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“It’s simple,” Dabi said to Hawks, who was doing his best to look happy about their mission goal, “these assholes might have some intense variant of Trigger on the market. I pick it up, maybe even actually pay for it. You wait nearby in case I need you.”
Hawks grinned and countered, “You just want to get rid of me. Got things to hide, Dabi?”
Of course, Dabi wanted to hide Hawks; he could bust everyone in that market and ruin the Paranormal Liberation Front’s reputation faster than they could say “Destro.” Currently, he and Dabi were relaxed between a couch and an armchair in the League’s favorite lounge. Dabi claimed the couch here was the comfiest in the entire villa, and Hawks wasn’t disagreeing. In fact, he was a little jealous he was stuck sitting across the armchair.
Redestro’s decorations were stuck over a century in the past, with floral pattern upholstery and detailed wallpapers. Pastels and eggshell made up the color palette, making Hawks feel like they were villains acting out a period film, like American supervillains in the 20th century. Dabi contrasted the pale florals strangely, his scars and black hair popping out against the soft decor. Hawks wondered how Dabi might see his feathers, their soft barbs brushing the pink and yellow chair. Maybe he fit the decor, a brighter version of his chair.
His chair that his feet kicked across one armrest and his rings splayed over the other. For a company famous for catering to all sorts of quirks and mutations, their furnishings didn’t match their company policy.
“Yeah, I’ve gotta hide you. You’re annoying attitude and red wings would scare off anyone who might have the variant of Trigger I wanna find.”
Hawks pouted. “Why do you want this stuff anyway?”
“Because it’s good for us to have control over powerful shit instead of whatever other assholes currently have it. Wouldn’t you agree?” Dabi pressed, despite it being obvious that Hawks would have to prefer the PLF to have something powerful. As a villain, he would want his faction to have the power. As a spy, he would want dangerous items closer to where he could keep his eyes on them.
Hawks beamed. “Of course! I wonder what your flames–”
“No.” Dabi cut off his train of thought before it could gain ground, his hand flicking as if he was literally cutting Hawks off. “I wouldn’t want to try any Trigger, not unless I wanted to end up ash and smoke. Maybe we could hand it to Redestro or Geten.”
“Not afraid they’d have a bad reaction?” Hawks probed playfully.
“Couldn’t care less,” Dabi replied, his smile stretching past his staples.
Hawks hummed in response. A moment passed. He offered, “I could go in disguise.”
Dabi huffed and lowered his eyelids, as if amused and uncaring, but it just looked like he was undressing Hawks with his eyes. Maybe he was picturing him in a different costume.
Hawks shuddered, an annoying and involuntary reaction. Then he said, “I’ll wear a different costume, we could dye my wings black.”
Dabi shook his head. “Your wings are too noticeable, Hawks. No.”
He hesitated, then, “What if I lost the wings?”
Curious blue eyes narrowed. They were in business.
The outfit was far from what Hawks was accustomed to, but hell if he wouldn’t make do. The market was literally that–a small flea market that hid all sorts of illegal goods. Criminals lurked, but so did quiet civilians. The outright cheap market made for a cover that wasn’t necessarily a lie, hidden in plain sight. And moreover, no one was probably trying to bust a street market when they could be targeting the sources of the goods traded here.
When he and Dabi entered, more than a few heads turned. Pop-up tables and stalls lined the open space, all different shops crammed together. Old video games, action figures, cheap jewelry, resold clothing and handwoven hoodies, pottery and paintings, quick hands looking to lift wallets and phones while quick mouths distracted people who didn’t come often enough to know to look out. Something in the cramped chaos reminded Hawks of his childhood.
Dabi sighed next to him, “Our guy sells leather goods–wallets and purses and belts and shit.”
They moved forward. The eyes lingering on them slid away as they joined the crowd, but they were a conspicuous duo. Dabi wore a black rain jacket, the hood pulled over his head, as well as a disposable face mask and sunglasses. He was obviously hiding his face.
