Chapter Text
Blistering heat beats down on Shouta, the afternoon sun finally reaching its peak, and its becoming an real effort not to stop every couple steps to drag his already sweat damp sleeve across his face in a poor attempt to cool off. His backpack seals the warmth beneath his t-shirt and Shouta can feel his skin sticking to the material uncomfortably, sweat stains already seeping down around his neck and under his arms.
The rainy season has long since passed and the drought that followed has been nothing short of devastating, Hizashi and him are barely hanging on as it is—clean water and food that isn't a couple years over its use-by date is hard to stumble upon so they take it in turns to scavenge different areas nearby in hopes of finding something edible.
Shouta takes care of most of their supplies since Hizashi is more suited to disorienting and dispatching of any of the rouge undead that wander across their camp. He doesn't want to knock them when they're already down but… it's not looking so good. They're left with a dozen-or-so cans of beans, peaches and various different soups.
That's about it.
It's Shouta's turn to go patrolling and he, regretfully, decides to head a little further out than he usually would in a last ditch effort to find anything of use. He feels like he's been walking forever, the old blocks of flats seem to loop around him in a depressing sort of maze and he'd really like to leave now.
At least he hasn't run into any disturbances. He learnt the hard way that his Quirk is essentially useless against the undead, they don't activate their own abilities during combat, just charge head first into the fight snapping their jaws like crocodiles. It's more than a little terrifying, and part of the reason Hizashi insisted Shouta lugged around the first working rifle they found. Neither of them felt particularly good about it given the illegality of guns in japan, but the new world—or the end of it—didn't care much for laws or morality.
Picking through dumpsters and breaking into sweet, little houses was another first. Shouta had adapted to the whole thing marginally quicker than his counterpart, which he suspects is due to the already morally-grey nature of his underground hero work.
Alas, there's only so alert a single person can be, which is how Shouta finds himself flinching at the distinct shuffling of feet that sounds to his left, still jumpy despite his quote-unquote 'cat-like reflexes'.
Silently unhooking a rifle from where it's tangled around your neck is a harder task than most give credit for, he manages for the most part but knocks the butt of it into a spare clip he has tucked in his belt. The small clink is enough to startle another hasty foot shuffle out of whatever is awaiting him just around the corner. The fact that the thing has enough coherent thought to be startled isn't as reassuring as it should be.
Humans, for all their preaching about peace and love, didn't hold onto their humanity for very long. Turns out that a society without functioning laws isn't much of a society at all. People looted and raided, mugged and killed, and committed a number of atrocities that Shouta can't think too hard about or he'll get nauseous. Case in point, running into a very much alive person is not much safer than running into a dead one. Shouta would prefer a stray animal of some kind, perhaps a cat.
He doesn't have an awful lot of faith in finding a furry companion however, and what faith he does have is entirely depleted at the sound of a muffled yelp coming from a conspicuously dark alley. Shouta's been an underground hero for long enough to crush the hope of trouble occurring literally anywhere outside of creepy side streets and dimly lit car parks. The latter is always preferable since there's at least a couple avenues of escape if shit hits the fan, but it seems lady luck isn't on his side today.
Cautiously inching around the wall of the flat blocking his view, Shouta finally catches sight of the source of the noise. It's both better and worse than he could've wished for—a young boy, a teenager by the looks of it, is standing over a corpse of one of the undead. By corpse, Shouta means that it doesn't look like it's coming back to life any time soon.
Now, this is good because a kid and out of commission brain-dead creature pose very little threat to him, but bad because it's a kid. Even from where he's standing Shouta can see the muscles in the boy's arms trembling with exertion, his hands still gripping a, frankly quite dull, switchblade and he's rooted in place from shock. Out of all the fear responses, 'freeze' is definitely the worst one to be lumped with in an apocalypse.
Ignoring the dull urge to check if the boy is okay—a small, instinctual thing left over from being a teacher for so long—Shouta begins to slowly back away, keeping his eyes on the teenager in case he got bitten during the altercation.
Bites work differently to how movies from before portrayed them, there's no instant transformation from human to a complete monster, there's this… waiting period, the Golden Hour.
In theory, it's the perfect time to dispatch of potential threats. People are weak when they're scared, and every single person Shouta has had to watch turn, has been scared. The Golden Hour, despite it's name, is very rarely an hour. It varies from person to person; area of the bite, age, sex, any health complications, there's so many factors to take into account for a person you're going to have to shoot in the head either way.
