Archive of Our Own ^beta

“This is super cliche, actually.”

“I need you to shut up,” Hitoshi says.

“You think they have cameras? Like you know, Saw type of shit? Are they watching us?” the criminal squints at the ceiling corners, his handcuffs rattling as he shifts in his seat. “Oh my god, what if they’re live-streaming this to some sick fucks on the dark web or something?” he laughs, soft and lilting tenor notes. “Ew, are there a bunch of rich people getting off to this right now? Gross.”

“You are not helping!” Hitoshi says. And then he stops rattling the doorknob and slams his fists onto the doorframe. “Fuck!”

“Well,” the criminal says to the ensuing silence, “that’s certainly helpful.”

Hitoshi wants to kill him. 

No, he doesn’t. That’s just a hyperbole. Hitoshi doesn’t want to kill him, Hitoshi can’t kill him. Even if there is a possibility that—

“If one of us dies,” says the criminal, “they’ll let us out. The one that’s alive, anyway.”

—it’ll solve this entire situation.

“I can fucking read,” says Hitoshi through gritted teeth. 

The words blink from the monitor strapped on the walls—the narrow, suffocating walls—bright neon signs, flashing mockingly in sans serif. A comically written instruction on how to escape this room. Saw type of shit.

It is cliche. Hitoshi fucking hates Villains and their stupid fucking nietzschean dramatics. His fists sting. Hitoshi breathes, allows himself the briefest of reprieve, and takes stock of his surroundings. 

It’s a small room, the one they’re in—just about twice the size of a bathroom cubicle. Thrice, if he’s being generous. If Hitoshi focuses enough, he can hear the criminal’s breathing, the tiniest rustle of his clothes, and the beat of Hitoshi’s own heart. And, of course, the water pouring down from the vent above.

Shit.

There is a slight movement in his periphery and Hitoshi twists, wary. But the criminal isn’t coming at him. Instead, the criminal leans his body down and—to Hitoshi’s mild surprise—bends down to … to lick some of the water pooling on the floor. 

The criminal frowns—and then laughs. “Saltwater,” he says. He smiles still, that flashing hint of teeth; a grin that is seemingly plastered to his face. “All this water and we can’t even drink them. Sadistic fuckers, eh?”

Saltwater—Hitoshi has had a suspicion. The room smells like the sea trapped in a closet—damp, suffocating, sharp in his lungs. Nauseating. Hitoshi wants to throw up, as if seasick. 

The water isn’t exactly warm either. Ten, fifteen degree celsius if he’s being generous. Hitoshi mentally tacks hypothermia to the list of things they should worry about—right next to rising blood pressure due to a life-threateningly annoying asshole.

“Hey,” the criminal says. Case in point. “Hello. Yes you, sir, I’m talking to you. Could you, like. Uncuff me. Since, you know, we are probably going to die or whatever.”

“We are not going to die,” Hitoshi snaps. His voice echoes in the narrow, claustrophobic space—angrily. He is fucking angry. At the criminal for not shutting the fuck up. At himself for—for getting into this situation. At whichever motherfucker is orchestrating this entire shitshow. “And I am not letting a criminal with an unknown Quirk go unrestrained.”

The criminal rolls his eyes—the whites of them apparent in the sparse light—as he sighs, an exaggerated movement. “First of all, I can’t go anywhere. Neither of us can, in case you haven’t noticed. Second of all, I’ve told you,” he says with a tone that suggests Hitoshi is being unnecessarily difficult. “These Quirk suppressors do nothing to me. How many times do I gotta say that until you believe me, huh, Hero?” says the criminal. “I’m Quirkless.”

And despite everything, what comes out of Hitoshi’s mouth is: “I’m not a Hero.”

Something flashes over the criminal’s face, nothing Hitoshi recognizes. The only source of light in the room is the bright letters blinking from the monitor, but the glint of teeth is unmistakable—a knife in the dark. The criminal is grinning from ear to ear. 

“Aw,” the criminal coos, leaning back. How someone could manage to have both their hands handcuffed and still lounge is beyond Hitoshi. “Apologies, Detective. Did someone fail the Hero exam and got himself the second closest option instead?”

Hitoshi doesn’t entertain him with an answer. The criminal doesn’t seem to mind, prattling off that infuriating mouth like it’s his fucking job. “God, imagine being a cop,” he laughs. He does that a lot, much to Hitoshi’s dismay. “Man. How does it feel, doing all that work just to have the Heroes take all the credit?”

Of all people Hitoshi could get stuck with in a life or death situation, it has to be with a criminal that has an acute inability to shut the fuck up. “Is this your Quirk?” says Hitoshi, cold. “Pissing the fuck out of people?”

“Nah,” there is a glimmer of amusement in those eyes, apparent even in the dark, slick in his voice. “That’s my talent.”

Then he’s certainly fucking blessed. 

Hitoshi shifts—an agitated movement, he paces when he’s anxious—but there is no space for him to do so. He’s backed to the corner of the room, one with the door, managing as much distance as possible between the both of them, which is not much at all—three or four steps at best. He breathes in the cloying scent of the ocean.

The stream of water coming from the vent is constant, splashing underneath the sole of Hitoshi’s shoes. The floor is concrete, he would guess—hard and solid and textureless, just like the four walls caging the both of them. The ground is completely covered in water now—the criminal doesn’t seem to mind, however, sitting at his end of the room as water wets his pants. Blue pants, Hitoshi remembers—though it’s ink black in the dark now, the criminal was wearing a blue janitor uniform when they arrested him. Hitoshi still remembers how the fabric had felt underneath Hitoshi’s grip—coarse and cheap. 

