League of Villains Hideout – The Bar, Kamino Ward
The transition from the cool, rain-soaked air of the forest to the stagnant, dust-choked atmosphere of the bar was abrupt and jarring. One moment, the scent of dirt and summer's rain filled my lungs; the next, it was the cloying stench of cheap alcohol, old wood, and the lingering, metallic tang of dried blood.
"Mustard"—or rather, Himiko in her flawless disguise—dragged me through the warp gate, her grip on my collar unyielding. She didn't bother with theatrics or gentleness. As soon as we fully materialized on the creaking wooden floorboards of the hideout, she let go.
My body hit the floor with a heavy, dull sound. I didn't wince. I didn't groan. I lay there, a heap of limp limbs, mimicking the unconsciousness of a defeated prey. But my mind was racing, overclocked by adrenaline, analyzing every vibration in the floor, every breath, every shuffle of fabric.
"Useless baggage," Himiko grunted in Mustard's nasal, irritated voice, kicking my side for good measure. It wasn't a hard kick, just enough to sell the act, but I knew she was enjoying this roleplay a little too much.
"Just leave him there," Dabi's voice drifted from a corner, sounding exhausted and pained. "I need a break."
I kept my eyes shut, regulating my breathing to a slow, shallow rhythm. I could feel the cold, hard steel of the revolver pressed against my crotch. It was uncomfortable, intrusive, and frankly, ridiculous. Of all the places to hide a weapon, Himiko had chosen the inside of my underwear.
I swear, someone who caused this mess will pay dearly for it...
Time passed. Seconds bled into minutes. The sounds of the bar began to paint a picture in my mind. Glass clinking against glass. The rhythmic click-clack of a lighter being flicked open and closed. The soft, electronic beeps of a handheld gaming console.
I cracked my right eye open, just a sliver. A microscopic movement beneath the curtain of my messy hair. The room was dimly lit, bathed in the sickly yellow glow of vintage pendant lights.
To my left, at the bar counter, sat Giran, the pimp, and Mr. Compress. They were nursing tumblers of amber liquid—probably whiskey. Mr. Compress had removed his top hat, placing it on the counter, and had lifted his mask just enough to expose his mouth, sipping his drink with an air of sophisticated exhaustion.
"Kinda chill, isn't it?" Compress murmured, swirling his glass.
"Yeah," Giran grunted, lighting a cigarette. Smoke curled up towards the ceiling. "Though the heat is going to be unbearable. You've kicked the hornet's nest this time."
Further back, in the shadows of a corner booth, sat Spinner. The lizard-man was hunched over a device, thumbs flying rapidly. He was gaming. In the middle of a kidnapping operation that would shake the foundations of society, this cosplayer was grinding levels. It was so absurd I almost wanted to laugh.
Near the center of the room, standing around a rough wooden table, were Magne, Cupid, and Vault. They were speaking in hushed tones. Vault, the girl in the bloody sailor uniform, was wiping her katana with a cloth, her expression bored. Cupid was leaning against the wall, eyes closed, looking oddly serene for a man who had just joined to kidnapp entire class of students.
Dabi was leaning against the far wall, away from the others. He wasn't drinking or chatting. He was just staring at his burnt hands, his eyes hollow. Guren probably had broken him, not just physically, but spiritually or something. The blue flame user looked less like a villain and more like a ghost haunting his own funeral.
And then there was Twice. Jin Bubaigawara. He was sitting on the floor near the entrance, engaged in an intense game of Rock, Paper, Scissors... with himself. Or rather, with a clone.
"Rock! / Scissors! Damn it, I lost! / I won! You suck!"
"Shut up, Twice," Dabi growled without looking up.
"Sorry! / Make me!"
Finally, my gaze drifted to the bar stool nearest to Kurogiri - the person who was making drinks for the whole group as a matter of routine.
Shigaraki Tomura.
He sat hunched over, his back to the room. He was staring at a glass of water with ice cubes floating in it. He picked it up, swirling it violently, watching the mini-vortex form. He was silent. Too silent. The air around him felt heavy, charged with a decaying malice that made the hair on my arms stand up.
"Compress," Shigaraki rasped, his voice dry. "Show me." His red eyes were bloodshot, frantic.
"Mustard," Kurogiri called out, polishing a glass. "Bring the prisoner closer. And Compress, release the others."
Himiko walked over, grabbing my ankle this time and dragging me across the floor. She dumped me near the center of the room, right next to where Compress was standing.
At the same time, Mr. Compress stood up, bowing theatrically. "As you wish, young leader. The harvest of the Vanguard Action Squad!"
He opened his mouth, extending his tongue. On it lay a cluster of blue marbles. He spat them into his hand and, with a snap of his fingers, tossed them into the air.
POOF! POOF! POOF!
Smoke exploded outward, filling the room. When it cleared, the bar was suddenly very crowded.
Bakugo Katsuki appeared first. He was unconscious, likely sedated or just knocked out from the sheer disorientation of the compression. But he wasn't alone.