The Golden hour didn't get it's name from just that, though. There's a strange phenomenon that occurs mere minutes after someone turns- a raw, unparalled rage seems to possess them. That's not to say that the undead get less dangerous as they get 'older', but the newer they are, the higher your chances of getting bitten just through sheer determination. If Shouta were to guess, he'd say those chances skyrocket from fifty-fifty to a one hundred percent infection rate.
Either way, Shouta would rather not linger long enough to watch this boy's soft, adrenaline fuelled tears morph into the hungered wails of the undead.
He's almost fully back around the corner, not even realising how close he'd crept, when his ankle rolls over a small rock, causing him to trip back a step or two with a grunt that he tries his damnedest to swallow down. The hitch of breath amoungst the frantic, little gasps from the boy is a clear indicator that he's failed to keep quiet, and he curses inwardly as any sound of life is swiftly replaced with a deafening silence. Weighing his options, Shouta decides he'd rather approach the kid with his hands up than risk having an already on edge teenager barrelling towards him with a knife. He clears his throat, hooks his gun back over his shoulder, and prays this won't be the choice that gets him killed.
"I'm just passing through," He speaks into the humid air, "I don't want any trouble."
After a long beat of silence, Shouta chances a step into the open and is faced with his first real look at the kid. Startlingly vibrant green eyes lock with his, and he spares a guess that they'd match his hair if it wasn't so discoloured by grease and dirt. He's donned in a plain, navy blue shirt and heavy looking bomber jacket that must be cooking him in this heat and almost matches his cargo trousers in colour, although Shouta can't tell if they're actually that dark or if the kid is just muddier than he originally thought. The clothes, minus the trousers, look surprisingly clean, most likely due to the boy having recently left a camp or quarantine zone, not that you're really supposed to do that second one.
The knife that the kid had been white-knuckling earlier is now pointed directly at him, one hand slapped over the other to try and stop the tremors running through his arm from being too obvious. His fingers are coated in a thick, dark reddish-brown that slowly drips down his wrists the longer he holds up the blade—that in itself is slathered in a fair amount of gore.
"Stay there! Don't even think about tryin' anything." His voice is rougher and deeper than Shouta expected, his throat probably scratched up from dehydration and disuse, the lower register is a clear attempt to make himself more intimidating. Shouta doesn't blame him; he's surprisingly small for a kid his age—sixteen or older if the lack of a Hero Commission wristband is any indication—skinny too, like he's never had enough of anything to grow properly. He might be shaking like a lamb, but his eyes are sharp and clear, and Shouta finds himself rendered momentarily breathless by their intensity.
He takes a deliberate step backwards and the boy matches it instantly, which is what Shouta was hoping for, the closer proximity allows him a chance to cast his attention to the body that was previously laying just out of sight. The bodies of the undead are never pretty, more often than not their heads are bludgeoned in and their limbs have been hacked away at enough that, if they survived the original attack, there'd be no chance of them following after anyone.
In that sense, the corpse is no different from any others Shouta has had the misfortune of seeing, not that it stops his breath from catching painfully in his throat anyway.
It's a girl, her face round and delicate beneath the blood and gaping hole in her forehead where Shouta can imagine a knife had been protruding from just moments earlier, but something feels wrong about the whole scene. Shouta shouldn't be able to tell that it's a girl, he shouldn't be able to tell that she was clearly too young to die because her skin should be too worn and decomposed to be recognisable. She's too… fresh, almost as if-
His rifle strap barely survives being torn clean off from the ferocity in which Shouta yanks it from his shoulder and settles it in his palms, he swallows loudly against the rising guilt of knowing he's gonna have to shoot a kid, knowing he has to because he's dead if he doesn't. Even being bigger and stronger than him, Shouta knows he won't stand a chance against those few moments of an undead's unbridled fury.
He still hesitates despite himself. Praying, in that way he knows he shouldn't but he just can't help, that nothing will happen, that he'll be able to put the gun down and go home. He's taught hundreds of brats just like this one, they're all loud and excitable and not entirely unlike a litter of puppies. Hizashi's voice is screaming in his head to just get it over with, to not let himself get killed because of his weeping heart, and it's loud enough that Shouta doesn't register the frantic stream of protests coming from the boy in front of him until he sees small hands gesticulating wildly as he looks up to meet their owner's gaze.
