We Don't Murder, No Killing
Shouta drops to his knees, unwinding the capture scarf from his neck and hastily shoving it against the gaping wound in Daichi’s chest.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he whispers before shouting over his shoulder to Sansa, “Get a medic, now!”
The officer stares blindly at his partner before skittering off to where Shouta assumes an ambulance is. He honestly doesn’t care at the moment to look, not when blood is seeping through the gray fabric of his weapon and coating the webbing of his fingers. It pools in the cracks of his skin, seeping under his nails, and makes Shouta nauseous. He had never liked blood, but it was something he had to become accustomed to in hero work.
“Tsukauchi,” he barks.
The man is at his side in an instant, kneeling in the growing pool of blood and pants turning crimson from the rapidly spreading fluid.
“I need you to try and keep him conscious if you can. He’s losing blood and fast, just keep talking to him until the medics are over here,” Shouta directs as he layers more of his scarf on
Daichi’s bullet wound, pressing down in an attempt to slow the bleeding.
Tsukauchi starts to tap Daichi’s face, urgently rambling on about the man’s family and attempting to keep him awake long enough for a pair of medics to arrive.
Once the two EMTs arrive, Shouta steps away, slicing through his capture weapon in an attempt to let the blood clot around the coils. He still has enough to maybe swing around a building, maybe, but definitely not enough to feel comfortable in a fight.
As Daichi is carted away, Shouta turns to the detective beside him.
“Where did that bullet come from? Why was a cop shot? That’s not like Mask,” Tsukauchi mumbles to Shouta under his breath.
“Because it wasn’t Mask,” The hero turns away again and starts searching the rooftops. He knows that he’s too late, that the gunman would be packed up and gone by now, but the angle of the shot definitely made it look like it came from the abandoned building they were all surrounding. “Mask is being set up.”
---
Izuku hits the deck as soon as the shot goes off, covering his head with his arms and praying that the bullet isn’t coming for him. The audacity that Shigaraki has to shoot at him like he isn’t a damn player in this game.
When he doesn’t hear the impact of a bullet around him, the vigilante slowly raises his head.
“The fuck…?” he whispers before scrambling for the radio that had bounced across the floor when he dropped it.
“Hey,” he shouts into the communicator, “Hey! What did you do?”
The responding static indicates Izuku would most likely not be receiving an answer.
“Fuck!” He screams and chucks the radio across the room.
“That’s not going to do us much good,” Viktor groans from his position on the ground.
Izuku’s head snaps toward the Russian. Red tints the corners of his mind, the information his senses are giving him overpowered by the rage he felt from whatever this set up by Shigaraki was. He wants to bash the man’s face in, watch the light fade from his eyes as Izuku stood victoriously over him.
“We don’t murder, no killing,” he whispers under his breath and stalks over to where he can smell sewage wafting in the wind.
Grabbing the rungs of the grate, Izuku pulls with all of his might, letting out another scream of frustration as the metal refuses to budge.
“Looks like it’s stuck,” Viktor mumbles as Izuku struggles.
“Fuck off,” Izuku barks and yanks on the grate again.
He can hear it, the metal scraping around the edges as the cover starts to budge. High pitched and grating, it’s just enough to let Izuku know that he can do this if he can just pull hard enough- He can feel the vein in his temple pulsing in time with his heartbeat, tendons and muscles straining as he forces them to work harder, and he’s sure that he felt a blood vessel burst in his eye during the last attempt.
“Just a bit more,” he grits out through clamped teeth.
The sewage lid pops off so suddenly and with so much force that Izuku falls back onto the ground and slams the back of his head onto the concrete. Welp, now he can add concussion to the growing list of injuries.
Groaning, he shoves the sewage grate off his stomach and stumbles to his feet.
“Let’s go,” he sighs and gestures for Viktor to follow him.
“You think I can stand up right now?” Viktor snarks from where he hadn’t even moved an inch to help Izuku.
If Izuku could roll his eyes and have Viktor see it, he would. Instead, he just faces the man, letting his presence convey displeasure to the best of his ability.
“Come on, we don’t have time for the fucking sass,” Izuku snaps back and stalks over to Viktor. He yanks the man up by the armpit and tosses him in a fireman carry over his shoulder, “I don’t need you slowing me down.”
“Why,” Viktor grunts, “Whatever Shigaraki did, he just fucked you over. Why drag a dying man with you?”
“You’re not dying on my watch.”
