There is no hero better than All Might. Truthfully, Chizome would say that there is no hero at all besides him.

All Might is goodwill personified. All Might reduced crime rates to lows no one had seen ever since the time before Quirks. All Might donates millions of his revenue and gifts to charities. All Might has never killed any villain. All Might always tries to smile for everyone, giving them hope. He is the definition of a hero, nothing like whatever mimicry every generation in society tries to pull when they graduate from hero schools. And a long time ago, Chizome had decided that if has to become the stain of society in order to clean it, he will.

...Well, excusing one vigilante—if they're still active.

Chizome had heard of Dusk from the hushed whispers of disgusting villains who ran a human trafficking ring. He killed them, of course, but not before carefully inquiring them about the "trash-rat bastard" they so despised. Another target, Chizome had thought, listening to them fearfully say what they knew. Blond hair, a blue eye, a black-and-rouge get-up—Chizome's hands burned to get rid of this All Might fraud.

But he is patient, a learned thing from years of staying with his ideals. Society cannot be purged within a day, after all. So Chizome strayed near Musutafu, just enough to where he could observe the news articles about Dusk, and waited.

Yet Dusk was not like the others Chizome had targeted. Seemingly, they got up mostly every night, taking down drug cartels, trafficking rings, robberies, muggings, anything that society would condemn as villainous, and never saying a word. They gave the occasional pat on the back, according to victims, or their eye would squint like they were smiling. Dusk even left the occasional note for witnesses or the victims they'd save, mostly as a means of communication, yet they never stayed long enough for anyone to unmask them. That is, until they presumably got arrested, taken to the authorities and never heard from again.

Dusk had not boasted. Dusk had not lingered for any thankful word people had. Dusk was not flamboyant, arrogant like those who play this vigilante game Chizome is familiar with. Dusk had never killed, never caused life-long harm. Saving the people, even from minor encounters, was what all that mattered to them. (Dusk, he had thought, could have truly been like All Might, if given a little more time, a little more power, a little more... anything. He resists scowling; of course the government had ruined it.)

Dusk was innocent and righteous, just like all the others Chizome has spared. And equally, the lives of those at U.A. had not committed true wrongdoings—at least, not yet. With All Might teaching there, Chizome's sure that there will be less wannabe heroes this generation. So the fact that these bastards dare try to recruit him, when they attacked U.A.'s students—when they attacked All Might, is—

"Well?" The man-child with a hand on his face drawls. The photos pinched between two of his fingers crinkle the determined face of a green-haired boy. "Your choice?"

Chizome gets into a stance and sneers. Like hell is he letting them judge the lives of the innocent under his watch, taking away those with potential like the government did with Dusk.

===

Tenya cannot stop thinking about Stain and what he did to his brother. Every flash of red or off-white has him glancing around, and every gleam of metal makes him tense, and he has always respected those above him yet Tenya cannot find himself paying attention to Manual for a single second lest Manual gets killed, too. (Excuses, excuses. Tenya is so very selfish, and it will kill him soon, he knows.)

(Legacy, legacy, legacy, those voices whisper like they always have. A strike of dangerous intent stabs into Tenya for not the first time yet far more intense than needed, and he wants nothing more than to shut them up.

Because Tenya knows that, too. Tenya knows that he's going to represent the prospects of the Iida family if Tensei stays incapacitated [and he cannot think of him as dead or he will do something he will regret], Tenya knows he has to grow up one day—and yet, childishly, he can't help but think that though he will now feel the full weight of a legacy, he could've at least shared it with his brother for a little longer.

He's fifteen, yet he's gone through the USJ and the Sports Festival, however minorly impacted he was. Tensei, at thirty, cannot understand that, but this, the burden of expectation, they both know like their mother tongue. Tenya is fifteen and Tensei is thirty and he's just—

If Tenya can't handle his brother like this, if Tenya is so angry and hurt and sad and unstable from his pillar of support being taken down, then how can he be expected to hold up everyone else around him?)

