Chapter Text
Your hour-long commute to and from the city was a daily reminder of how lucky you were, to live in seclusion. As you make your way down the interstate, the world gradually shifts from silent to cacophonous; thoughts begin to drift into your subconscious, slowly and then all at once.
Carrots, potatoes, chicken… Yeah, I can make something out of this.
I hope she’ll forgive me— it was just a one night stand, it’s not like it really means anything, right?
Someone is singing along in their head to a song so wildly different from the one playing on your car radio that you have to turn it off, a familiar feeling of disappointment washing over you.
Nightly patrolling in the city that never sleeps is a daunting task for any hero, but for you, it’s a special kind of torture that never seems to get any easier no matter how long you do it.
“We think it’s best that you do underground work,” your appointed Hero Public Safety Commission agent had told you at the beginning of your hero career. “The less people know about your quirk, the more efficient you can be.” Seated stiffly in your desk chair, you’d offered a curt nod.
“Understood, Sir.”
Commission meetings were not typically held via video conference; though they were encrypted and heavily monitored for outside interruptions, they were by no means secure. But the idea that any member of the HPSC would want to be in the same room as you was laughable; anybody who thought that the Commission had their best interest in mind was the biggest idiot on the face of the Earth, and one peek into what any one of those bastards was actually thinking was certain to blow whatever semblance of credibility they had sky high. You didn’t have to be a mind reader to know that. But you also know that a mind reader is not someone you want the enemy to get hold of, either. You realize that you are a liability as much as you are an asset, so you make no attempts to ruffle any feathers— ever. The only time anybody should be asking the Commission for anything is if it will make them a better puppet; and you’d better show up with proof that whatever you want will benefit them as much as it benefits you.
This is exactly how you’re allowed to patrol a city you don’t even live in; it’s a political faux pas, a would-be talking point if the public knew. But you would have to be popular for people to know, even more popular for people to care. Neither you nor the Commission wants either of these things, so you’re golden.
It’s a slow night, by your standards. Only three arrests, a couple fights broken up. By the time you make it home, past the threshold of constant chatter and back to the tranquility of the countryside, the sun is beginning to rise. Another night of keeping the peace, both in the city and among the delicate structure that is hero society.
You let your bag fall at your feet as you close the door softly behind you, slipping out of your work boots as you begin stripping. Underground hero costumes are nothing like the flashy jumpsuits and decorative headgear plastered all over the media; the goal is to avoid being recognizable, and function trumps fashion. Still, tactical gear is tactical gear, heavy and convoluted and a pain in the ass to take off, so you’ve only managed to remove your jacket before you feel your phone vibrate sporadically from your pants pocket. When you retrieve it, you’re surprised to see it’s your mother calling— it’s four in the morning, she’s never up this early, and she never calls without warning.
“Hey, Ma. What’s wrong?” Your voice is serious, body still as you wait to see if you need to get back in your car.
“Where have you been? Have you seen the news?”
You check the time again, perplexed. “No, I just got home from patrol. What’s the matter?”
“You need to turn on the television right now,” she warns, her tone serious. “You’re gonna want to see this.”
“Okay, okay.” You pinch your phone between your ear and your shoulder as you fumble with the remote, eyebrows knitting together in confusion as the screen comes to life in front of you. As the newscast comes into view, your phone tumbles to the ground as your hands fly up to your mouth in shock.
Villains attack UA High School Training Facility in Mustafu, Japan.
It takes a week longer than you expected, but when the Commission calls you know exactly what they want you to do. So you pack up your things and travel back down the mountain to spend your final nights in America with your family.
You don’t tell them the details until you’re settled into your childhood bedroom, your single suitcase sitting in the center of the small space. The weight it holds sits like a boulder of a bad omen, juxtaposed against the hopefulness displayed by your old life. Books titled “How to Be a Good Hero,” “The Ultimate Guide to Emitter Quirks,” “Support Weapons and Their Benefits,” line the small bookshelf tucked into the corner, a glaring reminder of all the potential you’d once thought you had, as well as your previous believes that a quirk like yours could be tamed, turned manageable with enough training.
Now that you were an adult, you understood your role as a cog in hero society. A “Good Hero” was not one who mastered their support weapon and found a way to negate the negative effects of their quirk— a good hero was someone who was born with a quirk so good they didn’t need anything else. They had enough flashiness, enough star power, enough money, that the world practically righted itself for them. That would never be you; at best, you were a glorified spy. This didn’t bother you as much as it probably should, though; you’d count your blessings instead, be grateful that your family was spared from having to watch you be brutally beaten on national television, that you had a place to live, food on your table, and enough good rapport with the Commission to have job stability.
