Harvest
The air at the pier was thick with salt and rust. A cargo container sat in the dim light, its paint scuffed and dented, streaks of grime running down its sides. Ivan stood nearby, the faint glow of the harbor lights casting shadows over his deeply lined face. He clasped his hands together.
“It’s becoming more difficult,” he said in his Russian accent. “Getting people here... The paths are not calm. They are turbulent, muddied.”
Sandatsu stood a few feet away, still as a statue. His long black hair swayed slightly in the breeze off the water. He wore his usual expression, calm, unreadable, his scarred face betraying no hint of emotion.
Ivan continued. “It feels deliberate. Someone is interfering. The channels we use, the routes—they are slowing. It is not natural.” He gestured toward the container with one hand. “But as always, I deliver. The offerings are here. They are of the highest quality, as you requested.”
Sandatsu turned his head slightly, his cold gaze falling on Ivan. “Why so much complaining? Are you scared?”
Ivan flinched, his weathered features tightening for a brief moment. “Not a complaint, тень смертиi,” he said, using the title his cult reserved for Sandatsu—Shadow of Death. “A warning. The underworld is shifting. It would be wise to tread carefully.”
“I don’t mind,” He stepped toward the container. “Let it shift. It won’t change anything.”
Ivan bowed his head slightly, a gesture of submission.
The Reaper reached towards the container with psychokinesis, opening the doors. The hinges groaned, the sound echoing across the empty pier. Inside, a group of people huddled together, their faces pale and drenched with fear. Some clung to each other, their eyes darting wildly, while others sat frozen, too terrified to move.
Sandatsu’s expression didn’t change.
「Serration」+「Spinal Spear」
From his back, something shifted. The fabric of his cape rippled as long, jagged vertebrae began to emerge, extending into the air like serpents. The bone whips glinted in the dim light, serrated edges forming along their lengths.
The first whip lashed out. A sharp tearing sound echoed as bone met flesh, the serrated edges cutting unevenly through. The huddled group erupted into screams, their voices cutting through the night like jagged glass.
The whips lashed in every direction, branching and curling as they tore through the container’s cramped interior. Blood splattered the steel walls, the metallic scent mixed with the salty air outside.
Ivan watched from a distance, his expression neutral. To him, this was ritual. A holy act performed by the divine embodiment of death.
When the screams faded, the container was silent. Sandatsu stood among the carnage, his bone whips retracting smoothly into his back. His cape settled, once again hiding any trace of his brutal appendages.
This had been a good haul. He streched, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
Sandatsu turned back to Ivan. “You’ve done well.”
Ivan inclined his head, the faintest trace of pride crossing his weathered features.
Sandatsu didn’t respond. He glanced toward the container one last time before stepping away, his long strides carrying him back toward the shadows.
The villain summit was approaching. And Sandatsu was preparing in the best way he knew how.
It was an unremarkable blot of misery compared to the towering monstrosity of Tartarus or the infernal depths of Gehenna, but its banality was a weapon in itself. Karaguri prison didn’t deal in spectacle or infamy. It dealt in the mundane, the forgotten, and the deliberately overlooked.
The prison’s architecture was as soulless as its purpose: a series of squat, square buildings surrounded by layers of electrified fencing and razor wire. The main building loomed largest, a brutalist monolith of reinforced concrete that seemed designed to crush the spirit of anyone who dared look at it for too long.
Karaguri’s true purpose was hidden in plain sight. Officially, it housed lower-tier villains, those deemed too weak or unimportant for Tartarus but still too dangerous to roam free. Unofficially, it was a dumping ground for problems that the system wanted to bury. Injured villains, those who’d been mangled in clashes with heroes or caught in the crossfire of their own recklessness, were shipped here in droves. The public was told they were being rehabilitated. A complete lie, of course.
The prison specialized in making problems disappear, not through flashy executions or elaborate cover-ups, but through sheer bureaucratic inertia. Solitary confinement stretched weeks beyond the legal limit, with records conveniently “misplaced.” Medical treatments were delayed indefinitely, leaving prisoners to rot in their injuries. Because sometimes it's easier to keep a villain in a coma or unable to move rather than give them treatment or therapy that would risk them recovering. Paperwork piled up, decisions were delayed, and appeals were lost in the shuffle.