"I'm not infected! I didn't get bitten I swear, please, I'm not lying!" His hands raise in surrender the second Shouta's attention is on him, knife clattering to the ground by his feet, his eyes are wide and unblinking—wet with unshed tears. Fuck, he's doesn't even look like a teenager. He looks like a child.
"She was with you, when she turned." His gun jerks between the boy and the body behind him.
It's not a question, not really, and Shouta shouldn't even be asking. He should be shooting.
"Yes, yeah, she was but I swear she didn't bite me. You can- you can check, yeah? Just, just don't shoot, please." His voice wavers, but he still doesn't cry. It would be admirable if it wasn't so depressing to see.
Against all better judgement, Shouta lets his gun drop slightly to point at the boy's chest instead of his head. It's not a massive difference but the kid takes it for the mercy that it is, a tentatively grateful smile on his face as he rolls up his sleeves and catiously presents his bare arms to Shouta. He approaches slowly, watching for any twitching and keeping an ear out for the tell-tale groans of the undead, but the boy stays perfectly still and quiet. In a show of good faith and upmost stupidity, Shouta lowers his gun and swings it back over his shoulder, telling himself it's because he needs both hands free to complete a thorough examination.
It's not at all that pointing a gun at anyone under the age of twenty makes him uneasy.
Minutes pass in relative silence, and once Shouta is satisfied with the state of the boy's arms he opens his mouth to ask if he could roll up his trouser legs too, but the kid is already in motion before the words can escape. The stiff quality of his canvas style cargos mean that the material can only bunch up to around his knees, but given that there's no obvious teeth marks or blood stains anywhere else, it's unlikely he got bitten higher up on his body.
Keen to have something else to focus on that isn't his to kill or not to kill test, he drops into a crouch to examine the boy's calf and decides to do some prodding. The non-physical kind.
"Was she anyone important?" He hears a confused, little hum from above and quickly clarifies, "To you?"
"No, uh, she found me a couple days ago and asked if we could stick together."
"You were travelling alone?" Shouta glances up in time to catch the shifty look on the kid's face, seemingly warring with himself on whether to answer the question.
There's a couple beats of silence before he opens his mouth, still hesitating before speaking, "I'm not just aimlessly walking around," He hedges, relenting at the raised eyebrow Shouta sends his way, "I'm heading somewhere."
It's better than nothing, Shouta supposes. He desperately wants to demand to know where this kid's parents are but at the same time, someone his age wandering around alone and allegedly picking up strangers on the road? He knows better than to ask.
Besides, he's finished up his impromptu check-over and is just about ready to discharge his pint sized patient so it's not like he'll see him again, running into anyone new more than once is a rare occurrence nowadays—high mortality rate and all that. Shouta pushes up from the ground, his knees cracking loudly as he moves and he pretends not to hear the poorly muffled snicker he hears, instead choosing to dust off the grit from his palms and re-adjust his rifle, eliciting a barely noticeable flinch from the boy.
"Well, there's no reason for me to shoot you so," He jerks his thumb in a backwards motion over his shoulder, "I'm gonna head out, try not to get yourself killed." Shouta tacks on the last part without much thought, far too used to waving brats with no self preservation out the door of his classroom but the teenager's face creases in confusion, eyes shimmering with subtle wariness at the words, which is… strange, to say the least. Biting back his own curiousity, Shouta takes a couple steps backwards before turning on his heel and heading back out the alleyway.
The sound of hurried footsteps behind him is the only warning he gets before a small hand is wrapping around his arm, releasing quickly after Shouta turns back to glower at him, "Sorry," He recovers smoothly, not sounding sorry at all, "I was just wondering if you've seen this guy?" He thrusts a small photo in Shouta's face, so close that it causes his vision to go double for a second. Figuring he owes the kid this much after nearly blowing his head off, Shouta plucks the image from his hand and holds it back to take a better look.
It's well loved, that's the first thing he notices, the edges are worn soft and there's a neat crease that folds the picture into quarters. The actual quality of the photo isn't great, but Shouta can just about make out the smiling face of a blonde boy that looks around the same age as the kid in front of him, he flicks his gaze back to the teenager in question who's trying desperately not to look overly eager and Shouta thinks he's seen the same look on Hizashi when he comes home after a successful supply run.
"He your somewhere?" An affronted huff is all he hears and he gets the sense he's being wordlessly urged to hurry up, he stares for a second longer before shrugging and handing the photo back, "I haven't seem him, sorry."
The boy practically deflates, "It's alright, I expected as much."