Thud after thud echoed as bodies hit the floor. One by one, the students of Class 1-B appeared. Kendo Itsuka, Tetsutetsu Tetsutetsu, Shiozaki Ibara... eighteen of them. They were all unconscious, their faces slack, drool pooling at the corners of their mouths like those "Ahegao tagged" hentai manga series, combined with the shock of compression.
And finally, me. I lay there, adding to the pile.
Shigaraki stared. His eyes widened, not with glee, but with a dawning horror. He looked at the sea of unconscious teenagers filling his hideout, cluttering his floor.
"What..." Shigaraki whispered, his voice trembling. "What...the fuck...is this?"
"The students, Shigaraki!" Compress announced proudly, spreading his arms. "Class 1-B! And the primary target, Bakugo! Plus the bonus caught by Mustard. We have twenty hostages! Imagine the bargaining power! U.A. will be on its knees!"
Shigaraki's trembling turned into shaking. He reached up, his fingers digging into his neck. Scratch. Scratch. Scratch. The sound of fingernails tearing at dry skin echoed in the silent room.
"Are you..." Shigaraki's voice rose to a screech. "ARE YOU A FUCKING IDIOT?!"
He swiped his arm across the bar counter, sending his glass of water and several bottles smashing onto the floor.
"I asked for Bakugo! I asked for quality! Not this... this... trash heap!" Shigaraki roared, pointing at us. "Do you think this is a game? Do you think running a daycare center is going to destroy hero society?!"
"But... the media..." Compress stammered, taken aback.
"The media isn't something you play with by throwing quantity at it!" Shigaraki hissed, standing up. "Nineteen extras! Do you know how hard it is to manage eighteen hostages? Do you know the logistics? The noise? The smell? You've turned my base into a refugee camp!"
He began to pace, scratching furiously. "I wanted to break one pillar. To show them that their symbol is fragile. Now? Now we just look like kidnappers. Common thugs grabbing whoever they can find. It dilutes the message! It ruins the aesthetic!"
He stopped pacing, his eyes locking onto me.
I lay still, but I could feel his gaze burning into me. He took a step closer, squinting.
"And him..." Shigaraki pointed a shaking finger at me. "Why is he here?"
"Mustard caught him," Dabi said from the corner. "Said he could be intel."
Shigaraki walked over to me, looming over my 'unconscious' body. He leaned down, his face inches from mine. I could smell the decay on him, a dry, dusty scent.
"I know this face," Shigaraki whispered.
His eyes narrowed, pupils contracting into pinpricks. His hand twitched, reaching out towards my face. All five fingers extended.
"You..." Shigaraki's voice dropped to a guttural growl. "You're the rat who poisoned me... right in the middle of the crowd."
Oh yeah, I did remember that. Probably that memory hit him like a physical blow...
He recoiled, clutching his chest as if the phantom pain of his lungs burning was returning.
"I couldn't breathe... for days..." Shigaraki wheezed, his scratching becoming violent, drawing blood on his neck. "You tried to kill me. You...motherfucker..."
"Tomura," Kurogiri's voice was calm but firm. "Calm down."
"CALM DOWN?!" Shigaraki screamed, spinning around. "This brat almost ended the game before it started! I should dust him right now!"
He lunged at me, hand outstretched. I tensed, preparing to move, my hand inching towards my waistband.
"Tomura!" Kurogiri warped in front of him, blocking his path. "Sensei has plans. This boy... Onodera Ryuga... he is a variable Sensei is interested in. You cannot kill him."
Shigaraki froze. He stared at Kurogiri, his chest heaving. The name 'Sensei' acted like a leash, snapping him back from the edge of frenzy. But the rage didn't disappear; it just curdled into something uglier.
"Fine," Shigaraki spat. He turned away, marching back to the bar. "Fine! Whatever!"
He grabbed a bottle of whiskey from the shelf—not a glass, the whole bottle. He ripped the cork off with his teeth and started chugging.
I watched through my eyelashes, genuinely surprised. In the manga, Shigaraki was immature, yes. But a drunk? That was new. He was chugging the liquor like water, the amber fluid spilling down his chin and onto his black shirt.
"Stupid shit..." Shigaraki mumbled, slamming the bottle down. He took another swig, his eyes glazing over. "Stupid Compress... stupid Mustard... stupid brat... Why is everything so hard? Why are this world so unfair?"
He slumped onto the stool, swaying slightly. "I just wanted... to destroy... everything..."
"To let a drunkard lead us like this," Dabi noted dryly. "I'm quite concerned about that.."
"Just ignore him," Magne said, stepping forward. "We have work to do. These kids won't stay asleep forever. Especially the explosive one."
Magne gestured to Bakugo, who was starting to stir, his brow furrowing in his sleep.
"We need to secure them," Magne ordered. "The rest go in the back storage. Throw them in the Nomu cages if you have to. But Bakugo and this Onodera kid... keep them here. Front row seats."
