Chapter 9: IT'S LUNCH TIME!
Tuesday, September 11th,
8:23 am
On top of an industrial-sized grill sizzled all manner of meats. In the back, ribs seared on high heat while brats and hotdogs cooked more slowly up front. Grease dripped, sending a wave of flames up from below.
Brats were tricky. Such a powerful food with all their fat.
Lunch Lady smiled. They were perfection incarnate. Just like the giant bowl of potato salad sitting on the checker-clothed table nearby.
Moving the German sausages so they wouldn't burn, the older woman paused when an intense prickling crawled up her girthy neck with the stick-legs of a beetle.
Her lair was under attack.
Flipping the dials of the grill off and closing the valve to the propane tank, the ghost shot into the air and toward the disturbance.
No one was ruining her Fall barbecue! Not even the Phantom child!
Reaching the point where the ghostling's aura was strongest, she paused. A field of boulders floated, undisturbed, except for one that practically stank of the lair-wrecker's ectoplasm. He had to be hiding on the other side.
Lunch Lady propelled toward and through the rock, a battle cry ruining the ambush as she manifested escrima ribs in yellow-gloved hands.
The dark grey surface gave way to the damp, too-sweet air of rotting trash as the ambient light of the Zone vanished.
Up and down existed now, too.
Lunch Lady righted herself out of a plummet, examining everything and spreading ghostly senses.
The strangeness of another dimension was unequivocal.
"Oh. A new neighbor." She hadn't had one of those in quite some time. How exciting.
"I wonder how they feel about meatloaf…"
Curious as to who lived in this new haunt, Lunch Lady floated toward the mouth of the alley. Right before the end, a sensation from some long-forgotten, almost-foreign memory teased at her non-existent gut. The stomach-drop of a free-fall.
Dirty concrete rushed up to meet flat-shod feet, and by proxy, portly knees.
Another power issue. Well that was aggravating.
The food lover stood and dusted herself off, frowning as she legged it the rest of the way to the street. Eyes surveying an urban district's intersection, she failed to notice when the portal winked from existence behind her.
Lunch Lady strolled across the road, following a core that vied for attention like a little kid shouting "look at me" every few seconds.
The woman passed squiggle-covered signs and anthropoids of various shapes and colors, letting the tug on her soul guide her. Ignoring the paling (or in one case, purpling) humans as she ghosted through their bodies, she approached a flight of stairs that led into a multi-story building.
Looking at the steps as her chest hummed its need again, Lunch Lady raised a brow.
Not in this afterlife.
The cafeteria worker tested her luck, lifting back into the air. Surprised (but pleased) that she wouldn't have to hike, the specter rose through several stories before stopping on the fourth floor. Burger grease and fried chicken curled around green nostrils, mixing with the scent of szechuan sauce and sauteed noodles.
Ah. So that was the lure. A mall's food court.
Lunch Lady's inner fire flared as she watched locals stuff themselves full of essential fats and protein.
What a wonderful place.
Tuesday, September 11th,
8:49 am
We have a case of unauthorized quirk usage near the Detnerat building. The perp is heavyset, approximately a hundred and seventy-three centimeters, mid-to-late fifties with green skin and white hair. She was last seen entering the Kanagawa Valley shopping mall and appears to be using both permeation and flight.
Kenichi Ishii frowned. He was so close to the end of patrol when the call came in from the office.
The other hero on this shift had already returned to their shared agency just three minutes earlier, the lucky prick. Now, as the only one in the vicinity before the next pair clocked on, Kenichi had to respond.
"Roger that." The forty year old's voice held annoyance.
The hero reached behind himself, hand shoving into a giant, plastic jar. Pulling back a fistful of small, colored balls, the stout man sorted them into a seven-pouched bandolier. Each pocket matched its respective primary or secondary color, (except for brown), so the task was quick. Just a few handfuls and he was ready to go.
Popping a yellow gumball in his large mouth and starting to chew, a familiar rush of energy jolted down muscular limbs.
A couple people waved as he raced through the streets and he smiled, maintaining a professionally happy facade as he made his way seven blocks down to the shopping center.
Upon reaching the intersection in front of Kanagawa Valley, he paused, doing a quick survey for damage. Seeing none, he raced up the stairs and opened the glass door to the building.
Maybe the quirk user had already fled without starting anything. Wouldn't that be nice.
As soon as the pro opened the door, though, his hopes sank.
Anxious faces stared back at him.
"Gumball! Thank goodness you're here!" called a calico-skinned woman, pupils widening out of their panicked, half-slit state at the sight of him. Running her hands through a cat-eared child's hair over and over again, she elaborated, "The villain is on the fourth floor! She's taken over the cafeteria and barricaded people inside! My husband went to grab a hot dog, and now he's stuck in there!"
The son grimaced when the petting escalated enough to turn his ginger locks ragged.
Kenichi caught the kid's eyes, dipping his head slightly to acknowledge the boy's patience. The minor looked away, cheeks red, but a tiny smile threatened to overtake the irritation.
"Don't worry, Miss, I'll have everything wrapped up in no time." Spitting his gum into a nearby trash can, he flashed an award-winning grin, then tapped one of the three largest pouches on his chest. The top of the pocket unsealed itself, pushing a crimson ball into his fingers.
Biting down on the vibrant gum, he launched into the air, bouncing back and forth between landings over the central dead-space of the mall. The correct level reached, he vaulted a banister and touched down softly.
Tossing a blue gumball into his mouth to join the red, he sauntered forward, the colors mixing and turning his hearing sharp.
Purple was always great for reconnaissance.
Huh.
It'd been more than half a lifetime since he'd last taken English, but he did recognize the language echoing from further down the mezzanine.
"Would you like a cookie?"
Scattered crying was interrupted by the response, "I'm sorry, I don't speak English," while another person chimed in, "No sank kyuu," voice shaky.
Something was off here. Things didn't sound violent, they were almost…civil. Maybe there was still a chance to de-escalate.
Pulling violet from his mouth, he snapped open a case on his arm and stuck the spare gum to it, the container already resembling the underside of a school desk.
A second later, Kenichi grabbed a fresh, canary-yellow ball and started chewing.
Being careful to actually make sound, the bearded man approached the open space of the mess hall. It was fairly empty, a large chunk of the furniture that normally adorned it populating the perimeter by way of the barricade. At its center, a brass sculpture depicted a tuna, the ribbons of metal woven into an abstract form.
Thirteen people—ten nervous adults and three children—sat at several pushed-together tables. Flitting around them was a portly, green-skinned woman that heaped their plates with all kinds of food.
Hands up as he picked his way through the wall of upturned tables and chairs, the seasoned fighter stalled, "Hello, there. I'm the pro hero, Gumball. What's your name?"
The floating lady just ignored him, seemingly more interested in a small child that had its arms stretched to receive a chocolate chip cookie.
Kenichi tried again, this time in broken, half-remembered English, "Mai namu Gumball. Yuu namu?"
This pulled the maybe-villain's eyes to him for a second. Just enough time for the father of the toddler to shift the kid out of reach and pin its arms. When she looked back, the baby was no longer begging for sugar.