Despite his assurances, the disappointment on his face is clear and Shouta feels that same spark of sympathy that always arises when he meets a survivor who spends their days alone. As corny as it as, and he'd never let the man hear it, he couldn't imagine a life without Hizashi, it would be like losing a limb.
There's a moment of silence before the kid speaks again, taking a breath and collecting himself, "He's part of my somewhere."
"Oh?"
"We're supposed to meet at the train station in a couple days, got separated a little while ago."
Shouta frowns, "Then what on earth are you doing here?" Green eyes peer up at him in bemusement, "The stations at least seventy miles north of this road, you're about a week out."
"What? No that can't be right, those other guys said I was headed straight to it…" The kid trails off, mumbling to himself about maps and directions but Shouta doesn't need to hear any more to understand what happened, much too accustomed to the tricks people will pull when they're desperate.
"Let me guess, they asked for some supplies in return?"
"My remaining food." He sighs at the kid's pleased look, like he somehow benefited from that agreement. Zero survival skills. How he's even lasted this long, Shouta has no idea.
"You got conned, kid. Survivors just want food, they don't care where they send you." Maybe he could've been a little gentler, but he doesn't have time to babysit some guy through his emotions.
In any other situation, Shouta probably would've found the stunned look he's faced with quite amusing, but right now he's just growing gradually more concerned. From what he's gathered; this kid has no food, probably not much water if his cracked lips are any indication, is miles away from his intended destination, and is far too trusting for his own good. If it's not the undead that kill him, it'll be raiders. At least he seems to understand the gravity of his situation, spitting out a curse before another stream of muttering begins.
Shouta hates that he knows what he's going to do the second he spots the frustrated tears welling in the boy's eyes, Hizashi has always told him that his soft nature is gonna get him in trouble one day.
"My camp is down the same way," A glare is thrown his way for his efforts and he swears he hears a snarky good for you as the rapid pacing continues, kicking up dirt and stones. Shouta groans but pushes through, "You can hang with me until we reach it if you want, we'll split when we get there. I'll even throw in some food since you apparently surrendered all of yours."
That gets his attention, head jerking up to stare at Shouta with wide, disbelieving eyes.
"Are you serious?" He surges on at Shouta's little nod, "That'd be awesome, but… don't you want something in return?" He shifts in discomfort at the prospect, clearly disliking the idea of owing someone something. Smart kid, Shouta appraises, having debts in times like these can put you in serious danger.
"Do you have anything?" He highly doubts it given the previous conversation, but it's amusing to watch him squirm awkwardly at the realisation that he doesn't actually own anything of value anymore.
"Uh, well, not really bu-"
Shouta interrupts with a huff before he can finish, "Then don't offer. We should move if we wanna get back before dark."
Still looking a little dazed, the boy nods and obediently trails behind Shouta as he starts off in the direction of Hizashi and his camp. They'd chosen a pretty good spot, all things considered; Hizashi had wanted to just stay put in their apartment but they'd been ushered out by an evacuation warrant once that area of the city had gotten too overrun by the undead to be considered safe. The pair hadn't ended up travelling too far, not willing to follow the Hero Commission's recommendation of relocating somewhere else entirely, so they'd ended up just within the city limits—close enough to the last dregs of humanity for fortnightly food runs but far enough away that raiders, or any people for that matter, weren't a common sight.
For a little while, the crunching of gravel beneath their feet is the only sound and Shouta is content to keep it that way. Apparently the kid has other ideas.
"My name's Midoriya by the way, Izuku Midoriya."
"Didn't ask." He mutters, resolutely ignoring the small squawk of indignation the bo- Midoriya, makes. Shouta glances over just in time to catch him cross his arms and petulantly kick a pebble into the road, there's a quiet ting as it hits an abandoned car and then they're back to walking in silence… for about five seconds.
"How old are you?" The fake voice from earlier has long since dropped off into what Shouta assumes is his natural pitch, still scratchy enough that he winces every couple words, but lighter somehow, softer.
Shouta bites back without thinking, quickly growing irritable with the presence of someone who clearly hasn't heard the saying 'silence is golden', "Your mum never teach you any manners?"
"Can't do much parenting from a grave." Midoriya gives an unamused snort and lets his words trail off into a vaguely awkward atmosphere.
