1.x (Interlude: Shota Aizawa)

[A/N: Word Count: 2876 words]

********

Exhaustion. 

Have you ever felt it? The sensation of your eyes involuntarily closing on their own, or the nausea that creeps up your esophagus when all you've had in your stomach was black coffee. How even lifting an arm feels like you're pushing against a mountain. 

Most heroes don't have a clue what actual exhaustion is. How it feels to stay awake for weeks on end just to solve a case—no media coverage, no thank you's, no fans, and definitely, no sleep. 

Most heroes chase the glitz and glamor, the fame and notoriety, rather than focus on the responsibility of being a hero. A true hero should prioritize the safety and well-being of those they pledge to protect above all else—not just when it was convenient or when the cameras were around. 

Shota knows what exhaustion feels like. He's pretty familiar with it. One could actually call it his long-lost friend.

He calls it a pain in the ass. 

Shota sat on the edge of his bed in the pitch-black bedroom and strapped on his work boots. He glanced at the clock (not failing to note the crook in his neck) on the nightstand that was too bright for his tired eyes—10:32 p.m.—way past his New Year's resolution of being in bed by 9 p.m. 

But when duty calls, it kicks down the door screaming.

Exhaling softly, he stood and walked, taking quiet steps out of the bedroom into a colorful living room—a stark difference from the bedroom—dimly lit by a small lamp they forgot to turn off. He briefly wondered how much it would add to the electric bill, not that it really mattered. 

Rows of bookshelves lined the wall, filled with hero training guides, psychology books, tactical manuals, and a surprising collection of vintage manga—Naruto, One Piece, Death Note, just to name a few.

Vibrant art, a few records from famous musicians, and pictures filled the walls. Pictures of Shota looking exhausted between those closest to him—his friends, if you may. A bright navy blue sofa with mismatched colorful pillows sat in front of the bookshelves; the low coffee table nestled directly in front, scattered with a few half-finished crossword puzzles and empty cups of coffee. A sound system sat in one corner, with a stack of vinyl records and a guitar propped up next to it. 

If Shota had it his way, this room would look like the bedroom—monochromatic, clean, less… bright. But the things you'll do for love, right? 

Shota clicked off the lamp and walked to the kitchen. He started the coffee machine, pulled out his trusty stainless-steel thermos, and leaned on the fridge. 

"Leaving?" a groggy voice asked, accompanied by soft footsteps from the bedroom.

"Yeah, there's another victim. But unlike the others, this one barely survived," Shota replied, glancing over his shoulder.

"That's good."

Silence met the air. 

"That she survived." Mic clarified, leaning against the doorframe in his pajama pants and a faded band t-shirt.

"I know what you meant. Did I wake you?" 

Mic shook his head, but Shota knew he was lying. He's always been a light sleeper. 

"Go back to bed, I should be back—" Shota looked at the clock on the microwave. "—sometime in the morning."

Mic slipped his hands into the pockets of his pajama pants. "If you keep pushing yourself this hard, you'll get sick." 

"I never get sick." 

"Never doesn't mean won't." 

Shota hummed, rubbing his eyes. Man, was he tired. "You're right, it doesn't. After we solve this case, my hours will get better." 

Mic's eyes trailed down to Shota's naked ring finger, then to the dark circles under his eyes. "You said that after the cultist case, the trucker incident, the bank robbery, and the—"

"I know," Shota interrupted softly, always softly. "But I mean it this time."

The coffee machine beeped louder than Shota would have preferred. Mic walked over, grabbed the thermos from Shota's hand, poured the coffee into the cup, and closed the lid.

He handed it to Shota with a soft smile. "Sweet Chaos came out yesterday."

Shota lifted the thermos and took a deep swig, the scorching black coffee waking his senses. "Did it?"

Mic nodded. "We should see it when you finish solving your case."

Grabbing his duffel filled with an extra capture cloth, medical supplies, a few energy bars, a comic book (or two, or three), and other vital essentials from the kitchen counter, Shota said, "That would be nice."

