “logical ruses”, the rumours that he’d expel entire classes only to re-enrol them later on, his habit of staying silent, watching what was going on: it all hints at something deeper. Something dangerous.

“How about this?” Tooru speaks up. “What if Iida’s our class president and you and I can be, like, joint vice-reps?”

“I vote yes!” Ashido yells, hands cupped around her mouth. Kirishima shoots an embarrassed grin at her and gives Kageru a thumbs-up. Yaoyorozu looks like she’s about to cry: she hopes she doesn’t. She doesn’t think she could comfort someone crying , not even as Tooru. 

She takes a breath, looks at Tooru gratefully. “That sounds… perfect. If Aizawa-sensei will accept it, of course!” she whips around to bow in Aizawa’s direction. He just waves a hand, an apathetic shrug following soon after. 

“Fine by me.” He waits for any other input—Kageru sits down with a slow breath out—and continues. “Now, for my announcement: we have a field trip tomorrow.”

His eyes flash red in warning, silencing the class that was about to start talking— again. “We’re taking a trip to the USJ: the Unforeseen Simulations Joint.”

Kageru just about hears Kaminari leaning over to Sero behind her: “I thought he was talking about Universal Studios Japan, the heck?”

His hearing apparently just as good as hers, Aizawa levels a Quirked glare in Kaminari’s direction. He gulps and sits ramrod straight, a quick “ sorry, sensei! ” escaping him.

“You are allowed to wear your hero uniforms if you so wish, but bear in mind that they may be more hindrance than help considering you are not familiar with them and you could be placed in an environment where they are more of a liability.” He’s clearly reading off a script, his bored voice monotonous, “School starts at the normal time, and you will return home as normal. The supervising teachers will be myself, the Space Hero: Thirteen, and All Might.”

Kageru tunes him out after that, mind racing. Press break-in. Tomura. Field trip. All Might. Sensei. Tomura . The pieces click into place one by one, and the picture it makes is clear as day. 

By this time tomorrow, All Might could be dead. 

Kurogiri’s waiting in the apartment when she arrives, so all she has time to do is put down her backpack before he opens a portal to their base. Her U.A. uniform, pristine and ironed to the point of perfection, is out of place: Sensei’s spent money on keeping this place secure, but not beautiful. 

“Kageru.” His voice announces her arrival. Tomura—ever the favourite—lounges at the bar in a way that fills her with fear to even think about imitating. 

“Sensei.” she bows from the waist, nodding at Tomura as she rises. “Hello, Tomura.”

He grunts in lieu of response, toying with a dirty wineglass and watching the bare ceiling bulb glint off its surface. Kurogiri steps behind a bar and begins to mix a drink—it’s nothing stronger than lime soda, though Tomura likes to pretend otherwise—and smiles at her. Well, she calls it a smile. His eyes narrow in a friendly way. 

Kageru knows there’s something different about him than the other Nomus. Dr Garaki had her partake in the tests; she’s read his files. His body’s some dead teenager, which does nothing to explain his emotional intelligence, his IQ of 120 where most Nomus are at about 50. It’s one puzzle she can’t solve. 

Sensei cuts through her thoughts: “Tomorrow, there will be an important mission.” He starts slow, an orator to the last, but the flickering glance he gives Tomura belies something different. Kageru reads it as uncertainty, maybe even mistrust. Tomra gives a gruff tch in response, but makes no further comment. His pale eyebrows are furrowed as if he’s having one of his usual tantrums, but this—this is more, somehow. It’s older.

Kageru keeps her expression neutral, especially since she has her suppressor on, keeps her eyes trained on Sensei as she should—but she files this information away. 

Against all odds, Tomura is maturing. 

He’s always had free reign under Sensei, always had access to little pleasures Kageru could only dream of. He plays video games often; the one time she held a console at his request, she had extra training for days. He’s been indulged to the point of ruin. Kageru knows Sensei’s plans for him—he needs an heir for his empire—but she doesn’t know if Sensei realises that Tomura will never be able to do so. 

He’s childish. Impatient. Short-sighted. Sensei’s always played the long game, but here, Kageru sees nothing but dead-ends.

“Tomorrow, we plan to hold an attack during Class 1-A’s training in the Unforeseen Simulation Joint.” So she was right. Sensei doesn’t elaborate, just holds her eyes expectantly. It’s another one of the things he enjoys doing so much, it’s another test: Can Kageru Strategise? If she can’t, it’ll be training. Luckily, she’s already worked this one out. But again, there’s another test, hidden underneath. The test of not sounding cleverer, trickier than Sensei. Being clever, but not so as to be grating. 

“The fire alarm today.” She begins tentatively, and though Sensei gives no outward indication of right or wrong, her survival has always hinged on reading him like a book. He’s pleased. 

“It was a distraction. So someone–” A frown: too vague. She flinches, to Tomura’s scoff. He’s never understood her fear—but why would he? Sensei treats him like his son. “ Tomura, ” she corrects. He wants specifics from his little spy. As he’d say, he wants an indication that all her training wasn’t for nothing. “Could work out the location, date, and time for the trip.”

Tomura claps mockingly. Kageru pretends not to have heard, standing—as she should, as her position dictates—at attention, her back ramrod-straight. 

It’s almost a relief, to be here. As much as Sensei scares her, here, she knows the rules. She knows the expectations. Even the punishments are familiar. She doesn’t know what the heroes will really do, if she steps out of line. They can advertise detentions, lines, suspension all they want, but there’s no way they don’t have something else for those students that, say, act as traitors to Hero society. There have long been rumours about cells at U.A. Deep underground.

She doesn’t understand U.A., doesn’t understand Class 1-A. There are no checks and balances with them, no accounts need to be settled. No favours to be called, no calculated help. 

“Well done.” Sensei finally allows.

He likes to keep up the happy family act in front of Tomura. This, too, is familiar. For as long as she can remember, Tomura has been softer in a way that belies his bloodthirsty urges. He’s long needed to be coddled. Kageru doesn’t need that. She’s just a tool, an action waiting to be completed. Even her name isn’t a name, not really. 

Everyone has two names: Ashido Mina, Shigaraki Tomura, Garaki Kyuudai, Aizawa Shouta. The first one is their family name, their story, their lineage. The one that tells everyone who raised this child, who taught them safety and happiness, good from bad. The second, she’s read, is a given name. A wish, or prediction for what their child could be in the future. Like how Tomura means death, farewell, mourning, sorrow. He’s a harbinger of death by name. 

She only has one name, though. And even that isn’t normal. She can’t even be a normal person with her name, because Sensei has always seen a tool when he looks at her. 

Kageru. 

There's a million ways she can make herself feel like a real person. Breaking the word down into real things. Kage . Shadow. Ru . Current. But it’s all meaningless, because Kageru isn’t a person and even her name proves it. 

Because Kageru, the only name she’s ever known, is just an action. A verb. 

Kageru. To darken. To fade. 

She’s just invisibility waiting to happen. Death waiting to darken someone’s doorstep. The only name she has, and it isn’t even one. 

Well. That’s not true. She has another name. One that she was given long ago, that her parents —if she ever had any—must have given her. 

Hagakure Tooru. Tooru-chan. 

But she doesn’t own that name, not really. 

Hagakure Tooru is a nice girl. A kind girl. A bubbly, vibrant girl that doesn’t have a secret tainting her every conversation. She’s a girl with two parents and real friends and not a drop of blood on her hands. She’s grown up idolising heroes and wants to be a hero even with a weak Quirk. She’s alien and normal and disgusting. Most of all, she’s a girl. Not a tool. Not a spy. Not a weapon. 

Which is why it’s useless to think about what could have been. Because most of all, Kageru is too worthless, too damaged, and too good to be Tooru. She doesn’t want to be some mindless follower of hero society. 

The silence has stretched for too long, but even with her suppressor on, Kageru’s long since worked out the art of keeping her face absolutely serene and attentive. After all, Sensei is always watching. 

He’s scrutinising her blank expression now, searching for something, before he sighs. The minute sound, no more than a soft exhale, sends shivers of panic through Kageru, a chorus: wrong wrong wrongwrongwrong room oh god no not the room. It spirals through her tissue-paper mind. 

“Sit with Tomura.” It’s a command disguised as invite. Kageru betrays nothing as she complies, trying to get her heartbeat under control. She knows it’s not what would please Sensei—he’s always wanted them to be some kind of family, even with all the differences between them—so even though she’s still shaking inside, and her spine feels threaded with fear, she forces a shaking smile. 

Sensei would have let it slide, if Tomura hadn’t noticed. But of course, he does. Her smile isn’t real enough. It’s forced, barely holding on, doesn’t reach her eyes. And Tomura has noticed, and doesn’t have the tact—nor any real love for Kageru—that would keep him quiet. She dreads the reaction she knows is coming-

Tomura scoffs. 

Immediately, sheer pain rips through Kageru, radiating outwards from her suppressor. She stifles a whimper, bites down on her tongue so hard the tip goes numb. No matter what, this is the one pain she can’t show. She can’t show that their happy family act is fake. 

Or she goes to the room. 

It fades, finally. Kageru bites back tears, sits up stiffly. Her smile is strained, but still there. She knows she’s doing it wrong, because the corners of her lips feel pinched and tense, but it’s still something. 

“Tomura, tell Kageru about the plan.” His voice is so different when he talks to Tomura. Soft and patient and almost paternal. Kageru almost whimpers at the whiplash. 

Kurogiri draws closer, presses a glass into her hand to hide the way it trembles. She can’t smile at him, can’t show any gratitude—because there shouldn’t be any. She should be sitting with her brother. Content, happy. She still doesn’t understand how—or why—he does this. She wonders if Kurogiri is just building up the favours she owes him until the debt becomes unrepayable. So he can take advantage of her at some point, when she’s at her lowest. Whatever it is, she can’t do anything to avoid it. She’s helpless as it is. So she tries to ignore the unease when he helps her, yet again.

“We’re attacking USJ. Jeez, it can’t be that hard to understand.” he rolls his eyes. 

Kageru nods, eyes lowered. Familiar enough to react without being told to, deferential enough not to offend Sensei or Tomura—and take a handful of Decay to her already-injured arm. 

“Tomura,” Sensei says it gently, coaxingly, like guiding a wayward child. Tomura groans, as if he’s being punished, rather than treated kindly. His disrespect is terrifying. When she was younger, when she didn’t know better, Kageru would hold her breath when Tomura acted like this, eyes flickering to Sensei to see if he would do anything. 

Now, she knows better. 

“We’ll jam signals and exits. Kurogiri warps the students into different zones. All Might’s there to try and save them, we kill him with an overpowered Nomu. Game over.” he drones. He has the luxury of showing how put-upon he is, having to explain a single plan. Kageru doesn’t: she nods again. 

“I understand.” she says softly. Tomura grunts again, pushing his glass towards Kurogiri to be refilled. Sensei nods in satisfaction. 

“Kageru, meet me at the training annexe. With tomorrow’s mission being so crucial, we can’t afford any gaps.” he commands.

She doesn’t want to. Her arm aches, her back aches. 

She stands up. “Yes, Sensei.”

“I was able to watch your Battle Trial today.” Unusually, he’s there in person. Whatever medicine Dr. Garaki’s managed to synthesise must be working. He’s sitting, leant back, his voice distorted from the mask keeping him alive.

His tone is unreadable: not overtly angry. There’s nothing there for her to analyse… yet. 

“I hope I performed to your satisfaction, Sensei.” she says neutrally. It’s the safest option she has. She can’t think of anything she did wrong: she came up with a plan, pinned Todoroki efficiently, won the match. 

“No.” It lands like a punishment. Her chest tightens. “You were sloppy.” 

She wants to protest—what else could she have done? She made no mistakes. But protesting would be a death sentence. It would be the room. So she bows her head instead. 

“You pinned Todoroki. It was good: efficient. Clean. Exactly how I’ve trained you.” Still, she doesn’t see what the problem is. Is it a new test? Was there a different plan she hadn’t understood? Or… 

She bites her tongue. The realisation hits at the same time Sensei says it. 

“You were Kageru.”

She’d messed up. She’d spent weeks drilling Tooru into her head, learning her mannerisms, her Quirk, her voice. Her little tics. How could she have forgotten? Tooru had trained before the U.A. exams, worked hard like every other applicant. She was strong and capable…

But she wasn’t a soldier. 

She was a girl that had never seen combat before. 

A girl that could plan, yes. Maybe even one that could take down Todoroki with a pin she’d seen on YouTube.

But not one that could do it like a weapon. 

That wasn’t Tooru. It was Kageru. And she’d forgotten that Kageru shouldn’t exist within the walls of U.A.

