THERE'S BEEN A MURDER
“You know he didn’t do this, right?”
“Yeah, well one officer is dead and my other officer is missing. What are people supposed to think?”
Shouta wanted to slam his head into the wall. His eyes ached, his muscles felt weak, and caffeine was no longer helping his mind run at a normal pace. He needed sleep and soon. The detective across from him didn’t look much better.
Tsukauchi’s eyes were bloodshot and rimmed in red. He no longer wore his hat or coat, his once-pristine white shirt now crumbled and the sleeves rolled to his elbows. The blue tie that had been around his neck had been discarded hours ago, lost to the pacing that the man had been doing since being handed a secure file.
It was a thin file, only a few papers stacked inside, that held the little bit of information that could be pulled on the vigilante that was haunting their streets.
All of it was wrong.
Well, at least some of it was.
Shouta and Tsukauchi both knew that Mask was a kid, unlike the file in his colleague’s hand that predicted the vigilante’s age as somewhere between 25 and 30. Whoever had done that analysis must be blind. Mask was tiny, barely the size of Shouta’s first years, and his voice was too high and cracked too often to be anything but a kid going through puberty.
But, if you didn’t know the kid well, didn’t interact with him up close or often, these things wouldn’t be apparent. The way he moved and fought spoke of years of experience, not the limits of a child. It’s understandable that the profile on the kid would have pegged him for older.
Shouta was curious as to what else the specialist had compiled, what they had to say based on reports and blurry videos. Shouta hadn’t been fully honest in his interview, not like he had to worry when the lie detector quirk wasn’t in use, but that didn’t truly matter. They didn’t need an analyst to tell them that the kid needed to be off the streets, Tsukauchi and Shouta just had different reasons as to why.
“We need to find him. Now.” Tsukauchi cut into his thoughts.
Shouta snapped his fingers for the file that the detective was starting to grip too tightly. The papers were going to wrinkle and that would bother him to no end.
“Who? Sansa or Mask,” Shouta asked with a nod of thanks as Tsukauchi handed him the file.
“Sansa’s an adult who we know the identity and last whereabouts of. Mask is a child that we know nothing about that is being framed for murder alongside various other crimes. I’m going to say we need to find Mask first.”
“Not worried about your officer?” Shouta huffed and started to flip through the file. Predicted height, weight, age… Oh, are these quirk ideas?
He flipped a few pages in and started to read the theories. Fire, invisibility, minor reflex enhancement, strength, intelligence, intimidation, and so many off-the-wall guesses that Shouta nearly laughed. If they only knew the kid they’d know that he hasn’t been using a quirk. He’d said it himself one night while hopping roofs. He wasn’t technically a vigilante if he never used a quirk. That didn’t mean the kid refused to recognize that he was a criminal, he somehow deeply understood the law and the assault charges that could be brought against him, but it did show a kind of flexible thinking that Shouta liked to see in his students.
“Of course I’m worried about him,” Tsukauchi butted into his thoughts again, “but based on what I saw on the CCTV of the hospital, I think Sansa may have had a hand in this.”
“Do you think it was willingly?” Shouta frowned. He knew there was corruption within the police force, but he didn’t think that extended to murder.
“With Sansa? I don’t know,” the detective sighed heavily and walked out of the room. He weaved his way in between other officers to the breakroom and beelined straight for the coffee pot. “He’s only ever been a good man, a good cop,” the mug that Tsukauchi slowly changed colors to reveal printed pictures of a spyglass as mucky-black coffee was poured in, “He’s honest to a fault, cares about the job, and overworks himself almost as much as I do. I can’t picture him doing this willingly, but did I really ever know him if he was willing to kill his street partner?”
“Trust your gut.” Shouta shrugged and gestured to the paper cups on the other side of Tsukauchi. The man grunted and started to pour a second cup.
“I’m not a hero, Eraser, trusting my gut doesn’t get me as far.”
“There’s more to this, you know that right?”
“What do you mean?”
Shouta paused to pull his thoughts together. He’d heard hints of what could be going on, just mumbles and whispers along with the gossip trade of the underground. It made the red string on a board in a dark room look even more tempting.
