Chapter Text
Perhaps Denji should have been more bothered that he could no longer remember the color of his father’s eyes now that he stood before the man's grave. Instead, he could hardly bring himself to focus on the crudely erected cross before him. The gnawing deep in his stomach captured his immediate attention better than any death could, taking on greater urgency than sorting through his scrambled emotions.
“Bastard strung himself up; didn’t even make this month's payment…” Denji was startled, so distracted by his aches and pain and muddled thoughts that he’d forgotten he wasn’t alone.
The Old Man sat comfortable and dry behind the wheel of his car, leaving Denji out to shiver in the downpour that soaked and froze his slight figure. The rain pasted his scruffy, dirty blond hair to the back of his neck, and forced his oversized tank top to stick to his sides, exposing his aggressive malnutrition and protruding ribs. What a pathetic sight; no wonder the Old Man didn’t bother to even look his way as he addressed him.
“Kid, I don’t care how,” the Old Man continued, voice as gnarled and gravely as his very appearance. “Have 700,000 yen ready by tomorrow. Or I’ll cut your corpse into pieces and sell you.” His tone remained casual as though he wasn’t extorting thousands of yen from a child.
His callousness was refreshing in its own way. Disdain and dislike were familiar to Denji; those apathetic looks and the weight of the burden he dragged behind him were old friends. In so few years he had come to know exactly how to handle hatred or being outright ignored.
He should never expect anything different; being Quirkless is nothing but condemnation to a life of pain.
If it were up to the Old Man, Denji didn’t doubt that he’d already be six feet under, so the fact that he had been given a chance, no matter how impossible, left Denji feeling unbalanced. There was a sense of unease that crawled under the top layer of his skin and dried out his throat because he knew that people like him didn’t get the chance to fix things.
Knowing that he was still alive and allowed to try to pay off an impossible debt, all because the Old Man took orders from someone else, left him feeling exposed and made him freeze up, trembling with uncertainty.
The Old Man had explained things, clear-cut and obscenely unrealistic; get the man the money his father owed and live to survive another day. It didn’t seem to matter that Denji had no clue how to get his hands on any amount of money, let alone so much in 24 hours.
He could beg for pocket change or steal what he could. But a begging, Quirkless brat was beyond pity and would just get ignored, and he knew the risk brought on by impulsive and unplanned theft wouldn't be worth the potential reward. What was being asked of him was just shy of unachievable, and he had no idea what these people really wanted from him.
This was nothing but a setup for failure.
Maybe all they wanted was to watch.
Drowning both mentally in his growing sense of helplessness and physically in the unending rain, Denji stood silent and unmoving, waiting for the Old Man to say something else. A hint, a tip, anything to go off of to gain a sliver of hope.
He didn’t. The man merely stared, lip curled slightly with distaste for the pathetic boy who glared back at him with resentment. The beating raindrops, the puttering of the Old Man’s parked car, and a sharp, revving engine off in the distance were the only sounds remaining, cutting through the tense silence between the two.
It was the Old Man who averted his gaze first with a heavy sigh. He turned away, impassivity hidden poorly behind his feature-obscuring horn-rimmed glasses and brimmed hat. It seemed his business here was done; the car window rolled up and the vehicle grumbled and twitched to life. Denji watches the only other person around drive down the winding dirt road without a second glance at the orphaned child he had left behind.
As the car rumbled and coughed its way back to civilization, Denji was left to stand alone, abandoned in the middle of miles of dead fields. All that remained to accompany him were the retreating sounds of wheels churning over gravel, the pounding assault of a chilling downpour, and the too-long shadow cast by his own father's grave.
He didn’t know what else to do, so Denji began to shuffle his feet to carry himself away from the headstone. He was tired and cold, and if he stayed here he’d probably be dead before the time he was given to find the money ran out. Denji glared down at his tearing sneakers, which caused a disgusting squelching sound in the moist grass and soil with each step.
This was stupid. He couldn’t do anything out here in the middle of nowhere. Maybe he could hitchhike his way back to the nearest town.
