Chapter Text
The room was filled with the sounds of the slick slide of skin and the slap of fresh. Karter Thomas’s skin was flushed and he could feel sweat gathering between his shoulder blades, dampening the delicate down feathers between his wings. His partner’s eyes were bright, his cheeks flushed with arousal as he panted into the crook of his arm. Karter sat back on his heels slightly to rearrange the man’s legs, throwing them over his shoulders to intensify the stretch.
His partner, a bartender from the club that he had been investigating for connections to the villain organisation known as The Anarchists, tightened around his cock and sobbed softly. He was probably overstimulated.
It was his own fault.
Karter would have been perfectly happy to tumble him and be done with it.
He only needed to get a copy of the swipe card the bartender used to open and close the club, which would have only taken two minutes after the man was asleep. He wasn’t the type to stay the night.
But instead of a quick fumble that left them both satiated, and the bartender asleep, the man had clung to him, begging for attention, for satisfaction. He was good looking, slim and elegant with shiny teal-coloured hair that he had tied back into a low ponytail for work.
It was strewn over the pillow now.
Soft and silky as it cascaded over the bartender’s sheets.
Karter would have liked to roll him onto his hands and knees, pound against his prostate until he was a sobbing, quivering mess as he wrapped that lovely, long hair around his fist. The man hadn’t wanted that though. He had been petting his face, stroking his hair, his shoulders, his chest as he spread him open. Desperate for attention, desperate for physical contact.
Karter had drawn it out as a result, lavished him in attention and affection.
He seemed like he might have been hovering over his orgasm for almost half-an-hour now, if the high and needy moans were any indication.
Pride filled Karter’s chest, thick, rich and addictive. He was so pretty, and he had fallen into bed with Karter so easily. Karter had this man panting and whining underneath him, his ass clenching around his dick with every slow thrust, his hips rolling, desperate for more contact.
He was going to cum like this, Karter had decided, riding the slow thrust of his cock, untouched.
He’d like it.
Karter shed a covert feather from his wing to trail it over the pebbled rise of the bartender’s nipples. The rich black contrasted so beautifully with the creamy paleness of the man’s torso that it was almost sinful. The bartender gasped out a high-pitched moan, his chest arching away from the mattress in a stunningly serpentine curve.
His hands were in Karter’s hair, stroking, smoothing, tugging lightly.
“Please, please, please, please~” the bartender begged, his hips quivering as Karter continued to thrust into him slowly.
He was hot and tight and Karter could feel the slow build of his orgasm. He wasn’t going to rush it though. It was better, stronger when it came on its own.
“Relax, gorgeous,” Karter purred, his tongue laving over one of the bartender’s perked nipples.
The man whined, his stomach clenching as the muscles in his calves tightened. He must have been close.
Karter pressed into his ass, grinding against his prostate as his feather dragged teasingly over his nipple. The bartender cried as he came. The orgasm that shattered through him was powerful enough that his lithe frame shook from the intensity. His ass clenched down, hard, around Karter’s erection but it was the insistent tug of his hair and the slackened, satiated expression and the hint of tears on dark teal lashes that pushed Karter over the edge.
His orgasm wasn’t earth-shattering like the bartender’s. It was a slow rush of heat that crested with intensity but took a long time to burn out.
He closed his eyes to enjoy the rolling aftershocks.
He didn’t know the bartender’s name, but it didn’t matter. Sex didn’t need to be emotional to be meaningful, and Karter appreciated that the evenings activities would leave him alert and focused for the rest of the mission.
He was considering how he would go about finding the swipe card the bartender had pocketed after he finished his shift, and walked Karter back to his apartment building. He was fairly certain the bartender had put it in his jacket pocket, and had hung the jacket in the entrance hall before he made them two glasses of scotch whisky on ice.
The bartender shifted to kiss at his neck, which was fine. Karter nuzzled into his throat, one hand stroking slowly through the bartender’s hair, soothing him towards sleep.
Peaceful.
Calm.
There was a sharp stab at his throat and Karter pulled back immediately.
He clenched a hand to the bite wound and it came away bloody.
His vision swum.
Venom.
The bartender was still flushed, but his mouth was surrounded by the hint of red blood and a shiny, viscous liquid that Karter couldn’t visually identify. His skin had turned a bright yellow though, and his arms and chest had started to develop bright blue, almost turquoise rings.
They were still entangled, but Karter slapped his hand away when the bartender went to reach for him.
There were black spots swimming in his vision now.
The venom must be extremely fast acting.
He probably had less than a few minutes before he fell unconscious.
