#sorahiko realized that literally no cop or meta x-er could manage to hold him (so long as he wasn't stupid)

[shih-coulda-had-it]

FEBUWHUMP | KILLING IN SELF-DEFENSE | WC: 999

a/n: Set in that AU where Sorahiko (Prime Torino) time-travels to AFO and Yoichi's childhood and manages with his B+ parenting skills. TW for ableist language (used in context of this being a very anti-Quirk era) and, well, Sorahiko knifing the guy.

//

If it had been Nana or Toshinori in this position, Sorahiko muses, they would have had a tougher time getting accustomed to the sheer brutality of the era. Their present isn’t perfect, but they at least have the economy and government in working order. This is just chaos, through and through.

People lie, cheat, and steal to make it through the day, and Sorahiko genuinely has no idea how the country’s still managing an influx of goods when it seems like the world is too busy imploding to maintain a trade network.

Not his problem.

He’s got two children to mind. Food and shelter, that’s what he promised them, and he aims to deliver. The latter is a broken-down residential building, empty of any permanent legal inhabitants because of the roaming mobs and people like Sorahiko (squatters).

And as for the former, well. Sorahiko’s working on it.

“You kids want to go to the countryside?” he asks idly. Against his better judgment, he’s had to let them follow him outside the building, because the probability of Chibi-AFO taking his absence as permission to run away is much, much higher than zero. Sorahiko carries the smaller boy on his hip, and Chibi-AFO has the dubious honor of sitting on his shoulders. 

He left the uniform at home, opting for a beat-up denim jacket over his black turtleneck, jeans, and sneakers. The boys have been scrubbed clean(ish), and dressed in better clothes (though when Chibi-AFO’s base standard is a repurposed garbage bag, anything is a massive improvement).

Wandering down a street in broad daylight would have had them clocked as a family. Sorahiko uncomfortably represses the weird twist of his gut, in favor of being grateful that it’s the dead of night, as they are looking for a convenience store to rob.

“What’s that?” the smaller boy asks.

“The countryside? It’s outside the city. Quiet, if you don’t count the bugs, but pretty boring after a while. Lots of green. Probably better food.”

“No,” Chibi-AFO mutters into his hair. “Don’t wanna go.”

He sighs. Part of him--the city boy who much preferred streets of asphalt and plenty of high buildings--agrees with the toddler. The rest of him thinks that Chibi-AFO is simply being contrary. 

Ever since they discovered that Sorahiko can’t be affected by his Quirk-stealing power (it was a downright relief to know that Jet wouldn’t disappear in the middle of the night; it was absolutely hilarious to see Chibi-AFO’s face as his last murder attempt failed to spear Sorahiko’s shin, bouncing off like the black energy was made of rubber), Chibi-AFO’s been pouty and prone to temper tantrums. The smaller boy is awed to see Sorahiko survive every time.

“It’s nicer in the summer,” he says.

“Why?”

Sorahiko considers his memories of going to his grandparents’ house as a child. The backyard garden, the forest surrounding the mountain village, the many terrifyingly large bugs that found cozy homes in his blankets… He clears his throat. “Because it’s worse in the winter.”

“That’s not an answer!”

“Well, what do you know,” Sorahiko drawls, hitching the smaller boy a little higher. “You’re just a baby. I know a lot more than you.”

The specifics of what the boys seemed to know and understand about the world, their life, or even each other remains a total mystery to Sorahiko. They haven’t given him names yet, and he’s not inclined to do anything like renaming them. They don’t know how old they are, and they don’t know the name of the city they were wandering in. They can’t read, and they certainly don’t know how to write.

Chibi-AFO digs his tiny gremlin fingers into Sorahiko’s hair. “Not babies,” he mutters, and Sorahiko is about to jostle the kid when, of all the times and places, a man staggers out of an alley ahead, spots them, and brandishes a familiar whistle.

“Metas,” he snarls.

Sorahiko makes several rapid calculations. The man is sober, not drunk. That means Sorahiko can’t rely on inflicting a simple head concussion to compound any memory issues. Chibi-AFO is tense on his shoulders, and the smaller boy has instinctively made himself smaller, even as he clutches one of his brother’s ankles.

“Move even once,” he hears himself snarl back, “and I’ll make sure it’s your last. We’re just on a walk.”

“Diseased freaks shouldn’t be allowed out of the quarantine zones,” the man says, and he pulls out a knife too. Then, like a true fanatic, he goes to blow the whistle in order to flag a squad of Meta X-ers to gather.

Sorahiko crouches down and pries the smaller boy’s clinging hands off, wrenches Chibi-AFO off along with his jacket. The shrill call of the whistle sings in the previously quiet night; Sorahiko catches both boys in the jacket and squeezes their shoulders, stares hard at them.

“This’ll be quick,” he promises, and whips around at the sound of rubber soles hitting asphalt.

Knife raised. The man is mid-lunge. Sorahiko pounces with a burst of Jet, tackles him back, wrestling the knife out of the now desperate grip. The man writhes under him, like he’s just realized that he’s picked a fight against a Meta with teeth. Insults spill out of the man’s mouth, filthy enough that Sorahiko sees red when he takes the wooden handle and pins his opponent to the ground by the throat.

How many Meta X-ers are in the area? Does Sorahiko have enough time to smash and grab a few containers of instant noodles before they need to flee to the roofs? Why are people so stupid--

“White hair,” the man wheezes, and Sorahiko redoubles his grip on the knife. He wishes the man would just shut up and preserve his own life. He wishes he hadn’t brought the boys along. “White hair, light eyes, two kids. White hair… light eyes… two kids…!”

Sorahiko plunges the knife down, and hears the man manage one more, “Monster!” before sharpened steel pierces flesh and bone.