You might have too much job stability, though.
“I have been asked to assist the Japan branch of the Hero Public Safety Commission,” you announce at dinner. “I’ll be stationed at UA for the foreseeable future, amidst the rising villain activity.”
Oh dear god, they’re sending my baby off to war.
They’re shipping her off to die.
Your parents’ faces fall with despair; your father attempts to maintain your level of stoicism, but thoughts never have the same filter that faces do, and grief is by far the loudest emotion.
“It’s not a war. These are precautionary measures.” You parrot what your agent had told you over the phone, but all three of you know those words are blatant lies. “They’ve told me I can expect to be home before Christmas.” This softens them a little, a bit of relief washing over your mother’s face. They don’t know how untrustworthy the Commission’s word is; you take it with a grain of salt, but if it will give them any ounce of hope, you’ll say it like you believe it.
Your father has to work, so your mother drives you to the airport, dropping you off in a puddle of tears.
“As soon as they’ll let me, I’ll come home, Ma.” You hug her tightly, placing a kiss to the side of her head. Her thoughts are loud, overcome with grief and fear, so you add; “Alive. I’ll come home alive, I promise.”
Lined up like cattle for the slaughter, you try to ignore the waves of nervousness and anxiety washing over your fellow new recruits as the UA staff file in. The conference room you’re gathered in is large enough that you’re all spaced apart, clearly for quirk demonstrations, but their thoughts echo in your head like they’re all standing in a circle surrounding you, shouting nonsense into a void.
Wow, Japanese schools are so much nicer than in the US.
I seriously hope whichever teacher I get stuck with will let me work on my lesson planning.
I can’t wait to meet All Might!
I feel so old, this is so embarrassing.
Your eye twitches in annoyance, the ongoing migraine that has plagued you since birth growing steadily as everyone’s commentary bounces off the walls of your skull. The noise is only exacerbated by the teachers as they enter. They line up similarly to your group, facing you with feigned expressions of seriousness as they take you all in, judging you all with the excitement of someone trying to pick out their first puppy.
Oh, I recognize that one! He’s been making his way up the popularity charts.
She’s cute, I hope I get her.
That mutant quirk is scary, my kids could use someone to frighten them into listening.
There’s one train of thought louder than the rest, as he goes down the line. You recognize him from the newscast; his dark, shaggy hair and baggy, shapeless clothes are identical to what you’d seen on tv, but he’s covered head to toe in bandages. You had read the available reports on the USJ attack, knew that the class 1A teacher had suffered serious injuries; but you hadn’t expected them to still be so debilitating after nearly two weeks. You’re surprised by his quick judgements, eyes half lidded with exhaustion as he surveys each hero.
His combat skills are subpar, but his quirk will be useful.
She’s way too old to be fighting these kinds of villains.
I’ve seen her teach and it’s a hot mess.
He’s got a decent shot, if he doesn’t get sucked into Nemuri’s web.
You’re fighting a smirk, curiosity getting the better of you. What did Mr. Know It All think of you?
That is an HR nightmare waiting to happen. Literally anyone but her.
Principal Nezu enters and everyone’s thoughts even out, focusing on the task at hand. You’ve never met the man before, but find yourself impressed by the way he commands a room, despite his small stature. When he speaks, everyone straightens; eager to impress, to please.
“As most of you know, the Hero Public Safety Commission has graciously provided us with a set of pro heroes to assist in teaching at UA. Following the recent USJ attack, their skills should come in handy to provide extra security and perhaps offer some valuable insight into the education of our students.” He pauses, surveying the room; the anticipation of your counterparts is ticking up again, blurring into his words as he continues. “Before I announce class assignments, I ask that each of our new staff please step forward and introduce themselves.” He nods towards the first hero in line, who just so happens to be the only person you recognize; the only other person shipped in from the US, he steps forward and takes a deep breath.
“The name’s pro hero Globule; my quirk produces protective bubbles, which can only be broken by deactivating them.” He gestures to the girl standing next to him, who tentatively steps forward. He clasps his hands together, and she’s suddenly shrouded in a translucent sphere.
Wow, talk about a good way to protect our students!
You fight the urge to roll your eyes. Globule had charted pretty well back home, but he was certainly nothing to gawk at; his bubbles are only active as long as his hands are held together, rendering him completely useless in battle. This had not played well for him in any of the big, televised fights in recent years; the most he accomplished was preventing civilians from getting scratched up by debris, though he made it a point to flaunt his involvement nonetheless.
I hope that kid’s got one hell of a support weapon.
