Chapter Text
Kirishima wasn’t sure what actually woke him up from his peaceful, drug-induced sleep. It could have been the pungent odor of rotten fish. It could have been the nausea sloshing around in his guts, caused by the ground beneath him rocking back and forth much too sharply. Maybe it was the sound of his friends’ voices, whispering amongst each other as if afraid to speak any louder.
“Hngh,” he groaned, trying to sit up but unable. His muscles just wouldn’t work the way he was used to. Even the small movement was enough to make his nausea increase tenfold, and he gagged.
“He’s going to throw up again,” spoke a voice sounding vaguely of his classmate Satou. Was that Satou? When did he— “Let’s get him turned over, quick!”
A couple sets of hands helped Kirishima turn on his side to expel the contents of his stomach, mostly bile at this point. After a few more moments of dry heaving, he took a big breath and let it out slowly through his nose, the breath sour against his nostrils, creating a burning sensation that made his face pinch up in a cringe, but it couldn’t have been worse than the horrid smell of whatever room they were trapped in.
Kirishima forced his eyes open, but his vision swam so badly he had to slam them shut again or risk vomiting up more stomach acid. Someone ran a hand up and down his back. They must have helped him sit up amidst his dizzy episode. He leaned back into their chest, sighing as his head finally stopped spinning so terribly. They were warm and soft. He could almost imagine himself lying in a field of grass under a warm sun…
“—ishima? You with us, Kiri?” asked another, equally familiar voice, snapping him out of his dream state, back to the waking nightmare at hand.
Kirishima cracked his eyes, vision still swirling but not so badly as before, to make out Sero sitting beside him to his right. He had a dark bruise around his left eye that crawled past his temple, and a pretty good gash along his forehead. Otherwise, he looked mostly intact and alright.
The redhead opened his mouth to answer his friend, but in doing so he realized there was a terrifyingly familiar tightness around his jaw. He reached up with chained wrists and numb hands to find the muzzle was back on his face, and he’d vomited all over the inside of it. The bile had leaked through the gaps in the muzzle, but that didn’t mean it was completely gone. The smell alone was putrid, but the sticky feeling that he couldn’t wipe away was going to drive him mad.
“It’s alright, man, calm down,” Sero was saying to him, speaking soothingly while running both hands up and down either of Kirishima’s arms from elbow to shoulder. “Shhh, you’re okay.”
“S’ro,” he managed, barely.
And then he passed out again.
The next time he awoke, he could confidently say he was feeling a lot better. The ground beneath him no longer swayed sickeningly, the air didn’t smell of rot, and the muzzle was gone. He blinked hard, reaching up to rub the crust out of his eyes. After he could see properly and his eyes adjusted to this new lighting, he found himself in a large, open area, surrounded by various golden plants and flowers and trees bearing every fruit he could recognize and more, all gold . Sunlight poured in through the intricate, stained-glass ceiling of this greenhouse, painting the tops of trees in every color of the rainbow. The most beautiful, pure gold statues were spread throughout the room in various poses as if mid-dance, all dressed in ballerina dresses and leotards. Each statue had the most magnificent wings spread out behind them, capturing a moment in time like a snapshot, the look on their shining faces pure bliss in the moment.
Kirishima himself was lying on a soft, golden, knit picnic blanket. He sat up, head spinning as soon as he did. He must have still been dehydrated. He gave himself a quick look over, surprised to find he’d been cleaned up, bandaged and now, strangely enough, dressed in his hero attire.
Weird, he thought to himself. This has to be some kind of hyper-realistic dream.
Forcing himself up on wobbly legs, he quickly deduced that this was in fact not a dream as his joints cracked and popped painfully, his bones felt like jello, and his muscles screamed at him like he’d just run five straight marathons without break. Nonetheless, he persisted, hobbling his way across the large room until he reached a set of massive, gold encrusted doors. It took more effort than he’d ever care to admit, but he managed to push them open.