However much Dabi stuck out, Hawks was worse. Effectively, he worse a stealth suit. Black on black, skin tight. He had a black long sleeve undershirt, a padded black jacket, black athletic pants, and black combat boots. The pouches strapped to his belt were the perfect size to hide small weapons, and his coat and boots were bulky enough that something dangerous could rest inside. This was, of course, the purpose. His coat helped hide the bumps where the stumps of his featherless wings protruded a few inches from his upper back, and being able to hide plenty of knives close to his chest didn’t hurt. He had several more in the pouches at his hips, plus one more in each boot. If he couldn’t use his feathers, he might as well be stocked up with the next best thing. His stealth jacket had a hood and face mask which, pulled up, nicely covered his distinct feathery blonde hair and face. As for his eyes, he’d had to cover his sharp markings. He’d gone full evil-stealth-bodyguard and rub black eye makeup all over, making his eye shape hard to distinguish.
Like this, Dabi had agreed to let Hawks tag along. He’d act as his official bodyguard, which was for the best in a building with wooden infrastructure.
They walked slowly through the flea market. Occasionally, Dabi would stop and peruse a random stall. When he started leafing through old comic books, Hawks said, “Didn’t think you were interested in this type of stuff.”
Dabi shrugged. “I’m not.”
“So why bother?” he asked.
Dabi’s eyes crinkled behind his dark lenses, probably smiling under his mask. He didn’t explain, but Hawks assumed it was pretense. They were appearing interested, acting like shoppers.
The stalls went on and on.
As they passed on selling clothing, Hawks picked up a particularly garish pink sequin crop top and shook it around in a plasticy crinkle. “How do you think you would look in this?” he asked with teasingly narrowed eyes.
Dabi stared at the shirt for a minute before turning completely away from him. “Don’t be an ass–”
He paused as he clearly tried to remember what alias they’d come up with for him. After too many seconds passed, Hawks realized Dabi must have completely forgotten.
“... Shadow,” he settled on.
Shadow, like an edgy name a middle schooler would come up with. Keigo groaned but went with it–he didn’t have much choice, anyway. To deny the name would create conflict that would draw his identity into question. He was already conspicuous–he didn’t need to make his fake villain persona stick out more than he already did.
Hawks looked like a modern ninja in his getup, and he didn’t feel great about it. At least the outfit provided ample flexibility–the same could not be said for his coat and heavy pants. Though, normally, he let his feathers do most of the work for him. Without those, he needed as much help as he could get in case things came to a fight.
“You ever hear of Shadow the Hedgehog?” Dabi asked idly as they moved on to the next booth. Old action figures and anime figurines lined cabinets and tables, all in various states of quality and age.
“I think I saw him on TV as a kid,” Hawks said with a shrug.
Dabi nodded and said, “Yeah, some video game. Spinner and Shigs talk about it. He’s Sonic’s edgy twin or something.”
“What the point here?” Hawks drawled, already guessing what the point might be.
Dabi pointed at Hawks without looking at him
“Shadow the Birdbrain,” he said simply.
Hawks groaned.
They didn’t need to explore long before finding a booth selling junk leather goods with a middle-aged man seated on a plastic stool counting cash from a pleasant-looking woman with pink animal ears, wiry hair, and a long rat tail. Dabi gave her a wide berth, an action that made Hawks huff.
“Thought the League was about acceptance,” he derided.
“I don’t like vermin,” Dabi drawled.
“I think you’re just an asshole,” replied Hawks with a grin.
He could feel Dabi rolling his eyes under his sunglasses, even if Hawks couldn’t see the action. In all fairness, Dabi probably couldn’t see him grinning under his mask.
After the woman left, Dabi stepped forward to meet the shop owner. “Think you’ve got something for me,” Dabi said in a low tone.
The man had a strong brow and deep-set brown eyes that almost seemed to glow. Without other signs of a quirk, Hawks assumed his quirk had to do with his eyes. For now, he avoided direct eye contact.
“I don’t have anything for you,” the man muttered.
Dabi chuckled and slowly raised his sunglasses, letting his blue eyes gleam from where they sat surrounded by burn scars.
“Need me to pull down my mask, too? Or would you prefer to see my quirk?” he asked.
The seller gulped. He said, “I didn’t think they’d send you. ”
“Would you prefer a messenger bird?” he teased, although Hawks knew the tease was meant for him and not the man shaking on his stool.
“Uhhh…”
“The product?” Dabi inquired.
“Right. Of course. Follow me,” he said as he slipped off his seat and went behind his stall. A plain sheet of white cloth fell across the back of his booth, but the man raised it up to let them pass underneath. Dabi didn’t budge.