“I expected it to be more of a challenge, honestly,” the bartender shrugged, reclining into the pillows as Karter stumbled away from him.
He didn’t have time to formulate a response.
His legs were unsteady underneath his as he stood, one hand still clenched down over the bite wound, hoping the pressure would be enough to slow the venom until he could get to medical help. He had bandages somewhere in the leather jacket he had been wearing, but where that had been thrown to, Karter didn’t know.
There was a long black scarf hung over the armchair at the end of the bed, probably necessary for the freezing weather that Ottawa had been experiencing over the winter, and Karter grabbed it with shaking hands to wrap it tightly over the wound and then around one shoulder and the other, to keep pressure on the wound.
His fingers were numb and he was having to work his throat to swallow.
“It won’t help,” the bartender shrugged nonchalantly, his face passively uncaring even as Karter shed two enormous primary feathers, sharp and deadly, to hover in front of his face.
“Who are you?” Karter snapped hazily.
He needed his phone.
It was in his jeans.
He was fairly certain.
The bartender shifted, Karter wasn’t sure if it was to stand or not, but he didn’t care. He pinned him to the bed with the feathers, the sharpened blades sliding through muscle, tendon, bone and headboard.
The bartender cried out.
Karter wasn’t listening.
His jeans were at the foot of the bed.
His phone unlocked with a swipe of his thumb and a scan of his retina.
“Call Number 3,” Karter panted at the voice-activated assistant.
His breathing was coming hard and fast and he couldn’t feel his fingers at all anymore. His wings were beating a panicked flutter that he had to mentally try to still, to prevent escalating his heartrate.
The bartender was laughing, wild and manic.
“I said it doesn’t matter, you’ll be dead in less than ten minutes,” he barked out, his tone pained despite his mirth, “they always said you were easily distracted, but I didn’t think it would be so easy to fell the Black Falcon. You’re pathetic!”
Karter shot him a deadly look, more pitch-black feathers joining the first two to fill his mouth.
“Falcon,” another voice answered the phone sharply.
The man wasn’t overly concerned, but he sounded like he was short on patience.
Karter was meant to check in two hours ago, he was probably annoyed.
“I’ve been poisoned, it looks like it might have been a blue-ringed octopus mutant,” Karter gasped through clenched teeth.
There was a moment of silence on the other end of the phone while the bartender choked for breath around a mouthful of smaller feathers.
“I have sent Crimson Dart to your location,” the man on the other end of the phone line paused, “the eldest son of the leader of The Anarchists has an octopus quirk. Kill him,” Number 3 replied calmly, as though he was discussing the weather.
Panic flashed in the eyes of the bartender as Karter looked up at him. Karter’s vision was blurring so badly that he couldn’t focus on any of his facial features really, but the bartender started to pull desperately at the feathers that had him pinned to the headboard. The razer sharp blades tore at his hands, leaving red smeared on the pins and over the sheets of the bed.
“Understood.”
The bartender screamed around the feathers that filled his mouth.
Karter sunk to his knees as the black spots in his vision momentarily overtook him. He contemplated whether he should remove the feathers from the corpse.
If The Anarchists knew that he was sniffing around anyway, there was no point in concealing who was responsible for the death.
It would be a calling card.
A warning.
Crimson Dart appeared in the room just as the numbness reached his chest and his breathing stalled. He couldn’t get his chest to rise.
Paralysis, his mind supplied, as blackness consumed his vision entirely.
Maybe this time, he wouldn’t be so lucky as to wake up.
Maybe, that wasn’t a bad thing.
* * *
Two months later, Karter found himself back at headquarters on S Island enjoying the warm sea breeze through his hair and between his feathers.
The issue with The Anarchists had taken longer to resolve than it should have. He had annoyed the leader of the group when he left his son’s mutilated body, naked, in his bed.
Karter found it a fair exchange.
His son had annoyed him by forcing him to spend three days connected to an IV to pump out the venom from his bite.
As a result, the group had gone to ground, their clubs packed up overnight with little to no indication of where they had gone, while Karter had had assassins stalking his every move.
When Karter had found them again, they had been forcibly disbanded.
Sixteen key members of the group had been transported to Hades; the remaining members had been imprisoned in Canadian jails spread across the country. The leader and the two members of the group that were closest to him had been, unfortunately, killed in an explosion that destroyed the warehouse they had been using to manufacture a highly addictive, mind-altering drug that the Canadian government had wanted removed from the market.
He had enjoyed a well-deserved week on the slopes at Lake Louise before he had checked in with Number 3 to be returned to headquarters.
It had been entirely too pleasant.