Lightning arced across the sky, illuminating the deadened surroundings of chain-link fences and razor wire in brief flashes. The storm wasn’t the only thing rolling into Karaguri that night, a new batch of prisoners had arrived.
The latest group of prisoners arrived on a transport bus that rattled like it was held together by duct tape and spite. The guards herded them out one by one, shouting insults and jabbing at them with electrified batons.
The prisoners shuffled off one by one, their chains clinking in the cold air. The first was a wiry man with deep-set eyes and a permanent sneer. The jagged scars on his face suggested he’d been on the losing end of more than one encounter. A guard jabbed him with a baton as he passed.
Next came a tall, broad-shouldered woman with hair like seaweed and skin that glistened like wet stone. She was limping badly, her left leg encased in a crude cast.
“Careful, fish lady,” another guard sneered, smirking as she stumbled. “Wouldn’t want to slip and break the rest of you.”
Next came another mutant. Towering, with a black, chitin-like shell covering his skin. Two pairs of clawed arms jutted from his back, twitching slightly as if they were alive. His normal right arm was missing, replaced by a crudely bandaged stump, and his left leg ended abruptly below the knee.
And finally, another unaturally tall man with an imposing muscular physique. His head and face was bandaged, with strands of blkack hair coming out from underneath at a few points. He flashed a toothy grin at the guards, and looked like he was enjoying himself.
Far from the chaos of intake, the medical wing was eerily quiet. Michael Morris lay on his cot, his body a ruined shell of what it once was. The bullet that had shattered his spine had also stolen his freedom.
He stared at the ceiling. During his first days he had done this same thing for hours at a time, with his face tight with frustration and barely concealed rage. But indolence had taken over, and the monotony of his existence was only broken by the faint hum of the sensors embedded in the walls.
In the control room, a row of guards lounged in their chairs, most barely paying attention to the array of monitors in front of them.
“Hey, what the fuck is that?” one of them asked, leaning closer to the screen. A faint pulse had registered, almost like a heartbeat, but it vanished just as quickly.
“Storm interference?” another suggested, munching on a stale piece of gum.
“Don’t be so fucking lazy. Cross-check it,” the first guard snapped.
The pulse hadn’t returned, but the sensors still showed something faint, almost imperceptible, like static noise that refused to settle.
The new arrivals were herded to their cells. The thin man complained loudly about the smell, earning himself a jab in the ribs with a baton. The woman stayed silent. The bandaged villain laughed openly, mocking the guards with exaggerated bows and fake gratitude.
The cell was small, damp, and reeked of mildew and sweat. The man sat on the edge of his cot, his bandaged head tilted down, long, black strands of hair spilling out from under the wrappings. His broad shoulders hunched forward. His cellmate, the chitin-covered mutant, stood silently in the corner, unmoving save for the occasional twitch of his back arms.
Mio sat cross-legged on a swivel chair. The blue tips of her blonde hair caught the light from the screen in a way that made them shimmer like neon.
Her fingers moved over the keyboard like they had a mind of their own, typing rapid responses to a conversation that didn’t seem to be taking place there. At least not physically.
“…sixty seconds,” she muttered. “That’s how long it’ll take them to haul your ass in. That’s what he said. Endeavor himself. You know, the number-one hero? Pretty big deal.”
The response came in the form of her hands jerking slightly, typing out words she didn’t consciously think.
[He’s bluffing.]
She smirked, leaning back in the chair and kicking her legs up onto the desk. “Oh, sure. Just bluffing. That’s why the whole world saw him call you out on live TV. ‘You’re finished,’ he said. Doesn’t exactly scream bluff to me.”
Her hands moved again, typing with mechanical precision.
[He knows what happens if they take the shot.]
She snorted, tossing her hair over her shoulder. “Big words. But I’d love to see you explain that to the poor bastards in the task force. Hell, you think they’re gonna call in ‘sixty seconds’ for fun?”
Outside, the storm continued to rage, the sound of rain hammering against the prison walls echoing faintly through the vents. For a moment, the lights flickered, and the faint hum of the sensors seemed to stutter.
In the control room, one of the guards frowned.
“Hey, check this out,” he said, pointing to a monitor.
“What now?” his coworker groaned, leaning over.
“Static on Cell Block C’s feed. You see that?”
