The Sero Saga
patent pending
@renegadism/ @serokami
๐ ๐๐ ๐๐ ๐ฟ๐๐๐ ์ฐ์ ํ๋ช
๐ป๐ ๐ค๐ฅ๐ค
๐ฑ๐พ๐บ๐ฝ ๐๐๐พ ๐๐พ๐ป๐๐๐๐ ๐๐ ๐ข๐๐๐๐ผ ๐ญ๐บ๐๐พ๐!
ใ ๐๐ฎ๐ฌ๐ญ'๐ฏ๐ ๐๐๐๐ง ๐ญ๐ก๐ ๐๐ข๐ง๐ ใ
ยป ๐ต๐ธ: ๐ฅ๐ฐ๐ฎ๐ฆ๐ด๐ต๐ช๐ค ๐ข๐ฃ๐ถ๐ด๐ฆ ๐ช๐ฎ๐ฑ๐ญ๐ช๐ฆ๐ฅ
It was a pile of mistakes. Accumulating on shoulders too broad for a boy his age. โHeโd grow into them!โ When heโs 30? Right.
Too small, too young, too innocent to be hurled into this world with parents so young and ill prepared. 19 and 22. Dating with no intention to make it last. A university student and her high school sweetheart. Mistake was branded on Hantaโs forehead before he had a heartbeat.
He was given her last name. Sero. Stable and full of opportunity.
His father chose his given name. Hanta. An example of magnificence.
Adoption was disregarded immediately. They both were suffering a terminal case of baby fever, heat of the moment. 22 and 25. Parents with no intention to make it last. A graduate and a boyfriend who was only around because he wanted โhisโ son. Not that Hanta remembers these divorce squabbles. Most people donโt remember anything before age 4.
The same time school began is when his mother started wearing turtlenecks in June and concealer on the weekends. She would tuck her in when dad wasnโt home and finally it was made clear. Hanta may only be 7 now, but heโs not stupid.
โI slipped at work. Itโs okay, Hanta Honey.โ
Another year of fables. Excuses he used to so blindly agree to, dissipating as he learned. The next couple years was a gradual rise. Sleepless nights of hiding, faking sleep, tip toes carrying lanky legs to the end of the hall in hopes of a peak but never close enough for eyes behind shaggy bangs to see past.
Now, black feet carried him upstairs, frog in cupped grimy hands to save it from breaking glass against the same scratched up wallpaper as yesterday. Yelling. If only there were ear plugs for frogs. Words he didnโt understand wrapped in hissing tones that spoke more than language itself. Whispers that made him press his ear to the floor. Silence. Sky high jump as the front door swung shut with a hinge-breaking slam.
Sometimes he wishes it was just bittersweet dreams.
Wary, nimble feet carried the now 10 year old down the creaky corridor, white knuckles hiding in a baggy tee. Please be Mom.
Lucky draw.
Broom in hand, closet open but ready to be closed save for the raggedy tool in her own white knuckles. Shaky shoulders, a gentle sniffle. Collar pulled up to her nose.
โMom?โ She jumps with the force of the frog heโs imprisoned in the plastic terrarium โWhat was that noise?โ He knew. She knew he knew. This wasnโt new.
โHanta Honey, I think your ears are playing tricks on you again. It mustโve been the wind.โ
ใ ๐๐จ๐ฒ ๐ข๐ง ๐ญ๐ก๐ ๐๐ฎ๐๐๐ฅ๐ ใ
ยป ๐ต๐ธ: ๐ฅ๐ฆ๐ฑ๐ช๐ค๐ต๐ช๐ฐ๐ฏ ๐ฐ๐ง ๐ข ๐ง๐ช๐จ๐ฉ๐ต
๐ฎ๐ช๐ฏ๐ฐ๐ณ ๐ฅ๐ฆ๐ต๐ข๐ช๐ญ: ๐ฃ๐ญ๐ฐ๐ฐ๐ฅ ๐ข๐ฏ๐ฅ ๐ท๐ช๐ฐ๐ญ๐ฆ๐ฏ๐ค๐ฆ
Dreaming is a coping mechanism.
Beating up your past is direct action.
His mother and father divorced right before Hanta turned 11. Now living in a meager apartment, Saki Sero was doing her best working endlessly with two jobs to support her and her prestigious son. Frequent nights away let Hanta easily sneak out and be back before she was home. The door for crime opened itself.
