Chapter 5
It’s late when the boys are done in Esuha and are returning home. They dropped the notebook off with no trouble and got back to a train for the library in Mustafa, no heroes on the train this time. They spend a good few hours at the library using the free computers to learn. They learn the material they’re learning, 2nd year junior high, and then some; like stuff they want. Katsuki learns about explosives, ways to use his quirk, and stretches to help lessen the strain on his shoulders and upper back. Eijirou learns pressure points, ways to hit someone without much force and different types of flips, Izuku learns programming and hacking.
They find paper free for customer use and they write as much as they can, restore the information as much as they can. They print what they can and write what they can’t. The prints range from exercises to mock tests of their material. They make homework's for each other, one person has the correct answers, the other two will fill it out and then have it graded. People around watch with fondness, they see three boys obsessed with learning what they can, they see three boys who are loved very much and cared for. What they don’t see are the bruises that litter their bodies from fights nights before. Where they stopped a drug deal, a man getting raped, the cuts and scrapes from failed jumps on a roof, just barely catching themselves on the ledge or a pole.
They leave the library close to five o’clock and start their trek back to the beach. The streets slowly empty as the sun slowly disappears behind the horizon. When they reach the beach, the sun is completely gone, the sky a painting of deep blue and black and a speckle of stars. Inside, the boys change into their uniforms and leave soon after.
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“Poet, King, situation!” Soldier points out, leaving their formation and running west. Poet and King follow behind, reforming in a triangle with Soldier leading. The bound from roof to roof, pole to pole reaching an alley fork behind four buildings. They go to the alley in the middle, slowly as the rustle of clothes and whimpers get louder. The back alley is a dead end, and a man holds a woman by her throat to the wall. Her legs kicking and swinging wildly slowly lose their strength, her hands gripping the man's wrist and face, desperately trying to get him off and get air. Her face slowly loses color.
The male stands tall, scales and veins of a glowing red color trail up his arms and his neck. A set of horns protrude from his forehead and arch up and down towards the back of his head. He wears black jeans and a red tank top with the arm opening sagging down. The woman is a short, petite lady. Purple hair falling from a high ponytail, a fringe swept away and to the right. Some sort of business attire fits the figure, a purse drops and most likely kicks away to the end of the alley, the continents split.
The trio share a look before Soldier and King jump down, sliding down the wall and landing on the male. Soldier kicks off the wall and grabs his horns and pulls back, King kicks off as well and lands on the opposing side before jumping again and landing on his arms, just above the elbow. Poet found a water pipe and slid down, slinking along the wall, his presence hidden by the shadows. With King landing on the males arms, he drops the women, Poet jumping from hiding to catch her. She gasps for breath, sounding hoarse. She limply holds onto Poet as he helps her away from the fight.
Soldier pulling his horns and King landing on his arms before punching his sternum has the man yelping and grunting in pain. Soldier pulls harder on the horn, his feet on the ground and dragging him backwards. He lands with a loud thump, King straddles the man's chest and delivers a punch to his nose, a loud crack and a flow of blood follows. Soldier grabs zip ties and makes quick work of tying him down and defenseless. If he makes them too tight, Poet and King say nothing. King drags him to a drain pipe and sticks him to it with another zip tie, the man sluggish from the punch and fall.
All the while the fight is going on, Poet comforts the women. A dark bruise in the shape of a hand blooms from her throat, a deep contrast to her porcelain skin. She sits against a wall with Poet in front of her, blocking the fight from view. “Ma’am you’re safe now,” he whispers, telegraphing his movements as he holds her arm in a loose gripe, his thumb rubbing soothing slides, “he can’t hurt you anymore.” Her breathing is erratic and short, the color slowly fills her face once more. Silent tears ran down her cheeks and she watched Poet, his eyes hold a comforting gaze with her.
He carefully reaches for her split purse and gathers the contents, handing it to her, holding her phone. “I’m going to call the police on your phone, they’ll get here and help you. Okay?” He asks, his voice soft and smooth. With her shaky nod, he has her unlock in and open the phone dial. The fight dies down behind him at the point and the police answer.
“Mustafa Police Department, what’s your emergency?” The receiver says, but they only get a response of taps to the mic, detailing the location and situation. A sigh and a mumble of ‘the trio...’ is his only response before they say “A police patrol car will be there shortly.” Poet hangs up after, then looks to the woman, who has steadily controlled her breathing, but it now shakily and looks pale once more. “Ma’am the police will be here soon, my friends and I will stay with you until they get here, then we need to leave, okay? You are safe.” Poet reiterated as Soldier and King walked over.
“Police called?” King asks, adjusting his hood and mask, leaning against the wall watching the alley walls for the red and blue lights.
“Yeah, however, we might need one of you to go to the street entrance and lead them to the fork, this aley doesn't connect to the main road, just the fork.” Poet says, looking to the other two.