“I’m not an idiot. Bring it out here,” he demanded, tapping his foot impatiently.
Hawks stepped forward so he was next to Dabi. Under his mask, he whispered, “Not afraid of getting spotted?”
“Spotted by who?” Dabi returned, glancing around the flea market.
Hawks shrugged. “Can’t be too careful.
“Shut it, Shadow.”
He closed his eyes and breathed in and out. Dabi was annoying and he wasn’t being careful–getting seen could mean a fight. Then again, going to a place where they couldn’t be seen was a good way to end up dead with no witnesses. He supposed the trade was in a shit location either way.
The dealer shifted his eyes to the side before deciding, “Fine. I’ll be back in a few.” He vanished behind the booth, leaving Dabi and Hawks to wait.
“Sooo…”
“Don’t.”
Hawks laughed, subdued in his disguised identity.
Then, there were noises of surprise, people yelling, “Whoa–look!” and “Hey!” and “Oh, fuck, ” toward the front of the flea market. Hawks’ head snapped to look, taking in the changing situation right as a voice sounded past booths and stalls and crowded bodies.
“Alright everybody, I need everyone here to remain where you are!” boomed the voice of Fat Gum.
No damn it, not now.
Dabi sucked in a breath next to Hawks, whispering a strong, “Fuck.”
“No kidding,” Hawks muttered. Now was not the time to have a big-name hero on the scene.
He scanned the crowd, peering past civilians to put eyes on Fat Gum. He saw the hero, big and yellow, but he also saw his sidekicks. Or maybe they were interns?
“Double crap, Fat’s got company,” he informed.
Dabi swore under his breath, then said, “Good thing you lost the wings, pretty bird.”
“Aw, you think I’m pretty?” he said coyishly.
“All of Japan thinks you’re pretty, that’s why they put you in magazines.”
Hawks was about to give another teasing reply when Fat and his two sidekicks (interns?) started moving through the market. “We need to move,” he said coolly.
Dabi nodded. They moved, walking calmly through the market, as if unbothered by a popular hero. It was only fair–Osaka was Fat Gum’s home city, it was only by chance that he and Dabi had ended up there.
As if the heroes weren’t enough, though, when they made it a few booths down, their Trigger dealer reemerged. Hawks grit his teeth and said, “He better not come toward us.”
He came toward them. Eyes glaring like death rays, the man made his targets obvious. To make the whole thing worse, he pointed at them. Like they were mobsters in a movie.
“Get out by any means,” Dabi ordered. Then, he ducked and slide under a table. Hawks saw him push past a stall owner and disappear under a white sheet where the stalls backed up to the warehouse walls.
Hawks went the other direction, dancing through the swarm of people making room for the heroes to do their work.
“No way you assholes are getting away from me!”
Something in Hawks died as he watched the dealer, brown eyes glowing with a gold sheen, start running full tilt at him through the crowd. Unhelpfully, they parted like the Red Sea to let the villain through.
“Great,” Hawks deadpanned.
From his six, he heard a different voice call, “Hey, both of you, wait right there!” Looking behind him, a young guy in a red, shirtless hero costume charged through the crowd, his red eyes set on Hawks.
Great.
To Hawks’ left, the booth where Dabi had run. To his right, a line of tables with merchandise laid out, more curtains and walls, and the stalls continued beyond that. He went right–at least there was more space to run, rather than the wall to his left.
Hawks braced one hand on the table and vaulted over, catching his hands in a triangle shape on the ground that landed him in a crouch. His momentum carried him into a summersault under the next table. Then, he rolled under a white curtain into a new booth. Shelves and tables covered in pottery surrounded him. Seeing them, his heart twinged for the shop owner. He hoped the artist wasn’t present.
As he skated around tables of hand-thrown bowls and mugs, the sidekick in red tore through the white curtain.
Careful kid, Fat Gum has to cover the cost of any damages you incur, he thought, willing himself not to quip aloud. His voice was that of the Number 2 Hero and could be recognized easily by a fan or another hero.
“Alright man, time to stop running,” said the sidekick, who looked younger up close.
Hawks tilted his head curiously. How old was this guy?
