CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Iwao Oguro—not for the first time in the past few months—contemplated just heading out and leaving everything behind.
Maybe it would dull the phantom pains that flared every time he tried to access a quirk that wasn't there anymore. Something so integral to his existence, it was hard to breathe without it.
"Why won't you say anything, old man? Mum is sick, and that's all you care about… stupid work… getting worried about me liking music. You don't ever listen… you never try to understand."
Maybe it would take away the image of his baby girl screaming at him in distress, her anger and helplessness slowly morphing into hate.
That was the last he would see of her.
"I'm sorry to inform you, Oguro-san. We'll have to revoke your license. Your medical reports show that you're unfit for any more hero work."
Maybe it would take the edge off the humiliation. The one thing that gave him purpose—the field where he found meaning—ripped away with clinical detachment.
"I thought you were cool… I thought we were cool. But I guess I was wrong."
Maybe his mentee, the little prodigy, would find it in him to forgive him.
Back then, he was only thinking in his best interests. The boy had developed a violent streak, one that would go out of bounds one day if untamed. Maybe if he had worded it better, he would have understood… He would have understood.
And maybe—just maybe—it would erase the image of his wife withering in that hospital bed. A once radiant woman, now little more than a husk. Her beauty was long extinguished. A fading ghost.
He longed for her touch, for her voice, to hear her say he did good, that he wasn't a failure. That he was enough.
Too many maybes.
Oguro gazed down on Naruhata, his hometown. His city.
There was no room for doubt anymore. No room to wonder what might've been.
Only the certainty of what must be done.
He looked down at his body—scarred, rigid, hardened. A frame forged in steel and sweat. The pain in his muscles was the only thing that made his existence even remotely bearable.
The pain in his muscles was nothing compared to the one tearing at his soul.
He may no longer have had his quirk. The speed that once made him limitless was gone.
But this... this would do.
He was still O'Clock.
Albeit slower. Broken. But still him.
He turned toward his hero costume—still torn from his last altercation. The battle that had scarred him. The one that left him hollow. A worn-out echo of a man.
"No. I can't go back. I'm no longer him."
He picked up the suit carefully, as if it would shatter in his grip. He folded it slowly—ritualistically.
O'Clock died that night, fighting in the rain.
All that was left now was Iwao Oguro.
All that remained was the janitor of the fist.
His city still needed him.
And he had made a promise.
The drugs were still moving. Trigger, they called it. He had been tracking it for over a year. Too long to turn back now. Not when he was this close.
He tied the ragged durag around his face—a makeshift mask, salvaged from junk he'd found in his wife's room.
Fitting, really.
A garbage husband, father, and mentor, wearing garbage to go fight crime.
The irony made him chuckle.
Later, he would mourn the life he had lost.
But for now...
Knuckleduster was in charge.
"Another bust," Knuckleduster sighed as he sat perched atop a high-rise building.
He had been following a new lead—a major supplier of 'Ideo Trigger,' one of the harsher strains.
It was three times more powerful than the average drug on the market.
They say power corrupts, and absolute power corrupts absolutely.
When unimaginable power lay waiting in a vial of medicine, any sane person would reach for it willingly.
A fool's errand.
All that lay waiting was a slow descent into madness.
A strong body and a strong character were needed to house a powerful quirk.
The principle held true for heroes, dressed in billowing capes and smiling even in the face of despair.
It also held true for villains, their sheer force of will feeding into their abilities.
The point was that power wasn't meant to be granted on a silver platter to the average civilian.
Their hearts were not strong, so they broke under the strain of power.
Their minds succumbed to their darkest desires.
Naruhata, for the past few months, was choked full of them.
'Instant Villains.'
Iwao cracked a small smile at the thought.
If these people weren't strong enough to keep themselves in check—
He grinned as he cracked his knuckles, sporting a wild grin on his scarred face—
Then it was only fair he beat sense into them.
"That does it. You're not getting away with just a beating. We're gonna crush you and that store of yours."
Iwao looked down the building and spotted four—no, five—people below. Four boys and one girl.
Three of them were the aggressors, one holding the girl hostage, the other trying and failing to save her.
