Chapter Text
At this very moment, you want to do nothing more than to collapse onto the black asphalt road and scream until your voice goes hoarse, but you settle for sitting against your car’s (deflated) front left tire, hugging your knees to your chest. Ah, your sister is going to kill you for not making it in time for the family gathering, but more importantly, it is late at night and you got a flat tire, and you don’t know how to change it.
Your phone has no signal, and the battery is getting dangerously low. And you forgot your charger, so you can’t even connect it to the charging port in your car.
You’re going to get murdered. You just know it. This is how most horror movies start, and actually, you just want to get it over with.
Letting out a hefty sigh, you take a look at the empty road winding through the forest that you’d very dumbly taken, but in your defence, it was the fastest way to your sister’s place- though the road was badly maintained, and the fact that you got a flat tire proved it.
What now?
Three cars had passed you in the half-hour you’d been stuck here- and none had stopped, despite you desperately waving at them to pull over and help. Not that you blame them too much- for all they know, you could’ve been a crazy serial killer trying to lure people so that they could kill them and then dump their body in the wild forest.
But oh boy do you regret every decision that has led to this point.
As you sit there, contemplating your poor life skills, you hear the familiar hum of a faraway engine that means that a car will pass by you soon, and an unhinged plan forms in your mind; one that could probably get you killed.
But hey, what do you have to lose?
You stand up and walk to the middle of the road, patiently awaiting the poor car that will be the victim of your plan.
The sleek black car approaches you slowly, and comes to a full stop two metres away from you. One loud honk, two, three, but you don’t move.
“Please help me!” You yell, waving your arms frantically as if to prove your point. “I got a flat tire and I don’t know how to change it!”
There is silence for a few more seconds, then the car honks at you again, as if to tell you to get lost, but you still don’t move.
“Please!” You yell again, pointing at your sad yellow car parked on the side of the road. “I’ve been stuck here for ages!”
The driver’s door of the black car opens, and out steps a tall figure. As he stands there, your headlights reveal a black-haired man wearing a face mask and a slightly tattered trench coat over his casual clothes.
“Do you want me to run you over or somethin’?” His voice is raspy, and very annoyed. “Move before you piss me off even more.”
“No.” You stubbornly cross your arms, staring him down. It’s too dark for you to see the expression in his eyes, but you are willing to bet your limbs he’s not exactly a helpful person by nature. “Be a good samaritan and help me out.”
“I don’t want to.”
“Then we’re stuck at an impasse, unless you actually run me over.”
He stares at you for a few moments longer, before sighing and shaking his head. “Do you have no survival instincts? It would be very easy for me to kill you and dispose of the evidence.”
“Actually, I’ve already considered that,” you admit truthfully. “But I don’t have much else going for me, so you’re my best shot.”
“And why should I waste my time on you?”
You roll your eyes, feeling your patience wearing thin. “Look, I’m not asking for your undying loyalty. Just a little help with the tire. I would watch a tutorial, but there’s no signal and my phone’s almost dead. Can you just be a decent human being for five minutes?”
“For all you know, I could be a villain that has no qualms about killing you.”
“Changing a tire is less work than killing someone.” You add, hoping your argument manages to convince him not to end your life. “So- well, yeah. I don’t really know what else to say.”
He doesn’t reply quite yet, turning his gaze to your car. “I want something in return.”
You snort by his obvious reluctance to help you. “Sure. Just help me out, please.”
He reaches for something inside his car -a tool kit- and then walks over to yours and starts checking the tire, his gaze smooth and practiced despite his apparent disdain. “You got a jack?”
“What’s that?”
He gives you a look and walks back to his car to retrieve a strange red contraption that looks like a wildly altered pair of scissors.
“This is a jack, which you would use to help lift the weight of the car when you’re repairing it.”
“Ah, okay.”
“You got a name, or should I just call you ‘the crazy girl who stood in the middle of the road’?”
“And why exactly should I tell my name to a would-be murderer?” You huff as you open your trunk and lug out the spare tire, rolling it in his direction.