However old he was, he started coming closer. Hawks drew a knife from under an easy-access point in his stealth jacket, his black gloves gripping the small weapon tightly.
The guy narrowed his eyes and ordered, “Put the weapon down and come quietly.”
When Hawks only began stepping slowly backward, falling into a defensive stance, the guy pounded his hands together, his skin shifting suddenly into a rock-hard exterior.
He drew a second knife.
“Oh c’mon, your knife can’t cut me,” the guy said.
Thanks for giving me more info, Hawks thought.
The crowd had, thankfully, given them a wide berth. Most people seemed to be pushing for the exits, but sidekicks and police were keeping the exits blocked. Well, Dabi was just going to have to cause enough of a stir to force everyone out.
But Dabi and his blue flames were nowhere to be seen. It was just Hawks, the guy in red, and somewhere, the dealer. When Hawks backed up enough to reach the center of the aisle, the guy charged.
Their fight was a dance–punch, dodge, right hook, dodge. Hawks slipped around the guy with ease, letting his knives block when needed, but mostly just skipping backward, left, right, all to avoid the surely heavy punches this guy packed. His skin looked jagged and rough from hardening, and Hawks wanted to avoid getting hit by that as much as he could. He was strong and quick, but he wasn’t a power type. His quirk was bad enough against power types as it was–right now, all he had were knives and a disguise. He kept retreating back, step by careful step, despite every dodge and roll to avoid the guy in red attempting to beat him down. The guy was good, sure, but he lacked a variety in attacks and was slow to catch up when Hawks changed directions. With every step, Hawks wondered more and more if this guy was an intern.
Fat Gum’s voice yelled again, “Red Riot! Need some backup?”
Hawks scrambled back, knowing full well that he couldn’t fight Fat like this. Moreover, he didn’t want to fight another hero. He didn’t even really want to fight this kid, but that’s why he wasn’t pulling anything that could hurt him.
A massive yellow blob grew in size in his periphery. He needed to move.
Hawks let his scramble turn into a more controlled backward jog, the intern, Red Riot, yelling, “Hey! Running away ain’t manly!” Hawks couldn’t care less; he glanced back to confirm the next table was close behind him, then backflipped right over the table. His knees and ankles hated him as he uncurled and landed on hard cement, but that was fine. It was fine.
He spun away from Red Riot and ran under a black curtain, ending up face-first in a huge hanging carpet. “No, no, no, no, no,” he muttered as he shimmied through thick handwoven carpets until he stumbled out. The seller had several racks of carpets hanging, heavy and intricate. Hawks ignored them, dashing out and into the next aisle. There was another row of stalls, but there was the other wall, too.
He looked left, and emerging from a video game booth was the dealer, his eyes burning orange, now. He held a briefcase in one sweaty hand and a gun in the other.
Hawks flipped his knives in his hands and attacked. He advanced quickly, running right at the dealer, whose shock meant he wasn’t shooting the gun. Good. The dealer yelped and blocked the first slash of a knife with his briefcase, but the second one caught his tracksuit jacket straight through the shoulder without causing more than a surface wound. As the man hissed from the cut, Hawks jumped up, planted both feet on the man’s chest, and flipped backward while forcing the man off his balance. The dealer stumbled and fell onto the cement floor, but before Hawks could grab the briefcase, an all-too-close voice yelled, “Hey, don’t fight your friend!”
Before he could get away, a heavy punch landed just behind Hawks’ left kidney. He gasped and stumbled forward, spinning so he could catch Red Riot’s next attack. The kid bore a fierce grin while fighting, but his brow knit with genuine concern when he asked, “So why’re you fighting your friend? Thought you guys worked together. A Trigger deal–right?”
Hawks only huffed and lunged with his knives. He bent left, lowering himself so he was shorter than Red Riot, a height dynamic he was more accustomed to. Riot blocked the knife in his right hand, poised to cut toward the guy’s heart, but that was never the point. As Riot parried the knife out of Hawks’ hand, Hawks dropped and used his still-raised arm to continue to protect himself while his left arm hooked under Riot’s legs. He couldn’t cut Red Riot, but he could destabilize him.