Tenya cannot linger on that because Stain is alive and as long as he is alive heroes like Tensei will be killed, and Tenya's rage and hurt and confusion will not allow him to stray for long. Tenya cannot think of anyone else but Stain because dozens of mourning sidekicks and heroes have tried to take the Hero Killer down and he has hacked them down like a farmer would with wheat, yet Tenya is a child of the Iida household, brother of Ingenium, and Tenya has to believe he will be the special one to take him down because of at least one of those qualities. If he doesn't, if he doesn't hope, hope for his brother and hope he can kill the Hero Killer and hope he is strong enough, then Tenya won't have much else left.

Tenya breathes through his helmet. He grasps the bottom edges to adjust it around his jaw, scanning the streets again like he's done for this entire tour because he can't focus on anything else.

Manual calls for him. Tenya stopped to people-watch by accident, and as he catches up, he lies to the hero that he was just memorizing the area for the future, and tells the truth when he states that he won't be distracted again.

===

Carefully, Izuku plucks a small glass shard from his hair, his sleeves rolled up to cover his exposed fingers. He sighs, dropping it into the second trash bag, already threatening to burst. There's just a few more things to put into the bag, and then he can use OFA, carry the bags to the nearby dump, and then be done with all of this. ...Might need another smaller bag, though.

Izuku runs a hand through his hair before he even knows what he's doing. He grumbles incoherently, pulling it out while he walks to one of the remaining pieces of the wreckage; just a broken vase that had a few lively flowers in it. Picking up a few of the larger shards and gathering them into his gloved palms, he continues to think like he's done for the past few minutes ever since Gran Torino left.

Has he really not hit his limit? No—should he even try to? Wasn't it better for him to grow bit by bit, considering that Izuku was given OFA despite being Quirkless? His body needed to acclimate, to adjust to whatever OFA did to work.

If he found his limits with OFA, Izuku's positive it'd end up like the end of the entrance exam: with his limbs an ugly, garish purple, bleeding and numb and unable to stop him from falling as a megalodon of a robot with a hole clean through its head fell with him. Or maybe like the end of his battle with Todoroki. Or maybe during the USJ.

He shudders, rubbing his arms to rid of the phantom pains creeping along them. There were a few white scars along his arms and legs as a reminder of his recklessness from the exam, overlapping his burn scars yet faint against the charred, wrinkled skin. They'd only increased after the USJ and the Sports Festival. Though Izuku had been filled with adrenaline at those times, the aftermaths served as a constant, quiet reminder of what would happen if he dared to continue overstepping.

Then what did Gran Torino mean? Was he being too reserved with how he wields OFA now? Too weary or cautious of others sharing the same fate, or maybe scared he'll almost die like he did in the Entrance Exam?

Izuku grits his teeth to anchor his shaking hands, near carelessly tossing the dirt-stained ceramics into the bag. Most make it in, though just barely, and others clatter on the tile floor.

And what did Gran Torino mean by hesitating? Izuku was volleying charged attacks one after the other; it's the entire reason he's cleaning up everything he's blasted away. Didn't that show that Izuku was doing the direct opposite? He rewinds what he did in the fight in his head, trying to remember every detail. The way Izuku's feet moved, the way his body twisted, the way his eyes tried and managed to stay on Gran Torino the entire time... what was he hesitating on?

Not to mention the whole admiration thing. Izuku can only assume that if Gran Torino knew Tommy, he'd reference him. (He feels his face flame; is it all really that obvious? He's been basing his style based on an amalgamation of other heroes'...)

Izuku grabs the shards of the vase that didn't land in the trash bag, this time more gentle with how he places them in the bag. He grimaces when he sees it's not going to take anything else, taking its elastic handles and tying it closed with ease.

As he goes to get another bag, he keeps thinking about his limits and hesitations. What is he reluctant to do? What made him pause so significantly in the midst of a battle that Gran Torino could point it out? Was it when he calculated where to shoot?

Izuku blinks, then frowns. Not when—he'd miss anyway. How he shot OFA didn't matter, either, because he was putting a maximum of fifteen percent in any of his limbs so as to not destroy the entire place, and even that was used sparingly. He was also fighting like he did without a weapon. The first part could be a thing for limits, but he digresses. He had to have been reluctant with something about using OFA, though.

He was steadfast in where he wanted to shoot and use OFA. So maybe where he shot it?