With so many years under his bandolier, the color hero could say for a fact that he was good at reading people. So, while he didn't know what had set the woman off, he was already sprinting by the time her shoulders finished tightening.
As the rogue quirk user raised her arms and bellowed, Kenichi slid into the small space between the green female and the civilian table, whirling a kick. He half expected it not to hit—this lady was supposed to have a permeation quirk on top of her flight after all—yet somehow it did. The blow wasn't very strong, as his hundred and fifty-eight centimeter frame could only create so much force; but it didn't matter, all it needed to do was knock her back a bit.
"Run!" he commanded, refusing to look away from his opponent and dropping into a fighting stance. Hearing chair legs scrape the ground a second later, he jumped forward in an attack.
The woman honed in on him and her eyes started to glow. Perfect.
He could always up the strength of his blows once everyone evacuated, but for now, the name of the game was diversion.
Dodging a back-hand strike with quirk-enhanced speed, Kenichi was caught off guard when he got slammed from behind regardless. An unknown accomplice had somehow hit his jar, breaking the plastic and sending the little orbs inside skittering across the floor.
Spine bruised, the muscular pro pressed a button on his uniform, broken support item hissing as it detached from his back.
Rolling away from another swing, the man scooped a brown ball from the ground, tossing it in his mouth during the maneuver. Momentum caused it to hit the back of his throat and Kenichi suppressed a gag, tonguing it toward his teeth and chewing wildly.
The hero's skin thickened and hardened, back pain receding to a dull ache.
This time he didn't dodge, tanking a hit and throwing one of his own when the lady screeched, "Gum?! GUM?! IN SUCH A SACRED PLACE?! There's all this wonderful food around you and you'd rather taste something so empty?!"
Hearing a whimper, Kenichi glanced behind himself as he smacked away another strike.
It wasn't an accomplice that had hit him.
Floating silverware ringed five hostages, the plastic cutlery flanked by an outer circle of metal kitchen knives.
It was the villain's quirk.
Shit.
Permeation and telekinesis.
She was strong enough to not only lift herself effortlessly, but the things around her as well. What the hell.
Gritting his teeth on the next bite down, Kenichi clenched his fists and jumped backwards. He needed to get to the civilians. There was no way they could protect themselves and nothing short of knocking the villain out was going to stop her psychic abilities. If he continued to fight her, the hostages would be dead long before he won.
The color hero back-stepped, duck-turning beneath a wok that flew in from his left.
Using the momentum to keep going, he sprinted to the trapped people, vaulting over one of the few tables still in the room.
It was a miracle the hostages hadn't been hurt yet. But as Kenichi gave them his full attention, he realized why. A middleschooler with an air quirk was blowing away any cookware that came too close.
The wispy girl couldn't keep it up much longer, though. She was already breathing hard and with Kenichi letting up on the villain, more things targeted the group.
An ojii-san cried out and threw up his hands, thin skin ready to part like wet paper under an incoming blade.
The hero's legs pumped harder, but he was in durability mode, not speed, so all he could do was watch in horror as the serrated edge ripped across the elder's arm.
Expecting blood, or possibly a limb, to splat to the floor, the seasoned man's heart nearly stopped when he realized what had actually happened.
It was about fucking time.
A colossal man in full chain-mail slammed through the room's barricade a moment later, blowing an exit wide open.
Kenichi promptly turned a 180 and popped a red piece of gum. Slamming his fists together and muscles inflating to twice their size, he lunged forward.
Paladin would keep the civilians plenty safe with his Extendaguard.
Now Kenichi could get down to business.
The villain that was barreling toward him stopped, heaving both her fists in a downward bash. It was obvious she expected the small man to either crumple or dodge.
Instead, he twisted, batting her fists past his right side and redirecting them to the floor. As gravity threw the psychic downward, he threw his knee up and shattered her nose.
A viscous liquid that must have been blood showered outward, splattering the linoleum beneath his feet as he followed up with a headbutt.
Instead of connecting, the blow phased through the prone figure and Kenichi fell forward.
Tucking his shoulder to turn the fall into a roll, the middle-aged male came out of the summersault on the balls of his feet, ready to pivot back around.
Right up until a giant, meaty hand grabbed him from behind.
Not a big-boned, heavy-set hand. A meat-y one.
The chicken-coated appendage squeezed him, raw, fleshy fingers driving the air from his lungs with a woosh. A second later, everything blurred as he soared across the cafeteria. Too disoriented to catch himself, Kenichi settled for popping a brown ball. The hardening effect just barely set in before he crashed through a sheet of glass.
He careened across a counter, body knocking something to the floor which he promptly landed on. Feeling a sharp pain spearing his chest, he knew he broke a rib. Enhanced durability was good, but it wasn't perfect.
Kenichi coughed, but the sound was dry and he could still draw breath.
At least he hadn't punctured a lung.
Forcing brown eyes open, he idly realized it was a WacDonald's till he'd crushed. The poor thing cried out in agonized beeps as he pushed himself off it. Never before had he resonated so much with a machine.
Picking his way out of the restaurant, the stout male grimaced. There were so many gumballs on the ground it was a miracle he didn't trip.
Forcing shallow, even breaths, he started a tottering jog, joints and ligaments limbering as he switched to a blue power-up.
Another hit like that would take him out, but he could stall until Paladin got back. If he could just harry the lady, they might have a chance.
The thought finished right as he noticed the villain sinking through the floor.
Not good.
"HEY GRANNY! You call that a throw?!" Coupling the words with a cocky grin, Kenichi ignored the throb in his ribcage and stood tall. Well, as tall as he could. He received a searing glare for his efforts. Whether or not she understood the language didn't matter, the tone came across just fine.
"I was going to leave you to perish on your own, but it seems YOU'RE READY TO EXPIRE EARLY!"
Kenichi rushed to meet the lady as she exploded from the floor, food shooting across the room to wrap around her in some kind of edible armor.
Moving like a leaf in a breeze, he avoided her every hit. Twirling and flipping like some buff ballerina, the color hero focused solely on defense.
He couldn't keep this up. He had two, maybe three misses left in him.
Breaths coming short, he limboed away from yet another punch. Then dropped his palms to the floor, and crab-dodged a second one.
His chest was on fire now, the position scorching his rib as it was forced to grind against itself.
Just when he didn't think he could move again, he realized he didn't have to.
The attacks had stopped.
The edible monster's face was pulled back in a scowl, its limbs moving seemingly at random—almost like a seizure.
Kenichi felt the warm buzz of Extendaguard envelope his skin as Paladin dashed past and kicked at the creature.
It collapsed to the floor, but the villain's body was missing.
A new woman ran into the room, waving as she came up behind the body armor hero.
"I'm sorry I'm late! There was a traffic jam on the way to work!" Examining the deserted, food-strewn eatery, VantaGirl sagged. "You were fighting the green lady, huh?" Hand dragging down her face in exasperation, the black-themed hero turned and booked it back the way she came. "Uuuuugh! I knew she looked suspicious!"
Watching Paladin race after his partner, bitterness blended with the stabbing in Kenichi's chest.
He had been this close to getting off work on time.