“Sure, whatever.”
Izuku awkwardly climbs down the ladder one-handed, muscles aching from overuse and carrying a much larger human being. It’s a stilted descent, one he wouldn’t do again of his own free will, but the pressing matter of escaping is more important than his own comfort at the moment.
They reach the bottom of the ladder and Izuku splashes into the nasty water below. Looks like he’d be washing his costume and boots if he made it out of this mess. Hiking Viktor up a bit higher on his shoulder, he began to trudge through the disgusting sludge of the sewer.
“If I don’t die of infection, maybe we can hide out from Shigaraki together,” Viktor jokes with a grunt of pain.
“Yeah, I’d rather you die first,” Izuku deadpans.
The Russian huffs out a wheeze of a laugh before going silent again. The two of them hurry as quietly as Izuku can down the tunnel, only stopping when they hear the pounding of feet behind them.
“Shit,” Izuku whispers, listening to the echoes of water dripping on the walls, looking for the best way out. The only hiding spot that might give them some cover was a door set into the wall that he could sense to his left. They had just come to an intersection, the long tunnel they had been traversing ending at another tunnel traveling perpendicular. Izuku turns his to the right and left to let his ears attempt to localize more sound, but with not much appearing in the darkness and with little time to search, it wasn’t worth screwing around.
Gently, or his version of gentle, Izuku dumped Viktor on the ledge of the sewage tunnel and started to attempt to kick the door in. It was wood, easily something he could splinter with a kick or two normally, but the lock felt well reinforced for such an old door.
“Dammit,” he huffed, “fucking, break!”
“Leave me,” Viktor piped up beside him.
“No,” Izuku responds immediately.
“Leave me, let me have my last stand. I’m not going to make it even if we get out of here.”
“Yes, you will. I need more information.”
“Where am I gonna go? Huh? That man has his fingers in every part of Musutafu, maybe even Japan. What hospital can I go to that will treat me without killing me? He has nurses, doctors, cops, judges, politicians, and anyone you can think of at his disposal. Not to mention the number of quirks. Trust me, if I get out, I won’t live long enough for it to matter. Let me make my peace now.”
Izuku reeled back in shock at the Russian gang leader, surprise clear on his face that the man had the logic to think this through. Then again, he is the leader. He has to be smart on occasion.
“Fine, take these,” Izuku pulls the pistol and taser he had snagged from the cop out of his cargo pants pocket and hands them to Viktor, “And don’t kill me on my way out.”
“Only if you promise to take out Shigaraki for me.”
“Count on it.”
After dropping the two weapons in Viktor’s lap, Izuku kicks the door one final time, the wood splintering around the lock with a resounding Crack!
The sound of multiple pairs of feet and heavy gear moved closer, and Izuku swears he could hear familiar voices. Is that fucking Death Arms?
He has to get out of there, now. He can’t fight that pro in such close quarters.
Izuku doesn’t give Viktor another thought, sprinting through the door he had kicked down and splashing through more sewage. If he can get far enough away, he can climb out of one of the manholes and make his way home. Pushing his legs harder, Izuku jumps up onto the small ledge that ran along either side of the water trough, just wide enough to place one foot in front of the other. At least he wasn’t making sound audible to normal humans now.
He lets his echolocation guide him, the vibrations of his own breathing bouncing back to him and assisting him through turn after turn. No, he had no clue where in Mustafu he was, but that is a future Izuku problem. Current Izuku just has to get far enough away to be safe.
Three turns into his journey and several loud gunshots cause him to nearly shoot through the roof of the tunnel. Viktor, taking said last stand. Izuku’s heart would ache for the loss of life, but it isn’t really his fault is it? Viktor had chosen to stay behind, chosen to use the weapon and fire at the heroes. Maybe they would take him in, but the man was right. He wouldn’t make it long in a hospital with Shigaraki’s influence.
Shaking his head, Izuku forces himself to go on. If he can make it four or five more turns he should be out of the police radius for now.
Three turns later and he decides that’s enough, fuck it. His side burns from where his stitches had been, he can feel blood pooling in one of his shoes from dripping down his leg, and his head feels like it’s been through a concrete mixer. Enough was enough.
Stumbling off the ledge, he lets his hand drag along the wall to find a ladder. He’s too tired to continue using his senses, pulling the bubble in tightly so that he doesn't overwhelm himself. His brain hurt enough as it is, he can’t imagine how badly it would hurt with too much sensory information.