The snow had been powdery and the slopes were rugged and challenging. The lodge he had stayed in was a small wooden cabin with fur throws in the bedroom and a sauna and spa outside the lodge that offered a beautiful view further down the mountain towards the lake.
It was made even more pleasant by the sisters who ran the lodge and lived in a small cabin a few metres further up the mountain.
Both of them had artic hare mutation quirks, giving them soft white ears, white cotton-tails, black beauty spots on the ends of their noses, and ferociously high sex drives.
Like he said, entirely too pleasant.
“Nice of you to re-join us, Falcon,” Number 3 sighed, folding his arms over his barrel chest with a look of stern disapproval.
“Aww, don’t be like that daddy, I know you missed me but I gotta have some down time too, you know?” Karter winked at him as he trotted casually down the metal stairs of the tiny twin jet that had brought him home.
“You can have down time here, where you’re safe,” Number 3 snapped.
Karter remembered a time when his hair had been entirely dark brown, not streaked with grey, and he hadn’t had age lines around his eyes. That had been eighteen years ago now though, and Karter was sure that it was at least partially his fault that his handler had aged so obviously.
His quirk, an electrical quirk that could harness and redirect bolts of lightning, was still as strong as ever, but useless in perfect summer weather like the weather S Island was currently experiencing.
“Where’s the fun in that? There’s a whole world out there,” Karter laughed, shrugging his duffle bag higher on his shoulder as they walked down the airstrip towards the main headquarters building.
Number 3 hummed, neither agreeing or disagreeing, but Karter knew that he would be in trouble with the other Numbers for not checking in and returning after the conclusion of his mission.
“You’ve been summoned,” Number 3 replied coolly, “we were going to wait until you had recuperated properly and our medical team could ensure that there weren’t any lasting effects of the venom, and that you weren’t having any addiction issues with the new strain of Trigger.”
Karter glanced at his handler from the corners of his eyes.
He didn’t really want a medical check-up. He knew that he was meant to be taking the recommended dosage to increase the performance of his quirk, but, even with the adjusted recipe, he still found himself having bad come downs every thirteen hours if he didn’t take his next dose. Not to mention, he was a little too obedient on the drug, stronger, faster and with much higher levels of stamina, of course, but he had found he was too open to suggestion for his comfort.
He had missed a key detail on the mission he had completed prior to his mission with The Anarchists because of the drug, and he hadn’t been overly enthusiastic about continuing to take it after that. The withdrawal had been hellish, despite the medical team’s assurance that it was no longer an addictive substance.
So, if he had a medical check-up, they would find him disappointingly clean of the drug.
Skirting around direct orders from the Numbers was an offence that was usually punished by attaching metal clamps around his wings to prevent him stretching them, though, which in itself was a good enough reason for Karter to keep his head down and obedient to their whims.
Obedience was a requirement.
Wilfulness and discretionary judgment could easily cost you your life, or the lives of your fellow agents, in an organisation like SPECTRE, or the Special Executive for Counter Terrorism, Regulation and Espionage.
“I’ll check in at the medical centre after the meeting,” Karter replied agreeably.
After he had taken his dosage of Trigger, so that it would show on the bloodwork.
“How is your Japanese?” Number 3 asked, apparently satisfied with his response.
“Paafekuto,” Karter replied, holding up the universal symbol for OK with a wide grin, “why?”
“You’ll find out in a moment,” Number 3 replied, nodding at one of the junior recruits who was waiting outside the boardroom door.
“I’ll take your personal effects back to your suite, Falcon,” the teenager chirped, his eyes shining with admiration as he held out his arms for Karter’s bag and jacket.
Karter took a moment to pull off his leather jacket and deposit his duffle bag in the arms of the teenager. It wasn’t that he didn’t like the recruits, it was just that…he didn’t like the recruits.
Children whined and cried in training.
They didn’t have any appreciation for the skills that they were being equipped with, even when the training was painful or pushed them to their limits.
He didn’t understand why they always seemed so fascinated with him.
He brushed down his shirt, a compression flight shirt that wrapped around his chest and arms but left a wide gap at his back for his wings and straightened his jeans. Usually, a meeting with the Numbers dictated that he wore a suit instead of his civvies, but they must have been in a rush if they had summoned him straight off his arriving flight.
Still, sloppiness would be received poorly and it wasn’t worth the hassle.
Number 3 placed his fingertips over the sensor at the side of the boardroom door and the submitted to a retina scar and a DNA swab. Karter was exposed to a similar treatment when he stepped up to the other double door.
“Welcome Number 3. Welcome Agent Thomas,” the automated system spoke as the heavy steel doors swung inwards.