The growl of a machine started up again, louder and closer than before.
Denji sucked in a sharp breath, eyes widening at the deep rumble of a motor so nearby. His feet began to carry him in the direction of the growing noise before he even made the conscious decision to seek it out, steps faster and with more energy than he’d had in weeks.
It didn’t sound like a car, at least like any car he had heard before, but Denji couldn’t care less. He wouldn’t be so foolish as to ask for help, but if he weren’t alone if he could get away from here, then he had a bit more of a chance of figuring something out.
Maybe this small twinge of hope was pointless, but Denji couldn’t help it.
There was a small, gangly tree not too far away that sat alone amongst the empty rolling fields, and Denji found himself moving directly towards it as the out-of-place sound became clearer with his approach. He was disappointed that he didn’t see anything, no car or other person, but he was moving now and didn’t let his footsteps falter. While the tree's spindly branches did little to protect him from the inclement weather, a poor attempt at a makeshift shelter in the middle of an open field. Denji’s shivers morphed into violent shaking as the miserable cold merged with his growing anxiety and fear of the unknown presented before him.
Denji’s dull, yellow-brown eyes tried to focus on what was before him but still could not make out the source, except that the deep, undulating sound was coming from directly behind the thin trunk of the tree.
Up close, the sounds of the revving engine became clearer, and he could now also hear the whirring of a fast-moving, mechanical blade.
It took him several more seconds to process before his brain kicked into gear with a jolt of panic. Denji didn’t know what the sound was, revving and roaring with a grinding, metallic whirl, but something primal screamed that it was dangerous. Adrenaline spiking, Denji froze in place with fear, overcome with the urge to turn around and retreat altogether.
Then again, it’s not like there was anything better for him if he ran.
Cutting off his thoughts and indecision, he took one more step forward. His voice trembled, as he let out a timid and indiscernible sound to catch the attention of whatever was hidden just before him.
After a moment, the motorized growl died down, only to build up again even louder and more vicious than before. Denji’s jaw dropped at the sight of a four-legged monstrosity that darted from behind the tree, the creature snapping and revving at the boy's feet. He sucked in a fearful breath at the sight of the creature before him.
The animal, if it could be called that, was a shocking and unsettling sight. Its peach-fuzz fur coat was a shade off from the color of rust, the most organic part of its body. Everything else, from the handlebars in the place of ears, to the freakishly sharp, foot-long chainsaw blade protruding from the center of its head, screamed of something unnatural. Every one of the animal's combined features were too many steps removed from the stray dog he presumed that it was.
Perhaps Denji was confused, what with how malnourished, tired, and frail he was. Or perhaps it truly was a Quirked amalgamation between a living animal and a man-made power saw that snarled and postured before him.
As the chainsaw blade spun with ferocity, Denji’s vision blurred with moisture far saltier than the rain. Legs now stuck in place, he was too weak with fear and malnutrition to even attempt to move. All he could do was pinch his eyes tight to keep his forming tears from spilling and bite his raw lower lip to keep in any pathetic noises that he may make. His only minor physical mutation, sharp fangs in the place of ordinary and disarming teeth, pierced the skin of his lip, causing him to bleed the smallest bit. He cringed further with shame as the taste of blood hit his stomach, causing it to lurch and beg for more.
“If you’re gonna kill me, just do it,” Denji muttered in defeat, “I’m gonna die anyway…”
It was too much. It was all too much and Denji couldn’t do a thing. He couldn’t get the money, he couldn’t be useful, he couldn’t move himself a single step to get away from the creature that was one moment away from charging him and driving its ripping blade through his stomach and painting the dead grass red.
The animal shook. Whined. Then its eyes fluttered shut as it fell over, a dark red liquid oozing from several deep holes in its side.
Oh. A wound.
Understanding washed through Denji, loosening his tired, tense limbs.
What he’d read as aggression in those piercing black eyes had been hiding desperation and pain. The dog was frightened and hurt, doing what it could to scare off a threat while at its most vulnerable. Denji understood far too well, though rather than revving a chainsaw capable of rending and tearing flesh he’d spit and swear and cuss, baring his too sharp teeth like the feral monster others saw him to be.