Nothing serious, though. He was only 11. Just running drugs or paperwork in his ratty backpack and a baseball cap that pressed already choppy bangs into his eyes.
Every cent earned was given to his mother. For two months, she believed the lie:
My class found out weโre not doing so good, so they started a donation box.
His mistake is the ruckus created trying to break inside. Mom mustโve gotten home before him and locked the door. Anybody would be afraid, opening the door with a rolling pin in trembling hand.
To see her own son at the door was a shock.
To see him beaten bloody was ghastly.
Ball cap tipped to hide a purple eye and jacket zipped to conceal dripped blood. It doesnโt help; his nose leaking onto laminate wood floor at his feet.
โHanta honey, what happened to you?โ
โItโs nothing, Mom.โ
โYou have a black eye.โ
He shoves past to the bathroom, white lights blinding to unswollen pupil. Toilet paper gets rammed up his nose, sniffing seconds before.
Used to this, Hanta drops the empty bag, scuffed hat, stained shirt, kicks off worn shoes, toes off holed socks, and sits on the pristine counter. Hydrogen peroxide mends the cuts, sizzling euphoria into scraped knees. Heโs been teased at school before. Plain, rat, boring, dirty. By age 11, the boy has heard a good chunk of insults. But tonight was the first he fought back.
-
โHey you!โ
Cheeks puff out through a slow, annoyed exhale. Head leads the turn around, child hands stuffed into adult sized pockets. โHey.โ A smile. Tight pressed and nowhere close to shining in his eyes. Tedious. So close to home, too. He just wanted to stay in his bubble. Alone. Trouble unwanted.
No other words were exchanged before the other kid was preparing to beat the snot out of Hanta. Fair enough. Faux innocence, the ebony boy stretched his arms. Fingers flexing, eyes calculating.
The instant the boy moves, the ever relaxed Hanta suddenly whips out a stream of tape, encasing one arm around torso, contorting his own body to swing the kid around. This moment will become a standard in his arsenal after this night. Not secure enough, though, the unknown boy swings a haymaker into Hantaโs gut as he comes in and around. It sends him to his knee with a choked cough. Enough time for the other kid to free his arm and rip off the tape still attached to his younger opponent.
Now, he stands over Hanta, clouded eyes degrading his mortal being. Cursing his name.
Pumping heart raced adrenaline through his core, sinister smile of missing teeth gleaming up. It felt good, getting punched like that. Enough so that Hanta stood up. Phenomenal reflexes were tragically too late as a left hook came right to his nose. Invisible spectators could have heard the crack from a meter away. Every knuckle pulsating across his skin gave Hanta more desire to just get beat up. Pain served a kind reminder that he was alive.
Bloody nose and knuckles, both took a step away from each other. That was when the grin reached his eyes. Enjoying it. โLetโs go another round.โ
Who knew asking a kid to beat you up would make them turn away instead. Not without a last knee to his stomach and then a kick in the same place to follow it, but either way, the kid left. Disappointing. Hanta was just getting started. 11 year old masochist he is, he simply ran the back of his hand under his nose, inhaling and wincing at the pain of pressureโ
โHanta honey.โ Two knocks. โDinner is in the fridge.โ
After that night, fighting was frequent.
His mother never figured out why.
He told her it was no big deal.
ใ ๐๐ฎ๐ญ๐ซ๐ฎ๐ง๐ง๐ข๐ง๐ ๐๐๐ซ๐ฆ๐ ใ
Years of work, slowly climbing the echeladder of transgression. Three, to be exact. That makes Hanta only 14 when he comes across an affiliate with the slowly uprising League of Villains.
โIโve heard fantastic things about you, boy.โ
โLike what?โ
โYou can fight. Your quirk control is pretty remarkable and versatile. You ever considered going pro?โ
โHero?โ
โVillain.โ
-
Two weeks later, Hanta was running home to his mother, pamphlet in his hands. Eager as ever, he shoved it in his mother's face. However, as she flipped through it, the sparkling grin of straight white teeth fell. It kept falling until she finally shut it, somber visage, rolling the trifold in her hands. A nervous habit heโd noticed of herโs.