Mic walked up to Shota, dusted off a piece of lint from his black jumpsuit, and looked into his eyes. "You're not the only hero in Japan. You know that, right?"

"I do," Shota replied, meeting his gaze

"And you know you mean the world to me?" Mic asked, voice softening. 

"You do, too." He meant that. 

"So, come back home safely, okay?" Mic urged, squeezing Shota's arm gently.

Shota clasped Mic's hand and gave a rare smile. "I Promise."

"Great! Now go out there and be the sexy hero I married who catches villains like there's no tomorrow!" Mic said, grinning.

"It's 10:40 p.m., Yamada."

Mic scratched the back of his tousled head. "Oh, sorry!"

********

Musutafu Central Precinct

11:15 p.m.

Shota sighed in irritation and took a drag from the thermos he'd refilled twice already. Looking through the one-way mirror at the interrogation being conducted—if he could really call it that—he had half a mind to walk in and do it himself. 

One of the many incompetent cops at the precinct was conducting the interrogation, taking on the case, hoping to scrounge up any crumbs, any opportunities to rise in the ranks—in other words, a fool. 

The cop placed a small cup in front of the witness, a homeless man who looked half asleep and in dire need of a shower. Sitting opposite the homeless witness, he set down his manila folder and scooted up to the metal table, his belly pressing heavily against its edge.

The witness opened his eyes and peered down at the plastic cup, which looked like someone had taken it from the trash and refilled it with whatever toxic waste they kept at this precinct. He wrapped his cracked, dirty fingers around the cup, lifted it to his mouth, and sipped. 

"What the hell?" He yelled, spitting out the coffee. The liquid spattered on the table. "I asked for cream." 

The cop's grip tightened around the now-wet manila folder, leaving dents on its surface. Through gritted teeth, he replied, "We're out. I'm sure you can manage, considering the type of life you live."

"My dog's shit tastes better than whateva that was." The man's eyes trailed around the room: from the cup of coffee to the one-way mirror, the mosaic of cracks in the acoustic ceiling tiles, and finally down to the cop's protruding gut. "And looks like they hire anyone around here, huh? How'd you get this job, fatty? You know somebody around here? You suck somebody off to get your job?"

Reaching his breaking point (which was surprisingly short, Shota noted), the cop stood up and slammed his hands on the table. "Enough of your crap!"

"Oh, wow. Looks like I was right! Who was it? I promise I won't tell. Your boss? What about that big fella outside—yup, it was him! He started singing off-key. "Two fatties walking, walking down the street," Clap—Clap—Clap. "They didn't know what to do, so they sucked each other off." Clap—Clap—Clap. 

The cop lunged over the table, fist cocked. The homeless man, instead of cowering in fear, had a slight lift in his lips.

Just as the cop was about to deck their witness—the only witness they've had since the serial killer started his escapade a month ago—a gray cloth wrapped around his arm, holding him in place. 

Surprised, the cop turned to the now open door to see Shota standing there, eyebrows raised, clearly unimpressed.

"I—I was just about to ask him what he saw at the scene," the cop stammered, with his sorry lie.

"Get out." 

The cop struggled to get his chubby fingers underneath the cloth. "I've got it. I don't need you to—"

Shota's eyes flashed red, and the capture cloth around his neck floated menacingly. "Out. Now." 

The cop flinched as he met Shota's eyes, but after a moment of silence, he pushed himself away from the table. Taking that as compliance, Shota loosened the capture cloth and pulled it off his arm.

Muttering under his breath, the cop bumped into Shota's shoulder as he stomped out of the room; Shota didn't fail to memorize the cop's identification number on his chest. That'll come in handy later. 

Shota sighed and closed the door. Turning to face the witness, who looked to be enjoying the show, he walked to the table, lifted the chair from the ground, and sat down. Now that he was near the man, he caught a pungent odor wafting from his body—a deadly mix of stale piss and alcohol. 

