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Aizawa’s not a man to be taken by surprise. Yet it doesn’t stop him from twitching when, as he stands in from of a barista and orders his usual expresso, a voice sounds behind him.
“Oi, that fucking bastard. Always setting me up.”
For a moment Aizawa’s thoughts pinpoint towards Bakugo based on the harsh language but after a moment he realizes that whoever spoke, Aizawa didn’t sense his presence. He freezes for a fraction of a second. Due to the League of Villains, lately Aizawa has been coiled like a wire, tension never truly dissipating from his tense shoulders. Even in a café with the warm aroma his guard was up, a habit from being an undercover hero where danger wasn’t loud or obnoxious criminals relying heavily on their quirk, but a place of intelligence.
Aizawa’s always aware of the people in his surroundings.
Yet whoever spoke was as if he simply appeared out of thin air.
Or perhaps that was the two all-nighters speaking.
A quick glance at the clock signals it’s early in the morning, only seven twenty.
“It’s too early for this shit,” he mumbles. He’s definitely being paranoid. As he goes to pick up his steaming coffee, he notices another customer reaching for his too. It’s a kid, very young and around the age of Class 1-A. Bright orange hair that seems to pop in the calm shop, blue eyes and a month pulled down in a grimace. Rather than angry as his posture suggests, he looks annoyed but the expression disappears when he shoves a tip into the jar – way too much for what a normal teenager should be carrying around, if teenagers even tipped people at all – and makes his way over.
“Watch out. Cup’s hot,” Aizawa says. His hands sting from wrapping around the bare coffee cup after a moment when he blanked out. He hates mornings.
The kid nods, surprisingly sincere. “Tell me about it. I never get used that.”
Aizawa’s instincts flare slightly at his voice. It’s the person from earlier. The presence he didn’t notice, which is even odder once he’s face-to-face with the speaker. Everything about him is, in a word, loud. From his simple but obviously tailored clothing that Aizawa thinks as way too expensive for messy teenagers, black choker, a hat held in one hand and something else.
Aizawa can’t quite put his finger on it. But it’s familiar. In his line of work, anything is.
“Me neither,” he finally settles on saying.
Before the boy can respond his phone vibrates loudly and he fishes it out of his pocket, only to shove it back after taking a look at the caller.
“Shouldn’t you answer that?” Is it your parents, worried about what their son is doing when he should be going to school?
Aizawa can’t help it. He’s surrounded by danger-attracting kids like Midoriya every day.
“Nah. It’s not like the mackerel’s that important.” He scowls, kicking his feet. “He’s an idiot. What kind of partner leaves me with all the work?”
Aizawa’s lips tug up into a thin smile, amused.
He wants to ask what a teenage boy’s doing in a café, in the morning, on a school day, but he refrains.
And mackerel? What kind of name is that?
Well, he supposes in a world with a nicknames like Deku and Kacchan anything’s possible.
The boy nods once respectfully. Very polite, Aizawa notes as the boy grabs his mocha green tea, a caffeinated drink unsuitable for minors. Aizawa would know all about caffeine. Before he can comment the drink is whisked away as the boy retreats to the far corner of the shop. For the first time Aizawa’s eyes snag on his clad black leather gloves.
Maybe it’s the insomnia, a gut feeling or intuition after so many years as a spy but Aizawa finds himself sitting on the table behind him, so they’re both against the window with their backs faced to one another.
For a while he can hear rustling papers and reflected off his drink sees the boy reading over some files. Just an ordinary student cramming in some extra work. Aizawa sighs exasperatedly over the irrational stress he gave himself and takes a sip of the expresso, savoring the bitter sensation. He closes his eyes and tries to relax. Luckily, there aren’t many people in the mornings.
“Fuck.” A click. “Why’re you calling me, you stupid mackerel?”
A pause.
“No no no, don’t blame it on me. It’s your fault shit went down and now I’m stuck writing a report miles longer than your gross list.”
Ah, the infamous mackerel. Aizawa’s attention floats and just as he’s about to leave his muscles tighten once again. A report? It sounds so...off. That’s the word. Off. Everything about his boy was off, from his strangely confident demeanor to the way he carried himself, like he wasn’t from here. Yet he speaks Japanese fluently, Aizawa thinks warily, deciding to remain where he was. And a report? What kind of student calls their work a report?