Sensei can see the realisation, the fear on her face. She forces her voice out, forces some response. Anything that will get her away from the room, because if this doesn’t merit it then nothing else could. It’s the worst mistake she could have made. “Sensei, I swear it won’t happen again. I–I won’t fail you again.”

“No, you won’t.” he agrees, smiling. “Because I’ll train you out of it.”

She swallows. She’s well-trained enough not to let her confusion slip out, but training her out of it doesn’t sound promising. She’s tired of pain.

“You won’t be Kageru in U.A.” he continues. His voice is crisp and clear and cold. “You’ll be Tooru. And every flinch, every scream will be on purpose. Do I make myself clear?”

“Y–” his fist lands in her gut. She chokes, braces herself, biting her tongue to stop the reflexive groan falling out. 

“Wrong.” 

Another fist, and the groan can’t be suppressed this time. The pain slows her reflexes, makes it harder to gauge what Sensei wants. He clicks his tongue, displeased. “Wrong.”

You’ll be Tooru. And every flinch, every scream will be on purpose.

Oh. 

He wants her to be a child. He wants Tooru to be a child. One that screams, and cries, and falls over when she gets punched. He wants her to be two different people. He doesn’t care about her survival—when has he? No, he cares about her performance.

“Come on, Hagakure. ” His soft words land like a slap. She’s breathing raggedly, waiting for the next hit.

It lands. She cries out, her stance wavering. She takes a step back. 

Sensei smiles. 

“Better.”

Hours later. Her throat is shredded, raw from screaming. Her knees are raw and bloody from falling over. It’s a new pain, unexpected in a way that aching muscles, bloody scratches up her arms just aren’t. These are playground injuries, and she’s never trained for fragility before. 

A low-level Nomu charges at her. She bats its hands away weakly, letting it unbalance her. She falls backwards, catching herself on one hand, the other shielding her face as she screams. The Nomu freezes so she has time to get up.

Again. 

It kicks out at her this time, and Tooru’s eyes widen as if she’s never considered it to be a possibility. She backs away, looking at the leg, completely blind to its arms over her head until she looks up at the last second. She stumbles back further, punching them away weakly. A fist lands in her sternum; she doubles over, gags and retches like this is the worst pain she’s ever felt. 

The Nomu’s frozen again. As she watches, it spins around, walks back to Sensei’s side.

“Good.” Sensei smiles—actually smiles, the skin below his mask stretching—and snaps his fingers. Tooru stands up immediately, bows to him. She can feel her legs shaking. 

“I’m happy to serve, Sensei.” Her throat aches, her voice wavers up and down, but she forces the words out regardless. 

He eyes her for a second. “I suppose that voice just won’t do for tomorrow. Visit Dr. Garaki before you leave. I expect you not to disappoint me tomorrow, Kageru.”

The name snaps her back to attention, just as intended. She’s not Tooru, anymore: she’s Kageru. If that Nomu charged at her again, she would snap its neck in seconds. 

“Yes, Sensei.”

Dr. Garaki eyes her as she opens the door of his ‘clinic’ that always smells like antiseptic and decay. The crosshairs on his goggles squint and refocus as they scan her up and down. 

“Oho, what do we have here? Does All for One-sama know his weapon is asking for medical attention?”

Kageru hates Garaki. She hates him. She hates him she hates him she fucking hates him. She takes a breath. Antiseptic. Decay. Bleach.

“Yes, Doctor. I came at his request. I wanted—” Garaki clicks his tongue.

Her mouth slams shut of its own accord; her body freezes.

He’s not supposed to do that; technically, Sensei is the only one who’s supposed to punish her. But Dr. Garaki’s a wily man. He’s learned Sensei’s tricks, his rules, and delights in inflicting them on Kageru. She’s sure that, if she told Sensei, he’d be punished—but she can’t. She’s injured too often to risk insulting her doctor. Anything could happen under anaesthesia—or even when wide awake. Who knew when his anaesthetic supplies could, unfortunately, run out?

She’s not supposed to want. And Garaki knows that. And—even worse—he delights in seeing her scared.

It’s different with Sensei. It’s right when he does it, he’s her Sensei, after all. It’s just what he’s supposed to do: bad tools need correction. With Garaki, it’s mockery. And it burns. 

Her eyes flick, unbidden, to the table behind him. White, sterile metal, lined with thin tissue. A row of gleaming scalpels on them, all different shapes and sizes. She knows how each one feels with her blood on it. 

“You’re trembling, dear.” He croons, face warping into a sick smile. “Don’t worry. All tools need servicing occasionally… or replacement.”

“I need a cough syrup, Doctor.” Her voice, already worn thin, wavers with the request. The doctor’s bushy eyebrows scrunch together. He adjusts one of his gloves, latex snapping against skin. It’s close enough to the tongue click that she flinches involuntarily, and Garaki smiles before handing her the flask. 

His fingers brush against hers for a mere second. It’s like touching fire, sharp and burning: Kageru yanks her hand away, scalded. She forces a bow—clumsy, shallow—and all but runs out of the room. 

The smell of antiseptic trails after her.

“What did you think of the Battle Trials, young Aizawa?” Toshinori calls across the staff room, where young Eraserhead’s just walked in. His tired gaze barely shifts. 

“I wouldn’t know, I wasn’t there.” He dismisses immediately, yawning, but Toshinori just laughs.

“Oh, really? Strange, I thought I saw a piece of capture tape trying to press the emergency stop button during young Bakugou and young Midoriya’s fight.” He presses his lips together to avoid laughing at young Aizawa’s disgruntled expression, the faint pink on his ears. “I suppose it must have been young Sero.”

“Fine,” he grumbles, flopping down into an empty chair. Judging by young Yamada’s indignant cry, it was already taken. “Why didn’t you stop Bakugou and Midoriya’s fight? Bakugou was… clearly feral, and Midoriya could have died.”

Ah, Toshinori had expected this. It was exactly the reason he’d brought the topic up in the first place. “Well, I know it seemed a little rash, perhaps–”

“Exceedingly.”

The comment stung more than a little: Toshinori needed no reminder that Aizawa had vocally expressed his disagreement with his joining the faculty considering his position and lack of teaching experience. 

“–but,” he continued as if he’d heard nothing, “During my long tenure as a hero, I’ve learned to trust my instincts. I saw determination in Young Midoriya—and young Bakugou, of course—and I wanted to see where it could take them. That’s all.”

He’d told himself he wouldn’t flaunt his impressively long career, but oh, well. Even All Might wasn’t above a little ego-stroking. 

“I saw recklessness. Desperation that bordered on suicidal.” Aizawa notes bluntly, arms crossed. “And in Bakugou, I saw a dangerous need for victory, and arrogance that risks cruelty. I don’t know which one is worse.”

Toshinori forces himself to quash the desire to defend young Midoriya passionately, settling for a quick observation. “Heroism is all about recklessness. And while young Bakugou can be… intense… he’ll correct himself in due course.”

“Heroism is not about recklessness.” Aizawa snaps. His glare is certainly more intense than it was a second ago, and Toshinori sees Present Mic and Midnight shoot each other a concerned, sombre glance. “It’s our job to ensure the children we teach won’t be killed their first day on the job. If Bakugou’s arrogance, and Midoriya’s willingness to break himself compromise that, I have no qualms with expelling both of them.”

Expel the holder of One for All? It wasn’t possible. Toshinori forces himself to step away from the conversation, at least mentally. He’s done what he set out to do, clear up any misunderstanding that could put him and young Midoriya too close. If Aizawa is so determined to see the worst in his students, let him. 

“As is your right.” he shrugs. “Any students that caught your eye?”

Aizawa replies after a pause, during which he eyed Toshinori with nothing short of disdain. “A few. Ojiro. Hagakure. Ashido.”

“Mm, I saw the way young Hagakure pinned Todoroki. Quite unexpected—though, of course not impossible—for a first year. And young Ojiro’s martial arts skills were equally impressive.” he muses, thinking back to the pair’s clean, efficient movements.

“She was telling Ashido she learned it from YouTube, of all places. She must have practiced hard, though, to execute it so efficiently. She’s clearly a hard worker, to get in with her Quirk.” Aizawa looked half-asleep, arms crossed over his chest. “And Ashido—though she lacks formal training, clearly—takes advantage of her size. This class has drive, if nothing else.”

“That, I agree with. Young Bakugou’s combat instincts stood out to me, in particular. Simply formidable” All Might nods, his attention already returning to the next day’s lesson plans. A field trip so early in the year? U.A. High really had gotten more intense since he’d been. But with a 0.2% acceptance rate, one really couldn’t be too harsh, he supposes. 

Evening, and then night, falls on Musutafu. The barrels of U.A.’s buildings cast their shadow on the city, silent guardians. The documents for the USJ trip have long since been put away, locked securely in a file. Not a single teacher noticed the slight rip in the corner of one of the pages… as if it had simply decayed away.

Chapter Text

Kageru wakes up bright and early, the click of her suppressor turning off the only alarm she really needs. She gets out of bed, smooths out the cotton bedsheet and her one blanket. She plumps her duck-feather pillows; she goes to the bathroom and eyes her outline in the mirror. She pipes out two pea-sized bubbles of toothpaste onto her convenience-store toothbrush, swirls the minty taste around her mouth for two minutes and seventeen seconds. She steps in the shower, spends barely five minutes there. Her soap is scentless, fitting for someone whose only job is to disappear. So is her deodorant. 

Next, she puts on her uniform. The shirt is first: its newness almost gleams in the sterile bathroom. The skirt next, grey, pleated. The tie pins the collar of her shirt securely to her throat. She’s choking. Lastly is the blazer. She slips it on easily: the silky inner lining rasps against her shoulders. 

The socks, second to last—white, coming up to mid-shin—and, finally, patent-leather shoes. Her hands are steady as she pulls the strap through the metal rectangle, loops it back over itself. It fastens with a velcro screech. She laces her arms through her backpack, takes the key off the hook, shuts and locks the door behind her.

The key is placed in the bag, on the smaller ring made to hook them onto. The zip is pulled shut. 

Kageru wakes up on the train to U.A. with a blinding headache and no memory of the morning. 

She walks into Class 1-A, rubbing her aching head before her hand—as if on autopilot—snaps back to her side. She maintains a happy face, nodding hello to Yaoyorozu—now her co-Vice Rep—and waving to Ashido before she sits down, but her thoughts are spinning. 

Of course, it isn’t the first time this has happened. It used to take chunks out of her day, hours and hours of acting with no memory. Like a living corpse. Until Sensei found out. He’d put her off field duty for a month: it was a reward beyond her wildest imaginings, but somehow, he’d managed to frame it like a punishment. She was weak. So weak, she couldn’t even work. 

It became less common after that, enough so that she had some level of awareness of it. She could sense herself floating out, something coming untethered in her chest and unlinking something vital from her mind. Sometimes, just before it happened, she could feel herself floating, almost, above her body. 

She had never woken up like that, though. Maybe it was because of the training? It was the most likely solution: it had been a gruelling session, after all, one that she could still feel the effects of with her slightly aching knees. Had Garaki put something in her cough syrup? No, the mere thought was ridiculous—Sensei would never allow anyone to tamper with his tool mere hours before an important mission. It had to be the training, then.

Whatever it was, Kageru thinks urgently, it could not affect today. Kageru couldn’t affect today. It had to be all Tooru, every second of it. The pain, the fear, the crying: Tooru, through and through. 

Kageru crumbles away. Hagakure Tooru sits in her assigned seat in homeroom, swinging her legs like absolutely nothing is wrong.

The bus-ride to USJ is fairly nondescript. She’s wearing her Hero costume, as she’d wanted—though she doesn’t have her daggers with her right now, it’s still a relief that she can go fully invisible without arousing suspicion. The gaps are filled with pouches that hold first aid materials. She’ll probably have to use them. 

She’s sitting in the aisle seat beside Ashido, who seems determined—as usual—to speak until she physically can’t. 

“No, but I’m literally so excited. ” she gushes for the third time, her pupils actually dilated from excitement. 

Tooru matches her energy, straightening in her seat a bit. “I know, right! And having Thirteen there? So cool!”

“Exactly! Oh my god, wasn’t she at the rescue site for the Oshikawa floods? Didn’t she–” Ashido stuck her hand out, miming the Space Hero’s black-hole fingertips as she made a ‘whoosh’ sound, “–vaccuum up a whole block, or something?”

“Yeah, I heard about that!” Tooru grins, lying through her teeth. What with the U.A. Exams, she’d hardly left the base in the last year. Too committed to training, her studies, the occasional mandatory mission.

Something like nerves thrums under her skin. Irrational. She’s been trained. She is Tooru now, there would be no accidental pins. There would be no soldier in USJ, no traitor. There would only be a girl. 