Just like Hitoshi, the criminal is still wearing the same clothes that he wore back in the station. But that isn’t a guarantee that the criminal isn’t armed, because in the gap of time where they were transported to this location, their persons have clearly been meddled with. Hitoshi can’t feel the gun he always has strapped on his waist, for one. They took his watch and his phone as well.

He could feel his badge, though. He could even feel his wallet still inside his back pocket, a receipt and the toothpick he got from lunch. Nothing useful. Except, maybe—

“You could’ve tried that the first time,” says the criminal’s voice in the darkness, “instead of having a hysterical meltdown and throwing a fit like a—”

“Shut up,” Hitoshi says, the words butchered as he bites the toothpick between his teeth. He hopes to god it’ll work well enough as a makeshift rake. His fists sting still, but he can barely feel it now—they shake. Adrenaline, he knows. Fear. 

He has to calm down. He’s in the force, for fuck’s sake.

Hitoshi tries to steady his hands as he gets to work. Focus. This type of doorknob has a slimmer keyhole, but the handcuff key he has on him manages okay as a tension wrench. 

After long excruciating minutes of rattling and cussing, Hitoshi hears a sigh behind him. “Could you please go any slower? You know, in case the water drowns us both before you manage to get us out of here?”

Hitoshi has never been this mentally tested in his entire fucking life. He’s on his knees, the water seeping through the fabric of his pants, he can’t even see anything in this fucking darkness, and this shithead is complaining? Hitoshi doesn’t deign him a reply. 

Rattle, rattle. “Let me do it,” says the criminal.

“You’re a criminal,” says Hitoshi. Rattle, rattle.

“Exactly, Detective, I’d be doing a better job than a—”

There is a click.

Both of them fall silent. Hitoshi could hear the criminal drawing a sharp breath—near a gasp. Hitoshi himself feels as if his heart has stopped. Hitoshi turns the knob.

Nothing happens.

He pulls at it. Rattles it. Nothing fucking happens—

Behind him, the criminal takes a step forward, and Hitoshi immediately turns to glare in warning. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

The criminal rolls his eyes for the second time. “Relax. I just wanna check whatever the hell is up with that lock.”

Hitoshi is immovable. “Don’t take another step.”

“Or what?” the criminal tilts his head. This darkness is unbearable, painting everything in black and salt and uncertainty. “Are you gonna add that to my list of crimes? Obstructing an officer’s endeavor to pick a lock on which the offender’s life depends on?“

When Hitoshi doesn’t reply, he sighs again—Hitoshi has never heard a sigh that sounds so obtusely irritating. The criminal raps his knuckles—needing to raise both cuffed arms for the action—to one side of the wall. The noise sounds dampened. Airtight walls. “We’re basically two fishes trapped in a concrete aquarium—except, you know, we aren’t fucking fishes. How big do you think this room is, Detective?”

Hitoshi doesn’t even have to stretch his arm all the way up to touch the ceiling. Approximately 2 metres in width, length and height—8 cubic meters in volume. 1 cubic meter is, what, 1000 litres? It should take at least 8000 litres of water to fill this room to the brim. And judging from the speed of water coming inside the room..

Hitoshi doesn’t reply. The criminal doesn’t seem to mind. “We don’t have much time. I’d give it half a day. Maybe less.”

He doesn’t sound panicked. He doesn’t sound calm either. A bit matter-of-factly, maybe somewhat macabre. A little cheery. “And if you are a competent detective, you know as well as I do that we need to work together if we want to have a chance at getting out of this shit. So?”

“No sudden movements,” says Hitoshi as an answer. “We switch places at the same time.”

The criminal obeys. Not very surprising. They are in a dark and narrow space—not ideal for a fight. The Quirk suppressor cuffs on the criminal is an advantage for Hitoshi, but he would rather not risk it—it’s rare, but some Quirks manage to activate even with them on, and Hitoshi has frustratingly zero info on the criminal’s.

Furthermore, agitated movements will only diminish their limited supply of oxygen. And who knows when that’ll run out?

Hitoshi watches silently as the criminal kneels down just where Hitoshi did, inspecting the doorknob. He shouldn’t be able to see much in this light unless he has some sort of mutation Quirk that allows him to do so.

“You did unlock it,” the criminal says, not bothering to look at Hitoshi as he does so.

“..it doesn’t open.”

“No,” the criminal agrees, standing up. “Because what you unlocked isn’t what’s keeping this door shut. There is some other mechanism in place—“

“A second lock.” Shit.

“Yeah. Can only be opened from outside, I bet..”

Hitoshi allows himself to pinch his eyes close for a moment. He says nothing. None of them does. The sound of water fills up the room, rhythmical, constant. A promise of a slow and excruciating death.

“..or it could be Quirk-based.”

Hitoshi looks up at that. The criminal is sitting down again, leaning against the shut door. Look at him—a fucking officer about to have a group discussion with a criminal in a fucking death trap—why not? Morals be damned. May the power of friendship save them all, so on and fucking forth. 

Hitoshi needs to calm down. He gives himself time to do just that. “A Quirk that locks a room until one of the occupants dies?”

The criminal shrugs. “I’m sure you’ve seen weirder Quirks than this. Or maybe there are sensors in this room—detecting heartbeat or body heat, and once one of us dies, it triggers a mechanism..”

“They could just be fucking with us. There is no guarantee that they’ll let us out even if one of us dies.”

“At the moment there is no guarantee that either of us won’t die.”

