A Blotched Draft

Hans lay down on the couch, sighing as a loose activation of his noble phantasm healed him. He was glowing slightly blue in the process, tainting the dark living room with ethereal wisps of azure light. Said light, however, interfered with the screen of the computer slightly.

"Why does writing even come with a fog effect?" Hans said, irritatingly waving his hand in front of the screen.

He looked down at the activation of his noble phantasm. A power that allowed him to aid the target to achieve their ideal self through his words.

…Maybe just writing the word healthy for himself was a bit too vague. Still, he yawned and stretched on the couch. Today had been a long day.

The little match girl was struggling for the light switch, while the elder tree watched from the corner in her flowerpot, slightly dejected. The snow queen, however, was not so uncaring about their situation.

"You couldn't even pass a hero exam." She said, looking at some of Hans's ripped shirts on the floor. The mermaid hovering around Hans's neck chose that moment to swim through the air and lunge at the snow queen, who absentmindedly batted the small creature away.

"Well, I never pretended to be competent." Hans sighed, scratching at one of the burns on his back. "At least I got a good poke at some of the brats."

"Speaking of which, was that really necessary?" the snow queen said, "I mean, why do you even care?"

"Why did I save that hero in the alleyway?" Hans asked himself. "I do a lot of things. I mean, I wrote you…"

"Damn you…" the snow queen said, gritting her teeth. "Stop avoiding talking about yourself by insulting the person in front of you!"

Hans took off his glasses and cleaned it on his simple, white shirt. He brushed some blue locks of hair out of the way of his equally blue eyes before putting the old fashioned design on once more.

"Honestly, I don't see a reason for changing." Hans said. "The world is filled with hypocrisy. Demonic and incomprehensible women. Like Kiara. The upper class. The lower class. Authors that have to work and write for hours and hours just to get some brea-"

"I get your point." The snow queen said, "But why does this keep coming back to you distancing yourself from everybody else? I literally live in a frozen castle and even I know that it's unhealthy!"

"Don't you get it?" Hans said. "The author turns to the pen when the world doesn't go his way. I've accepted that I'm unsociable and rather insufferable. Why, if you ask Charles, he would say that I was the worst houseguest he had ever had."

"Charles Dickens has been dead for hundreds of years."

"Haven't I been dead for hundreds of years as well?" Hans said.

"And you're doing it again!"

"Either way," Hans said, "I have resigned myself to my fate. At least this time I wasn't summoned on a mission to save the world… or in a computer on the moon or something."

"Anyways why'd you antagonize your future classmates…" the snow queen sighed, exasperated.

"Future classmates?" Hans said, smirking at his own creation. "I got dead last on the exams. I mean, they were literally races."

The lights chose that moment to turn on. Hans blinked furiously, the sudden lights causing some amount of discomfort.

"Did you finally reach the light switch?" Hans said, looking back at the doorway. What met his eyes was not the sight of the little girl that always made him feel guilty. It was…

"Hey, mom." Hans said, "You heard all that, didn't you."

He sighed. Damn his rank D territory creation. If he had any sort of actual ability as a mage, he wouldn't be surprised by stuff like this.

"Last place on the exam?" his mother said, walking into the room. "Did you do that badly?"

Hans raised a single leg. "The course was like, two kilometers. And lined with robots. How many steps do you think I'll need to reach the end?"

In contrast to Hans's gaunt and short figure, his mom, in this life, was actually fairly tall. She lived a life that Hans dreaded, filled with calls of deadlines and an omnipresent pressure to do well.

If there were two people that he could never disrespect, it was his parents. Though almost never present, they did work hard for his sake.

"Failing a hero exam is nothing!" his father said, grinning despite the bags under his eyes. "I remember when I dreamed of being a hero. Then, my quirk came in, and-"

"Yes, yes." Hans groaned. "You've told me this story tons of times. At least work on an introduction if you're going to keep persisting on rambling it out."

"Well, you can always write me one, can you not? Anne, what do you think? How many… reads does Hans have again?"

His mother crossed her arms, shaking her head in disbelief.

"Alfred. You don't remember the novel that our son published?"

"That was rushed work at best." Hans interjected. "And I regret my decision about publishing that series."

"Well, at least nobody will know you wrote it." Alfred said, chuckling. "Giving you that writer's name basically gave you a pseudonym."

"Nobody remembers who wrote the Little Mermaid or the Little Match Girl." Hans said, grunting. "They're all too busy watching videos of All Might or something. Who needs fairytales when more exciting stories are being published by the day?"

The little match girl shuffled over to Hans and grabbed his legs. Then, she looked at him like she was having an existential crisis. His mother tustled the blonde hair of the nameless little girl, making her look up and give a weak smile.