“There’s more to what is going on. Somehow, this is all connected. I can’t see it right now, but there are too many coincidences, too many things occurring in sequence for any of this to be an accident. I don’t know what’s connecting it, but there’s a thread that we’re both missing and we need to find it soon.”
“Why don’t we focus on figuring out what happened here first.” Tsukauchi looked like he wanted to drown himself in his coffee cup.
“That’s your job. I have a vigilante to hunt down.”
---
(1 hour prior)
“No, I’m not doing that,” Sansa whispered into the phone.
He’s leaning against the wall just outside the hospital, head hung low as he hides his face in civilian wear. He’s not supposed to be here right now, not at all. He’s meant to be at home resting after the trauma of seeing his partner shot, but instead, he’s standing out in the rain, fur getting wetter by the moment as he contemplates the choices that had gotten him to this place.
Sansa was a good cop. He was. He was never late with his paperwork, followed his superior’s orders, and occasionally staged cover-ups for a man who had threatened his entire family.
Slamming his head into the brick wall, Sansa was ready to throw himself off a cliff.
But even if he did that, the stupid asshole would find him. That dumb warp quirk freak has his location nearly 24/7 with the tracking chip that was forced into the back of his neck. That had been more traumatic than seeing Daichi shot.
“Alright, but you know I’ll need- yes, I want that- I want the protection. I’ll leave my job, whatever it takes to keep them safe… Yes, I know- please- I get it! I’ll do it, it’ll be done.” Sansa argued in hushed whispers over the phone.
Finally allowed to hang up, Sansa shook off a shiver and forced himself to take a deep breath.
He kept his head bowed as he enters the hospital, disinfectant and the stench of desperation hitting him in an all consuming wave. Might as well add his own desperation to the pot. Sansa skated around rushing nurses and doctors without drawing attention to himself, climbing his way to the ICU that Daichi had been placed in a few hours previously. He was more than allowed to be there, especially as an officer, but he didn’t want to be noticed right now. He couldn’t have this blamed on him.
A nurse was waiting at the corner of the stairs just like his… superior, had described to him.
“Hi~” she singsonged and gave him a hug like they were some sort of loving couple. As she wrapped her arms around his waist, Sansa felt her slip something into his back pocket. His face wanted to crumple in disgust, this isn’t his partner and he’d much rather be hugged by them right now, but he kept his composure long enough for the “nurse” to smile menacingly at him and blow a kiss as she walked away. She disappeared into a bathroom where Sansa feels she had the real nurse stashed.
Stealing his nerves, Sansa enters the crowded hospital room. His partner lays in the bed, wan and deathly still. It makes his chest ache to see him so lifeless, someone who normally brightened the room just by walking in. He can’t believe he’s doing this, but the doctor had said that the chance of survival was fairly low, that he might not ever wake from the coma that had been induced post-surgery. So truly, was Sansa in the wrong?
That was the only way he could justify this.
He pulled the small items that had been stashed in his back pocket out, cringing at the syringe and small bottle. He’d have a hard time making this evidence disappear. Drawing the liquid, Sansa prepares not only the serum but himself for this moment.
Just like Garaki had taught him, Sansa pushes the needle into the entrance of the IV bag, slowly pushing the plunger while looking at his watch. Too fast and the death wouldn’t look natural, too slow and the doctors may be able to reverse it. Sweat slid down his temple and trailed down the back of his neck, his fur flattening even further from the dampness.
It’s just as the plunger is reaching the tube that the window slides open and a small figure rolls into the room. His wrist is hit with a very reinforced shoe, the joint buckling from the pressure and the needle going flying across the room.
Sansa scrambles for the evidence, knowing that he’s leaving a mess and the police could easily identify the poison if they looked around the room hard enough, diving for the corner that the small syringe had bounced over to.
A foot comes down on his back as an arm reaches around to yank his own into a hold, one that would immobilize him if he didn’t want to break his own arm. Sansa couldn’t have that, he couldn’t be trapped by whoever the intruder was. In a desperate attempt at fleeing, he bucked up and does his best to flip the person who was on top of him. It seems to work as the weight goes flying.
Too far too fast.
The small person hits the wall with a hard thud and slides down with a groan.
“Fuck,” they hiss, voice much higher than Sansa had anticipated.
Is that… Is that a child?