The boardroom was built three levels under the base of the island, in the central inlet of the bay, so the walls were made of huge panes of thick glass that allowed the filtered blue light come in from the ocean outside, while schools of fish flit around the edge of the glass. The boardroom table was in the centre of the room and built in a large oval, with enough seats for the Twelve Numbered agents plus two guests at the end of the table.
One of the senior recruits was assisting by placing hot cups of tea and coffee around the table, though they left after Karter was seated in one of the guest seats.
Number 1, a middle-aged woman with platinum blonde hair that she kept tied back in an impossibly tight ponytail and a quirk that allowed her to stimulate the pain receptors of the brain without ever inflicting physical pain, was seated at the head of the table and looked impatient. She used to work for MI5 in their intelligence collection division, or that was what the rumours around SPECTRE said about her.
Whether or not it was true, Karter didn’t know.
He did know that he’d had broken bones, been shot, been impaled, had his feathers ripped out, his wings burnt off, his talons removed, his teeth knocked in, and had been subjected to numerous torture techniques, but he still feared being subject to her quirk more than anything else he had experienced yet.
She cleared her throat impatiently as the other Numbers settled.
“Thomas, thank you for finally gracing us with your presence,” Number 1 greeted him lightly, her eyes stormy and narrowed.
“My apologies Ma’am, I was only just informed that you wished to see me,” Karter smiled politely.
“Number 3 tells us that you were granted permission to take some time off in Canada, I hope you enjoyed your holiday,” she hummed.
She was still annoyed, her fingernails tapping lightly on the desk.
“It was very pleasant, thank you Ma’am,” Karter nodded, his wings tucked close to his back despite the pressure the high back of the meeting chair put on them.
He would be shaking pins and needles out of them when the meeting was over, which was never comfortable.
“Very well,” Number 1 pursed her lips, “we have another mission for you, and we would like if you could complete it without any complications this time.”
Karter shifted uncomfortably as a heavy manila folder was placed in front of him by Number 1’s secretary, a young woman who was barely older than twenty-years-old with a manipulation quirk that allowed her to influence the emotions of people around her. He flicked open the folder, breaking the confidentiality seal as he did so.
There was a confidentiality command on the seal, which he felt wash over him.
Previous experience with Number 5’s quirk told him that he couldn’t actively tell anyone about the contents of the folder, but it didn’t prevent him from assisting other people in finding the information if he needed them to. He understood why it was necessary, it prevented someone from torturing the information about his mission out of him, but sometimes it hindered him from finding the information he needed when he couldn’t ask certain questions or have a leading conversation with someone.
It was frustrating, but he could make it work.
Inside the folder was a series of photographs, each with a mission overview attached. Whatever the job was, it was multifaceted and complicated.
Again, frustrating, but he’d make it work.
He preferred missions that were cut and dry, largely because he could complete them ahead of schedule and disappear for a few weeks without anyone complaining or missing him too much.
The first photo was a headshot of a man Karter didn’t recognise, with a black mask of his face that seemed to operate as some sort of breathing apparatus.
The second and third photos he did recognise.
One was of All Might, the Number 1 pro hero in Japan, and Symbol of Peace for a significant portion of the world. The other was Endeavor, the Number 2 pro hero in Japan and a hero that Karter was more familiar with.
There had been a time, when he was much younger and still appreciated the value that heroes provided to society, that he had wanted to be a hero just like Endeavor.
It seemed like a hollow and worthless dream now.
If you put a stronger hero in a country and the country would find a stronger villain. There was no end to villainy. There would be no rest for heroes.
No, Karter had learnt that he could more effectively cripple villain organisation and corrupt governments from the shadows, as and when his talents were required. He didn’t need to be a flashy hero or commit his skills to one country in order to be effective.
Karter looked up at Number 1, knowing that she would prefer to explain the brief than have him read the whole document and come back with questions.
“The first man in your brief is a villain known as All for One,” Number 1 advised with an air of superiority.
Karter glanced back down at the dossier with a frown. All for One was a myth. A legend. A person who could steal quirks, harbour them and redistribute them as he saw fit, but he couldn’t really exist. That level of quirk power was unthinkable.
The legend said, though, that if he was real, he had existed since the evolution of quirks.
He didn’t dare argue with Number 1 though. If she said this was All for One, then she honestly believed that it was, and Karter would do well getting on board with the idea as well. Even if it turned out to be a hoax.