The doors spread to reveal a long, wide hallway full of decorative golden walls, ornate golden floors, golden rugs and silk curtains and gold tables, chairs, and ornaments, and even so much as gold roses in a gold vase.
Whoever owned this place must’ve been the richest person in the world. Who could make this kind of money? What profession did he need to look into if the hero business didn’t work out?
Jokes aside, this was serious. While Where the hell am I? and How the fuck did I get here? were both at the top of his mind, he had other priorities to focus on first. He had classmates to find, rescue, then figure out an escape.
He crept on light feet only a few steps down the corridor, when a low voice nearly spooked him right out of his socks.
“Master Kirishima,” said the calm, drawn-out voice in an outrageously cliche Queen’s English-style accent. The redhead whirled around to find a man nearly twice his height, towering to the left of the doors Kirishima had passed through only a moment ago. He had stark white hair combed over to cover his balding head, eyes pitch black, and pale skin wrinkled and withered from many years on this earth. He wore an incredibly fancy suit, gold materials all the way from his necktie to his socks. Kirishima couldn’t help but wonder how much that had cost him, but looking around, it definitely wasn’t out of place. He held a gold platter in his left hand, whatever it held hidden by the matching gold cloche atop it. “You appear well-rested, young sir.”
“How long have you been standing there?” Kirishima asked in a small voice, neck craned to look up at the incredibly tall man. He had to be taller than All Might by a couple feet.
“I have been assigned to see after you,” he answered vaguely, purposely skipping the question. “You have been unconscious for some hours, but our expert healer has seen you well. However, you may appear to have a headache, as is typical after his work is done. May I offer you an aspirin?”
He lifted the cloche with his free hand, revealing a bottle of aspirin and a short glass of water. Kirishima took a step back as the man leaned toward him. “N-no thank you, sir. I’m alright.”
“Suit yourself, young master.” The old servant placed the cloche over the tray again and straightened, taking his stance once more.
The two stood in silence for a long moment. Kirishima’s eyebrows knit together as he waited for the servant to do or say something, to give him some sort of context or next step, but nothing ever came. The old man continued to stand there like a statue, maybe moments from crumbling away.
“Can I… ask you a few questions?” Kirishima attempted.
“By all means,” the servant replied.
“Uh, okay. Do you know where my classmates are?”
“I do.”
Kirishima waited for him to continue, but instead found himself growing frustrated as the two stared at each other. “Can you tell me where they are?”
“The trophy room,” the old man finally answered. “Would you like me to take you there now?”
Kirishima blinked. He hadn’t expected it to be that easy. While “trophy room” definitely didn’t leave him with the warmest feeling, he hoped his friends were alright and maybe this was some big misunderstanding on Kirishima’s part. Maybe they were all hanging out with hot chocolates and snacks, waiting for their parents to pick them up. He liked that idea. It was better than the mental image in his head of all of their heads on plaques.
“Yes, please.”
“Very well,” said the old man eerily. He turned toward the long hall ahead and crept forward slowly, feet shuffling heavily against the gold marble floors.
Looked like this would be a while. Kirishima hoped the trophy room wasn’t too far, or this would take all day. Might as well take this as an opportunity to get some more answers.
“Have I been kidnapped?” he asked, feeling a little silly asking such a question, but what else was he supposed to think?
The man hummed at that, and Kirishima thought he seemed amused by the question. “In truth, yes, you have, although I’m not meant to tell you that.”
“Why not?”
“I am not permitted by the lord of the estate.”
Lord of the estate? This guy’s boss must think pretty highly of himself if he has his employees refer to him like that, Kirishima thought.
The servant continued, “There is no escaping the island, so I personally do not see any reason to hide the fact.”
“Island?!” Kirishima repeated in question. “We’re on an island right now?”
“Indeed.”
The servant turned to pull back a large, golden curtain with his wrinkled, withered hand. It revealed natural light beaming in from the sun high above in the far off distance. There were some plants and foliage nestled throughout a short patch of grass, and a gold bench overlooking a cliff just beyond that. Below that cliff was a massive body of water extending far beyond the eye could see—the Pacific Ocean.