From the observation room, he looked old—maybe in his late fifties. But up close, Shota could tell he was probably closer to his early thirties; his skin, although dirty, was smooth with minimal wrinkles, and his cheeks had a plumpness absent in the elderly. 

All of his facial hair was well overgrown. His salt and pepper beard ran to his mid-chest, and his eyebrows were thick and matted—like the tangled jungle atop his head. He looked like he hadn't seen water or soap in at least a year. 

"Sorry about that," Shota said, passing the man a full cup of coffee—with cream this time. "This should taste a bit better." 

The man eyed the cup for a beat, but grabbed it and took a shallow swig. "Ahhh. That's much better! You're alright, man. Should've had you in here from the start instead of that other guy."

Shota remained silent.

Yes, the cop was obese, and yes, Shota was pissed that he lost his cool so fast. But no, he wasn't going to verbally degrade his… colleague—at least not in front of the witness. 

"So, you're charged with stealing twelve rotisserie chickens, fifty chocolate bars, three cases of energy drinks, and a dozen watermelons from Harvest Delights. Does that sound right?"

The man put his finger to his lips and hummed in thought. "I don't know, you tell me." 

Shota opened the coffee-stained and wrinkled manila folder on the table and read from the first page. "Koga Sadao. Breaking and entering, burglary, possession of stolen property, vandalism, and assault with a deadly weapon. Quite a record you've got here."

"Stealing something that was already mine doesn't count." He rebutted. "And the assault was self-defense. Bunko, that retard, thought I was hitting on his old lady—hell, if I would! She looks worse than the mole on my left ass-cheek." 

"Mm-hmm. I'll have to take your word for it." Shota closed the folder and crossed his arms. "Wanna tell me what you know about the attack tonight?" 

Koga leaned back in his chair, mirroring Shota by crossing his arms, too. "And why would I do that?" 

"Because you saw a woman almost get stabbed to death. With your testimony, you could save potential victims' lives."

"As heroic as that sounds," He smiled, revealing two rows of decayed teeth. "It's not quite good enough. I need some sorta… incentive. Catch my drift?" 

Shota nodded slightly, stood up, and pushed in his chair. The metal scraped against the floor. "Understood." 

He turned around and walked towards the door. "Someone should be in shortly to take you to Shizuoka Correctional Facility."

"Huh?" Koga exclaimed. "On what charges?" 

Shota turned around and tilted his head. "Did you not hear what I just said? Those charges are enough to put you away for at least five years—ten max. Stay seated and someone will come to retrieve you."

Just as Shota's hand touched the door handle, Koga's voice cut through the silence. "Wait! I'll talk!"

Shota lowered the smirk forming on his face and turned around. "What would you like to talk about?" 

"The psycho stabber, what else? Damn. You Blues always want to play hardball. If I talk you gotta promise me I'll walk outta here a free man. Tonight!"

Shota took his seat and crossed his legs. "I'll see what I can do." 

Koga huffed but started speaking. "He was a freaky-looking motherfucker—alien-like." 

"Alien? Like an extraterrestrial?" 

"A what?"

"The things from space. They fly in spaceships." He held the 'you idiot' on the back of his tongue. 

"No, no—I mean he was bald, had aleopee—alopishia. Whatever the hell that word is. He was a hairless, white, and lanky freak. Didn't look like one of us. He had on a black jacket with silver spikes on the collar—he pulled that lady into my ally, and then… well, you know the rest." 

Shota nodded, engraving everything he said to memory. "Did he have any distinguished marks? Tattoos? Scars, maybe?" 

Koga lowered his head in thought but, after a second, raised it in revelation. "Yeah! When he started stabbing her, I hid in my tent—you know, to not be the next one to get—" Koga mimicked a stabbing motion to his chest.

"—but I'm pretty sure I saw a tattoo on his left wrist." 

"Of?"

"Um—I don't know what it's called… It was like a long square with lines or something in the middle." 