"Well, at least Disney is doing remakes again." Anne said, now turning her gaze to Hans. "Why are you so defensive of fairytales anyways? Is it just because of your quirk? If you want, we could go see-"

"No." Hans stuttered. "They ruined m-those stories! They were never meant to be cheerful tales! But just to give their movie a neat and happy ending, Disney-"

"Why'd you have to mention Disney again?" Alfred whispered, glaring at his wife. Anne glared back.

"-they even gave the Tin Soldier a happy ending! I mean, why did they even bother to credit me? The-"

Eventually, the snow queen had to freeze Hans's mouth shut.

…

The Essay was something that was spreading across the UA faculty like wildfire. Many shunned its cynical and supposedly shallow arguments.

"What hero would recommend such a student?" Present Mic said loudly, scratching his strangely styled hair gently. "I mean, who is this Hans Christian Anderson kid again?"

Nedzu began to cackle. "He's the one who wrote the fate series light novels a couple of years ago."

"Wait… a couple of years ago… that means that-"

"Yes. Hans Christian Anderson wrote an entire book series when he was ten years old."

The room was silent for a moment.

"Wait, isn't there some other writer with that same name?" Midnight, of all people, said.

"Yes." Nedzu said, his rattling teacup now carefully placed besides the manuscript of an essay that Hans had written. "The fairytale author Hans Christian Anderson. Also, I never really took you for a fairytale reading type, Midnight."

"…This is growing stranger and stranger." Aizawa said. "His quirk, too, concerns these tales. You can identify them one by one."

"The little match girl. The little mermaid. I… wanna… say… Thumbelina?" Snipe grunted, his stoic mask not hiding his confusion.

"What a strange series of… coincidences…" Nedzu smirked. "I approve of him."

"What?" the teachers yelled.

"Such an immature brat has no place in the hero industry." Aizawa snarled. "It's for his own good that we reject him."

"No, no." Nedzu said, smiling. "He wrote the essay in order to be rejected, and instead, replaced the essay with the boldest, most scathing truths that he could contend about the hero industry. Now, tell me, do any of you actually act as heroes just to save people?"

"Of course I… do?" Snipe shouted, before hesitating. He remembered his childhood, and how he had always wanted to take his slingshot, crossbow, and later BB-gun to greater heights just to prove that flashy elemental or mutant quirks weren't the only powers that could make a hero.

Everybody stared at the ground. Clearly Snipe wasn't alone in his reminiscing.

Nedzu grinned. "Don't worry. Even if we're all upstanding citizens, it's understandable that we're also selfish. But it's because we like our current lives, and its this adherence to the status quo that inspires us to give our lives in order to protect our status quo, so that a world that we want, a world where we can profit and improve our living situation, could exist as well."

"That's… that's… from the essay." Midnight said, slowly sitting down in shock.

"It's still ridiculous." Aizawa said, crossing his arms. "Many people still become heroes in order to inspire change, or out of the innate goodness of their heart."

"Ah, but this essay also covers how to inspire people to act… with a cause that they can rally behind. It could be advocating for disadvantageous quirks, or using saving people as a way of self fulfillment."

"What about All Might, dude?" Present Mic shouted enthusiastically. "All Might is the symbol of peace! Surely, he would represent a hero that exhibits altruism!"

"Still, now that we look at it, it's not a terrible essay." Snipe said. "Cynical as it was, it still had its points. 'Sides, he did save that most recent victim of the Hero Killer."

"The combat hero Iceblade." Aizawa muttered dully. "Though his rankings are relatively low, he's still very popular in his area. I've had the… inconvenience of running into somebody of his… personality."

"Oh, Nichin-san isn't that bad. He's just a bit loud, like me!" Present Mic said, patting Aizawa on the back and grinning. "Besides, isn't it good that he's alive? Without that kid's healing quirk, he would have bled out."

"All in favor of allowing him in?"

"Wait, where's Vlad King?"

"He's helping Cementoss with the blueprints of the regular exam's mock city."

"Ah. Anyways…"

In the end, there were two agreements, one disagreement, and one neutral.

"But… he did score last on the practical." Aizawa argued, looking into the harsh eyes of the applicant staring up at him through a photo. "How are we going to explain that? We email the ones who recommended each student the scores of those on the practical."

"Just let Iceblade add in a note." Nedzu said. "I'm sure nobody will disagree. Except for you, of course, Aizawa-kun."

…

Toshinori Yagi thumbed through the essay, his skinny face growing darker and sadder with each passing word. A hand wrinkled the photocopied essay as he read the word Altruism for the last time.

"I'll prove to you… Anderson-san… that a real hero does exist!" he said, trying to inflate some positivity back into himself.