Well fuck, Shouta grimaces, now he feels like an asshole. He knows that family situations get messy during an apocalypse- people die, or they get lost, or they turn, which is significantly worse than anything else that could happen. He chances a discrete look at Midoriya and finds that he doesn't look too outwardly upset at the comment. Maybe it happened when he was younger? Once again pushing aside his need for answers to unnecessary questions, Shouta decides to just humour the kid until they get back to the camp.
"Forty three." He sighs out.
Of course that wouldn't be enough to satiate him, "What was it like before all this happened?"
Fucking hell, what is this- twenty one questions? He frowns and reassesses the boy next to him. He looks young, sure, but he's gotta be at least sixteen, meaning he'd have been there when the world fell apart. Shouta had no way of knowing when the first outbreak happened, but the undead had been patrolling this area of the city for about nine or ten years already.
"How old even are you?" He asks in lieu of answering the original question.
"Almost fourteen." Shouta's thoughts screech to a halt but Midoriya continues on as if he hasn't just dropped a nuclear bomb in the middle of their conversation, "I just don't remember much from when I was a kid."
Shouta holds out a palm in a 'stop' motion, cutting the boy off from whatever he was going to say, "Just, hold on a second. You're thirteen? The fuck are you doing out here?"
"Didn't we just have this conversation-"
"No, this is, this is different. You're supposed to be in a Hero Commission mandated quarantine zone." He knows his tone is a little harsh, knows that his words are short and stilted, but this news is turning a bad situation into an even worse one. Everyone under the age of sixteen is required to be in a quarantine zone, adults are recommended to join them but when Shouta checked one out after the first broadcast it had been so crowded that he just went back home.
"Oh those," Midoriya looks up at Shouta, sounding a little put off by the current line of questioning, "I've been in one pretty much my whole life, but Katsuki thought we should leave so… uh, we did." His voice wavers near the end, suddenly nervous.
Shouta only just has time to process that Katsuki must be the blonde kid in the photo before the next part of the sentence registers, "You just walked out? Without anyone stopping you?" He asks, now doubtful, he's never heard of someone just leaving because they feel like it—those places are practically prisons.
The kid sounds thoughtful when he speaks, eyebrows scrunching as if he's working out a difficult maths equation, "Security was pretty lax."
"What section were you in?"
Children in the HC quarantine zones are sorted into neat sections for security purposes, they're labelled A through to E and each area contains a specific variety of Quirk, security levels varying alongside them. A is transformative Quirks, B is for the mental ones, C is for mutations, D is for any especially powerful abilities, whilst E—Shouta's least favourite—is for those that are too young to have manifested anything yet, the knowledge that children that young have already been surrendered to the care of the HC makes him irrationally upset.
Shouta only knows any of this information because him and Hizashi had been mailed a pamphlet about it before everything went completely haywire, and before Hizashi had claimed it was 'fucking propaganda' and promptly used it for kindling.
Something else Shouta had found out from other survivors, which he'd neglected to tell Hizashi in fear of him storming up to their nearest zone and breaking out all the kids, is that those camps double as a training ground of sorts. Growing the next generation of front line soldiers for their war against the undead, a neat little fact that the HC decided not to advertise on their leaflet.
Shouta's question isn't a particularly invasive one, all things considered, everyone in the zones gets elected a section and is given a wristband stating said section, along with the individual's Quirk, as a way to swiftly verify identity. The kid's lack of one is part of the reason Shouta didn't consider the fact he could be under sixteen until now, but still, Midoriya tenses up briefly before forcing himself to relax. He stops walking to reach into a pocket on his trousers and pull out a dirty wristband made of a rough cut of scratchy looking fabric. He silently hands it over to Shouta, crushing the resistance he obviously wants to display and averting his gaze to the floor instead.
"Section F." He murmurs when the wristband is out of his possession.
"Funny," Shouta retorts dryly, "The sections only run from A to E."
Midoriya doesn't dignify that with a response, titlting his head to the band in a way that says Shouta should look for himself. So he does, and true to the kid's words, the small print on the fabric reads 'Section: F. Q.L'. He's about to ask what Q.L stands for when he realises that the tiny letters sit directly where the Quirk variety should be. It hits him a second later… Q.L.
Quirkless.
"Oh." He can't help the way his eyes spring open wider in shock.
A wry smile dances across Midoriya's face at the noise, clearly expecting that sort of reaction. Despite knowing that people could be born without Quirks, Shouta had never properly met someone like that. Working in a school like U.A. meant you only interacted with the super-human variety, only taught history of the Dawn of Quirks, and only trained the potential heroes.
