Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

As he scrubbed his arms, recently returned from yet another pointless expedition, Chisaki Kai was furious.

How? How could it take months for anyone to find a single girl? A girl they knew by sight. A girl with distinctive physical features, no life skills, and who couldn’t even read! Each attempt had seen Eri slipping away farther and farther over the years, and he had only tightened his grip on her—limiting her access to anything that could teach her, that could improve her chances.

All too often, she had been limited by her inability to read or understand mathematics, unable to figure out currency or gauge distance. And that was before he considered that the Eight Precepts and even Chisaki’s less potent underlings were trained to lock down and grid search for Eri, and it had been years before she left even the district’s borders.

And yet, the last sighting they had gotten of Eri’s grand escape was her stabbing a member with a knife, stealing his wallet, and sprinting from the edges of the compound—before disappearing into the Tokyo Metro.

And all this was before getting into the issues of the heroes. Despite their strength, the Eight Precepts were far from completely anonymous. Years of running what was left of the drug trade in their parts of Japan had left them with more than a mild level of notoriety. Ever since they had first spread out to investigate, they had been harassed and harried across a dozen prefectures—and several had even been injured and detained at one point or another—forcing Chisaki to spend leverage and blackmail to remove them from custody.

And in one location, it wasn’t even the heroes—it was a twice-damned vigilante.

Trying to search Hosu was a mess, beyond the higher than normal hero presence. Due to Team Idaten’s long-time presence as the premiere local hero agency—and in particular, the rapid response times they had—he was forced to send in members in plain clothes. Without the leverage of violence, information gathering was slow going, and when he did send in force—when Idaten would otherwise be occupied—he ran head first into Wisdom.

It didn’t help that Hosu was one of the few cities where he barely had any leverage among the cops. Commissioner Tsuragamae was stationed there, and he was a bloodhound for sniffing out corruption.

As it is, he was only able to recover Setsuno when he was being transferred to a long-term holding facility outside of Hosu, and had received the blonde’s report with fury and anger.

Hands dry and sterile once more, Overhaul stormed through his compound, pacing back and forth through the halls, his eyes roving the medical offices where his underlings performed testing and through to the synthesis labs as they produced various drugs and pharmaceuticals. Even now, without Eri in his grasp, he had enough of her genetic supply, frozen and preserved, to make limited runs of the quirk-dampening bullets, though they were stored and sealed for exceptional needs.

The rest of his more illegal facilities were turned towards a much less valuable, but much more stable, commodity.

Trigger.

The quirk enhancer was unstable, its results inconsistent, and the substance itself was addictive, making the users desperate for another hit: another shot of their disease.

Even now, Chisaki couldn’t hide the sneer under his mask.

‘So bound by their diseases. Addicts one and all to this veneer of… power.’

Finally, he paced past the production area and into the holding cells.

Into Eri’s cell.

The cot was small, clean white sheets and a thin blanket tucked professionally around a foam mat. The floor was sloped to a drain, with a metal toilet bolted to one wall, and a sink next to it.

There was nothing sharp.

There was nothing dangerous, nothing that she could use as a weapon or a tool. She would be locked in here from now on, sealed with his quirk and Mimic’s abilities. No longer would she be allowed any level of… freedom .

It was perfect.

And he would have her back to it soon. One way or another.

Eri—no. She was Kai now. She had to remember that—hit the pad with a smooth roll, coming up facing her attacker.

“Good, good. Don’t stay on the mat. You’re young, you can bounce. Roll with the motion, get back to your feet and keep moving.” With a lazy, almost careless wave, the tip of a long staff swung out, and she back-stepped away from it. The squeak of her shoes on the dusty mat was distracting, but she made sure to keep her eyes on him. “Good! Distance is your friend here!”

Izuku settled the staff back across his shoulder, holding it in a way that looked almost lazy. 

Kai knew better. That staff could snap out like a goddamn viper. And stung like one too! Hands, feet, shoulders and knees—the moment she moved out of line, it was there.

But only enough to sting. To make her flinch and jump and reset.

“Next?” she called out, bouncing slightly on the balls of her feet, feeling the ache in her calves and shoulders.

They had been going for an hour: dives and rolls and recovery. 

“Break.”

At the word she almost sagged in relief before scrambling to catch the cold, wet towel and bottle of electrolyte punch the staff swung and launched her way.

Wiping the dust and sand from her hands and face was nice. The itch was something she couldn’t stand. By the time she was clean and the bottle was drained, Izuku had moved to a different part of the gym, pulling sheets down from around a narrow fenced corridor and revealing chainlinks and a raised box on the floor filled with packed wood chips. For a long moment, Kai couldn’t figure out what it was for, until Izuku stepped in and pulled another sheet off the back wall, revealing a bullseye.