His walkie talkie blared. "All Might, we have a situation ten-forty two near Mustafu Bridge…"

A police siren sounded in the distance. Putting away the papers into one of the hidden pockets on his costume, Toshinori bulked up again, jumped off of the rooftop of the All Might agency, and with a jovial laugh, waved at the passersby.

Yet still, a hint of doubt remained in his mind.

Why was he a hero? Maybe… It was to prove something.

…

Chizome Akaguro stalked the streets, his footsteps silent, yet his breaths were long and heavy.

His latest victim had… survived. Aided by an unnamed brat with a healing quirk. Underneath the raincoat that he wore despite the uncomfortably stifling humid air of March, he gripped the seasoned guard of his katana in an iron fist.

"Why…" he thought. "Why does the world oppose my revolution so?"

He had checked the forums. And seen the comments. Although some had joined him in believing his creed of heroes, many others merely scoffed in disbelief or fear. Additionally, none had joined him in his noble crusade, and had taken the act of cleansing society into their own hands like himself.

"And if today couldn't get any worse…" A deep voice groaned, the rustling of a plastic bag meeting Stain's ears.

"A villain?" Stain thought. His days as Stendhal were behind him, but he still was more than glad to eliminate society of its most baseless forms of garbage.

So, what was this? A body disposal? A deal gone wrong? Katana in his hands, Stain crept to the roof of the building, jumping from rusty fire escape to windowsill, and then to a hole in the wall that once hosted a brick, before finally stopping his parkour and peeking over the ledge.

…A small, blue-haired boy was carrying a grocery bag. Inside it, a brown liquid leaked from the plastic bag. With what was left of his nose, Stain sniffed out the scent of coffee.

So it was just a student.

But as Stain looked at the student, he noticed several odd… creatures hovering around. Several things that only his faraway childhood contained.

"You noticed them too, huh?" the boy below said. "Stendhal. Or… do you prefer Stain?"

Stain remained silent.

"You insult his name, by the way." The boy said, scratching his head. "Stendhal was a French author, you know? He's not just some cool name you got off the internet."

Stain's self esteem took a blow.

"His work focused on realism and thorough analysis of his characters, but you now take his name and… commit such irrational acts."

"Irrational? Irrational?"

Stain leapt down from the building and rolled onto the asphalt streets, katana flashing in the street lamps.

"How dare you, a foul mouthed brat, call my acts of necessary evil irrational?"

The boy stared unflinchingly into Stain's eyes.

"It's simple. Because it is."

Stain's grip tightened on his katana, and he resolved to scare the attitude out of the kid. Severe sass or not, he still didn't deserve to die.

A blade flashed through the air and stopped inches before the boy's eyeballs.

"A blonde man with portal gates tried to do the exact same thing as you once." He said, smirking. "But now that you've reacted in such a way, I know that I've struck a nerve. Like that blonde man, I insulted him, his ideals, his way of life, his actions, and the results that he obtained. And now I shall do the same to you."

"And why would you do such a thing?" Stain snarled. "I have slain tens of heroes with this blade, and with this very same blade, I shall slay many more."

"Because I fear death less than my silence." The blue-haired boy said. "To stop me from speaking and writing what I really think would be to let my soul die a silent and ignoble death. If I do not speak now, I shall regret it for the rest of my life. Thus, I speak."

"Then, why is it irrational?" Stain barked, though with a significantly less amount of anger. His tone leaned on one of confusion.

"The title of hero is not deserved by many. On that, you are correct." The boy said, sighing. "The true definition of hero has been lost, and none can lay claim to the title."

Once again, a red rage took over Stain's gaze.

"How dare you insult-"

"All Might, right?" he said. "Truth be told, we don't really know a lot about All Might's backstory. All we know is his efficiency in dealing with the villain threat."

Stain listened to this wimpy retort, raised his sword, and… sheathed it. Because… he didn't even know All Might's name, much less his motivations.

"But even if we don't know his motivation, that doesn't matter. The real problem isn't with the heroes anyways."

"Then where is it?" Stain said. "And if another vague statement comes out of your tongue, I shall remove it."

"Then take it." The boy said. "I will still have my hands to write. And these annoying creatures to speak for me."

Without warning, a patch of ice appeared right beneath Stain. Caught in the trap of the boy's speech and his own lack of awareness, he was not able to avoid the ice. Still, it was just his lower body.

"Parlor trick." Stain snorted. He tensed his muscles, preparing to kick his way out of the ice, only for a gigantic hand to come smashing down on top of his head. The ice's hard surface was forced into his chin, which began to bleed. The scent of his own blood filled his nostrils, though it bothered him none.