"I'll understand if you want me to beat it, but you really should keep your deal- I mean, you're the adult here, you're not supposed to go back on stuff like that." Midoriya's lips twitch before the tired grin fades, the glint in his eyes switching from a cool detachment to the sort of bitterness that can only be achieved through a lifetime of disappointment.
"Kid."
"Not that any of you actually adhere to that rule," He continues, huffing out a hysterical laugh and not taking any notice of Shouta's attempted interruption, clearly getting fired up now, "You're all the same!"
"I'm not gonna-"
"Katsuki was right, I should've just stuck with him…"
Midoriya keeps talking, saying something much too fast and quiet for Shouta to understand, the words don't seem to be directed at him anyway, the way Midoriya curls in on himself is proof of that—his palms run up and down his arms in what looks like an attempt to self soothe as he whispers to himself. Shouta is reluctant to let him spiral but it's not until the motions grow more frantic and aggressive that he intervenes, gently looping his fingers around the kid's slender wrist and halting the movement.
"Midoriya." Shouta ducks his head to meet his gaze, waiting until the boy actually looks at him before talking, "I'm not going back on our agreement, you can still tag along, alright? I don't care about that sorta stuff."
The look he gets is one of pure caution and fear, like he's waiting for the punchline.
Or just waiting for the punch.
Shouta wasn't entirely honest about never meeting a Quirkless person, they'd just never been alive by the time he'd reached them. He can't count on one hand how many times he's had to watch a tiny, young body fall from a building or lay unmoving in an alley, never able to help because he's always been too late. Shouta may not know any other people like Midoriya, but that doesn't mean he's ignorant to their suffering, the fact this kid remains in front of him instead of running in the opposite direction is already more than he'd expected.
Although, that might have more to do with his freeze response than anything Shouta is doing.
"You don't?" He looks uncomfortable with the contact, free hand clenching by his side, so Shouta drops his wrist, letting the boy retreat back into himself easily.
"Fuck no." Midoriya still doesn't look settled and it's tugging at his heartstrings more than he'd like, he switches tactics and tries for humour instead, "Just hoped you would've told me if I was harbouring a fugitive." It elicits a short laugh from the kid, that and a eye roll which is so painfully reminiscent of how Oboro used to act that his throat tightens.
"Dude, I'm not a fugitive."
"Dude," Shouta parrots, "You're legally required to be there, and you're not."
Midoriya hums, now looking a bit worried, but doesn't say anything more so Shouta takes the lull in conversation as an opportunity to get them back on track. He bumps into the kid lightly as he moves past and begins slowly walking away, glancing over his shoulder to check that Midoriya is following, he waits until the kid gets the memo before picking up the pace. It doesn't feel like much time has passed since that afternoon but the steadily darkening sky tells a different story, Shouta knows how much Hizashi hates it when he gets back late and he'd really prefer to have a conversation about the cargo he's acquired when he doesn't feel so dead on his feet.
It's only about five miles until they'll be able to see the camp, Shouta hasn't yet invested in a watch but it feels pretty late, especially since the summer days seem to drag on for an eternity, making the setting sun is a worrisome sight. Being out after dark with nowhere safe to seek shelter is never an ideal outcome, maybe if they walk quickly they'll be able to reach Hizashi before ten o'clock…
The scenery passes by in a blur for a while, Shouta's urgency growing with every lamp post they dart underneath—they don't actually turn on anymore since most of the cities power was cut off during the evacuation, anything remaining was directed to the quarantine zones or the few lucky people who managed to hijack some for themselves. A large blot of murky blue slips into Shouta's peripheral as they walk over a long, wide bridge and he pauses on instinct to stare out into the large river that splits through the street.
Oboro used to love dragging Hizashi and him out here on the weekend, they'd make a day of it, traipsing around shops that were way out of their price range and eating crappy food when they got tired. This bridge was always the last stop, they'd lean heavily on the rusting metal fence and test how much weight it could hold before it started to bow precariously.
So deep in thought, Shouta almost doesn't hear the quiet words stuttered out behind him, voice so small he wonders if they're even meant for him to hear. He turns around to find that Midoriya has stopped a couple feet away from him, looking mildly humiliated.
"Sorry about… earlier." Shouta is one second away from assuring the kid that he doesn't need to apologise for misunderstanding and getting upset when a streak of movement catches his attention.