Try as she might, Tooru can’t shake the unease. And every time Ashido moves, the shadows in her hair distort, and take the eerie shape of blood. 

Midoriya, standing a few feet away from her, just won’t stop talking. Uraraki, beside him, looks equally awestruck. It would be endearing, their twin starstruck gazes, if it wasn’t so offputting: it’s like hearing a ghost mumbling right next to her ear. 

At least Ashido’s had the good sense to shut up. Thirteen’s introduction is mercifully brief. Kageru listens to every word carefully—after all, it wouldn’t do for her to simply zone out—but it’s more fear-mongering and misguided Hero morals than anything else. 

In the meantime, while Aizawa’s taking attendance—again: it’s almost ironic how paranoid U.A. is, all the while missing the real threat to their safety in their midst—she scans the horizon. Sensei hadn’t informed her when, exactly, the attack was to take place, so her only option is to remain constantly vigilant. At any rate, it’ll happen before the exercise starts. 

Though, the most pressing question at hand: Where is All Might? Judging by Thirteen’s leaning over to whisper something in Aizawa’s ear, she has the same question. Aizawa rolls his eyes and responds. It’s far too quiet for her to hear, but she manages to lip-read used up, and, soon after, limit. 

Ah. 

All Might—that ignorant oaf—has put his heroism before what should be his most important job. She can’t imagine that Aizawa would be pleased about that. And there it is: that dark scowl flits over his features as he speaks to Thirteen. Kageru can almost smell All Might’s suspension. Even if there aren’t any truly good heroes, she can appreciate that for now at least, she and Aizawa appear to be on the same page. 

And then she spots it. 

She doesn’t react, but the slightest sliver of purple hangs in the air, writhing, ripping itself apart and outwards. She sees Tomura step out, hand over his face, and only then does she turn, craning her neck to look over and exclaim along with her peers. How utterly stupid: most of them think that this is just a drill.

She can hear Kaminari: “Wait, the training’s started already?”

Children. She’s glad she isn’t one of them. It must be exhausting being constantly so naive and vulnerable. 

“Stand back.” Aizawa’s voice cuts through the din with practiced projection. But it’s not Aizawa, anymore: it’s Eraserhead.

The tired, lax posture is gone, replaced by coiled energy. He leans forward like it's a precursor to a strike: a movement she appreciates, because she sees it in the mirror often. His goggles are drawn over his eyes, the slits casting striped shadows over his grave eyes. 

Class 1-A, shocked into silence by his tone, draws back. Aizawa storms through the gap they leave, looks over the handrail. It’s almost impressive, his composure. He draws back. Kageru watches him like an insect under a microscope: his Adam's apple flexes, throat bobbing. Even if he won’t show it—and she knows him, by now, he won’t—he’s worried, if not outright scared.  

“Everyone, huddle together!”

Again, his voice rips through them like a bandsaw. A few of her classmates flinch—Tooru, too, takes a step back—and slowly, start to obey. Aizawa continues. 

“This is not a drill. I repeat, this is not a drill. Kaminari!” The electricity-user jumps to attention like he’s been shot. “Try to use your Quirk to contact the school. The rest of you, stay with Thirteen.”

Snap. Kageru flinches; the sound of Aizawa’s goggles cracking against his skin makes her freeze. Too close. Too similar–

“Sensei!” Midoriya steps forward, hands clenched into fists. Stupid. Irrational. Aizawa is a pro-hero; he doesn’t need their intervention. “Surely you’re not going to fight a–all those villains by yourself? Your fighting style–”

“Midoriya.” Kageru can barely remember how exhaustion looks on Aizawa’s face with how focused he is now. The corner of his mouth—just barely—turns up into what could, at a stretch, be called a smile. The light glints off his goggles.

“A good hero always has more than one trick up their sleeve.”

With that, Aizawa clears the railing in one fluid jump. 

Thirteen wastes no time in shepherding them towards the exits, throwing Kaminari a phone that he and Sero hunch over. “Come on, students!”

Tooru—scared, exactly like a typical student would be—chances a few worried looks back to where Aizawa jumped. The cameras will see exactly what she should be: an inexperienced student terrified for her teacher. 

Kaminari’s face is white as he looks up at Thirteen. He shakes his head frantically, a curl of smoke rising from the phone. His message is clear: jammed comms. Tomura really has thought this through.

Thirteen doesn’t falter. “Any speed or mind-related Quirks here?” 

“I can run at one hundred kilometres per hour, Sensei!” Iida steps forward, his jaw set. Thirteen nods. 

“Perfect. We’ll do our best to get you out. Run to U.A. and get the faculty.” She instructs, glancing back at the plaza. “Strength Quirks, try to open the doors.”

Sato and Shoji eye each other, then break off from the group. Uraraka follows after a second’s hesitation, looking practically gaunt from fear. They hurry to the doors, Sato at one, Shoji at the other like twin guardians. Uraraka presses her hands to them, the area around her fingers glowing blue. 

Tooru turns just in time to see Kurogiri. 

“Greetings, students of U.A.” he intones, his low baritone—in this new context—chilling. His lamp-like eyes sweep across them like searchlights, never once stopping on Kageru. Sato and Shoji are still, desperately, working to open the gates, but it’s no use: they, too, are jammed shut. Kageru feels a flicker of anticipation; if— when —All Might gets here, there’ll be no clear way for him to escape. 

Kurogiri continues. “Allow me to introduce myself. We—” his indistinct form expands and coils again, “—are the League of Villains. We have invited ourselves into this home of heroes to have the honour of making the Symbol of Peace take his final breath. But he’s not here, is he? Strange; the schedule said something different.”

There’s something wrong. Kurogiri’s eyes—normally vaguely parallelograms—are barely slivers on his face. The smoke around his eyes is glitching , almost, little flickers that—in a person—might have been a tic under his eye. 

And he’s explaining their plan. Not in a calculated way, not to inspire fear. He’s revealing things that make it obvious that–

“You’re the losers behind the break-in yesterday, then. I fucking knew it wasn’t the press.” Bakugou spits. Kageru’s ears prick up. If Bakugou had worked it out, there’s no way Nezu hadn’t. 

Kurogiri’s eyes twitch again.

“You’re never gonna fucking kill him.” Bakugou snarls, palms crackling with firecracker explosions. He couldn’t be a bigger hero fanboy if he tried, Kageru thinks, stepping away from him in distaste. She tries to put Kurogiri out of her mind; she knows her role. As long as she plays it well, there won’t be any punishment. And she can report back to Sensei about him immediately afterward.

“Perhaps—” Kurogiri begins but Bakugou lunges, followed by Kirishima. Tooru gasps, hands flying to her mouth, but she’s rolling her eyes inside. How utterly stupid could you get? Trying to attack a villain made of mist? 

Bakugou figures out his mistake as his predictable right hook phases right through Kurogiri. The most damage it does is displacing the mist slightly. He snarls as he works this out, dragging himself backwards before he, too, tips over the railing. 

Kageru notes it all mentally: Bakugou is a leader, through and through. His combat instincts are good, and he doesn’t panic under pressure. Kirishima: solid, dependable. He’s a follower, but a reliable on. Useful.

“Hmm. Well, this just won’t do.” Kurogiri’s form shifts again, tendrils of mist racing out to envelop them. Thirteen is still in front of them, protectively —Kageru can’t see that it’s helping much—but now she shifts, her hands extending, black holes forming, pulling Kurogiri in—

Until they aren’t, and the Space Hero collapses.

Someone screams. Her body is floating again. She can’t focus on anything except– except–

Ragged fabric. Blood. Blood. Blood on the fabric. Blood on the floo–

For a second, she can’t tell what’s happened—and then she realises. Thirteen’s Black Hole. Kurogiri’s portal. The portals that opened in front of the hero—and behind. Turning her Quirk on herself.

“Tooru-chan!” Mina pinches her arm and she resurfaces. Her eyes are wide with fear—not that Mina can see them—and though she’s back, now, the thankfully brief episode over, she forces her hands to shake. No point in wasting a good opportunity: she’s reacted like Tooru , if involuntarily, and it’s a good moment to capitalise on. 

“Sensei! Thirteen-sensei!” Yaoyorozu cries out, starting forward before freezing, shrinking back. A matryoshka doll pops out from her thigh, missing the lacquer and half the paint. Its unglazed smile stares right through Kageru. 

Easily spooked. Hesitates. Doubts herself. She notes it all, because Sensei will want a report, at the end of this. 

“Well, that was regrettable. But for now, our time together has ended.” Kurogiri’s body begins to whirr. Her classmates press together. 

The last thing Kageru sees before the mist closes around them, is Ashido’s hand reaching for her.

She lands, disoriented, in the fire zone. Of course, the whole of the USJ is monitored. It’s videotaped and CCTV’d from almost every angle, and they can’t risk placing her down the way they would on missions. So she lands on her shoulder, hard, rolling a few paces before she stills. Kageru grits her teeth initially, but remembers—and yelps, a pained wheeze that feels foreign leaving her in a huff. 

“Ow, ow, ow… ” she whines, clutching the limb before standing up. No one else is in the zone with her, apparently. There’s three exits visible to her, two of which lead to the mountain zone and the flood zone. The third is the one she needs to take; the one to the plaza. 

But not yet. Sensei does everything for a purpose. Which means that the reaction training they did—for her to become Tooru—was there for a reason. She would have to react logically while being attacked. And to react in a certain way, she has to be attacked in the first place.

In that second of realisation, hordes of villains stream out from behind rocks. Tooru mimes fear, stepping back—assessing them all the while, working out her chances—like she’s just an ordinary Class 1-A student who’s never seen a real villain before. 

One villain walks a few paces ahead of the group. He has a long, serrated weapon in his hands, like a long staff except with a blade on the end connected with chain links. It’s like Aizawa’s capture weapon, except infinitely more likely to kill her in one shot. 

She can hardly fight back, because she’s Tooru. 

Tooru eyes the exits breathlessly, as if her flight response is kicking in. She allows her hazy outline to waver and glitch. 

And she waits for the villain to attack. 

“Come on, little girl.” The villain laughs, revealing a row of serrated teeth. He has no visible mutations, which means his unfortunate dental situation is a side-effect. Of what, though? Can he transform into a shark? No, that’s useless in the fire zone. “Scared, huh?”

Tooru shakes her head frantically, her legs—visible with her hero costume on—shaking. The villain steps towards her, swinging the hook. She shimmers completely into invisibility, pretending to press the “button” on her Support costume, and bats it away weakly. It clatters onto the rocky ground with a metallic screech. 

“Where’d she go? Where the fuck did she go?” The villain shouts, swinging his hook wildly and hoping to catch her in the crossfire. Tooru stays safely out of range and doesn’t engage. 

And then Todoroki Shouto materialised from another portal. 

He’s been dropped a little more carefully than her—he’s on his feet, at least—which she takes to mean as a sign that whatever’s happening to Kurogiri is mostly solved. He stands up immediately, his left hand lying limp, and conjures a spinning cube of ice in his right hands. 

“Hey! It’s another hero brat!” One of the smarter mercenaries calls out, stomping it’s bull-like leg. Mutation. Likely has enhanced strength. Multiple stomachs? Possible. Tooru notes it all down as she backs away slowly. 

Todoroki’s eyes flash; a wave of warning frost ripples out from around his feet. 

The villains take it as a sign, and charge.

He spares them no thought. 

A massive wave of ice erupts from his hand that Kageru only just evades, standing behind a pillar to let it take the brunt of the impact. The villains are encased up to their necks, the weaker among them already beginning to shiver.

“What are you here for?” Todoroki questions, eyes whipping from one to the other. Trying to decode which one to interrogate. Frankly, she’s surprised he thought of the idea of interrogation in the first place, but perhaps this was normal for the scion of a prominent heroing family. Surely he’d grown up idolising Todoroki Enji, even if his older brother hadn’t. He clearly seems to have picked up his father’s tricks. There’s tremors running down his right arm, and it seems redder than usual. It makes sense; his Quirk is built to self-regulate, but that depends on him using his fire side, too. Does he have some aversion to it? Does that stem from hatred of Todoroki Enji?

It’s an interesting idea, and one that she’ll have to decode later. Her focus returns to Todoroki’s interrogation.

Though he has the right instinct, he lacks the finesse to act on it. Kageru can see which one would crack immediately, and it wasn’t their leader. It’s the one behind him—the second-in-command, probably—that seems shiftiest, that eyes his comrades as if they would betray him. 

By chance, Todoroki stops in front of him, eyeing him none too kindly. Though Kageru’s mission was to observe Tomura and Aizawa, surely Sensei would be pleased that she’d not only managed to pass his test, she’d also observed Todoroki well. 