“You ready, Kai?” Izuku called out, making her jump and toss the towel over the bench nearby.

“Oh, yes! What are we learning!” Kai had an idea, but…

“Yes, I’m going to teach you to throw things. Sharp things,” came the chuckle, before with a shift, kind Izuku went away and Serious Midoriya stood there. Kind lines faded as he tensed and took a professional, serious look.

“There are rules to this. Important ones. Both for your safety, the integrity of my tools, and the safety of other people. This isn’t one of those things you use everywhere; this is dangerous. ”

Staring up, Kai nodded, arms crossed and serious.

Izuku turned and opened a case on the nearby table. It was long and slender, and as he unlatched and opened it, Kai couldn’t stop a soft ‘ awesome’ slipping from her lips.

Knives—long, slender and sharp—rested in rows, held to the case walls by latches, and with sheathes bundled at the bottom. Izuku pulled one from the case and held it up. Tip to pommel, it was nearly 30cm, a small disk in the dead center of the knife where the hilt would be.

“These are my throwing knives. I custom order them; they are very expensive, and they are all—” with a twist, he slammed it down on the table, and the blade punched into it like it was paper. “ Very sharp.”

Kai nodded, taking him seriously. He had already gone over how to maintain her balisong, but these were an entirely different caliber of knife.

“This means, no spinning, no flipping, no toying around with them. They will cut you. They regularly cut me.”

He gave a short jerk, and then yanked the blade free of the desk.

“Now, there are several ways to throw knives, but it boils down to spin and no-spin.” Wisdom came to a stop to gauge his distance.

“Each has a benefit or issue of their own. Spin is reliable, but only at certain ranges and intervals. For reference, the blade will spin its entire rotation once per length of the blade. Which means, if you can judge the distance—” with a smooth motion, he raised and swung his arm forwards, past his head. For a second, the blade spun through the air before, with a thunk of metal into wood, the blade cut into the bullseye. 

“Now, while the distance on that isn’t bad, and indeed, you can reliably hit something with the point providing your skills… It’s not great. It’s a big, flashy motion, and depending on angle and distance, your accuracy takes a dip.” Reaching out, Wisdom selected another blade, identical to the first.

“But now we have the next throw: no spin.” Turning, Izuku snapped his arm from his side, up and forwards. With the end of the motion, the blade slipped through his fingers, streaking forwards with only the slightest tilt to the blade before it lodged in next to the first, both blades now perfectly mirroring each other’s angle. “The straight shot means you get a very precise hit, and can throw a good chunk of power behind it with little wind up, but you lose a lot of distance on the throw. Without the spin to stabilize it, you also lose accuracy at anything more than a few meters. This is good for close range though, especially with smaller blades.”

Pulling the blades free of the target, he motioned Kai over.

“Now, everything starts from your stance. You want to square yourself to your target…”

Half an hour later, after several false starts, one cut finger, and several frustrated words— 

A blade slammed home on the target.

It wasn’t a bullseye, not yet.

But it was progress.

“Thank you again for this!” Momo smiled at the IT specialist, one Izumi Koushiro, who gave a blush and rubbed his rust-colored hair.

“It’s no issue, Creati, ma’am. I know adjusting to a new system is always a problem. Please, let me know if you require any more assistance.”

As the tech left her office, Momo gave a short sigh of relief. She hadn’t expected to have such a problem connecting to Manual’s Agency Database today, but with it done, she could now focus her efforts on her reports.

The last few months had been busy, but in a way that almost felt… freeing. Like stretching her legs after a long period caged up.

A dozen small robberies, four car thieves, a small-time smuggling ring—and of course the occasional Villain who was using their quirks for mayhem. Three years in a bullshit contract may have dulled her edge somewhat, but she was feeling back up to her best. 

Which was great, because tonight she was planning to try her hand at catching a vigilante.

Momo opened her file on Wisdom. His known appearances, his latest interactions—especially those with the Yakuza—and his known skills and tools.

He had a loose schedule: never appearing more than a night or two in a row, but rarely being away for more than a week. He might not be caught in the act of doing something, but he was always spotted. Sometimes by the cops, others by the heroes… or they found one of his captured criminals with those infuriating little post-it notes: ‘Words Of Wisdom’, as they were jokingly called.

She glanced over the pictures and spreadsheet of the known messages, eyes tracing some of the more interesting ones.

‘Word to the wise, It’s not nice to call a girl a prize’

‘Wiseguys don’t try to wire hotrods’

‘Wisdom Says: No More Drugs, Ned’

The format varied, but they all were some form of admonishment.

Leaning back in her chair, she sipped her tea, wincing slightly at the chill. Between the IT issues and her ruminations, it had gone cold.