It wouldn’t hurt to stay a bit longer. Besides, eavesdropping is part of his job.
“Fucking shut up!” the boy snaps after a longer pause.
“Chuuya’s so mean! I’ll have to tell Mori that my dog’s trying to bite my loving hand!” The whiney, high-pitched voice titters faintly, just loud enough for Aizawa to hear without straining his ears.
Mori, huh?
The boy, presumably Chuuya, slams his fist against the table. “Shut your month. Tell me why you called or I’m hanging up. It’s a waste of batteries.”
“You haven’t seen me in weeks and that’s the greeting I get? Didn’t you miss me Chuuya? You just want the wine, an alcoholic already! What would Ane-san say?”
Alcoholic?
Puzzled, Aizawa can hear Chuuya’s teeth grind, confirming what “mackerel” said. “Why don’t you just go knock off Dazai?”
“Aww, you know how much I want to! But Mori won’t let me die. Well, not yet anyway.” Aizawa can barely hear the overdramatic sigh that follows from this “Dazai”. All he knows is that this boy who sounds just as young as Chuuya is casually discussing suicide. He should help. He should interrupt. But his train of thought is interrupted when Chuuya speaks up again, so nonchalantly like his friend isn’t suicidal.
“Hah, well, sad for you, Mori-sensei assigned me here. This place has the weirdest fucking buildings that go sky high. And I thought the Port Mafia was loaded.”
Everything shatters. Aizawa’s blood rushes cold, hands stiffening. Port Mafia.
This kid, this boy who’s hardly a high schooler, is involved with organized crime?
The cup, now cold, rattles from his sweaty grip. The temperature drops.
“That’s hero society for you.” Despite the scrambled audio something about Dazai’s tone is overwhelmingly unsettling.
Chuuya scoffs. “Elitist trash.”
Aizawa’s nerves rocket up and his instincts flare, adrenaline pulsing through his veins. He doesn’t hear them anymore. With Mustafu in a critical position between the League of Villains and the Shie Hassaikai, any sort of criminal activity has a chance of being tied to All for One. The assumption that raiding the Shie Hassaikai base and rescuing Eri had put an end to the Yazuka, judging by Chuuya’s words, Port Mafia, was obviously false.
His brain is in overdrive.
Based on how Chuuya’s speaking of it, at the very least what Aizawa knows is that a teenager three feet from him has ties with the Yazuka group Port Mafia who has a considerable amount of money.
Fuck insomnia, Aizawa thanks All Might he listened to his gut.
Yet Port Mafia, Port Mafia, Port Mafia...he just can’t identify the name. There’re names according to the faction of the city which is your territory, names after which prefectures of Japan the Yazuka has control over... He’s never heard of any criminal group simply called “Port Mafia”.
Mildly frustrated, Aizawa pretends to sip more coffee and leans subtly to catch more of the conversation, every tendon of his body ready to pounce.
“Oh well. That isn’t our assignment anyway. Geez, do you need me to explain it? It’s a quick in-and-out mission Chibi. By the way, Mori actually assigned both of us in Mustafu. Can you believe it? He’s forcing his favourite executive to join the hatrack!”
Chuuya snorts. “Mori-sensei probably wants you as far away from our Yokohama as possible for a little peace and quiet.”
“Chuuuyaaa! How could you say something like that?”
Yokohama?
Aizawa scans his brain. Never, in his thirteen years of service in the underworld has he ever heard of any Port Mafia in Yokohama, much less any Mafia executives.
Oh fucking hell, this Dazai is a so-called mafia executive.
Aizawa’s arm shakes.
Right now, all he can do is listen. He needs to, for the future of Mustafu. These people have an assignment here and who knows what it is? It’s all he can do to not spring up and arrest Chuuya.
“Anyway, why’s the Boss even bothering? It’s fucking useless and the people here are so righteous,” Chuuya spits. “Fucking pampered brats. They can't even think for themselves.”
“You’ll see. Anyway, it’s not like Mustafu’s important. Mori’s just curious about quirk genetics compared to our abilities. The parallels, weaknesses, you know we can’t exactly study them here,” Dazai says, irony lacing his tone. He adds something else, which Aizawa can only make out a few phrases of. But they make his heart beat a little faster.
Quirk suppressants...new discovery...a threat...see if they work on abilities.