“You know, I think you have around three minutes before frostbite sets in. It’s not a long time, is it?” he asks the villain in front of him menacingly. He’s trapped in ice and so can do nothing but shake his head fervently, his teeth chattering.

One of the other villains huffs out an incredulous noise. “You–You’re training to be a hero? You think letting us freeze to death is heroic?”

Todoroki rounds on him. “You scum lost the right to your lives when you tried to kill All Might. Now, will you tell me what I want to know?”

Interesting. He respects All Might—perhaps even more than his father. Again, Kageru senses  that there’s more to Todoroki than meets the eye. But shesd stayed here too long, already: she had to hurry to the plaza, now, to make sure she was there to observe.

Stay invisible. Observe. Report.

It’s an easy job, and she’s already had prior warning that all the action will be in the plaza. And this way, she can gather more information on Kurogiri’s strange behaviours. If there’s a glitch in his Nomu, Sensei would need to know about it immediately.

Aizawa’s fighting well: or, at least, competently. He’s taking out scores of villains like it’s nothing, and Kageru glances at Tomura immediately. He’s… surprisingly calm, actually, which is surprising: he’s standing still, feet tapping—counting? Whatever it is, he’s taking the sight of his mercenaries being decimated well. 

Kageru watches Aizawa. His goggles are a good design, shading his eyes so it’s impossible to discern who he’s looking at. But his messy hair works against him; he hasn’t realised that it makes his Quirk activation obvious by its movements. 

He drags a fire villain close with his capture cloth, rams an elbow into its sternum. It self-cremates into a pile of ash.

“Thirty-three.” Tomura murmurs. “Twenty-eight. Twenty-one. Twenty.”

She knows exactly what he’s doing—because she was doing it herself. Once again, his maturity surprises her, but she maintains her composure. Aizawa is getting weaker… and Tomura knows it. 

“Y’know, Eraserhead, I think you’re pretty cool!” He smirked, voice ringing out across the plaza. Many were often surprised by Tomura’s voice, when they heard it first: from a lanky, almost delicate body, that voice ripped out like a chainsaw. “But you’re not invincible.”

Aizawa doesn’t even react. He takes out two—no, three—more villains in one go, squeezing his capture weapon tight around them as they drop, wheezing. 

Tomura’s mercenaries are gone. And now, Eraserhead’s attention is wholly placed on him.

“See, your hair floats when you use your Quirk. When you pause, it falls down.” 

He’s monologuing, Kageru thinks with disappointment. She’d expected better from him, if only because he’d behaved himself remarkably well. Sensei had tried to impart to him time and time again the importance of information, but lessons had always bored Tomura. If she’d reacted the way Tomura did…

Kageru bit her tongue to bring her back to the present.

“And the time in between those pauses—” he lunges forward, inhumanly fast. Eraserhead blocks him with his capture scarf. “—is getting shorter and shorter.”

Tomura grabs Aizawa’s elbow and leans in. “Don’t push yourself… Eraserhead.”

Eraserhead grunts, yanks his elbow out of Tomura’s hold, but it’s no use: the damage is already done. The skin is gone, exposing the muscle beneath, flexing as he clutches the limb close to his chest. Angry red rivulets of blood seep from the wound. 

Tooru’s hands fly to her mouth in practiced horror, a tiny squeak—inaudible—leaving her throat. But before she can stopper her stupid Tooru mouth up again, an unpractised sound leaves her mouth, because she’s just spotted the same thing Tomura has. 

Asui Tsuyu, Midoriya, and Mineta Minoru are on the other side of the plaza.

It’s not worry, exactly: she knows it’s not. She barely knows them. They’re just… useless civilians to her, and if they died she would go on with not even an ounce of grief. It’s just shock. It’s shock, because this was deviating from the plan. 

Tomura’s eyes flicker away even though Kageru knows he’s seen them. 

“Anyway.” he dramatically spreads his arms, a grin tearing apart his dry skin. “I’m not the final boss, hero. ”

Eraserhead whips around, sensing something, but the Nomu is still faster. It’s behind him before he’s even begun to move, and it grabs him and twists his arm until–

Crack. 

Aizawa doesn’t scream. His body goes stiff and then limp like a marionette, and he takes in a high, gasping breath that seems to echo along the plaza. 

Kageru’s chest feels foreign. She feels like she’s about to slip away, so she digs her nails into her palm to ground herself. One. Two. Three. Four. 

There are pink crescents in her palms. Four of them. Her legs are heavy, like lead. The ground is–

She’s thrust back into her body. Aizawa is on the floor; the Nomu pins him down like prey. Lifts his head and slams it into the concrete. Once. Twice. Thrice. One more time. 

Tomura throws his head back and laughs. 

The sound perforates her ears like something punching through a drum. It’s a wet, crunching sound, like being under car tyres. It’s gory and bloody and Aizawa’s head is a mess of skin and blood and bone. 

Tsuyu’s face is ashen. Midoriya looks ill. Mineta is in tears. 

He’s dead. Kageru knows it for sure, the way blood is spattered around him; His capture scarf is practically dyed in it. His skull is a mess of bone fragments by now, his orbital floor shattered beyond repair. Their teacher for a single day, and he’s gone. Just like that. 

Nomu leers down at him, his reptilian beak glinting under the skylight. Eraser is deathly still. 

There is no difference, Kageru knows, to Eraserhead and the other countless dead bodies she has seen. Eraserhead may matter even less, because she barely knew him. She has killed; she has seen others killed. Blood has spattered across her face without so much as a flinch. There is no reason for her to be floating away, except for… except…

“Look at him, Kageru.” he hummed softly, circling around the hero. Kageru kept her head down, trying not to look at the pool of blood, the arrhythmic way it dripped from the arms of the seat the hero was tied into. “So powerless. So ultimately helpless. Isn’t it sick?”

Her heartbeat is in her ears. Tomura is monologuing again. She can’t hear it.

“You can do it—kill me.” His voice was reassuring, soft and silky like the yukata she saw children wearing on Obon or Tanabata. She’d wanted to watch Tanabata so badly, last year. Sensei hadn’t let her. She just—she just wanted to wear a yukata.

The hero was still smiling at her. “Don’t worry, kiddo. I know you don’t want to.”

Kageru bites at the sore in the corner of her mouth. Blood wells up, but she disregards it; she is back to Earth. 

Tomura spins on his heel. 

“It’s a shame All Might isn’t here, isn’t it? Eraser?” He’s talking to a dead body. “Do you think he’d show up if we killed some kids? ”

Fast, faster than his training allowed—or so Kageru thought—he lunges across the plaza, sprints and he’s there—

His hand on Tsuyu Asui’s face. 

It crumbles. From the inside out, from her nose to her large round eyes. Decay works into the gaps left behind by her crumbling cells and reduces Asui to dust. 

Except, it doesn’t. 

Tomura is wide-eyed for a second, and Midoriya punches him in his moment of confusion, a sharp, Quirked movement that sends him staggering back across the plaza. He seems barely fazed by the attack, his red eyes wide.

“Oh, Eraserhead.” he cooes, still holding his hand out in front of him. A soft, reflective smile creeps across his face. “You’re so goddamn cool.”

Bile rises in Kageru’s throat. Because Eraserhead, Aizawa, Aizawa-sensei who was dead a second ago, is holding his mutilated face up and—gritting his teeth—is using his Quirk. And this may well be the last time he uses it; the Nomu—with one click of Tomura’s fingers—slams his head back into the concrete and he goes limp again.

The crunch is more final this time. 

There is no reason for Kageru to be upset. She has met hundreds of corrupt heroes that wouldn’t hesitate to take bribes or leer at a mutant-Quirked girl. She has met one— one single good hero —and if Sensei was to be believed (somehow, his body language seemed off), he’d tried to kill Tomura. And she didn’t know much about Eraserhead, but statistically, it was a small chance that he was a good hero. Who knows how many bribes he’d taken under the table? He’s only an underground hero. He’s got to pay the bills somehow.

There is no reason for Kageru to care whether or not he lives or dies.

But try as she might, there’s a corner of her mind—tucked deep underneath her training, perhaps the original Hagakure Tooru—that’s a child, sitting in front of the television screen and rooting, naively, for the heroes to win. A part that says, “Get up, Eraserhead! Get up one more time!”

It chills her to the bone. 

Because Sensei will make her pay for that small piece of Tooru with blood.

From there, things clear up fairly quickly. Kageru focuses on Tomura’s behaviour, ready to report back to Sensei—he’s calm and collected right up until the first sign of failure, when he begins to go absolutely feral. 

For a minute, they have him. They have All Might in their clutches, ready to die, and then Todoroki, that fucking brat, steps in and saves him in one breath as if it’s nothing. Kageru’s blood turns to ice. They were so close, only to be thwarted by a little boy.

Then the other heroes show up, led by Iida Tenya that stands up there and declares, “ I, Iida Tenya, have fulfilled my duty as your Class President!"

Shots ring out and Kageru isn’t fast enough to throw herself in front of Tomura. She falls, scraping her knee, and blood—and the bullet itself—exit out the back of Tomura’s hands.

Sensei won’t be pleased. She thinks.

“Come on Kurogiri.” Tomura snaps, for all the world like a bitter child, and they vanish. Leaving their monstrous creation to fend for himself against All Might. 

Snipe and Ectoplasm carry Eraserhead away. His chest is still. He’s dead.

All Might and Nomu fight: it’s a whirlwind of punches, and dust from the shattered plaza rises to cloud them as they duel. And then Nomu is flying and All Might is standing, arm raised, a trickle of blood coming from his lip: still fucking alive. 

Kageru slips away to maintain her cover. She finds an outcrop of stones in the Landslide zone that she shimmies into, tucking her knees into her chest. When the heroes come looking for the missing students, she can pretend to have run away and hidden all along. 

Sure enough, a few minutes later, Snipe walks past, his boots crunching on the loose gravel. “Any students in this zone?” he calls. “Aoyama? Jirou? Kaminari? Yaoyorozu? Hagakure?”

“Here!” Tooru calls out, her voice cracking in the middle. She uncurls herself out of her hiding-spot and runs towards Snipe. 

He greets her with a reassuring smile, and she clicks the button on her suit so it becomes visible. He eyes her with obvious relief that she seems unharmed. 

“Hey, Hagakure. Any injuries?” he asks, just to check.

“N–No, I’m fine.” she rubs her hands up and down her arms, shifting on her feet. “Is it over?”

“Yup, s’all a-okay. All Might defeated the villains.” He’s still assessing her—as much as he can, anyway, with her being invisible. Her questions are logical and cohesive, so there’s likely no head trauma—that’s what he’s thinking. “Where were ya all this time, huh?”

“Um. Right here.” She laughs, a little sheepishly. “There were a ton of villains that came right at me, so I just made myself completely invisible and ran away. I mean—” she moves to justify herself, even though she knows Snipe won’t judge her for it, just because it’s exactly the thing a hero student would do. “—I know we’re training to be heroes, and all, but we’ve literally just had our first day at school! There was no way I could fight them all.”

“Clever thing ta do.” Snipe comments reassuringly. “With your level of expertise, ain’t no way you’d be able ta go up ‘gainst them villains. Was someone else in your zone with ya?”

“Yeah, Todoroki. He was so cool, he just froze them all and hurried to the plaza.”

“Right. Well, that’s all the questions I got for ya! Let’s head off, yeah?”

“Right!” Tooru echoes, then falters. “Snipe-sensei, everyone else is okay, right? No one’s injured?”

“Uh…” the masked teacher flounders for the best way to deliver the news, evidently torn between his teacher and hero persona. “Well, ta tell truth, Mr. Aizawa ain’t in the best shape. He– uh, he’s bein’ patched up, though, so we just gotta see if he’ll pull through.”

His body language is guarded, so it’s hard to decipher whether he truly means it or is trying to reassure her just to get her out of there. Either way, it’s there again: that heaviness in her stomach. Like lined lead. 

“It’s that bad?” She assumes a thin layer of professionalism, but allows her voice to waver and tail off slightly. Like she fears the answer to her own question. Snipe sighs again. 

“It sure ain’t good, kid. But y’know, I been workin’ with Eraser for close ta seven years now, an’ he’s a hell of a lot stronger’n people give him credit for. So don’t get’cha hopes down, alright, partner?”

Tooru nods reflectively. She can see Snipe watching her outline like a hawk; the scrutiny makes her want to fade away completely. “I’ll—I’ll try.”

“That’s all we can ask.” 

They’re herded into a group again; they’re muscled away from the USJ by their teachers. Kageru can see the edges of flashing cameras, but all of a sudden, metal barriers rise from the ground—similar to U.A.’s gates—and they’re left with only the indignant noise. 