“For all you know, I could already be one, and you just got really lucky.” He reminds you as he pulls out the spare tire and the jack, laying them on the ground beside the flat. You watch with great interest as his fingers work quickly, loosening the -screws?- with the wrench. Once the things are off, he places them carefully in a neat pile, and you crouch to take one between your fingers, inspecting the metal pieces with a keen eye.
“What are these?”
“Lug nuts. Secure the tire in place.”
With grudging admiration for his mechanical prowess, you tell him your name.
“I thought you didn’t want to tell your name to a would-be murderer?” He mutters, not really looking at you as he runs his fingers along the punctured hole. You wish he took that mask off- there’s something oddly alluring about him. Even if he insinuated that he had no problems with killing you, but maybe he was just joking.
“I changed my mind,” you shrug. “What’s your name?”
The man doesn’t answer as he positions the jack under the car's frame, ensuring it is secure before he begins to crank it. The car lifts smoothly, inch by inch, until the flat tire is off the ground. He removes the deflated tire and rolls it to the side, replacing it with the spare. He keeps going, tightening the lug nuts in a star pattern to ensure the wheel is secure. Lowering the car back to the ground, he gives the wrench a final turn on each lug nut for good measure.
“Done.” He turns his head to you, and that’s when you notice the striking teal shade of his eyes. Wow, they’re pretty. Really pretty. You almost don’t notice the semicircles of burnt skin underneath them, kind of like permanent dark circles. Somehow, he doesn’t look too bad with them.
“Thanks.” You grin at him, reaching for the wallet in your coat’s pocket. “How much do you want?’
“What?”
“What? Didn’t you want to get paid?”
“I said I wanted something, not money. I don’t need money,” he narrows his eyes as he gets up, dusting his hands lightly on his pants. “There are other ways to get paid.”
There is a moment of silence where you try to digest his words. “.. I sure hope you don’t mean what I think you mean.”
“Oh please,” he scoffs as he unhooks his mask and stuffs it into his coat’s pocket, finally giving you a chance to study his face. “I’m not that crude.”
There are those same burn scars covering the entirety of his lower jaw, neatly stapled to his unmarked skin. You furrow your brow, tilting your head at him. “Then what do you mean by 'other ways'?”
His eyes glint with a hint of mischief. “Let’s just say, a favor for a favor. You owe me one now.”
You narrow your eyes, not liking the vagueness of his proposition. “What kind of favor are we talking about here? I’m not agreeing to anything without knowing the details.”
He chuckles, clearly amused by your stubbornness. “Smart girl. Alright, how about this? I’ll call on you when I need something. Don’t worry, it won’t be anything too dangerous. Probably.”
You snort, crossing your arms. “Sure, whatever. I’m sure I can manage. What’s your name, anyway? Might as well know who I’m indebted to.”
He hesitates for a moment, then lets out a low chuckle. “Dabi.”
“Dabi,” you repeat, committing it to memory. The name is oddly familiar, but you don’t pay much attention to it. You take a pen from your pocket and tug his hand towards you, scribbling your number on his open palm. You note that the skin on his arms is also burnt, stapled the same way as his face. “Um, hit me up whenever, I guess. Just know I won’t do anything illegal or creepy."
"Wouldn't dream of it," he says, though his smirk suggests otherwise. He peers at the blue ink on his skin, then he turns his gaze to you. “What’s your job?”
“I’m a lab technician at U.A,” you say with some measure of pride. “I get to study the effects of quirks and how the students’ bodies have evolved to utilize the properties of their quirks.”
“Yeah?” He tilts his head curiously. “And what’s yours?”
“Oh, I’m quirkless.”
He doesn’t say anything, but his bright eyes are calculating enough to keep you on edge. “See you around.”
“Right.”
You watch as he takes his toolkit and walks back to his car, the engine roaring to life not even a few seconds after he gets in. He drives off, and you suddenly gasp and clap your hand to your mouth.
Because all of a sudden, you realize why his name sounded so familiar to you.
Dabi, the guy who fixed your car, is a wanted criminal and part of the LOV, a self-proclaimed terrorist villain organization.
Maybe you really should collapse onto the pavement and start screaming.