It was barely noticeable, just a faint blip that faded as quickly as it appeared.
“Storm interference,” the second guard said dismissively.
“You’re always blaming the storm,” the first one muttered, but instead of letting it go, he insisted, finally getting his partner to check it out.
He sat up suddenly, his grin widening. The mutant didn’t react, his posture unchanged. The lights flickered again, and this time, the faint hum of the sensors cut out for a fraction of a second.
Then the explosion came.
Fire roared through the cell, licking at the walls and ceiling. Alarms blared, and the floor shook as guards rushed to the scene. When the smoke cleared, the prisoner stood in the center of the wreckage, his bandaged head tilted as if admiring his own handiwork. His grin was feral, teeth bared like a predator.
He turned to look at the guards surrounding him.
“Stand down!” one of them barked, aiming a weapon at him.
His grin only grew wider. He raised a hand, and the air shimmered with heat.
「Scorch」
But before he could attack, a guard fired a nonlethal round that struck him square in the chest. He staggered, but his grin didn’t falter. It only deepened as they swarmed him, subduing him with electric batons and reinforced restraints.
As they dragged him away, he looked over his shoulder at the cell.
Inside, the other prisoner’s body was blackened and broken, his chitin cracked and charred. What remained of his limbs had been blasted apart, leaving jagged stumps.
The guards inspected the scene, their faces grim.
“Goddamn psycho,” one muttered, looking at the remains of the mutant prisoner. “Didn’t even stand a chance.”
The guards moved around it, muttering about cleanup and containment, completely unaware of the truth. They were staring at a body made with「Autocopy」. Deep within the walls of Karaguri Prison, the real Sandatsu shed the disguise layer by layer.
Chunks of black chitin cracked and fell away, clattering softly against the concrete as he peeled himself free. His long black hair, streaked with blue, clung to his sweat-slick back, strands plastered to the scars that crisscrossed his broad shoulders and neck. His muscles tensed and shifted as he rolled his neck, shaking off the lingering stiffness from holding the mutant form for so long.
The extra arms of 「Branching Grasp」retracted into his back, leaving faint grooves in his skin that faded almost immediately. Sandatsu flexed his fingers experimentally, then pressed a hand against the cold, damp wall.
“Time to move,” he muttered to himself, his voice low and rough.
He activated Spectre, and phased into the wall.
Karaguri Prison’s foundation was a labyrinth of reinforced structures, decades of expansions and renovations creating a maze of dead ends and forgotten corners. Sandatsu had mapped it all out in his head, piecing together information gleaned from「Sensor Sweep」.
The prison sensors were almost everywhere. But there was one place they couldn’t reach, a tiny pocket deep in the foundation, a blind spot buried beneath layers of concrete and steel.
He slipped into the space and crouched, his tall frame barely fitting in the cramped alcove. It was cold and damp. completely dark and with no air flow.
Sandatsu leaned back against the rough wall, closed his eyes and began to assess his assets.
「Blood Puppet」
The first connection was with Mio. Through her eyes, he saw her leaning over her computer. She was muttering something under her breath, her lips twisted into a scowl that somehow managed to make her look even more stunning.
“Fucking Endeavor,” she hissed, typing furiously. “Sixty seconds my ass. I’ll give him sixty seconds to crawl back into whatever flaming trash heap he came from.”
Sandatsu smirked. Even without him there, she couldn’t resist running her mouth.
He pulled back from her perspective, leaving her to stew in her annoyance.
Next, he cycled to the guards he had under his control. Each carried two small pills containing his blood, insurance for when his control over them began to wane.
One of them was stationed near the medical wing, his hand resting casually on his baton as he exchanged banter with a coworker.
“Bet the storm knocks out the power again,” the other guard was saying.
“Yeah, and then we get to play babysitter in the dark,” Sandatsu’s puppet replied, his tone laced with just enough irritation to seem normal.
The second guard snorted. “At least you’re not on cleanup duty for that crispy bastard in Block C.”
The final connection was the other prisoner. The bandaged man sat in solitary confinement now, his body restrained but his mind very much active. Through his eyes, Sandatsu saw the cell, a stark, featureless room with walls that seemed to close in.
His thoughts were muted, suppressed by 「Blood Puppet」, but he had no more use for him now that his role as a diversion was over. He was a tool, nothing more.