He inched towards the animal's now prone form, close enough to see how its breaths came in quick bursts. Its eyes remained closed, scrunched tight with panic and pain. It was so familiar.
“Are you gonna die too?” Denji asked.
He couldn’t help the renewed shivers that ran through him. Beneath the spotty cover of the small tree which blocked out the worst of the monotonous drumming of the rain, the only sound that remained between them was Denji’s chattering teeth and the dogs' shallow pants.
They made quite the pathetic sight; a small, dying dog and an emaciated boy, both too terrified and vulnerable to do anything else but wallow in their self-pity. Two helpless, wild animals, destined to die too soon.
Watching the dog's shuddering breaths, at least Denji could reassure himself that he wasn’t alone for now. That wouldn’t last forever though; the dog was losing blood too fast and would be dead before night fell. And once the dog died Denji would be alone once again, and he would be back to square one. If he doesn’t succeed, he’ll die, and he won't stand a chance of succeeding without some kind of help.
Denji’s heart stuttered, a crashing realization tearing through him all at once. So what if there was someone to help?
He knew with pure certainty that he would be dead by tomorrow, and with wounds so bloody and deep the dog would be too. But that was assuming that they were alone. Denji wasn’t dead yet, and neither was the dog.
If they worked together-
Denji crouched with purpose to the small dog's level, its eyes finally flicking open and tracking him with powerful intensity. “Let me help,” he started. He had no idea if the dog would understand, but it was all he could think to do. “Let me help if you don’t want to die!”
The dog began to slowly shift at his words, some level of comprehension in its dark, beady eyes. After some slow and painful shifting, it attempted to sit up and move in Denji’s direction. Denji extended his hand cautiously so as not to startle the wounded animal.
He remained still, letting the small dog inch closer, past his upturned palm to move directly towards his bare arm. It stopped, making powerful eye contact, trying to communicate something that Denji couldn’t interpret. Uncertain what it wanted, he chose to remain still and wait for the dog to act.
Taking his stillness as permission to proceed, the dog leaned into his arm.
It bit down. Hard.
Now it was Denji’s turn to breathe in fast, panicked rasps, more due to shock than pain. The dog had clamped its small, sharpened fangs deep into Denji’s arm, breaking the skin. He tried to move his arm, causing his skin to tear open, rivulets of blood trailing down his limb and mixing with the rain. Still, the dog wouldn’t budge, its gaze remaining locked with his. The way it looked at him wasn’t a challenge or attempt at intimidation but seemed to have a weight and urgency that Denji couldn’t make sense of.
The shallow wounds ached so much worse as he tried to dislodge the dog, skin pulling and catching, blood flowing free, so he stilled himself and accepted his fate, refusing to break eye contact first.
With minor trepidation, the dog began to lap at the blood pooling from the row of wounds. Denji waited, feeling less disgust than he should. Maybe he was just jealous that the dog got something to eat.
The dog did nothing else, licking at the free-bleeding wounds, causing Denji to try to understand what was happening without any success. The blood loss was minor, but as his surprise faded and adrenaline crashed he began to grow dizzy and lightheaded.
Time dragged on as the dog lapped at the running blood, even though it had probably been just a few moments since the initial bite. As it licked, the dog scooted its body closer and began to wag its tail, thumping lightly against his thigh. If the animal weren’t one accidental twitch away from taking off Denji’s arm, he might have thought it was cute.
The repeated beating of its tail caused Denji to look away from the dog's dark, intelligent gaze. Denji’s eyes widened with shock as he looked closer, now observing that the softly wagging tail wasn’t a tail at all; it was a ripcord. He’d seen them on chainsaws before, how the way to get the motor running was to pull on it fast until it started up.
Before he could second guess himself, he slowly reached his free hand towards it, wrapping his fingers around the handle with a light grip. The ripcord was cool to the touch and slick from the rain. The dog headbutted the arm that it had held onto, as though urging Denji forward.
