#turns out if u wear visibly mended clothes all the time

[things-from-strings]

prepping a new pair of work pants👖🧵🪡

i am thisclose to landing an exterior house cleaning job. rly hoping i get it; i'm sick of doing interiors!

[irene-sadler]

Six Months

someone wondered when the Baroness (a side character from the Tournament aka Sir Reynard and the Red Knight which I wrote earlier this year) was coming back and uh, “back” implies that she ever left in the first place, tbh. spoilers: she didn’t.

anyway so here’s a little something something

its a quick family story plus a story about civilians in wartime packed into a little over 4000 words. rated PG. ft teen romance drama, sheep, grown up romance non drama, and not a single canon witcher character. think Roseanne (original show not the weird remake that died on arrival for Reasons) but in the setting of The Witcher. or don’t if u have no idea what i’m even talking about b/c u dont watch 90s cable sitcoms constantly like i do lol.

Six Months:

The Nilfgaardian soldiers came at night, but they found an empty manor house. The occupants had had plenty of warning they were on their way; the family’s oldest son had ridden nonstop from Rivia Castle to warn them that there had been a coup, that the Queen had vanished and her young son was in charge, and that it was only a matter of time before their old enemy Caldwell came looking for them. Hilde thought they were, in many ways, fortunate - not lucky, because no luck had been involved - fortunate that their son was riding his fastest horse, fortunate that the rest of the household managed to collect what they could and hide the rest without dramatics or incident, fortunate to have somewhere else to go. An old herbalist’s hut in the woods wasn’t much, but it was, she’d said, a roof over their heads. They’d always had a plan, in case everything in their lives went very badly wrong. Everything had, and the hut was part of it.

    Then her son rode off with most of her other sons and the rest of her husband’s knights, on the chance that the Queen was out there somewhere, and left the place somewhat emptier-feeling in his absence.

    “Wish I was going with them,” the Baron said, looking down the woodland road after them.

    “We talked about this, Eldred; you’re sixty-seven years old, your eyesight’s going bad, and your knees don’t bend anymore. A warband’s got no use for you.”

    “I know that,” he said. “Don’t mean I don’t wish I was going.”

    A little flock of sheep crossed the path, with some of her nephews trailing after them, waving sticks and shouting.

    “I’ll be worried about them, too,” she said, as one of the sheep suddenly bolted. Eldred took her hand, squeezed it, and limped off after it.

    The next time their paths crossed he was in a slightly better mood. She hooked her arm through his elbow and looked up at the full moon through the trees.

    “Can’t hear myself think in there, so I came out here for some fresh air,” he said. There wasn’t enough room inside for even half the people who had followed them along. Most of the household had settled around the hut in tents and bedrolls. The inside of the hut was still jammed with the smaller children. They were also fortunate that it was spring, and nobody would freeze to death sleeping outside. No luck involved, again. No army fought in the winter, although she wouldn’t put it past the Empire to try.

    “We’ll have to build pens for the sheep and pigs, tomorrow,” she said. “Maybe some more shelters, too. The farmhands can do it. And I’ll organize some of the women t’ forage in the woods. We’re fortunate it’s spring. We might be living off pottage of oats and chickweed, but we won’t starve t’ death.”

    “You know,” Eldred said, “I was thinking I might get a shot at some of these invaders after all. They might turn up here.”

    “They might.”

    “Wouldn’t want any spies or wanderers t’ spot us and take word back to th’ army that we’re out here.”

    “No.”

    “Anyhow, with all these boys out here, I thought I might train ‘em up a little, just in case.”

    “That’s not a bad idea.”

    “Might take some of these girls, too,” he added.

    “Even better,” she said. He smiled down at her.

    “We’ll be safe here.”

    “Of course we will, with you around,” she said.

    ———

    Wars were just a part of life. She was born and raised in Rivia; she’d grown up watching her brothers and father ride off to war with Lyria, over and over again. Her father was killed by a Lyrian archer when she was twenty-three. She’d watched her mother’s face while they buried him. She never wanted to know what it took to make someone wear that hard, dead expression. Over a decade later the King married a Lyrian princess and those wars stopped, but more took their place. There had been the rebellion, after the King died, led by her own disgruntled brothers, who refused to serve a Lyrian; her husband’s promotion from petty knight to Baron was a direct result of the glory he’d won putting it down. That war had almost destroyed her marriage, but they’d pulled through, in the end. Then there had been bandits, minor invasions, civil unrest; it seemed like there was always something to fight over, but never anything new. Whether Lyrians were killing Rivians or Nilfgaardians were killing Rivians, they always had the same damn excuses for it. The older she got, the less patience she had for any of them.

    ———        

    Smoke from cooking fires floated through the newly cleared area around the camp. The forest echoed with the sounds of axes hitting wood and more trees falling. The pigs slept in the shade out of the heat, watched over by a pack of skinny boys from the village. The herbalist’s hut sat surrounded by a dozen almost identical buildings - buildings, children, chickens, dogs, a donkey that someone had brought in, loaded down with rushes -

    The Nilfgaardians hadn’t found them, but a whole lot of other people somehow had. Some of them brought livestock or food, but a hell of a lot of them had nothing but the clothes on their backs. Hilde refused to turn them away, even if a few of the hands muttered darkly about spies and famine. More was better; more people meant more hands to work and more eyes to keep watch. Eldred’s little force of skinny teenagers with homemade bows and farmhands armed with handaxes had grown in size, if not, in her opinion, in quality. He seemed pleased with them, at least. Some of them were standing watch at the edges of the clearing. She was pretty sure none of them were asleep.

    It turned out they weren’t; a minor racket interrupted the idyllic peace of the summer afternoon - some kind of argument, she thought. She abandoned the shirt she was mending and headed to the north side of the buildings, where she found a pair of youths shouting at each other. One, she noticed, was her own youngest son, waving a bow and turning an impressive shade of red. The other was a dark-haired girl. The latter spotted her before the former; Hilde watched with detached interest as the girl’s eyes widened and her stance shifted from aggressive to frozen fear.

    “Herron,” she said. “It’s -”

    “What’s this about?” Hilde asked.

    “- your mother.”

    Herron deflated, visibly.

    “We were just - we were talking,” he said, staring at his own feet.

    “I heard.”

    “Just a - a disagreement over the watch schedule,” said the girl. She raised an eyebrow, considered telling them to cut the shit, and then decided not to. Whatever it was, it was probably harmless, and it wouldn’t be improved by her involvement.

    “If you have an issue, take it up with the Baron,” she said. “Meanwhile, quit disturbing the peace.”

    The girl bowed and escaped at not quite a jog. Herron stared after her, still beet red.

    “Who’s that?” she asked.

    “Nobody.”

    “No?”

    “She’s just - she wasn’t at the right guardpost.”

    “Whatever you say,” she said. Herron was shifting uncomfortably, showing the usual signs of a teenager who desperately wanted to escape.

    “Go on,” she said. “Get back t’ work.”    

———

    Herron had begged to go to war with his brothers. He was only fourteen, and although he looked like a skinny, lanky, teenage copy of his father, he had none of Eldred’s athletic ability. The best that could be said for him was he was a decent shot. Maybe he would have survived the battlefield, but she didn’t want to take the chance. Besides, he was her baby boy; she felt like he had been ten years old only the week before. She couldn’t let him go, and Eldred had taken one look at her face and hadn’t argued with her. The resulting angst had taken weeks to wear off.

    Whatever Herron was up to, she was just glad he was finally speaking to her again.

    ———        

    The rainy season hit exactly on time; a genuine stroke of luck, because the rain would keep their ever-increasing hideout a secret for a little longer. The pigs were happy, but the sheep and humans less so. Hilde and her selected lieutenants kept the place running anyway, despite the endless mud, the nonstop damp, and the weather that ranged from a drizzly mist in the mornings to downpours in the afternoons and evenings that were so heavy Eldred stopped making his militia patrol the forest for fear they’d get lost or drown in a flash flood.

    During one of the downpours one of the militia members came splashing through the mud and into the hut. Eldred stopped scrubbing rust off his sword.

    “Something going on?”

    Hilde thought he sounded a little too hopeful.

    “Nothin’,” the man said. “Not really. Just, we had this kid come up t’ th’ east guardpost just now.”

    “Ask around; has t’ belong to someone around here,” Hilde said.

    “Don’t think so, milady, on account of it ain’t a human child.”

    “Oh. I’ll take a look,” she said. “Go on, I’ll be there.”

    Eldred shook his head slightly at her as she stood and pulled a cloak around herself.

    “What?”

    “Nothin’.”

      She could barely see where she was going, but she managed to slop her way through the muck between the huts and made her way the guardpost. A little pack of militia stood around the spot, watching a single, very small shape that huddled under a blanket. The shape didn’t look up when the guards all spotted her and stood.

    “Honestly,” she said. “How many people does it take to keep an eye on one five-year-old? Don’t you all have work to do?”

    “We were thinkin’ maybe there could be Squirrels about,” someone explained, awkwardly. She rolled her eyes; the expression might have lost some effect in the pouring rain and dark, so she added a little of it to her tone.

    “Yes, well. If so, I’ll protect you, Jenny. Get going, all of you. Find something else to do.”

    Most of them trailed off, muttering among themselves. One man stuck around; she raised an eyebrow at him, which he seemed to take as a sign. He stumped off a few yards away and stood squinting out at the dark woods. She rolled her eyes again and crouched down.

    “Hello. Who are you?”

    “I’m six,” the huddled shape said.

    “What’s that?”

    “You said I was five.”

    “Oh. Sorry. It’s hard to tell for sure, under that blanket.”

    “I don’t want t’ get wet.”

    “What’s your name?”

    “Ailfe.”

    “My name’s Hilde,” she said. “If you come with me, you can get something to eat and sit in front of a fire. What do you say?”

    “Alright.”

      Ailfe sat next to the fire, inhaling a steaming bowl of barley and dandelion leaves. Hilde offered seconds after the first bowl was done, bided her time, and, finally, asked, “So - Ailfe. Where are your parents?”

    The girl shrugged, took just enough time away from eating to say, “Dead,” and went back to it. Eldred shook his head again, slightly, when she glanced at him; he had looked less than surprised when she came in out of the rain lugging a bundle. He was trying to look like he was wearily embracing the inevitable, but she could see a hint of a smile in the corners of his mouth. She smiled back.

    “Where are you from?”

    “Dravograd,” Ailfe said.

    “Ah.”

    She’d heard rumors, in passing, through the militia, who’d heard them from the merchants on the roads. Hilde knew enough to believe them.

    “Well,” she said, “You can stay here, if you like; it’s not like we don’t have the room, and you can help my nephews with the sheep. How’s that sound?”

    “Fine.”

      Not twenty minutes later, the girl was dead asleep. Hilde pulled a dry blanket around her and stretched out on the pallet in the corner next to Eldred.

    “Couldn’t let her starve,” she said to him.

    “We’ve had stranger things than elves in our family, I suppose,” he replied. “Remember my uncle Egbert? Th’ one who turned into an enthusiast and became a priest of Pareplut?”

    “I always wanted a daughter.”

    “I know,” he said, kissed the side of her head, and added, “I love you.”

    “And I love you, Eldred,” she said.          

    -——

    When she’d decided she was going to marry him, her parents hadn’t been too sure about the idea. She was twenty and he was slightly more than a decade older, but she’d seen him in the tournaments, and she’d heard about him outside them. He was very often the best knight on the field - perfect form, an undeniable talent - and he was a close cousin to the King, and her aunt’s husband had it on good authority that he was as capable an administrator as he was a fighter. It was true that he wasn’t much to look at, but she wasn’t foolish enough to care about his missing front tooth, or the scar on his chin, or his crooked nose. The day he’d won yet another tournament and gallantly offered her the prize with a gap-toothed smile, she knew nobody in the world was going to change her mind about Sir Eldred Greenwood. Her parents would just have to get used to it.

    ——

    The rain stopped for good and the sun cooked all the water out of the air. She started sending the kids and donkeys off to the stream, a mile away, every morning and evening to fill kegs with water. Ailfe trooped along with the others, wearing a shapeless cap that covered her ears, looking as filthy and half-wild as any of them. She had forgotten about the incident with Herron completely.

