Chapter Text
He could hear himself screaming but was not fully registering the pain. He could feel the scream abruptly cut off as blood filled his lungs and ran down his front like a thick, crimson waterfall. The stench of iron filled the air even as he stood up, eyes dead.
*
Shouta was so close to saying screw it and just leaving. Maybe he could hibernate for a year in his sleeping bag and forget about his responsibilities. Beg Recovery Girl to put him into a medically induced coma until this case is over or something. Perhaps give in to Hizashi’s begging for a vacation. At this point he might even give into a fleeting dream of becoming a goat herder in the Himalayas.
While probably not the most levelheaded thing he had ever done, it would certainly beat the hellish situation that he’s in right now. The pitifully small manilla folder sat in front of him ominously, such an insignificantly sized object that would spell the doom for his sleep schedule for the next month at least . Tsukauchi looked to be equally at his wits end. The normally calm man was going to wear a hole in the floor if he kept up at this pacing for much longer.
"I don't understand how not a single guy this vigilante has brought in knows anything about them," Tsukauchi grumbled, "And what’s worse is that they aren't even lying about it."
Shouta couldn't help but agree, it was positively infuriating. The problem with vigilantism is that they walk a gray area between hero and villain. Some heroes, like Ingenium and himself, actually worked with vigilantes; however, while some of these heroic law breakers have good intentions, some don’t. Stain was originally a vigilante that slowly fell down the path of villainy. It’s a sad but common story that was heard more and more as more people came out about the injustices of heroes. Someone thinks they can do better and so they don a black hoodie and some Halloween mask and either get killed or do the killing.
The new vigilante on the block had started out much the same. Alias ‘Useless’ left notebooks with information on big name villains, innocuous black little things with crisp white pages filled to the brim with tiny, messy handwriting. Useless in the beginning hadn’t been much other than an informant, albeit one with terrifying accuracy and horrifically detailed analysis, but still just an informant nonetheless.
Then they dropped off the grid for 2 years.
When they came back, things escalated. Villains called in in critical condition, with obviously self-inflicted wounds, expertly bandaged with little black notebooks on their chests filled to the brim with crimes and quirk queries. Stuffed full of sticky notes detailing asked and answered questions in two different handwritings.
There were no connections between the cases with an exception of the notebooks which were always terrifying to look through. Crimes ranged from quirk trafficking to kidnappings and murders. Large scale fighting rings brought down with Useless’s knowledge alone.
Shouta sighed, “If I didn’t know any better, I would say they're mocking us.”
Tsukauchi held up a notebook, a plain black spiral bound with ‘useless’ scrawled on the front in white. To whom it was directed, he had no idea.
“I think they are.”
On the last page there was a note. Not completely unusual by itself, what was unusual was that it was addressed specifically to Shouta.
‘Hi EraserHead! I heard that you have taken over our case. To be entirely honest I felt kind of bad for you guys over there, so I got you a little gift! You really need to take better care of yourself, go take a nap or something, you need it. I do wish you would just drop the case though. I can’t be good for your health. Hope to see you soon Eraser! I would be disappointed if you didn’t drop by to say hello.
p.s. The Harbinger serves delightful drinks at 1AM
-best regards
Your biggest fan’
The writing had been neatly squeezed onto a sticky note. On the back there was an address to somewhere in the Red-Light district.
Shouta was pissed. His eye was twitching. He could feel it. The eye twitching energy that he had been carefully repressing since being assigned this case had finally broken free of its caffeine crafted box. Sort of like a dam breaking, but instead of water it’s pure irritation and homicidal thoughts.
“I’m going.”
The detective gives him a long, contemplative look before nodding.
*
A carefully constructed mask lay in front of the shattered pieces of what it once was, after all, a mask can’t feel pain, nor form opinions. The mask was a wall to hide behind. It refused to be hurt by any other hand by its own, ever again.
*
He went while it was dark. Geared with civvies and a hidden camera he made his way to the meeting place. The streets in this part of town are dangerous. The red-light district isn’t safe at any time of the day, but at night is when the worst of the worst come out to play. He jumps past buildings and sprints through darkened alleyways to get there as soon as possible with the least amount of people seeing him.
Crime here runs rampant because no limelight hero would dare touch this place, what with the lack of publicity, and underground heroes often run their patrols in marginally better areas. After all, what's the point of looking for a crime when a place is 90% crime?
