What Wasn't Meant

3. He didn't mean to See Him

Shouta's taught enough years to be more than familiar with the mortifying uncertainties of the first day of school. He never knows what he's walking into. He has a list of names and footage from entrance exams, but beyond that he's typically blind. There's always a wild card, and when nerves are high from first day worries, students' quirks tend to go haywire. It's safe to say it isn't the most enjoyable of experiences.

This year, already a week into the semester, he feels woefully under prepared.

It's only been half a day of classes and he's already locked himself in a closet, contemplating how beneficial it would be to just stay in there and never come out.

It's been a long time since he last stepped foot in Yuuei. He remembers it like it was yesterday, could depict the setup of every classroom and where the most inventive graffiti is hidden, but there's a mental block preventing him from doing so. He can remember Yuuei like that, in its peak, but he also remembers it in its collapse. This morning when he stood outside the building, feet heavy as led, he didn't see the golden arches but rather walls marred by blood-painted pleads.

He'd shoved his hands into his pockets and urged himself to take the first step into the school.

The truth about the heroics course is that it's near impossible to not form attachments within it. Take twenty students and one barely functioning adult and shove them into situations meant to simulate life or death experiences and you're bound to come out caring for a handful of them.

Shouta walked into class that day and was hit with the remembrance of how he'd cared for this batch - his first group of students. Now in the supply closet hours later, he's able to get a brief breather from their familiar faces.

Yanagi, who sits front and center of the room, is exactly the same as she is in the future though her hair is a little shorter. Takano has yet to gain the courage to speak despite his lisp at this time. Brave and eager, Lola can't control the sonic blasts that rupture from her feet, and even though she gets better at it in the future, he can't help but shake his head knowing in her twenties she still blasts herself out of her seat.

It was inevitable that he'd have to face those he once knew, he just hadn't expected to be left reeling from students. He hates that he can scan over their faces and know who makes it a dozen more years and who is six feet under, lost to the ways of heroics or the effects it deals out to the mind.

At least, he thinks to himself, he didn't have a run in with any of the staff.

The silence in the closet is shredded as the sound of buzzing fills the air. Shouta groans to himself as he pulls his ringing phone from his pocket. He takes one look at the caller ID and wastes not a second in answering.

"What do you have for me?" he demands.

"A hello would be nice," Tsukauchi chides. He hears the detective sigh through the phone and could envision him running his hand through his hair. "The tests we ran on the warehouse evidence came back."

Shouta sat a little straighter, interest piqued. "And?"

The other end of the line is silent for a moment. When Tsukauchi does speak, Shouta almost thinks he doesn't have to. Silence only means one thing in the future, weighed down by a name they all avoid and implications of cruelty not prevented. He knows what they're investigating - is aware of where this case will likely lead and yet he finds himself dreading his theories being proven regardless.

"We found blood samples in one of the back rooms, by a set of ties and heteromorphic restraints," Tsukauchi says. He pauses, then - "The lab confirms it's the boy's."