Sandatsu returned to his own perspective, opening his eyes to the darkness of the hidden alcove.「Sensor Sweep」 continued to pulse outward, a steady rhythm that mapped out the prison in rough, undefined strokes. The thick walls and reinforced barriers blurred the feedback, but it was enough to track positions and movements.
He considered using「Amplification」 to enhance the range and clarity of「Sensor Sweep」, but it was too risky. The sensors would pick up on the surge immediately, and the last thing he needed was to tip his hand prematurely.
Sandatsu leaned back, resting his head against the cold wall. He closed his eyes and, considering all of his options, planned his next move.
He rolled down the sleeve of his dress shirt. The nurse, a woman in her mid-thirties with a practiced smile and steady hands, capped the vial of blood she had just drawn and carefully placed it into a tray.
"You’re all set, Mr. Shōji," she said, professional yet warm. "The results should be ready in a few days, but everything looks routine so far."
Shōji nodded, adjusting the slim black frame of his glasses. "Thank you,"
Beside him, Daisen Biki was practically vibrating with energy, her short brown hair bouncing as she turned toward the nurse. "He’s such a good patient, right? Doesn’t even flinch!" she chirped.
The nurse chuckled. "Some people make my job easy. You take care now."
With that, the nurse turned her attention to the tray of samples, meticulously labeling and logging each one. Shōji stood, smoothing the front of his shirt as he glanced at Biki, who was already by his side, her arm slipping naturally into his.
"Done with the scary part?" she teased, tilting her head to look up at him.
Shōji gave a small, almost imperceptible smile. "I think I’ll survive."
They walked out of the small, quiet room into the corridor, the sound of their footsteps muffled by the polished linoleum. She glanced at him now, remembering how calming his presence had been back then.
"You’ve got that quiet hero look down, you know," she said
Shōji gave her a sideways glance, his expression unreadable. "It was just the right thing to do," he replied, looking ahead again as they walked.
Biki rolled her eyes, but there was a warmth in her expression. "Right, Mr. Modesty."
Back in the lab, the nurse carefully placed Shōji’s blood sample into a refrigerated storage unit, its hum blending into the ambient noise of the hospital. She double-checked the labels, ensuring everything was in order before stepping out of the room.
Minutes passed.
The faintest sound of something shifting in the corner of the lab broke the stillness. A shadow moved, too fluid and deliberate to be a trick of the light. Then came the soft, nearly imperceptible scrape of a drawer opening.
Karma moved like a ghost. Her long, scaled tail swayed behind her, its tip twitching as she crouched low, scanning the labels on the stored blood samples.
Her fingers, now resembling those of a gekko, found the vial she was looking for. It was labeled neatly with Sekiei Shōji’s name and details. A slow, satisfied smile crossed her lips as she slipped it into a padded pouch at her side.
7 hours later. The alcove was still, suffocatingly so. he cold from the concrete seeped into Sandatsu’s skin. There wasn’t even the faintest hint of airflow here, but he didn’t care. He didn’t need to breathe—not in the way most people did. Hours passed in silence, but his mind stayed sharp, focused on the task at hand.
He had the guards each take another pill from the stash they carried, renewing his control over them. The movements were subtle, mechanical, and went unnoticed by their coworkers. Meanwhile, the other prisoner remained abandoned in solitary, his presence unnecessary for the next phase of the plan.
Back at Kyoto, Mio went through her daily routine. Her blonde hair, tipped with bright blue, was piled into a loose bun that swayed as she wandered into the kitchen.
The first thing she did was pick up the small vial sitting on the counter. Inside was a single pill, tailored specifically to her. She popped it into her mouth without hesitation, chasing it with a gulp of water.
Her hand reached for her phone on it's own.
[All good to go]
As she moved toward the living room, her body suddenly jerked, her hand brushing the top of her head. She froze, brow furrowing.
“What the hell?” she muttered aloud, pressing her palm to the spot as if trying to figure out what had just happened.
[My bad.]
“What do you mean, ‘my bad’?” she snapped, her voice sharp.
[Hit my head on the ceiling.]
So much for trying to act like a professional, serious villain. For a moment, she just stared at the screen.