You can’t help but wonder why his thoughts are so incredibly loud; he’s all but slumped against the wall, his eyes lidded with boredom. But he’s sharp— you know that Globule did not, in fact, have a support weapon of any kind, because he never did any real fighting; but if you didn’t have prior information, you’d be thinking the same thing.
The next hero in line is a girl much younger than you, likely fresh out of a hero program herself; she demonstrates an emitter quirk that allows her to shoot poison darts from her fingertips. Following her is an older woman with some kind of strength based transformation quirk, a part-man part-snake mutant type, a barrier hero with limited healing capabilities. By the time you step forward, everyone’s thoughts are all-consuming; excitement and analysis from the teachers, trepidation and self-consciousness from your peers. Luckily, you don’t have to think about what to say; This is a routine you’ve gone through many times before, a script you could repeat in your sleep.
“Hero name Sixth Sense, quirk clairvoyance. Continuous mind reading with limited capacity to communicate telepathically. Range of one hundred feet, drawbacks being fatigue and limited combat benefits. Throwing knives act as a supplemental support weapon when necessary, sir.” You nod curtly towards Nezu, falling back into line.
Oh shit.
Eyes forward with a carefully crafted expression of neutrality, you swallow your grin as pro hero Eraserhead realizes he’s been insulting you this entire time, and you’ve heard every single word.
Principal Nezu begins announcing classroom assignments, and everyone’s inner monologue is bursting with anticipation. Quite a few of the teachers are praying you’re assigned to them; Pro hero Midnight is singing your praises, not-so-subtle thoughts of attraction racing through her mind at lightning speed. She’s not too disappointed, however, when she’s assigned the snake hero, a shy young man who’s properly petrified when she pulls him into a hug, nearly drowning him in her bosom. Vlad King gets the dart girl, satisfied to have someone useful yet curious as to who you’d be appointed to. You knew exactly where you’d end up; not because of your quirk, but because it was only natural to put two underground heroes together.
Eraserhead realizes the same thing, trying very hard to subdue his thoughts of dread as Nezu announces that you will be the assistant to the erasure hero. It’s a valiant effort, but masking one’s true feelings in the confines of their mind is a near impossible task to master— all it really does is jumble things, make them louder, an irritating habit you hated to be subjected to. As you approach, you bow your head respectfully.
“I’ll do my best to avoid being an HR nightmare, sir.”
He stutters at the seriousness of your tone, lost for words as embarrassment washes over him. The two of you stand side by side in silence as the rest of the pairings are decided; Present Mic gets your American counterpart, pleased to have a fellow showman but mildly jealous of your new coworker;
No fair, how come Shouta gets the cute one?
You’re not sure why all these people are so infatuated with you, but it’s certainly a welcome reprieve from the grumbling tangle of thoughts tearing through Eraserhead’s mind, so you let the corners of your mouth tug upwards in satisfaction.
“Let me cut to the chase, seeing as you can hear what I’m thinking anyway.” He slumps unceremoniously against the podium as you take in class 1A’s homeroom— your new office, for however long you’ll be stuck in Japan. Twenty desks are neatly arranged in the small space, with an extra one shoehorned next to the platform Eraserhead leans against.
“I’m offended by the insinuation that I need someone else to help me do my job. I’m sure you saw the footage of the USJ incident; I’m perfectly capable of protecting my students.”
You choose not to comment on his sorry state, nor the influx of pained groans that he suppresses internally. He’s trying to play it cool; how cute. You had seen the attack, had even rewatched the fight to analyze the villain’s fighting styles in preparation for your arrival in Japan. It pained you to admit, but he was right; despite his strongsuit being stealthwork, Eraserhead had held his own quite well against an impressive number of villains. You hum, urging him to continue without voicing agreement or disagreement.
“As such, I expect you to leave the teaching to me. You can grade papers, take attendance, but there’s no need for you to interfere with my curriculum.”
“That’s fine,” You sigh, hands running down your face as you try to dispel the throbbing in your temples. “I think you and I are both well aware that the HPSC didn’t ship me all the way out here to be a teacher, anyway.” He’s momentarily stunned by this, the cogs in his brain moving as they try to piece together the implication of your words. You didn’t think it was supposed to be a secret; you had no teaching license, had barely graduated from your own hero program after being scooped up by the Commission. You doubted any of the other fresh faces on campus had, either— you were bodyguards, here to quell the concerns of dutiful parents who feared for their children’s safety. “Just show me where the training facilities are, and I’ll be out of your hair. The sports festival is this weekend, right? No need to catch me up on each student’s quirk, since they’ll all be participating.”
“...Right.”
Wow, talk about straight to the point.