“The right thing to do,” Hitoshi says, “is to wait until help arrives—“

The criminal laughs, bell-chime, the sound bouncing on the wet floor, the tight walls. “Oh, please—as if you are that naive,” the criminal raises a knee, resting an elbow against it. A relaxed slouch. “Do you really think someone will get to us before it’s too late?”

The water pours in, a background music to their little dialogue. The vent is small, too small for even a child to fit through. Hitoshi can’t see anything through it—just darkness. There is no way to tell the time. They just woke up, what, fifteen minutes ago? But what about before? How long have they been stuck here?

Hitoshi clenches his teeth. “What’s the last thing you remember?” 

“Wow, I guess this is the perfect time for a little heart to heart, huh? Just the two of us, an avant-garde bathtub, and oh, look, a romantic fucking lighting to set the mood—”

“Cut that shit out,” says Hitoshi coldly. He can feel his heartbeat slow, his mind attempting to reach for a calmness that he doesn’t have. “Just as you said. We need to work together— temporarily. Don’t make this any more difficult than it has to be.” 

“You could at least try to be more civil.”

“You’re a criminal.”

“A criminal who is also your only company in this breathplay AV.” 

“What’s the last thing you remember?”

“We were at the station,” says the criminal finally. He has the audacity to sound bored. “I was brought in for questioning—both of us were in that interrogation room. And then a guy gets in with the—“

“—the fucking coffee,” Hitoshi curses. Fuck. Drinking the coffee is the last thing Hitoshi remembers. It was the coffee.

“Getting roofied in a police station of all places,” the criminal sighs. “My life reaches a new low every single day. Anyway, and then there was a fire in my apartment and I woke up, except I wasn’t in my apartment, I was in some fucked up death trap with some cop, and what I thought was the fire alarm is actually just you screaming bloody hell—“

Hitoshi tunes him out, mind racing. They were taken directly from the police station, then. How is that even possible? Was the entire station attacked, or was it just them? The enemy must have some sort of transportation Quirk—possibly teleportation. Rare, but possible. 

There isn’t any other object in this room other than the both of them and the monitors. How could they be sure that they are even in the real world, right now? Hitoshi feels sober—there was slight dizziness when he woke up, but that has all been washed away by adrenaline. His motor functions are fine. He doesn’t find any signs of injections, no bumps on his head that he can find. Hallucination is one possibility, but not the most concerning one. What Hitoshi is afraid of is—

“There are Quirks that could create pocket dimensions.”

That. 

“Wasn’t there a Villain,” the criminal continues despite Hitoshi’s continuous silence, “who could trap people inside marbles or something? We could be in one of those right now.”

And if they are, then the possibility of being found is diminishingly small. Hitoshi looks into the dark and tries to imagine a world outside these walls. Nothing really comes to mind. What if there is nothing? What if there is just the two of them and the dark and the—

“The water must be coming from somewhere,” Hitoshi says. “And the electricity. Energy sources are impossible to recreate in finite spaces like pocket dimensions.”

If the criminal is convinced or otherwise, he doesn’t let it show—unresponsive for once. Hitoshi looks at him. “What do you have on you?”

The criminal rattles his handcuff as an answer. When Hitoshi doesn’t budge, he sighs. “You guys took everything from me when you brought me in, remember? I got nothing.”

Hitoshi slowly slides down to sit on the floor. “They … whoever brought us here. They didn’t take off your handcuff.”

“Wow, really? I didn’t notice,” he says, caustic. “Maybe they thought it would be more fun to watch if it wasn’t fair. Or maybe they have a fetish.”

Hitoshi ignores the last comment. “Is that what you think?” he says. “Do you think this isn’t fair?”

“I can’t move my hands,” the criminal says, counting his misfortunes on his fingers. “I’m Quirkless. I’m trapped with a trained officer that might or might not try to kill me. And you see, due to some cruel cosmic darwinian genetic lottery, I was born with lungs instead of fins, and this might surprise you, but I, unfortunately, cannot breathe very well underwater—”

“I won’t harm you unless in self-defense,” Hitoshi says. “And you’re not Quirkless.”

“This again,” the criminal sighs. “You know what? Whatever makes you sleep at night. Or forever, with the way things are going.”

“What you did to those people is impossible without a Quirk.”

“That’s because I didn’t do it.”

His voice echoes sharply in the suffocating room. It’s not a snap, but it’s close. It’s the first time Hitoshi has heard an emotion in that voice that isn’t glib amusement or faux boredom. 

The water has reached Hitoshi's ankles now. When did that happen? “You were caught red-handed at the scene. All evidence points to—”

“Yeah, because no evidence has ever been falsely planted before—“

“Could you explain, then,” Hitoshi says. “What exactly were you doing in a room with fifteen dead businessmen?” 

“They were already dead when I got there.”

“That doesn’t explain why you were there in the first place.”

Hitoshi’s eyes have gotten used to the dark. He manages to catch a glimpse of a thin smile. “I’m a janitor. Heard strange noises. Decided to check—”

“You are not a janitor,” Hitoshi says. “There is no record of your name under their list of employees.”

“So I worked under a false name,” the criminal shrugs. “Identity fraud isn’t exactly manslaughter, is it?”

“No,” Hitoshi says. “That wasn’t just manslaughter. That was mutilation. Disfigurement. Quirk abuse on human bodies.”

The bodies of those businessmen weren’t just desecrated—they were unrecognizable. They didn’t even look human, mutated as they are; half-evolved into something more, something less. Some monstrous thing. 