    She was sitting on the top rail of a fence in the twilight, watching bats flutter through the smoke and lights of the camp and chatting about nothing in particular with Eldred. Anything resembling privacy was hard to come by, but most people seemed to be off doing something, somewhere, and nobody was near the sheep pens. At least, they didn’t think so, but they were wrong. Right around the time she lost interest in the bats and they ran out of things to talk about, something interrupted the forgotten background hum of insects and humanity.

    “Wynn?” a voice said, from the nearby guardpost, out of sight past a shed. Eldred jumped about three inches and, to her mild disappointment, stopped kissing her.

    “What the hell-”

    She covered his mouth with her hand, quickly.  

    “Shush.”

    It was only Herron. She recognized his voice. She didn’t immediately recognize the voice that responded.

    “Hi Herron. You on watch?”

    “Yep.”

    “When do you get off?”

    “Uh, in around an hour. Why?”

    She figured it out, after some thought; it was the girl he’d been arguing with, weeks earlier. Eldred raised an inquiring eyebrow up at her. She shook her head at him.

    “Do you want t’ get dinner afterward? My folks are cooking a chicken that quit laying.”

    “Oh,” Herron said. “I already ate.”

     After a brief pause, the girl said, “Um, well, have a good shift, then. I’ll see you later.”

    “Later,” Herron replied.

    Hilde waited a minute, then sighed wearily. Eldred looked pained.

    “That was the single worst thing I’ve ever overheard,” he commented.

    “I’m thinking you ought to have a talk with our son,” she replied, quietly.

    “First thing in the morning, and not a minute later,” he agreed. “Anyway, what were we talking about?”

    “We weren’t.”

    ————

    They’d had five sons. The oldest, Hal, had a wife and children of his own. He was at court, most of the time; Eldred had sworn off the place as soon as Hal was old enough to go without him, and only went up for holidays and emergencies. Edgar and Robin, the twins, were five years younger and as unalike as they could make themselves. Edgar was a wanderer, had barely been home for most of the last decade. She wasn’t sure if it was fortunate or not that he had been home during the spring. Robin had just gotten married during the winter, and had a position at court. Jack, the fourth, had died of consumption when he was four. Her youngest son was a surprise; she’d been over forty when he was born, and nobody had expected both of them to survive the event, but they’d been wrong. Herron was weedy, but he was as strong as an ox. He looked like his father, crooked nose and all, but he acted just like her long-dead oldest brother - kind, loyal, brilliant, and unbelievably easy to manipulate. It worried her, sometimes, but she knew better than to wonder if her youngest son would come to a similar end. There was nothing to be gained by dwelling on the past, and even less by trying to predict the future.

    ———

    The dry spell continued. One evening the donkeys and children went off as usual. An hour later as she was helping finish butcher one of the pigs, one of the boys scrambled out of the woods. Hilde balanced the knife in her hand and glanced at the trees behind him. Nothing seemed to be following him - at least, not very closely.

    “What’s wrong?”

    “They’re comin’,” he said, wide-eyed and shaking.

    “Who?”

    “Black Ones. We was on our way back, and - and -”

    She swore under her breath and turned quickly; she would have told one of the others to get Eldred, find the militia, but it was too late; someone had already gone.

    “- they took all the donkeys,” he continued, “Even Donny.”

    “What about all your friends? The other kids?”

    “I don’t know; everyone was running around, and there were soldiers, and nobody was payin’ attention to me and I just ran away.”

    Herron raced up, sweating heavily.

    “Ma, someone said th’ enemy’s here, and dad says t’ get everyone inside th’ stockade-”

    “Yes, I know what t’ do,” she said. “There’s a bunch of kids out in these woods, somewhere.”

    Her daughter was out there, somewhere. She had to go find them.

    “I’ll go look for them,” Herron said. “I’ll find them.”

    He looked terrified. She couldn’t send him - but she couldn’t not send him; she knew she couldn’t really go herself. What would she do out in the woods? Get lost. Get killed. Herron was, if nothing else, a good shot, and a halfway decent hunter.

    “I can do it,” he said. He looked even younger than he actually was, but he sounded confident. She breathed out and nodded.

    “Please be careful.”

    “I’ll try.”

      The stockade was barely a wall; it was a fence with a gate, but it was better than nothing. They’d built it to head height with the sharp ends of logs pointed out toward the trees, and it wouldn’t stop an arrow, but it would stop a horse. Hilde stood by the gate, looking through the holes in the fence at the path her husband and a bunch of teenagers and farmers had taken into the woods. He had trooped out with a sword in his hand, smiled at her under his helmet, and hadn’t looked back. She told herself he would be fine, and Herron would be fine, and the collection of women armed with axes and pitchforks and old spears left over to defend the entirety of the camp would be fine.

    Hours passed, and nothing happened. The feeling of stretched nerves in the air turned to one of faint boredom as the afternoon wore on. She took to pacing the perimeter of the fence, watching the trees for movement, listening for a sound other than the endless rattle of cicadas and crickets and the noise of livestock and people. The shadows got long, and nothing happened. She sternly told herself not to worry, or, at least, not to imagine horrible things that could be happening very far away.

    “Horses,” someone suddenly said. “I hear horses comin’.”

    She stared out at the woods, clutching the makeshift spear she’d armed herself with. There were horses out there; she heard a rumble that could only be a line of heavy cavalry, dozens of armored horses and men. She’d heard them a thousand times in a thousand melees, and she could imagine exactly what they would do to her mass of barely-armed, unarmored peasants if they broke through the fence.

    “Get ready with the spears,” she said. “Just like we practiced.”

    Spears was an overstatement; more than a few of the people who lined up behind the fence with the points of their weapons facing toward the trees were holding pitchforks, but Eldred had thought they’d do just as well. She had her own doubts, but they didn’t have anything better. Any side conversations ended as the sound of the oncoming cavalry rumbled louder; they stood and sweated and waited until the first horse appeared on the narrow road between the trees. She squinted at it; it was hard to see in the dusk, and she wasn’t very familiar with Nilfgaardian armor, but she didn’t think the rider was wearing black. In fact, the knight riding up at the head of the column had a distinctly familiar seat. She breathed, finally, and leaned the spear on the fence.

    “Those are Lyrian banners,” someone said.

    “It’s a trick,” someone else replied, shakily.

    “No,” she said. “No it isn’t. Open the gate.”

    She trooped up the road, met the column, found Herron limping along beside them with a bandage on his leg, a pack of children surrounding him, and Ailfe in his arms.

    “What happened?”

    “I did it,” Ailfe announced. “I saved the day.”

    “Oh?”

    “Well, sort of,” her son replied. “She did keep the Blackclads from catching her and the other kids -”

    “-we climbed a tree,” a boy announced, smugly.

    “-and then I found them and they caught me -”

    “Herron fought like a good one,” said Ailfe. “He got wounded, look.”

    “- then Dad and the lads turned up and attacked the Nilfs -”

     Ailfe finished the story in an excited shout.

    “- and then, durin’ the fight, th’ army came!”

    The knight from the head of the column pulled up and stopped.

    “Not that we needed help,” he said.

    “No, of course not,” Hilde replied, rolling her eyes at him.

    “- anyway, it all ended more or less well,” said Herron. “And they’re saying the Queen’s back.”

    She looked up at Eldred, caught a gap-toothed grin on his face.

    “Oh?”

    Eldred nodded at her.

    “We can go home soon,” Herron said.

    “Home?” Ailfe asked.

    “I’ll tell you all about it,” he said. “Come on, let’s get down to the camp. Ma, are you coming?”

    “In a minute,” Hilde said.

      “Well,” she said, in the comparative quiet after they left, “Did you see any of our sons?”

    “Not in this unit - these people are just scouts, really,” Eldred said.

    “They’re all alive, at least?”

    “Far as I know. We’ll see them soon enough, if all goes well.”

    “That’s a relief.”

    “Can I give you a lift back?”

    “A ride from a noble knight? I can’t say no to that,” she said.

    The camp was swarming with Lyrian soldiers, Rivian civilians, donkeys, barking dogs, and runaway goats and sheep. Eldred reined in the horse at the gate and overlooked the chaos. She thought she caught a glimpse of Herron and Wynn, ducking out of sight behind a hut, and quickly pointed out the leader of the soldiers.

    “Ah,” Eldred said. “Well, I suppose we could wade into this mess and talk to him -”

    “You’re the Baron,” she interrupted. “You can’t just sneak off by yourself with all this going on. Also, it’s getting dark.”

    “I wasn’t going to go by myself.”

    “Oh,” she said.

    “What I’m thinking is we go off somewhere and come back after this has a chance t’ calm itself down -”

    “I suppose I can always pretend you kidnapped me,” she said. “Someone has to maintain an appearance of responsibility around here.”

    “I promise to have you back before dark,” he said. “What d’ you say?”

    “It’s a deal.”            

    “Someone told me our Hal’s a Colonel, now,” he said, turning the horse around. She wrapped her arms around his waist and propped her chin up on his shoulder to see the road ahead.

    “Is he?”

    “Not that it’s a surprise; he’s just like you.”

    “A social climber?”

    “A pragmatist.”

    “You always were a romantic, Eldred.”

    “I’m a lucky man. We wouldn’t have made it all these months without you.”

    Luck had nothing to do with it; they’d planned and fought and were, again, fortunate that it had all worked out in the end. She buried her face in his neck and let him think it had, anyway.

    “I can’t wait to go home,” she said.

[solaneceae]

EGOTOBER DAY 4 - Jacket

It all started with a jacket.

It wasn’t even anything special. If anything, it was quite pathetic-looking: a ratty, washed out denim jacket, torn up and stitched back together more times than any of them could count.

“It barely has any thermal protection, Chase!” Schneep kept saying, always the practical one.

Despite all that, it was Chase’s favourite. He wore it through thick and thin, even when the cold wind of early spring sneaked through the holes and making him shiver. Even when his brothers advised him to just replace it. 

Until the day it tore up again, one time too many.

The tear was massive; right in the middle of the back, almost running through the entire length of the denim. Stitching could only do so much for a jacket who’s threads barely held on anymore.

“You’re sure you can’t fix it?” Chase pleaded. Marvin rubbed his arm uncomfortably. All the egos suspected the article must’ve been a gift from his former family before… well.

“I can mend the threads back together,” he explained in an apologetic tone, “but they’ve been stretched so thin they’d just break within a few days.”

The magician felt useless, and that was basically his least favourite thing to feel; why did everyone keep coming to him with the FEW problems he couldn’t solve with magic?!

That’s when Anti, who’d been enjoying the peace of the living room until the vlogger came whining, lost his patience and lashed out. As he always did.

“Get over it, Brody. It’s just a dumb jacket. Just get a new one.”

Chase’s face fell even more, his chesnut-colored eyes glazing over. One could’ve heard a pin drop in the heavy silence that settled then.

“Anti.”  Marvin hissed at the glitch, green eyes glaring daggers. “What the actual fuck was that.”

JJ was frantically signing in the corner of his eye. Anti ignored him, and sneered at his rival. “What? I’m just telling the truth.”

“There are more delicate ways to say it!”

“Oh, so what, I’m supposed to baby him like you all do? It’s been years, ever heard of moving on?”

“That’s not-”

ENOUGH.

The whole room froze, the temperature suddenly dropping. A shiver ran down Anti’s spine as he slowly turned to face the local mute. He… wow, okay. He looked downright enraged.

See, here’s the thing: JJ usually spoke with his hands, occasionally mouthing his words for more clarity. But the dapper man possessed another, less uh, conventional way of communicating. As Marvin had explained once -well, more like attempted to, that fraud didn’t know shit about this stuff-, Jameson could project what he wants to say directly into people’s awareness with more or less force. It wasn’t telepathy, as the targets didn’t “hear” his nonexistent voice in their head, it was more of a... direct transmission of meaning and intent.

In any case, this wasn’t something the mute enjoyed talking about, and Anti could count the number of times he’d used it on a single hand. If the current situation had warranted it... well, it couldn’t be good.

JJ briskly walked up to Chase and pointed at the jacket. “Please give it to me. I’ll see what I can do.”

Oh, so back to signing it was.

“U-um-” Chase stammered, still wide-eyed and tense by JJ’s previous outburst. The younger ego’s features softened, and he gently grabbed the vlogger’s shoulder. “Trust me.”

Chase stayed silent for a few seconds then nodded, passing the ruined piece of clothing to JJ, who draped it over his left arm before turning to the glitch.

“Anti, a word.”