“Holy shit,” Kirishima breathed.
The old servant hummed. “This is Kintsuki Island.”
The redhead turned back to him, fists balled at his sides and throat feeling awfully tight. A part of him wanted to ask why that name was familiar, but what was the point when there were bigger questions to ask than that. “What is this place? Why am I here? And my classmates? What does your ‘lord’ want from us?”
“He wants nothing from you. Only you. For the collection.” He closed the curtain and gave it a brief pat to be rid of any wrinkles in the fabric. “Please, follow me and we shall get you settled.”
“Wait, wait, wait—collection? Like, he’s collecting us? Like prizes?”
“Precisely,” the servant said with not a hint of sympathy. “We are nearing the trophy room now.”
They turned a corner, and another set of gold encrusted doors, three times Kirishima’s height, stood menacingly before them at the end of the corridor. Kirishima’s heart rate sped up exponentially, wondering what he might find behind those doors. No sound came from inside, and if he knew his classmates, that wasn’t like them. So either they weren’t there, or something was very, very wrong. Which, given, obviously something was wrong. But maybe this old guy was just super creepy and wording things terribly, and maybe his lord just “collected” his classmates for his daughter’s tea party, right? Yeah, that was totally a possibility. So was having them over for a tropical getaway on a private island! Totally. There were thousands of possibilities!
… Who was he kidding? They were so ridiculously fucked.
And amid all of his mental ramblings, they approached the large doors. Two golden statues of knights stood on either side of the hallway, so intricately detailed that Kirishima couldn’t help but briefly wonder just how rich this lord was. Before Kirishima could even consider asking, the servant pushed open the doors in one swift movement, and Kirishima was met with one of the most horrific sights he could’ve ever imagined.
His classmates, all those he’d found himself amongst in the shipping container and others along the boat ride in which he’d had only a brief bout of consciousness, as well as most of the others he hadn’t seen since before the dorm fire—and didn’t that feel like an eternity ago—were all here with the exception of a few faces. One of those missing faces being Bakugou’s.
Trophy room. He understood the name now. How sick and twisted did this guy have to be? This was a graveyard.
His classmates all stood before him, strewn throughout the room in very articulate placements. All poised in their iconic hero poses, captured forever in the moment just before a big battle. They all glimmered gold, the perfect statues for a trophy room like this just like those Kirishima has seen in the gardens where he’d awoken.
It made him want to throw up. His classmates—his friends… And how many statues had he passed on his way here? How many people had this villain taken hostage, to use them as fucking living room decor?
Suddenly, his fear and unease turned to anger and outrage. His fists balled at his sides and shoulders raised as his breaths came in deeper huffs that hissed through his sharp teeth. He didn’t know yet who he had to make pay for this despicable crime, but someone was going to know they’d messed with the wrong class.
In a last ditch effort before turning to violence, Kirishima spat out, “Reverse it. Now.”
“Impossible,” the voice of a man echoed through the large room. It didn’t take more than a second for Kirishima to turn on a man not twenty paces from him, facing a large, crackling fireplace. The mantle was covered in golden trinkets and antiques, and a painting of a tree covered in golden apples was hung above in a gold frame. The man turned to Kirishima, glimmering gold eyes locking with his and a small, barely-there smirk upon his lips. He was an older man, maybe somewhere between his forties or fifties. Tall, very well in good shape for his age, dressed in the sleekest black suit Kirishima had seen in his life, and with his salt-and-pepper colored hair slicked back and beard perfectly trimmed, the redhead would have guessed he modeled for some fancy blue collar magazine if he’d passed him on the street. The man held a gold mug of some steaming beverage, his other hand stuffed in his pocket. He took a sip very calmly of his drink, then set it upon the mantle with a soft clink! before stepping casually over to the statue of Uraraka, who was now forever posed standing tall with his fingers pressed together, a look of determination on her face. He brushed his hand lightly across her cheek, and spoke, “Once something is a part of my collection, it stays that way.”