Finally, his hand bangs into solid metal, a rung of a ladder about halfway to where he can sense another turn coming. Hopefully, the sewer grate opens a bit easier this time, Izuku doesn’t have the energy to force another one open like last time.
Izuku scrambles up the ladder, much easier without a load of another person this time, and shoves his shoulder against the grate, side screaming at all the movement. Thankfully, the grate pops off with one good hit and Izuku is able to crawl out. The street is quiet at this hour, with no hustling commuters trying to make their way to wherever they need to go next, so Izuku is able to slip out of the tunnels and into an alleyway across the street.
Sinking to the ground, Izuku clumsily pulls the burner phone from his pocket.
“Hitocchi?”
---
“Shouta,” Hizashi huffs breathlessly as the voice hero swings himself around the corner of the waiting room.
Shouta is leaning against the wall, head slumped in his capture weapon as his eyes stay glued to the TV. He had texted Hizashi that he was at the hospital and not much more information, so it’s his fault that it looks like his husband has been through hell and back trying to leave the house.
“‘Zashi,” he mumbles and turns toward the blonde, motioning with his head to follow him into the quieter backroom that’s reserved for family members.
Tsukauchi sits with his elbows on his knees, phone in his hand and head hanging low. The man looks defeated and exhausted, like the weight of the world is on his shoulders. And at the moment it was, seeing as the press was having a field day with his case. Sansa is curled up in a chair on the left side of the room with a blank expression. Shouta hasn’t seen him since sending him for an ambulance. He doesn’t look too great right now.
Speaking of that incident, Shouta glances down at his hands. They are caked in blood, dried a dark crimson on his skin and in the beds of his fingernails. It looks like he had been elbow deep in a murder scene, which he basically had been.
“Why don’t we get you cleaned up?” Hizashi mumbles into his ear and wraps an arm around his shoulder. His husband's warmth seeps through the material of his hero costume, dispelling the chill that Shouta hadn’t even noticed was there.
“Mmm,” he hums and follows Hizashi’s lead over to the bathroom reserved for staff and heroes.
“So, want to tell me why the kid is all over the news?” Hizashi starts as he pulls Shouta’s right hand toward him.
Shouta stares in a daze as Hizashi slowly wipes a damp, warm towel over his forearms and hands, the blood disappearing with every loving swipe.
The man was so gentle with him. You wouldn’t think that Present Mic, the most exuberant hero Shouta had ever met, could handle someone so tenderly, but not once had Hizashi ever handled Shouta any other way. Well, except for sparring. There were no punches pulled when the two had an all-out brawl.
“He’s being set up,” Shouta mutters. He still doesn’t take his eyes off of what feels like his trauma being washed away.
“The little listener doesn’t seem like one to blow up city blocks and then kill a cop from what you’ve told me,” Hizashi replies just as quietly. This might be a semi-private bathroom, but prying ears could still walk in at any moment.
“...Remember that discussion we had, about the boogeyman of the underground?” Shouta says after a few moments of silence.
“Yeah,” Hizashi pauses in his wetting of another towel, the old one soaked through with blood, “I was telling you about the whispers I’d been hearing in the twilight, you spilled my ramen.”
“I did not, you were being clumsy.”
“Shou, stay on track.”
“Right,” Shouta sighs and leans against the cool, porcelain sink, “I think that it might really be true. Someone is pulling the strings around here. The kid already had a hunch about it and was chasing leads just like we were, but I feel like this will just confirm it. Someone holds all the power here and I just need to figure out who.”
“You mean we,”
“‘Zashi-”
“Shou, I am also an underground hero, Remember? I can be just as involved in this case too, I’ve just been staying on the sidelines because I know how worried you get when we work together.”
“Yeah, because the last time we were on a case together we brought home and rehabilitated a vigilante.”
“Hey! You love that kid, just like you love this one.”
“He’s so much younger, ‘Zashi,” Shouta sighs again and leans forward so he can rest his head on his husband’s shoulder, “Naki was just about to be eighteen, this kid can barely be fourteen at most. He reminds me so much of our first years it hurts.”
Hizashi slides a hand into Shouta’s hair, pulling gently at the roots before scratching at his scalp. The sensation nearly makes Shouta purr, he hadn’t realized how badly his head was hurting until now. “I know, love, we’ll find him and get him into a hero program. Let me help you, please?”
“Okay,” Shouta sighs a third time and nudges his face deeper into Hizashi’s shoulder.