“You hit your head?” She could barely get the words out. “That’s weird. You're in the perfect moldy little hidey-hole for the cockroach that you are. You’re practically in your element, you know.”
Back in the damp confines of the foundation, Sandatsu rolled his eyes at Mio’s mocking tone. He adjusted his position, ducking his head slightly to avoid another mishap with the low ceiling.
[Maybe you’re just jealous,]
[Considering how far your head is from anything other than the floor.]
"Jealous? Of what? A sewer-dwelling freak?"
The rain was light but steady, streaking the tall glass windows of Mio’s modest office. She stood in front of her desk, a clean and organized space with just enough personality to mark it as hers. A single yellow flower sat in a glass vase on the corner, matching the sunny tones of her frilly hero costume. The white fabric hugged her petite frame snugly, the layered skirt flowing just above her knees.
She draped her damp coat over the back of her chair and sighed. “What a shit day for rain,” she muttered, glancing at the gray skies outside.
The office was quiet, and she liked it that way. No employees meant no prying eyes, no one to question her comings and goings, or the odd acquaintances she kept. Pro hero work was just a convenient cover, a structured excuse for her movements. Paperwork wasn’t glamorous, but it was hers to deal with, and that privacy was worth every mundane task.
She smirked, grabbing a pen and flipping open a folder. No way in hell was she heading out to patrol in this weather. She hated patrolling on a normal day, so doing it in the rain was out of the question.
Besides, she had a crime to catch later, and it was already scheduled.
Night fell, and the storm over Karaguri prison intensified.
「Static Field」+「Signal Intermission」+「Amplification」
When the blackout hit, it wasn’t chaos. The guards had seen this before, one or two power failures a year weren’t uncommon. The ceiling-mounted turrets whirred into life, their independent backup systems active. They scanned the corridors with integrated sensors, but their programming was rudimentary. Guards in uniform were ignored.
His long hair, black as night and streaked with blue, clung to his damp skin as he adjusted the collar of his newly formed uniform. In the darkness, the faded colors present in anything he created with 「Magnum Opus」became harder to notice. The scars on his face pulled slightly as he smirked.
He moved quickly, his heavy boots barely making a sound as he approached the medical bay. Two guards stood at attention by the door. One of them was his, under the influence of 「Blood Puppet」. The other was an obstacle.
“Who’s that?” the unbound guard asked, squinting at the figure approaching.
The response came fast and without warning. A large hand clamped over the guard’s face. It's grip was crushing. The guard’s muffled cry was cut short as the fingers, with strength alone, dug into his head.
The man convulsed once, then fell limp.
Morris barely reacted when the lights died, plunging the prison into dim, flickering emergency lighting. For a man who spent most of his life as a constant in a very chaotic profession, this was nothing.
That’s when he noticed the figure.
It wasn’t that the man had entered unnoticed, it was like he’d been there all along, standing silently at the edge of the room. Tall, broad-shouldered, the faint light catching on jagged scars that crisscrossed his face. His long black hair, streaked with a slash of blue, shifted slightly as he tilted his head.
Morris’s heart rate didn’t spike. He’d seen worse things than a shadowy figure looming over him. Or so he wanted to think. “Who the hell are you?” he asked, his tone flat, disinterested.
The man’s lips curled into a faint smirk. “Your hero.”
The portal opened in the corner of the warehouse. A deep purple aura bled from the edges of the tear, casting irregular shadows across the walls of the warehouse. From within, two figures emerged: Sandatsu, stepping with his usual unhurried grace, and Morris, who hung midair as if suspended by invisible strings, his body shifting faintly as though nudged by an unseen breeze.
Old steel beams supported the cavernous structure, rusted in places where the walls met the floor. The large open space was carved into sections with mismatched furniture: an old couch with patched-up armrests, a scratched coffee table littered with empty mugs and stray papers, and a kitchen area tucked to one side, dominated by a retro fridge.
Drekus was the first to look up. The towering blue-skinned figure leaned against a counter, his muscular arms crossed over his chest.
"Boss!" he called out, his voice carrying a rumbling warmth that almost felt welcoming despite its volume. He uncrossed his arms and straightened up. "You bring dinner? Big sister Feral cooks today."