“The past two cases,” Hitoshi says. Researchers at a private lab. And then the Heroes stationed in Musutafu’s biggest pharmacy—all dead in the same grotesque form. A series of closed casket funerals that have been haunting Musutafu in the past month. “Were those also you? Did you nomufy those people?”

Those bodies were nomufied. There is no other way to put it. And anyone who has been present in Japan for the past nine years knows which Villain is responsible for that.

“Are you working for All for One?” Hitoshi says.

They look at each other. Hitoshi tries to remember the criminal’s face from his memory—he remembers wild hair, a set of wide eyes. All of that is painted off-black in this darkness.

“Last time I checked, All for One is dead,” says the criminal. Matter-of-factly. Cheery. “Wasn’t he killed by that Vigilante three years ago?”

“Vigilantes are not to be trusted.”

The criminal is splashing the puddle of water with his fingers like a child at a pool. “And Heroes are?”

“I am not having a political discussion with a Villain.”

“Villain?” the criminal laughs. With and without humor all the same. “I told you. I didn’t do it.”

“Even if you didn't, you still have a criminal record.“

“Sure I do,” says the criminal. “Stealing onigiris at a Seven-Eleven when I was twelve makes me a Villain in your book, huh? That says a lot about you, Detective—water sign, definitely! Let me guess ... Pisces. Oh, no, no,” he snaps his fingers, the metal cuffs jingling as he does so. “Cancer!”

Villain or not, being this insufferable should be a crime. “You know nothing about me.”

“Don’t I?” the handcuffs clink. “You’re young. Mid-20s and already a detective—that’s impressive. Good rep—you went to a good school, didn’t you. Ooh, maybe even a Hero school. Let me guess. Shiketsu? Ketsubutsu? Gasp, UA?” he tilts his head, taking stock of Hitoshi’s expression. “Holy shit. It was UA, wasn’t it? Man, I’m so jealous. Did you ever get to meet All Might?”

“It would be best,” Hitoshi says, “if you keep your mouth shut right now.”

“UA has one of those pity courses right, for kids that don’t have cool Quirks? Were you in one of those? That’s so funny. But hey, you made it, Detective. You must be good at your job, huh? A workaholic, I bet. You probably have a pretty good Quirk, don’t you? But not good enough to become a Hero.”

“Shut up.”

“Something useful in investigations. Cognitive Quirk, maybe—the police force loves those. Makes it easier to secure confessions out of—”

“Midoriya,” Hitoshi says. “Shut the fuck up.” 

The water streams, streams, climbing to Hitoshi’s calves. His pants feel uncomfortable. 

“What, you can accuse me of mass murder but I can’t assume a few things about you? Now that’s unfair.”

“How,” Hitoshi says, all pretenses of authorial dignity that comes with being an officer having fucked off his person, “have you survived this long without anyone trying to fucking kill you?”

“Is that a threat, Detective?” he sounds amused by the prospect. “Are you going to try to kill me?” 

“Unless in self-defense,” Hitoshi repeats through gritted teeth, “I—”

“Honestly, just do it.”

Hitoshi stares at him.

“Like, let’s get this over with,” the handcuffs clink again. If his hands were not restrained, the criminal perhaps would be the kind of person who speaks with animated movements. “I’m just a criminal anyway, right? It’d be justified. Imagine the headline: ‘Mass Murderer Minion of All for One Killed’—no, no, ‘Executed in the Name of Justice. More in depth interview with trailblazer Detective Shinsou-what’s-his-face on page eight.’”

And then Hitoshi realizes something. He has suspected this ever since the first time Midoriya Izuku opened his mouth in this godforsaken room, but now he is 100 percent sure of it. “You..”

“My, have you never killed anyone, Detective?” says Midoriya Izuku. “Even better! This is the perfect chance to pop your homicide cherry. Lose your M card—M for murder virginity, I mean. Murderginity. Mur—”

“You’re fucking crazy,” Hitoshi says. 

The criminal smiles. Hitoshi wonders how that would look in proper lighting—if it’d look just as aggravating, as glib and fake as it does now. “I’ve always wanted a therapist. Think you’re up for the job?” 

Hitoshi’s head hurts. “If working together means having these inane conversations, then cooperation is not an option.”

“So I suppose you would rather the both of us die, then?”

“Yes,” says Hitoshi. “I suppose the both of us can just fucking die.”

“I’m sorry,” says the criminal after a while. Hitoshi isn’t sure how long that while was, but it was a pretty good while when he didn’t have to hear that insincere and infuriating voice. “I wasn’t in my right mind. Hysteria, you know? Surely anyone would’ve acted a little inane.” 

More like insane. Hitoshi doesn’t answer. If you talk to a crazy person, then you’re the crazy one. 

“So?” the criminal says to Hitoshi’s silence. “Are you still not talking to me? Can we make up? Pretty please with an oxygen tank on top? Hey? Detective-san?” he sighs. “Seriously, can we start over? I’ll be a good girl. I promise. I really don’t want to spend the last moments of my life being given a cold shoulder by a cop—”

“Fucking hell, do you have an off button?”

“There he is!” he claps, cuffs jingling. “How I’ve missed your voice.”

“Cut that shit out,” Hitoshi says. “Cut that out—that act. As if this is all a big fucking joke. I don’t give a fuck if that’s your coping mechanism or if you were just born a shithead—cut it out.”

“All right, all right,” says the shithead, restrained hands gesturing placatingly in front of his chest. He sounds almost sober for once. “Consider shit cut out. So. We starting over?”

Hitoshi doesn’t answer. Midoriya gladly takes this as a yes. “Cool. What’s your Quirk?” 

