Chapter Text
Tenya Iida was not good enough.
Sad as it was, he had long since come to terms with his inabilities. It was better, he thought, to be aware of one’s failings. Pride had the potential to be infinitely more dangerous than mediocrity, after all. He’d learned that lesson the hard way—with his cheek pressed into the bloodstained pavement of Hosu City and the backs of his too-valiant friends to his face.
Not to say that he was a total failure. He liked to think he wasn’t. He trained just as hard as anyone—kept to a strict physical regime, studied his craft as much as his schedule could allow, took every professional opportunity tossed his way…there was not a single facet of Tenya’s life that he did not dedicate himself to wholly and with reckless abandon.
And yet, as he and his classmates strode toward the horizons of their heroic careers, Tenya couldn’t help but feel lacking. They were all so bright, brilliant in ways he could never hope to be—impossibly clever on both the criminal battlefields as well as those beyond them.
Watching them, there was no doubt that they could have been anything but heroes, so naturally did the station settle atop them. Uraraka, Bakugo, Asui, Kirishima…even Midoriya—who was undergoing training to earn his teaching license—all seemed well-suited to the responsibilities of professional heroism. They had businesses and charities and made sincere efforts to change the world even when they weren’t fighting villains.
Tenya, in comparison, was clumsy—overly verbose and off-putting to what few reporters sought him out. The only thing he did outside of crime-fighting was assist in managing Team Idaten, a process that was still largely governed by Tensei, who was the agency’s registered owner, and not particularly flashy. He could count the number of times he’d been recognized out of uniform on one hand.
He tried not to let it bother him. After all, thirteenth place was nothing to sniff at. It could even be admirable. The vast majority of heroes would never see any substantial amount of commercial success, so Tenya was already a head and shoulders above most of his colleagues. He should have been satisfied. It was self-centered to think that he was anything special—to want better when there were so many more deserving of glory.
An image of Midoriya’s face, smiling brightly up at him through the cracked visor of his mask, impressed itself upon Tenya’s mind. He blinked, curling his hands into aching fists that he just as quickly released. The world around him came back into focus.
The clock on his computer read 8:45. Almost two hours past closing, with some added change.
Overtime again.
A perfunctory glance around his office and the cubicles that extended beyond it confirmed what Tenya already suspected. As far as he could see, he was the only one still in the building.
Tenya leaned back in his chair, pressing his shoulder blades firmly against its backrest until he felt some of the tension his upper body held give way with an indelicate crack. A breath escaped him. Officework had really started to take a toll on his bones.
Idly, as he stood and began to shuffle his neatly stacked papers into his briefcase, Tenya wondered how Tensei could stand it. He’d been stuck doing this for years before Tenya joined the agency.
Tenya winced, squeezing his eyes shut in silent reprimand.
Not stuck. Tensei liked working for the family business, as did Tenya. It was an honor of the greatest degree to be able to take part in the growth of Team Idaten, and as such, it was equally improper to think of doing so as an obligation.
The clasps of Tenya’s bag clicked shut, and he cracked his eyes open once more to confirm that no wayward documents had escaped it. His tabletop was spotless. Only his hands, settled atop his bag, interrupted its surface. They were heavily scarred—pale and puckered where skin had been torn open time and time again—and Tenya traced the teetering trails of tissue with his eyes to where the marks of Stain hid beneath his shirtsleeves.
Bile rose in the back of his throat.
That’s another reason to be thankful for the family business,” he thought. “It’s the only agency sure to put up with me.
Tenya pushed off his desk and moved toward the door. Stepping outside it, he shut off the lights and began to lock up. It was his responsibility to close the building each night, and a chore he exercised with regimented care.
He finished quickly—quietly thanking the janitors, bidding them have a good evening—and was able to slip outside a few minutes before 9:00. The night was hot, warmed by the summertime winds coming in from the south.
Tenya sighed, a light nausea settling over him as his body adjusted to the temperature. His engines dispelled most of the heat they produced internally, which made him run uncomfortably warm most of the time—an effect that was only worsened by the season’s heated air. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and drew it along his temples, already sweating.
Internally, he debated whether he could get away with using his quirk on his homeward commute. It would be faster than taking the train, as well as substantially cooler. Just the thought of it—of racing through town with one hand held to his glasses to keep them from flying off, the wind tugging rashly at his hair—was thrilling.
Tenya took a half-step forward, then stopped.
It would also be a flagrant abuse of power, not to mention dangerous for the other unsuspecting commuters on the streets.
Tenya sighed. His hand eased his handkerchief back into his suit jacket. Beads of sweat fell down the back of his neck.
No. No running today.
***
Forty minutes later, Tenya stepped through the door of his apartment with a groan.
The train had been crowded—sickeningly so—packed near to bursting with sweating, tired bodies that only exacerbated Tenya’s own discomfort. He could feel the lingering effect of them everywhere—settling somewhere between his shoulder blades and the slick line of his undercut.