He wasn’t sure what else to do. He yanked the ripcord.
The chainsaw revved loud and fast. He hadn’t even noticed that the dog's blade had stilled minutes prior, probably when it had fallen limp from the pain. Denji was terrifyingly reminded of the whizzing head of the chainsaw as it coughed to life, spinning too fast and too sharp mere inches from his bare arm. Before he could stumble back and get away from the spinning motorized saw, the dog rose to its feet, eyes narrowing with determination. Perhaps sensing Denji’s renewed panic, the dog angled its head, pointing the whipping chainsaw away from his arm to rest at a safer distance.
Heart rate slowing once again, Denji turned his focus from the dangerous weapon to the dog itself and felt his eyes widen in surprise. All at once, peachy skin stretched as the wounds in the dog's side began to stitch shut. He didn’t know if he was actually hearing or just imagining the squelching sounds within the dog's body, but he could clearly envision how its internal wounds, organs, and tissue were healing as well.
Within just a few seconds the lethal injuries were nearly gone; all that remained were the old bloodstains that had run down its side, already being washed away by the trickling rain. Denji stretched out his free hand, running it slowly along the once wounded side of the dog. The short-cropped fur was both prickly and soft to the touch, and he was stunned that the dog didn’t seem upset at all with the slow petting he offered. He felt nothing under his hands, no jagged wounds or syrupy blood.
It clicked as the blood-drinking and the pull of the ripcord created a more complete picture in his mind. Like an engine, refueled and being restarted. Denji’s confidence was bolstered at having figured out that the dog had no intention to hurt him; rather, it had taken up his offer of help. “You can heal by drinking blood.”
It was a strange revelation, to know with certainty that this stray dog had such an impressive Quirk, the kind that was probably better than the few pro-heroes he could name off the top of his head. After all, any kind of healing Quirk was incredibly rare, and to be naturally paired with that dangerous chainsaw blade as well was impressive.
Did some dog seriously beat Denji in the genetic lottery?
That was fine, he supposed. Almost everyone else had a Quirk instead of him, so a dog should be allowed to have one too. Besides, this Quirked dog was giving him the kind of hope he never thought he could afford to have.
He gave the small animal a shaky smile, “Yeah, if you don’t wanna die then you can bite me!”
He was lightheaded and disoriented, bleeding sapping his already depleted energy, yet it was like a fog had been lifted. He’d been in a daze for too long, perhaps since his dad died, or even before then. But now he had a drive, something to make what should be impossible just achievable enough for him to try.
“My blood doesn’t come for free, though,” Denji explained. “I’ll save you, so you gotta save me…” the dog continued to lick at his wounds as he spoke, its actions losing their urgency and body continuing to relax with a growing sense of trust and understanding between the two. Whatever this was, a sharing of blood between condemned creatures had bonded them.
“I don’t want to die either…”
And Denji wouldn’t. He had a plan, and now he wasn’t alone.
He named the dog Pochita. Right now, there was blood dripping from Pochita’s chainsaw.
Denji’s palms were slick with nervous sweat, making his grip on Pochita precarious at best. His jaw clenched tight as he worked to keep from dropping the dog who vibrated with a roaring energy, blade spinning from the crown of his head fast and deadly. The power in his hands was too much for Denji’s small frame and spindly limbs, but right now he couldn’t show any weakness. This was their only chance.
The boy and dog stood over a man splayed on the ground, cussing and spitting while trying to staunch the flow of blood from his ankle, torn apart moments earlier with the rabid blade of a spinning saw. Denji tried not to let his face twist as his mind latched onto the feeling of slicing Pochita’s live blade clean through the man's Achilles.
Idly, he wondered if the man would walk again. He wondered if the guy would need his foot taken off altogether.
Denji didn’t know who the man was or what he had done. All he knew was that he had taken something from the people the Old Man worked for, and even that something he probably wasn’t supposed to overhear. It's not Denji’s fault that people don’t seem to pay attention to the homeless kid listening in on them.