Said glitch didn’t have time to process the words before the smaller ego grabbed him by the arm, pulled him off the couch and dragged him outside, slamming the door closed in his wake. Anti wasn’t sure why he let the other manhandle him like this, but it might have something to do with the fact that he’d never seen the mild-mannered Jameson Jackson so… visibly pissed. The guy was more of a silent rage type. 

Not gonna lie, he was curious. And, for reasons he didn’t want to delve into, a bit uneasy.

JJ finally stopped walking, letting go of his arm and turning towards him. “Do you know what today is.” the shorter man signed angrily. 

Anti frowned. “What the fuck does it have to do with-”

QUIET.

The demon’s words died on his tongue. Jameson had done the thing again; two times in one day, that was new. The blue-haired ego was glaring up at him, his dark grey eyes burning holes into his skull and pulling at something inside of him. It pulled and pulled, and Anti could feel himself slipping deeper and deeper into the inky darkness those eyes had become it was spreading and enveloping him and his body felt light and airy and he could almost reach out to the wisps of light coming into focus and he was burning and freezing and pulsing like a neutron star further and further and closer and closer to the edge of everything-

Then JJ closed his eyes and Anti felt himself snap back into his own body, dizzy and gasping for air. He could feel goosebumps prickling all over his arms and down his spine, feel the thrumming energy boiling under his brother’s skin. 

Cold. Restained. Drawing him in a gaping hole in the fabric of reality, one you couldn’t see the bottom of. So similar, yet so unlike his own glitching powers.

The demon found his footing again as Jameson let out a pained grunt, his fingers tracing soothing lines against his forehead. He looked about as rattled as Anti felt right now. Said glitch had no idea what had just happened; hell, he had no idea what JJ was, truly. But he was aware he was dangerous, had been for a while now. He’d just never experienced whatever JJ had been talking about, until now.

He remembered the dapper man telling him about the... incident. Something about accidentally becoming entangled with the universe’s timestream, back when he used to mess around with this stupid time-warping pocket watch of his. 

Or some shit like that. The details always became fuzzy whenever he tried to think about it.

It was funny, in a messed up way. Under the carefree attitude, the silly old-timey attires and fancy parlé, Jameson was the only ego who could inspire true fear in him. The dapper, monocle-wearing gentleman was by far -and it physically hurt him to admit it- the most powerful entity he’s ever met. Ridiculous, right? But now, Anti suspected they guy could very well hold his ground against Dark himself. Holy shit, he realized with a dizzying mix of horror and awe, it wouldn’t even be close.

And no-one, in his family or off at Dark’s manor, had any fucking clue. No-one, except for himself. This was their secret. Their deal.

JJ took a grounding breath; the cool flow of energy receded, before disappearing from Anti’s awareness. He re-opened his eyes; the usual dark grey. Perfectly ordinary. Misleading. 

“Apologies,” his hands spoke as he sighed. They were moving more sedately than before. “Let’s try this again, shall we? Do. You know. What today is.”

Anti nodded, slowly. “April 10th. You-”

“That means,” the other interrupted, “tomorrow is April 11th. Do you understand what this means, or are you that far up your own ass?”

Now, if this had been anyone else speaking to him that way, Anti would’ve smashed their head into the ground by now. But, contrary to popular belief, he valued his life. So he swallowed his pride and made a notable effort.

It clicked after about ten seconds.

“Fuck.”

“Indeed. Now you see why Marvin didn’t care for your insensitive comments.”

Anti barely caught himself before he could blurt out that this sorry excuse for a magician got offended at everything that came out of his mouth anyway, and pondered the situation.

Tomorrow was… what was the negative version of an anniversary? Tomorrow was the suckiversary of the day Chase’s wife had taken his kids away from him. Honestly, Anti should’ve picked up on the signs; the guy got really withdrawn at this time of year, locking himself in his room for hours on end, barely getting up to eat or take care of his basic needs. The first few years had been the hardest; one time, Robbie had found the fatherly ego passed out drunk on the kitchen floor, barely scabbed cuts all over his arms and legs. Kid had nightmares for weeks after that.

He’d been doing better lately. But it was still pretty rough.

Anti scowled. “So, what about it? What the hell am I supposed to do?”

“What you are going to do, is help me fix this.” JJ started, gently tapping on the blue jacket draped over his left arm.

“What, this old thing?”

“Why, yes. You like swinging that knife around, cutting things, don’t you? What I planned is right up your alley.”

Anti rolled his eyes. “Whatever. No like I got anything better to do.”

“I figured you didn’t. You will also apologize to Chase.”

Anti blinked in surprise, then let out a high-pitched “HA!”, smirking down at Jameson. “Like hell I will.”

The gentleman tilted his head at his refusal, his eyes lighting up mischievously. Anti didn’t know what was going through that head, but he didn’t like it.

“Ah, I’m afraid it’s an all-or-nothing kind of deal. A shame.” JJ shrugged. “Oh well, guess I’ll have to ask Wilford to come and help me.”

That cunning little shit.

“Don’t you fucking dare.” Anti growled, static flickering in and out of existence around his body. “I don’t want that psychotic bubblegum bitch anywhere near this house, you hear me?!”

That was another of James’ mysteries; he was the only one -save for the emo at the head of the Iplier household- that could somehow get the trigger-happy ego to do what he asked without killing anyone. Most of the time.

Maybe it was the mustache. He’d believe anything at this point.

Looked like he had no choice. “Let me guess.” he laughed, low and bitter. “I have to mean it?”

“No.”

The demon blinked at him, stunned. That wasn’t the answer he expected.

“No,” the younger ego repeated, “because you don’t believe you’ve said anything wrong. That won’t change, not now at least, and we don’t have time to go over your severe lack of empathy at the moment.”

“Why you-”

“However, Chase is hurting and in need of our support. No matter how… insincere it might be for some of us. You and him might not see eye to eye, but he’ll appreciate the gesture nonetheless.”

Anti glared at the floor, fists clenched. His sharp nails were digging into his palms; the pain felt nice and grounding. “And how, pray tell, do you know that? You just said it yourself, we don’t get along.”

“Because your words hurt him.”

The glitch’s head snapped up, staring at JJ. His brother wore a bittersweet expression. “Chase isn’t the kind of man to be affected by what strangers think.” he signed softly. “Do you truly believe that Chase doesn’t care about what you think of him? Do you truly believe...”

Chase pestering him. Chase telling him about his stupid brats. Chase’s disappointed face when the demon refused to give him the time of day. Chase yelling at him whenever he disappeared for a few days at a time.

“...that Chase doesn’t care about you?”

Silence. After a nondescript amount of time, the static quieted down before slowly fading away. Anti groaned and rubbed his hands against his face. What a headache. “Fine. Fine, fine, fine, I’ll fucking apologize if it’ll make that crybaby happy.”

“Good. Then we can begin.”

The glitch looked up. “What, like right now?”

“Quite. We must finish before tomorrow morning. You’re the closest to Chase in terms of height, so I’ll need to take your measurements. Let’s see, I should get more fabric from Marvin…”

“Not to insult your sewing skills or whatever, but didn’t the others say that stitching it back up wouldn’t work?”

“I’m not trying to.”

JJ’s eyes shone with determination, a conspiratory smile on his lips. “I can do  better.”

***

Chase’s gaze kept jumping up and down. He stared at the bundle in his arms, then back at JJ’s smiling face. Back to his lap, back to Jay. The day had started the usual way. Wake up feeling like crap, debating crawling back under the covers until the sun burned out and swallowed them all, then get up anyway because he wanted to show his family he was still alive.

But something had thrown a wrench into his usual plans -heh, plans. Like feeling like a useless husk of a human being and laying around all day qualified as plans.

Jameson had marched into the kitchen as he unenthusiastically made himself a cup of that ol’ dirty bean water, gently grabbed his arms and led him to the living room while he was still confused about this whole endeavour.

Then he had made him sit on the couch and shoved a bunch of fabric in his lap.

Well, no, that wasn’t totally accurate, he realized as he held up the thing in front of him. Patches of light and dark blue, soft yellows, all neatly stitched together. A jacket. A rather cool-looking one at that. Handmade too, if his younger brother’s familiar stitching pattern was any indication. But that wasn’t what had grabbed his attention.

“Jay… is that-”

“We couldn’t fix it, Chase.”

The dad tilted his head, confused. JJ was smiling sadly. “I do apologize for that. But as you can see, we managed to save most of the original fabric, to incorporate it into this one.”

The gentleman’s hands stilled, hesitant. He was visibly looking for the right signs. “Think of it as... the sum of the best parts of your life. Both your past and your present, here, with us.”

His vision was blurring. He choked on a sob, hand flying up to muffle the sounds threatening to spill out of his mouth.

“Do you like it?”

Chase looked up, brown eyes shining with unshed tears. A small, but sincere smile lighting up his tired features. “I- I love it. I t-think this is your best work yet.”

JJ positively glowed at the compliment. “Why, thank you. But I wouldn’t dare to hoard all the credit, it was a team effort after all.”

“It was?”

“Indeed. Anti helped me out.”

“Anti…?”

“Ya called?”

Chase startled, eyes widening; the demon had glitched right next to Jameson, an odd expression on his face. It was like he was trying to look both aloof and annoyed, which usually meant he was conflicted about something. The vlogger swallowed thickly. “Anti, you-”

“Brody, I need you to shut up and listen closely, cuz I’m only gonna say it once.”

Chase closed his mouth and nodded. The glitch didn’t look angry at him for once, just… uncomfortable for some reason. He watched as Anti crossed his arms and took a deep breath.

“I’m sorry.”

The dad just stared. Whatever he was expecting to happen, it wasn’t this. Anti never apologized for anything, especially not to him. Heck, sometimes he wondered if the demon was allergic to his very presence or something.

“There. I said the wrong shit at the wrong time, and while I stand by what I said about moving on-”

“Anti.”

“I’m not done, James. What I’m trying to say is-”

He green-haired ego groaned, scratching at the back of his skull. What the fuck was he doing. “I. Didn’t. Want. To hurt you, or whatever. But I did, apparently. So, I’m sorry about that part.”

He turned around to glance at JJ as Chase just kept blinking like an idiot. The smaller man nodded in approval, and Anti relaxed. There, he said it. Now he could put this whole dumb shit behind him and go scream into the void or-

His train of thought was interrupted by a hand grabbing his arm and pulling him down. He let out a startled -and offended- yelp as Chase circled his arm around him and pulled him tightly against his side. Oh, okay, that was a thing they were doing now. Hug. Right. Guess this was his life now.

JJ smiled fondly as Chase squeezed him against his other side, crying happy tears while Anti looked like he wanted to jump through a window. To the dapper man’s pleasant surprise, the demon stayed put and let the local rad dad indulge in his own special brand of affection.

Well. This was a success if he ever saw one. Their little dysfunctional family still had a lot to work through, but they’d get there eventually. Hopefully.

----------

...

GUYS GUYS I CAN EXPLAIN-

okay no scratch that, i cant. this was supposed to be a short (ITS SEVEN PAGES LONG NOW I CRAVE DEATH) and sweet piece about jj making a new jacket for the rad sad dad, and now he’s some sort of Bad Wolf-like, uber powerful cosmic entity who could kick everyone’s ass if he felt like it??? WHAT????

My brain did a big brain move or something, i dont know. well, JJ’s abilities are actually  destructive as hell, he almost pulled anti from reality and into the Void there. so it’s not like he’d ever use them voluntarily. It’s more of a curse really.

god this one is all over the place, i’m sorry. I don’t even know if this whole cosmic thing will have any relevance at all in the future, i just let my monkey brain take over when i write. hope you like it anyway?

@tabbynerdicat @egopocalypse @humblecacti @awkward-bullshit (sun! sunshine boyo is here! though you’d like it, maybe)

[swiftwidget]

Control - Chapter Five

Too Far

Cowritten and Proofread by @aoimikans

Artwork by @juustozzi at the bottom :)

Toshinori’s tail flicked from side to side as Recovery Girl pulled the needle from his inner elbow, pressing and taping a wad of gauze to the red pin-prick. Turning, she returned to her desk and tucked the drawn blood vial into a small travel sleeve.

“Be careful with that,” Recovery Girl advised, handing the vial to Naomasa and nodding as he tucked the vial into his breast pocket, “I doubt All Might wants his blood drawn again any time soon.”

Toshinori snorted and grinned, rubbing the small bandage, “No, thank you.”

Smiling softly, Naomasa gently pat his breast pocket, “I’ll take care of it.”