He's whipping the rifle from his shoulder and sprinting over to the boy in an instant, and despite how fast he's running, time seems to slow as one of the undead lunges at Midoriya from behind a large patch of shrubbery. There's a lot of yelling that Shouta can't confirm isn't his own and a loud cry that sounds so awfully young that he tries to block it out and fails miserably. In the short moments it takes for Shouta to reach Midoriya, the creature has already got him roughly pinned to the metal fence, teeth snarling and snapping like a rabid animal. Midoriya has one arm pressing hard against it's neck, pushing it as far away from his face as possible, the other arm stretching down by his leg as he snakes his hand into one of his pockets and brings out his switchblade from before.
The relief that bursts through Shouta at the sight is short lived- the thing's face inches closer and another particularly viscious lurch forward knocks Midoriya's hand into the fence hard enough that his grip loosens on the blade, he gives another pained whimper as he drops the knife and swiftly moves his now free arm to shove it between him and certain death.
Shouta cocks the gun, settling it more comfortably in his palm before calling out to the boy, "Midoriya!" He's met with wild, frantic eyes, "Push it as hard as you can!"
If Midoriya can get the undead far enough away from himself then Shouta can take a shot without as much crippling fear of missing his target, he feels more than sees the sudden determination in the kid—Shouta watches intently as he steels himself, readjusting his stance the best he can in his situation, and then shoves, a loud wail emitting from him as his muscles strain against the dead weight of something so much bigger than him, the fence dips dangerously at the added pressure of Midoriya pushing back against it. It's not as far as he'd like, but it'll suffice.
Still not entirely confident, Shouta's first shot is aimed at the creature's shoulder. The sound of the gun firing is achingly loud, Shouta forgot how noisy these things were since he hasn't had to shoot one in a while. Luckily he's not too out of practice and the bullet tunnels through his intended victim with ease, it stumbles back with a groan loud enough to drown out any surrounding noise, or maybe thats just due to the way Shouta's ears are ringing incessantly.
He takes a couple steps forward, focusing his attention in front of him and resisting the need to look back at Midoriya when he hears a short curse followed by silence.
A second, more precise, shot hurries after the first, this time burying itself in the exposed skull of the undead and within seconds, the thing crumples gracelessly to the floor. Shouta gives himself approximately one moment to breath before hurrying over to it's side and pointing the gun between it's eyes, you can never be too sure that it wasn't just the impact that knocked them down—he doesn't pity the undead, but he will never stop wishing they didn't look so goddamn human when their jaws finally close and their limbs stop flailing madly. The shuddery sigh he lets out when it becomes apparent that it won't be getting back up is one of pure adrenaline.
It's only when the ringing in his ears has quietened down that Shouta realises he hasn't heard a single peep from Midoriya, the little head of mottled green hair is also gone from his line of sight, he spins around a couple times, scanning over the bridge for any sight of the teenager. But there's no one there… how is no one there? The kid was standing right by the fence-
Oh no.
No no no no.
Shouta doesn't know how he missed it a second ago, the fence that the kid was leaning against isn't exactly there anymore. It's hanging halfway off the bridge, wide open like some kind of sick joke of a door, he runs over and hovers by the ledge to rake his eyes over the river below, hoping against all odds to spot a small figure paddling through the current to safety. The drought has sucked up most of the water, leaving the river only looking partly filled, a dark waterline on the bank shows just how low the water level has gotten and despite how much Shouta wants that to be a good thing, he knows it isn't. It just means that as well as plummeting about fifteen feet into freezing cold water, there's a good chance Midoriya hit the solid bottom.
What were the chances the HC taught them to swim with broken ankles?
What were the chances the HC taught them to swim at all?
With nothing else to do, Shouta hurries along the bridge and deftly manoeuvres down the side of the bank until he reaches solid ground again, he wanders up and down a decent length of the river a few times over to no avail. He's just considering the benefits of wading in to fish the kid out himself when he spots a flash of colour a couple metres away from where he's standing. He approaches whatever it is gun first, not willing to get his hopes up even as his heart patters wildly in his chest, a conflicting mix of apprehension and eagerness.
It's the choked sound of coughing that finally has Shouta lowering the rifle and hurrying his movements, he drops to the ground next to the kid, hunched over and kneeling in the mud next to the river. Now closer to him, Shouta can hear the sobs tearing from Midoriya's throat alongside the spluttering and dry heaving.