“Why don’t King and I both go, that way when you need to run, it’ll be easier.”
“W-Wait… don’t go...” The woman whimpers, gripping the sleeve of Poet’s shirt. More tears fill her eyes and fall down her cheeks, her eyes bouncing between the three before her.
“I won’t leave until the police get here ma’am.” Poet says, his eyes crinkling softly like he’s smiling. “King, Soldier, go get the police and lead them here, be careful. They might have called Eraser to follow.” He looked at the woman again and gently rubbed her arm. “I’m not leaving yet.” She gave a shaky nod and gripped his short tighter.
“Meet you at the rooftops Poet.” Soldier says, a pat to Poet’s soldier and he and King climb an abandoned ladder to the roofs before they bound away to the street. Poet keeps telling the woman comforting words and touch, blocking her view of the man tied to a pole. Who has slowly come around, no longer as sluggish.
Soon, the sound of hurried footsteps is heard, the woman much more calm now. Looking up, Poet seems Soldier and King peering over an edge, gesturing him to come. A nod, he looks back to the women. “The police are just around the corner, they will be much more help than I. You are safe, no one can hurt you anymore.” With a reassured squeeze to her arm, Poet has her release the strong grip on his shirt, and bounds for the ladder just as the police walk into the alley. They see the man bound to the wall, dried blood running down his face and onto his tank top, and the woman, calm but cowering in a corner closer to them.
The trio watch from the roof ledge as the Police, guns drawn with flash lights out, walk towards the woman and the bound male. Two female police officers walk over to the woman, guns put away and offer her help to stand. “Let’s get you out of here Ma’am. Is that okay?” One asks, voice low and soothing, hand on the small of her back. The other gently holds his arms, steadying the shaking limbs as the woman slowly nods. She’s ushered away quick.
Three male officers stalk towards the male, who is screaming profanities and struggling against the ties. “Let me fuckin’ go! Stupid whore!” He screams as blood, fresh and dried, drips down his nose. One officer rushed forward and puts on quirk suppressant cuffs and cut the zip ties. He’s pulled up and walks to the police cruiser.
They follow along the rooftops, watching as the two people are put in different cars and taken to the station. They share a nod and bound away, jumping and sliding between buildings, continuing their patrol. The bound from roof to roof, lamp post to lamp post. Soon aware of a figure trailing them.
With a simple nod, they all run to a tall apartment building and scale the side, the figure following suit. They reach the top and stand close to the far edge and stand in a triangle formation. The figure reaches the top soon after and reveals Eraserhead, eye glowing in red with hair and scarf floating in invisible wind.
“Soldier,” he looks to Soldier, “Poet,” he looks to Poet, “and King.” he looks to King.
“To what do we owe the pleasure, Eraserhead?” Poet says, hands behind his back, rocking back and forth on balls of his feet. “Childish…” Eraserhead thinks, scarf at the ready.
“You’re a rather tricky trio to catch.” He says bluntly, his eyes burn but he keeps the open.
“You should close your eyes Eraserhead, sir. Don’t want to worsen your dry eye. We won’t leave if you have questions.” Poet says, his head cocked to the right, still bouncing. King watches with a cautious eye, while Soldier eyes the scarf, hands at his side ready.
“The second you go to attack, we leave.” King adds, arms crossed across his chest.
“I ask as many questions as i want, you won’t leave?” Eraserhead asks.
“Three.” The trio says at the same time, each watching Eraserhead. He just says and his eyes close in a blink, his hair falls and the scarf does as well, but his stance is still battle ready. Eraserhead contemplates, analyzing the trio in front of him.
“Why vigilantes? Why not train for heroes?”
“They are some things that are preventing us from doing so.” Poet states.
“We want to help people.” Soldier says next.
“Some heroes don’t fuckin’ care about the villain's that hide.” King curses, arms still crossed, eyebrows furred like he’s scowling.
“Soldier, why didn’t you join them when they had started? Why wait three years?”
“I wasn’t in a comfortable situation, I waited til the time felt right.” He says, looking to the other from the corner of his eyes, something in the look. “Was that.. Fondness? Familiarities?” Eraserhead thinks, the trio stick close, awaiting the third question.
“How old are you? You seem rather short.” He eyes them, their small statures and lean frames. They look rather young for someone to be running around at night and stopping fights, rapes, anything they can. He sees King tense a bit, his shoulder widen and he stands a bit taller. Soldier does the same, taking a deep bated breath. Poet seems the only one undeterred by the question, his head just tilts the opposite direction.
“We range between the aged 8 and 23. We may be small but that does nothing to deter us from fighting for the right cause and protecting those who need it.” He sounded so sure, like the answer was rehearsed again and again in a mirror.