A small movement by the supply closet caught Toshinori’s attention.

Isamu was up and about, helping reorganize Recovery Girl’s medical supplies. No longer wearing a hospital gown and shorts and aside from the small dark circles still lining his eyes, he moved around with ease in a casual t-shirt and slacks.

He’s in good spirits, Toshinori thought, watching Isamu carefully stack boxes along the back shelf.

“Isamu, dear,” Recovery Girl called out.

Isamu looked up from his stack of latex-free glove boxes, “Yes?”

“I think Detective Tsukauchi is just about ready for you,” Recovery Girl said softly.  

Toshinori frowned when Isamu’s content expression fell.

“Yes, ma’am,” Isamu replied weakly.

Placing the last box on the shelf, Isamu dusted off his trembling hands and reached up to rub at the back of his neck, pausing midway. A small, sad look passed over his face.

“Isamu,” Toshinori stood, smiling when the young nurse met his gaze, “It’s alright,” he said clapping a hand on Naomasa’s shoulder, “Detective Tsukauchi is a good friend of mine. He won’t bite.”

Isamu approached nervously, bowing his head to Naomasa, “Please take care of me.”

Toshinori barked a laugh, “So formal! There’s no need for all that. He just wants to ask a few questions back at the station. Very routine.”

Isamu’s ears reddened, but he smiled.

Naomasa returned a small bow, lifting his hat, “It is nice to see you awake and doing well. All Might’s told me about you.” He bowed his head lower, “Thank you for helping him despite the danger. You are a brave young man.”

Eyes wide, Isamu shook his head, “I - It wasn’t - It was the least I could do after everything…”

“Nonsense!” Toshinori grinned and pat Isamu’s back, “You live up to your name! That was a fine display of bravery. ”

The young nurse cracked a smile.

“You’re energetic today,” Isamu said, visibly stifling a laugh.

Toshinori took a half-step back and threw a few practiced jabs, “Finally getting back into the swing of things, and I’m feeling better already.”

Isamu grinned, awe shining in his eyes as he shook his head, “You’re really All Might.”

Toshinori huffed, tail flicking in amusement, “And you’ve said that before.”

Isamu reddened bashfully, “I-I suppose I have,” He smiled, fidgeting with the hem of his sleeve, “It’s... just good to see you like this. I mean-”

Isamu gestured helplessly, and Toshinori laughed, shaking his head, “I understand, young man, and thank you.”

Naomasa elbowed Toshinori, nodding to the door.

“Gran Torino is probably still waiting by the car, if he hasn’t wandered off,” he said, then turned to Isamu, “Are you ready to go?”

Isamu nodded, turning and unhooking a jacket from the bed corner.

Ah, Toshinori’s smile slipped. Small slits lined the backs of Isamu’s shirt and jacket. He caught a flash of pinkish scar tissue peeking from behind the fabric before Isamu turned back around.

“Are you heading back to the dorms?” the young nurse asked as he zipped up his dark blue jacket.

“No,” Toshinori said, glancing at his watch, “I’m going to catch Principal Nedzu while he’s still in his office and discuss a press release. This isn’t going away, and given - well - who I am,” he cracked a rueful grin, “There is bound to be some media attention. Better to face it head on.”

Naomasa shot him an understanding smile, briefly bumping his hand against Toshinori’s arm.

“Good luck,” he said and pat his pocket, “If you need anything, I’m a call away.”

Toshinori grinned and made of show of flexing his lean bicep.

“Nothing I can’t handle,” he chuckled and dropped his arm, “Thanks. Drive safe. And Isamu,” Toshinori clapped his hand Isamu’s shoulder, “You aren’t in trouble. I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for your help.”

A flash of guilt darkened Isamu’s expression, and he averted his gaze, “Y-yeah…”

Sympathy welled in Toshinori’s chest, and he gave Isamu’s shoulder a small squeeze, “I can’t thank you enough, young man. But go on,” he gently nudged Isamu toward the door, “I know the man who’s waiting on the Detective over here. Best to head off sooner rather than later.”

Naomasa huffed and shot Toshinori a wry grin, “See you around, All Might.”

He led Isamu out of the infirmary, and Isamu bowed to Recovery Girl and Toshinori before closing the door behind him.

Chiyo chuckled softly, “He’s really quite a sweet dear. He didn’t deserve what happened to him.”

Toshinori hummed in agreement, reaching back and tracing the small spikes on his neck.

“How is he?” he asked, sitting on Isamu’s bed across from Recovery Girl.

She smiled, spinning her desk chair to face Toshinori, “He is doing very well. His wounds are all patched up, and if it were safe I would have sent him home. As things are…” she shrugged.

“Were his clothes from home?” Toshinori asked.

“Yes,” Chiyo nodded, glancing out the large windows. White clouds drifted lazily across the inviting blue sky, “Snipe was kind enough to stake out his apartment. He brought Isamu a few outfits when he determined it was safe.”

“It’s doubtful All for One would follow up on Isamu,” Toshinori said, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees. “He took his quirk and tried killing him. I can’t imagine him expending more energy on a nurse.”

Chiyo sighed, “I hope you’re right.”

Something pale on her desk caught Toshinori’s attention, “What’s that?” He leaned forward to get a better look before Recovery Girl tucked the cream-colored object behind one of her medical books.

“Ah ah ah,” a playful smile on her face, “Isamu isn’t finished with this.”

Toshinori quirked a lopsided grin and sat back, raising his hands placatingly.

Recovery Girl shook her head and clicked her tongue, “How did you manage to get so bruised up already?” When Toshinori gave her a questioning look, she pointing to his exposed arms. Small bruises and a couple scrapes dotted his forearms and elbows.

“Took a bit of a tumble,” Toshinori admitted sheepishly, rubbing at the sore spots, “Nothing a bit of stretching and rest won’t mend.”

Chiyo huffed a soft laugh and gently thumped Toshinori’s leg with her cane.

“Then you’d better get to it,” her smile faded, “It’s only been a week Toshinori… Be careful.”

Toshinori laughed, “You know me, Chiyo. I can’t stay cooped up forever. But I’ll be careful. I promise.”

He stood, stretching his arms out and rotating his shoulders. His side protested the movement, and pain lanced through his core. Hiding his grimace behind a small cough, he turned and dropped his arms, letting them hang loosely.

“Alright, I’m off! Thanks for your help,” He flashed her a smile and a parting wave as he ducked through the doorway.

She called out softly as he departed, “Anytime, Toshinori. Give Nedzu my regards.”

He nodded, gently closing the infirmary door.

A thought occurred to Toshinori, and he snorted, glancing back at the tuft of hair on his tail.

Hopefully, Nedzu will find it acceptable, or I may be subject to another lecture.

Detective Tsukauchi led Isamu through a side door of the station, waving to the elderly hero as he went his own way. Sweat beaded on Isamu’s forehead as they walked through the first floor and down a branching hall. Each step echoed on the polished tile, and he swallowed.

So quiet…

Isamu eyed the detective as he strolled ahead. The man’s shoulders were relaxed, apparently used to the silence. Isamu’s gaze roamed the hall. In passing, he glanced at hundreds of unfamiliar names and faces on the plaques and awards that lined the gray walls.

He shivered and looked over his shoulder. No one else shared the hall with them.

Only the graveyard shift at Rishi was ever this quiet.

“This way.”

Isamu jolted, “U-um, sorry?”

Detective Tsukauchi smiled gently, pointing to the elevator to the right, “We’ll be heading upstairs for the interview. Not too far now.”

Entering the elevator, Isamu fidgeted with the hem of his shirt. He itched to make some kind of small talk, something to ease his anxiety, but every word caught in his throat.

As they reached the third floor a soft roar filled the air.

Isamu furrowed his brow.

Detective Tsukauchi looked up from his phone as the elevator dinged, “Here we are.”

The doors opened and -

A wall of sound assaulted Isamu’s ears. Phones rang loudly, muted conversations overlapped - creating the dull roar he heard before. Uniformed officers brushed past Isamu as he followed Detective Tsukauchi through the bullpen.

The detective glanced across the room and waved down a cat-faced man, “Sansa!”

The officer’s ears swiveled toward Tsukauchi’s voice, and he looked up.

Tsukauchi beckoned for him, and Sansa jogged over.

“Sir?”

“Could you take Sato to room four?” the detective asked. He glanced at his watch before turning back to Isamu, “I have to review a few notes before we get started. We’re just waiting on one more person who will be here in about a half-hour. I’m sorry to make you wait.”

“Oh no! It’s alright!” Isamu said quickly, “I don’t mind waiting.”

“We appreciate all the help you can give us,” Tsukauchi smiled, “Officer Tamakawa will take you to the room. There should be coffee and some crosswords in there, in case you get bored,” he tacked on, passing Isamu a pen with a grin.

“Thank you,” Isamu said, taking the pen.

“This way, please,” Officer Tamakawa said with a friendly chirrup, leading Isamu down a side hall.

Tamakawa paused beside the fourth door on the left and held the door open.

“Just in here,” he said.

Isamu entered the room.

It wasn’t like interrogation rooms on television. The room was fairly small, almost cozy. Thin, dark blue carpet lined the floor, and the walls were painted a pleasant cream color. To Isamu’s left was a smaller table with a coffee machine, a few styrofoam cups, and a small puzzle book set on it. In the center of the room was a light wood table where two men sat.

The older of the two appeared to be a foreigner. Wearing a tweed jacket, he didn’t look like a detective - more like a professor. His blond hair was neatly cut and combed. The expression on his fairly handsome face was pensive as he ordered the folders and notepads on the tabletop.

Sitting beside him was a younger man in a gray sweater. Lips pursed in thought, he slouched and tapped his styrofoam cup, staring at the ripples in his coffee. He looked up, meeting Isamu’s eyes, and tensed. Ducking his head, the young man glanced nervously between Tamakawa and the foreigner.

“You can sit here if you like,” Tamakawa gestured to the smaller desk before looking to the two in the center of the room. The officer cocked his head to the side, looking to the folders spread across the larger table, “Already set up then, Mr. Wright? Detective Tsukauchi isn’t planning to start the interview for another half-hour.”

“Understood,” The foreigner nodded, “Thank you, officer. I prefer setting up early. Hopefully that’s not a bother. Why don’t I handle the introductions while we wait?”

Tamakawa’s whiskers twitched uncertainly, but he nodded.

“Sato,” the officer said, “The restroom is down the hall, and if you need anything, don’t hesitate to ask one of our officers.”

Huh? I can leave? Isamu’s brows rose, Well, I suppose since I’m not under arrest…

“O-okay, thank you,” he replied.

“And Tamakawa,” Wright grinned and gestured to the hall, “Ms. Tyto had a few questions for you. I believe she’s still in the conference room.”

Tamakawa’s fur fluffed around his neck, his slit pupils growing round, “Oh? Yes, I’ll see what she needs. Thank you.” He smiled and retreated into the hall, closing the door behind him.

The foreigner chuckled, holding out his hand the moment the door closed.

“William Wright,” he said, shaking Isamu’s hand, and gestured to the younger man at the table, “and my associate Genji Tsuda. Nice to meet you.”

“N-nice to meet you,” Isamu quickly replied, a little surprised at the firmness of Wright’s handshake.

“Why don’t you grab a cup of coffee and take a seat over here,” Wright suggested, “We can get started.”

Isamu tensed, brows furrowing, “Started? Aren’t we waiting on Detective Tsukauchi?”

Wright returned to the larger table, taking a seat beside Tsuda, gesturing casually, “We’re a part of a joint case team. Our questions focus on more than just the Yagi abduction case.”

“Yagi?” Isamu asked.

“Toshinori Yagi, All Might’s given name,” Wright supplied simply.

“R-right, All Might,” Isamu nodded, foregoing the offer of coffee, and moved to sit at the main table.

“Yes,” Wright said amicably, “Our case is a bit more broad and may take more time. Detective Tsukauchi will join us eventually, but it would be more efficient to begin now.”

Isamu shifted nervously in his plastic chair, “Are you sure we shouldn’t wait?”

Disappointment flickered across Wright’s features, “Ah well, it would be more helpful if we could start now. What you know could greatly advance our case. But if you’d rather wait -”

Shame and guilt surged in Isamu’s chest and he shook his head, “No! N-no, it’s okay. I just - okay, we can start now.”

“Thank you,” Wright said seriously, green eyes focusing sharply on Isamu. He placed a smartphone on the table, recording bars jumping, “Do we have your permission to record this session?”