“Fucking vultures.” Bakugou spits, his usual vitriol something they can all agree with, for once. 

Even for this famously corrupt society, it’s a special kind of perverse to wait outside a villain attack site where a teacher’s just died, trying to get the latest scoop on things. No one replies, but Ashido huddles close to Kageru’s side and mumbles,

“I don’t wanna be alone. Can I sit next to you again?”

Tooru arranges her body language into neat sympathy and nods. She’s so tired that she can’t even bring herself to be irritated when Ashido falls asleep with her head on her shoulder. It’s simply there. A concrete deadweight. Just like the knowledge that Aizawa is—more likely than not, because she’s come to the conclusion that Snipe was reassuring her—dead.

They arrive at U.A., and her “parents” are waiting for her: Sensei’s obviously sent someone. They coo over her and look at Mic—who’s clearly been shoved into the shark’s mouth, handling the hysterical families—with concern and fear. The mother hugs Kageru close. It takes everything in her not to stiffen up. 

They escort her to her apartment, and then—stepping inside with her—they vanish into nothing. Clone Quirk, then. 

Kageru takes off her shoes, and—without looking at the cameras—sits on her knees in front of the TV.

The fraying tatami mat digs into her skin.

“Kageru.” he greets almost immediately. Her head is bowed in deference, but she raises it slightly so he can see her. “Suppressor, please.”

It’s unexpected, but she just about manages to hide her flinch. Her hands find the bracelet—on the coffee table, not that she’s ever drunk coffee there—and slip them on mechanically. Her face flickers into appearance. 

“Much better.”

He takes a long, slow, breath. Kageru keeps her head shallowly bowed and waits for her cue to speak. It feels like a monologue is coming, today. She hopes it isn’t; the only thing inside her head is Aizawa’s head crunching on the gravel, spattering his own blood across the—

Away. Her nails dig into her palms again; Sensei is speaking. 

“Tomura came back none too happy.” he muses. “Though, from Kurogiri’s report, it seems as though everything was quite in order. Some setbacks were to be expected, of course, and—between you and I—it was a very long shot that we’d fell the Symbol of Peace in one go. Don’t you think?”

Kageru doesn’t speak: she’s learned from experience that many of Sensei’s questions are rhetorical, and it’s best to wait for her name to be added to them before she speaks. She’s trained to respond to it, after all. That, and his awful finger-click. 

As she’d expected, Sensei continues. “At the very least, we’ve more likely than not managed to eliminate a dangerous adversary of yours: Eraserhead will be dead by morning, most likely. My, that Nomu was something, wasn’t it?”

Aizawa’s face. His red eye in his blood-dyed red face. Tomura’s hand on Tsuyu’s face. Tomura’s hand on Eraser’s face. The Nomu’s hand tangled in his hair that gave his movements away. Away, away, away.

“Well, nevertheless, it seems that for a large part, Tomura handled himself with grace. Though we cannot afford to become complacent, it seems to me that the League of Villains—as Kurogiri introduced us, though you and I know we are beyond that superficial group—has made an interesting debut.”

His body language shifted. Kageru dragged her focus away from Aizawa’s dead body and back to Sensei. 

“Report, Kageru.”

As always, it’s the name that snaps her back to herself. Something in her posture becomes straighter, deadly. “Yes, Sensei. The plan was largely compromised by All Might’s change of schedule, which was caused by him overexerting himself during his morning patrol. Kurogiri—” 

Ah. That’s right: she was supposed to relay the information about Kurogiri’s—for lack of a better word—malfunction. But something wasn’t right; it was more like a glitch in a computer system than anything else. And—

Kurogiri draws closer, presses a glass into her hand to hide the way it trembles. She can’t smile at him, can’t show any gratitude—because there shouldn’t be any. She still doesn’t understand how—or why—he does this. She wonders if Kurogiri is just building up the favours she owes him until the debt becomes unrepayable.

There’s a debt she has to pay. And she knows this is a big favour to give out. 

“Kurogiri performed his role adequately, transporting the students to the different zones.”

Now, they’re even. 

“Todoroki Shouto was placed in my zone, where he froze all the villains and interrogated them as to their purpose. He seems to have a fondness for All Might, which is strange for the son of Endeavour.” she pauses to gather her bearings. “Tomura analysed Eraserhead’s weaknesses well, deducing that he sustains his Quirk for less and less time each use. He was able to land a major attack on him before Nomu took over and– killed him.”

“I see. Expand on Tomura’s behaviour.” Sensei orders.

“Yes, Sensei.” she bows. “When I arrived at the scene, Tomura seemed undistressed by Eraserhead’s battle prowess, and he was engaged in analysing his weaknesses: his hair makes his Quirk activation obvious, and—as I mentioned—his weakening Quirk. Although he did monologue more than strictly necessary, he was much more mature than previous behaviour patterns suggested.”

Giving reports is the only way she can criticise Tomura, but even then she has to be careful to phrase it in a way that seems detached and impersonal. It can’t seem like an attack. Even now, even delivered so carefully, she wants to hold her breath—waiting for the punishment to drop. She’s been punished for far less.

“Good.” 

She relaxes internally. There’s no other shoe waiting to drop, not today. Sensei continues. “The heroes will be on surveillance for a few days, so there will be no meetings for the next three days. However, I expect a comprehensive report on your new homeroom teacher as well as your classmates by that time. Understood?”

“Of course, Sensei.” 

She can’t sleep. This has never been an issue before: no matter what, her body has long learned that mandated sleeping hours are her only reprieve from training. She sleeps lightly—prepared for attack—but well.

Kageru rolls over again so she’s staring up at the ceiling. The cars outside throw strange shapes onto it, a midnight shadow-puppet show. Usually, she sees benign shapes in it: Sensei, Tomura’s hands, occasionally a knife or dagger. 

Today, every shadow is a blood splatter. And every new headlight that scatters them away is Aizawa’s head thumping on the concrete. 

Eraserhead: the only underground hero with a capture rate higher than 98%. One of the best underground heroes in the world, not that anybody knew of him, really. And he’s gone. 

He could have escaped, truly. He hadn’t needed to fight Tomura after killing his mercenaries. He had sacrificed himself for the sake of his students, whom—he believed—were the next generation of heroes. 

Another headlight. A screech of tyres that morphs into the crack of head on concrete. Splat.

Another one. Nomu fists its monstrous hand in Aizawa’s hair and, again— splat.

Eraserhead is not a good hero. He’s efficient, sure, but statistically, there’s likely something wrong with him. He could be a drug dealer. He could be trafficking his victims. He could have perverse enjoyments that a hero shouldn’t indulge in. 

There—are—no—good—heroes. Kageru knows it. There was one—and he’s dead, now.

“I know you’re not a villain. So it’s okay. It doesn’t matter. We all die one day, right? It’ll be ea-”

The bang. 

The breath. 

The body.

He slumps in his chair, smoking hole in the side of his head. 

He’s dead because of her. 

Sensei’s right, she ruins everything she touches. Everyone who’s ever shown her true kindness is dead, or worse. It’s hardly a coincidence that Sensei got much crueller after his fight with All Might that left him… how he is. Before that, he was occasionally kind to Kageru. Even if it wasn’t much, it was something—and he was on death’s door because of it. She’s a parasite, fit for nothing but being a tool till the day she inevitably dies. 

It’s almost comforting. Soon enough, she’ll be gone. And no one in the world will mourn either Kageru, or Hagakure Tooru. 

With that thought, she drifts off to sleep.

Chapter Text

In the end, the only sympathy U.A., the manufacturing plant of heroism, conjures for the attack is a day off school. Their phones having been confiscated before they were picked up by their parents—supposedly for their own safety, more likely to prevent information being leaked on social media— means that Kageru has barely anything to do.

She sighs, and turns her scarce attention back to the review of her Japanese Lit textbooks. Just because Sensei had suspended her training didn’t mean that she wasn’t being watched at all times, she supposed. Her desk is too bright, with a ray of sunshine falling right on her hair. Her cells distort light on its outward journey to people’s eyes, not inwards, so—unfortunately, though she has some measure of heat resistance—she’s not quite immune to overheating. Regardless, Sensei would be displeased if she studied anywhere else but her table. It would be undisciplined, after all.

On reflex, she reaches for her phone—and then sighs in frustration. She could attribute it to the stress of yesterday, but it’s really just boredom. She’s studied this textbook already; she placed fourth in Japan for a reason. 

Ping. She whips around for the source of the noise, though that’s not the alert of any of her alarms, and then turns back to her laptop, where her U.A. inbox has been illuminated by a small 1. It’s just an email. 

From: <[email protected]>
To: <[email protected]>

Subject: sdfsldjf

Tooru-chan im so bored!!! i cant believe im resorting to sending an email its terrible!!! its like the quirk wars all over again like i’m sending a letter by pigeon mail ughhhh. I guess it’s still better than boring old school though :(

anyways, wyd??

It’s not a cryptic message, once she’s looked up the terms “pigeon mail” and “wyd”. Kageru considers whether she should send a response back, but rationalises it with the fact that out-of-school communications are essential for rapport-building. And hopefully, she can find out more about her classmates’ reaction to what should be—for them—a traumatic incident. 

It’s interesting how little allegiance her classmates seem to bear to any institutions. Though U.A. is responsible for their welfare and education, she’s observed, startlingly, that her classmates enjoy making petty complaints about anything and everything: homework, training, Aizawa coming into homeroom early. It’s a strange mannerism that almost tries to hide their zeal for heroism. Though, she doesn’t understand why they would go about trying to hide their enjoyment of school when they must have worked incredibly hard to get it. It’s another one of those “normal girl” mannerisms she simply can’t seem to understand, even if she can imitate them.

Kageru sighs, and returns to tapping her hands lightly over the keys, watching the bar cursor blink on an empty page.

According to the internet, e-mail etiquette is supposed to be formal. There are specific introductions and sign-offs that are meant to be used, and although it seems Ashido hasn’t used any, Kageru knows that these communications are likely monitored by U.A. staff, and she can’t get suspended for disrespecting formalities. Although it’s a large deviation from her Tooru image, she’s read that many people, though extroverted in person, adopt a more formal tone over online communications. 

From: <[email protected]>
To: <[email protected]>

Dear Ashido, she begins, and then, hesitantly, corrects it to Ashido-chan and Mina-chan and back to Ashido before settling, finally, on Mina-chan. Sensei surely can’t punish her for simply matching her classmate’s tone, right? It’s for an interrogation, anyway. She’s playing the part of Tooru right now. 

It’s strange, slipping into the Tooru mask in the somewhat-comfort of her somewhat-home. Even though this place is hardly home to her, there are lines drawn. She’s Kageru here, Tooru at U.A. Blurring those lines, even if it is, technically, in the “online-space” of U.A., seems… strange. As if the boundaries she’s drawn are inviolable.

I’m not Tooru. She reminds herself with surprising vitriol. I’m not a childish, whining, hero brat. I’m a tool. I’m a good tool. I’m a spy. 

She returns her attention to her email. 

Dear Mina-chan,

I’m also a little bored. 

Her fingers hover over the o, r, and d keys she’s just pressed. The email monitors may flag that: at U.A., surely boredom would be construed as disrespect to their studies? She just hopes they don’t have keylogger technology. Sensei would– he would be angry if…well.

I’m sorry you’re bored! I’m trying to do some revision, but since we don’t have any tests it feels a little pointless. 

Nine backspaces so she can replace pointless with weird.

She tries out a few iterations of laughing at Mina’s joke about the Quirk Wars, but since she can’t make it sound both formal enough for an email and casual enough for her friend, she chooses to omit it fully. 

What are you doing? Playing games or something? I hope you’re not too upset over USJ!

Kind regards, 

Tooru-chan. 

She changes Tooru-chan to Hagakure Tooru, in line with the guide she found on email etiquette, and sends it off, quite satisfied. 

Her attention returns to her textbook, and she forces herself to read another few paragraphs. Another ping, and she replies after careful consideration.

It’s a shallow thing, a friendship where one person isn’t even a person. It’s sad that Ashido has drawn the unlucky straw of having to be Hagakure’s friend. If things were different, Kageru would want to tell her. That she should let go now, before everything gets too much. Before neither of them can come back.

Before war erupts.

Sensei’s word is usually inviolable, but rarely so when it comes to Kageru. So despite his comment that there would be no communications nor missions for the next few days, she’s hardly surprised when something—as usual—comes up. Which explains the cryptic message she receives at 2:33pm, that characteristically vanishes seven seconds later:

Spying mission, Deika City. Come prepared. 