Thinking more, he hardly even knew who the Old Man worked for. He’d asked the Old Man when they’d first met if he worked for the Yakuza, and in response, he had slapped Denji upside the head and snapped that ‘they’re not Yakuza you dumb shithead, the Yakuza died out back when heroes showed up’.
In the end, Denji never found out what the people the Old Man worked for were. Perhaps that was for the best.
No, Denji didn’t know jack shit about anything, but he knew from movies and from the horror stories of others living on the streets that people who steal from the kinds of people the Old Man works for get caught and get punished.
Denji and Pochita had stopped a thief, and that’s all that mattered.
It was a large effort to turn his eyes away from the man shouting and writhing on the ground, but he didn’t matter to Denji right now. The boy turned his attention to the true target of his actions, his face schooled with resolve, hands wrapped blisteringly tight onto Pochita’s handles to mask the way he shook.
There stood the Old Man at the open mouth of the dead-end alley their confrontation had occurred in. It felt as though the man was truly seeing Denji for the first time, judging by the way his eyebrows rose high over his reflective glasses as he took in the scene; an actual emotional reaction however small.
Denji’s heart fluttered with an unknown dread from holding the focus of someone who had shown him such distaste until now. Still, unnerving and unfamiliar as it was, he knew this was the look he had been hoping for.
“Will you hire me, sir?” Denji asked, voice wavering only the smallest amount, the anxiety in his tone hopefully overshadowed by the man moaning in pain at his feet.
The Old Man paused, contemplative, before a smirk grew, slow and ugly from beneath his cigarette-stained beard.
Denji could work with that.
She stood behind pristine, floor-to-ceiling windows on the top floor of a towering high-rise, her hypnotic eyes tracking over the motion of the city. The midday crowds stories below bustled with life and energy, reminiscent of writhing swarms of maggots. She tapped her finger absentmindedly on the glass before her, surprising herself as she realized that, for once, she didn’t mind how ordinary and flawed the masses were below.
They’re not like him. He was fascinating and powerful.
She hoped he wasn’t dead; she hadn’t been trying to kill him.
Towards the end, anyways.
She absentmindedly stroked her soft, braided hair, observing the sunlight glittering off the windows of the many skyscrapers and buildings on all sides with mild disinterest, thoughts dedicated to someone else.
The large door to her back creaked open. “Ma’am, they’re ready for you.” An even voice called out behind her, respect apparent in their tone yet contrasted by the apprehension in their hunched shoulders and the smell of nervous sweat. One may have mistaken their anxiety for fear, but she knew better than anyone that the line between fear and lust could be easily blurred.
Turning her head just slightly, she offered a warm smile in acknowledgment of the others words. There was a sharp squeak, a flush of red cheeks, and in a flash, the announcer had dashed out the door.
Alone again, she closed her eyes and focused just a bit longer, ears ringing as she began to hear from a thousand ears at once. The sound was distorted and quality poor, a cacophony of chatter and sirens and the bustle of everyday life, but she had more than enough skill to parse out every sound in hopes of finding just one.
“...we could get something to eat? You should have time before your shift starts…”
“...the train is delayed. There was a villain attack and half the trains that connect at Tatooin Station won’t even be running again until tomorrow…”
“...want to get the limited edition All Might vintage collectible pin set. Apparently, there was a manufacturer mistake where they made the cape on the Bronze Age pin blue instead of red. Misprints like that can resell for a lot among collectors…”
“...phone died. Can I borrow yours? I’ll make it quick but my parents…”
She couldn’t find it. The inconsequential words and sounds of people washed over her but no matter how she parsed through she couldn’t find the one thing she wanted. That one sound, so distinct, so dangerous, and incredible.
The revving of a chainsaw.
She waited one more moment, indulging in her own desire to listen just a little longer before accepting that she had to move on. She cut her connection with the outside world, silence enveloping her. Straightening her tie and turning on her heel, she abandoned the peaceful perch overlooking the city.
No more distractions for now; she had work to do.
After all, Makima knew the Hero Public Safety Commission couldn’t get anything done without her.