Collapsing back-first on the cool ground and rubbing tired eyes, he grumbled, "At least I get to skip the wild goose chase."
Wednesday, September 12th,
9:40 am
Lunch Lady was disillusioned by the cafeteria she'd tried to haunt. The battle had been fun, but the pizza had tasted too much like flavored plastic to give any compliments. She debated going back to rectify the situation, but the sounds of pursuit still trickled by and she wasn't sure when (or if) another power would act up. Being unable to control her edible shell had been troubling to say the least.
Forcing glitchy ectoplasm to stay in the astral plane, Lunch Lady passed through crowded streets. After nearly a mile, she dropped intangibility and settled on a bench.
Using the recess, the injured woman focused on her nose, imagining the ectoplasm reforming into its original shape.
Pain receded and a tiny whistling stopped, allowing the ghost to sag more comfortably into her chair.
People passed without seeing her, the bench appearing empty to their eyes. But she saw them, studying this new world with a dull hum of contentment buzzing in her chest.
Hmmm. What now?
Going back to the alley and heading home felt like such a wasted opportunity.
Ignoring the beautiful architecture of the cobblestone side street and the many pedestrians that populated it, Lunch Lady focused on a shop fronted by paper lanterns.
Inside, the owner tended some kind of griddle-tray covered in spherical divots. Spraying it down with oil, he filled the little circles with batter and shoved—octopus, her core supplied—into the center of each one with commendable speed.
This deserved a closer look.
She floated off the bench, passing a full bike rack and some kind of waving cat statue as she entered.
It wasn't long before the man's four arms were flipping the hundred-plus dough balls, chopsticks a blur of efficiency.
Delightful.
What else did this place have to offer?
Phasing through the wall, Lunch Lady visited the next shop. And the one after. Making her way down the block through the building, she marveled at every unique restaurant and cooking technique.
Core thrumming even harder, the dead school-worker emerged from the superstructure, ready to move on to the next building.
A bus rolled to a stop in front of her, pausing for a red light before continuing down the street.
It didn't matter that it was gone, though. The picture on its side was already branded onto her core, the memory as irritating as an itchy scab.
Some—Some LINE COOK had the audacity to advertise flash-frozen dinners that didn't even have true meat in them?!
Pescatarian!? Low-Calorie!? Disgraceful!
The heavy woman spat at the ground, trying to get the sour taste of disgust from her mouth.
That over-salted blasphemer didn't deserve to have a name so close to her own!
A pit formed in Lunch Lady's midsection.
What if someone confused them?
Closing her eyes, she focused on the man's image and coaxed a tendril of power to the forefront. It latched on, spreading out and shooting southwest before disappearing like a snuffed cinder. Lunch Lady turned, front splashing with luke-warmness when she faced the direction her clairvoyance had indicated.
He was quite a ways away.
Lifting into the sky, the resourceful ghost eyed the city.
Spying what she was looking for, the Zone citizen zipped over several buildings, dropping down and alighting on a large, cement platform covered with roof-like canopies. Throngs of people surrounded her invisible form, unaware of her presence but for the ghost's natural warm-spot that drew a few of the humans subconsciously near.
She didn't blame them. Today was quite chilly.
The pressure around her suddenly changed, a futuristic streamliner whooshing into the station and sliding to an abrupt stop. The doors opened and Lunch Lady hurried inside after the rest of the passengers, making sure to stay back just a bit so as not to bump anyone.
Several cars down, she found an empty section and faded back into sight. Grandmotherly smile softening her face, she plopped onto a well-cushioned bottom.
Why fly a hundred miles when there was a train?
Wednesday, September 12th,
1:05 pm
Lunch Lady's front was positively toasty, clairvoyant abilities indicating that this was the place. Invisible and intangible, the cook threw her arms into a Box Ghost-like pose and sped through the tan stucco of a paneled wall.
Breezing by trees and walking paths, the trespasser drifted around a large, H-shaped building.
A single-story structure came into view, coaxing her interest. Light glinted from above and the ghost angled her flight higher, marveling when a panoramic skylight stretched the length of the roof.
What striking architecture.
Lunch Lady dove through the glass. The temperature immediately rose and the intruder smiled despite the irritation bubbling at the back of her mind. Shifting her body to the material plane, the older woman sank, lowering from the ceiling to just a few feet above the floor.
An obnoxious alarm started to blare inside the building, startling a howl from some far off dog. Then a clatter sounded from nearby, distracting the food worker from her mission and pulling her focus to the center of the room.
A cup lay on its side in front of a girl with bovine horns, soda dribbling off the table and onto the floor.
A new, more pressing emotion covered Lunch Lady's simmering anger and pulled it off the burner.
"Oh no! What a waste. You look like you could have used the extra calories," the ghost lamented, drifting toward the much-too-skinny kid. "Don't worry, I'll have you fixed up in no time." She raised a hand, ready to conjure up another drink. It stopped halfway, held in place by some type of scarlet rope.
Head wrenching toward a 30-something year old at the other end of it, Lunch Lady glared. The skin-tight suit was different, and the man was much too large, but something about this scenario smacked of an encounter with Phantom, aggravating her all over again.
"You dare stop me?!" The fire-core's voice crackled, rumbling the deeper notes. Rage boiled to the forefront and she yanked back.
The muscular, red-and-silver human was caught unawares by her strength, swinging through the air and crashing into a plant fixture. A cloud of potting soil exploded on impact, dusting the tables behind it with a layer of earth and tiny perlite stones.
The clank-bang of cracked ceramic broke the room's mounting tension like blank gunfire at the start of a race.
Imitating a cave of startled bats, the students screeched and ran into each other in a mad scramble for the exit, failing to notice as Lunch Lady searched the crowd.
There. The slim girl was still here, trying to usher others into a semblance of civilized evacuation. The ghost jetted forward, snatching the golden-haired female by a horn.
Abruptly, the humans stopped swarming.
As everything stilled, Lunch Lady noticed the red-silver fighter hold up his hands while another adult ten feet away shifted into a similar, placating pose.
"Sutahpu!" the new man demanded, sharp, ruby eyes nearly glowing from within a floating cloud of black hair.
An illusory cold spilled over and off her skin like water trying to cling to a duck's back and Lunch Lady pulled her hostage close with one thick arm. "Never! This lunch room is a disgrace; these children are skin and bones!"
Sweeping her free hand to the side, an abandoned tray shot off a table and frisbee'd at the lean male. Just barely missing when he ducked at the last second, it flew thirty feet farther and broke a single pane of glass, otherwise leaving the wall of windows intact.
"Let go!" a high-pitched voice shrieked in time with the security system, drawing the woman's attention back down to her side where a hoof jabbed toward her. The ghost merely raised a brow and extended her right arm, destroying the squirming human's leverage and causing the kick to miss by a handspan.
"See?! Without proper nutrition you're weak!"
"I am not! I could—" the refute began, then abruptly died off. Lunch Lady eyed the girl suspiciously until more movement caused her to look away.
Red-silver was lunging forward, two more whips shooting from his body. When they got near, Lunch Lady jerked right, the attack passing within inches of her face.
A distinctly copper scent cut the ghost's nose.
Oh, how interesting.