“Come on, let’s go see if we can glean anything from the press ripping the kid to shreds over this.”
---
A smack upside his head startles Izuku from whatever hazy in between he had been floating in.
“Are you fuckin’ stupid?” Katsuki hisses and yanks him to his feet.
Izuku leans over and vomits blood in the alley.
“Goddammit boom boy, he’s obviously hurt,” Shinsou shoves Katsuki to the side and gently hooks an arm around the vigilante’s waist. “Let’s get him home, you can treat his wounds and be pissy there.”
It’s a convoluted mess of sensory information before Izuku realizes the familiar scent he’s smelling is his own blanket. When did they get back to the apartment?
“About half an hour ago,” Hitoshi pipes up from where he’s sitting on the ground, his soothing voice a balm on Izuku’s frayed nerves. So the concussion means he’s probably said a lot more out loud than he realized, fantastic.
With a groan, Izuku shifts until he’s in a sitting position. The blanket slides off of him and cool air hits the slight hints of skin that are left open to the world, the rest he can feel is covered by thick bandages.
“Move more and you’ll rip your fuckin’ stitches out. Again,” Katsuki’s gruff voice comes from behind him.
“I feel like I fell off a building,” Izuku mumbles and props himself up against the back of the couch.
“Well did you? Because it sure as fuck looks like it from your injuries,” Katsuki snaps and rounds the corner from the kitchen with a glass of water. Izuku can hear the slight splash of liquid as his childhood friend sets it down in front of him.
“I don’t think now is the time to-”
“Shut the fuck up, Mindfreak. I’m asking how the fuck he got these injuries because this is more than I should be treating on my own,” Katsuki interrupts Hitoshi.
The room is silent, tense, as Izuku’s two friends fight for dominance. He’s glad that he hasn’t been here for that long with both of them, it was going to be nasty sorting through all of the emotions that both were feeling right now. Izuku really didn’t have time for that.
“What’s the news saying?” Izuku interrupts the pissing contest to direct their attention elsewhere.
“That you’re a villain,” Hitoshi replies and presses a button on his laptop.
“Forty-two civilians and counting make up the total number injured in today’s vicious attack. Heroes are currently on the scene as the building that until recently held our suspect was raided. Heroes did not capture the man in the mask, which people have now dubbed the Devil of Musutafu.” The news report shifts from the person who must be out in the field and back into the studio because the sound of sirens leaves an echoing silence as the next newscaster begins re-capping the events of the night.
“Fuck,” Izuku hisses and puts his head in his hands. This is a mess. Shigaraki was right, this was the death of his vigilante persona. This could take him out of the performance completely. “I’m so screwed.”
“We- we can fix this,” Hitoshi rushes over and drapes an arm around Izuku’s shoulders. He shakes him slightly.
“This isn’t a ‘we’ situation Hitocchi, he’ll take you down too and I can’t have your heroics career ruined because of my stupid mistakes.”
“There’s so much I can do, my whole channel could investigate-”
“No.” Izuku snaps. He wouldn’t have Hitoshi dragged down with him. His brother deserved a life, a real life, and the career he had always dreamed of. Not whatever Izuku would end up with.
“I can help,” Hitoshi argues with just as much snap to his words.
“Fine,” Izuku sighs, “If you want to ruin your chances of being a hero, so be it.”
He shifts from under Hitoshi’s arm and faces his brother straight on. He needs the boy to know that he really means this, that he’s serious, that this is dangerous.
“There is one man behind it all, a man that lives in the shadows,” Izuku begins.
“He holds all the power,” Hitoshi repeats Izuku’s words thirty minutes later, “a man that sits upon a throne made of blood and bone, of corruption and lies. He controls the underground from drugs to money laundering to human trafficking. This man is the key to changing Musutafu, maybe even Japan. He holds politicians and law enforcement in the palm of his hand, bribing them with millions to have his way. And he has done this long enough to earn a nickname in the underground, one that strikes fear into the hearts of every criminal, vigilante, and hero that works under the moonlight.”
The boy looks straight into the camera, violet eyes sparkling behind the cat mask that has become synonymous with sarcasm, wit, and well-thought-out theories across the internet. Months of work had brought Hitoshi to the top of the herotube charts in the conspiracy theories and deep political issues that he reported on. Now, during the broadcast that he planned to clear Izuku’s vigilante name, he had millions watching the live showing as he reported on what he had been told earlier.