"Are you sure? It was dark, and you could have—"

"I'm sure," he interrupted. "He was standing under a light. And I got good eyes, see." Koga's blue eyes suddenly morphed—his pupils dilated, and his irises turned a deep orange, expanding to fill the entire eye, leaving no white visible. They looked just like a hawk's.

"If I give you paper, can you draw what you saw?" 

"I can try," he said with hesitation. "After I do this, can I leave?"

"Maybe." 

"Argh. Fuck! Give me the damn paper." 

Shota opened the folder, pulling out a blank piece of paper. The man began drawing a rectangle—Shota guessed that's what he meant by 'long square'—with vertical lines throughout the middle. It looked like… a bad drawing. 

"Did you see what he stabbed her with?" 

Koga lifted his head and said with disgust. "It was his hand! He had her by the neck, and his hand wiggled and became a blade the color of his skin! He stabbed her with it. Didn't stop until he heard sirens. He took off—" 

Three knocks sounded at the door, and a man Shota was quite familiar with strode in with a sense of urgency—Naomasa Tsukauchi, a detective at the Police Force and one of the few people he respected. 

Naomasa exchanged glances with Shota and Koga, then spoke. "If you have a moment. There's an emergency."

Hearing the urgency in his voice, Shota took the paper and pen, placed them in the manila folder, and stood up from the table.

"So what now?" Koga asked.

"Now you wait."

"Eh?" 

"Someone will be in shortly to have you sign some documents, and then you'll be free to go," Shota said, walking towards Naomasa. Thank you for your cooperation. Have a good rest of your night—in your tent."

Shota closed the door and stood face-to-face with Naomasa in an empty, narrow hallway. The hallway lights flickered above. 

Pulling out the drawing resembling a baby's scribble, Shota handed it to Naomasa. "We have a lead." 

Naomasa frowned at the paper. "That's good. But we'll have to put a pin in the case—there's an emergency."

"What's going on?"

"Someone at Musutafu General Hospital is threatening to blow himself and the hospital up unless he gets a million dollars."

Silence hung in the air. 

Then Shota blinked.

"What the actual fuck—"

********

[OMAKE START]

Shota's foot tapped nervously on the floor while waiting for the phone call to connect. 

Naomasa, standing nearby, gave him two thumbs up. "Fighting!"

The phone call connected.

"Hey, Mic. Sorry for waking you again," Shota said.

"It's okay. Everything alright?" 

"I got a lead on the killer case."

"That's good… but you didn't answer my question."

Shota sighed. "Well… I'm going to be a little late coming home."

"What's going on?"

"Nothing—"

"Shota, if you lie to me, I will shred all of your manga."

His heart clenched—not the manga! Deciding to bite the bullet, he told the truth. "There is a bomb threat at Musutafu General Hospital."

"WHAAAAAAAAAT!?" Shota pulled the phone away from his ear so fast he almost slammed it into the hallway wall.

"I'M ON MY WAY RIGHT NOW!"

He put the phone back to his ear. "No, I got it, Mic! I just wanted to—"

"NO WAY! I'LL BE THERE IN TEN MINUTES! OHMYKAMIIIII!"

The phone call abruptly ended. Naomasa looked at Shota with pity.

"Well," Naomasa said, scratching his head, "I guess he didn't take it well?"

Shota leaned against the wall, pinching the bridge of his nose. "No. No, he didn't, Naomasa."

Naomasa crossed his arms, thinking. "Well, look on the bright side."

Shota looked up, curious. "Which is?"

Naomasa grinned. "You'll be able to work with your husband. Couple goals, right?"

Shota stared at Naomasa, unamused. "Naomasa, do me a favor."

Naomasa shrugged, smiling. "Sure."

"Shut. Up."

[OMAKE END]

********

[A/N: I had a lot of fun writing these last two chapters, especially the Omake's. What did you think about them? Let me know. And let me know if you have any thoughts about the story, my writing style, or Oliver's quirk. I find interacting with you all fun and half of the fun of writing!

If you liked these chapters, please consider stoning me or leaving a review. They really help, as I'm sure you know :]

Peace - ALT