Grinning devilishly, the paunchy woman lifted her free arm again. The red vines solidified, pinched sections forming every five inches and a light-pink film growing over the coagulating liquid.
Across from her, the jumpsuited male froze, horrified.
Freshly-made sausages suspended in air before tearing back toward the blood user, the links striking at their creator like a snake.
Suddenly thrown off balance, Lunch Lady glanced at her right hand. Her captive was gone, a detached horn the only thing left of the teen.
Before the woman could surge forward in pursuit, white flashed from the side. A telepathically controlled scarf coiled around Lunch Lady's left wrist and she roared.
Following the cloth back to its source with irises of forge-fire, the ghost spotted the floaty-hair guy from earlier and a plump, silver-topped boy next to him. Ignoring the kid and zeroing in on the older man's glare, the cook pulled back on the scarf in a mimicry of what she'd done a minute ago.
Rather than fight it, the new opponent dead-sprinted toward her, apparel-turned-weapon wrapped in a single loop over his forearm and gripped at the end. The teen crouching behind him took advantage, dashing away with large, anxious eyes.
Lunch Lady attempted to trip the black-clothed adult out of the rush, flinging the horn in her hand like a javelin. The haggard man sidestepped, refusing to slow even when the boney appendage speared the ground near his booted foot.
He managed to get in close, tugging hard on the muffler to stagger Lunch Lady and land a hit to the woman's gut. She oofed, forced to bend slightly as the (admittedly unnecessary) breath left her. Her gaze rose back up as she straightened, focusing near the main exit when someone caught her eye.
It was him. Lunch Rush.
Just thinking the name caused the ghost's core to ignite like a dried up Christmas tree. The chef-clothed imposter was even herding her one-horned teen toward an exit.
"YOU!" Lunch Lady howled, right hand ripping at the scarf on her left. The fabric stuck on her glove cuff and she phased it through, metal fibers breezing past the latex.
Pointing in accusation with the now-free hand, she shrieked, "GET YOUR GRUBBY, FOOD-DEFILING MITTS OFF HER!"
Another fist flew toward the green female's head and she caught it without looking, squeezing until there was a sharp crack. Her stoic attacker dipped under the broken hand, silent as his free fist went in for another hit. She smacked it down like a child stealing a cookie, barely registering a sharp sting to the palm.
Swinging him over her head by the fist, Lunch Lady got ready to send the human to the floor. A sparkling beam of light stopped the move, singeing the underside of her forearm mid-motion and forcing thick fingers open. The burnt ectoplasm hardened as if cauterized while a long cord of pink muscle snapped in from the side. Slipping around the obnoxious fighter, it jerked the shaggy man away before he could hit the linoleum. A wall of craggy blue shot from the ground for good measure, billowing chilled air toward the ghost as it separated her from a small group of students and the foe.
Now that was silly; normal ice could hardly stop her.
The refracted figure of her opponent rose and regained his feet, distorted lips growling something that she couldn't hear past the cries of the alarm. Lunch Lady's eyes narrowed. Then relaxed when a plethora of angry, disbelieving shouts followed.
Not an insult after all.
The siren suddenly quieted (thank goodness), and she half-listened as the group devolved into argument, not understanding a word. Using the lull, the Ghost Zone native surveyed the room.
Not many kids remained, but the ones that did seemed intent on aiding the two adults. Even the red-silver man was receiving help in the fight against her sausages—a forest green vine had torn from the floor and was tangoing with her blutwurst. Lunch Lady allowed herself a cheeky grin and willed her meaty minions to grow teeth, watching as they started to bite at the vegetation.
But other than that, most of the lunch-goers and Lunch Rush were officially gone, the horned highschooler included.
The ectoplasmic being grit her teeth, a large vein appearing in her neck.
She started to summon clairvoyance, ready to track the well-done steak that was Lunch Rush down.
"SHINE!" [DIE!] a foreign word shrilled, an explosive palm flying in from the right to match the energy.
Lunch Lady's search ability fizzled out and she let the discharge slide through her head with a sadistic grin. Backhanding the attacker's shoulder blades as he passed, she baited the wide-eyed youth, "Looks like someone could stand to learn some manners. Good children WAIT THEIR TURN!"
The boy tried to correct his flight with a well timed blast, but the table on Lunch Lady's left was too close. The blonde's blue-slacked shins slammed into the top of it and he cried out, upper half swinging down toward the laminate. Palms thwacking against the surface to take the brunt of the fall, he turned the tumble into an awkward half-cartwheel and was thrown off the table.
Hitting the pony wall temple first, he collapsed, a single hand sliding across the ground to cover a pair of too-bright, unfocused eyes.
"Oh my. That may have been a bit too hard for you," Lunch Lady admitted, mindful to keep her voice down. The boy's friends subscribed to no such niceties, barely-muffled screams echoing from beyond the ice wall.
In less than a second, her previous challenger re-entered the fray, shouting something at the downed boy when the kid attempted to stand. Broken hand wrapped in bandages (where'd those even come from?), the scruffy grown-up charged Lunch Lady, face shadowed by an intensity the ghost couldn't quite place. Caught off guard, she barely avoided an uppercut, managing to drop tangibility only just in time.
What was with that look?
It wasn't like she'd let anyone die. She liked children, their well-being so important it tied into her obsession.
The man's teeth grit and his eyes lit red again. That cold sensation was back, but like before, it slipped away, as elusive as a breeze across skin.
A hoarse voice quieted the students beyond the ice wall, and Lunch Lady risked a curious glance back. A blue-haired boy clenched his fists as he ended some kind of speech, anguished form just visible through the frozen water.
The view cut off, covered by that dang scarf as it flattened, going stiff in front of her face.
How rude.
Eyes jerking forward, Lunch Lady watched the cloth-wielding adult retreat to the concussed teen, dropping into a guard stance when he grew nearer.
He didn't move from the position, watching her closely but holding still as if waiting for something.
A stampede suddenly thundered away from the student's frozen stronghold and raced toward the cafeteria's exit, only two sets of footsteps breaking from the herd. A machine gun of taps, and the erratic leaps of a rabbit looped back around, coming in fast. In mere moments the duo slid to a stop behind blast-boy and scarf-man.
Rather than show relief at the reinforcements, the injured blonde started spitting what could only be profanities. The shorter, green-haired boy winced, but his black-haired partner just rolled up grey sleeves with a cocky smirk.
Lunch Lady couldn't help but notice just how lean both newcomers were. Frowning, she tried to recall everyone she'd seen since arriving.
The mousey boy held out a hand, slender palm up. In response, the kid's taller colleague bent an arm, a strip of white….tape? shooting from the boy's knobby elbow and sticking to the proffered fingertips. Their schoolmate's curses grew louder at the action and the blonde tried to jump away. The duo seemed to anticipate this, already dashing to either side and trying to clothesline the firecracker. The kid sprang over the adhesive band, displaying a high jump form worthy of a track star. His peers immediately lowered the line, pulling it back the other way.
Lunch Lady watched the children's sinewy muscles bunching and cording as they leapt. A cold anger burned beneath her skin. The way the students moved, their fat content couldn't be more than six, maybe seven percent of their body weight.