Deika City. The name rings a bell—several, actually—but where has she…

HMP. Destro. Re-Destro. It comes back in a flash. It’s Sensei’s pet project. Deika City. The foundation of ruin, where—right now—Re-Destro is unknowingly playing into the hands of the soon-to-be League of Villains. Or so the world will think. There’s a game behind a game behind a game, and Sensei pulls all the strings. 

Re-Destro. He runs a company headquartered in Deika City, though of course it’s more of a shell company than anything. Although it does have legitimate business, its products are all made with a higher goal in mind, and the business’ considerable energies are devoted to Destro’s defunct organisation and—like any stereotypical criminal enterprise—money laundering.

Detnerat. That’s the name of the company, isn’t it? It specialises in Quirk Tech—or, as Yotsubashi Rikiya, granddaughter of the Mother of Quirks, likes to call them—Meta Abilities. 

Recon. Information-gathering. That’s what this mission is likely to be, and as Kageru pulls on her suit, something like anticipation thrums under her skin. This—she’s good at this. She can be of use to Sensei like this, fake-heroing—if it’s useful to Sensei, she’ll do it, of course—doesn’t feel the same. She’s a spy, made for in-and-out missions. She hasn’t been curated for long-term missions the way some of Sensei’s contacts have. Being Tooru is difficult. Being Kageru… is anything but. She’s made for being a spy the same way that Bakugou Katsuki is made for his Explosion Quirk. 

Mentally, she runs through what she knows about Detnerat. She tries to keep up on Sensei’s projects, cataloguing what she sees in the news whenever she has the chance to see it, or filing away offhand comments she hears on missions.

And the name she’s heard most often in connection with Detnerat is a familiar—and dangerous—one. 

Shie Hassaikai.

Detnerat has slowly been amassing resources for the last few years, notably more so since the head of the Shie Hassaikai died—or, rather, was placed into a coma. The group had an excuse, of course, some nonsense about medical necessity and Quirk problems, but everyone knows it’s bullshit. The underworld is rife with rumours, and a few years ago, Shie Hassaikai was the centre of them. 

Ketsui Meiyotou—the fortieth head of the Hassaikai—was in the prime of health since the day he dropped into a coma. It’s said that even till this day, he’s still in a secure hospital at the heart of the Shie Hassaikai stronghold, holding onto life. And while it could be a coincidence that his adoptive child, Chisaki Kai, has the perfect Quirk to induce this state, there were leaks of a disagreement between the head and his successor a mere few days before his…disposal. And the direction the Hassaikai has been going in since is far from what Ketsui wanted. Two coincidences make a pattern, and this one reads clear as day. 

But that’s besides the point; Sensei doesn’t care much about bygone history. Kageru needs to focus on what the Hassaikai are doing today, and what they need with Detnerat.

It’s no secret that Chisaki Kai is obsessed with Quirks. For what end, and to what extent: still unknown. He’s funded Quirk research—both above and underground—and his ties with Detnerat seem to be based on the mutual, unspoken, assumption of quid pro quo. Shie Hassaikai provide the funding that can’t be channelled legally, and Detnerat provides the research. Chisaki’s Quirk, although Kageru doesn’t know its specifics, is powerful. So it’s likely that he’s playing along with Re-Destro’s plan to free powerful Quirks to run amok in society once more, like the pre-Quirk Wars era.

And Sensei… well, Kageru cannot with confidence say she understands what Sensei is doing. Like a matryoshka doll, each plan carries the seed of another within, so she can never quite find the centre. But she can see the outermost shape.

He’ll allow the Hassaikai’s funding of Detnerat and the MLA to continue. For months, certainly, possibly even years. He’ll let Quirk research and pro-power sentiment to rise, and he'll intervene to take over when Re-Destro has done enough of the dirty work of swaying Japan to the ideology of Meta-Ability Liberation to allow Tomura’s ideology to seep through the ranks. 

But for now, this plan relies on knowing the MLA inside out. And the leader is only one part of it. 

She’s had the pleasure of meeting Re-Destro’s lieutenant. Chitose Kizuki, alias Curious. Or, rather, she’s had the pleasure of tailing her through Deika City and half of Kochiya Ward. Fittingly, she’s a curious individual. She looks somewhat like Ashido, with her rounded face and black sclera, but the resemblances end there: she’s a volatile, violent, and eerily unhinged member whose Quirk—officially registered as a visual mutation—has been responsible for over half of reported “suicide bombings” in Japan in the last ten years. 

Chitose Kizuki. Quirk: Landmine. Kageru knows she’s a dangerous one: she’d nearly caught her, back then, when she was younger and more inexperienced. It only makes her more… not excited, but interested—in tailing her again. Humans fail. Humans weaken and grow old. Tools like her can only be sharpened. 

When Kurogiri’s Quirk fills the hallway, she steps through with something she hasn’t felt since the U.A. exams buzzing on her tongue.

A shower of glass greets her as she steps in. Normally, Kageru would simply have leaned away to avoid it, but today is different. It brings back—

Crack. 

Aizawa doesn’t scream.

Kageru’s chest feels foreign. One. Two. Three. Four. 

Away.

Aizawa is on the floor; the Nomu pins him down like prey. Lifts his head and slams it into the concrete. Once. Twice. Thrice. One more time.

The sound perforates her ears. It’s a wet, crunching, like being under car tyres. Gory and bloody and Aizawa’s head is a mess of skin and blood and bone—

 Away. She’s going backwards. Even younger. Blood drips because another hero is—

“Look at him, Kageru.” Circling around the hero. Kageru kept her head down, trying not to look at the pool of blood, the arrhythmic way it dripped. “So powerless. So ultimately helpless. Isn’t it sick?”

“You can do it—kill me.” 

Kill me kill me killmekillmekill—

She surfaces. She sorts her thoughts into boxes like she’d been taught, and takes a single deep breath.

Another one of Tomura’s tantrums, then. He never had coped well with failure, and USJ must have stung particularly, though Kageru had assumed Sensei would have sated his rage for the time being. 

Crack. 

Aizawa doesn’t scream.

Away—

“Tomura. Good to see you.” She greets, just politely enough for the sarcasm to go unnoticed.

“Fuck off.” he spits right back, bandaged hands clenching in a way that suggests a barstool will get decayed sooner rather than later. “Fucking bitch. Don’t piss me off right now.”

His voice brings it all rushing back, so unnerving that Kageru almost reels back: Tomura grabs Aizawa’s elbow and leans in. “Don’t push yourself… Eraserhead.”

There are twin roses blooming in his palms through the bandages, his wounds reopening and bleeding through from his rough movements. He—or, more likely, Kurogiri—will have to change them again. Snipe aimed precisely—the bullet holes are centred in the middle of his hands—and it’ll take days to heal even with Sensei’s healing Quirk.  

“I’ll be departing on a mission in a moment, when I’ve received my briefing from Sensei.” Kageru continues as if he hasn’t spoken. Tomura’s choice of language is old news that barely fazes her anymore. When she was younger, she would watch him wide-eyed, waiting for Sensei to intervene. 

He never did. 

“Right, there you go again, kissing up to Sensei like a goddamn robot. I’m gonna put a hand through your face if you’re not careful.”

Something prickles under Kageru’s skin, annoyance she can’t show rising to the surface. She’s not kissing up to Sensei; she’s his tool. This is her purpose, to meet Sensei’s every need, communicated or not. There’s never been a world in which she has a choice in it, nor does she want to have one. Sensei is her world, for better or for worse. There’s nowhere she can go that wouldn’t lead her right back to him.

Kageru decides not to answer, turning her back on him—perhaps unwisely—to step further into the room towards Sensei’s monitor. 

It buzzes on as soon as she steps in front of it, bowing deeply as Sensei’s face curves into an expected smile. After all, he can’t destroy their family image in front of Tomura. Even if he did just almost try to throw a glass bottle at her skull. 

“Kageru,” he speaks almost lovingly. It’s strange. It brings to mind—

His hand passes down her cheek, in what takes her a moment to realise is a caress. She steps back, just slightly, but Sensei’s hand tightens around her chin.

But that isn’t a memory she needs to call up now. Spies should be like computers, able to recall the right information at a moment’s notice, and suppress all the unnecessary noise. The process of abstraction is one that makes computers good at their jobs, and it’s one that Kageru needs to utilise. Her mind sweeps itself blank.

“Your mission today is in Deika City.” he begins, and then halts. His attention rises behind her—to Tomura. “Tomura. Leave us.”

“What? Sensei, I—” Tomura begins, outraged, but the sound of Sensei’s clearing his throat immediately ends his tirade, and he scoffs, throwing a mumbled “whatever” over his shoulder as he slinks away. The door—soundproof, though it doesn’t look like it—slides shut after him.

“Oh, Tomura.” Sensei shakes his head gently. “He always has been sensitive, hasn’t he? So susceptible to looking away from the bigger picture. You and I see it, don’t we? He requires guidance. Hand-holding.”

Kageru’s hardly breathing. There’s no way she can ignore Sensei if he requires a verbal response, but criticising Tomura will get her sent to the room the room the room—

“You are sharper. My hidden knife, my very best tool.”

His words break the spell, Kageru’s breath of relief stoppered in her throat. There’s warmth in Sensei’s words, or at least the outline of it, but something catches in her chest like a trap. 

As if on cue, Sensei’s voice is cold. 

“Deika City. There’s a meeting happening between Hanabata Koku, alias Trumpet, leader of the Hearts and Minds Party, and Yushito Fuhaime, leader of the All Japan Party, to discuss a coalition government in the area. Go, investigate, return.”

“Yes, Sensei.” Kageru’s head reels with the information, but there’s still more. 

“USJ was a failure, Kageru.” The sound of her name from his lips snaps her to attention. She feels sick. “An expected one, but a failure nonetheless. Ensure that this one isn’t.”

“Ye–s, Sensei.” Her voice betrays her and cracks, and she waits with bated breath for the punishment. Sensei’s mouth twists in displeasure, but he waves her away. Kurogiri is waiting to give her more information.

Away.

Kurogiri is speaking. Her mind comes back to her. His eyes are swirling, yellow in purple, yellow in purple, yellow—

Away. 

There’s a glass in her hand. Sparkling water sweeps into it with a gurgle, and then something else, a lime wedge on the side. Kurogiri’s mist warps around her like a cold shell. 

She’s back. Kurogiri’s eyeing her for a second, and then clears his throat. His gaze doesn’t flicker for a second, but there’s something in it that… that…

No, it’s ridiculous. Nomus have never had feelings, and despite how advanced Kurogiri is mentally, all the tests Garaki ran showed baseline EQ. He was, in essence, an intelligent shell made only for Sensei’s will. 

Funny. He’s a little like her.

“I see you must have been dehydrated.” he opens neutrally. Kageru gives a noncommittal hum, unsure what he’s driving at. “Your heart rate has picked up more, which allows you to be more alert now than previously.”

Oh. He’s… excusing her? Creating an excuse to hide her going away? Again, it’s another favour. Kageru has repaid her debt thus far, but there’s no way she can hide another lapse in his judgement from Sensei. This is a system of checks and balances she hasn’t considered, one she can’t opt out of. 

“Yes, I hadn’t drunk anything as of yet.” She agrees briefly, a stab of unease accompanying it. She has no choice but to be indebted. “Moving on, what details do I need for the mission?”

“Hanabata—Trumpet—and Yushito are meeting in the office building of the HMP, on the topmost floor of the building. The building has significant security systems in the upper levels, though our contact in their party has been able to disable the thermal monitors, meaning you will be able to slip past virtually undetected. The CCTV on the topmost floor will be wiped forty-eight hours after your intrusion to allow for preliminary checks. Your mission is to listen into their conversation, noting down details of a possible coalition, their aims, any reference to Detnerat or Re-Destro. Then exit and report.”

“Understood.”

“Best of luck.” he indicates with what Kageru assumes is a kind look, the portal widening, widening, widening...

When she steps through, Deika City’s unique version of nightlife is there to greet her. 

It’s never been a vibrant city, but there’s a level of decay here that wasn’t there before. There are gouges in the pavement that the few passers-by have to walk around to avoid, potholes and derelict apartments. There’s a rancid stench coming from a dumpster. 

Invisible, she escapes the prying gazes that most visitors fall prey to, that dangerous, half-there half-not sensation that an army is watching. And make no mistake, Deika is an army. It just doesn’t know it yet. 

She moves fast, the mental outline of the city—especially this ward—ingrained in her mind. A particularly run-down establishment appears in the corner of her vision, a creaking wooden sign advertising “Love Health” accompanying the traditional visible plumbing—a pipe clambers down the side—and red curtains. Ah, the red-light district. Even as she watches, a woman with painted-red lips steps out of the door, arranging her dress to better show off the green-blue scales that creep down her arms. 

