Maigo- A BNHA OC Story

Not Rational

After a long day and night of nothing interesting, he is ready to go home. Usually, his nights are filled with rushes of adrenaline, rooftop chases, shouting, intense physical exertion, long-winded fist-to-cuffs.

So why the sudden dry spell?

It isn't like criminals and villains to just stop. They may lay low, but they still disrupt society. A good bad guy can never go a few days without showing some smoke.

He exhales, a long, drawn-out cross between a sleepy sigh and a throaty huff. Shrugging his shoulders, he continues walking down the darkened street, rain droplets pelting his head, clinging to the mess of black hair that covers his scalp and face. At least now he can go to sleep instead of filling out paperwork or correcting tests- it is a Friday night, after all.

He allows himself to slip into a dazed state, trusting his weathered feet to lead him home without putting in too much effort to steer. Tomorrow, he would have to work up enough motivation to visit the laundromat- two outfits, plus a night shirt and a handful of boxers. The socks could go a while longer without anyone noticing. His hand makes its way up to his head, fingers combing through the thick hair at the nape of his neck. A shower wouldn't hurt, if he had time.

His laugh comes out as a stilted hiss through his nose. Look at him, discussing plans with himself, as if he actually had an intention to follow through with them. A thin smile stretches across his stubbled face. How irrational.

He knows tomorrow they'll try to convince him to put effort into his life. He knows they'll use almost any means necessary to get him to clean himself up. He closes his eyes and imagines how it will go, how it will start, how he will counter any argument they throw at him.

"C'mon, Shou. Ya gotta put some effort into your life."

"What if you found the right person, hm? Would you really want to scare them away with your horrid personal hygiene?"

"She's right, man. You gotta get your life together. As your best friend, I am obligated to nag you about this until you take action. Don't make me resort to desperate measures!"

The man shudders at the thought of the blond's 'desperate measures'. Last time he pushed that far, everyone's eardrums were ringing for an entire week. And all in the name of a five-minute shower. Maybe it would be best to give in. Just this once.

His thoughts are interrupted by a hiccup off to his left. His neck snaps his head in the direction of a blackened alleyway, senses suddenly on high alert, hand reaching for the thick gray scarf wrapped around his neck. Body frozen, knees bent, he slowly inches closer to the source of the noise, boots squelching against the soaked pavement below him. As per usual, his eyes barely need to adjust to the darkness around him. What he sees makes him stop cold.

The pitiful figure of a girl presents itself to him, her limbs a tangled mess, barely covered by her ratty yellow jacket. Water pours off of her, dripping down the pink strands of hair and splashing onto the ripped plastic remnants of what he can only imagine to be a trash bag that she is laying on top of. Her entire body shakes slightly, desperately trying to fight off the frost that must have settled in her core hours ago. Another tearful hiccup escapes her lips, darting out from her lifeless form and punching the man right in the gut.

He's seen her before.

He knows her, has seen her while he was out on patrol numerous times. He's casually followed her around, not consistent enough to classify as stalking, more like keeping tabs. He knows how she gets by, how she finds food, makes shelter, live through the night. But most importantly, he knows what her quirk is. He knows how she can manipulate people's minds, making them see things that aren't really there. He knows that she can affect multiple people at the same time, taking more energy out of her than just one person. He knows she relies heavily on her quirk in order to get food, or clothing. He knows that she can't manipulate technology, which is why she is wary of the security cameras in the convenience store, and- the man shudders, guilt pooling cold and heavy in his stomach, weighing him down.

He knows that if he hadn't erased her quirk a few days ago, she might not be in this situation now.

He looks back down at the small, trembling ball at his feet, remembering how she had so carefully chosen items that could fit into her pockets. He remembers her tentatively creeping up to the counter, the shiny red apple traveling up from her hand to the cashier. He remembers how, with one look, he completely ruined any chance of her obtaining it.

And now, he beholds the consequences of his actions. Muttering curses to himself, he crouches down and places his index and middle finger on the crook of her neck, right behind her jawbone. Might as well make sure she still has a pulse.

She is ice cold, her skin sucking what little warmth his fingers house right out of them and takes it someplace even colder. Her veins weakly pump, their movements tickling his finger pads. She is still alive, for now. He straightens, his mind racing, jumping from one conclusion to the next, trying to find the most logical course of action.

   What can he do?

   He can't just leave her here. She's too small and weak, and the rain is another added factor. With just the chill and her weakened state, she may have a chance for survival, but the rain will strip her of anything that could stand up against the cold.

   There are no places nearby that could take her in for one night. All the soup kitchens are closed, the workers very strict on their hours. Even volunteers draw the line on some things.

   There is no way he could make her a fire that would last more than a few seconds. And if he doesn't stay, who's to say she wouldn't throw herself in?

   Then there's the concept of food. The man quickly pats himself down. He does not have any form of food on him, nothing he can leave with her. Again, any soup kitchen close by has shut its doors a long time ago, and won't open them again until morning. Assuming she will be able to walk, it will take her hours- and too much energy- to even find one. And then, she may have to fight for a place in line. It seems as though there is now way help her. The man takes one last look at the child before deciding to turn away. It's not every day you get to lose this type of battle.

   ...Then again, his apartment is dry. He may not use the heater all that much, but a few layers of blankets could suffice. He has protein packets in his cupboards, it would be easy to give her a few of those. And they're preserved so she won't have to worry about them going bad. He could easily bring her back to his place and take care of her himself.

   But.

   The man falters. But what if people see? It is not like a pro hero to just fall over the first helpless child they see. Finding a safe place for them? Sure. Making sure they are given food and medical attention? Definitely. Taking them home? Absolutely not. It is neither professional nor right to take home a child and claim it as their own. Someone would be looking for them.

   He looks back down at the girl, still shaking, still hiccuping, still on the verge of death. Someone would be looking for her. His mind drifts, trying to form the image of who could possibly be looking for this girl. And yet, in the past two or three weeks he's seen her, not a soul would look her way. No one acknowledged her, or embraced her. No one would hold her or grab her or keep her out of harm's way. In fact, in the short amount of time he has been keeping tabs on this little one, he seemed to be the only one that cared.

   An exasperated huff escapes his lips as he sinks down again, this time wrapping the child tightly in his arms. She is limp, and drenched with water. There is no way he will be able to do anything for her like this. Propping her up against the wall, he reaches into his back pocket, pulling out his bright yellow sleeping bag, thankful that it is waterproof. As soon as he zips it open, he makes quick work of lifting the girl up and lowering her in. He zips the bag up again, nestling her inside of it, like a sleepy caterpillar in a cocoon. Then, with a slight heave, he lifts her up and walks on.

   He walks away from the alley, back out to the street. He walks beside the streetlights, checking every so often to make sure the girl is still breathing, but also still asleep. He walks up to the entrance of his apartment complex, faltering only for a second as he finds his key in his pocket. As he steps in the elevator and zooms up to his floor, barely aware of the slight weight he cradled in his arms, he only has one thought bouncing around inside his head.

   It just simply isn't rational.