Chapter Text
The hall filled with a dense, impenetrable crowd as students gathered around the windows. Noise had drawn curious teachers to the scene, but even the most respected of them struggled to break through the masses.
“What’s going on? I can’t see!”
“They’re fighting!”
“Who?”
“Take a wild guess!”
Those who knew the fighters—students of Class 1-A—were closest to the windows. A shaggy-haired boy cupped his hands around his mouth, pleading for his friend to just apologize. There was no sense in hitting a girl, no matter how tough she acted.
His discouragement, however, was matched with cheers from his side. Throwing up her summer-tanned fists, Mina Ashido shouted just as loud for her side: “Shut up, Kirishima! Beat his ass, sis! Don’t let him get away with it!”
The chaos spread. Renowned hall monitor (and insufferable teacher’s pet) Tenya Iida forced his way through to the end of the hall and ran for the stairs, hoping to break apart the fight while it was still in its early stages. Shouto Todoroki, a cop’s son, looked on in reserved disgust at the delinquents’ display before excusing himself back to the classroom.
Outside, beneath the shade of an old mahogany tree, only one interloper had managed to arrive at the scene. Izuku Midoriya grasped at dark locks of his own hair, panicked by the threat of a brawl, and begged ineffectively for the two of you to stop.
“I’ll stop when he apologizes!” you finally snapped, waving your improvised weapon so that it sliced the air with a menacing swish. Midoriya flinched at the sound, receding further into the shade for fear you might turn that bamboo pole on him.
Your opponent scoffed at the idea of an apology, removing his blazer and unbuttoning his shirt. He took that off, too, casting it aside, and put up his fists. His sweat caught the sunlight, damp from the sweltering August heat. “To Hell with that. I meant what I said, bitch.”
That was strike two, but there wouldn’t be a third.
You charged forward, bringing down the pole. He blocked with his arms, soon to be swollen with bruises if he didn’t make a counterattack, and looked for an opening.
“Can’t you just say sorry, Kacchan?!” Midoriya yelled, but it was beyond that now. You were out to humiliate him, aiming for somewhere that would leave a mark.
To your surprise, Bakugou dropped his guard. You hit him square on the jaw, pausing on impact, and he took that moment of hesitation to seize your weapon, prying it from your hands and throwing it into the fountain.
He grabbed your hair and you grabbed his, thrashing like bears as you pushed and pulled one another closer and closer to the water. Finally, you got the upper hand, bringing his face down to your knee, a stream of blood pouring from his nose.
“You! Stop this!” a fourth voice shouted, entering the courtyard. Iida, that pretentious sh*t. You ignored him, throwing Bakugou to the ground and wailing on him, punch after punch. “I said stop!”
Bakugou put up his arms in defense, then managed to roll you over. The brick patio burned beneath you like a bed of coals, leaving red and grey rubble embedded into Bakugou’s back. He punched you right back so that you tasted blood, but a swift blow to his ribs toppled him, earning a satisfying wheeze.
As you wriggled your way from beneath him, you took hold of his hair and dragged him towards the water. You were strong for a young girl, honed from afternoons of street brawls and exercise. It was all you knew. Not like your parents gave a sh*t, wherever they were. Long as they sent money, they figured it excused them to go on their little excursions. They spent nights in Paris, Hong Kong, Berlin; you spent nights smoking in the living room, ramen for dinner, and if some punk crossed you, then no one was there to stop you from going out late and beating their ass.
You shifted your hold to beneath Bakugou’s armpits and threw him over the concrete barrier, right into the fountain. Jumping in, your skirts soaked as you got right back on top of him.
A firm hand took hold of your wrist, stopping you. “That’s enough.”
The voice was deep, emotionless. You recognized it immediately as your teacher’s voice—the handsome Mr. Aizawa—and yanked your hand away, relenting. Bakugou looked up at you, one eye swollen, exhausted but filled with indignation.
“Sensei,” you replied, following up with a mocking bow. Your eyes snapped up to meet his. “Can I bum a cig?”
“Do you think this is funny?” Mr. Aizawa asked, crossing his arms. “The year’s only just started, and you’re trying to assert yourself like a common thug. These aren’t the streets, (last name)—you’re disrupting your fellow students.”