“He was involved in a significant fight with All Might a little over six years ago now and we have reason to believe that as a result of this fight, his health is declining sharply,” Number 1 continued, her fingers steepled under her chin, “information that we have gathered from Japan indicates that he may be grooming a successor.”
Karter’s eyes narrowed and he frowned.
If this was All for One, and if he was dying, passing along his quirk would be potentially catastrophic. He could understand why SPECTRE would prefer that the quirk die with its owner.
“At this stage, our best and most accurate information indicates that his chosen successor is a man called Shigaraki Tomura. He appears to have been raised under the instruction of All for One. He may have been chosen because his quirk, decay, is extremely deadly on its own, but we cannot confirm that information,” Number 1 paused and Karter nodded in understanding.
“We are going to place you in Japan, as a recently graduated pro hero. It will be necessary for you to ingratiate yourself with the Japanese population as quickly as you can in order to make yourself a valuable commodity for Shigaraki and All for One. We believe that he may start recruiting villains soon, but that is only our expectation, based on previous villain activity. If they don’t begin recruiting, then you will need to find another way to ingratiate yourself with All for One.
“You have whatever time is necessary for this mission, and we find it unlikely that you will get any significant leads on All for One or Shigaraki for at least the first year while you are in the country. We will expect you to guarantee your rank in the first year though, in the top five pro heroes at least,” Number 1 continued, “it shouldn’t be an issue, aside from All Might and Endeavor, the other ranked pro heroes are decidedly mediocre.”
Karter’s frown deepened. He could understand the necessity in finding Shigaraki, and why building a profile in Japan may make him more desirable to All for One, but the Japanese pro hero rankings were notoriously fickle and the idol culture that had been born in the 1960’s was still a driving factor behind all of their rankings. They were one of the few countries that included public perceptions as one of their weighted considerations for determining pro hero rankings.
Making the top five in a year would be hard.
Even if the other heroes were mediocre.
Public standing counted for a lot, and without a significant following and platform he would struggle with recognition.
Without public approval ratings though, Karter would have to be flying up and down the length and breadth of the country, resolving every incident he heard about in order to beat All Might or Endeavor’s closure rates. And that would be extremely attention-grabbing, and not in a good way. It would make him seem cocky, especially if he was meant to sell being a recent eighteen-year-old high school graduate.
“With all due respect Ma’am, I’m not eighteen anymore. I might struggle to pass for a high school graduate and my quirk doesn’t really help me stand out, weren’t there other agents with more flashy quirks that could build a public reputation quicker?” Karter asked as politely as he could.
Number 1’s eyes still flashed at the interruption.
“You’ll pass for eighteen for as long as we need you to,” she snapped, “and we’ve already decided that we’re going to allow you to shed your feathers and let their natural colour grow out. A hero with red wings will be exceptionally eye-catching. You are also going to attend a session with our stylist, to have your hair returned to its natural blond. So many heroes in Japan still have traditional Asian features, so you will be exotic. We anticipate that this, coupled with your efficiency, and your charisma will be sufficient to place you in the top five.”
He didn’t grin, but it was a close thing.
The idea of having his natural feathers, not weighed down by the tar-like dye he had been using to colour them black since he was seven, had his stomach clenching with anticipation and his heart fluttering in his chest.
To fly without restriction, without anything interfering with the natural movement of his wings, would be so freeing that he could hardly even imagine how it would feel.
His hair colour he didn’t care about so much, but it would be nice to be on a longer mission and not have to worry about regrowth.
Sure, relying on his charisma sounded a lot like he would be forced to objectify and sexualise himself for the pleasure of the Japanese population, but he could manage that. He could manage just about anything to have his wings free.
Which Number 1 well knew, by the glint in her eyes.
“Once you make contact with Shigaraki, we need you to eliminate him before he inherits All for One. We don’t need another overpowered quirk in circulation,” Number 1 continued, apparently satisfied that he wasn’t going to interrupt again.
Karter nodded.
He had guessed that much.
“There is a secondary mission as well, that will require substantially more subtlety,” Number 2 added when Number 1 nodded at him.
Number 2 was an older man, well into his sixties with blond hair that had mostly turned dark grey that was combed back and gelled to his head. He was missing an arm, an accident from his days as an agent in SPECTRE, and had a quirk that allowed him to create an army of minions from sketches that would continue to fight for him until the sketch was destroyed or he was knocked unconscious.
He had been a formidable agent in his prime, or at least that was what Number 3 said.
He had been Number 3’s handler when he was still an agent, before his promotion to a Numbered agent.
Karter nodded at the older man, flicking the pages for the mission regarding All for One to the back of the dossier.