It’s something that makes Chuuya sound years older when he replies. “Fine. Fuck, if that’s what’s happening then those fuckers will discover firsthand what it feels like to be crushed by gravity.” He leans back in his chair. “What’s going on back there? How’s the succession war?”
Aizawa blanches. Now there’s a fucking war? Just how much is happening that authorities are in the dark of?
“Nothing that great. All my favourite shirts were ruined by all those filthy bodies, it’s all so nasty! And there’s a bandage shortage as well because of all the useless grunts dying off. We aren’t suffering any major losses but Ane-san's furious. Some of her girls were attacked. But anyway, those idiots are too busy trying to kill each other now after we planted a mole. And...” Before Aizawa can even process the sheer number of horrifying statements about that including the fact that it was spoken by a teenager Dazai’s voice, although spoken teasingly, is coated with something so sinister a shiver rips down Aizawa’s spine.
“...and we might release Q.”
“No.” Aizawa can hear Chuuya’s start to stand before sitting back down and hissing into the phone. “No, don’t you fucking dare you son of a bitch, how stupid are you? One wrong move and I’m gonna kill Q myself before they take half the goddamn city down with them.”
Dazai responds incoherently and Aizawa discerns the surprise in Chuuya’s tone. “You’re coming? Today? Why? I’m perfectly capable by myself. Unless he wants me to use-”
“He does.”
A pause so long Aizawa almost thinks the line cut. He straightens, realizing he was shifting his chair closer and sifts through the information. Who exactly is Q? What is so deadly about them that Chuuya feels the need to kill them? Panic floods his system. What if it’s one of All for One’s pawns? A wildcard? But then again...
Aizawa stares straight into his empty cup.
Port Mafia. Yokohama. Q. Executive. Succession War. None of them seem even remotely connected to the League of Villains, no indication that these teenagers were working for All for One. In fact, their boss sounded more like it’s Mori.
Yet another name he doesn’t recognize.
And one more factor he forgot about. Chuuya had said our Yokohama. Obviously a throwaway comment, but something’s off about it, something gnawing at Aizawa’s mind relentlessly.
“...damnnit,” Chuuya mutters and it sounds so somber it pulls Aizawa out of his thoughts.
“I know,” Dazai replies and it sounds regretful. Almost worried, but it’s masked by indifference. “It’s your choice, Chuuya. I won’t force you.”
“You never do shitty Dazai,” Aizawa just catches Chuuya say. “I’ll do it. I’ll always do it, and I hate you for it. I’m just like Akutagawa aren’t I? And you think it’s so fun to manipulate people like that. You’re sick Dazai.” Aizawa really has to inch closer to hear the last few words. “Corruption, huh? Who for?”
Corruption? Then it strikes Aizawa like a lightning bolt.
Anyway, it’s not like Mustafu’s important. Mori’s just curious about quirk genetics compared to our abilities. The parallels, weaknesses, you know we can’t exactly study them here.
Abilities. Not quirks, but abilities. But why do they call them...unless they were different powers. Then it begs the question, and Aizawa’s fists clench, where the fuck are these guys from?
And Corruption. It’s safe to say that Chuuya’s “ability” is called Corruption? Or is it not? No, it’s not Aizawa’s place to be making wild assumptions. He needs to remember every word they’re saying to dissect later with Toshinori and Nezu.
“Hmm. Let’s just say Mori wants to give our good friends a little present so they can have a taste of what they’re working with. Of true power.” Dazai’s single laugh, slightly muffled by the phone, is eerily chilling. “That pathetic little gang – what's their name? The League of idiots? They can’t hold a torch to you Chuuya, and since their egghead leader insists on meddling in our business we’re gonna make them regret it.”
To send Aizawa over the edge with this new information, that this mysterious Port Mafia is now planning to use the very boy in the café to essentially destroy the League of Villains and All for one all the while discussing it like commenting on the weather, Chuuya simply answers tiredly as if Dazai is asking him to run a mundane errand.
“Okay. As long as it’s not during my off hours. I’m not working overtime.”
“Spending extra time maintaining your hair? Are you really balding at the ripe age of sixteen? Is that the hill you’re dying on?”
“Oi! Listen here you fucking brat-”
“Oh, looks like I gotta run! The plane’s landed. Too bad I can’t just chuck myself out the window,” Dazai notes mournfully, and the audio goes static for a second.
“I’ll throw you off a building myself!”