“ I call for the man to step forward, to shed the cloak of the night and stand for what he is. A menace to our society that will only bring chaos to our prefecture.” He finishes and pauses to slide his eyes over to Izuku behind the camera.
He’s beaming at Hitocchi, grin brilliant and blinding as he makes sure the focus stays on Hitoshi from behind the scenes. Since it’s a live broadcast and Hitocchi won’t be editing the video together, Izuku promised to keep the systems running smoothly in order for this live to look as professional as possible. While that’s a bit difficult when you can’t see, he currently had one headphone in and was using a few of his assistive devices to navigate the screens. Hitocchi wanted the seriousness of the topic to come across more so than usual.
Izuku could not be more proud
He’s still encouraging Hitocchi when the soft rustle of fabric alerts him to Katsuki moving beside him. His… friend? Had been watching the news on mute to make sure there wasn’t more that needed to be added and had been fairly still throughout the entirety of the live. Now, he was frantically patting Izuku’s leg and shoving the laptop into his lap.
“You need to hear this,” he hisses under his breath as Hitoshi continues to talk.
Izuku wants to sigh with exasperation but holds it in. Hitoshi didn’t need that in his live.
“Gimme,” he gestures to the headphone he knew was in Katsuki’s ear and slips it into his own.
Immediately, a newscast blared in his ears so loudly that Izuku nearly yanks the headphone out. Katsuki seriously needed to have his hearing checked if this was a comfortable volume.
After turning the volume down several notches, he listens to what must be a live broadcast as well. He didn’t have his screen reader attached, so he had to make do with listening to whoever was speaking.
The voice sent chills down his spine.
It had the same air of prestige, the weight of knowledge and power accenting its words as they flowed smoothly like a river. Honey on the throat, aloe on a burn, it was meant to soothe all of those who were listening. But to Izuku, it felt like someone was scraping a razor against his eardrums.
All for One.
“...And he has done this long enough to earn a nickname in the underground, one that strikes fear into the hearts of every criminal, vigilante, and hero that works under the moonlight. I call for the man to step forward, to shed the cloak of the night and stand for what he is. A menace to our society that will only bring chaos to our prefecture. The Man in the Mask, the Devil of Mustafu, turn yourself in for your crimes and bear the punishment that you deserve.”
The crowd of reporters surrounding the man immediately rushed to him in a frenzy of questions, voices overlapping as they shouted question after question.
“I, Shigaraki Kyohara, pledge to bring Musutafu back from the depths of crime. With my billion yen donation, the city can begin construction on areas in need of improvement. Infrastructure can be renewed and the jewel of the Shizuoka prefecture can be restored to its former glory,” All for One continued over the ruckus of the crowd.
“We need to get out of here, now” Izuku snapped and gestured to Hitoshi to end the live stream.
Katsuki was already on his feet, tossing things around as Hitoshi signed off with his listeners.
“This has been Catspiracies, see you next week for the continuation of our video series on quirkism,” Hitoshi rushed out and reached for his computer, clicking a few buttons to end the full live stream.
“What’s going on?” He asks as he hops up from the couch and starts to pack up his laptop.
“Leave that here,” Izuku calls over his shoulder and plugs his headphones into his phone. He navigates to the Hero News app, sure that the broadcast of Shigaraki would be on there as well. With his phone, he would be able to use the screen reader to give him the full picture, if not Hitoshi could describe it while they moved somewhere safe.
“...-illionare philanthropist Shigaraki Kyohara has just donated a large sum of money to Musutafu prefecture,” one of the newscasters reports in his ear.
Izuku tunes the voice out and continues to pack up what he figured will be safe to take before scrambling up the ladder to their loft bedroom, new injuries screaming at him for moving so quickly. He yanks a few hoodies from the small clothing rack he and Hitoshi had set up and shoves a new vigilante outfit into the bottom of a bag as well. Stuffing a few facemasks into his pockets, he slides back down the ladder and pushes his two friends toward the front door.
“Leave your phones. I have my burner and we can get you two burners while we’re out,” he commands and throws the front door open.
“Izu, what’s-” Hitoshi stammers as he stumbles out the doorway.
“Shut up and put this on for now, please,” Izuku begs and crams a hoodie and medical mask into Hitoshi’s chest.
Hitoshi complies quietly as Izuku gives Katsuki his own disguise to put on.