โHanta Honey, this is so expensive.โ
โI can get a job. Iโll be a pro. A hero! We can move outta this ๐ฅ๐ถ๐ฎ๐ฑโโ Emphasis, he scuffs a Nike on the laminate. His mother considers the bargain. Finally, she gives in with one condition: Hanta has to pay for the entrance exam himself.
Thatโs no problem.
If he can get into UA, the League will be paying him for intel all the time. Heโs got a job lined up. Plus, all the money heโs saved for that new Nintendo system will still be plenty stocked after paying for the entrance exam.
Finally, his mom can start living the life she deserves.
-
At the time, Hanta had no idea what he was getting into when he successfully got into UA. He had no idea what exactly was getting put on the line. Everything he has and will ever have suddenly rides on his abilities.
It hits him the first day of class.
Thereโs no escaping. The wall of lies that took endless nights of fabricating just so that Hanta would seem like every other 15 year old. All for his class to like him. They didnโt have to befriend him, just like him. Trust him.
Never in a million years did Hanta plan that heโd like them too.
From now on, he plays the waiting game. A matter of not โifโ but โwhenโ.
Karmaโs threat never looked so terrifying. Each night turned into a race. How fast Hanta could go, outrunning his own impending karma. A fight that he knows he canโt win; a battle he canโt hide from. The only way out is to die or fail.
ใ ๐๐ ๐๐ ๐๐๐ฏ๐ ๐๐๐๐ก ๐๐ญ๐ก๐๐ซ ใ
Truth be told, Hanta had a greater life than most villains and criminals.
He has a mother in Tokyo who supports him endlessly. Even when times were hardest and she was 8 months pregnant. Working through the night at 19 years old, saving up her money to make sure her baby got the best life she could give him. Regardless of how often his father was there, she never gave up. She clung to the idea that itโd get better someday.
Her ideology was passed onto her son. Whenever he got boo boos, she would kiss it better and tell him the truth: the world isnโt perfect. Hell, itโs not even that bad. They have each other. Sheโs his mother; she will always be there for him. When the world is against him, itโs against them both. As long as they have each other, itโll be okay.
Thatโs why when Saki Sero was diagnosed with her illness, she simply held his hand and smiled.
โItโll be okay, Hanta Honey.โ
It was in that moment that he realized she only calls him Hanta Honey when life was at an all time low. She never let that get her down, though. After all, they have each other.
- - -
At lot of his fun at UA, albeit true role in the school, came from his friends. They took his mind off his motherโs situation and off the constant pressure from the League. Bakugo, Kirishima, Ashido, and Kaminari were definitely his closest friends in class. Itโs something he never expected but isnโt upset about.
Theyโre like his rock; they keep him on the ground. Even Bakugo has his own passive way of asserting his friendship with Hanta. With their vast personalities combined, all four of them mean the world to him.
Even when the world crumbles around him and turns to dust before those ash eyes. His friends will be there right beside him. When the league attacked at USJ, their whole class pulled through. Theyโre a team together. Heroes in the making; there for each other.
The older Hanta gets the more he realizes his mother wonโt last forever. Thatโs why heโs grateful for Class A. More than ever before, these forged relationships are treasured. His friends make him forget his second life. They give him what he never had.
For that, Hanta is forever thankful that they are there for him. For that, heโll be there for them too.
ใ ๐๐๐ญ ๐๐ ๐๐จ๐ฐ๐ง ๐๐ฅ๐จ๐ฐ๐ฅ๐ฒ ใ
ยป ๐ต๐ธ: ๐ฅ๐ฆ๐ข๐ต๐ฉ, ๐ฆ๐ฎ๐ฆ๐ต๐ฐ๐ฑ๐ฉ๐ฐ๐ฃ๐ช๐ข
โIโm so proud of you. Youโre going to be a great hero someday. I love you, Hanta Honey.โ
His hand was glued in place, fingers laced with his motherโs. Ass aching from the worn down hospital chair and throat swollen with anticipation and fear.
Saki was forever fearless, though. Even on her deathbed, his mother was as strong as she always was. Hanta didnโt want his name to be the last words off her tongue, but he couldnโt think of anything to say. Every time he was about to choke out a response, his throat stopped it.