Hitoshi looks at him. Midoriya does that placating gesture again—it feels more and more condescending now, as if Midoriya is merely indulging him. “Hey, if we are working together, I need to know what your Quirk is.”

“I’m not sharing vital information with a—”

“—with a criminal, yeah, yeah,” says the criminal, bored. Mildly indignant even. 

“With a criminal whose Quirk I don’t know—”

“I’m Quirkless, god, why can’t you believe me?” he throws his cuffed hands to the air, exasperated. “Diagnosed useless at four, got that funky toe joint and all. Do you want to see my feet? Is that it? Is this just an excuse for you to see my feet?” at Hitoshi’s murderous face, he says, “I’m sorry. Shit cut out. I promise. But like. Could you at least tell me if your Quirk could, in any way, give us a chance to escape this non-consensual escape room?” 

It’s childish to feel annoyed to admit that the criminal is right. As if this was a middle school spat. “It’s a cognitive Quirk.” 

“That’s not an answer.”

Hitoshi frowns. Not that the criminal could see it. “My Quirk is non-physical. It won’t—”

“You can’t think of any way that your Quirk could get us out of here?”

A beat. “I won’t use my Quirk.”

“Huh?” Midoriya barks an incredulous laugh. “Um, why the hell not? Pretty sure it’s legal for you to use your Quirk under these circumstances. And even then, who cares? We’re going to fucking die if we—“

“This isn’t up for discussion.”

“Fine, fine, I’ll respect your boundaries,” he says, and Hitoshi can hear a tone of annoyance in his voice, which is somewhat strange. It almost makes the criminal seem like a normal person. “All this water on its way to choke us to death, however, will not.”

“There is no guarantee it would fucking work,” Hitoshi snaps. “You could die. Both of us could.”

The light from the monitor is scattered, reflecting on the surface of the water in neon glimmers. The room is brighter now. Midoriya stares at him across the room, silent for a beat after Hitoshi’s short outburst. “So it’s a last resort?”

“It’s a last resort,” Hitoshi says flatly. 

Hitoshi can feel signs of cramp starting to crawl up his neck, his legs. The wall is cold and unforgiving against the back of his head. How long has it been? Half an hour at least. Or has it been an hour already? He doesn’t know—they have no way to tell, no metric of time available at their disposal. None but the water slowly engulfing them both. 

“That’s it, then?” Midoriya’s voice cuts through the ripples. “We’re just going to sit in silence until our mandatory diving lesson? Go gentle into that good night?”

“Can’t go five minutes without trying to be fucking funny, can you?”

“I’ve lived my life as a joke,” says Midoriya. “Might as well die as one.”

“We are not going to die.”

“Optimistic! I like that in a cop. The pessimistic ones are harder to scam.”

Hitoshi’s head pounds. “Do you have anyone who would mean harm against you?”

“Oh, plenty,” Midoriya says. “I am after all a criminal, just as you have so kindly reiterated. Dozens of Seven-Elevens have suffered because of me. As you know, shoplifting causes billions yen of damage to giant corporations every fucking year, enough for CEOs to start drowning people once a week for stress relief.”

Hitoshi isn’t the most patient person in the world, but he has never considered himself quick to anger—until now. “If you are not going to be helpful—“

“Do you have anyone who would mean harm against you?” 

The water isn’t so noisy, now, a miniature waterfall at the centre of the room, separating the both of them. Hitoshi’s pants are uncomfortable, his waist almost completely submerged. 

“After all, we are both here,” Midoriya continues. “Both of us must be connected in some way. Maybe we have something in common—”

“We have nothing in common.”

They don’t. Midoriya Izuku is a criminal. Records of petty theft since adolescence, locked in juvie in his teenage years. After he’s out, there are zero records of his whereabouts—until now. Twenty-four years old and caught red-handed on a crime scene. Literally.

If there was more light in this suffocating room, Hitoshi would be able to see the blood splattered all over his uniform. 

Midoriya laughs. Harsh. “Come on, Detective. Why do you think they picked us, huh? You think they just nabbed some random fucking dudes to be the stars of their torture porn show?” The grin on his face is manic. “We were kidnapped in broad daylight. In a police station. That can only mean one thing, Detective.”

Hitoshi knows.

“This shitshow,” says Midoriya, “is an inside job.”

Hitoshi knows that.

“Someone—someone on your side, in your institution—wants us dead. Wants you dead. Or at least suffer,” says Midoriya. “Now. Why would they want that, Detective?”

“I have no reason to tell you.”

“No reason?” That annoyance again. “The more we know about our captor the higher our chances to—”

“Then you should answer my question. Why were you there?” 

Hitoshi wonders how long until the water rises enough that they would have to stand up. Two hours, two hours and a half, maybe. “Why don’t we make it fair, then?” says Midoriya. “I answer your question, you answer mine. A dick for a dick or however that saying goes. Is that more up your alley, Detective-san?”

“How do I know you’re telling the truth?”

“How do I know you’re telling the—”

“What were you there?” Hitoshi says. “What were you doing in Musutafu’s largest business congress?”

And then, to his surprise, Midoriya answers. “Someone gave me a list. A list of possible victims. That list led me to this congress.”

Beat. “Who is this someone?”

“No. My turn,” Midoriya says. “What do you think is the connection between the nomufication victims?”

Hitoshi glares. “I can’t share confidential information to—”

“An answer for an answer.” 

“..they backed the same political party,” Hitoshi says. All three companies did.

“That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

“My turn. Who gave you that list?”

“I don’t know,” Midoriya says. “They’ve been trying to contact me for months, supplying me with information.” 