"But either way, Hero Killer… Stendhal… I will finish my statement. You seek to address the wrong side of the problem. Society is the one that creates both Heroes and Villains. And you're digging yourself an even deeper grave just by acting."

"What's your point? The fact that society is as it is currently with false heroes is the reason that Villains run as rampant as they do now. With no true Heroes besides All Might, the Villains will continue to spread like a disease. You cannot cure a disease with a single white blood cell, you need many."

"Your stupid analogies aside, your utter hypocrisy will mean your downfall. True heroes? What a load of bad writing. Instead of living in those delusions you're so fond of, try to take a look for just one second. At the real world."

"What are you babbling on about?"

"Don't you get it, you two-bit villian? By killing those heroes, you're proving society's point. If you could rub two of your brain cells together, you might be able to find a shred of reason in that empty brain of yours. A crusade? What a joke. In the end, you're nothing but a murderer putting on a show for the media."

The boy took a deep breath. One of the humanoids floating behind him patted him on the back.

"The numbers, you fool! Look at the numbers! Crime rates have gone up so badly in this area that street sweepers are having a hard time cleaning these streets! I tripped on the trash and broke my can of coffee because of it! If you left those bad excuses for heroes alive, life would at least function normally!"

"And should they not die for their crimes?" Stain snarled, his arms flailing and grasping for the infuriating child in front of him. "Advertisements. Movies. All time wasted when they could be working for a-"

"But would that solve the problem?" the boy said, looking downwards at Stain's crushed figure. The thumb was still pressing him hard into the streets, but Stain did not reach for his blade. Awkward position or not, uncomfortable argument or not, he still had to hear the boy to the end.

"Who cares if they try to earn a bit of money on the side? As long as they're peacekeeping, what's the difference? And because of this, and your senseless actions, more and more of these… mercenaries are gonna crop up because of the most basic law of economics. If you've graduated high school, which you probably haven't, you've probably heard of it. Supply and demand!"

"And how would I reduce evil? How can I stop the creation of these false heroes?" Stain yelled desperately. The answer he sought was so close, and it resided in this young looking teenager… of all people.

"But nooo…" Hans continued, ignoring Stain's pleas. "You have to subscribe to terrible internet theories about fake heroes and how there needs to be more genuinity in this industry. Does it really even matter what you're doing when all that you've done is made things worse? Just do the right thing for once! Start a soup kitchen or something! Just do something useful with your hypocritical, insignificant life and throw away that dumpster fire of an argument that you have."

With that, the boy walked away.

"You fool! You think I can be stopped this easily? My sword has cleansed countless false heroes, and-"

Stain paused.

What had he achieved with his actions?

What had he done?

Was what he was doing… totally wrong to begin with?

"Who are you?" Stain yelled desperately at the boy's retreating figure. "Did you seek me out? How did you know I was here?"

After a moment of silence, there was a response. The boy turned, adjusting the glasses on his face.

"I'm just a student with too many deadlines and problems. Now, will you please leave me and this neighborhood alone?"

Stain stared silently at the back of his assailant

"Damn UA… accepting my terrible test results…" the boy muttered, walking away. "And my coffee is ruined too… This grocery run was a failure."

One of the creatures following the boy giggled.

"Oh, shut up, you." The deep voice said, though not in a completely annoyed manner. "Perhaps it was the work of fate that I would encounter that unbearable hypocrite."

As the sounds of the light pattering of footsteps faded away, Stain still lay in the ice, his blood seeping out from the jagged edges of the sharp crystal.

"Just do the right thing… UA application…" Stain muttered.

Against all odds, he grinned. The ice beneath him was shattered with a single stroke of the katana.

"Whoever you are… blue haired child… you hold the vision and the conviction to change this corrupt society. You may be strong, but you do not yet have the power to root out the evils of society from its root."

There was a dramatic pause, during which Stain bled rather theatrically.

"I shall aid you, boy." He shouted.

"Oh, my god. I don't care!" the boy shouted back. Stain, however, was too excited to hear said response.

"My arguments may be wrong. My solution may be wrong. But of one thing I am certain…"

Stain's eyes flashed red, and despite his injuries, his figure stood even taller and prouder.

"My actions of weeding out the false heroes are correct. I shall continue on this doomed path of mine to pave the way for yours…"

Stain walked away into the night, already thinking about this next target.

"I have great hopes for you… whoever you are… May you become the hero this nation needs,,,"

…

Hans sneezed.

"Why do I have the feeling that somebody just misinterpreted what I said in a horrible, life-changing way?"

The little match girl patted his shoulder.

"At least I didn't create another monster like Kiara this time…" Hans said. "But why did I let that hypocrite get away so easily? At least I could have gotten a kick in or something…"