He didn’t have time to ponder it, he needed to get out of there. Feet were pounding down the hallway outside the door, closing in on them with every millisecond. He sprints for the open window, throwing himself out and down the two-story drop to where he knows a row of bushes is waiting for him. Thank god for catlike reflexes.
Hopefully, this will be enough. This will be the end.
---
He’s sitting lazily on the corner of a rooftop, the same one he has come to every night for a month, with his legs criss-cross in front of him and his chin on his hand. He’d been told not to do this at least a hundred times, but the threat of falling has never bothered him.
The soft whistle of fabric cutting through the air gives Izuku just enough time to dodge, rolling backward off the edge and onto the actual roof in a crouch.
“‘Raser,” he drawls and turns on the ball of his foot to land gracefully in the same position with his legs crossed.
“Not mad at me anymore?” the hero asks as he slinks forward and drops into his own seated position a few feet away.
“Always forgive, never forget,” Izuku sings as he draws his finger along the gravel of the roof. He has his head bowed like he’s looking at it, ears pricked to listen for more shifting from Eraserhead. He was on edge tonight, skin burning and his teeth feeling strange. He wanted to bite something or someone. Hitoshi called the feeling overstimulated, Izuku called it his gut instinct that something big was coming.
“You were bleeding out, Problem Child. Did that slice even heal right after that night?” Eraserhead sighs. There was a tone to his voice that Izuku couldn’t pick out, something running under the words that made his stomach twist and chest feel warm and he wasn’t sure why.
He ran his fingers along his ribs, knowing that there was a raised, pink scar there. Katsuki had done his best, but there was nothing he could do to keep it from leaving him permanently marked.
“It’s doing fine. I’m doing fine. Why do you care so much?” Izuku snapped and curled into himself slightly. He doesn’t like not being able to identify other people’s emotions. It’s not safe to be that way.
Eraser’s heart speeds up slightly, breath rate increasing, as he shifts and leans back on his hands. Izuku can pick out the way his body is giving signs of a new emotion rising, can smell sweat beading at the hero’s temples, and can tell that he had a jelly pack before landing on the roof. Every micromovement and change is cataloged in his brain as he studies the man for more information.
Izuku has learned a lot about the hero this way. He’s learned that the man has a partner that is somehow familiar to him. There are two cats in his house of two different breeds. Eraser prefers the strawberry jelly packs and has one before he meets Izuku and about halfway through his patrol. He likes his coffee with cream and cinnamon, but only on days that it seems like he’s had a tough day at school. He prefers a certain pen brand and is grumpier when Izuku smells a different kind of ink on his hands.
Midnight hugs him frequently, most likely against his will, from the pheromones of her quirk that cling to his jumpsuit. Surprisingly, he must be close with his boss as Izuku can pick up hints of what he assumes is Nedzu’s scent in Aizawa’s scarf. There’s a tinge of metal around his hands from the brass knuckles Izuku knows he loves to use in the more brutal fights and a matching scent on his thigh where his capture scarf knife is kept. And he uses the same shampoo as Izuku and Hitoshi like he’s either used to it or because it’s inexpensive.
His thoughts are interrupted as Eraserhead sighs deeply, his chest nearly rattling with the strength of it. “Because you’re a kid.”
“And that’s a good reason?” Izuku retorts immediately.
“Kids shouldn’t be worried about bleeding to death, nor should they be literal vigilantes.”
“And yet, here I am. Doing both and doing them well.”
“Are you? Because last I heard the entire city of Musutafu wants your head on a platter.”
“Semantics.”
Izuku can tell Aizawa wants to throttle him by the way he rakes a hand roughly through his hair. He wants to laugh, really, because the situation is so unbearably awful that Izuku can’t help but find it funny.
He’d spent the last month skulking around alleyways trying to find more information on All For One only to be interrupted by either a hero, civilian, or another criminal. It’s been a hell of a time trying to get his hands on something tangible to prove that none of this was his fault. Maybe with Eraserhead on his side he might be able to do more, but things have been oddly quiet as well. The drug runners that he had previously had threads on were no longer moving along their assigned routes and he was having a difficult time tracking the new ones down. All For One knew that he had leads, that he had been decently on his way to discovering something important.
Now he felt like he was back to square one.
