Chapter 3: Steps Toward Nowhere

Alaric messed up. There's something about messing up that digs a pit in your stomach—a gaping void that sits, heavy and unmovable, waiting for you to fix whatever you've managed to destroy.

But Alaric couldn't fix this.

He wondered where his half-baked dream of being a hero had gone. It had slowly drifted away, from the front burner to the back, then shoved to the countertop, inching closer to the edge until it fell and shattered into a million pieces.

The so-called meeting with Chisaki could hardly even be called that.

I'm going to die.

Shigaraki—ridiculous, overinflated ego Shigaraki—had stormed in, all swagger, expecting to recruit "dear Chi-Chi." Because, of course, why not? It wasn't like Alaric's luck could get any worse. His only saving grace was how predictable Shigaraki had become—like watching a storm brewing, but never quite realizing how violent it would be until it hit

If he didn't know better, Alaric would have thought the universe itself had it out for him.

Or maybe it did.

In the end, they didn't even manage to recruit Chisaki. The meeting almost devolved into a full-on brawl, saved only by Alaric's accidental intervention. Displeased at his failure to recruit Chisaki, Shigaraki threw an actual tantrum.

Yes, a tantrum. Complete with foot-stamping. Like a spoiled child.

It was so absurd, so... beneath even Shigaraki. Yet here it was. He could almost imagine how that looked to Chisaki—a villainous "leader" pitching a fit because he didn't get his way. The comedic tragedy of it would've been funny if Alaric hadn't been so painfully aware of how much he was tangled up in this mess.

He was tired.

He just wanted to go 'home'.

And just as he thought he could slip away from the chaos, Kurogiri, ever the perceptive one, decided to throw another wrench in the works.

"Maybe try your luck with him instead," Kurogiri had suggested (he would, to his displeasure, later find out that Kurogiri knew exactly who he was) nodding toward Alaric, who just happened to be standing right there, caught between relief and a distinct dread. Alaric wasn't interested in joining the League of Villains—he'd been avoiding them, actually. But luck, it seemed, was something he severely lacked.

Of course it was. The bitterness was there.

So, he declined. Flat-out, no room for negotiation. He almost became dust, nearly got incinerated, glared at, and even sliced—all in a single breath. It was as though "attack" was simply instinct the second they were denied.

By some small miracle, he managed to escape unscathed. At least physically.

He was scared.

Kurogiri, with that odd sense of wisdom and quiet authority, didn't say anything. He merely handed Alaric a piece of paper, with a phone number scribbled hastily. "Call this if you change your mind," he'd said, voice steady and unreadable.

If you change your mind. Not when. But the way he said it… it was as if he knew something Alaric didn't. Something that would push him toward that phone call, toward the League. Alaric had scoffed at the thought.

Yet here he stood, staring at U.A. High School's looming gates.

Of course, he was right.

Alaric nearly choked, swallowing back a mix of nerves and bile. His stomach did an uncomfortable flip as he forced a confident smirk, attempting to look as though he belonged there. Because, hey, if you're in doubt or having second thoughts, fake it. Act like you know exactly what you're doing.

He doesn't know what he's doing.

So, he strode through the gates—head high, shoulders squared, fully prepared for the world to believe his lie.

Until, of course, he walked straight into a pole.

With a strangled yelp, he fumbled, his hat flying off and cane slipping from his grip as a crowd of students bustled around him, swallowing up his belongings. He didn't even see the blur of green that zipped by, too fast to catch as he sputtered, mortified.

*12:00 PM*

Alaric stared down at the test paper in front of him, feeling a surge of incredulity and offense. Who had created this monstrosity? Half of the questions were laughably easy; the other half were riddles masquerading as actual problems. And the final quarter—oh, those were cruel mockeries. They didn't even make sense, like some cosmic joke played at his expense. He could almost hear the universe laughing.

What did they expect him to answer to a question like "Explain why heroes operate in a moral grey zone."

Heroes? Morally grey? Who wrote this? And in middle school-level material? He stifled a groan, gripping the paper tightly, his knuckles white. He wanted nothing more than to rip it to shreds, maybe throw it into a fire for good measure. Punch whoever created it just because.

But he did none of that. Instead, he grit his teeth, scribbled down every answer he could muster, including the nonsensical last question, which didn't even have any points assigned to it. Rising with feigned grace, he walked to the front of the room to submit it, his "borrowed" uniform rustling softly, drawing glances from a few other students.

One of them was a girl with a shock of pink hair—Mina, he thought, heart skipping a beat. He managed to pull himself together, flashing a dazzlingly fake smile as he returned her stare. Alaric could almost feel the bemused gazes following him, whispers, which were quickly shushed, stirring in his wake. He kept his composure, focusing on each step.