Kageru looks away, her own invisibility feeling less like a shield and more like a beacon. 

There have always been markets for mutant-quirked girls, especially when their mutations are on their bodies and not their faces. It’s a fact of life. More likely than not, had Sensei not rescued her, that’s where she would have ended up. A painted face and an invisible body—though not common—isn’t an irregular sight. Though, of course, most invisibility Quirks aren’t so complete as Kageru’s.

That’s why she’s a tool, and not a girl in the red-light district. 

The HMP’s glass-work building looms large, a sentinel over Deika City from where Re-Destro can watch the pathogen of his words being injected into the streets and the people, humming cells ready to harbour the virus until it can burst forth and overrun Japan. He believes that, with the HMP, he runs Deika City. 

It almost makes Kageru laugh, this short-sightedness. Sensei’s plans are never finite, never set in stone. They can change with a snap of his fingers. Soon, Re-Destro will understand where the real underbelly of the criminal world is. 

For now, though, she stands in front of the metal doors, their CCTV determinedly glaring out into the road, and waits. Soon enough, out of a bar down the street, a middle-aged man advances up the street. Kageru waits for him to approach. 

The years have been kind to Yushito Fuhaime , but he seems anything but. On the face of it, he could be any old gentleman: his portly frame is wrapped in a comfortable—and expensive—suit, his watch glinting at his wrist. There’s a gleaming fountain-pen tucked into the breast pocket of his suit, and his disarmingly nonthreatening walk—almost a waddle—is more reminiscent of Principal Nezu than a man at the heart of the October Murders.

But eyes don’t lie, and behind his half-moon glasses, Yushito’s eyes are cold and hard as two black chips of coal.

The doors open with a rasp as they detect his presence, and Kageru slips through seamlessly behind him, ducking around the security guards as they approach to frisk him. Yushito huffs out an irritated half-scoff and waves them away imperiously, but they’re not so easily deterred, and in the end he’s forced to succumb to a perfunctory wave-down. By the time he’s finished, Kageru has located the only set of thermal cameras in the building: pointed, as Kurogiri had assured her, off to the second set of elevators. 

For someone specialising in Quirk Tech, it’s almost laughable how little effort Re-Destro puts in Quirk-inclusive security systems. Except—

A warning chills up Kageru’s neck; an alarm blaring in her mind. Something’s wrong. 

Her instincts are screaming that the “little effort” is the effort. It’s not laziness; it’s bait. And right now, it feels as if she’s walking into a trap. 

Despite her misgivings, she continues to follow Yushito towards the elevators: the first set, and as he waits, tapping his feet unhurriedly to wait for the sleek grey cage to descend in its glass capsule. As he waits, Kageru watches. 

There’s a figure on the eastern parapet, gazing out at the passers-by with a steaming cup of coffee in her hands, sipping it once every few seconds. Ostensibly an overworked intern people-watching in her break. On the western parapet, there’s a mirror image of this sight: a woman with long red hair and cat-eye glasses taking a bite of some kind of pastry. The two of them are angled forty-five degrees from the line that connects them, and even as Kageru watches, they make brief eye contact and slip away into the corridor. 

They aren’t ordinary workers, that’s for sure. Whether a rival organisation, assassins, enemies of the League… she can’t be sure. But it’s unlikely that they’ve been sent by Re-Destro or Yushito, so it means that—although she has to be extra cautious and ensure she reports to Sensei—her mission is, for now, uncompromised. 

And so she steps into the mouth of Hell with Yushito, and hopes for the best.

Yushito eyes himself in mirror, adjusting his waistcoat and fountain pen and brushing down the ends of his voluminous moustache. Kageru eyes him with a mixture of boredom and amusement: it’s almost interesting to see the stone-cold murderer and lifelong political schemer preening in the looking-glass, even more so because she knows his demeanour will again shift to the icy pragmatism his voters flock towards. He represents a nationalist fundamentalism that’s almost unheard of these days. Or, rather, was unheard of. Before Sensei’s long-laid plans, and the tide of justice, began to turn and bear fruit once more. 

For now, the hungry voices of powerful Quirks, the calls of those who believe power determines the right to live are quiet. But Sensei will guide their insistent cacophony, discordant and inefficient, and wield it and sharpen it into a blade that will slit the throat of the HPSC and, with it, hero society as a whole. It’s only a matter of time. 

Of course, she’s unlikely to see it happen. 

Sensei has always liked to describe the world he’ll build from the ashes of hero society. A broken and struggling country that runs according to his whims, where he will be the unchallenged ruler of first Japan and then the world until finally, there will be no heroes. No villains. Only All For One, and those loyal to him. 

And Kageru simply cannot imagine it. 

She can’t imagine waking up in a world that has been reduced to rubble, the thought of becoming Tomura’s lieutenant, his tool, is so fanciful it hardly bears examination. When she was younger, she feared this sentiment as disloyal, used to dream about what would happen if Sensei ever found out about this doubt. But she’s come to realise that it’s not that she doesn’t believe in Sensei, or his power. 

It’s because that, more likely than not, Kageru will die before the sun rises for the first time on Sensei’s Japan. She’s a tool, after all. A good tool maybe, but when it comes down to it—in the final battle—she knows that Sensei won’t hesitate to send her into the line of fire. She won’t hesitate to go, either. It’s her purpose to die to fulfil Sensei’s aims, whether it be in weeks, months, or years, and she’s made her peace with it. She can hardly call it that, because there was no peace to be made in the first place. There’s never been a day where she’s railed against her fate.

Every day of her life is another day towards Sensei’s cause. That’s just the way it is. 

Tailing Yushito Fuhaime down the long, well-lit corridor, she knows deep in her bones that that’s the way it will always be. 

Re-Destro opens the door. 

Kageru grits her teeth, peering around Yushito to check that the inside of the room hasn’t been equipped with infrared sensors. So this is the trap? Or is it something else? Kurogiri had said it was meant to be only Trumpet and Yushito—as the official leaders of their parties—so why was Re-Destro here too?

Regardless, she can’t back out now. She thinks back to Sensei’s warning, her assurance that this mission would be a success, no matter what. She can’t—she can’t back out now. She’ll have to keep watch for anything that could compromise her position. At worst…

Her fingers graze across the blade of her knife, hidden in the pocket on her leg. 

Re-Destro greets Yushito with a deep bow, and ushers him to one side of the round table. Kageru slips in and stands by the window. There are only two exits in the room: the door that leads to a monitored corridor, and the third-floor window. If anything goes wrong, she has no choice but to jump—or at best, climb—out, and hope for the best. There doesn’t seem to be any IR cameras, so it really is just an unintended coincidence—a flaw in their intelligence.

“Yushito, it’s good to see you.” 

“Likewise.”

The greeting is familiar, if a little exploratory: both appraising the other for weakness, motivations. For what they can take. 

Re-Destro breaks the silence first, clapping his hands together and reaching for the remote control beside him. With a click of a button, a projector screen descends with a low whirr, and the room is plunged into darkness. 

Then the screen lights up with Detnerat’s logo: a raised fist, stark white against the blue background with a lightning bolt surging through the background. It’s a clear symbol of might, a declaration of what it means, for him, to have a Meta Ability.

As expected, this lingering over the logo doesn’t escape Yushito either. To any external observer, he remains implacable, but Kageru—able to watch him like a hawk without detection—she sees a barely perceptible lightening in his eyes, the edges of amusement. Clearly, he’s not a follower of Destro’s ideology. Then, it follows that he’s not looking for a true partnership with the HMP, or Detnerat: he’s just seeking to further his own goals. 

A knock on the door, and Trumpet steps in smoothly, inclining his head to the two men inside the room and sitting at the other compass point of the table. 

“Gentlemen.” He begins, his voice punctuated by a rasping cough.

Yushito raises an amused eyebrow. “My, that’s a nasty cough. Do take care, you need it for your speeches, after all.” His voice oozes concern like a barrel of tar, the mocking barb landing a second later. 

Hanabata Koku. Quirk: Incite. He’s used his power to increase his party membership, and—a lesser-known use—to facilitate, with Chitose’s help—the Sen-No-Taiyo bombings, as they like to call them. The Thousand Suns Bombings. To the rest of the world, they’re known either as the Kochiya Square bombings, or—among less friendly circles—the Idiots’ Kamikaze, owing to the absolute mess that was the lead bomber’s “speech” about Meta Liberation—cut off, sadly, by a mistimed detonation that left him a headless, mouthless, speech-less splatter in Kochiya Square. 

No matter how ineffective, though, the bombings reached their targets, and sowed the seeds of distrust among the citizens of Deika. Since then, suspicion of pro hero involvement there has tripled: a consequence of MLA propaganda surrounding the incident and their so-called “reasons” for it, most of which boil down to the useless Quirk Good Hero Bad rhetoric that had Destro killed. 

“Oh, there’s no cause for worry about my speeches, nor my party.” Trumpet returns more smoothly. Unlike yours, he leaves unsaid. The AJP has a cult following, but its membership lists have largely been stagnant for the last few years. Because while Yushito might be a madman and a raging nationalist, he doesn’t have the intention—or, more likely, the Quirk—to be setting off suicide bombs in his own backyard, nor the HMP’s. As a coalition, though, both parties gain. Which brings the meeting to–

“Gentlemen, let’s keep it civil, shall we?” Re-Destro redirects the two smoothly, as the frozen projector boots up to a presentation. Kageru leans forward in anticipation.

The presentation’s oddly bare, especially when taking into account Re-Destro’s love for grandeur. It’s just a white title side with a big, black, bold, COALITION stamped across it in all-caps. Yushito seems to have the same thought, sniffing dismissively like he can’t believe just what a waste of time this is. 

Re-Destro pays it no mind, clicking a button with a soft tap and wheeling his chair back to gesture to Trumpet. “All yours, Hanabata.”

Kageru’s always been observant, and it’s this skill that’s the reason for her being alive right now. It’s a tiny motion. Nothing, really. So insignificant it hardly bears mentioning. And yet, she’s struck by a tiny beige flutter in the corner of her vision, as Re-Destro reaches out to hand the remote to Trumpet. 

A small scar, shaped—oddly—like a perfectly round coin baked into the flesh of his wrist.

She sighs at the realisation that, again, she’s made something out of nothing. The flutter of movement her eyes are trained to latch onto isn’t a gun, or the glinting silver of brass knuckles. It’s just a scar. 

Her nerves have been... on-edge, lately, for lack of a better word. She doesn't know whether it's just the live-wire of trying, and trying, and trying to be a hero without being a hero, of looking at her classmates and being Tooru the whole time, whether it's the effect of trying to please Sensei and not anger Tomura and evade Aizawa's searching black eyes, but it's exhausting. She's exhausted. Not for the first time, she wants to simply... stop existing.  She wants to be injured so badly she's in a coma for at least a year or two. Just some time to... to what?

No. She can't think like this. She won't. Her time is Sensei's, and Sensei's alone. She doesn't have the right to wish for rest, because Sensei could tire of her at any second and like that — with a snap of his fingers — she could be on the street. 

God, she's never been so tired. 

Trumpet takes the offered remote with a cocky glance at Yushito. His whole outfit—from the slicked-back hair to the chewed cigarette dangling from his mouth to the thick woolen coat that wraps around him—is no doubt meant to be impressive, but at the moment looks more like something a teen from the Aoyama district would wear when trying to dress up as a gangster. 

"Thank you, Yotsubashi-san," the respect in his voice is audible, dripping from his voice in spades as his long fingers work at the remote's buttons. The slide shifts to one - equally simple - titled "HMP".

"So, here's what we need to know." The tone of the room shifts slightly, Kageru can sense it. The little barbs Yushito and Trumpet were trading are gone, the slightly biting, tricky atmosphere vanishing between them. Like any decent politician, these three have mastered the delicate edge between work and play. 

And today, it's all business. 

"The HMP's numbers have been increasing steadily for the last seven years. Each year, there's been a roughly 5.2% increase in members. From a total electorate across the country of 142,212,023, we received a total of 16.3% of the vote, bringing the number of our voters to around 23,172,000."

He pauses theatrically to let the numbers land; it's so close to Sensei that, for a second, Kageru is almost taken aback. The way he surveys his audience to scan for metrics of enjoyment, engagement — it's Sensei down to the core. 