He reaches out on instinct, intending to thump a fist on his back to get the water out of his lungs but the kid flinches away violently, there's shivers wracking his body and his jaw is chattering so hard Shouta is amazed he hasn't cracked it yet. Retracting his hand, Shouta strips off his bag and pulls his old corduroy jacket free, draping the warm material over Midoriya which finally elicits a response in the form of him crumpling against Shouta's side, unable to support his own weight any longer.
A low whine is pulled from his lips the second Shouta tries to help him to stand, he's heavily favouring his left leg which causes Shouta to frown and glance at the kid's feet. His trousers are covering his ankles but with a hum of approval from Midoriya, he tugs the material on the right leg up and rolls down his dirt-caked sock. He hisses in sympathy at the sight that greets him. The skin around his ankle is turning an ugly mix of purple and green, it's already swelling madly but it doesn't look broken, small mercies, Shouta supposes. Shooting an apologetic look to Midoriya, he presses his fingers to the area and tries not to watch the way the kid's face goes taut with pain as he bites his lip to muffle the little keening noise he makes. It may not be broken but it's definitely sprained, which is only marginally better.
"Damn kid, you're gonna give me grey hairs." Shouta chides tiredly, unable to help himself.
Midoriya shoots back immediately, a watery smile on his lips, "Can't be more than you've already got."
Shouta allows the jab on the basis that he's the one causing the kid's misery right now. He pulls his hand back and instead tucks his arm under Midoriya's, wrapping around his back to give him some support for what is about to be a very painful walk.
"We gotta get you somewhere dry, not making it back to camp at this rate so the least I can do is make a fire." Shouta bulldozes over Midoriya's noises of protest, clearly about to suggest they just stay put, "Not here though, it's too wet, nothing will catch."
"But-" He cuts himself off with a wince and a bone shaking tremor that vibrates up from his toes to his clenched jaw.
Looking more than a little disgruntled, Midoriya turns away but nods reluctantly, knowing that staying where they are could mean getting found by raiders or any nearby undead that heard the gunshots. Shouta gives the kid a generous few seconds to gulp in large, lungfuls of air before standing and heaving them both off the ground—there's a significant amount of swearing on Midoriya's part and it's with great difficulty that Shouta manages to drag along the concrete path swooping beneath the bridge, lowering Midoriya down to the floor the instant he thinks they're far enough in to be at least semi-protected.
After ensuring that the kid isn't going to keel over the moment he looks away, Shouta hurries back out into the open to retrieve the driest sticks and branches he can find. It takes longer than he'd envisioned and the sky is almost entirely black by the time he returns, Midoriya is still holed up in a shivering little ball with Shouta's jacket pulled tight around him like a blanket.
Shouta is suddenly hit with a wave of overwhelming thankfulness to Hizashi for making sure he always packs a first aid kit and a lighter, no doubt worrying about him getting trapped somewhere with no way out while injured. He lets the firewood tumble from his arms, arranging it hastily into a small pyramid with the largest branch on the bottom, surrounded by the various forms of kindling he collected.
He rummages through his bag and eventually fishes out a little, purple lighter, it sputters and fails the first couple times Shouta flicks it, but after a few minutes of patience it finally holds a flame long enough for him to set their poor excuse of a fire ablaze.
Shouta allows himself to relax and slides down the wall the kid is leant against until he hits the ground, content in the knowledge that neither of them are going to die from hyperthermia tonight. He lets out a sigh of relief at finally being off his feet, he's always made a point to not waste energy on fruitless endeavours so his and Midoryia's adventure has him feeling more exhausted than usual. The teenager in question looks up at Shouta from beneath his damp lashes, his face twisted in such distress that his heart clenches, Midoriya seems about ready to apologise at any second so Shouta leaps at the first distraction he can think of.
Twisting his torso to face Midoriya, Shouta holds out an arm out towards the boy, who eyes him with a look of slowly growing apprehension. Shouta wiggles his fingers after a moment of his handshake not being returned but only receives a blank look in response, he quickly understands that this kid might've never actually given someone a handshake before, and that's just not right.
Doing what any rational person would do, Shouta carefully reaches over and grips Midoriya's wrist, pausing to give him a chance to pull away. He stays put so Shouta takes it as a sign to continue, he pulls the kid's palm over to his own and claps their hands together with a sharp crack that echoes through the enclosed space. Waiting until Midoriya follows his example, tightening his grip in response to Shouta's encouraging squeeze, Shouta shakes their joined hands.
"Shouta Aizawa," He introduces himself with a crooked smile, "Good to meet you."