“Eight? That’s rather young…” Eraserhead states, watching them more closely.
Poet is the shorter of the trio, he’s more sneaky than the other two, he generally helps the victims or helps tie the assaulters up. Very rarely does Eraserhead hear of Poet stepping into a fight, but it’s said he’s got a killer punch. He isn’t to be messed with. King is not as tall as Soldier, but taller than Poet. He has rather broad shoulders and a slim waist. His legs seem strong, and he and Soldier take the brunt of the attacks. Soldier is the tallest of the trio, and a bit more built than the others, he hits the hardest and takes down the biggest of the assaulters they take down.
“Just an age range. We could just be eighteen whose growth was stunted. You never know.” Soldier inputs. Eraserhead notes that he keeps clenching his fists, Poet keeps bouncing on the balls of his feet, and King has his arms crossed tight across his chest, shoulders tense.
“Now you had your three fuckin’ questions. We’ve got a patrol to finish. See you never.” King grunts, blunt and to the point.
“It was a nice chat Eraserhead-san, but we must be off!” Poet calls, cheering and full of life. He clasp hands with Soldier and King before they all take one single step off the side of the building.
Falling feet first down a six story building.
Eraserhead startles, scarf raised and lunging forward over the edge. He just gets to the edge, scarf shooting forward, when he sees the trio landing gracefully on the roof of the building next door. King first with a small orange and yellow lights flashing when he lands, he helps Poet land next. Poet rolls when landing, the brunt of the fall spread out, the Soldier lands next. He lands harsh, feet first in a crouch, but is perfectly fine. No winces, yelps of pain, or crumbling in pain. The roof cracks in small places, but the three turn, look to Eraserhead, scarf now limp around his shoulders and the ends shot out to help them are now against the building, eyes widen in shock.
They giggled, high five each other, then give a small two fingered salute, before they run off, jumping from building to building.
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“Aizawa, you’re here early. Your patrol doesn't end for another hour or so. Something happen?” Naomasa ask, nursing his third cup of coffee, case work sprawled around his desk, the trash can filled with old papers and other coffee cups.
“I follow the trio, they lead me to a building. They knew I was following.” Shouta says, nonchalant and blunt, his eyes betray how he feels, Anxious and confused, with maybe a side of headache.
“What? How long ago was this?” Naomasa startles, setting his cup down.
“Just before I got here. It was at an apartment building, about 2 kilometers from here. I got to ask three questions before they ran, but that was negotiated. As long as I didn't attack, I got to ask three.” Naomasa’s eyes widen, he reaches into his desk, pulling out a thin manila folder and pulls out a case paper.
“What did you ask?”
“I asked why vigilantes, why Soldier joined so late, and their age.”
“What did they answer?” Naomasa grabs a pen and clicks it, ready to write. Shouta sits in the chair across from the desk, leaning back, arms crossed.
“They said they became vigilantes because they had things stopping them from being heroes. They didn’t specify what though. Soldier said it wasn’t the right time. He ‘wasn’t in a comfortable situation’ to join until recently,” he quotes, “and they said they range from ages 8 to 23.” This makes Naomasa look up from writing.
“Eight? Damn, that’s real young.”
“My thoughts exactly. Soldier’s reasoning was that their growth could have been stunted. He gave the example age of 18.” Shouta sighs, a hand rubbing his eyes. “They damn near gave me a heart attack when they were done answering.”
“Why? What happened?”
“They stopped at the tall apartment building 2 kilometers from here. They scaled the top and were at the edge when I got there. Poet in the middle, Soldier to the right, King to the left. I asked the questions and when they deemed that we were done, Poet grabbed Soldier and King’s hand, and they took one step off the edge, falling straight down.”
“Wait what? Just fall off the building?” Naomasa exclaims, eyes wide in shock. Shouta just nods.
“Yup, I lunged to the edge, through my capture out in hopes of saving one. However, when I looked over, King was doing something, I just saw some flashes of light, he landed softly on his feet and helped Poet roll out. Soldier just falls. Straight up lands on his feet crouched, unaffected by the, maybe 3 story, fall. They laugh then look at me and salute before running off.”
“Holy shit…” Naomasa curses, leaning back in his chair, arms crossed behind his head.
“My thoughts exactly. King said they still had a patrol to finish, so they might still be out.”
“Okay… you done for the night?” Naomasa sighs, reaching for his coffee cup and chugging the rest.
“Yea I think so… I had a few fights break out but they were stopped quick.”
“Okay, tell Hizashi I said hi, I’m gonna go home as well. Maybe finally get some sleep.” He chuckles, standing and stretching. Shouta does the same.
“Have a good night Tsukauchi.” Shouta says and leaves his office, hands in his pockets. He leaves the station and uses his scarf to wrap around a nearby light pole and jumps to the roof, parkouring his way home.