Eventually he comes across the aforementioned Harbinger. It’s a busy place with a sketchy clientele. The windows are dusty and neon lights shine through the smog. Drunk party goers stumbled out of the door hanging on each other and giggling. As the door opened, the blasting music inside got audibly louder before it quieted as the door slammed behind them. Shouta heaved a sigh before steeling himself, his shoulders loosening.
“Guess this is happening then,” He muttered bitterly before he pushed past the door.
*
A true hero fanatic prides themselves on knowing about even the most obscure, and as such he could tell you, without a doubt, that he was more fanatic than most.
Even as he adjusts his vibrant green tie and straightens his white mask, he can confidently say that hero watching is and always was his favorite pastime. His smile grew as he heard his phone chime.
Showtime.
*
Once Shouta stepped inside the club the first thing he did was survey the room. Pushing past tittering groups of intoxicated ladies, and side-stepping leering overweight men, he eventually broke through the constantly shuffling mass of warm bodies. Like escaping a Lovecraftian monster with hundreds of arms, but with more alcohol and indecent exposure instead of tentacles and cosmic horror. Though he may have taken the Eldritch deity over loud music and equally loud flirtation.
Hizashi might call him pathetic for only going out when it’s for a job, and he would be absolutely correct. Shouta, however, feels justified in avoiding such places like the plague and would argue that, ‘yes Hizashi drowning your sorrows in booze is an equally destructive coping mechanism.’
He reaches the bar with the closest approximation to a drowning man reaching for a beach of dry sand one can have without actually filling his lungs with water, which is to say, with no tact and many unflattering gasping noises. In order to feel marginally more like a functional human being, he straightened himself and sat down, pretending that he didn’t just viciously claw his way through a veritable sea of dancing humans.
The stool next to him creaked ominously as somebody sat beside him, “You look comfortable.”
Shouta certainly didn’t feel comfortable, and by the laughter in the other’s voice, that fact must be plainly obvious.
*
The hero looked to have been through hell and back, face flushed and eye twitching. He leaned forward, elbow rested lightly on the counter, posing himself with mock nonchalance. A light smile settling itself upon his face like an unwelcome cat might do on a computer keyboard.
Minorly upsetting but not entirely unsurprising.
*
The man in front of him looked perfectly at home where he sat to the untrained eye, thankfully Shouta was anything but untrained. To him the man looked ready for a fight, muscles coiled like a hidden predator. The weak neon pink light reflected off of his bone white mask and his black gloves continued up under the perfectly fitted black coat buttoned over a crisp white dress shirt. Tight black pants showed off the gun at his hip and a knife on his opposite thigh. Even with his heeled boots he probably wouldn’t meet Shouta in height.
The man looked clean and perfect and dangerous surrounded by dust and dirt.
In response to the earlier jest, Shouta simply hummed.
“You know,” the masked man began conversationally, “I could say I asked you to come here in order to get you out more. Or perhaps I could threaten you off the case. I might mention the things I know about you, scare you. But! I won’t. I could yes, I very easily could, but I won’t. I find you very interesting, Eraser, in fact I might even go so far as to say I care about you. As much as someone like me could care about anyone. So, I came here with an offer. I will allow you to continue your investigation so long as you take and use my gifts.”
Useless goes rifling through his inside coat pocket while Shouta speaks up, “Why do you think I would ever take your offer?”
*
Something inside it was delighted. Nothing tangible that could be found and cut out, nor changed and mutilated. But the something was there none the less. Almost like the childish cousin of sadism. It’s the feeling one gets when busting a drug dealer or blackmailing a crime boss.
Or perhaps terrifying somebody who doesn’t deserve it.
It’s a cat who caught the canary kind of feel, something special and addictive. A feeling it chases with vindictive glee.
*
The other hummed before looking up, “Yamada-Aizawa Hizashi, age 37, quirk ‘voice’, pro hero, your husband, you live in the same apartment you did 5 years ago and he buys you a plant every birthday even with both of you knowing you will never be able to keep the thing alive. Yamada-Aizawa Eri, age 10, qui-,” Shouta cut him off by slamming Useless against the bar, hard.
“And what’s stopping me from bringing your ass into the station right now!”
“Well nothing, technically,” Useless states pleasantly all the while slipping Shouta’s hold and pushing something into his hands, “other than skill and perhaps a full night’s sleep.”
The other man stepped into the crowd and Shouta rushed after him only realizing it was a futile effort as he reached the door.
And so, he stood on the street, alone, with a black notebook in his arms and a brand-new pair of golden goggles dangling from his wrist. And because he stood there alone, there was nobody to hear the soft, “dammit,” escape the Erasure Hero’s lips.