“S-sure?” Isamu stuttered. He reached back, brushing the back of his neck and wincing at the feeling of his scarred divots.

“Something the matter?” Tsuda asked, looking to Isamu’s hands. His voice was soft and a little raspy with disuse.

“It’s n-nothing. I’m fine,” Isamu said, quickly folding his hands on the table.

Wright cleared his throat, a frown tugging at his expression, “In the pursuit of truth, it would be most helpful if you would allow my associate to use his quirk.”

Isamu jolted. His quirk? That’s -

“It ensures you simply tell the truth,” Wright said, “The truth is all we want. But again, this is completely up to you, Mr. Sato. We’ll need your consent first.”

“C-could you elaborate a bit?” Isamu asked uncertainly, “About the quirk and its effects, I mean.”

Wright nodded, “Certainly. Once activated, ‘Speak No Evil’ ensures that the person under its influence is unable to lie for a short period of time. Thirty minutes is the usual limit. Each person reacts differently, but generally side effects only occur when someone attempts to lie or does not answer,” He waved his hand casually, “The usual headache due to the mental stress of fighting said quirk. Any questions?”

Isamu hesitated, biting at his lower lip, “I have no intention of lying to you.”

“I believe you, but even bending truth could hinder our progress,” Wright looked him in the eyes, “You said you were ‘fine’ a moment ago. A simple white lie, easily made, and yes - I can tell. People often lie when they want to protect someone or to simply not be a bother.”

Wright sighed, “Sometimes the truth hurts. So, Genji here makes it a little easier to get it off your chest.”

Isamu watched as Wright leaned back in his seat, hands still folded in front of him. He looked to Tsuda who nodded at Wright’s explanation.

“O-okay. If that’s all…” Isamu pressed his lips together, gathering his determination, “I just want to help. Alright. I consent.”

“Thank you,” Wright said, “If you would please make eye contact with Genji so he can activate his quirk.”

Nerves fluttered in Isamu’s chest, and he took a slow breath. Then he looked over and met Tsuda’s gaze.

A white ring flashed around Tsuda’s gray eyes, and the young man quickly looked away.

“How do you feel?” Wright asked.

“Nervous,” Isamu laughed awkwardly, then he blinked rapidly as a shiver ran down his spine, “Ah- I see. A vocal cue to make the effects sink in. Now I am a little more nervous and seriously reconsidering my decision.”

“An honest answer,” Wright said, a pleased smile on his face. “What is your name?”

“Isamu Sato,” he answered immediately.

“Your birthday?”

“April fourth,” the answer rolled off his tongue with barely a thought.

Wright leaned forward, “What is your affiliation with All for One, the man you call Sensei?”  

Isamu’s throat seized, and his eyes widened in shock. His hand flew to his side, over the still healing, red scar.

“I don’t want to answer that question…” A dull pain throbbed in Isamu’s head, images flashing behind his eyes. The terminal ward in Kamino. The late shift. The masked man.

“I-I m-meant nothing to him,” he said with a gasp, and the pain eased, “A nurse who saw too much.”

Wright frowned, “Where and how did you meet him? What did you see?”

Isamu shuddered, “I used to work in a cancer ward for terminal patients. It was one of my night shifts. He was in a room with a dying woman and Nurse Tetsumi Inoshita - my supervisor. She cut the patient, and he put his hand on the wound. Then he saw me.” His side ached, “I don’t like to talk about this.”

“You’re being very helpful,” Wright said quietly, gaze intense, “Do you know why she cut the patient?”

“Y-yes,” Isamu’s voice shook, “Quirk. He was stealing her quirk. Blood transfer. I think. Yes. I’m almost certain.” He clutched his shirt over his scar in a white-knuckled grip.

Wright nodded, quickly writing something on his notepad. He visibly suppressed a grin, but his sharp eyes shined with excitement, “When he saw you, what did he do? How did he act? What did he look like?”

“Couldn’t see his face,” Isamu shook his head, “He wore a mask and a black suit. He just stood there while my supervisor yelled at me. I-I couldn’t move. I don’t even know what she said to me. I was…terrified.”

“He didn’t kill you, so what did he do with you?” Wright asked calmly.

Bile stirred in his gut, and Isamu shivered.

“Nothing. Nothing. He didn’t have to. I can’t - I don’t know how - I don’t want to remember this. Please. I-I didn’t want to do any of that. The things I was t-told to do.”

“What did you do for him, Sato?” Wright’s voice was slow and even.

“I-I…” He paused. I did so much.

“We’re trying to find out more about how the villain operates, Sato, any information at all is useful,” Wright shifted in his seat, “Here, let me rephrase the question. What was your role as it relates to All Might’s imprisonment?”

Isamu nodded slowly, “All Might… I kept him fed. Cleaned the room when - when blood or sick got on the floor,” He let out a pained laugh, “My timing was the worst. I was there… to bring food. Bring food, talk with All Might - that’s what I did… They told me not to, but I would talk with him and then leave. But he was in the room too. Sensei. He -”

Isamu swallowed roughly, “He - you don’t know. You don’t know him. I thought I was going to die. He had me give A-All Might a tail quirk-”

Wright stiffened and leaned forward, “Wait one moment, you gave All Might the tail quirk?”

“Blood transfer. Sensei’s blood…  I merely… injected it.”

Nauseated, he whispered, “Sensei, he knew. The tail was almost too much. He was so thin. He doesn’t have a lung. He almost died.”

“Who?”

“All Might!” Isamu cried out, “I - the quirk almost killed him! His heart stopped - ah,” he groaned clutching at his head as the memory resurfaced.

All Might collapsing to the floor, his tail suddenly fully-formed. Months of growth in one night! The high pitched tone of the heart monitor as he flat-lined. The stillness of his chest as his eyes lost focus. The crack of his sternum as Isamu continued chest compressions. The look on his face when his heart restarted, stuttering - laboring to pump blood through a whole new limb.

He wasn’t ready to die. Not him… He couldn’t-!

“CPR - I performed CPR when his heart stopped and gave him blood and supplement transfusions.” He choked, and a tear dripped onto the table, “He was so different.”

Wright furrowed his brow, “Different? What do you mean?”

“He was - is so kind,” Isamu’s voice cracked, “I… I couldn’t leave him there. Not like them, not like the others.”  

“Others?”

Wright turned as Tsuda spoke up, and nodded, “Yes, could you elaborate? On the others I mean.”

Shuddering, Isamu opened and closed his mouth, uncertain, “The… noumu. In Kamino. There was a warehouse…”

“Ah, you mean this?” Wright pulled out a newspaper clipping of the battle at Kamino Ward.

Sweat dripped down Isamu’s back, cooled by the chill of the room seeping through the useless slits in his shirt, “Yes… That.”

Wright paused, glancing down at the clipping before placing it back into the folder, “Tell me about the noumu. I haven’t had the chance to research them. What are they?”

“The other nurses called them artificial humans,” Isamu let the words fall from his mouth. His head felt fuzzy as the long repressed memories resurfaced, “They were people once. By the time I-I got there, there wasn’t really… anything human about them anymore.”

“But what makes them like this?” Wright tapped on a different newspaper clipping, a picture showing the exposed-brain creature under the hero Endeavor’s foot in Hosu.

“Drugs, quirks, and s-surgery,” Isamu’s brows furrowed, “There were times all the nurses had to leave so the Good Doctor could do their work. I don’t know who they were. We weren’t allowed to see them. They -” Isamu gagged, slapping a hand over his mouth. After a moment, he took a shuddering breath, “The Good Doctor exposed the noumu’s brains. I don’t know why. The noumu didn’t feel it though… I think… They were pumped full of morphine and other mind-altering drugs. The strain - the mental strain of additional quirks was too much. People aren’t meant to take in someone else’s quirks. It isn’t right. It isn’t natural.”

“And you were a part of that?” Wright asked, sharp eyes staring into Isamu’s own.

Searching.

Digging.

“What did you do while you were there, Sato?”

A sob tore out of Isamu’s chest, and he shook his head. His head throbbed harshly.

“Ah! I… I monitored their vitals,” Isamu gasped, pressing the heels of his palms against his face, “Their brainwaves.”

Memories played out in the back of his mind - bodies twisting and changing, the last bit of will fading behind their eyes, their brainwaves going flat on the monitor.

And I did nothing.

                                                           I did nothing.

                         Nothing.

“I watched them die. Brain-dead. Noumu. That’s what they are. Dead… dead dead dead…”

“Sato!” Wright’s voice was hard.

Isamu jolted, looking up, “I hated them.”

He froze. Shocked by his own words, but they were true. His hands shook.

“I was a coward. I did nothing to help them!”

“Sato, that doesn’t m-” Wright looked to the phone recording every word. He tapped the desk, “What else can you tell me about them? Why was Yagi different?”

A lump formed in Isamu’s throat. Why was he different…?

“With All Might… it was personal. Sensei didn’t treat him like the others. Chained, alone, and the Good Doctor never came to visit. But All Might - he survived! I don’t know how. I don’t know why. But he could handle it! The quirks! I thought maybe - maybe he could save… No! I mean -! He saw me. He spoke to me. Even when he lost his voice, he still tried. No one else… No one else ever lasted that long. When he started fading… He would get listless, only semi-aware. He paced for days - still trying to find a way out. I couldn’t watch him die. Not him.”

Wright frowned, “Which is why you cut Yagi loose?”

Isamu shook his head, reaching back to touch -

“I tried. I did, I tried… And Sensei punished me - punished him,” Isamu’s fingertips pressed against the scarred divots where his spikes were supposed to be.

Gone. They’re gone. They’re never coming back!

“He took my quirk,” Isamu sobbed, “And he stuffed it into All Might.” He shook his head, sorrowful laughter bubbling wetly from his throat, “I-I was dying… And so was he. I remember. All Might. He - his hands couldn’t reach me, and his eyes… Their light… He was gone.”

Wright furrowed his brows, “You’re saying he ended up like the rest of the noumu?”

“No! He saved me. I don’t- I don’t know-” Tears streamed down Isamu’s cheeks, “He is not a noumu. Incomplete… He’s incomplete. Sensei didn’t…” He gagged, and another sob wracked him, “Finish.”

“All for - Sensei didn’t finish what?” Wright pressed.

“What the Hell are you doing?!”

After running Toshinori’s blood sample to forensics, Naomasa returned to his desk. He flipped through the file left for him with a pensive frown on his face. Wright’s team was thorough, he gave them that much. Their questions delved into Sato’s role at the hospital and what he did for Toshinori. Idly tapping his pen on his desk, the words on the paper blent together as his thoughts shifted elsewhere.

Bap-bap! The sound of Toshinori’s gloved punches echoed in his mind and brought a smile to Naomasa’s face. In the dusty light of the old armory and with his back turned to him, Toshinori looked strong. Not the impossible strength of All Might, but a more subtle, healthy strength. His legs moved with certainty, bare padded feet treading softly on the boxing mat. His tail swung with the natural movement of the rest of his body, the tip flicking - in a way Naomasa was beginning to recognize - thoughtfully. Bap! Bap-bap! Toshinori’s punches were quick and sent the punching bag swinging on its chain. The hot flush of his skin and the damp line of sweat on his shirt following his spine and the ridged mane spoke of the effort he put in from the moment he’d entered the gym.

Naomasa chuckled fondly at the memory. He was right. Toshinori was restless.  

Taking a sip from his coffee, he returned his attention to text in his hand.

How did you first come into contact with the man you know as Sensei? Naomasa paused, then nodded. It was a fair question and one he himself had in mind.

What was your role in keeping Yagi captive?

Naomasa’s stomach twisted, and his gaze darted to the unfinished pack of cigarettes lying beside his computer. With a disgusted sigh, he snatched the box from his desk and stuffed it into his desk’s bottom drawer.

It would be nice to say he had fought the desire to fall back on his old habit, but when Toshinori was still missing after a week, Naomasa bought a pack with cup noodles. At least Sansa was polite enough not to make note of it when he caught him smoking in the parking lot.

I should have asked Toshinori to stay.

Rubbing the bridge of his nose, Naomasa sighed. Despite their early morning phone call, despite only just seeing Toshinori, guilt still chewed at the inside of his chest.

Twenty-two days. Toshinori had been in that hellhole for twenty-two days, chained and forced to undergo agonizing physical changes that nearly killed him.