Izuku's frown deepens. He thinks about the fight again. Gran Torino was faster than anyone he's faced before, and OFA's blast radius was huge, so surely, the where of OFA's impacts didn't matter as much because—

...no. No, maybe... maybe it did. Izuku keeps thinking, keeps trying to remember what his hands or legs aimed at when they shot OFA during fights. At the Sports Festival he had no choice but to aim at the head of the robot, yet for the smaller ones... he always tried to wrestle with its technology, to tear its wires out. It's why he hadn't gotten any practical points at all—Izuku was small compared to a U.A. robot, and he only had his physical self and a metal pipe.

And in the USJ, the smartest move was to aim for the waters. He never once considered trying to aim for any specific body, though. He just wanted his friends to be safe.

But what about the Sports Festival? When he fought against his friends, he never truly hit them with the ultimate prowess of OFA. Sure, Iida was constantly pushed back, but he was never slammed with the pure force of it until the end, only the general outskirts of the blast, just enough to keep him in the field. Izuku knew he was just using five or eight perfect, something miniscule to twenty, but where had he aimed most of the time? For the legs, or for his chest, or perhaps a little off his calves? (Had he even aimed at him at all?)

He'd hit Iida in the face, but Izuku knew he could handle it! It wasn't much, anyway, just ten percent, and he hadn't entirely rammed his fist in like a pure punch, and—oh. "Back to limits again," he mumbles, like he's definitely done for most of these thoughts. He glances back; Gran Torino's still out.

Okay. So what about Todoroki?

...Besides the few gut punches, Izuku had only been aiming for his ice and the occasional wave of fire. He didn't really try to, to attack him, huh? Neither of them. Not until things got desperate, or when he couldn't drag it out any longer.

But why? He could've ended the fights easily. Could've brought so much more attention to himself, with more hero applications, more opportunities even if he'd have to choose Gran Torino anyway.

The first thing that comes to mind is that he wanted his classmates to shine, too. But that wouldn't line up with the USJ, would it? So he moves on to the second thing: that—"I... didn't want them to be as injured as me."

Izuku just... simmers on that. Because—

(—Despite being slim, the makeshift javelin rips a hole through the machine that's at least twenty times bigger than itself. The perimeters of the gap break once, twice, creating a bigger dent and then a rebounding blast of wind. The lower mechanisms of the robot explode, adding to the gale that comes after, now painfully warm. His ears ring and his chest feels like its constricting and wow, yeah, blast-force hurts.

Yet the ground came closer with all of its dents and stones and sharp edges and rough terrain and yeah, no, even with this he won't be conscious. Izuku gulps as he hears the faint cracks of his legs shifting back into place, closing his eyes and—

—Bakugo's hit lands impact right before OFA's does—glass shatters, concrete breaks, the very structure of this building collapsing in on itself as a gust of wind rushes through the middle. Heat—scorching, burning, get it off—plasters itself to the side of his face and—move, get away, get AWAY—Izuku heaves, breaths ragged and sporadic, lungs burning. His throat is dry and his skin burns, burns, burns and bleeds and flakes and he can barely stay awake. His hand that grips the staff—the heat has melted the top and bottom off—releases its hold, letting the melted metal clatter to the ground—

—Belatedly, he thinks that quick reflexes will also doom him, because he's charged forty percent instead of the ten that he'd planned, absolutely breaking a bone and shredding his muscles at least.

It burns. It burns like a thousand ant bites all over his leg, burns like applying rubbing alcohol on a wound except the pain is tenfold, burns like an explosion that sears his skin and makes it bleed. Izuku bites his tongue, a metallic taste filling his mouth, yet he does not scream. Using the momentum, he spins, barely able to regain his footing as the dust that's picked up clears—)

(The hole in the robot, his flailing limbs, the numbed pain, the heat, searing and all-consuming, the lack of control—)

Izuku gasps like a drowning man, hands slamming over his mouth. All of that, all of that is over. All of that has been over for weeks, for months, and Izuku is okay and Tommy is alive and the robot did not kill anyone and the heat did not burn anyone and his bones are not broken and Izuku is okay. Izuku is cleaning up the interior of a place he had to destroy, one that belongs to someone who is supposed to mentor him, and Izuku is okay.