Riot, in looking down, shifted his weight back and fell for Hawks’ trap. As he momentarily swayed backward, Hawks wrapped his arms around his opponent’s waist and forced him back until they both fell into a heavy curtain of handwoven rugs. The guy yelled, “Hey!” right into Hawks’ ear, but the Persian rugs helped to muffle the sound. As Riot fell back into the fabric, Hawks pinned him to the fallen rug with a knife through each of his pant legs. But that would only buy him a few minutes, he knew.
Hawks bolted toward the aisle. He didn’t get far, though, before the dealer swung his briefcase dangerously close to Hawks. He jumped out of the way, producing another knife from his jacket.
The dealer scowled and said, “I’m not getting caught without you assholes. You brought heroes here, you go down too.”
Hawks huffed, because he’d brought a hero here, but not Fat Gum and his intern. Interns? Whatever.
“Back off,” Hawks growled, keeping his voice low in case Red Riot got up again.
“Fuck you,” the guy returned creatively. Then, he rushed Hawks.
He wasn’t messing around longer than he needed to; Hawks jumped backward onto a fold-out table. When the dealer tried to follow, he kicked toward the man’s face. His toe connected with his nose in a sickening crunch, blood following not long behind.
Also not long behind was Riot Riot, charging at the tables with fierce red eyes. Hawks darted back, still atop the tables, while Riot brace a hand on the table and hopped up.
There was no pause–they met each other immediately, his fist against a slash of Hawks’ short knife. The blade shattered, minute pieces of metal scattering across the table and cement floor. Riot came down with another punch while Hawks ducked low, sliding a knife out from his right boot. Meanwhile, his left knife caught in the black fabric of Riot’s sleeve and pulled hard toward Hawks.
The intern had not-terrible balance, it seemed, because rather than throw him off again, he moved with Hawks and slammed his elbow hard into Hawks’ back. The breath knocked out of him in a painful rush, leaving him gasping. “Surrender!” Red Riot ordered.
He shook his head while he gasped. Another blow came, leaving Hawks without air yet again.
“Please!”
“I won’t,” he breathed. Then, he pulled a knife from his left boot. Riot saw the action and put his knee into Hawks’ chest, but it didn’t matter. The knife sunk into his boot, through the rubber sole, and into the wood top of the table. Riot tried to pull his foot out, but Hawks retrieved knives from his pouches and pinned both shoes to the table.
Red Riot was pinned, for now.
“Hey man! Not cool!” he yelled as Hawks jumped off the table.
He still needed to catch up with Dabi.
The flea market was in chaos, people screaming, crying, pushing for the exits. No one could leave, though, not while the heroes blocked the exits. They didn’t want anyone with Trigger escaping.
Dabi must still be inside, too.
He ran down the aisle, clumped with people running between exit points as if they’ll find something different elsewhere. The heroes’ voices rang over the crowd, apologizing for the situation but still not letting anyone leave. Hawks understood, of course. Anyone panicking could also be part of the Trigger deal. But the Hawks that was dressed in black with his face covered and wings gone–he was freaking out inside. He kept a cool exterior, channeling Dabi as best as he could, scanning the crowd and booths for a sign of staples, burned skin, smoke, and the stench of burning flesh.
Instead of Dabi, he found a woman with a cheetah quirk. Buzzed hair, long tail, spotted skin, but most importantly, claws as sharp as death, aimed right for him. Hawks brought up a knife to block himself, pulling it from a sheath under his arm while all-too-aware of this knife being his last. Her claws caught over the top of the blade as he parried them up, then lunged at her waist. She retreated, bumping into a glass case.
Glass exploded across the floor, but Hawks was focused on the myriad of cheap weapons that clattered to the ground.
The cheetah woman swiped at him again. He ducked and attacked in one fast, fluid motion. His knife sunk into the meat of her underarm, cutting through the muscle and impairing her ability to keep attacking. He spun out of reach of her next attack, claws ghosting at his covered wings. Like steps in a dance, he bounced around her smoothly and made a second attack for her other arm. She blocked him, the sound of metal and keratin clicking before they separated, then met again at a lower line of attack. Again and again this went, the woman desperately protecting herself and impulsively attacking before she stumbled into a second case, not hitting this one hard enough to tip it over.
She howled a furious roar that took Hawks by surprise. When he hesitated, she struck forward.
Luckily, her claws never reached him. A tentacle wrapped around her wrist and pulled her past Hawks.