Breathing out, she glanced over the appearances one last time. The last sighting of Wisdom was five days ago—which meant they were due for another soon—and Momo had gotten word from Hero-net that another intrusion of Yakuza were working near Hosu at the river separating them from Kiyashi ward. It was a bit out of his normal route, but she was positive that Wisdom would be drawn into a fight this big.

So, as the sky began to darken, she slipped off to the locker room and into her hero costume. The dark red vest was made of a thick, ridged fabric. Bullet- and slash-resistant, it wrapped her curves with a familiar tight pressure. At her waist, a cross shaped zipper was present, one on each hip, with a line she could open between them for a larger item. 

The black shorts she wore, loose around the knee, were of a similar fabric, but with larger reinforced panels over her thighs and around her kneecap. The loose shape meant she could still drop items from her thighs into action.

Rounding it out was a sensible pair of ankle-high boots with only a short, wide heel. The one thing she had refused to compromise on with her old costume designers. No ankle-breaking shoes. Ever.

Now, with her suit on, she turned towards her arsenal. Back at U.A., she learned the importance of being prepared, of gearing up before a fight instead of relying entirely on her quirk to respond in the motion. The result had been the small armory she now had installed here at Manual’s Agency, but that had been all but gathering dust while she had been under her previous contract.

With the social issues surrounding live-round weapons, she had focused instead on acquiring a compressed gas carbine with a charging pump under its barrel. While she did carry three ten-round magazines of sedative darts, she also had plenty of variants memorized. With the benefit of an open bolt, she could feed anything into the barrel for single use, from ‘flash’ rounds, to explosives, to tracking devices and armor-destructive rounds. Without needing standard powder cartridges, she was limited only by the size and weight of the ammo and the gas pressure of the carbine. She also had long since memorized the design of the gun’s magazine for if she ever needed to swap to an entirely specialized type of ammo

Slinging her gun along her back, she pulled out a pair of goggles with night vision filtering capabilities and flash protection—a recent purchase after finding herself blinded—and a pair of tonfa for each hip, each with an inbuilt taser.

Satisfied with her weaponry, she turned towards utility. She marked off a grapple gun, a pack of capture ties suited for enhanced-strength targets, a back-up comms unit, and a set of tracking and audio bugs. Beyond that, with the rifle and her plan to travel at night, a translucent black shawl that hid the gun and muted the red in her silhouette was draped over everything.

Satisfied, she connected her phone and usual earpiece to the Hero-Net and sat back down on the locker room bench as she ran through the usual check-ins and announced she was starting a patrol.

This felt right.

This felt Good.

And with a final check, she rose and headed for the roof exit of the agency, calling out a quick goodbye to one of the secretaries managing the help lines.

She had a vigilante to catch.

Izuku crouched under a billboard, using the bright digital screen to hide his shape in the shadows beneath it as he fiddled with his gear.

‘Kai is still the Yakuza’s target. I’ve heard rumors of more groups hunting for her, and this is the one closest to Hosu… I need to know who’s calling the shots. What are they after? The solo agents who keep slipping into town are getting better at keeping their heads down, and it only takes one or two to slip my network before it’s an issue.’

He ran his hands over the collection of collapsing staves tucked in his belt. The weight of two of his custom kusari-fundo—weighted chains—hung from under his jacket sleeves, the coils loose around his wrist and the weights tucked into his gloved palms. Across his back, he felt the weight of his heavier armor, a long, jacket-shaped thing that hung halfway to his knees in front and back, layered with coin-sized ceramic plating tucked in between layers of kevlar and lined with tight silk. It showed some wear and tear, evidence of the last time he had faced someone with a gun in hand. 

As he looked down past the glare of the billboard, he saw one of the masked thugs peel off, pacing down the street in a heavy jacket with the nose of a plague mask peeking from under the hood.

Taking a slow breath, exhaling mist into the night glow of the sign, he pulled the hood of his armored coat up, hiding pinned-back green hair as its hem magnetically clipped onto the top of his bright yellow goggles.

Wisdom exhaled slowly through his facemask, subtle plastic vents releasing his warm breath as mist in the billboard’s light, the unseasonable chill of the late night showing itself.

For nearly half an hour, he paced rooftops and slipped over alleys and side streets, eyes tracing the route of his mark. Wisdom watched as he passed only two other masked men, speaking shortly with each.

But finally, he was isolated, tucked into a one-way side street with a turn that hid him from the main streets. He sprinted along the edge of the building, leaping from one roof to the next with a smooth roll, taking only a moment to reaffirm where the plague-masked yakuza was walking.

Nodding, he looked up and down the street; numbers and formulas filled his mind, vectors and timings and rates of descent and direction. He wanted a relatively smooth path,  but one that would preferably end the fight before it began. He glanced over an awning, a street sign that stuck out a bit farther than the rest, and the metal pole of a streetlamp.