Across the room, Feral glanced up from the kitchen area, where she was bent over the counter chopping something with a knife that looked like it could be a weapon in its own right. Her wild dark blue hair had been tied back into a ponytail, though stray strands still framed her face. She was wearing an apron, a flower-patterned thing that seemed entirely out of place on her.
"Hey!" she protested, her voice sharp but playful. "It’s not that bad!"
Drekus, without missing a beat, raised an eyebrow and said, in perfectly fluent, clear speech, "I’m sorry to tell you this, but it is."
Sandatsu’s mask tilted slightly as he glanced between the two of them. "Food so bad it forced Drekus to actually coherently say how much he doesn’t want it. That’s a first."
Feral scowled, her reptilian tail flicking sharply behind her as she pointed the knife at Sandatsu. "Yeah, yeah, laugh it up. You’re not the one trying to make something decent with what’s in that fridge."
Drekus grinned toothily, "And yet, you insist on calling it cooking."
"Seriously stop speaking like that, you're freaking me out." she said.
"Ok." he gave a thumbs up. "Doing it make Drekus brain hurt."
Morris, still floating beside Sandatsu, watched the exchange with a growing sense of disbelief. These were the villains whose names inspired fear, whose actions sent ripples through the criminal underworld and beyond. And yet here they were, bickering like an oddball family. Monsters playing house.
Feral set the knife down with a loud clatter and turned to face them fully, her pink, slit-pupiled eyes narrowing as she took in Morris’s presence. "So, who’s the new guy?" she asked, her tone casual, as if she were asking about someone visiting for tea. "Did you pick another stray?"
Sandatsu gestured toward Morris with a gloved hand. "This is Zombie. He’ll be staying with us for tonight."
Drekus gave Morris an almost comically exaggerated once-over. "Hope floating man is not picky about food. You’ll starve."
"Ignore him," Feral said, waving a hand dismissively. She leaned against the counter, crossing her arms. "Anyway, Karma dropped by earlier. Left something for you."
Sandatsu nodded slightly. "I’ll grab it later."
Sandatsu turned toward a tunnel leading deeper into the hideout. "Now. Let’s get started."
Everything about the lab, every faded monitor, every groaning piece of machinery, every light that flickered with an unnatural rhythm, felt as though it had been conjured from a half-formed nightmare.
Morris couldn’t shake the feeling, even as the drugs dulled his physical senses and smoothed over the edges of his thoughts. It wasn’t pain or fear—those were manageable, familiar. What unsettled him was Sandatsu himself.
There was something about the way the man looked at him. At anything really.
Morris’s quirk was something he had always relied on, a constant in a chaotic world. Yet, under Sandatsu’s gaze, that certainty wavered. There was something about the man that warped Morris’s understanding of his own limits, or rather, of the world itself.
It made Morris feel as though his invulnerability wasn’t as immutable as he had always believed.
Morris’s gut twisted at the thought. He didn’t know why, but he felt certain that if Sandatsu had truly wanted to reap his quirk, he would have found a way. It wasn’t a matter of logic or reason; it was instinctual, primal. There was something wrong about Sandatsu, something that defied understanding.
Morris lay flat on his stomach over the cold metal table, his arms and legs restrained more for stability than security. The straps were tight but not uncomfortable, allowing just enough give to keep him from cramping as Sandatsu worked. His mind was clear, unbothered by fear or pain, a state induced by whatever cocktail Sandatsu had concocted with his Drugs quirk. Morris knew what was happening. He had asked, after all, and Sandatsu had answered every question with an unsettling straightforwardness.
"Why not just kill me for it?" Morris had asked, his voice steady, though his dark eyes had flickered with unease.
Sandatsu, standing beside the table with his long black hair tied back to keep it out of the way, had paused mid-preparation. He didn’t look at Morris when he answered.
“Don’t you prefer it this way?”
There had been no malice in the response.
Morris forced himself to focus on the sensations, or lack thereof,rather than the man performing it. As the procedure began, he found himself oddly fascinated by the details of it all. He turned his head slightly, watching the blurred reflection of himself in the overhead light fixture on the corner of his eye. The room was cold, but his body felt warm, as if he were floating.