“And you trust them?”

“Is that a question, Detective?” 

Hitoshi shuts his mouth. “It’s not—”

“I’ll gladly answer it. I don’t,” Hitoshi can hear a smile in Midoriya’s voice. “That’s not how I operate. But their intel is good. Exceedingly so. I would guess someone working for the commission or the force—vigilante sympathizers. Radical turncoats like them show up once in a while.”

“How you operate,” Hitoshi repeats. “What does that—”

“Nuh-uh,” jingle, jingle, as Midoriya shakes a finger. “I got dibs for two questions now. Why do you think these companies were attacked in particular?”

Hitoshi takes a deep breath. “Investigation thus far determines that while correlations exist between the victims there isn’t enough evidence to suggest that the crime is targeted at—”

“That’s not what I asked. I asked what you think. You know, I’m a dilettante at best at this..” he gestures vaguely, cuffs clinking like a bell. “This sleuthing business. But I have a theory. Would you like to give it a listen? Of course you would. Do give me feedback if you like.”

“What are you doing?” Hitoshi says. “Stop.”

Midoriya doesn’t. Water drips down his body as he stands up, a miniature torrent of rain running down his clothes. “There have been no sightings of nomus since All for One’s death. His nomu factories have all been torched.”

“Midoriya,” Hitoshi warns, standing up. “Don’t come any closer or I’ll—”

“You said I needed a Quirk to nomufy those people,” Midoriya says. He is shorter than Hitoshi—that much is apparent now that they are standing face to face. His build isn’t small, however—Hitoshi can see traces of muscle even underneath that uniform, an outline of broad shoulders. “But I disagree. There is only one person alive who is capable of synthesizing the nomufication formula—”

“If you take one more step—”

“—and Garaki Kyudai has been imprisoned for three years.”

Midoriya moves. Cuffed hands raised—not quick, but not slow either. Almost casual, as if to touch Hitoshi’s shoulder, or shake Hitoshi’s hand, and Hitoshi’s instinct kicks in. Basic judo throw—one of the first moves that Hitoshi has ever learned, as easy as a reflex. Water splashes as Midoriya loses his gravity, and Hitoshi is in the middle of moving into an arm lock when strong legs wrap around his neck and throw him off balance.

The room spins, but it’s all just dark, swirling neon light. Saltwater stings his eyes and Hitoshi tries to get up, but Midoriya has him in a pin. Lose enough that Hitoshi can breathe, but tight enough that he can’t move. Hitoshi can feel Midoriya’s calves wrapped around his shoulders like vice—he’s strong. Surprisingly so. 

“All evidence points to one thing,” says Midoriya, his voice steady despite the exertion of strength. “Who else could be making all of these nomus, if not the one who holds Garaki Kyudai captive?”

Hitoshi twists his left arm to splash water in Midoriya’s eye. Midoriya starts—Hitoshi takes that chance to shift their weights, but Midoriya regains his composure quickly. Midoriya still has his hands restrained, but that doesn’t seem to hinder him from fighting. His legs, Hitoshi thinks—Hitoshi has to shut those legs down. 

They struggle. The narrow space works some to Hitoshi’s advantage—Midoriya is stronger, but Hitoshi nimbler, trying like hell to keep Midoriya off his feet as much as possible. By the time he has Midoriya under a pillow scarf hold, Hitoshi is panting, drenched from head to toe. 

Hitoshi isn’t sure if he won—it’s more like Midoriya has decided to stop fighting back. The criminal is looking up at him. Silent. Hitoshi can’t decipher what expression is apparent on his face. “The Hero Public Safety Commission is behind this,” Hitoshi says. “Is that what you’re suggesting? That the HPSC is turning people into monsters?”

“Ever since the fall of the League of Villains, there has been a lull in Villainous activities for the past three years,” Midoriya says. “There has been a rumor of an upcoming act passing for budget sequestration in Heroics endeavors. Supported by a certain political party.”

Hitoshi tastes blood in his mouth—Midoriya’s managed to get a kick in. Hitoshi spits to the side before speaking. “And that leads HPSC to commit mass murder? To play Villains?”

“Oh, the HPSC has been playing Villains for a long time, Detective. They are, after all, an industry,” Midoriya says. “All for One is just a red herring. All these nomus are created to emphasize … the need for Heroes.”

“You are saying they’re killing all those people to create a market demand.”

Midoriya smiles. Hitoshi shivers—from the cold, from the glint of Midoriya’s teeth. “Heroics is an industry, is it not?” Midoriya says. “All industries need customers. Customers need incentives.”

Hitoshi’s breathing is steadier now. His grip is still tight on Midoriya’s, unrelenting, the coarse fabric wet and crumpled under his fist. Their faces are close—close enough that Hitoshi could feel Midoriya’s breath on his face. “All for One’s body was never found,” Hitoshi says. “He could still be the one behind all of this. How are you so sure that All for One is dead?”

“Because I killed him,” says Midoriya.

Hitoshi stares at him.

And then Midoriya says, “You’re not surprised.”

The water is tall enough that Hitoshi has to hold him up or Midoriya would be entirely submerged. They look at each other. “You’re not surprised,” Midoriya says again, softly, as if making an idle observation. Near a whisper. “You already knew, didn’t you? You already knew from the fucking start. You knew I was the Vigilante. You knew I was Deku.”

“I needed to find a way to talk to you,” Hitoshi says. “That’s why I gave you that list.”

Deku laughs. And then curses. “Fuck. Fuck!” He pauses. “And this entire fucking conversation—what, you were just fucking with me?”