Two weeks after Naomasa read All for One’s note… After he vehemently denied his gut feelings…

Toshinori’s not going to be found unchanged… It’s far too late. Toshinori was gone… replaced by an unseeing, unfeeling creature.

But he escaped.

Toshinori escaped.

Not found. Escaped!

Naomasa grit his teeth, I couldn’t find him. I did nothing.

Just like Wright… Just like...

Damn it. Naomasa grimaced, pointedly ignoring the desire to go outside for a smoke.

He’s back.

He’s safe.

Stop it! All for One is to blame.

Naomasa shook himself and looked back to the notes, crossing out questions he already had in mind and editing the wording of others. He nearly jumped out of his seat when his desk phone rang loudly.

“Hello, Detective Tsukauchi speaking,” he answered, quickly recovering, “How can I help you?”

“Hey, Tsukauchi. It’s Jun Suna.”

Naomasa glanced at his watch, brows furrowing thoughtfully. She was already due to be at the department for Sato’s interview.

“Something wrong?” he asked.

Suna sighed, “Afraid so. A train car was thrown off track by a villain. I’m stuck en route until they get things cleaned up and back on track. No injuries, thank goodness. Just a mess.”

“Thank goodness for no injuries, yes,” Naomasa nodded, tucking the phone against his shoulder and pulling a sticky note from its pad, “I’ll send a car to pick you up if they will allow you off the track. Where are you now?”

“I’d really appreciate that. I’m about…” Naomasa heard a shuffling, “Seventeen miles from the Blue Line transit station. I can see the Musutafu Volcanoes baseball stadium from my window.”

Naomasa gestured for one of the uniformed patrol officers and handed them the sticky note, “Take your partner to pick up Attorney Jun Suna. She’s currently stuck on a delayed train between stations.”

The officer nodded and went on their way.

“There is a car coming to pick you up now,” Naomasa said, glancing at his watch again, “I imagine you’ll be back here in,” he clicked his tongue, “forty minutes.”  

Suna hummed on the other side of the line, “Is my client at the department already?”

“Yes,” Naomasa said, “Isamu Sato is waiting for us to start. I’ll let him know you will be here a little late.”

“Thank you,” Suna sighed.

Naomasa heard loud complaining and a crying child in the background.  

“Think your officers can get here soon?” Suna asked with a laugh.

“They’re on their way,” Naomasa said with a smile.  

Suna scoffed, “I’ll get comfortable. See you soon, Tsukauchi.”

“Talk to you soon,” he replied and hung up.

Sitting back and popping his neck with a groan, Naomasa scooped up the file and stood.

I should let Wright and his team know, he thought. Then Sato…

The walk to the small conference room Chief Tsuragamae had given Wright was short. Naomasa knocked once and swung the door open. Inside, Vera Lang sat reading from her braille terminal. Beside her, Mary Shin tended to one of her plants and smiled as it grew larger and greener. She sent a knowing look toward Alba Tyto and Sansa, who sat at the end of the table. Sansa pointed something out in Tyto’s translation book, his voice trilling with his loud purr. Tyto tilted her head, feathers ruffled and dark eyes shining curiously.

“Thank you, Tamakawaii,” she said, sneakily sidling up closer to Sansa.

Sansa - to his credit - straightened bashfully, fur standing on end, “N-n-no problem! Ah, a-and it’s Tamakawa.”

“Tamakawaii,” Tyto repeated in her heavy accent, fluttering her eyelashes.

Naomasa cleared his throat and nearly broke his professional mask when Sansa quite literally jumped to attention and threw up a salute.

“Tsukauchi! Sir!” Sansa’s voice cracked as he stood rigid.  

“At ease,” Naomasa snorted humorously.

Sansa’s shoulders relaxed as he sighed in relief and dropped his salute.

“Have you seen Wright?” Naomasa asked, glancing around the small room. The Englishman’s absence sent unease curling in his gut.

“Yes,” Sansa nodded, “Last I saw, he was keeping Sato company while he waited to start.”

Naomasa’s quirk itched at the back of his mind, immediately picking up the micro expressions on Lang and Shin’s faces.

Exasperation. Irritation. Acceptance.

His gut clenched, and he turned back to the hall, “Excuse me.”

Naomasa heard a quiet, “Sir?” from Sansa, but he already crossed the threshold, into the bullpen.

Don’t be right, he thought, fists already clenching.

He was two doors away when he heard a quiet sob.

“- didn’t finish what?”  

Wright. Fuck! Naomasa grit his teeth and threw the door open.

“What the Hell are you doing?!”

Sato jolted and twisted in his chair, staring wide-eyed at Naomasa. Tears streaked down his face, and he clutched his injured side.

“I- !” Sato’s voice broke. He lurched from his chair to the trash bin in the corner and retched.

Naomasa seethed, turning from Sato’s bent form to glare at Wright.

“This is an extreme breach of protocol,” Naomasa bit out, “What the hell did you do?”

Wright tapped on his phone and pocketed it before leisurely standing, “I was interviewing your witness. With his consent, of course.”

Naomasa scoffed, “Consent without legal counsel.”

“Still,” Wright tucked his newspaper clippings and notepad into a folder, “Consent is consent.” He turned briefly to Tsuda, “You can release him.”

Tsuda nodded quickly and rubbed at his eyes.

“You used a quirk on- ?! Passive detection is one thing, but to push your influence- !” Disgust coiled tightly in Naomasa’s gut.

Wright met his gaze evenly, not backing down an inch.

Fuming, Naomasa pushed open the door, “Get out. Now.”

Wright hummed and brushed past Naomasa. Before he strode through the doorway, Naomasa gripped the Englishman’s arm.

“I plan to review the recording on your phone,” he said, voice low and leaving no room for question.

“Naturally,” Wright said, adjusting his sleeve when Naomasa released him.

Tsuda followed after Wright, shoulders hunched and avoiding Naomasa’s gaze. His face was pale, and his hands trembled.

As soon as the two left, Naomasa shut and locked the door. Grabbing napkins and a cup of water from the side table, he approached Sato.

“I’m sorry,” Naomasa said softly. Kneeling, he passed the napkins to the young nurse, “That was never meant to happen.”

Sato nodded slowly and wiped spit and bile from his mouth. It came away with streaks of red, and he clutched his side.

“Ow,” he croaked, gently prodding at his healed injury. After a short self-examination, he sighed in relief, rubbing at his abdomen before spitting into the wastebasket.

Naomasa placed his hand on the young nurse’s back and rubbed slow circles while Sato caught his breath, still clutching at his side. A sense of familiarity flooded Naomasa’s mind.

He had done this before with Toshinori.

Sighing, Naomasa passed the cup of water to Sato, “Drink slowly.”

Sato did as asked, taking small sips of water between pained breaths. He chuckled weakly, “The truth… It hurts.”

Grimacing, he curled further on himself and coughed.

“Can you tell me what they did?” Naomasa asked, resting his hand on Sato’s shoulder.

Sato shivered, and fresh tears streamed down his face.

“I’m sorry,” he whimpered, “I’m so so sorry.”

Naomasa sighed, “No, this isn’t your fault. They are my responsibility and-”

Sato shook his head, “All Might, your friend, I didn’t - I could have done more. I could have prevented so much, but I was a coward. I let Sensei hurt him,” The nurse shuddered and bowed his head, “I’m so sorry.”

“Hey,” Naomasa squeezed Sato’s shoulder, “Look at me.”

Sato sniffled and hesitantly lifted his gaze.

“You saved All Might,” Naomasa gave Sato’s shoulder a soft shake, “You stood up against All for One, despite what he could do to you, and you helped All Might escape. That’s more than I - or anyone could ask of you. So, don’t,” he huffed a soft laugh, “Don’t apologize. All Might wouldn’t want you to.”

His phone buzzed softly in his pocket, and he took Sato’s cup to refill it, “Just rest there a moment.”

Glancing down at his phone, Naomasa sighed in relief. His other guests arrived safely.

After filling two cups, he sat down next to Sato, who muttered his thanks.

“I came in here to tell you your lawyer was running late.”

Sato blinked, tensing, “L-lawyer? B-but I’m not under arrest… You said…”

“No, no, but you should always have legal counsel when questioned by authorities. This isn’t television. What Wright did… That was not fair to you at all. I’m sorry.”

Sato was quiet for a moment before softly saying, “I just wanted to help.”

Naomasa sighed heavily, “I know. I know. I… think it would be best if we tried again on another day. What do you say?”  

Gingerly rubbing his abdomen, Sato nodded, “That would be… nice. Thank you, Detective.”

Naomasa smiled gently and stood, offering his hand, “Here, let’s get you cleaned up. I have a couple of people who would love to see you.”

He laughed at Sato’s wary look, “Don’t worry, don’t worry. You’ll see. It’ll be alright.”

Sato took his hand, grunting with effort as he stood, “Okay.”

Staring into the mirror above the sink, Isamu sighed as the cool air of the department seeped through the slits in his shirt, drying the cold sweat on his back. He splashed water on his face and exited the restroom.

Detective Tsukauchi waited in the hall and, after giving him a short once-over, gave him a small smile, “Feeling better?”

Isamu nodded.

The detective sighed in relief, “Good. This way.”

Following Tsukauchi, Isamu took slow, even breaths. He relaxed when they passed the interrogation room, but his head throbbed - an echo of the sharp pain he felt when his memories clawed to the surface of his mind.

A few officers watched as he weaved through the bullpen desks after Tsukauchi, and Isamu kept his head down. He jolted when the detective turned and spoke.

“Just over here,” Tsukauchi said with a smile, gesturing to a small room off to the side. A sign above the door read Break Room.

Isamu furrowed his brows curiously, pausing as Tsukauchi opened the door for him. Hesitantly, Isamu stepped into the room.

His heart leapt, and a wide grin split his face.

“Mom!” Isamu rushed forward and into his mother’s arms.

“Isamu!” Koharu wrapped her short arms around Isamu before holding him out in front of her and taking his face in her hands, “My boy…”

Small tears threatened to spill from her dark brown eyes,  “Oh my sweet, brave boy. Oh, Detective! He told us everything, Isamu. You saved a kidnapped man? Oh sweetheart,” she wrapped her arms around him.

Isamu held her tight, bowing his head and kissing his mother’s forehead. He smiled when bright purple wisteria blossoms sprung from her hair, filling the air around them with a sweet fragrance.

He chuckled, brushing his hand over her shoulder, “You’re dropping flowers again, mom…”

“Oh dear! Oh dear! My apologies, Detective,” Koharu fretted, brushing her hands through her flower-filled black hair, and looked anxiously down at the dusting of small, purple petals littering the floor.

“It’s perfectly alright,” Tsukauchi said from beside the door and bowed in parting, “I’ll be outside if you need me.”

As the door closed, Isamu felt a rough, calloused hand take hold of the back of his neck.

“What happened to your spikes, boy?”

Isamu’s smile slipped only slightly, and he turned, “Hi, Dad.”

Yoshio Sato stood at eye level with his son, wearing his dark brown suit. His usual stern expression melted away, and he placed his hand against Isamu’s cheek.

“You gave us a scare, Isamu,” Yoshio’s strong arms suddenly enveloped Isamu, “You just had to live up to your name, didn’t you? You had to go and scare your mother.” He clapped his hands on Isamu’s shoulders and held him at arm’s length, “There are flower petals all over the house.” Yoshio’s voice cracked, tapering into a breathless whisper.

He closed his eyes, face twisted with worry.

“They told us you were hurt…”

Isamu’s brows rose, and he embraced his father, arms wrapping around him and fingers finding their usual resting place between his father’s long spikes. Voice lost, he pressed his face into his father’s shoulder and choked back a sob.

“Isamu - Isamu dear, what’s… Are you alright?”

His mother’s voice soothed his aching heart, but he shook his head, holding his father tighter, “No. I will be, but can I just stay like this for a while? No questions?”

He felt his father nod and pat his back, rocking side to side as he always did when Isamu desperately needed comfort, “Sure, my boy. Just like this. No questions.”

Isamu took a shuddering breath. He could smell the scent of his father’s work bench, sawdust, clay, bone, and varnish, “Thank you.”

I’ll tell them. Just…

Unbidden, an old memory resurfaced. The warmth of his mother’s lap. His father holding up Isamu’s first baby spike, comparing it with the ones he shed the previous year. Teaching him how to brush and take care of them… Ever patient with his instructions.

“I-I… My…” Isamu struggled to say it aloud.