About 10 minutes passed before he felt his mother's glue start to melt and turn to a watery consistency. It leaked from between his fingers and down his wrist. The floor became the new home for the last of his mother's quirk.
Another hour of eerie silence is spent with Hanta alone in the hospital room. Alone in reality. Dark and cold in the pristine, white room. Heโd pulled up the blanket to hide her face a good while ago but never informed the doctors. How could he? She was the last person he had. Once his mom was gone, Hanta was going to be truly alone and abandoned by everybody, a note on his back begging to be shot in the night.
The first time he feels himself breathe is shaky and terrified. The air is dry. The pressure behind his eyes is so intense that he wants to cry but physically canโt.
Sheโs gone.
It was a peaceful moment between them. Hanta didnโt scream and cry in her face which probably made it easier for her, but harder for him.
Now that sheโs gone, all Hanta wants to do is kick and scream and cry and yell at the world and the universe and the Gods for damning him with such a shitty life.
She left and Hanta never even told her the truth. The fact heโs a villain, a traitor, never left his lips. All she knew was about the petty crimes from when he was in junior high. She really thinks heโs going to be a heroโ
Retching, heaving, mouth filling with saliva.
Barely does he make it to the in-room restroom to empty his guilt and sorrows into the toilet. It burns. Everything. His lies, his throat, his heart. Lit aflame by his own karma.
Kneeling in front of the toilet, flush after flush after flush. He pours out his heart and soul into this stupid bowl and holy fuck does it hurt. His eyes finally join the rest of his body in letting out the pain. His entire face is drenched in moments. Tear stained cheeks, sweat on his forehead, mouth littered with traces of his insides.
He goes and goes until thereโs nothing left. Nothing left to cry, nothing to vomit up. If he has to piss in the next three days, itโll baffle him.
If it werenโt for her final words, Hanta might have considered joining his mother. He canโt.
Heโs supposed to become a great hero someday.
Making up for the lies after sheโs gone doesnโt change that she never knew the truth. Damn it all, though, if Hanta isnโt going to try.
Slowly. He may have let her down while she was alive, but in death he will build back up. If not for his mother, then be it for himself. The League wonโt last forever. There's no point to him even being in it anymore either. Hanta needs to get out.
๐๐จ๐ฐ.
ใ ๐๐จ๐ญ๐ญ๐ ๐๐ ๐ ๐๐๐๐ฌ๐จ๐ง ใ
โคท ๐ต๐ณ๐ข๐ช๐ต๐ฐ๐ณ ๐ณ๐ฆ๐ท๐ฆ๐ข๐ญ
art by @serokami
It's his fault.
He is the reason.
Who else would tell them how to get through the gates, the security, the defenses, the emergency procedures?
None other than Sero Hanta, a 16 year old hero in training, villain in disguise.
Why did it have to be like this?
It feels cold. Between the dust in the air bodies on the ground, itโs as if Summer turned to Winter in the blink of an eye. The chill down his arms cools the raw burn of expendable elbows and makes him pause.
His eyes sting from the ache of guilt paired with the dirt that defies gravity.
Is Uraraka okay?
A thought he shakes off his mind before it runs wild. Donโt get hung up on them. It was his one job here. Forget the past. The future is now.
Some bullshit that is. Watching friends fight for their lives which he put in danger.
They call out to him and those pleas are paralyzing. Anger and confusion and betrayal in coursing through every bone of UA including her own. How could he do this? He should have quit, he should have quit, he should have quit.
It feels like fire. Numb in his head but every ounce of his heart is exploding inside. He acts without thinking, not making eye contact as yet again the League calls out that ๐ฅ๐ช๐ด๐จ๐ถ๐ด๐ต๐ช๐ฏ๐จ name he gave himself: Tether.
He wants to fade away.
Find a reason to run.
A reason to never be seen again.
Before he can try, a flash of light blinds his vision, kicks him into overdrive, throat burning like a shot of vodka and ripping his vocal chords out. They had a ๐๐๐๐ก and they ๐๐ง๐ค๐ ๐ ๐๐ฉ.
Itโs all too hectic; itโs all his fault.
Everything is unraveling.
A cry of his name catches his ears. Not Tether. โSero!!โ Whiplash as he spins to find the owner of his name, fear distorting thoughts and eyes clouding with panic. He canโt hear what follows, but he knows it screams, pleas for answers. He did this. Betrayed his friends, the people he loves, the life he promised his mother heโd have. All of it gets thrown away in the blink of an eye.