With a grin, he lined himself up, mentally counting down; With a leap, he was in motion.

One giant step off the building ledge—a skip to get a bit of extra height off the sign—nearly clearing the street before reaching out and snagging the very edge of an awning—the metal skeleton under the cloth creaking as he swung below it—letting go just before he torqued it free of the mount.

For a second he was in freefall before he hooked the pole of the street lamp with one hand and pushed, redirecting his fall.

With a crack of bone and a sharp scream, he landed boot-first onto the shoulders of the yakuza; knees bending to lessen the impact only after he felt the shoulders wrench under his feet, dismounting and rolling forwards as the man slammed back-first into the ground. With Quantify he could even assess the damage, marking one arm dislocated and the opposite collarbone cracked .

Rolling with the motion, Izuku popped up, arms coming up in a silent cheer for a moment of self-satisfaction, before twisting on his heel to look back down at the breathless goon trying to get his breath back.

“Hi! I’m looking for info on your boss, his organization, and what you fuckers want.” Reaching down, Wisdom gripped the dislocated arm and shoved it back into place—to the tune of more screaming.

“So please, make this easy on yourself— and me.”

The guard struggled to move, but was pinned by a broken collarbone: something that really isn’t conductive to upward motion. For a moment, the side street was filled with wheezed curses and pained gasps. A little pressure got him talking.

“Overhaul—Overhaul will kill you for this!”

Deep in his persona, Wisdom gave a casual, almost friendly nod. “I’m sure he’ll try. Which is why I want answers first . Who is Overhaul, and who are the rest of the Precepts. I’m sure you know. You’ve been trying to sneak into my territory for weeks; I had to go traveling to find you.”

“I won’t—” The man struggled before some pressure on the shoulder drew more of a scream from him.

“I- I- FINE, PLEASE, I GIVE! Overhaul, he’s the leader, okay? Of the last true Yakuza. Shie Hassaikai — The Eight Precepts of death. The Eight, they’re Overhaul’s guards, his agents. Some of them are fucking terrifying, alright!?”

Wisdom hummed and slowly took more pressure off of the man. “And your goals?”

The man almost sobbed in relief at the lack of pain now. “I don’t know everything man, I run drugs! I know we do drugs, smuggling. I know some of the others sell Trigger, some other quirk specialty stuff. Overhaul’s obsessed with the drug stuff; he’s a clean freak, white walls, labs, the whole shit.”

Izuku gave a hum, moving his knee off the injury to a gasp of relief. “And the girl? Why is she important?”

“I don’t know, I doubt anyone outside of the inner eight know what the fuck’s with her… But we know she’s valuable. The boss is fucking crazy, he’s been on us—all of us—for months to find her. I… I heard she was a project for him, a personal one. ”

Wisdom was about to ask a follow up, but froze.

Something around them had changed. Variables. It wasn’t the lack of people. This was an industrial side road heading out of a commercial district at 2Am, there shouldn’t be anyone around. But his quirk was telling him there were three people present.

Where?

His quirk punched out, layers of assessment, measurements that filled his mind with layers upon layers of numeric values—datapoints on the map. The angle of light bouncing off the walls, off windows, off concrete and asphalt. He measured distances, movement, vibrations…

A change.

It rippled out, one variable by another flickering as it swerved his way— under the pavement.

His eyes darted over, hidden by his mask, as he measured space and the angle of the surface- how the light refracted. The specific angles of the floor. Of the street.

The concrete shifted—

Wisdom was already launching backwards, throwing himself away from the sidewalk and into the asphalt of the road.

—and the ground under the informant flipped. 

The two paving stones rose up as the gap between them widened, dropping the yakuza member into the crevice before he could realize what was happening—only for that realization to boil forth in fear.

“Wait, no, NO!” As the ground opened beneath him, he drew a breath to scream—only to be cut off.

With a squelch.

The blood and paste that used to be his informant splattered up like a geyser from the crack in the pavement.

Wisdom slowly rose to his feet; the ground seemed to waver like water, and a small figure rose.

It was hunched forwards, a full face mask covering its twitching frame. A puppet, or something like it. Small and mobile, half embedded in the concrete. 

‘Shit; he must have had a check-in he missed. Or he was supposed to run into this one later.’

Wisdom’s quirk was already reading the changes—the path he had taken through the streets—nearly as fast as a car.

“Snitches! SNITCHES! So many loose lips deserve STITCHES!”

As the figure looked towards him, he felt a shiver run up his spine.

This wasn’t a regular member of a gang; he had felt an echo when he faced the blond yakuza weeks ago, but now it was focused. His quirk focused on a special kind of value—something that itched Quantify as it read.

Lethality.

This was a member of the Eight Precepts.

And he wanted Wisdom dead .