Less than half of what it should be.
Lunch Lady dragged her blazing gaze back to the teens' protector. The man studied her, smoothly lowering a walkie-talkie from his mouth and tucking it back into a belt without breaking eye contact. The controlled movements seemed to say he was reluctant to engage, even as his metallic scarf hovered in the air like the toothy threat of a cornered predator.
She had to take these kids away from here; her core railed at her to feed.
Rushing forward, Lunch Lady jabbed at the persistent human, hoping to hit his chest hard enough for a one-hit KO.
Quick as lightning the man leaned to the side, grabbing his scarf from the air and stretching a length of it between his hands. Using the slack, he twisted the cloth around her arm and tugged tight. Pivoting on his foot, he redirected her momentum into a violent hammer throw that sent her back the way she'd come.
Just before hitting a planter, Lunch Lady steadied herself, taking the second to check on the children.
The blonde ducked and twisted away from his schoolmates' ribbon yet again, just barely avoiding it by throwing up his right hand for an explosion. The force shot him to the side, but instead of launching back into battle the kid clutched at his right ear and vomited all over the floor. His attackers descended, running circles counter to each other like spry maypole dancers. In seconds, a very angry cocoon wriggled on the floor.
Deciding to switch tactics, Lunch Lady let the warm heat of incorporeality pour through her and dove forward. Black-sleeved punches slid through her midsection and a line of crimson attempted to spear her shoulder. Disregarding the attacks, she snatched at the green-haired boy. He juked to the side on electrified legs, blue slacks passing just inches from her outstretched fingers.
Sharp pain flared in Lunch Lady's stomach, doubling the ghost over. The blunt-force blow was significantly worse than earlier, several times stronger than scarf-man's punch had been.
She had little time to wonder how the hit got past her intangibility or who threw it. The kids were bolting toward the exit, dragging their writhing mummy-friend along behind them. Lunch Lady stumbled to wobbly feet and lifted both hands, ready to summon a battalion of food to retrieve them.
Instead, another rope of crimson and that stupid fashion accessory snapped her arms tight to her sides.
Yanking one limb free, she changed the blood into more frankfurter pets. Ordering them to tangle the muffler, she ghosted out of the restraint.
An intrusive thought pushed its way into Lunch Lady's mind as she beheld the sausage-scarf fight and her core twinged.
"You should stop, Dear." The green woman angled toward the blood man. "Losing this much iron really isn't good for you."
Whack.
A hit that would have darkened a human's vision slammed against the back of Lunch Lady's head. But with no brain to bruise, she simply shook it off, the ectoplasm reforming itself where it'd flattened slightly to absorb the impact.
Twirling to face her assailant, the ghost's hands assumed a strangle-ready position.
LUNCH RUSH.
Eyes flashing between solid red and white, she swept forward, grabbing the wanna-be cook's cast iron fry pan. Swinging it like a baseball batter, she roared "YOU NEGLIGENT FILM OF SLIME MOLD! HOW DARE YOU STARVE THESE CHILDREN!"
The utensil-based fighter was a blur, ducking around the blow and retreating toward the kitchen.
"GET BACK HERE! I'VE GOT BEEF WITH YOU!" she shrilled, speeding after him.
Lunch Rush zoomed by the snack kiosk and straight to the serving area, vaulting over one of the counter's glass cases and sliding inside. A second later, an entire cutlery drawer's worth of silverware shot out and one of Lunch Lady's yellow gloves rose to stop it. The metal paused halfway to the ghost and flipped, shooting back toward her rival in a V. She came fast behind, ready to follow up the stabbing with her fists.
Lunch Rush jumped to the side—the projectiles sinking into the row of cupboards behind him with a thwaiAaAaNG—and gave a thumbs up.
Did he just direct that at her?
Confused and livid, Lunch Lady gathered energy in her chest, ready to go all out.
The temperature of the room skyrocketed to a swelter as if preparing for the incoming storm.
But then someone screamed.
It wasn't nearly as bad as being hit by Phantom's blasted wail; but, while she technically didn't have eardrums, the sound reverberated down her chest, shaking and disrupting her core.
Unable to slip into the astral plane, she fell to the white tiled floor and lunged behind an industrial-steel island. Escaping the sonic attack for a moment, the ghost's eyes widened. Without the sound stalling her consciousness, she smelled something off. Like sun-warm strawberries and vanilla.
Lunch Lady pinched her nose shut as one slow blink turned into two.
It was a good thing she didn't need to breathe.
Mind growing fuzzy, she forced herself through the floor, a new screech just barely hitting her ears before the quiet stillness of cement swallowed the sound.
Wednesday, September 12th,
1:31 pm
A heavy sigh split the air as UA's principal paced across a four foot area. How the small rodent's lungs managed that much air was a mystery.
Glancing about the wrecked room again, Nezu rubbed at his forehead, hand pulling back to reveal a small pile of matte hair. Frowning, he walked to a nearby trash can and reached high above himself, tossing the shed fur inside.
Three faculty stood on Nezu's right, abused and upended furniture strewn around them.
Right now, the four adults were the only ones in the room, but that would change as soon as the police arrived.
"Erasure didn't work," Aizawa spoke up, starting the conversation that everyone seemed loath to begin.
"Well, we're probably dealing with another Nomu…" Vlad King supplied, voice only semi-confident as he scratched at the V-shaped neckline of his hero costume. Angry, swollen prick marks peppered the man's chest anywhere the fabric didn't protect.
"I don't know, Kan-san." Nezu's tone carried its own reservations as the mouse stroked a non-existent chin. "From what you and Tsunotori-san told me, our attacker could speak and interact despite having at least five different, very powerful quirks. Even if she was emotionally unstable, we haven't seen anything like that before. The Nomu from the USJ incident could only follow direct orders and the Hosu Nomu did little more than shriek."
"I agree; something doesn't add up," Aizawa bit out. "Unless the League has made some kind of breakthrough, my quirk should have stopped the telekinesis and permeation, even if it couldn't stop the brute strength or invisibility. Then there were those strange, animated sausages...I can only assume they were an emitter-type as well."
Vlad King involuntarily shuddered next to his colleague, head tipping down and dark eyes magnetizing to his chest. "Not strange, creepy. They bit me. With teeth."
"You might want to see Recovery Girl after the briefing, Sekijiro-kun. I know they were made from your blood, but who knows what metamorphosis they underwent. Ground pork alone can carry a whole slew of bacteria—if not parasites and pathogens," Lunch Rush commented, voice carrying with it a concern his featureless chef's hat could not convey.
The much larger hero flinched, color draining from his skin.
Patting the man's arm in sympathy, the cook reassured, "As long as you get it tended to soon, it should be fine."
Nezu glanced at the exit, eyes drifting along the wall as if he could see the H-shaped building beyond it. "I need to review the security footage. Once I translate what our intruder was saying, it might give us a clue as to her origins. Is there anything else I should know before I get started?"
"The kitchen got hot right before we subdued her," Lunch Rush spoke up. "Check the thermal cameras, she may have a temperature-related quirk as well."