He waltzed toward the cafeteria. It wasn't even much of an achievement to finish early—there were only a few other students around. Kids were just being overly dramatic.

As he scanned the tables, his gaze landed on a boy with sharp, calculating eyes glued to his phone. Shin... something. Shinnnnn...rou? No. That wasn't right. Shin... ta?

His memory was slipping. It was a small thing, maybe, but the creeping dread was undeniable. He'd been so careful not to leave any written records, just in case they were discovered. But now he was starting to forget names, faces, details he'd once relied on. He couldn't stop the shiver that worked its way down his spine.

What color were her eyes again? His heart lurched. He could barely remember his own mother's face anymore, yet he yearned for her embrace all the same.

Ignoring the unease clawing at him, he took a deep breath and approached the boy.

"Hey there!" Alaric called, his voice unnaturally chipper. The boy didn't even glance up. Alaric tapped his cane on the floor, glancing around nervously.

Still no response. He adjusted his hat, tipping it slightly over his eyes as he fought down the rising wave of anxiety.

He was nervous. He wasn't sure if the boy was ignoring him on purpose or not, but there was only one way to find out.

"Helloooo?" He waved a hand in front of the boy's face, grinning like an idiot.

This time, the boy snapped to attention, fixing him with a hard, unamused stare.

The silence dragged.

Alaric shifted uncomfortably, feeling more and more like he'd stumbled onto the wrong battlefield. But he managed to keep his face composed, bowing slightly, attempting a smooth and polite tone. He took off his hat with one hand, placed it over his chest, and shifted his cane to his back.

"Bonjour, sir. What might your name be?" He could feel his own embarrassment simmering.

The boy simply blinked. Twice.

"...What?" the boy finally managed.

"Your name, good sir," Alaric repeated, smiling.

The boy rolled his eyes, muttering something about "weirdos" under his breath before finally giving in. "It's Shinsou," he said, sounding thoroughly unimpressed.

Alaric's eyes lit up. Shinsou! He knew it was something close to that. Flashing a dazzling grin, he tipped his hat in acknowledgment.

"Nice to meet you, Shin...sou." He stumbled slightly, realizing he'd almost reverted to his mistaken pronunciation.

"Uh... hi?" Shinsou sounded as uncertain as Alaric felt, though he masked it with a hint of reluctance.

With forced casualness, Alaric sat down beside him, leaning in conspiratorially. "So, how do you feel about the practical?"

Shinsou gave him a look—one that clearly questioned Alaric's sanity. He sighed, his gaze narrowing as he finally responded, "Fine, I guess."

He seemed mad.

Taking the hint, Alaric quickly stood, not wanting to overstay his welcome. His leg throbbed in protest, the old injury flaring up from the strain of standing so long, but he kept his face neutral. Every seat was being claimed by other examinees, and he saw no place left for him that wouldn't make him seem like an outsider.

He forced a smile, bowing one last time to Shinsou. "Well, that's great to hear, Mister Shinsou! I'm sure you'll do fine. But I must bid you adieu—I have to use the restroom."

With that, he spun on his heel and made a swift exit, not sparing Shinsou another glance. Alaric did not see the confused look Shinsou wore, already halfway across the cafeteria.

Shinsou watched, blinking, as Alaric breezed right past the bathrooms.

The boy shook his head, sighing.

Why did it feel like… he just kicked a sad puppy?

He shuddered, shaking off the strange sensation and refocused on his own mission. He had a test to pass, and that was all he needed to worry about.

He was going to get in.

(He would later realize that he didn't get the boys name.)

*2:00 PM*

The timer blinked its final minutes. Alaric had done just enough to pass—not outstanding, not horrendous, just another forgettable face in the crowd. The memory of a gruff voice echoed in his mind, the kind that could freeze your blood in an instant.

'Do not fail, "son".'

The pain in his leg flared, mocking him with the reminder.

*2:30 PM*

Bruised and bleeding from half-baked efforts, Alaric limped out, deliberately bypassing Recovery Girl's office.

I'm finally free!

He let out a silent cheer as he avoided any more sympathetic glances or offers of help. He was out of here, out of U.A. He'd wanted to leave the moment he'd stepped foot on the school grounds.

The place gave him the chills.

Oddly enough, he didn't want to go back 'home'. His leg ached, and bruises he hadn't earned from the test stung.

Resigned, he headed off to report to his 'friend'.

He turned and walked down the street, his cane tapping against the ground and supporting his leg. As he limped, cane tapping rhythmically, the world around him felt strangely distant. He straightened his posture, though, the playful smirk fading from his face, leaving only a hollow sort of grin. He looked older, to the passing bystander, the carefree mischief usually etched in his face fading as he leaned further on his cane.

He went 'home'.

He was tired.