“The fight with All for One also left All Might significantly weakened. He disappeared for a significant period of time, which we believe was spent in hospitals, and since them has been seen at progressively fewer incidents. Our analysts believe that All Might is losing control of his quirk for some reason and that he can no longer wield it continuously for a twenty-four-hour period,” Number 2 continued with a guarded tone.
“That’s unfortunate,” Karter frowned.
In reality, SPECTRE cared very little for the politics of local heroes. Even the Symbol of Peace didn’t contribute any significant assistance to global heroes, or that was what Karter had seen from his work. His closure rate of instances might be impressive, but he hadn’t eradicated crime. Not even in Japan, which had been his stomping grounds for well over two decades.
If he was going to need to retire soon, then there would undoubtedly be a significant rise in local villain activity though. Possibly even international villain activity.
This rise would just put additional pressure on the heroes left behind him, until the crime rate was as high as, if not higher than, it had been before he had come into the picture. Such was the circle of heroics and villainy.
There was no end to villainy.
There was just an end to villain organisations, and that was what Karter provided. No more and no less.
“It is to be expected, pro heroes do not have an extended shelf life,” Number 2 shrugged, “it was impressive that he managed to keep his position as Number 1 in Japan for almost three decades. Our concern is about Endeavor, who will be the hero that takes his place in the Japanese Pro Hero Rankings. He will be made Number 1 in Japan after All Might’s retirement, largely due to his success rate. He does also have a very dedicated fan base, though they are not as large as All Might’s, and the general population has been sceptical of his approach to his fans in the past,” Number 2 shrugged.
“The Japanese government and the local Hero Commission feels that it is beneficial for their hero societal structure to have a significant pillar at its centre, though. They have enjoyed the stability that All Might has offered in his time as Number 1 and have voiced concerns to us about what kind of symbol Endeavor will be when he is made Number 1. We feel that if they desire a pillar, Endeavor is going to be best suited to being the Symbol of Justice.
“With All Might’s retirement, it is inevitable that there will be a significant and sudden increase in crime in the country. Endeavor will need to be swift and decisive in his assertion of his control over the country’s crime rate in order to stabilise the population and become an effective pillar. All Might was the Symbol of Peace, loved by the population and considered to be kind. Endeavor will be the Symbol of Justice, he will not be adored in the same way but he will protect the country from villainy,” Number 2 advised and the other Numbers nodded.
It wasn’t unusual for countries to come to SPECTRE for guidance on their internal hero politics, but Japan hadn’t before, to the best of Karter’s knowledge. They had a democratic government that the population was largely happy with, coupled with an independent Hero Commission that organised licensing and reviews, as well as an active monarchy.
They must have been worried about the possibility of All Might’s retirement if they had reached out for advice.
“The issue is, that Endeavor has a wife and three children, though his home life is reported to be somewhat strained by his wife’s mental illness and the death of their eldest son. The Japanese government believes, and we agree, that in order for Endeavor to be an effective pillar for their society, and the Symbol of Justice, he will need to be removed from these personal connections,” Number 2’s tone was grave.
Karter frowned. This wasn’t the first time that a government had asked for the family of one of their heroes to be removed, in order to make them more independent and less reliant or less cautious on missions. Karter understood the motivation but he didn’t enjoy completing those missions.
He didn’t have a family.
He had been sold to SPECTRE by his addict of a mother for her next hit after his murder of a father had been arrested, bought off the streets of Philadelphia when he was barely older than five.
But he imagined that when people actually cared about their families, about their spouses and children, losing them in seemingly preventable accidents must have been extremely difficult.
Karter didn’t really care about destroying the families of villains, but heroes were sort of his allies. Even if they were incompetent.
He had seen the fall out only once.
A hero in Vietnam had been forcibly removed from his family and Karter had just been in the vicinity when he saw the hero receive the news that they had died. Karter hadn’t been responsible for the deaths, but he had never seen grief quite that sharp on someone’s face before.
The hero had died two months later in a collapsed building.
It was never discussed, and the Numbers never seemed concerned about the circumstances of his death, but Karter wasn’t convinced that it hadn’t been a suicide. That the hero hadn’t simply seen an opportunity and chosen not to fight anymore. The grief on the man’s face… Karter could understand never moving past that, and just… losing the will to live.
So, he wasn’t entirely convinced that it was an effective method of inspiring heroes in their fight against villains.
However, he did know something about Endeavor’s fighting style and his approach to villainy. He was known to be notoriously narrow-sighted and sometimes vindictive in his fights. If the deaths played out correctly, he might be incredibly motived by revenge.
And that might make him an incredibly strong Symbol of Justice.