“I had to make sure.”

Deku throws his head back, water splashing to the air, and laughs some more. High tenor notes echoing in this ocean of a room. And then he stops, looks back at Hitoshi. “God,” Deku says, something awed and horrified and manic in his voice. “You’re fucking crazy.”

“The list I gave you,” Hitoshi says, voice empty. “Those names.. they were bait.”

And Hitoshi didn’t realize that until it was too late. A congress meeting scheduled with the exact same guestlist? It was a trap. One that Hitoshi held the door open for Deku to walk in.

One that Hitoshi entered right after.

“They must’ve had me under their watchlist.” Hitoshi thought he was being careful. He thought he was subtle enough. Quiet enough, as he put his nose where it didn’t belong. “Manipulated the intel I gathered.” 

“The intel that you gave to me.”

“I fucked you over,” Hitoshi says. “I’m sorry.”

Deku laughs again. There is an edge there now, something serrated and jagged that wasn’t there before. “No. That’s not how I operate,” Deku says hoarsely. “I fucked myself over. Not you.”

Hitoshi releases his pin, fishing out the handcuff key from his pocket. “Both of us are fucked either way,” Hitoshi says. He uncuffs him.

“The Vigilante and the rat. Two birds in one stone, huh?” Deku doesn’t move from his spot, splayed on the floor. The water reaches his shoulders. Reaches Hitoshi’s knees. “They sure went for an elaborate set-up just to kill us off. Throwing people off the dock is too passé now?”

“They could be planning to pin this modus operandi on an up and coming Villain.”

“So they could keep killing people off and blame it on a non-existent serial killer?” Midoriya grins. “That’s sick.”

“There is still a possibility that HPSC isn’t the one behind this,” Hitoshi says. Slim, but it’s there nonetheless. “But if HPSC is the one behind this, help is never going to come. And even if we kill each other—even if one of us survives—”

“Headline #1: ‘Villain Kills Officer in Cold Blood’ et cetera. Headline #2: ‘Surviving Officer’s Mental State Questioned’ et cetera,” Deku leans against the nearest wall, in a slouch once again, as if relaxing in a jacuzzi. He must feel as cold as Hitoshi does, even if he doesn’t show it. “Dead end.”

Being out of the water makes him feel colder, so Hitoshi sits down—he has to conserve his energy anyway. Both of them say nothing. The rhythmical ripples of water a sole monologue in the room.

It has been a while since Hitoshi has gone to the sea, or to the pool—he has a shower in his apartment, not a bathtub. There must be a certain kind of comfort that comes with being in water, he thinks, some sort of childhood memories, of summer days. He tries to recall them—any of it. Nothing really comes to mind.

It wasn’t a particularly good run, his life. It wasn’t a terrible one either—except maybe the final part, if he really is going to die here. Sure, he fucked up some, but he did win some, didn’t he? He did make something out of his life, didn’t he, anything at all?

Nothing really comes to mind.

“I still have one question ticket left.”

Hitoshi glances up. Deku is watching him. The water is up to their chins. They have to stand up soon. “What.”

“Why won’t you use your Quirk?”

Hitoshi’s jaw clenches. The wall is solid behind him, but the coolness is pleasant against his bruised cheekbone. It’s a long while before Hitoshi opens his mouth. 

“You were right.”

Deku is still looking at him. Doesn’t say anything, waiting. Hitoshi breathes. He isn’t under the water, not yet, but he feels like it—feels like he is being choked. Entrapped claustrophobic by the sea. “You were right,” he repeats. “My Quirk. That’s why I—that’s why the force..”

He closes his eyes. Opens them. “They had me use my Quirk. To—” he stops. And then he says, “the force has a near perfect conviction rate. Because of Quirks like mine. Quirks that could … enforce testaments. And—and confessions.” 

Deku still doesn’t say anything. Hitoshi isn’t sure why he himself is saying all this. A confession before death, some false instinct looking for comfort, for salvation. As if he could ever be salvaged. “That’s not all they had me do,” Hitoshi says. “Did you know the HPSC sometimes scout officers with promising Quirks?” His mouth twists. “They would give you training too, to boost your Quirk. And it works, fuck does it work, my Quirk wasn’t this strong before, it didn’t use to be so—”

Hitoshi feels sick. He breathes. “These … these special-trained officers will receive mandated missions … to encourage a good working relationship between institutions. And they like my Quirk."

All his life, Hitoshi has heard a lot of things about his Quirk. How it's a Quirk fit for a Villain, a Quirk fit for bad people who do bad things. It's funny. It's a real fucking joke, because as it turns out, Hitoshi's Quirk is perfect for law enforcement. Perfect to uphold the system. "My Quirk can take people’s agency.”

It can take consent, both conscious and subconscious. It can rewire brains. “It can take will, people’s will, and these missions, they’re—” he cuts himself off. Hitoshi runs a hand through his hair, water dripping down his skin, stinging a cut over his lip. 

“My Quirk...” he says finally, stilted. “I don’t like using it.”

He falls silent. Neither of them speaks. Seconds pass—maybe minutes, or hours, Hitoshi isn’t sure. It doesn’t seem to matter.

And then Deku says, “come here.”

They are standing now. “Come here,” Deku repeats. “We have to share body heat.”

They take off their shirts and shit—Hitoshi curses, feels his lips shaking as he does so—fuck, fuck, it’s fucking cold. Deku’s bare shoulder presses against his, the warmth a small reprieve. He is drenched all over, but his throat feels drier than anything. How long has it been? How long? And how long do they have left? The stream isn’t constant anymore—the water is rising faster and faster. They only have a few hours before they drown if hypothermia won’t kill them first. 