Between beating up the occasional bad guy and trying to rescue civilians (who now tried to keep him there so the police could arrest him too), Izuku had spent time working with Hitoshi to try and find a lead digitally. They’d spent hours digging through business records, financial reports, court records, and anything accessible to them. All they’d found was empty shell company after shell company. It was so infuriating that each time they spent a day searching through pointless information Izuku spent that night beating the shit out of anyone he could get his hands on. It helped quell some of the rage.
As he sat on the rooftop bantering back and forth with a hero he knew was trying to worm his way under his guard so he could arrest him later, his mind still turned over all of the possibilities.
All For One was deeply entrenched in the workings of Musutafu, from the government that ran the Shizuoka prefecture to the imports that filled market stalls to the seedy underground. Izuku knew that, knew that his influence stretched farther than he could imagine. If taken down, the corruption scheme would be so massive everyone would swear that it was made up. Izuku just needed to prove it. If he could clear his name and dump the blame on the right person, maybe, just maybe, he could salvage what little career he had made for himself.
Law school was looking like less and less of an option lately.
He tugs his lip in between his teeth, chewing on the cracked skin to keep himself from mumbling. Eraser didn’t need to know his thoughts or plans at the moment. The hero would just try to stop him.
“Kid, hey, where’d you go?” A voice says from in front of him, fingers snapping too close to his nose.
Izuku rears back and nearly knocks his head against the ledge of the wall behind him, hands flying up to grab the hand that was in front of it and attempting to twist it so the wrist was locked. Another hand grabs him and attempts to pull him closer.
“It’s me,” the voice repeats, calm like the surface of a pond on a sunny day, “It’s just Eraserhead.”
The words ring in Izuku’s ears and he immediately switches to shoving the man in the chest as hard as he can.
“Why are you so close to me?” he growls and launches himself to his feet, “Trying to arrest me again?”
Eraser flops onto his back, limbs sprawling and capture scarf hitting him in the face with an oof!
“Kid, seriously, if I wanted to arrest you I would have by now. Why are you still insistent that is what I’m trying to do?” The hero sighs and rolls so he can look at where Izuku is still in defensive mode.
“Why else would you keep meeting me? Want to be around me? Fight next to me in alleyways?” Izuku bites and pulls even further into himself, teeth bared in aggression at how he assumed Eraser was looking at him.
“Because I care about you.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Why not? Isn’t it only logical that I, a pro-hero, care about the kid that is out late at night throwing himself into fights and investigations that could get him killed?”
“Because adults don’t do that! They don’t care!”
“What adult hasn’t cared for you, Mask?”
Izuku clamped his mouth shut, teeth grinding at how casually Eraserhead was digging into his psyche. He didn’t need some two-bit “hero” trying to pry his trauma from him. Even if Eraserhead was really his all-time favorite hero, even if his heart ached to trust the man, even if he yearned for the guidance of an adult so he wouldn’t have to fend for himself anymore.
“No one you would know,” he hissed through his teeth.
The general aura from Eraser screamed exasperated, but Izuku could not care less. He was itching for a distraction from whatever information the erasure hero wanted from him, something that could take both of their attention away from the open wound that was Izuku’s trust issues.
“Why the fuck is there no crime,” he muttered to himself before settling back into his spot on the roof.
Eraserhead chuckled and shifted in his own spot, the rustle of his hero costume almost soothing to Izuku’s ears. It must be made out of a soft fabric to sound like that.
“Is there a reason you’re wishing to beat the shit out of someone?” Eraserhead huffed.
“It’s definitely not because of this conversation if that’s what you’re thinking.”
A sharp scream pierced the air and Izuku was off, throwing himself off the roof and to the next building without hesitation. “There’s the crime!” he called behind him with a laugh, listening for the exhausted sigh of the hero to follow him through the air. It did come, along with the whip crack of a capture weapon wrapping around a metal pipe.
“You’re ridiculous,” Eraserhead mumbled, but with Izuku’s hearing, he was able to pick up the words and that strange tone again.
Izuku ignored the burning feeling behind his sternum and went straight for landing on the nearest criminal in an elbow drop, the man collapsing to the ground and out like a light before his partner could even startle.
Eraserhead wrapped the other in his scarf, yanking the man toward him and knocking him out with a punch to the face.