Fat Gum’s other sidekick-maybe-intern had caught up to him.
“Shadow, move!” yelled a familiar, gravelly voice.
Dabi, Hawks thought. His shoulders relaxed as he stepped to the side.
It wasn’t fire that shot past him, though. Dabi had picked up several of the cheap throwing stars from the broken case and threw a few in quick succession. “Please, just stand down,” whimpered the sidekick, who looked just old enough to be a sidekick but seemed just meek enough to be an intern. Octopus-like tentacles flicked around his body, his white robe and blue armor flowing gracefully around him.
“Please burn him,” Hawks hissed.
“They don’t realize who we are,” Dabi grit back.
Hawks pouted “Just the tentacles; leave the kid. Those things are going to be too much for us to deal with.”
“Sucks to suck. You’ll just have to prove your metal, her– Shadow. ” Dabi took several steps back, while Hawks reached for the closest weapon–nunchucks. Short-range and hazardous for him to use. Well, nothing could be perfect.
He spun them around on their chained. “Good enough,” he muttered.
Dabi added, “The dealer had some other bastards with him–cheetah woman was one, but there’s another guy, he’s–Oh, him.”
He had giant fingers.
A power-type.
“Oh, come on, ” Hawks groaned.
The tentacle kid (young adult?) was busy with the cheetah woman, who was tearing through his tentacles and other randomly appearing mutations. He noticed when Big Fingers entered the fight, but he wasn’t in a position to do much about it.
At least the guy was an idiot. He charged Hawks like a bull, his foot-long fingers curling out unnaturally. As he pulled back to swipe Hawks with a forceful slap, Hawks rolled low. He popped up at the man’s side and hit the nunchucks right into his side, which did not have the strengthening properties of his fingers.
He gasped in pain as Hawks whipped around and hit the Finger Guy in the stomach. The man doubled over in pain, Dabi coming around from behind to shove the guy into a makeshift countertop. When Dabi slammed the man’s hand on the counter, smoke appeared from small flames licking under his palm.
Dabi was burning him. Finger Guy yelped and cried. His eyes flooded with tears, and Hawks hated seeing it.
“Stop, it isn’t necessary,” he said.
Dabi glanced at him, raising a curious eyebrow.
“Please,” he emphasized.
Dabi rolled his eyes, but he relented.
Behind them, heavy footsteps fell on thick cement. Hawks turned around in time to see Fat Gum and his yellow hoodie glaring at them.
“Got you,” he declared.
“Oh fucking hell,” groaned Dabi.
Hawks looked around. They could run, technically. Or, “They won’t let anyone out of the building,” he said, “but they could be forced.”
He narrowed his gaze at Dabi, who looked displeased but understood.
Fat Gum didn’t know their quirks, but sharing a dangerous look would have set him off to trouble. He ran forward while Hawks and Dabi split left and right. Hawks sprinted left, diving away from Fat Gum, who ran hot on his heels.
He passed several booths–art, clothing, movies, and up ahead, Persian rugs–before he saw a person. Jumping out from the stall just before the rugs came the Trigger dealer. The man timed it perfectly so that he and Hawks fell into a heap on the cool floor, Fat Gum seconds behind. His head thunked on the floor, sending the world into a spinning, blurry mess. All Hawks could see was a giant yellow hoodie and an open briefcase, sliding across the floor.
“I’m not getting caught now! Let’s see what you can do! Protect me! Keep me alive!” screamed the dealer, his voice shrill in his ears.
“No!” yelled Fat Gum.
Distantly, Red Riot called out, “Hey man, don’t–”
There was a pricking at Hawks’ neck, and then his mind swam. The briefcase was open. A more potent variant. Trigger.
Dabi was too far away, but he saw the needle sink into Hawks’ neck.
“Oh no,” he breathed.
Fat Gum looked up at him. He said, “How bad will this be?”
Dabi blinked, stunned. Hawks swayed as he tried to stand. He cleared his throat and spoke, “If you aren’t impervious, you should run.”
The dealer, coward that he was, wasted no goddamn time. He scrambled on all fours before taking off full-tilt for the exits.
“Suneater, protect the civilians,” Fat Gum ordered.
“No, leave the building,” Dabi said.