"And keep an eye on how she uses her telekinesis," Aizawa chimed in. "She never used it directly on my capture scarf or any of us, so she may have limitations to the types of things she can control."
The underground hero reached inside his pants pocket and pulled out a small kerchief, offering it for inspection. "I also got a sample of the woman's blood, if it even is blood. Her head flattened and reformed when Lunch Rush hit her with a fry pan. It's possible she's made of this stuff, or has some kind of shock absorption."
A tiny spot of toxic green stained the white cloth, no more than a pinprick smear.
Nezu's black eyes snapped to Aizawa's hand, an almost desperate interest sparking within them.
The mammal padded closer, footsteps faltering just a yard shy of his subordinate. The rodent's beady eyes narrowed and he grit pearly incisors, finishing the trek with a ram-rod straight back. "Call Power Loader. I think we have more ectoplasm on our hands."
"Shit."
Aizawa's sentiment was shared.
Wednesday, September 12th,
2:40 pm
Danny's stomach was a churning mess as his father sliced up the double fudge ice cream cake. Had this been a normal birthday he might have complained about the flavor, but as it stood, blowing out the candles had felt like cutting loose the rope of his own guillotine. Such a small thing like the superiority of rocky road over pure chocolate paled in comparison.
"Smaller slice for me, Dad. Remember I have to eat healthy." The raven boy had never been more glad for an otherwise awful rule. He knew he'd want something in his stomach, but liquified cream was not a top choice.
"Don't worry about that, Danny, it's your birthday!" Jack called. Ignoring a wince, the older Fenton tried to dish Danny up with an even bigger slice than everyone else.
Hagakure and Kamada's more modest servings were already on the kitchen table in front of them. Sam, too, balanced a reasonable portion where she stood near the range. Maddie remained empty-handed, but jumped forward from her spot near Sam at Danny's distress.
Taking the cutter from her husband, the redhead split off a third of the sugary treat and put it on a separate plate. Handing it to her seated son, she commented, "Sorry, Jack, but I'm siding with Danny on this one."
"Don't worry, Mr. F, I'll take the rest of Danny's piece. We share everything anyway," Tuck proclaimed, crossing the room and tugging the dessert away from a pouting Jack. The motion turned into something of an awkward juggle partway through, the video camera in the technogeek's other hand (the traitor) giving the boy trouble.
Danny started eating so he wouldn't have to comment, but after no time at all realized he was on his last bite. He felt like an idiot. He should have gotten a bigger piece.
"So are we going to open presents now?" Hagakure asked, positively bursting with curiosity at this point.
"Yeah, Danny, let's open presents!" Jazz called with a sly smile. It was sibling abuse, plain and simple.
Mentally sighing, the male verbally replied, "Sure," voice anything but.
Jack immediately perked up, a dog hearing the word "treat".
The only reprieve the halfa was likely to get tonight was that ghostly healing should take the brunt of the activities rather than his liver. Maybe he wouldn't even get that drunk, his metabolism was pretty insane.
Perking up at the thought, Danny actually smiled when his father shoved two presents into his hand, crying "Me first!"
Picking up the larger of the boxes, Danny tore at the wrapping. He must have made the wrong choice because Jack immediately huffed, "That one's from your mother."
Eyebrow raising quizzically at his mom's flabbergast expression, Danny pulled out a smaller package wrapped in newspaper. A tiny, porcelain cat emerged, the feline stretching in a lazy pose. More baffled than ever, he popped open another—this time playful—kitten. Then a third, mitten-wearing one.
"Thanks Mom? It's…"
"Not from me?" Maddie answered the search for an adjective with her own confusion. "Jazz?"
"Nope, not mine."
"Sam, Tuck?" Danny asked as the two came over to get a closer look.
"I wi—" Tucker started before Sam slapped a hand over his mouth and muffled the rest, Kamada and Hagakure the only ones off-put by the display.
"If only. Your face was priceless. Tuck, show him."
The videographer obeyed—pausing, rewinding and holding out the recording so Danny could see the evidence of his own inner turmoil.
Pushing herself off of a nearby cupboard, Maddie sauntered around the kitchen table and stepped up behind her husband's stool. Arms sliding down the beefy man's chest in a quasi-hug, she asked, "Where'd you get the present, Honey?"
"On our bed? You left it for me to wrap three days ago, remember?"
"Now why would I get Danny figurines, Jack?"
"Well, I thought it was a dumb gift, but you always get him—" A heated glare made Jack hurl the metaphorical shovel he was using to dig his own grave.
"Was someone in the house?" Kamada demanded, looking at the walls with trepidation at nearly the same time that Jazz asked, "Is there a tag on one of the cats?"
"Not that I can—Oh, wait. There's something written on the newspaper." Flattening the tabloid out to get a better look, Danny groaned.
Tucker and Sam peeked over his shoulders, one snorting and the other grinning as they high-fived.
Happy Birthday Danny,
⟨3 CW
The heart was hand-drawn, not unlike ones he'd seen in Star's statistics notes last year.
Why did the literal ghost of time find it necessary to screw with him?!
Sam and Tuck took one look at Danny's face and burst into full-blown giggles, holding each other's shoulders to keep themselves upright.
"Please tell me—" the goth heaved between laughs, "—you got that."
"Of course I did. What kind of technogeek do you take me for?" Tuck held the camera to his chest in mock hurt.
"Who's CW?" Hagakure inquired, ignoring Danny's friends and leaning over the table to get a better look.
It surprised Danny that she had been able to read the note without the transcribe function of the Gabber app, but he supposed the message was pretty simple.
"Just a family friend," Danny acknowledged. Seeing Kamada frown next to Hagakure, he amended, "The ghostly kind."
The answer seemed to quell the highschooler's anxiety, as her expression lost its edge; but she still seemed displeased, probably unnerved that a ghost had passed unnoticed through the house.
Danny gave her an apologetic shrug and she softened.
Putting aside the first present, Danny reached towards his father's.
Unable to stop himself, Jack blurted, "Johnny and Kitty helped me get it! Just for you!"
OH NO!
Tearing off wrapping paper like the ghouls on its face would come to life and bite him, Danny opened the box.
Inside was a bottle that stared back at him with predatory, glass eyes. Lifting the flask by the neck and refusing to touch the decorative serpent constricting it—Danny held the decanter up to the light.
A bright red comparable to candy apple nail polish shimmered through a swirling, honey-hued liquid.
He was pretty sure he knew what it was, but nearly shuddered when his father confirmed it.
"Fire Snake Whiskey! It's supposed to pack one heck of a punch!"
"Uhm, Da—"
"You would not believe what I had to trade to get it!" his father was already rambling, voice drowning out the younger male. "But then I said to myself, 'Jack, Dann-o is only going to turn twenty-one once; you aren't allowed to be a cheapskate.' " Noticing the half ghost's closing mouth, the eldest Fenton apologized, "Oh, sorry. I didn't mean to talk over you. What were you saying?"
"Nothing," Danny squeaked, a stifling jungle flashing through his mind. "Just excited," he managed to choke out, the words tasting like the poison soon to be on his lips.