"Then that little skank is gonna show off all her goods to the world! After we have our way with her!"
Well, that was his cue to step in. He stood up as he patted down his trousers, never losing his grin, his eyes trained straight on the group.
He calculated the distance. He was seven stories up. He couldn't fall down safely without breaking something, or worse, dying on impact.
That would be a lousy way to go.
He scanned the surroundings as he tried to find a way to get down as quickly as possible. The thug spouting threats had already popped three spikes from his hands, the sharp metallic structures reflecting the setting sun's rays.
He paused as he spotted a pile of trash just next to the group.
'Good, if I just angle the swing correctly and land on there. Yes, this would work.'
At the scene of the crime
"That's too much," Koichi Haimawari said as he struggled to his feet, trying to fight the pain that was settling in.
It was just a normal patrol tonight. Helping old ladies cross the road, returning dropped items to their owners, giving directions to the lost.
You know, normal good deeds to make you feel good.
He didn't expect to run into the three thugs that he bumped into earlier. He had already run into them twice before—once on the street, and another time at the store. God had to be messing with him today or something.
"This is all happening because you pissed me off!" the leader of the group, the boy with spiky hair, growled menacingly, his claws drawing dangerously close.
'Man, this would have gone a lot differently if I could have taken them down swiftly.'
He had spotted them harassing the girl in some back alley—the low-budget idol girl that had been performing in the area and that he had talked to earlier.
She may have been annoying, but there was no way he could have walked past, seeing that they were about to molest her. He hated it so much, but it was just how he was wired.
He couldn't see someone in distress and not lend a helping hand.
"Gya ha ha! You're in for it now," said one of the other thugs. He looked like a weird cross between a velociraptor and a common house gecko.
Koichi could have taken them down quickly. He had a plan of action and everything in his head to subdue them quickly.
A plan that he did put into action, the only problem being…
Just because it looked cool in your head doesn't mean it would work out as planned in real life.
Now his plan to take them down had failed, and he could only slowly huddle up and try to get away from this mess.
'A pro hero should get here soon, right? They always show up.'
It was a vain wish. Pro heroes do show up to save the day.
But life's troubles aren't limited to the big stuff like Kaiju attacks or a crazy villain going on a rampage.
There was everyday violence, like this—common malice waiting for a trigger. Sometimes even street thugs like this could kill.
"Stop! I'll scream for the police!" Pop☆Step screamed out in worry as she struggled in vain against her captor, the giant of a man holding her down with ease, the plume of fire on his head swaying with amusement.
"Sure, do that. Or maybe yell for a hero instead? Try it. Say, 'Help me, All Might.'"
But All Might wasn't always on call. He was out keeping the world safe. All Might wouldn't involve himself in some back-alley brawl. There was no way he would come flying down and—
BOOOOOM!
The loud sound of a body crashing stole the attention of everyone present.
"W-What's that? Is he alive?"
There, lying comfortably in a heap of garbage, was a man in a brown trench coat, decked in tactical gear and wearing heavy military boots.
'Shit, that fucking hurts. I think I broke something,' Iwao cursed as he decided to lie there for a bit. He wasn't in a hurry to stand; he needed to regain his bearings.
Still, though, he was thankful the people in this part of town recycled properly. It wouldn't have been funny if he'd landed in a pile of broken bottles dumped in trash bags. That would have done a lot more damage.
"You punks… Did I hear you mention All Might?" Knuckleduster intoned as he rustled and settled into a more menacing posture. Lying like this, he looked more like a king resting in his chambers, his arms spread out.
"Well, he ain't coming."
All Might might not be here to save the day—nor O'Clock.
But he was available—in the cold corners, in the very underbelly of the city where the light of hero society did not illuminate.
"I'M HERE!"
Author's note: Honestly I know I should have taken a break or something to plan the volume but I was like you know what? Fuck it and wrote the chapter anyway. I wrote a monologue of O'Clock at work on Friday and I was thinking I'd use it elsewhere. The only problem was today was so busy that I couldn't think of what to write. Its times like this I'm grateful that this is a fanfics. For those of you that haven't read it this scene is from the first volume of MHA: Vigilantes. Tell me what you think of the chapter in the comments.