It was a gamble though, and Karter wasn’t sure that the Japanese government entirely knew what they were asking if this had been a request that had come down from them.
“Do you mean for me to be actively involved in dealing with his family? Because that might be difficult if I’m also meant to be an active and visible pro hero,” Karter frowned.
“No, we’ll have agents on the ground at the right times to see the job done, but you will be required to coordinate with them, and they may need your assistance with alibis or extradition after the incidents,” Number 2 shook his head, “we won’t put that ball into motion until you have made contact with Shigaraki though, and once we are certain that All Might’s retirement is imminent or has already occurred.”
Karter nodded.
It was somewhat of a relief that he would only be needed to coordinate and extradite agents. A brief glance at the mission files for Endeavor told him that his youngest son was only fourteen, his middle child was sixteen and the eldest was twenty-one. He didn’t like the idea of killing teenagers. He could do it if he had to, but he’d rather keep his missions focused on adults.
Preferably adults that were villains, and not civilians.
“Is that it? Eliminate Shigaraki before he can inherit All for One and provide assistance in the removal of Endeavor’s family?” Karter asked calmly, flicking through the pages of the dossier to make sure he hadn’t missed anything.
“You will be placed in Fukuoka with your own agency. The Japanese Hero Commission has been provided all the documents necessary. There is a gap in that end of the country that you will be filling,” Number 1 replied, “we have decided to give you the hero name Hawks. There will be no need for you to retain a civilian name in this mission. If asked by the press, you are to inform them that you were privately trained by the Hero Commission.
“Otherwise, your standard rules of engagement apply. Do not keep anything prevalent in your office or your private space. Do not bring anyone back to your private apartment. Do not form emotional attachments, and eliminate anyone who poses a risk to your mission. The mission ranks more highly than any you have been on yet, we will not be tolerating mistakes this time, Thomas,” Number 2 warned coldly.
Karter glanced between Number 1 and Number 2 nervously but nodded his understanding.
The last mistake that had occurred on mission had been when he had gotten too emotionally invested with a young hero that he had been working with. The man had been kind and sweet, with a quirk that gave him the voice of a nightingale and a fighting style that looked more like a dance than anyone Karter had ever met.
He still hadn’t met anyone who could fight with Nightingale’s grace.
He had been entirely swept up by the man. By his gentleness, by his passion for saving people, by his unending kindness. By his deep brown eyes and the way he carded his fingers through his hair when he sensed that Karter was wound up or stressed.
He had told him about his history, his true history, and had explained what he was doing in the country one night while they were tucked in rumpled bedsheets, bathed in the soft light from the full moon in his apartment. He had told him about growing up alone, as a weapon. How he didn’t resent it now, but at the time he was lonely and upset. He told him about his mission. His desire to end enough villain activity that heroes could enjoy their free time.
That he wanted the rates of crime in the world to drop low enough that people could stop being heroes, so that children with promising quirks would stop being recruited to Hero Programs. He had been lucky with his recruitment to SPECTRE. He was treated well, in comparison to a lot of the intensive training programs, and he was well compensated and cared for.
Nightingale hadn’t understood, he didn’t understand how a private organisation could responsibly provide assistance to so many countries, impartially, but he had listened.
And Karter found that having someone just listen to him had been enough, even if they didn’t agree.
They had talked about what a life outside of their jobs might look.
It had been an innocent dream that only someone who was still in their teens could possibly harbour.
Karter had come home to his apartment one evening, shortly after disposing of the villain he had been sent into country to deal with, to find Nightingale decapitated and gutted on his bedsheets.
He had never mentioned it to Number 3, and Number 3 had never talked to him about it, but he was almost certain that his handler would have ordered the hit. He knew that he had been losing sight of the mission, but it had hurt.
A lot.
There had been something he liked about letting someone in, past the walls. Past the fake smiles and the bad jokes and the cocky attitude. Letting them see the hard edges and the pain and not have them run away.
He knew he couldn’t have a future in a renovated chateau in the French countryside, but the dream had been nice all the same.
He tried not to resent Number 3 for keeping him focused on his job, but sometimes he would wake up, sweaty and trembling, to the memory of Nightingale’s corpse, turning white cotton sheets dark red.
Sometimes, even when he didn’t miss Nightingale, he missed having someone in the world who cared about him as a person, not Agent Thomas – the weapon.
So, his dalliances on mission had been more or less emotionless since then, and largely to progress the mission or to sate his fleeting interest.
He didn’t want to be responsible for the death of another promising young hero because he couldn’t keep his emotions in check.