The first tool appeared in Sandatsu’s hand as if it had always been there, a long, thin scalpel that shimmered with a dull, grayish hue, almost like tarnished silver. Without hesitation, he made the first incision along Morris’s spine. The blade was unnaturally sharp, parting skin and muscle with a precision that bordered on surgical artistry. There was no blood. The drugs coursing through Morris’s system ensured his body remained calm, his vessels constricted, and his nerves muted.
Sandatsu’s other hand was not idle. He extended a tendril of inky black material from beneath his skin. The tendril moved with eerie fluidity, acting as a third hand to hold the incision open while Sandatsu worked. Its surface was matte and slightly textured, like living rubber.
“What exactly are you doing back there?”
“Separating layers,” Sandatsu answered.
Morris exhaled through his nose, watching as the tendril shifted to hold a piece of retracted muscle in place.
The next tool appeared, a circular device that emitted a faint, bluish glow. Sandatsu held it over the exposed tissue, and Morris felt a strange warmth spread through his back. The device was scanning, analyzing the intricate web of nerves and quirk factors that lay beneath. The screen on a nearby monitor flickered to life, displaying an abstract, pulsating diagram of Morris’s body.
Sandatsu studied the screen, his sharp eyes narrowing. He extended another tendril from his arm, this one tipped with a fine, needle-like point.
“This is it,” Sandatsu said quietly. He extended a hand, summoning another tool, a claw-like apparatus that fit over his fingers. It glimmered with the same tarnished hue as the scalpel. "Your quirk factor is tied to your genetic code and neurological pathways. Extracting it without destroying it requires precision.”
“What now?” Morris asked.
“Stabilization,” Sandatsu replied. “I’m duplicating the quirk factor. It requires isolating it first, then coaxing it to replicate without disrupting its connection to you.”
The claw-like tool moved with surgical precision, its tips manipulating the glowing threads. Morris felt a faint tugging sensation deep in his back, like a string being plucked, but there was no pain. Sandatsu’s tendrils shifted again, holding the threads in place while the claw worked.
Minutes stretched into hours as Sandatsu continued his work, the lab filled with the soft hum of oscillating tools and the faint glow of monitors. Morris occasionally glanced to the rest of the lab. He could see the entrance to a tunnel leading deeper into the earth, its gaping mouth shrouded in darkness. The air seemed heavier the closer it got to that abyss, as if the very ground was reluctant to reveal what lay beneath.
The incision was closed using a strange liquid that hardened on contact, forming a seamless seal over Morris’s skin. Sandatsu stepped back.
“It’s done,” he said simply, his voice devoid of ceremony.
Morris sat up slowly, his movements careful. He flexed his fingers, then his arms, testing his range of motion. Everything felt normal. Better than normal, actually.
“That’s it?” Morris asked, his tone laced with skepticism.
Sandatsu nodded, leaning against a nearby counter. “You’ll feel the difference soon enough. Lay low for a few months.”
The hideout was quiet except for the rhythmic tapping of Sandatsu’s fingers on a console. He stood in the center of his lab, surrounded by the dim glow of various devices, each more alien in design than the last.
In his hand, he held a small vial. The original quirk factor. The one in Zombie's body was the duplicate.
Sandatsu returned to his work, pulling up a holographic display that projected a complex series of data streams. With a flick of his wrist, he dismissed one screen and summoned another, this one displaying a highly magnified image of Shoji Sekiei’s blood sample.
"Hiring her really is worth it, huh," Sandatsu murmured "Flawless extraction, not a trace left behind."
Shoji’s quirk is buried in here somewhere. He'd isolate it soon enough.
The precinct bustled with energy, a constant hum of conversation and shuffling papers filling the air. In the middle of it stood Mio, her petite frame drawing attention even in the crowded room.
She wore a smile that could have lit up the room if it had been genuine. It reached her eyes, the perfect blend of warmth and humility that made her seem approachable, even kind. Internally, though, Mio seethed.
"Great work out there, Forget-Me-Not!" called one of the detectives as he passed by. "Cracked that Karaguri case wide open in three days."
"Thanks! But really, I just couldn't have done it without all the evidence everyone else had gathered, and is such a short time too!" she chirped back, her voice as cheerful as ever. She tilted her head slightly, letting her hair fall over one shoulder, a subconscious move she knew made her seem more personable.