“I had to stand up for myself, teach’. You let one little sh*t talk down to you, next thing you know you’re their errand runner.”
“Go home,” the dark-haired teacher replied, unamused and visibly exhausted. “Don’t come back until you’ve adjusted your attitude.”
You frowned. He wasn’t expelling you—not yet. It was almost disappointing.
Glaring one last time at the drenched blond at your feet, you waded out of the fountain and took off your shoes.
“The next time you come here, leave whatever you have going on at home at the door,” said Mr. Aizawa, but you were already crossing the courtyard, both Midoriya and Iida giving you a wide berth.
You scoffed, throwing up your hand in a wave, then reached into your blazer pocket. Your hand brushed against a cheap lighter, a switchblade, some lipstick. “Okie-dokie, teach’. See you next week. Unless you want to come by for dinner, in which case, bring some steak, okay?”
The teacher growled under his breath, then looked at the other troublemaker. Bakugou lowered his head partially beneath the water, looking up at the clouds overhead.
“I hope that water cooled you off. You can go home, too. I’ll let your mother know you’re on your way.”
Bakugou remained still as Mr. Aizawa left. Iida followed suit, leaving only Midoriya in the courtyard with him. He cursed quietly, splashing the water in fury, and stood.
“Kacchan…”
“Shut your f*cking trap,” barked the blond, his pants clinging to his legs and sagging beneath his underwear. The eyes of everyone in 1-A... no, of practically theentire school, seared into him like a burn. There wasn't enough time in the fight for him to turn the tables; he was left branded by shame, humiliation. “That crazy bitch…”
Ashido laughed as you chopped up the vegetables she’d delivered. Thanks to her, it would be stew for dinner—not that you couldn’t afford groceries, but you really felt no point in cooking if you weren’t making something for a friend.
“You should’ve seen his face! He was so red, dude.”
Cigarette smoke filled the apartment, dancing in wisps around her manicured fingers. She took a drag, coughing; smoking was still new to her.
“That’s what you should call it, I think,” she went on. “Your gang. Aka.”
“Aka, huh?” you replied, dropping the chopped carrots into the broth. They floated to the top, simmering. “Seems a little short.”
“Well, think about it—your lipstick is red, too. And so is blood. It’s bold, brazen, like a flag.”
“A red flag,” you couldn’t help but chuckle, coming over to the table and taking her cigarette for a puff. You inhaled easily, experienced, while Ashido looked over your scraped knuckles with admiration. “Akahata.”
“Hey, that’s good, sis. Or should I say ‘boss’ now?”
“Sis,” you answered, returning her cigarette. “You’ll always be sis, even when I take over this damned city.”
It was a pipe dream, this gang of yours, but one that had been in the works as long as you could remember. Other children dreamed of being doctors, astronauts, but you knew how sh*t really worked. The true kings—queens—reigned from underground. It was the underlords who pulled the strings of society. Someone like you had no other choice but to claw your way to the finish line.
Crime, or law. No universities would ever want you at this rate; hell, most high schools wouldn’t even take you in. If you changed your ways and worked your hardest, the best you could really hope for was a serf’s job, appeasing customers and saying yes sir, I’ll do my best! with a false grin until the day you died of a stress-induced heart attack.
Even if you did somehow ‘succeed’—what were the odds you’d end up just like your parents? Working overseas for some foreign company, married with a child you never saw?
“What’ll we wear?” Ashido asked. “Should we dye our hair? Get tattoos?”
“Hell yes,” you grinned. “I don’t think we have to match that stuff. Let our girls express themselves how they see fit—but I do think maybe we could have matching jackets? Maybe a patch on the sleeve and some kanji on the back?”
“I like it!” Ashido agreed, tapping thoughtfully on the table. She adjusted her legs beneath her, growing more comfortable. “Hey, what if I dyed my hair pink?”
“Is that possible?”
“I’ve seen it done on accident before. Tough guys trying to have red hair… surely I can do pink.”
You smiled at your friend, nodding with approval. It was settled then: you had a name, a plan, and a first member. Your eyes trailed to the newspaper on the table, skimming the headlines. “Hey, check this out.”
Ashido looked. There, beneath your painted nail, was the title: THE OMEN OF A FAILING NATION: RISE OF THE SUKEBAN.
What a time to be alive.