Heโs a traitor. Theyโre watching this truth unfold live as the League attacks them and leaves him unharmed. A bloody cheek he scraped open is the only true injury he has. Sero is okay, and thereโs a reason for that. There is always a reason.
The final straws crack in his line of self. Broken. Sharp shards of his heart rip open the empty cavity of his chest. Pointless.
If not now, though, then it will be never.
๐๐ฉ๐ฆ๐บ ๐ฃ๐ณ๐ฐ๐ฌ๐ฆ ๐ต๐ฉ๐ฆ ๐ฑ๐ณ๐ฐ๐ฎ๐ช๐ด๐ฆ, ๐ต๐ฉ๐ฆ๐บ ๐ฉ๐ถ๐ณ๐ต ๐บ๐ฐ๐ถ, ๐บ๐ฐ๐ถ๐ณ ๐ง๐ณ๐ช๐ฆ๐ฏ๐ฅ๐ด, ๐บ๐ฐ๐ถ๐ณ ๐ญ๐ช๐ง๐ฆ, ๐บ๐ฐ๐ถ๐ณ ๐ง๐ถ๐ต๐ถ๐ณ๐ฆ. ๐๐ท๐ฆ๐ณ๐บ๐ต๐ฉ๐ช๐ฏ๐จ ๐ช๐ด ๐จ๐ฐ๐ฏ๐ฆ ๐ข๐ฏ๐ฅ theyโre ๐ต๐ฉ๐ฆ ๐ณ๐ฆ๐ข๐ด๐ฐ๐ฏ.
An echo of promise to himself. To do what he promised heโd do.
Perhaps it was their own fault to trust a hurt, 16 year old, hero in training. Maybe they didnโt do a good enough job converting him to their ideologies. Possibly, itโs their fault that Hanta Sero throws away his helmet and makes the switch. The League and Hanta never did get along well in the first place. A shame, too. They said he had potential to be something great.
๐๐ซ๐๐ข๐ญ๐จ๐ซ.
ใ ๐๐๐๐ญ๐ก ๐จ๐ ๐ ๐๐๐ซ๐จ ใ
ยป ๐ต๐ธ: ๐ฅ๐ฆ๐ข๐ต๐ฉ ๐ฎ๐ฆ๐ฏ๐ต๐ช๐ฐ๐ฏ
Finally, he was allowed off campus. It took just over two months, but clearance was given and Hanta almost cried in relief. He just wanted to go home.
It tookโฆ a really long time to collect that courage, though. By the time Hanta finally worked up the balls to head home, he went on a blind impulse. The year lease was running out, and he had business to take care of.
Unfinished business.
The apartment was still as drab as it was when Hanta was last here. Two bedrooms, a bathroom, a living room-kitchen shared space. Grey and drab and void of all life. Then again, it really had been since September.
If anything about this place was a gift, it was the small fireplace. Most Tokyo apartments didnโt have those. The only reason theirโs did was because it was the homeโs heater. But that inspired tonightโs plans big time.
Lithe fingers traced the old wall, swooping around old door frame, flicking old light switch on. Let there be light. Let the light show what Hanta Sero used to be not even a year ago.
Troubled. Confused. Hobbyless.
Nobody would guess this was a 15 year oldโs bedroom.
Mostly because it wasnโt then and it was about to be even less so.
He didnโt want to sift through things, didnโt want to take home dark memories from this Hellscape. Nothing good happened here. Not to him, not to his mom, not to his future.
It had to go.
So Hanta Sero leaves the room. Not for long. Sole purpose being light a match, strike the fire alive.
Burn it all down.
All the walls built from wretched memories, the lies erected by desperation.
It had to go.
The hero who worked to save his mother, who risked numerous lives to keep her well? Gone. Dead; just like her.
โTime for a new chapter.โ
And suddenly papers, boxes of knickknacks, magazines and old clothes were all being tossed carelessly into the fire. One by one, Hanta was emptying out his room and watching it all char to ash.
Flames burned longer, burned brighter, burned hotter. In a matter of mere hours, heโd cleared out his room, chest heaving from adrenaline. Hanta was just about to get started on his motherโs own room before a tiny beep rang through the apartment.
