Shouta finishes inputting the last of the final exam grades into the computer, glances at the clock. It’s getting late. His back twinges as he stands, packing his things. Hizashi had given him a massage just yesterday, but it keeps acting up. He sighs, kneading the sore muscles, eyes slipping shut.
He hears footsteps, and opens his eyes. There’s a man standing at the door. Shouta frowns. He can’t read his name tag from across the room. “Can I help you?”
“I’m with IT,” the man says, sheepish, running a hand through messy grey hair. He looks maybe a bit older than Shouta. “The principal said I could start on the server upgrades tonight?”
Shouta pauses. He did miss the last staff meeting, but none of this is ringing any bells.
The man shifts. “I have the specs here.”
Shouta walks over, a vague sense of unease forming in his stomach. “Let me take a look.”
He reaches out to take the piece of paper from him.
Th man suddenly dives forward, grabs Shouta’s wrist. Shouta recoils, moves to activates his Erasure, but it’s like his entire body has been plunged into ice-cold water. He’s suspended in place.
The meekness slides off the man's face, a sadistic smile taking over. “Tch, that was close,” he muses. “You almost got me. Alright, let’s see...bring me the personal files on your students.”
Shouta heart leaps into his throat as he feels his body start to move of its own accord. Shit—those files have addresses, information on the students’ families...
He can’t break through the brainwashing. It’s like he’s being held down by an enormous tidal wave, like he’s just a speck of sand. He’s lucid, but all he can do is watch himself unlock the drawer and pull out the Class 1-A folder.
He hands the files to the man, who slips them into his briefcase. Up close, the man’s skin is also a greyish tinge. He looks unwell, frail, but his smile widens, showing teeth.
“Where do you live, Eraser Head?”
We have to be approaching some kind of limit on his Quirk, Shouta thinks, as he’s forced to let him into his home. A time limit, or how many orders he can give...
He stands, motionless, like a puppet with its strings cut, as the grey man loafs around. He doesn’t seem to be looking for anything in particular. Shouta realizes, stomach dropping further, that he’d likely gotten what he needed with the Class 1-A files. This, now, is just playtime for him.
He wonders how many people he’s terrorized, anger boiling in his veins.
The grey man picks up a picture frame on the shelf, studies it curiously. It’s one of him and Hizashi; Kayama had taken it during their dinner to welcome Shouta to the U.A. staff. Shouta’s looking down, slurping at his noodles, while Hizashi beams straight at the camera, one arm around him.
Don’t you fucking look at Hizashi.
“Present Mic, right?” He runs a finger across Hizashi’s face in the picture. He looks at Shouta, grins. “Oh? You’re resisting my Quirk a lot more right now.”
He turns his attention to the other pictures on the shelf. There’s one of them and Oboro during their school days, one of Hizashi accepting an award from the radio station.
The grey man leads him to the bedroom. He sits on the edge of the bed, the sheets rustling.
He strokes Shouta's hair. It's revolting, and Shouta can see the outline of his dick against his pants, already hard.
The front door opens.
The grey man stops unbuckling his belt. He turns his head, listening, and takes a gun out of his coat pocket, laying it against his leg.
There’s sounds of Hizashi kicking his shoes off, Hizashi whistling.
No. No. He isn’t supposed to be home, not yet, he’s supposed to be in the studio.
“Shouta?” Hizashi calls out.
The grey man huffs out a laugh. “Go on,” he says, cupping Shouta’s chin. “Hurt him. Kill him, but take your time.”
Shouta screams. Nothing comes out.
Hizashi glances at him as he walks into the kitchen, goes back to rummaging through the fridge. “Are you hungry?” he asks. “I’m gonna whip something up.”
Shouta watches himself approach Hizashi’s open, trusting back, and forcefully grab his shoulder, turning him around.
Hizashi winces. “What—”
Shouta punches him. Hizashi stumbles, gasping, and Shouta slams his head into the wall, throws him onto the floor.
He kicks him in the ribs, once, twice. Hizashi groans, trying to crawl away. Shouta drops down, digging a knee into his back.
Use your Voice on me, use your Voice, use your Voice, Hizashi, please, PLEASE—
But Hizashi doesn't. Shouta watches helplessly as he grabs Hizashi’s arm next – his bad arm, he’d tweaked it on patrol earlier this week – and wrenches it back, until there’s a loud crack. Hizashi cries out, the sound tearing into Shouta. He tastes bile.
Hizashi's struggling against him, but Shouta’s physically stronger, has always been, they’d joked about it ever since he won against Hizashi during the sports festival, all those years ago...
“You’re not Shouta,” Hizashi says, voice breaking. “What have you done to Shouta?”
Shouta’s hands start to shake, and he’s in control of his body for a single moment, like a flicker of light. He gasps, tries to say something, anything, but the brainwashing settles over him again. Hizashi’s eyes widen.
“I guess the jig is up,” the grey man says, approaching them. He's panting, sweaty. He points the gun at Hizashi. “Not bad, Mic. You're not such an airhead, after all."
Hizashi's gaze snaps to him. "Fuck you. Little man hiding behind your Quirk."
The grey man laughs. "I can see why Eraser Head keeps you around. Too bad he's gonna have to bury you.” He cocks the trigger.
Shouta keeps straining against the brainwashing. Its hold isn’t as strong as it was before. Still, his head feels like it’s going to burst. His fingers twitch, and he’s able to loosen his grip slightly on Hizashi’s arm.
Hizashi’s mouth twists. He's glaring at the grey man. “As if...I’d make...him cry—”
He lets out a shout with his Voice. It’s nowhere near his max volume, but it’s enough to stun the grey man, make him drop the gun.
Shouta's knocked backwards by the shockwave, too. He sees Hizashi tackle the villain out of the corner of his eye, throwing a vicious punch with his good arm that easily knocks him out. A few of his teeth skitter across the floor.
Hizashi’s face swims into view, worried. Shouta's dazed, his ears ringing nonstop, but he has full control of his body again. Hizashi’s saying something as he helps Shouta sit up. He gingerly puts a hand to Shouta’s ear, checking for bleeding.
Then Hizashi pulls out his phone – calling the police, no doubt – eyes flickering to the unconscious villain every now and then. His broken arm is limp at his side. There's lines of blood running down his face, and the beginnings of bruises starting to form under his eye.
Shouta watches him talk on the phone. His hearing is slowly coming back. His entire body is wrung out, like he’s just run a marathon. He flexes his hands, makes sure he’s really himself.
He keeps staring at his hands, then Hizashi's injuries. He feels nauseous.
Hizashi hangs up, and his posture crumples. The phone slips from his hand, falls with a clatter. He pulls Shouta close, drops his head onto his shoulder. Shouta loops a careful arm around his waist, and lets out a breath when the other man doesn’t flinch.