Fat nodded, and Suneater–the kid with octopus tentacles–returned the acknowledgment. Coming from further down, a teenager in red and black with his chest exposed came running to join. “Hey man, what’s your quirk? Knives?”
Dabi snorted, “Basically.”
“I can–I can control it,” Hawks said, but his voice was tense and bordering on a whimper.
The kid in red hardened his skin, which was for the best considering Hawks’ quirk. Fat Gum frowned and asked, “Just who is this guy? He’s not the normal League of Villains.”
Dabi shook his head, disbelieving of the current situation. Trigger acted fast, so this variant could take effect at any moment. He’d seen reports in the past several years of how Trigger could fuck with mutant-types, and now all he could think was fear for Hawks. Would his own wings tear him apart? Would they tear everyone else apart?
Watery gold eyes looked up at him. Hawks stumbled a step forward, his eyes glued to Dabi.
“Please,” he began, “burn them before it’s too much.”
“No–”
“What–”
They didn’t have time for more, though, because Hawks doubled forward, his knees straining to keep his upper half supported as long red structures burst from his back. The feathers followed, sprouting outward. The huge wings must have been twenty feet long each, and shorter ones came forth as well, like a seraph. He was terrifying.
The image was terrible and glorious, but Hawks’ screams were awful. His voice ripped from his throat in a guttural shriek that echoed in Dabi’s chest.
“Hawks!” he screamed, rushing forward.
Feathers met him, a tornado of red blurring through the air in front of him. Trigger made its users more violent, and the sharp feathers proved that fast. Dabi’s hands lit with blue flames, burning at his skin. He aimed right in front of himself, clearing a burning path through he flurry of feather blades.
“Wait– Hawks ?” he heard someone yell, but voices were hard to distinguish under the roar of flames and feathers.
He burned right through the cloud of red, his blue flames turning the dangerous barbs to ash. He pushed forward until he was in front of Hawks, who was curled in on himself, kneeling on the ground. He screamed, likely from the pain of growing new limbs suddenly, while big watery tears ran down his cheeks.
Burn them.
Dabi was good at burning things. That’s what Todorokis did, it seemed. They burned and they hurt the ones close to them. But Hawks had asked. Dabi fell to his knees and put his flaming hands on Hawks’ gigantic wings, placing them a couple of feet up the bone. Then, he let his flames tear up them, burning away all the feathers Hawks’ couldn’t keep control of.
Dabi couldn’t say how long he spent burning away feathers, waiting for the Trigger to stop working so well and producing more and more feathers, growing out the extra sets of wings. After several minutes, he realized that he burned all over in a new way from usual–tiny cuts crossed his body from where the feathers had initially cut him, and where the one growing under his hands cut into his palms.
He was used to burning, but this felt like a thousand papercuts.
When Hawks finally fell into his chest, his breathing heavily, Dabi dropped his hands and his flames.
“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Dabi muttered. He wasn’t sure he was okay, but he’d be fine in the long run. He just needed to let his heart settle.
“Holy shit, what–what just happened?”
Dabi looked up to see the kid in red, his jaw practically on the floor.
“Uh,” Fat Gum began.
Dabi shrugged. He didn’t feel the need to explain to heroes. Instead, he reached under his hood and his radio to Ujiko. “Hey, can I get extraction for me and the overgrown bird? He’s more overgrown than normal,” he asked.
“Wait–no!” Fat Gum reached out to him, his clothing slashed to pieces and most of his fat gone, but Dabi didn’t really owe the man an explanation. He just cradles Hawks close to his chest and smiled.
Even as they both spit up black goop that tasted like moldy pudding, Dabi kept smiling. Hawks trusted him to burn his wings up safely–he wondered how much they could learn to trust each other.
Later, when Hawks would be exhausted and under Dabi’s blankets, he would think again of Hawks falling into his chest, of him saying Burn them and trusting that it had to be Dabi to help him.
Dabi snuggled close under the covers, his hand carding through red feathers. He pressed his lips to Hawks’ downy hair and smiled.
Hawks trusts me.
“You make a nice space heater,” Hawks mumbled, making Dabi chuckle.
“Rest, birdbrain,” he said. He pulled the blanket over Hawks and let his quirk warm them up slightly. He could be a space heater if it was Hawks who trusted him to be warm.