“I understand, I won’t let you down,” Karter bowed his head slightly, out of respect and to show his agreement.
“Then you are dismissed, review the mission documents overnight. Tomorrow we will need you to attend the medical centre for a full check up before you are dispatched. Unfortunately, you won’t be able to continue taking Trigger while on this mission. The Japanese government is extremely strict about its usage and it is illegal, possession by a hero results in the loss of their license without the chance for appeal, and they conduct tests on their probationary heroes.
“After your medical examination, you will be expected to visit the stylist, and then the support team for your updated uniform. You’ll also need to complete a Japanese language competency test before your departure in a week, but we don’t anticipate any issues in your fluency,” Number 1 advised, sorting her notes into a neat pile and tapping them into order.
The news about Trigger was a blessing, though Karter doubted that he wouldn’t have to take some in case Number 3 thought he would need the boost on a mission.
He never did, but SPECTRE insisted that it was necessary for all their agents to perform at their absolute best.
A new uniform would be fun as well, especially if he was allowed to be a little extravagant with it. He could pull out some of his old designs for suits that had been deemed too flashy for mission use within SPECTRE.
He didn’t want to jinx it, but a long-term mission where he was allowed to let loose a little and be himself seemed like a blessing. He didn’t doubt that it would be hard as well, but he hadn’t had a mission recently where he didn’t need to be worrying about keeping his presence unknown and discrete.
A mission where he could be in the spotlight and it wouldn’t matter, that would be fun.
“One more thing, Agent Thomas,” Number 1 spoke as Karter had stood to leave the meeting room, his files neatly gathered and held loosely in one hand.
His wings were cramped and stinging painfully from the anticipated pins and needles but he turned to her obediently and waited for her to continue.
“The local Hero Public Safety Commission has also voiced some concerns about another villain who may be active in Japan. A spy. They don’t know what he looks like or what his quirk is but they have dubbed him the Orushiizun no Otoko. If you encounter him, you are to dispose of him,” Number 1 informed him calmly.
Karter resisted rolling his eyes.
How was he meant to find a spy who had an unknown quirk and an unknown face? And what kind of nickname was the All-Season Man? What did that even mean?
“Yes Ma’am,” he nodded again and bowed.
Better not to argue than to ask for clarification.
* * *
A week later, Karter found himself standing on the street below the huge glass and steel building that would be his agency and his home for at least the next year. It was still under construction, the huge hero emblem he has designed with SPECTRE’s support team had been hung on the side of the building though, so it was clear it wasn’t just another office building. He needed to start completing interviews for sidekicks, support staff and administration staff to assist in filling out the building, and completing the day-to-day work of a pro hero’s agency.
His private apartment, however, on the top floor of the agency had been completed and fully decorated. He had even been allowed to help design the space, which was a luxury he hadn’t been extended before. SPECTRE was obviously invested in making sure that he was fully imbedded in the local hero network and felt at home, even if it would only be a temporary position.
His crimson red feathers glistened in the sunlight, having been freshly preened on the private jet in from S Island, and his newly completely hero uniform was neat, and comfortable, without being impractical. He had already had several people stop him and ask if he was a hero. Two young teens had asked for his photograph, despite never having seen him on social media before.
The hero culture ran deeper in Japan than he had anticipated, even with extensive research over the last week. He had set up his socials over the week, starting to pad them out with posts that had been put up over the last few years through his studies so that people could start seeing his history, even if his history hadn’t existed a fortnight ago. The trends were complicated though, and he wasn’t looking forward to trying to keep on top of those.
They were effective in drawing in followers though, which he had found after posting a dance reel to the latest music trend.
That was why he had PR staff though, to help keep him on trend and engaging, even when he couldn’t imagine committing the mental energy to following what on trend was.
The day was warm with the start of spring and the breeze in Fukuoka carried more of the sea than Karter had expected. It was fresh and salty.
Oddly familiar in a comforting way.
He didn’t know why it was familiar, he had never been to Japan before and the breeze didn’t smell quite the same as any sea breeze he had experienced before, but he wasn’t going to complain. If it felt familiar then he would have fewer issues settling into the country.
He was lucky in a way. Japanese was one of the more uncommon languages that he spoke fluently, but, oddly, it had been the one he had learnt the most easily. He still struggled with English sometimes, despite it being his native language, but Japanese rolled off his tongue without him having to really think about it.
So, between the more comfortable language and the deeply soothing scents, he could imagine being entirely too happy living in Fukuoka.
For as long as his mission stretched, at least.
But while he had his mission, he was going to enjoy the freedom it offered him.
Thoroughly enjoy it.