“Deku?” he says. “Midoriya? Fuck. Don’t sleep. If you sleep—” 

The weight leaning against him shifts. “I know.” His voice is a rasp. 

Hitoshi has to keep him awake. He has to keep both of them awake. “What did you do to it?” Hitoshi says. “To All for One’s body.”

“Burned it.”

Of course. Because if the body got back to the government, there is no telling what they would do with it—a body that holds that much Quirk, that much power. 

“He wasn’t the first.”

“The first what?”

Deku turns to look at him, his breath a warm gust. “Wasn’t the first person I killed.”

He must be around 170 centimetres tall. The top of his head only reaching Hitoshi’s ear. “I see.”

Deku smiles. Now that they are standing, the light reaches their faces. Hitoshi still isn’t sure what the expression on Deku’s face means. “Man. You really haven’t killed anyone, have you, Detective?”

“Don’t call me that,” Hitoshi says. And then he says, “I don’t want to die a cop.”

Deku laughs—not bell-chime but a series of bark, rough, so rough that he coughs until he stops. “Alright. Would Shinsou-san suffice?”

“Shinsou is fine.” 

“Seeing that the both of us are currently shirtless and holding hands in a small, dark room, I think we have arrived at the phase in our whirlwind relationship where you can call me Izuku.”

Hitoshi’s mouth twists—almost a smile, if he’s being generous. “You didn’t live your life as a joke,” Hitoshi says, quietly. “What you did to those Villains—what you did for us, for the people you saved—”

“Don’t,” Izuku says, just as quiet. “I’m a criminal. You’re right about that. Killing assholes doesn’t justify the fact that I kill. Maybe I’m a Villain, maybe I’m not—but I am definitely not a Hero.”

There is nothing he can say to that. Not really. But Hitoshi says, “I’m not a Hero either.”

“You haven’t killed anyone.”

“I’ve done worse,” Hitoshi says. 

They look at each other. And for the first time, Hitoshi sees it—Izuku’s expression. There isn’t comfort in Izuku’s face. No salvation. 

Only understanding.

“So have I,” Izuku says.

There is little space between their heads and the ceiling—the rest is water. Sea. Izuku’s feet aren’t touching the floor—both of his hands are gripped onto Hitoshi’s shoulders to prop himself up. 

“You really are Quirkless,” Hitoshi says suddenly. Izuku laughs at that—a familiar sound now.

“Oh, yeah,” Izuku says. His grip isn’t so strong anymore, Hitoshi realizes. Sluggish. “Quirkless Deku—that’s me..”

Deku. Diagnosed useless at four. “You name yourself good for nothing.”

“I didn’t really choose that name,” Izuku says. “If I could choose, it would be something cool. I don’t know. All Might-adjacent.”

“All Might?”

“Oh yeah. Love that guy. I wanted to be like him,” Izuku says. “I wanted to be a Hero, you know, just like—just like every other kid,” he smiles, that sliver of knife. 

The smile shuts out and Izuku falls silent, but Hitoshi doesn’t say anything. He waits. 

“..I used to save money and spent them all on train tickets,” Izuku says, after a while. “There is this line—Musutafu red line—where you can see UA from the windows. I always thought it’s the most … the most incredible view I’ve ever seen. I always thought. Man. If only—if only they gave me a chance. I could—save people. I could be a Hero. If only they gave me a chance.”

Hitoshi tries to picture it. An alternate universe where Izuku is in UA, studying with him in the library, training with him in USJ, the both of them fighting in the sports festival. He tries to picture both of them in a Hero class—in 1-A, maybe. Tries to picture both of them as Heroes. 

Nothing really comes to mind.

“I guess this is it,” Izuku says.

Hitoshi’s feet aren’t touching the ground. They are floating, now, heads tilting upwards to the ceiling caging the both of them, for a gasp of air. 

“Izuku,” Hitoshi says. “Can I kill you?”

Izuku laughs. Perhaps this is the last time Hitoshi will ever hear that sound. “Yes,” Izuku says, hoarse, and watery, and for once—honest. “Yes, Shinsou. You can kill me.”

And then Hitoshi, feeling his Quirk fix into place, puts his hands around Izuku’s neck. He leans close, the cut on his cheek pressing against Izuku’s cold, salted skin. Hitoshi whispers to Izuku’s ears.

“Die,” Hitoshi tells him.

The water engulfs them both.

Hitoshi can’t breathe. The sea smothers him silent, and the cold is bone-deep, a noose clenching his lungs shut. There is nothing but darkness. Darkness and Izuku’s pulse beneath Hitoshi’s thumb—until that too is gone. 

And then the door opens.

The torrents of water are physical and violent—Hitoshi’s body is a doll trashing to its whim—and then it’s over. And then oxygen fills his lungs.

He coughs, hacking, choking on air. He opens his eyes and the sheer amount of light makes them close shut again, sending sparks behind his eyelids—

Izuku.

Hitoshi gropes his surroundings blindly. “Izuku, Izuku—”

It feels like forever until his vision returns. They are still in the room, but the door is open—and beyond it Hitoshi can see the sky, so blue, and the sea. But Hitoshi only has eyes for Izuku’s unmoving body draped by the door.

He can still feel the connection—so weak, so little, but he can. Izuku’s eyes are closed, chest unmoving, skin cold where Hitoshi pumps his chest. Hitoshi leans to give him rescue breaths, and then to his ear—

“Live,” Hitoshi tells him. “Izuku. Live.”

Izuku opens his eyes.