“Yes, yes, we’re all so impressed that you can level a building. Seriously, Chuuya’s just like a fairy! He can fly, he can cast spells, well, kind of, he’s small-”
“Oi! You asshole, just go die already!” Chuuya sputters, albeit quietly as if suddenly aware he’s in a public space. His voice lowers further. “Hey, when’s this assignment done anyway?”
“A week or so.”
Aizawa’s hairs prickle and he senses it’s his cue to leave. It’s a horrible fucking idea to engage in combat, especially with his compete lack of information of exactly who he’s up against. Perhaps he could place a tracker?
“By the way,” Dazai murmurs abruptly, “are you sure there isn’t a sneak near you?”
Aizawa’s posture instantly straightens and his attention shoots to the ceiling under the guise of studying menus while blood rushes to his head, suppressing the urge to look around. He can’t see how Chuuya reacts but judging on his carefree banter, he doesn’t don’t seem to care.
“Ha, comme si je serais si incompétent, connard,” Chuuya says, and Aizawa’s nails dig into his palms. They’re teenagers. Children. So what happened for them to be working like this? And to top it off they can speak perfect French?
He feels uncomfortable at not understanding the conversation, in the way he always feels when his enemies have pulled wool over his eyes.
“Quoi qu’en dise le petit mafieux! Je commence à craindre que ton cerveau soit aussi petit que toi.”
Chuuya switches to English, something Aizawa can understand. “You better shut your mouth you piece of shit! Or I’ll do it myself!”
“Yes, please! Preferably not painfully though, if you may-” Dazai cackles as his companion shrieks, trying desperately not to cause a scene.
“You’re a pain in the ass.”
“So are you Slug.” Dazai finally reverts back to Japanese and noise filters through his side of the call. “Oops, sorry! I'm coming, I’m coming! Ne, Chuuya, save some crab for me like a good dog, pretty please? Mori isn’t letting me eat again. There isn’t a single crumb of food in the whole entire airplane!”
“Whatever. Just stay on the plane and fly back to bother someone else, will you? And besides, it’s tiring here enough as it is. These hero people’re always preaching about one thing or another.”
“It is what it is. But don’t worry. Now that I’m here, things will start getting fun.”
Dazai’s giggle is much too light for the dark atmosphere.
“Mm-hmm,” Chuuya replies, unconcerned.
“I’ll see you soon Chibi!”
The line cuts, and Aizawa’s left with his thoughts. The café now seems like mindless scenery, the sounds of cars driving and people talking blurring in his ears. He shakily pulls out his own phone and briefly considers. Toshinori or Principle Nezu? Just as his clammy fingers find Nezu’s contact number a gloved finger taps the table in front of him.
He looks up.
This time Aizawa can see it, the thing he couldn’t put his finger on. Every angle of this man is sculpted to violence, precision, emulating an aura of wrath. Though he’s relaxed, casually standing there like a slightly rugged but ordinary teenager to anyone who looks, he leaves no openings where Aizawa can target him. His small frame’s in a defensive stance but the glint in the piercing blue pupils screams danger, ready to attack and aiming to kill.
Chuuya holds out a card. Now, his black fedora covers his ginger hair and slants over his eyes.
There’s no trace of the sincerity he recalls from earlier.
Chuuya doesn’t smile.
Aizawa takes the card. It’s his Hero license.
“Take better care of that,” Chuuya comments, an edge to his voice. Aizawa can’t see his face well enough to read it, trying to press down his unease.
“Thank you,” he finally replies steadily. “I didn’t know that I’d lost it.”
“I thought you would need it in the future. You can’t use your quirk without it, huh?”
Aizawa nods without breaking eye contact.
“Is there something you’re looking for?” he asks and crams as much intimidation into the words as possible. But Chuuya tilts his head contemplatively, causing the shadows to darken. “You seem to enjoy cafes.” He pauses. “Could you tell me where a good seafood restaurant is?”
“...I’m sure there’s one the street beside here. It’s about a ten-minute walk.”
“Thank you. You see, that shit mackerel of a partner isn’t eating again.”
Aizawa gives up on trying to catch his expressions. He tries to ignore the words and gathers himself.
He looks down at the license, trying to control the rapidly unraveling nerves. When he glances back up after a moment to demand answers, the store is still full with the exception of one teenager. He looks out the window overlooking the streets just in time to catch the ends of a hat and a flutter of bandages.