"However, in Deika City, the numbers tell a different story." Another click. Another slide. Kageru can feel a soreness in her legs, the ache from standing at attention, ready to bolt, but doesn't allow herself to relax. "70-75% support in the core districts. 50-55% in the outer districts, and 30% in the rest of Aichi Prefecture." That's what we offer, his smug tone says without words. The power of the HMP. It's a strong party, Kageru has to concede. While she hasn't had much of an education in the theory of politics, she's seen enough gang wars and political unrest to know what she's talking about. And she can see that for the AJP, for Yushito, this is an attractive proposal. And it risks bringing Deika City, and the rest of Aichi, under the thumb of Re-Destro. 

Oh, Yushito thinks he can handle them now. She can see his smirk, almost, hidden beneath his greying moustache. He thinks he can cooperate now and then play Re-Destro like a fiddle with the AJP's coffers. But - while he obviously has some inkling of the money laundering and unregistered donations coming into Detnerat and the HMP, he has no idea how deep the rot truly runs. He has no idea the lengths Re-Destro has gone to bury his pathogen of Liberation into the country, he has no inkling that he was raised from this purpose practically from the cradle. In some ways, Re-Destro is just as much of a tool as she is. A tool, a slave to his father's legacy. 

Yushito thinks he's a large fish leading a smaller one by the nose to a trap. He has no idea, still, that in the political landscape, in the underworld, he's nothing more than a bit of plankton clinging to the fish's tooth. And the fish has no idea that Sensei is waiting - the shark's shadow behind it — to drag its carcass to the seafloor.

"Impressive." Even Yushito has to concede, though his moustache practically droops with the grudging acceptance. He pulls his laptop out of this bag, swipes on the touchpad, and clears his throat. "The AJP is less dominant in Deika, with an average of 20% of the vote in the inner and outer districts, and around 15% in the rest of Aichi. But you and I both know that isn't where our real power lies."

Re-Destro leans in. He conceals it well, but Kageru can feel the hunger radiating off him. Some people are scavengers from the day they're born, and no matter how many expensive watches he wears or the luxury cut of his suits, Re-Destro will always have that unfortunate look of someone who's dragged themselves up from the bottom. There's a greed in his eyes that Kageru has seen in children waiting in long, gaunt lines outside food banks. Re-Destro may not have wanted for material things, but the greed, the thirst for his ideology is hollowing him out from the inside. 

"Across Japan, AJP numbers are rising." In an instant, the smirk vanishes.

In front of her, Kageru recognises the icy leader that spurs his cult-like followers into a frenzy even without a Quirk built, like Trumpet’s, to do so. His very intonation suggests power, his words demand attention. And she can't help but give it. "From the electorate, our power is concentrated in the Tohoku region, with a significant minority of around 20% there, as well as the Kumamoto, Oita, and Miyazaki prefectures in the Kyushu region, though our activities are under significant surveillance due to strong HPSC presence."

Of course. Kyushu, and Fukuoka especially, are Hawks' regions. She imagines that anything non-aligned with the HPSC cannot find a way to thrive there, curtailed by restrictions and heroes firmly on the HPSC's payroll. 

"In the electorate as a whole, we hold 12.5% of the national vote in the recent election, with projection of 16% in the next five years. Make no mistake, our numbers are rising, but we lack the, ah, shock factor–" he sidesteps the bombings with a delicate tilt of his head, "–that might bring our combined numbers higher."

Trumpet opens his mouth with a grudging look of acceptance hidden in his eyes, but Yushito continues.

"However, I have some concerns."

Re-Destro raises an eyebrow; Trumpet's jaw is held tighter. To enter into a party's stronghold and question their policies and potential outright - it's something that no one but Yushito would dare to do. But, Kageru recognises, stretching one leg out just slightly to alleviate the pull in her hamstrings, it's something they need to do. If they want a majority, if they want their coalition to be successful, they have no option but to air their grievances now. 

"As a party whose influence is curtailed by hero activity, I have to ask - what measures do you have in place to ensure that the same situation, and a crackdown on the far-right, does not occur in Deika?" He leans backward slightly, assessing. At odds to his seriousness, Trumpet and Re-Destro exchange a conspiratorial glance, the former's lip twitching in a slight smile. 

"I believe I can answer that."

Re-Destro speaks, slowly drawing a manila file out from a drawer and laying it slowly, reverently, on the desk. Eyes flicking up to Yushito almost playfully, he pulls out the first sheet in it, scans it thoroughly, and rips it in half with a rasp. 

The sound shatters the silent atmosphere; Trumpet takes a near-silent breath in as if physically relieved. 

Re-Destro slides the paper across the table. Yushito puts on a good show of reaching for it nonchalantly, but anyone could discern his curiosity. And for good reason - the satisfaction in Re-Destro's posture promises something good. 

"This," he speaks leisurely, inspecting his nails, "is roughly half of the list of the heroes in Deika City. Rescue heroes, underground, daylight, you name it. Do you know what they have in common, the heroes on this list? Besides working in Deika?"

Yushito doesn't reply. Slowly, so slowly that not even a molecule of air could be disturbed by her movement, Kageru steps out of her discreet corner and toes across the room towards Yushito. Closer - so close that she can touch the table, then his chair, then his moustache. 

"All of them - and more - are members of the Meta Liberation Army."

Kageru swallows, leaning over. She can see the small-typed text, she can read names of heroes scrolling away down the list. Mapmaker, Crane, Sakuranoki, Glide, Destiny, Captain Winters, heroes she's never heard of. Insignificant, yes, but it's alarming just how many there are. Fifty at least, and that's just one half of the list. And if all of them are working for Re-Destro-

"I see." Yushito lets out an amused huff. "That's certainly one way of dealing with an issue."

He's stumbled on a good point. The HMP's standard way of dealing with "issues", so far, is simply to throw money at them. And it may work for heroes in Deika, it may work for the members of the MLA that need some benefits to retain membership, but it won't work everywhere. If this coalition is to be successful, they have to find other methods to achieve their goals. 

And Re-Destro acknowledges the unspoken hit with a raised eyebrow and a nod, gesturing to Trumpet to turn off the projector. 

"That was just a preliminary meeting, of course." He dismisses, standing up. The lights flicker back on, and Kageru creeps away, light-footed, to assume her position. "Well, gentlemen, a good day's work on the whole. We'll meet again to discuss more specific issues, as well as the advantages of forming a coalition - though, as this meeting went ahead in the first place, I doubt we'll need to dwell on it."

"Agreed. We'll confirm a meeting through the usual channels." Yushito nods, and Trumpet, finally, gets to his feet, towering over the other two. His shadow casts a malevolent stain over the table and the remote, like a hulking monolith over the room. 

"Wait." Re-Destro says, calm and soft. His voice signals another change over the room; inexplicably, Kageru freezes as if the blood in her veins is filled with ice chips. "In the last two weeks, there have been spies placed around my buildings. You wouldn't have anything to do with that, would you, Yushito?"

The question is dangerous. Re-Destro's eyes glitter like hard black diamonds, his hooked nose reflecting the slightest sheen of sweat that makes him look crazed. At odds with this, his hands are laced calmly, his posture even. Yushito's life, even, could hinge on this answer. 

And he scoffs, barking out a laugh like the mere thought is hilarious. "Of course not, Yotsubashi. What do you take me for, a HSPC crook? They're the ones you want."

Re-Destro's mouth flattens into a dissatisfied line. "And if they're listening? If they're watching, even now? Through the vents, hacking my systems, with an spy, perhaps? Maybe one in this room right now. How can I know?"

Kageru swears her heart stutters in her chest. The window is open. It's too risky to stay, she has to leave, she can't risk being found. Re-Destro has ties to the yakuza, the fucking Shie Hassaikai, she'll be tortured if she's found. She could be held, questioned, assaulted. Raped, even. The Hassaikai has none of the morals of traditional yakuza since their previous head died; there's nothing they won't do to get their answers. And if Detnerat's willing to ally with them, it means there are likely worse methods they could use to get who she is out of her. She's dead if she's found. 

The window is high up. Cars fly by like toys beneath her, crowds of passengers mere moving fluff. TV static.

"A spy, here? They'd have to be invisible." Yushito's voice is flecked with derision. He waves his arms out expansively with another scoff. "It's almost like an action movie. What's next, All Might popping up? For a man heading a company renowned for its security, this paranoia doesn't suit you, Re-Destro."

Kageru hooks her leg over the windowsill, squeezing her arm, then her body through the narrow gap, not daring to open it further. A horn honks, loudly, a blip in her concentration that causes a fingertip to slip from its precarious hold. The wind buffets her slightly, her hair fluffing out with the breeze. Trumpet takes a decisive step towards the door - slightly closer to Kageru - and she drags her head through the gap so she's on the outside of the building. 

It's not high. She tells herself, closing her eyes, inching along the pipe that's holding her weight, that likely won't do so for longer. She edges over to another windowsill, slowly, reaching out with a white-knuckle grip still trained on the window she's just exited until the tips of her fingers just barely could hang onto the next one - and then she jumps - or rather, side-steps quickly, breathing out in a low huff, fear thrumming at her heart. She's safe. She's safe. It's not high up. 

They're all lies. 

Kageru peers inside the open window - its a storage room, seemingly empty - and she hauls herself into it ungracefully, letting out a grunt as she mistimes the entrance and lands - like a novice - on her shoulders that moves with a click that seems to echo. She freezes, but nothing happens. It hurts, it fucking hurts, so much that she can hardly think straight. But she bites her tongue until it lessens - or at least seems to - and moves towards the slightly ajar door. It's hardly big enough to squeeze herself through, but she manages, slipping through and allowing her hair to shift the position slightly, a miniscule movement that can easily be explained by the wind through the open window. 

And just like that, she's back in the corridor. 

She doesn't waste time trying to find the elevators again, not when the stairs are right in front of her - louder, but easier to access, and with the near-failure she's had she cannot afford to stay in this building a second longer. Re-Destro's already suspicious. It's her first mission in a while, so she has to prove to Sensei that she can be trusted. Or else - or else. The information she's gathered, while basic and preliminary, is useful. She knows it is, Sensei will know it is. So if she can just get out of this building, she can go home, and Sensei will be happy again. Tomura will be happy. And everything will be fine. 

She doesn't hold the handrail when hurrying down, preferring not to leave traces - like fingerprints - that could be linked to her. She can see the door. It's so close, but she forces herself to be slow, move like a spy, not a desperate weakling. If she messes up now, if she bumps into someone or even leaves a tiny touch that doesn't add up, it can be her undoing down the line. 

One step. The lobby is emptier now. Another. Two more, three, four more steps, and she's halfway there. The sensors are there, CCTV that won't detect her, and she can't help herself, she's running, running, and, finally-

She's out. She's outside. The sun is on her, the wind so much friendlier when she's on the ground, not five floors up with only a pipe beneath her feet.

And, any minute, Kurogiri is coming to collect her. 

She walks back to the drop-off point. There’s an ache in her head that can’t merely be attributed to the stress of almost being found, something deep and insistent in her skull that goes beyond mere shock. And she can’t say it, not even to herself. She doesn’t want to, she wants to bury the thought, but her thoughts are the one thing she’s never quite managed to bring under total control. And this one is particularly insistent:

She’s getting dull. 

It scares her to think it. It would scare her even to say it out loud, and she does, slowly, hesitating as she whispers each broken syllable out into the air. She’s getting dull, she’s getting weak, she’s getting useless. Garaki’s silhouette hovers by her, sharpening a scalpel. Tools need to be sharpened. Tools need to be replaced. And sharpening is scary, it’s pain and the room and the glint of knives and pain, Garaki’s mechanical voice relaying blood content and measurements and she can’t do it, she can’t, she can’t. Sharpening means… the punishment, the ones Sensei doesn’t bring out unless Kageru makes him. She’s damaged, but she can’t show it. 

Two years ago, this mission would have been routine for her. As normal as breathing, and god, she wants—

Click. Her fingers move of their own accord, snapping against each other, she flinches and swallows. 

She needs to go back to normal. She needs to be better. 

Kageru wonders what Ashido is doing right now, and isn’t that scary in itself? She can’t remember the last time she really met someone apart from new recruits from the League, and this particular train of thought leads nowhere good, it leads to Dabi, which makes her remember more fire and pain and the pain in her head spikes—

As if on cue, Kurogiri’s waiting, a spectre in a shadowed alleyway. She stumbles towards him, but as he makes to envelop her in mist she flickers into visibility and holds a pained hand up, massaging her temples.

“Wait.” she says, her throat scratchy. She has to report to Sensei, looking completely normal, and pretend that this mission has been a breeze. In more ways than the obvious. 

Kurogiri doesn’t ask. It’s something she appreciates about him, and though her debt is mounting in front of her eyes, Kageru allows herself to take a precious second to breathe, hard and deep, before she stands up and — not that anyone can see it — flashes a winning smile. 

“Let’s go.”

She steps into the portal, and prepares to be taken home.