His mother placed a gentle hand on his shoulder and directed him to the break room’s couch. He gazed sadly at the small spike hanging from his mother’s necklace.

Isamu closed his eyes as a small tear ran down his face, he couldn’t look at them, “My quirk. It’s gone. Taken. I-I don’t think my spikes… will ever grow back.”

His father’s grip on his shoulder tightened, and the scent of blue moon wisteria washed over him. True to their word, his parents didn’t ask a single question.

Resting her head on Isamu’s other shoulder, his mother sighed softly, “I guess we weren’t told everything. It’s going to be alright Isamu. We’ll… figure this out together.”

It’ll be alright.

Isamu nodded, eyes still closed.

Somehow.

A twisted hand, discolored and covered in sores, grabbed at his wrist, and Genji flinched. The noumu’s eyes locked on his, fear and pain shining from them. Its chapped lips mouthed silent words. He quickly grabbed a syringe and injected the tranquilizer into the creature.

“Genji.”

Genji blinked, and the nurse’s memory returned to its roaming around his head.

Mr. Wright stood at his side, gaze fixed on the words slowly filling Genji’s journal.

“What else did you see?” he asked. “Before the Kamino Noumu. Did you see All for One?”

Genji nodded as the memories moved on their own, and he drew a sketch in an empty space below the entry. A tall man in a dark suit cast an imposing figure on the page. A mask with almost skeletal features flashed in his mind’s eye, and he spent a good moment to try and capture each detail.

“Sadly, we can’t connect that with any of the other descriptions without seeing his face, but,” Mr. Wright hummed, “I suppose that’s all we’re going to get with Sato. I wonder what Yagi knows…”

Yagi. All Might.

Genji stood in the center of a small room, a tray of food in hand. All Might sat, slouched against the far wall. Tired, blue eyes glanced up at Genji, and a warm smile lit up his haggard face. Suddenly, the little room didn’t feel so cold.

“He’s a nice man,” Genji said, glancing down. He pursed his lips in thought as the rough sketch of All Might grinned up at him. The graphite smile didn’t do him justice.

It lacked his warmth.

All Might felt like the sun on Genji’s skin, like the sound of fire, like the smell of the ocean. He was all yellows and blues like the sky.  

Bad people didn’t feel that way. Genji knew that much.

“He’s a liar,” Mr. Wright stated simply, and Genji could tell he was frowning.

Genji rocked slightly in his seat, thinking through his words, “Sato liked him. He was nice even when he was hurting.” Frowning, Genji tapped the paper, “He hurt a lot.”

Mr. Wright placed his hand on Genji’s shoulder, “Try to focus. Look for any memories with our Big Bad.”  

Genji held Sensei’s blood and filled the syringe with practiced ease. He turned and knelt beside All Might. He looked… tired. Defiant, but resigned. Dread and guilt and disgust twisted in Genji’s stomach.

“I-I can’t …” he said in the barest of whispers. “Not to you. I c-”

All Might held out his arm and nodded at it. Sorrow filled Genji as he injected the tainted blood into the kind, brave, hurting man.  

“I’m sorry,” Genji whimpered quietly as he rubbed the area with a small alcohol wipe, “I’m sorry, All Might.” His hands trembled as he pulled the needle from All Might’s arm. He pressed a bandage to the red pin-prick, nearly bursting into tears when he saw All Might try to give him a reassuring smile.  

“To think that self-sacrificing nature of yours could still be exploited,” Sensei said smugly, “So much for that strength.” He bent and took Genji’s shoulder in his hand, “Take this lesson to heart.”  

“Y-yes, Sensei,” Genji stuttered, frozen under All for One’s grip. He feared him.

Genji flinched away from the hand on his shoulder. A shudder ripped down his spine, and he quickly wrote every detail of the memory before it slipped away.

Cold. Sensei … All for One was steel gray - heartless. Unfeeling. His touch stole away all warmth.

“Ayumi Shiire?” Mr. Wright muttered under his breath.

Genji heard Mr. Wright’s jacket rustle as he crossed his arms, “A coworker of Sato’s. I think she directs the supply chain.”

Ms. Vera’s head snapped up, “Now there’s some good information. I’d like to have a word with her… I’ve gone over the supply chain for these hospitals for months. Isn’t that right, Mary?”

Genji looked up as Mary nodded.

“Good,” Mr. Wright said, “We’re getting somewhere. Genji.”

Genji glanced up briefly, not quite meeting his guardian’s gaze, “Yes?”

“Was there anything more?”

Genji shifted in his seat, brows furrowing. The memory slipped from his grasp, a mere wisp. He focused -

Pain erupted from his side, but Genji couldn’t speak. All Might leaped forward and, arm snapping back, crumpled to the ground - still held by the last uncut chain.

“A-All Migh-,” his eyes widened, and his face paled. He seized and gagged. Blood dribbled out the side of his mouth. He brushed his lips with trembling fingers and stared down at them. Tears welled in his eyes.

“There.” All for One sneered darkly - angrily. Genji’s blood dotted the villain’s hand and suit, “Now you match.”

Genji gripped the bone. Pain throbbed through his side. More pain than he’d felt in his life.

“Genji!”

The memory flickered, but held Genji submerged within it. Drowning him.

The masked villain grabbed the bone spear, twisting it slowly.

Genji’s hands shook and slipped against the twisted bone, grasping desperately.

Stopstopstopstopstopstopstopstopstop! Please! Please! Stop!

“I left you alone with the barest glimmer of hope, a naive child’s kindness. Temporary allowances I accounted for. I had expected Tetsumi to teach this runt…” He gestured at the broken chains with disgust, “She failed.”

All Might snarled, “St- !” The word broke, and instead an inhuman growl rumbled out of his throat. His hackles stood on end, and his tail swung in anger.

Sensei pulled at the bone spear and Genji let out a broken, pained shout, desperately holding onto the slick spear - willing it to still. Hot, wet blood seeped through his shirt.

“I thought perhaps fear would turn to loyalty given time. I overestimated his cowardice…” Sensei canted his head, and his grip on the spear tightened.

“It’s time to extinguish that hope.”

The villain yanked the bone spear from Genji’s side.

SLAP!

Genji blinked, tasting blood. He pressed his fingers to his lips, and they came away red.

I … bit my tongue…

“Genji..?”

He looked up. Mary stood by him, panting, open hand still raised. His cheek stung.

“W-what?”

All eyes were on him, and he shrunk down to avoid them. A collective sigh filled the room, and their gazes mercifully left his face.

Mary shifted so that she faced forward, looking away, “Genji, you were stuck. I’m sorry. We tried calling out. Do you… do you want to talk about it?”

Genji looked around the room, confused. Glancing down he noted bloodstains on his notebook, “Ow…?”

Alba clicked her beak, “And… it’s gone. Probably for the best. That was a nasty memory from the looks of it.”

Genji’s eyes widened in understanding. Oh. Sato’s interview.

He checked the date and time of the last journal entry and looked at his watch, nodding.

“Yes, the borrowed memories are gone,” he grimaced, sticking out his throbbing tongue, “Ew. I need to wash out my mouth. I’ll be back.”

Mr. Wright said nothing.

Genji couldn’t look.

A hand reached out to him, and fear bubbled his chest. Fighting the urge to bite his nails, he sped up and passed his guardian.

Once he was safely out of the room, Genji paused.

Strange. Why would I…? Mr. Wright’s not scary.

He shrugged, dismissing the feeling as remnants of borrowed memories now lost.

After his long chat with Principal Nedzu, Toshinori stumbled back to the dorm and immediately collapsed onto the livingroom couch. Lying on his stomach with his head resting on his folded arms, he stretched out his tired legs behind him and let his feet dangle off the far arm of the couch. His tail curved down and thumped absently against the floor as he listened to his students prepare their own dinners.

The soft, pleasant atmosphere lulled him into a peaceful nap.

Hours later, Toshinori woke covered in blankets and surrounded by pillows. He shifted, tail tightening around -

“All Might-sensei?”

Toshinori blinked sleepily and looked down toward his hip. Young Kaminari smiled awkwardly from his seat on the floor, his arms pinned by the tail wrapped around his torso.

“Can I get out of tail jail now?” he asked, wiggling in place a little.

Toshinori’s ears perked and went red when he heard a couple of his nearby students snicker.

“That’s what you get for trying to play with his tail,” Ashido giggled, earning laughter from the students around her, quickly followed by a stiff reprimand from Young Iida. Uraraka and Izuku shared a look when Iida sat, broken when Uraraka snorted and shook with laughter.

“Oh,” Toshinori unwound his tail, moving it up to rest atop his legs, “Sorry, Kaminari, my boy.”

His student only smiled and hopped up from the floor, stretching his arms, “Not a problem! It was actually pretty comfortable.”

Toshinori quirked a lopsided smile, the tuft of his tail flicking in amusement.

“If you say so,” he chuckled, raising his hand briefly to wave off the boy as he wandered back to a group of his classmates.

Toshinori shifted comfortably. Stretching his legs and splaying his padded toes, he chuckled warmly at Young Ashido’s whispered comparison of his and a cat’s feet. Yawning, he pressed deeper into the cushions, and his eyelids drooped.

A energetic tune suddenly played from the television. The cold open of the eight o’clock nightly news, Toshinori realized vaguely as it pulled him back from his nap. Rolling with a grunt and pushing himself to sit up, he gestured to the screen.

“Kouda, my boy, would you mind turning up the volume?”

Kouda, sitting on the other couch, looked up from the rabbit in his lap and nodded.  

Toshinori blinked the sleep from his eyes, ears perking as the anchors spoke.

“Hello and welcome to the top of the hour,” the first anchor said as an animation flashed across the screen, “Breaking News now from the front gates of U.A. Principal Nedzu, along with members of his staff held a brief press conference regarding the story we brought to you this morning.”

“Yes,” continued the co-anchor, “This morning, a photo of the mystery person who startled shoppers in the Rishi shopping district entering U.A. was sent to us by an anonymous source. This is what the Principal had to say.”

Principal Nedzu, sitting on Blood King’s shoulder, appeared on the screen.

“The man in the photograph is a faculty member, and so is meant to have access to the U.A. campus. He was, at the time, attempting to save a wounded person while injured himself,” Nedzu smiled pleasantly at the reporter, “He extends his apologies to anyone he frightened in his rush to help.”

The video continued as the anchor spoke again, “When asked who the faculty member and the injured person were, the Principal talked instead about the benefits of keratin.”

Another animation flashed over the screen while the co-anchor moved the show along, “Well, it’s been rather chilly outside. Let’s get a first check of weather.”

Toshinori quirked a small grin, and his shoulders sagged in relief. A perfunctory top story with a single soundbite was perfect.

Hopefully now the excitement will die down, he thought, glancing down at his clawed feet absently kneading the carpet. At least until I’m ready to go public.

Standing, Toshinori stretched and shook off the cocoon of blankets. He quickly folded them and returned them to the chest by the television.

“Thank you, Kouda,” Toshinori said, closing the chest.

Kouda smiled bashfully up at him while his rabbit grew restless and hopped down from the couch. Toshinori looked down at the rabbit and gave his tail a few experimental flicks, smiling when they hopped over and around it in excitement. Crouching, he pet the rabbit with the back of his fingers, careful to keep his claws away.

Whiskers twitching, the rabbit made a soft noise of complaint and thumped their foot on the ground when Toshinori stopped. He chuckled and shooed the rabbit back towards Kouda.

“Go on,” he said softly and grinned.

Standing up straight, Toshinori -

“Ah,” he inhaled sharply and pressed against his side. Pain flared from the center of his scar outward. He grunted, pursing his lips at the taste of blood coating his tongue, and moved towards the kitchen.

“All Might-sensei?” Toshinori heard Tokoyami’s voice as he stumbled up to the sink.

Shit… Toshinori spat into the basin, quickly rinsing the red down the drain. Not in front of the kids… With a trembling hand, he wiped his lips and flinched as painful aftershocks seized his side.

“All Might?” Izuku’s voice was quiet as he passed a clean hand towel to Toshinori.

Toshinori managed a small nod in thanks, pressing the towel to his mouth and clearing his throat, “Just a spasm, my boy.”

The tickle irritating his throat worsened, and he braced against the counter. The coughing fit hit like a punch to the gut, though he was mercifully able to muffle the heaving coughs in the towel. His legs shook and tail slumped to the floor.

Sh-shit. He thought as the aches from his exercising returned with a fury, Overdid it.