"OH! Duh! Twenty-one! I thought I was missing something." Everyone turned to look at Hagakure's lounge-wear at the outburst, unable to study her face. At the attention, the teen clarified, "Japan's drinking age is twenty."
A second later Kamada's mouth dropped into her own "O" of understanding before the teenager's head turned away with a small, pleased smile.
"Open Kamada-san's next!" Jazz exclaimed, voice sickly sweet, "She picked it out all on her own." The emphasis made Danny suspicious, which doubled upon receiving a black box with a snowy ribbon and shamrock green bow.
At least his dad wasn't making him take a shot yet.
Fake smile plastered on his face, the halfa ripped open the package. Inside were two smaller, individually wrapped gifts. Raising an eyebrow, he grabbed out the littler one. His happy facade nearly cracked. Forcing more cheer, Danny held up a shot glass for the room to see, an embellished version of his DP insignia etched along the side.
"Thanks! It's awesome!" he praised, smile breaking a bit as he hastily tried to shove it back in the box.
But not fast enough.
"THAT'S PERFECT! Great job, Kamada!—Er—San!" Jack exploded from his seat and dashed to a cupboard above the fridge. Yanking it open, he pulled out several bottles and two more shot glasses. "We can start right now!"
The massive man brought the alcohol back to the table, glass vessels clinking together as he set everything down ham-handedly.
Sam and Tucker could barely breathe they were laughing so hard.
Kamada just looked dejected, obviously sensing she'd messed up.
No, that's not—That's not what he wanted to happen. Shedidn't know the implications of the gift. Poking at his core and reminding it that someone he protected cared for him back, Danny sent a genuine smile in Kamada's direction.
"That's the spirit, Danny!" Jazz commented, biting her lower lip like she was trying to keep from beaming.
"Did you just—Did you seriously just..?!" Danny couldn't tell if he wanted to laugh hysterically (emphasis on the hysterically) or wring his sister's neck.
"Yeeep."
Danny just looked to his mom, trying to share his exasperation, but the older Fenton was as amused as her daughter. Ugh.
Jack grabbed the freshly opened shot glass from right out of Danny's box and pounded it on the table. Snatching up the Fire Snake Whiskey the older male uncorked the bottle and poured like he was handling liquid gold. The same couldn't be said for the other shot glasses, which he topped with tequila, little sloshes spilling over their sides.
"Sam, Tuck, you too!"
"Sorry, Mr. Fenton, Sam and I are twenty. We can't." Tucker hid a coprophagous grin behind a dark hand.
"Nonsense!" Jack raised a hand to the side of his mouth and whispered conspiratorially, "Just don't tell your—"
"Jack FENTON. We do not offer alcohol to minors in this household!" Maddie reprimanded in time with Jazz's "Dad! No! Absolutely not!"
The hulking figure just shrunk in on himself with a sheepish look.
Jazz sighed and grabbed the two spare glasses, handing one to her mom. Locking eyes with her dad as the man turned ecstatic, she clarified, "We're only doing one. No more," before tossing back the shot.
Hagakure started laughing at Jazz's surefire refusal. Gasping in just enough air to speak, she proclaimed, "You know, I gotta say. Even though I'm stuck here, I could not have picked a cooler homestay family if I'd tried."
Riding the high of those words, Danny picked up his own drink and downed it in one go.
Wednesday, September 12th,
9:03 pm
Brushing teeth had never felt so lonely.
Normally the affair was coupled by little drops of toothpaste spittle as Toru-chan animatedly recounted the highlights of her day. But it'd been just over a week of silence and Mashirao Ojiro felt an ache in his chest that wouldn't go away. Tail drooping of its own accord, the boy spat into the sink. Running on autopilot, he rinsed his mouth and flicked through the ever-open news app on the counter beside him.
He had been excited earlier today. The attack should have been some kind of lead. Something to help him crack the case of this never-ending nightmare. But he'd come up blank, the local journalists proving their ineptitude once again.
Sighing, the martial artist wiped his lips on a white towel—no need to get bleach stains on a colored one—and picked up his cell. Tapping on a map icon, the blonde pinched his fingers toward each other to zoom out and clicked on a nearby prefecture.
It was his new routine. Check the articles, find nothing, broaden the search. Every single day since Hagakure went missing Ojiro had read local, insignificant snippets from here to Hokkaido.
Today's news especially had been dominated by near-duplicate stories about the Nomu's attack on UA and his eyes were starting to burn from sorting through them all.
Changing prefectures again, he exited the communal bathroom and nearly tripped. Tail sticking straight out in an act of balance, the teen caught himself before he could fall into the hallway.
Hero Gumball Thwarts Hostage Situation at Kanagawa Valley Mall
It wasn't the title that had gotten him so riled up. It was the thumbnail image that'd only enlarged when he'd clicked on it.
It was hard to see much. Someone had taken the shot in a rush, probably while hiding. The bottom half of the picture was of some kind of desk, and the top half was stuck through with table legs. The camera was also out of focus—everything in the background (the subject of the photo) was greatly blurred.
But the heavy-set woman at the center of the frame had green skin, bright yellow gloves, a pink dress and an apron.
There was no denying it. The Nomu had attacked somewhere else—Mashirao double-checked the details—before the attack on UA this afternoon.
The male could feel his heart pounding.
He needed to tell someone. The teachers needed to—Mashirao stopped that thought in its tracks.
Despite the supposed openness the faculty had shown right after Hagakure had disappeared, they'd been rather close-lipped about everything since. Something was wrong, the tailed man could feel it. Especially with just how close Aizawa had been watching them all. If he gave the school the only clue he had, they might take it away from him…somehow.
But, he couldn't help but feel that he still needed to tell someone.
Ojiro was smart, but he just didn't have the strategic, calculating mind necessary to decode this new clue on his own.
Wednesday, September 12th,
11:15 pm
Crick-du-du-shuffle-clikr
Izuku lay in bed, eyes closed and ears straining as he unsuccessfully tried to keep his breathing steady.
Something was moving on his balcony.
Already running through possible plans of attack in his head, the male tried to make sense of the noise. It was quiet but spread apart—something large creating little sound. When it got just outside the glass door the night fell silent and he stiffened, sheet-white.
Heart stuttering in his chest, the greenet nearly jumped out of his skin when a light tap-tap-tap-tap broke the hush.
It could still be a villain come to attack, but he doubted it.
Even if the one from earlier definitely had a screw loose.
(Izuku understood English pretty well; he had grown up listening to and reading countless articles and video clips of All Might's exploits from America. So although the Nomu's words had been mostly nonsensical, he was pretty sure the reason for that didn't lie with him.)
Another rapid tap-tap-tap jolted Izuku from the tangential thought. Yeah, if it was a villain, they would have attacked by now. Unless, of course, they had a hostage and were trying to lure—the mini-Might shot out of bed, turning toward the source of the noise and throwing back the curtains.
Oh. It was just Ojiro-kun.
Wait. Plain, by-the-book Ojiro-kun was breaking curfew and trying to get Izuku's attention.
The young hero swiftly unlocked the door, removed the dowel from the backside—one could never be too careful—and slid it open. Anxiety crept up his stomach as he ushered the other male in, looking back toward the front entrance of his room as he did so.