Katsuki hadn’t said a word since handing Izuku the laptop earlier. His heart instead raced at a pace that normally his quirk didn’t allow. His anxiety over the situation must have pushed his adrenaline into overdrive. His bpm almost reached a point to where it sounded like he was working out.
“Hoods up, hide your hair. Stay quiet as you follow me,” Izuku orders and puts on a pair of sunglasses, hoping that everything together would keep his face completely hidden.
He leads the two other boys down back alleys and through abandoned buildings, weaving through Musutafu in a way that would keep them from interacting with police or leaving a trail. After nearly an hour of circling around the red district, Izuku finally settles on a small 24-hour diner and ushers the group inside. He doesn’t have his cane out, opting to pretend he had sight, for now, to blend into the crowd and keep from being even more of a target than he already was. He can feel Katsuki glaring at him, still waiting for the full explanation on how he can “see”, but Izuku doesn’t have the time to explain that right now. Not with Hitoshi’s computer evidently having been hacked.
“Sit,” he whispers and slides into the plastic booth in the far back corner.
“I need you to explain who was on-screen during the broadcast, what they looked like, how many people, anything you can,” Izuku gestures to Katsuki.
“Can you please explain to me why I had to stop-” Hitoshi starts to argue.
“This will explain it, I’m asking you to just hold on for a bit longer,” Izuku cuts in and turns back to Katsuki across from him.
“How the fuck do you want me to describe it to you, hah?” Katsuki scoffs and shifts uncomfortably in the booth.
“Just tell me what the broadcast looked like, talk me through it,” Izuku tries again, his patience starting to wear thin.
“You mean that broadcast?” Hitoshi nudges Izuku’s shoulder, “There’s a news screen re-capping a broadcast from earlier across from us.”
“Is that it, Kacchan?” Izuku asks quietly. The volume on the TV is muted so all he can hear is the hum of the electronic device in the far corner of the diner. He hopes there are at least captions so the hard of hearing can follow along.
“Yeah,” Katsuki grunts as he twists to see the TV, the pleather booth creaking under his weight.
“Ok, so there’s a man at the podium,” Hitoshi starts to describe what must be on the screen, “He’s dressed in a dark black suit with a black tie and white dress shirt. He’s talking, hands on the podium as he leans into the mic to speak. His hair is white and slightly curly with bright green eyes. He looks… important, there’s a feeling that he gives off that everything he’s wearing is expensive,” Izuku can tell that it bothers Hitoshi. They’d had many discussions on the class divide in Japan, especially in Musutafu. You were either filthy rich or dirt poor. No in-between. The man he’s describing must be part of the former.
“Next to him is a man-made of dark purple almost black mist,” Hitoshi continues, “There’s a thick, metal collar where his neck must be and he’s also dressed well, but he’s wearing a gray vest and red tie.
To the mist man’s left has got to be like a twenty-year-old at most and he’s scratching at his neck. He has long blueish-white hair and red eyes, and his skin looks like it could use some eczema cream. He’s wearing a suit similar to the first man’s, with a red tie and red shoes kind of like yours actually.
To the kid’s left is what appears to be a doctor, I think? He has on a white lab coat and funny glasses. He’s kind of round-looking, with a bald head and a mustache that sticks out in really weird ways. He’s not really a doctor I would want to see, he doesn’t look like he’d be very nice.
The last man on the far left…” Hitoshi trails off in his rapid-fire explanation before stammering out the last of his description, “he- he has black hair that shines green slightly at the ends and it’s really curly. He has freckles across the bridge of his nose and his eyes-”
“Are amber, aren’t they? And when he smiles smoke leaks between his teeth?” Izuku says quietly.
“Deku, that fucking isn’t-” Katsuki starts to argue, but Izuku is quick to cut him off.
“I believe it is.”
“He’s in America! Why would that shit stain be on live TV in Japan?”
“Because he never really left, Kacchan.”
“How do you know that? You haven’t seen him since you were five, Mindfreak could just suck at describing people.”
“Don’t ask for information you don’t really want, Kacchan.”
That quiets the blonde. He must be fuming in his seat because Izuku can hear quiet popping as he burns off the excess sweat on his palms. That makes two of them.
“Can someone clue me in on what you’re talking about?” Hitoshi deadpans.
Izuku leans his head back against the edge of the booth, hard ridges digging into where there must be a lump from hitting his head. The pain grounds him, even as he feels the sick churning of his stomach crawl up to the back of his throat.
“...That last man you mentioned is my dad.”