The light on his bracelet. Blue with worry, the light flashed and was sending out a plea. Ironic enough as the beep was meant to make sure Hanta was alive, it only made him panic more. Heart rate increased, breathing quickened, head weightless, thoughts and vision blurred. It blurs and blurs and blurs until all the colors merge to a murky black swirl. The last thing Hanta registers is meeting the ground, the heat of the fire against his face.
He wakes up to the door opening and something, someone, at his side.
Vision clears to reveal another person in the same odd blur as heโs lifted up off the ground, escorted out.
ใ ๐๐๐ฌ๐ฎ๐ฌ ๐ข๐ง LA ๐๐จ๐ค๐ฒ๐จ ใ
ยป ๐ต๐ธ: ๐ฑ๐ข๐ด๐ต ๐ข๐ฃ๐ถ๐ด๐ฆ
The morning was slow. Easy. Peaceful. Until Aizawa approached Hanta saying Hound Dog wanted to talk to him. Odd considering his next counseling session wasnโt for a couple days, but he simply shrugged and followed along.
Familiar room of the guidance counselor, Hanta let himself in when the duo arrived.
โThereโs an option for you. About adoption.โ
Immediate reaction was to protest, be bitter, crumple up into a sour mood so whatever family wanted a prize UA student would turn away. He didnโt want to be adopted. The school knew this. The social worker he had also knew this. Hanta didnโt want to be adopted.
For some reason, though, he didnโt turn to a grouch and instead followed along. It didnโt take YaoMomoโs brain to know that just following orders from these people would be better than pulling a Bakugo-like protest.
A small conference room. Not big enough for more than 5 people if one wanted to be comfortable. The door opened and, God, Hanta felt like he walked into Hell. The Devil, in the flesh, was just sitting on one of the chairs, hands folded in his lap and knee bouncing in anticipation. Dark eyes cast up at the noise of people, and their eyes met. Charcoal that was uncannily identical, sharp jawline ever so slightly slacked in surprise. Thatโs him.
Thatโs Mori Hansuke. Alternatively: Hantaโs father.
The teen was struck with shock, pausing in the doorway, hand clamped against his mouth. What is he supposed to say? This is his dad that he hasnโt seen in six years. He barely knows the guy.
This is the guy who used to hit his mother.
The guy who beat her when Hanta wasnโt looking, who was the root of all his problems, who was gone when they needed him most, who let his mother die and didnโt try to help, didnโt know she even was dying, probably didnโt care if she was.
This is Hansuke, who gave Hanta his name, who gave him life, who took it away just as fast.
Face to face with the man that ruined everything after six years of absence.
Stomach twisted, knotted, refused to settle. He felt sick but didnโt have anything to hurl. Hand dampened andโฆ
He was crying.
Sobbing into his own hand, his dad just watching. A spectacle. That only makes Hanta choke even more, makes his shoulders heave through the deaf cries. Aizawaโs hand is on his back. Ushering him forward, too, but Hanta didnโt move.
The very man that ruined his life was very much possibly the only one who could save him. Thereโd been threats of foster care, staying in a home, but Hanta shot them down. There was only so much fighting he could do, though. Hansuke, who only could relate to Hanta from their DNA, was now his one savior.
Suddenly, in the silence of sobs, a voice spoke up.
โIโm so, so proud of you. Youโre so strong, Hanta Honey.โ
One broken cry rings throughout the room before Hantaโs falling. The floor gets closer and closer and farther and farther. His feet are on the ground again, face pressed against body hotter than this Hell. Arms hold him stable, anchor legs that canโt stand on their own. Thereโs a face pressed into his hair that simply listens to him.
Slowly, violent weeping turns quiet again, chest heaves in exhaustion, eyes swollen. Hanta can barely breathe properly.
โThereโs a home for you with me.โ
Itโs not a plea. Itโs a promise. An option that Hanta can take at a momentโs notice. But itโs also available the mull over. Ponder the possibilities.
Heโs been alone.
In this moment, heโs at home. His dadโs embrace feels exactly like it used to.
For a minute, the past fades. He doesnโt care about the domestic abuse or the divorce or the absence.
Maybe this is something to consider. A home with the devil. Not a savior like he thought, but not an enemy either. A friend.
A home.