He stumbles back, trying to snuffle out the rest of his panic. Because if he doesn't, then his mind will jump to what-ifs and hypotheticals and theories like it always does, and what if he'd used one-hundred percent by accident and blasted a hole through Iida's head? What if he—he kicked too hard, if he had hit Todoroki's arm, what if Izuku shattered all the bones in it and more? It had burned for him, but he's grown used to it more and more. Yet Izuku can still remember the times before that increasing tolerance, and he can imagine Todoroki writhing in pain, and he can imagine Iida collapsing like that robot did, and he knows all the stares he'd get, and the fear, the terror, the disappointment and ostracization from going too far and not again, not again, he just got friends, not again—

"—d? Kid! Ah god damn it, I've never been good at these things—kid, just look at me for a moment," someone's saying, and they sound like Gran Torino, and his glove touches Izuku's shoulder but he can't handle that right now so he flinches away violently and god, the man was only trying to help, why does Izuku keep—

Something's shoved into his mouth. Izuku bites down on instinct, tear-filled eyes widening at whatever pastry filling bursts in his mouth. It shocks him out of his panic, but so does the taste. It tastes sweet, like red-bean paste. The treat in general is fresh, perfectly soft, and... really good. He focuses on its warmth, his teeth still imbedded in his first bite, and quietly, his breaths resettle back into a standard rhythm.

With shaky hands, Izuku's fingers lightly hold the rest of the treat, and he just stays there, chewing on what could only be taiyaki. "Oh, thank everything," he can hear Gran Torino sigh in relief. His vision's still blurry with tears; absentmindedly, he rubs his sleeve against his eyes to clear it all. "That works on Toshinori too, you know."

It takes Izuku an undetermined amount of time to respond. "...He has—panic a-attacks, too?"

"Not exactly." Gran Torino squats down in front of him, setting a plastic bag filled with other foods next to him. Izuku glances around. Seems like he fell on the floor somewhere in his panic. "With how thin he is, you wouldn't be able to tell, but he stress-eats. Toshinori's put you on sone kind of American Dream plan for eating, right? He makes those himself. Always tries to eat as healthy as he can." Or maybe he can't afford to eat unhealthily with his wound, so he just tries to manage. "When he was younger, though? Oh, he was so much more jumpy! Back then he used to have panic attacks, though I'm not sure if he does now. Anyway, if you put a—oh, I don't know, a leaf of lettuce or something in his mouth, it helped calm him down. Gave 'im something to focus on, so I thought it'd work with you."

Izuku nods, finishing the taiyaki with one last chew. Gran Torino's already handing him another, though, and with hesitance, he takes it. Sakura-flavored.

"...Wanna talk about it, kid?"

Not with you, Izuku thinks, and then immediately grimaces, so very glad he's too drained to blurt that aloud right now. Instead, he just shakes his head.

Gran Torino doesn't look bothered. "Right, then," he says, getting up. He leaves the bag of food with him, heading towards the two trash bags Izuku's filled. When Izuku frantically starts getting up, trying to say that no, no, he doesn't have to do anything, Izuku made the mess himself so he should clean it, Gran Torino shakes his head with a snort and a lopsided smile. "Just rest up, kid. I'll take these out. You aren't doubting me now, are you?"

Izuku scrunches his face. "...No," he manages quietly, settling back down. A few crumbs had fallen onto his costume from the movement, and he brushes them off idly.

"That's what I thought." The hero hefts the two bags up with ease before turning back one last time. "...You won't go into another one of those if I leave, right?"

Flushing, Izuku shakes his head. With that confirmation, Gran Torino shoots off, the gust from his Quirk tousling Izuku's hair and leaving him with his thoughts once more.

===

Ochako hasn't been able to stop thinking about how kind everyone at Gunhead agency's been ever since she stepped in.

She can't help it! She didn't know what she was expecting—okay, well, Ochako kind-of-maybe worried that Gunhead would be as stoic and tough as his name or famed martial arts style—but it wasn't... this. Not that that's a bad thing, just something she had to adjust to. And given that she's on a mini-tour of the agency right now, she's had a bit of time to be awed.