Toshinori wheezed and finally pulled the cloth from his face, folding it quickly to hide the large, red stain. Claws digging into the countertop for support, Toshinori eyed the elevator and clicked his teeth in frustration. He took a hesitant step forward, and the room spun.

Izuku’s hands hovered uncertainly before he gently gripped Toshinori’s forearm, steadying him.

“That was … rough. Do you,” Izuku gave Toshinori’s arm a small squeeze, “Do you need water or help up to your room?”

Toshinori shook his head, shuddering at the intense burning in his chest. He rubbed his abdomen, Damn it. The acid sac…

“Okay, just… take your time. I’m right here.”

Toshinori nodded, “I -”

His eyes widened.

No no no no -!

Nausea seized his throat, and he staggered, blinking rapidly to clear the spots dancing in his eyes. White…

The fog…

Shit. Did I really overdo it?

Numbness washed over him.

No. This is nothing. I can handle this mu-! A shudder ripped down Toshinori’s spine, and his legs wobbled.

No…

Toshinori grit his teeth, vaguely realizing he was on the floor.

Not here.

Hands squeezed his shoulders.

Please not here.

Time slowed.

Not… not near the kids...

Green eyes desperately searched for his.

Please -

Canvas 1 / 2 / 3 / 4 / 5 / 6

Catalyst 1 / 2 / 3 / 4 / 5 / 6

Control 1 / 2 / 3 / 4 / 5 / 6 / 7

Collapse 1 / 2 / 3 / 4 / 5 / 6 / 7 / 8

Contained 1 / 2 (WIP)

Find the whole series on Archive with fanart at the end of each chapter HERE!

Check out Aoi’s and my sideblog @toshinoumu for more series content!

An older, lovely sketch by @juustozzi which inspired part of the last scene :3c

Thank you! <3 

[regents-hidden-artblog]

Favor

Raven-Home was alive with revelry, as it often was. Many of the visitors were fed or feasting, drunk or drinking, or playing at small games about the field. There was never a dull moment at Regent's feasts, and I knew there was no risk of it happening soon, as Regent stepped toward a ring of rope fencework to announce our next amusement.

Regent: Now, let's have a little fun, shall we?

Regent: It's all well and good that our houses are all allied, but I think we should stir up a little chaos - spark a friendly rivalry or two, eh?

The King unceremoniously began to discard his armor, working himself down to a pair of simple cloth breeches and little else. His lithe figure showed little definition in the torchlight, and he grinned at his audience as he unbound his hair and let it fall loose over his shoulders.

Regent: I challenge each house to a wrestling match. Your head can either step forward and meet me themselves, or commit a champion in their stead.

Regent: The rules are simple. No powers, no psychic tricks, no magic. Victory goes to whomever can pin their opponent for five seconds straight, counted by the referee - else I decide if a bout goes on long enough to forfeit.

Regent: Whoever wins - or in the case of multiple or no winners, whoever lasts longest - earns my favor for the night to spend as they please.

Regent: So, who would accept the challenge first? We've got three fights to clear, and the night's plenty young.

There were murmurs among the spectators, especially from those of the noble houses who had only to accept the challenge, as they decided who should go first, and whether or not they should designate a champion.

Naturally, having no champion to fight for him, Roasin stepped forward first. Regent met his challenger with an excited grin.

Regent: Lord Volyat. Good to see you're in high spirits.

Roasin: --- Likewise, Seer-King.

Regent: A shame and a half I'll have to put them and you both to the floor.

Regent: Dogana! On your ready!

The burgundy Maid sat at the edge of the arena, fumbling around a pile of flags until she found one that displayed the seal of Avalon. She raised the flags with every count of a number until her arms were held high in the sky.

Dogana: Fi^v^e! Four!

Dogana: Three! T^w^o!

Dogana: One! Fight!

And both flags dropped. The combatants rushed at each other, planting hands on their opponents shoulders or waists, and they began to grapple, punch, and knee one-another to wear their foe down. Roasin put forward a serious effort, which was helped by his natural tealblooded strength, but Regent's constitution was legendary.

Roasin's knee met his foe's ribs several times, then shifted to hit his stomach, trying in vain to knock the wind out of him, but Regent gritted his teeth, keeping a firm grip on the Lord's shoulder as he slammed hard into Roasin's side.

Both fighters grunted and groaned and heaved as they tried to upend one another, until Regent turned his free hand on the same side as his grappling hand, rent Roasin to the ground with a powerful shove, and rolled to place a knee on his chest, pinning him in place. Dogana counted the seconds, and Roasin wheezed at the call of "five" when his opponent lifted his knee and extended a hand.

Regent: Hhah, bastard!

Regent: Fable hasn't been halfassing your unarmed training, has she?

Roasin: --- hhhnn...no, Gods-, she certainly has not.

Roasin: --- That said...I still need to work on it.

Regent: Keep at it. Dizmar! Get this man a drink and a cushion!

Regent: Now who's next? Elysium, or Alternia?

My mother began to appraise the situation, keeping a thoughtful look on her face as she looked at the people who could potentially champion Elysium in the wrestling match. I had already figured who I would send into the ring - either dad, who was little different from Regent, though physically hardier, or Fable, who was an undisputed master with most known forms of combat, and had our father's stubborn force of will to match.

Tarkas was a good third option, having been trained by Fable, much like Roasin, though for much longer, and doubtless his training would have been reinforced by Amarokian durability. Those three would make natural competitors against Regent, and I was certain she'd choose one of them to go in her stead.

Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Emperor Foebus whispering between his matesprit Santia and his advisor Lilvia, nodding his head at last to show he came to a decision. He raised his glass and accepted Regent's challenge.

Foebus: o)-- i c}{()()se varn()x trivel as my c}{ampi()n!

And from the Alternian lot, a lanky purpleblood sans-makeup lumbered into the ring. He widened his stance and prepared for the fight, and I took the opportunity to sneak over to Foebus' side to pry.

Rowan: not accepting the challenge yourself, emperor? how curious.

Foebus: o)-- }{e}{. well, t}{ere are tw() t}{ings st()pping me fr()m g()ing in t}{ere and tr()uncing regent myself little miss winc}{ester.

He nonchalantly waved his glass, sloshing some of its contents about.

Foebus: o)-- f()r starters, i'm already starting t() get buzzed. can't be t()() l()ng n()w 'til i'm starting t() get drunk.

Rowan: and the other thing?

Foebus: o)-- getting t}{e piss beaten ()ut ()f y()u by a human juggernaut surprisingly isn't all t}{at fun, win ()r l()se.

Lilvia: I trust VarnOx still has his wiles abOut him. Elsewise it's dOwn tO brute strength.

Rowan: and i'm pretty sure that's a contest regent wins most of the time.

Foebus: o)-- if n()t}{ing else, }{e can last a damn l()ng w}{ile. }{()pefully y()ur dad and sister are drunk, r()wan.

Rowan: oh? why should we hope for that?

Foebus: o)-- lady isabella - all respect t() t}{e w()man - already }{as pleeeeeeeenty ()f regent's fav()r. and besides - i want s()me f()r myself, }{e}{.

I nodded, then quietly returned to my seat. The fight was already well underway, and compared to his first bout against Roasin, the violence inflicted between Regent and Varnox was staggering. The purpleblood bore down on Regent with pure malice, making every effort to pummel the Seer to the earth, and Regent, for his part, was holding up surprisingly well.

The fight had lasted twice as long as Roasin's attempt, and it had seemed for a moment that Varnox was winning. He had bent his foe low to the ground, then shoved Regent onto his back, but in a motion that was both blindingly quick and surprisingly fluid, Regent turned Varnox over onto his stomach, locking one arm against the small of his back. Dogana counted to five, and Regent threw his arms into the air in boast.

Two of Varnox's friends, Saepho and Silvee, sprung from the Alternian crowd to retrieve and mend the unfortunate champion, while Regent dropped to his knees as Athene came to his side and began her work.

If Roasin had managed to bruise Regent, then Varnox broke bones and left bigger bruises. The King's breathing was ragged, his body leaning painfully to one side, and a trickle of blood crept from the corner of his mouth, but his face was still a snarl of vicious confidence. And now he had just one opponent left.

Once he had been fully healed, the Seer shouted his third challenge.

Regent: Good fight, Foebus, Varnox - I expected no less from Alternia!

Regent: You all may win tonight's favor yet, but let's not count our chickens before they hatch.

Regent: Queen Isabella! Have we any contenders from Elysium?

Victor and Fable were both sitting on the edges of their seats, waiting to be called on. Mom took one more appraising look about her company, then stood.

Isabella: Hirces. Win this for me, please.

There was a brief moment of silence, and in that moment I was rightly confused. Hirces? The huntsman, doubtless strong in his own right, but hardly comparing to our house's known warriors. He would be our champion? I glanced back, watching him slowly rise to his feet. Isabella was the only one who didn't look back at him, though she wore a small smile as she heard him answer.

Hirces: yes, my lady. count it yours.

He threw off his tabard and hood, stalking toward the arena, and for a moment, I could've sworn I saw the faintest hint of yellow-ochre at the corners of his cheeks unmarred by his facial scar. When he was within the arena, he lowered himself to the ground, ready to pounce.

Regent: Well, looks like Dogana's gonna have a real show now.

Hirces: shed better. i dont get to show off often.

Regent: Ready to make losing look good?

Hirces: speak for yourself.

Regent nodded, Dogana blushed and began the countdown. When the fight began, Hirces lunged at Regent with lethal speeds, but was met by what amounted to an immovable object. He struck and tore at the King, a frenzy of focused violence, and Regent withstood it all, landing a few of his own blows in turn.

The huntsman began to vary his approach - hooking his legs under Regent's, groping for a good position to hoist him straight off the ground, wearing at him with punches and kicks, he tried everything, but each strategy seemed to be checked. Legs would shift or plant to avoid being taken out, weight would be forced down lower to the earth, and blows would be mitigated by physical endurance alone.

Things started working more and more in Regent's favor, as Hirces' onslaught began to wane, more for lacking any more tricks to try than for exhaustion. For a moment, Regent had seemed poised to topple his opponent, but then the tables were turned.

One hand sprung up and tore Regent's grappling hand off Hirces' shoulder, and he followed the motion by stepping inside the Seer's stance, hooking his leg behind Regent's own. He threw his free arm behind the small of Regent's back, and pushed hard off his back leg, toppling the King in a brutally swift motion.

Landing hard on Hirces' arm bent Regent back to the earth odd, visibly causing him pain, and Hirces capitalized on his success by placing his free arm hard down on Regent's throat, leaving him stunned. Dogana counted it out.

Dogana: One! T^w^o!

Dogana: Three! Four!

Dogana: And fi^v^e! Hirces ^w^ins!!!!!!

The Hunter-Praetor crawled off of his fallen foe, taking to his knees. He seemed no more winded than when he began the fight, but Regent writhed on the ground with a moment's pain clearing up.

Regent: Ghh-od-damn...

Athene rushed into the arena, healing Regent once more.

Regent: ...My back...?

Athene: n()t br()ken, just sprained.

Regent: That felt, waaaaaay worse than a sprain. Gods.

Athene: d() y()u need any help, hirces?

Hirces: no thanks.

A bit of yellow blood welled at the corner of his mouth, but his expression only dared Athene to say anything. She didn't, and simply finished her work on the King.

When she returned to the crowd behind Regent, the King stood up, stretched, and looked Hirces in the eye. It had seemed for the moment that he was judging the goldblood, but that thought was dispelled when he belted out in laughter and slapped his opponent's shoulder.

Regent: That hurt like hell! Remind me not to piss you off, eh?

He raised one hand triumphantly in our direction, and Dogana likewise raised the flag displaying our family crest.

Regent: Victory - and my favor - goes to the Winchester house and the Kingdom of Elysium! Give this man your applause!

A deafening uproar followed as Hirces stood, gave Regent a short bow, and returned to his seat. The King then began letting anyone pick opponents to wrestle, and the order of the challenges seemed from a distance to be first-come, first-serve, but I paid little attention to it.

Instead, I watched as Hirces was stopped just before passing Isabella. He looked up to her, darkness concealing his expression, and all I heard was a quiet congratulation for the victory. Hirces returned to his seat, lazily throwing on his tabard and hood, and for the rest of the night, the revelry at Raven-Home was as expected.

People were fed or feasting, drunk or drinking, and playing games about the field.

And there was never a dull moment.