He leaned down to check the pulse of his criminal, hair shifting against his black jumper as a low puff of air escaped his lips while bending forward. Izuku couldn’t help but giggle at how huffy Eraser was.
“He’s fine by the way, his pulse is strong,” Izuku informed the hero and leaned against the brick wall across from his tied-up criminal.
“How do you know that? You haven’t done a first aid check,” Eraserhead groused and righted himself.
“I just know. I’m right, aren't I, his pulse is just fine?”
“Yes, yes, you’re right. He’ll wake up in an hour or so.”
Izuku smirked and crossed his arms over his chest in a cocky gesture, knowing that the hero would be rolling his eyes in annoyance.
“There’s evidence here so you’re going to have to get up on the roof before the police come, you know how they are with you right now,” Eraserhead grumbled after poking around the scene for a few quiet moments.
“Oh? What did the lovely criminals bring to play with this time?” Izuku teased and pushed himself off the brick wall. He stalks over to where he knows Eraser is crouched and digging through a bag, the rustle of items in a small space echoing against the tall walls of the buildings on either side.
“Drugs, kid, which you shouldn’t touch.”
Those words sapped the silly demeanor that Izuku had put on and he bent down beside the underground hero, jaw clenching and unclenching. This is it, this could be the lead he was looking for. He just needed to get into the evidence, to know what was in that bag, to beat the shit out of the criminals until they gave him the information he wanted.
“Let me see,” his voice had dropped half an octave, the tail end of his sentence drawing a harsh demand from his lips.
“No,” Eraserhead answered immediately. His tone was just as harsh, matching Izuku’s strike for strike with its intensity.
“Then describe what’s in the bag to me, I need to know.”
“You’re already too deep into this. You’re the most wanted man in the city and you’re just a child.”
The hero stood from where he had been gathering the evidence, gloves that Izuku hadn’t paid attention to him putting on being snapped off and shoved into a pocket of his jumper.
“Hasn’t stopped me before.” Izuku tried again as his feet shuffled slightly.
“Well, it should have.” Eraser snapped.
The vigilante stumbled back slightly at the tone, steps faltering at the coldness seeping between the syllables. Izuku hadn’t heard the hero talk like that to anyone but criminals. It made him feel like a criminal. Tears gathered at the corners of his eyes and he had to work to keep himself from sniffling.
He wasn’t sure why those words cut so deeply. Maybe it was because the man was starting to gain some of his trust, maybe it was because he was the only adult that Izuku consistently saw nowadays, or maybe he was just oddly sensitive tonight. Whatever the reason, Izuku had to swallow back the small sob that threatened to escape. Instead, he cleared his throat and shifted his stance.
“Fine,” he said quietly.
“Kid-”
“No, you’ve made your point. I’ll wait on the roof.”
Izuku brushed past the hero, shoulder just barely scraping thick black cloth as he made his way to the fire escape at the end of the alley.
A hand snagged his arm just above his elbow and Izuku’s instincts went into overdrive. He flipped around, back going against a broad chest as he heaved a heavy weight up and over his shoulder. It was mere milliseconds of time, a pure reaction versus a thought-out action, that had Eraserhead on his back in a dingy alley in the middle of the night.
“I- I don’t like to be touched,” Izuku whispered, stumbling back from where he had thrown the hero. His foot caught on the backpack and he nearly went sprawling on the ground before an idea popped into his head. This was his chance, he could tell Eraser had the wind knocked out of him and was struggling to get back up and to “comfort” Izuku. He just had to play it right. Shoving down the aching hurt that tugged at the already open wound in his chest, Izuku let himself fall backward over the backpack, ass hitting the pavement with a loud thud.
“Shit,” he hissed and pulled his feet toward him, knocking the bag onto its side and spilling whatever was inside.
“Kid-”
“I’m f-fine,” he forced out through his teeth and swept his feet to the side and under him, feeling the slick slide of a plastic bag under his foot. Slamming his hands on the ground, he forced himself to his feet and slid the bag into his palm.
“I’ll talk to you when you’re through with this pick-up,” Izuku mumbled and sprinted for the fire escape. He ignored the protests of the pro-hero, electing to scamper his way up to the roof and down three buildings. He’d ask Hitoshi or Katsuki to describe what the sticker under his thumb looked like.