"I'll handle the restraints," Cupid stepped forward, pulling a coil of red rope from his belt. His eyes gleamed with disturbing excitement. "I suggest a Takate Kote bind for the explosive boy. It restricts movement while displaying the... vulnerability of the captive. Or perhaps a Hishi-nawa pattern? It's aesthetically pleasing and quite painful if they struggle."
"We are not doing bondage porn on a high schooler, you creep," Vault snapped, stepping in front of Cupid. "Just tie him up normally. Efficiently."
"Agreed," Spinner nodded, clutching his massive sword. "We need iron shackles. Chains. Something that screams 'prisoner of war'."
"Boring," Cupid pouted. "You people have no appreciation for art."
"Just do it!" Dabi barked. "Before he wakes up and blows the roof off!"
The argument escalated into a chaotic buzz of activity. Himiko (still Mustard) joined in, playing her part.
"I have handcuffs," Vault said, pulling a pair of heavy-duty, quirk-suppressing cuffs directly from her body instantly, as if her body were a storage cabinet. "Giran gave me this. Guaranteed to hold."
"Good," Magne nodded. "Mustard, Spinner, Vault—handle Bakugo. Twice, Dabi, Compress—drag the extras to the back."
The room erupted into motion. Twice started dragging students by their feet, apologizing to them as he did so. Compress began re-compressing some of the larger students to make them easier to move.
Himiko, Spinner, and Vault surrounded Bakugo. They hauled him into a heavy metal chair bolted to the floor. Himiko snapped the cuffs onto his wrists, securing them behind the chair. Then they began wrapping him in heavy chains for good measure.
"Make it tight," Spinner grunted. "He's dangerous."
"I know, I know," Himiko grumbled, tightening a strap.
Amidst the chaos, no one was looking at me.
I was lying just a few feet away from the bar counter. The Class 1-B students were being dragged away, clearing the floor. Bakugo was the center of attention.
Shigaraki was slumped over the counter, muttering to himself, scratching the wood with one finger. He was drunk, distracted, and furious.
"Now. Or never..."
The thought struck me like a lightning bolt. It was a reckless, stupid, suicidal thought. But it was the only one I had. A tiny, fractured window of opportunity.
I activated the technique Himiko had taught me. Presence Erasure.
It wasn't invisibility. It was psychology. It was holding your breath, relaxing your muscles, matching the ambient noise of the room, and convincing the world that you were nothing more than a piece of furniture. A speck of dust.
I stopped being 'Onodera Ryuga, the threat.' I became 'Onodera Ryuga, the unconscious victim.'
I slid my hand into my pants. The cold metal of the revolver met my palm. My fingers wrapped around the grip, finding the trigger.
Slowly, agonizingly slowly, I shifted. I rolled onto my stomach, using the noise of Twice dragging bodies and the chaos of that other group while they were arguing.to mask the sound of my movement.
Shigaraki was five feet away. His back was to me. He was taking another swig of whiskey, his head tilted back.
Blow his head off right now—in that drunken, despondent state—it's entirely possible. I could totally end this series early, but that would be too risky. The plot could change—and I'd like it to change at the last minute—but a single shot through the head with the "GGWP" emote would make Izuku's journey pointless.
So instead, new target: Liver. Right side. Below the ribcage.
A liver shot is excruciating. It causes massive internal bleeding and instant, debilitating shock. It wouldn't kill him instantly like a headshot, but it would drop him. And right now, dropping the command center was my priority.
I stood up.
Nobody noticed. Dabi was dragging students along with Twice. Magne and Spinner was arguing with Cupid and Vault. Kurogiri was in the back room helping Compress.
I raised the gun. The weight of it felt familiar now. Comforting.
I didn't hesitate. Hesitation is death.
I aimed at the small of Shigaraki's back, angling slightly upward to hit the liver.
BANG!
The sound was deafening in the confined space. It wasn't just a gunshot; it was a thunderclap that shattered the reality of the room.
Shigaraki jerked violently, his body arching forward. The bottle of whiskey flew from his hand, smashing against the shelves behind the bar, raining glass and alcohol everywhere.
"GAAAAAHHH!"
A scream—raw, wet, and filled with agony—ripped from Shigaraki's throat. He collapsed off the stool, hitting the floor hard. He curled into a fetal position, clutching his side, blood already seeping rapidly through his black shirt, mixing with the spilled alcohol on the floor.
I didn't stop. As he fell, I stepped forward, putting my entire body weight into a kick, making him fall to the floor in the most pathetic state imaginable.
"That's for the mall, you crusty bitch," I spat.
"BOSS!" Spinner screamed, the first to react.
The room froze for a millisecond—the collective shock of the 'unconscious' hostage suddenly turning into an assassin.
"HIMIKO! NOW!" I roared, dropping the stealth act entirely.
Himiko didn't need to be told twice. The moment the gunshot rang out, she had already moved...