The villain had the audacity to glance over at Kirishima and wink. It made his blood boil.
“I’m Lord Midas,” the villain continued, “and I’m going to turn you into a gold statue for my collection. Now, how about we get this over with. I already gave my evil monologue to three of your classmates, it’s getting a bit tedious. Give me your best hero pose and we’ll be on with it, no time wasted.”
Kirishima blinked. How delusional was this guy? Comparing himself to Midas, the character from Greek myth? Midas was a king, not a lord.
“You expect me to just be okay with dying so you can have a new toy for your collection? You are seriously screwed in the head. You just m-murdered my classmates for—what even is this?! Why would you want to do something like this?”
He had to bite his tongue to keep from choking up. His friends, the people he’d grown so close to… were they really dead? Was there truly no bringing them back from this?
Midas shrugged. “Some collect rocks, some collect baseball cards. I collect statues.”
“Of real, living people?! Kids, no less! Dude, we’re still just children!”
The man waved him off with a flick of his wrist. “Children,” he spat. “I’ve seen what you children can do. You’ve been on my radar for quite some time. I’ve seen the footage of the USJ—the numerous fights against the League of Villains. You children are arguably better equipped than many of the professionally licensed heroes of this world. Therefore, I had to have you for myself. For my collection. I have only the best, and your class fits the bill. I’ve been a big fan for some time. If only you’d been able to see the other heroes I have, there’s dozens out in the yard.”
And that’s what did it. Kirishima snapped, his feet moving before he even knew what he was doing, rage driving him forward. His entire body went jagged as he went Unbreakable, a sharpened fist flying forward faster than the blink of an eye.
Kirishima didn’t know what happened. It happened too fast for his brain to comprehend.
He stood there, frozen in place other than the rise and fall of his chest as panting breaths escaped him. His eyes went in every direction as panic engrossed his every thought. He was stuck, he couldn’t move, he’d been turned into a statue!
Except he hadn’t, because he was still breathing and blinking and that didn’t make sense. What the hell just happened?
“Phew, almost had me there, kid,” Midas said, face inches from Kirishima’s hardened fist. “Cutting it a little close, don’t you think, Jeeves?”
The servant stepped into Kirishima’s line of sight, and the redhead watched as the elderly man pulled the golden handkerchief from his chest pocket to wrap around a bloody cut on his right hand. “My apologies, Lord Midas. He’s a rather quick one, and dreadfully sharp as it happens.”
So this must have been the servant’s quirk. For him to be quick enough to have caught Kirishima with how fast he’d been moving, the servant had to be much faster than he’d been letting on. Just another trick to get Kirishima’s guard down, and it worked.
“Let’s just make sure it doesn’t happen again,” he scorned the servant. “Hm, what do you think of the pose he’s in? I almost think we don’t need to reposition him. What do you say?”
“Perhaps I’ll reposition this elbow,” Jeeves said as he used his uninjured hand to raise Kirishima’s left elbow. “Otherwise, I think he is great as is.”
“How lucky that we caught him in his full Unbreakable form! I hadn’t dreamed we’d be so fortunate.” Midas circled Kirishima, studying him up and down as he took in who was soon to be his newest piece in his collection. He stopped in front of the paralyzed redhead, giving Kirishima one last chance to glare at him. “Don’t worry, Red Riot. Your explosive partner will be joining us very soon. I imagine you’ve been worried about him, what with his recent ailments. But he’s in great care, and should be arriving very soon.”
Kirishima’s heart sped up to about a hundred miles per hour, furious to hear of Bakugou’s capture. The poor guy—this entire class, more like—just couldn’t catch a fucking break.
He was forced to watch as Midas flaunted his hand around, mocking Kirishima just before so softly tapping a finger against the hardened skin of the hero’s fist. A cold feeling washed over him where his skin turned to gold, slowly crawling up his arm before reaching his chest. He held his breath as he felt the cold climb his neck and jaw.
In an instant, it was over.