Tenya leaned his forehead against the wall, savoring the chill of the plaster against his skin. He was breathing heavily through his nose, almost panting, and found himself watching idly as the waves of condensation his breaths made lapped along the paint in whorls. Images of bulls—the sort he’d seen in cartoons as a kid—huffing out steam as they chased a red-clothed matador flitted through his mind. Tenya chuckled, dropping his bag beside the door and toeing off his shoes.
It’s a fitting analogy, he mused, moving from the genkan into the adjoining kitchen. We’re equally intolerant of that which annoys us, bulls and I.
Tenya had always been hard-headed. Stiff. Stern. Intolerant. At UA, his friends had always said that he had a stick up his ass—one that made both him and his opinions hard to bend. That’s why they very rarely tried to, Tenya thought. It was simply easier to leave him be.
The rest of the evening passed in a steady exaction of routine. Dinner was prepared with relative ease—teriyaki grilled salmon and vegetables Tenya had apportioned over the past weekend—and taken with two large glasses of juice intended to refuel his engines. It was then followed by a shower and a cleaning of his exhaust pipes.
By the time he had completed his rituals, it was well past 11:00. Later than Tenya preferred to sleep on weekdays. A sigh escaped him as he changed into his sleepwear—a baggy set of linen pants that was loose enough to accommodate his engines without being completely suffocating, and a matching shirt. He rarely had any time for himself now that he’d settled into a professional career. Not to say he did all that much recreation to begin with. Tenya didn’t like the feeling of stalling, of stagnation. Even still, he mourned the days when he could read freely before bed.
Tenya fell heavily onto his mattress, arranging himself so he could lie comfortably on his stomach—a position that meant he didn’t have to worry about his engines staining things as he slept—and grabbed for his phone. He winced as the screen flicked on, the brightness of it upsetting his already dark-adjusted eyes.
Only one alert stared up at him from atop his homescreen, an email on his work account. Clicking on it revealed an invitation of sorts, one from the Hero Public Safety Commission. Bland white and navy blue interspersed with size-eleven Mincho. Tenya skimmed it with squinted eyes.
Dear Ingenium,
We at HPSC are thrilled to extend an exclusive invitation to you for our upcoming Hero Community Mixer. With the recent influx of new pro heroes joining the scene, as well as the shifts being made to how hero rankings function, this event serves as a unique opportunity to meet like-minded people within the hero community and learn more about what it means to fight crime in the modern world.
All necessary details, including those relating to travel accommodations, are listed below.
We hope to see you in attendance!
A scan of a signature, elegant and looping—looking as though it was halfway to falling off the digital page it was printed on—sat beneath the main body of text. Keigo Takami, Hawks.
Official then, he thought, taking his lower lip between his teeth.
It wasn’t unusual for heroes to have public-facing get-togethers. In fact, such things were almost commonplace, widely encouraged even by those outside of the crime-fighting sector. The media loved the glimpse that said events gave them into their favorite heroes’ interpersonal relationships—as well as the outfits they forced them into.
Tenya had never been invited to one before.
Stuck somewhere halfway between anxiety and anticipation, his stomach flipped. He hurriedly scrolled to the bottom of the email, to where the date and time were listed beside the number for a taxi service. 6:00 this upcoming Friday. A frown pulled at his mouth.
Work.
His damnable schedule, thirty minutes too full. He wouldn’t make it on time, and walking in late was simply out of the question. He felt embarrassed just thinking about it. But even more powerful than his aversion to social taboo was his desire to attend.
It stunned him, the intensity with which he sincerely wanted to go. He’d never been one for parties, not really—he’d always dodged them at UA, finding the smoky, alcohol-scented atmosphere of his classmates’ juvenile reveries most distasteful—but the prospect of partaking in one as a proper hero, one who was invited by name, was tantalizing.
He wanted to brush shoulders with people as an equal, wanted to show just how competently he had overseen Team Idaten, wanted to laugh and smile and hold himself with the knowledge that there were cameras around every corner—shining north stars that would burn at his periphery until…
Quickly, before his head could catch up to his hands, Tenya punched his information into the bottommost entry box on the email. A soft chime played from his phone’s tinny speakers.
RSVP confirmed!
Tenya let out a breath, feeling his chest inexplicably grow tighter as he did. He ran a shaky thumb over the text on his screen.
He was going.
He was going.
He stared at the words until his phone shut off, then unlocked it again just to stare at them some more. Giddily, half delirious with the happiness swelling in his stomach, he allowed a grin to overtake his face.
His phone dimmed and went dark once more, leaving the room in darkness. Still, Tenya smiled.
I’ll have to let Tensei know I need the day off, he thought. Another thing he had never done. His attendance was perfect. What a night of firsts this is.