Sensei nearly had a heart attack today when the lunchroom Nomu had just appeared from nothing. It wouldn't be surprising if the slightest sound triggered the man's protective instincts.
Before Izuku had a chance to ask what the other kid was doing there, Ojiro whispered, "I found something and I need to pick your brain. The teachers can't know."
Izuku inhaled sharply, doing his best not to make noise.
"About Hagakure-chan? Or something else?" the analyst tried to stall, mentally running through ways to talk Ojiro-kun into keeping the faculty in the loop.
"I found a news story. But you have to promise me you won't tell anyone." Despite being barely audible, the teen's voice was adamant.
Midoriya opened his mouth, but one look—one real look—at the older boy suffocated the protests on his lips. Shadows haunted Ojiro's eyes, made more pronounced by the overly pale, thinner-than-normal skin that clung to his cheekbones and gave his face an almost sunken appearance. His pajamas hung off his shoulders too loosely and Izuku could almost smell the acidic scent of anxiety in the air.
"Okay."
"Okay, you won't tell?"
Midoriya gave a resolute nod. "Nn."
Ojiro studied him a second more before the teen spoke again, "The villain attacked somewhere else before she attacked here. In Kanagawa."
"That's a long way off to make it to UA by lunch time. How do you know it was her?" Midoriya felt bad asking, but Ojiro-kun's appearance suggested he might have extrapolated more details from the news story than it really held.
"Look at the photo," the blonde demanded, holding up his phone with fire burning in his eyes. "It's her."
Izuku's stomach dropped, then pretended to be a whirligig, leaving him light-headed and brimming with excitement.
Ojiro must have seen the recognition in Izuku's gaze, because he bulldozed on, "A woman, late fifties/early sixties was seen using her quirks—permeation and telekinesis—today at the Kanagawa Valley shopping mall. Upon entering the food court the woman was immediately assumed to be a villain by the civilians and many managed to escape. By the time a hero made it on scene, thirteen people were being held hostage at one of the tables. Gumball managed to mitigate casualties until help could arrive but the villain evaded capture and her motive is still a mystery."
"Now listen to this," the teen insisted, turning the volume on his phone way down and clicking play on a short video clip.
It was an interview with one of the apparently English-fluent victims.
When everyone was trying to escape, she kept yelling about how lunch wasn't over yet. She insisted everyone needed to come back and finish their meals. Then when she had me and my dad at that table with the other people, she kept offering us dessert. It was so weird.
"Sound familiar?"
It did.
" 'This lunch room is a disgrace; these children are skin and bones,' " Izuku quoted under his breath. Emerald eyes locked with jet-black and he raised his voice a little so the other teen could hear him.
"So I was right. She's got some kind of strange obsession with food." Ojiro crouched down, running a hand through oily hair as his tail swished back and forth behind him.
"It seems that way. But I'm more worried about what she was doing there. Here, she knew who Lunch Rush was ahead of time, suggesting the attack was premeditated and that UA was the intended target. But what could she have possibly gained from the encounter at the mall? She didn't demand anything from the heroes, right?"
"Nope. Other than telling them to stay away."
"Did she take anything?"
"No."
"Attack someone specific?"
"No…"
"Were the hostages from another hero school?"
"No." Ojiro's voice softened in sudden horror, "You think she didn't have a reason. That she was just there to cause trouble?"
"Yes—" Izuku made a frustrated noise in his throat. "—No. Not exactly."
At the blonde's frown, the theorist elaborated, "She's got some kind of mental illness, which would make sense if she was a Nomu with so many quirks. The League could have ordered an attack on UA. But why order an attack on the mall?"
"If she's as unpredictable as you say, maybe she went rogue and attacked that place on her own. Then the league used Kurogiri to get her back on track. They could have made up something about Lunch Rush to trick her into doing what they wanted."
"Maybe, but I feel like we're missing something." There was a moment of quiet, Izuku deep in thought, before he mumbled, "Why the mall?"
The freckled boy grabbed his own phone. Pulling up the Maps app, he found the shopping center and zoomed in far enough that he could see all the local buildings.
Ojiro jumped up at Izuku's deep glower and peeked over the younger boy's shoulder. Looking at the screen, his jaw slackened. "You think—"
Izuku rubbed at his eyes, a whole new slew of theories and questions flooding his brain. "Yeah. She might've been the distraction."
Wednesday
-Cut Pre-Party Scene-
"SURPRISE!" Several flappy, bugle-like sounds accompanied the shout.
Danny's eyes tracked over his parents and four party-horn-holding guests to Jazz, a look of utter betrayal stamped on his face.
He expected this of his friends, even Haru and Toru who didn't know any better, but his sister? She knew what fate awaited him. She'd been through it herself.
Jazz merely smirked, tilting her head toward Jack as the man came pounding up to him from the couch. Great bear-like arms wrapped the ambushed male, squeezing and swinging him around. As he dropped back down something disturbed his messy, raven locks.
Fingers lifting to brush against what felt like a cone-shaped hat, the boy flashed a pained smile that was nearly a grimace.
"Happy birthday, Sweetie!" his mother called, patting his shoulder from behind as his dad shifted from foot to foot, the epitome of barely contained elation.
Danny's heart sank through his shoes and into the floor.
"Yeah, happy birthday, Man!" Tucker piped up, sharing a look with Sam.
"It'll be the best one yet!" his gothic friend added, chipper attitude at complete odds with the girl's aesthetic and devilish glint in her eyes. Holding up a phone, she snapped a picture.
"I've been waiting for this day for twenty-one years, eight months and three days!"
"You've been waiting since you found out Mrs. F. was pregnant? Dang, that's dedication." Sam pinned Danny with a stare, her smirk just for him.
"Yep!" Jack responded, wiping tears from his eyes as he turned into a blubbering mess. Reaching into a pocket and grabbing a handkerchief to blow his nose, the orange hunter tacked on, "They grow up so fast."
Danny sighed, walked to the coat rack and set his red backpack lightly on the shoe bench beneath it.
"In fact, I've got something extra special planned! I've had this baby ready for six months!" Jack bellowed, turning around and flying toward the kitchen.
When he came back, he held a brightly wrapped package that would make Ol' Boxy green with envy.
"Jaaack. We talked about this. No presents till after the cake." Maddie walked over to the large man and cradled his arm, winking at her son where her husband couldn't see.
Jack and the ghost boy both sagged, but for entirely different reasons.
"Let me at least go change, Dad," Danny pleaded.
"But, but. I've already waited all day," Jack whined.
Feeling like he was the father in this relationship, Danny looked sideways at Kamada, exasperation palpable.
"Are you okay?" chirped from the girl's phone, the Japanese sounding very confused in contrast to the monotone words of the Gabber app.
"Yeah, just…" Danny trailed off, unable to find words that wouldn't upset his father.
"He's fine," Jazz spoke up, coming to her brother's rescue. "He's just got butterflies in his stomach—er, anxiety—because there's a Fenton tradition he has to uphold."
"Sounds ominous," Hagakure commented, intrigue saturating her words while Kamada's brow furrowed next to her.
Danny exhaled, rubbing at his neck.
"You have no idea."