The story she’d spun was airtight, and she knew it. A mercenary squad, cobbled together from the fringes of Tokyo’s underworld, had allegedly orchestrated the break-in at Karaguri. Two corrupt guards had been their inside men, bribed to create opportunities for the extraction of a former Yakuza operative. The distraction villain—a nobody with no real connections—had caused chaos in hs first day just long enough that the actual squad could enter, and then exit during a blackout.
And when things went south, one of the panicked guards had snapped, killing the distraction villain, his fellow turncoat, and then himself. A tidy package, tied up with a bow, and every shred of evidence backed it up.
Of course, the mercenaries didn’t exist. Mio had planted whispers in the minds of a couple of thugs, vague enough that they believed they’d overheard plans but specific enough to point the investigation in the right direction. The rest of it? Fabricated out of thin air. She almost wanted to laugh at how easy it had been.
"Honestly, you’re amazing," one of the other heroes said, stepping closer and placing a hand on Mio’s shoulder. The woman was taller, her uniform crisp and immaculate, her tone had an earnestness that made Mio’s skin crawl. "I’d be honored to have you join my agency. Someone with your talent and intuition would be an incredible asset."
Mio tilted her head again, laughing lightly. "That’s such a kind offer, but I think I’d like to gain a bit more firsthand experience before committing to another agency. I’d hate to weigh anyone down while I’m still figuring things out."
The woman smiled, nodded, and moved on, but Mio’s own smile froze in place. The instant the woman’s back was turned, Mio’s teeth clenched so hard her jaw ached. Her nails dug into her palms.
Weigh them down? Who the fuck does this bitch think she is? Mio thought, her rage simmering just beneath her cheerful facade. She pictured telling Sandatsu to tear this woman apart, to break her perfect little smile and feed her the pieces.
Sandatsu loomed over the surgical table, his focus absolute despite the grotesque nature of his task.
On the edge of the table lay a severed arm, its flesh pallid and torn. Sandatsu’s fingers gripped a chunk of it, lifting it to his mouth. He bit into it without hesitation, the crunch of cartilage and bone audible in the otherwise silent room. Blood stained his lips as he chewed methodically.
Mio leaned against the wall, watching him. She crossed her arms under her chest, her posture relaxed but her gaze sharp.
"You’re disgusting, you know that?" she said. She pushed off the wall and stalked closer, her sneakers barely making a sound on the concrete floor.
"Just getting some use of the guard I killed." he replied evenly.
Mio’s lip curled. "You’re such a fucking animal. No wonder you’re so good at tearing people apart."
He finally looked up, his dark eyes meeting hers. "Is there a point to this conversation, or are you just here to vent your insecurities again?"
She refused to back down. "Keep talking like that, and I’ll make you forget how to breathe."
Sandatsu smirked faintly and returned to his work. "You can't. And I don't breathe."
Sandatsu didn’t look up as he finished chewing, swallowing the last piece of the guard he’d cannibalized earlier. "Ah, by the way, I'm done with the first one."
"Already? Damn, that was quick," Mio said, her lips curling into a sarcastic smile. "I was hoping you’d die on the table, but I guess that’s too much to ask for, huh?"
He didn’t respond at first, but his eyes briefly flicked up to meet hers. "You’ll have to wait for the next time."
Mio scoffed, pushing herself off the wall. "You think you’re untouchable, don’t you?"
"I am," Sandatsu said flatly, his attention once again fixed on his work as he prepared for the next step. "You know I got a permeation quirk."
"That's not what I meant you retard."
She hated how calm he was, how he never seemed to care about anything—least of all her. "So, what now, huh? What’s your grand plan? You’re going to keep cutting yourself up?"
He finally looked up at her. "By the way, I gave Morris a duplicate."
Mio’s eyes narrowed. "'A' duplicate?"
"The sample was enough to make two. One went to Morris, the other is yours, if you want it."
Mio’s posture stiffened at the implication. She wasn’t about to accept anything like this. "No thanks," she spat, "I’m not your fucking charity case."
Mio’s heart skipped a beat, but she quickly masked it with a scoff, turning away from his gaze. She shifted the weight in her hips, trying to sidestep the moment of tension. "Honestly, just get it over with, take the quirk from that Endless Horizons guy’s blood already. I’m sick of this place. I’m sick of smelling like a fucking sewer."
"You really want to go somewhere that bad?"
"Shut it."