Chapter 3: Aizawa's interrogation peels back layers of deception as Izuku confesses his growing suspicions about U.A. infiltrators, Bakugou reveals classified intel about missing quirk researchers, and the full scope of the conspiracy begins unfolding.
The chemical fire Bakugou had ignited was already dying, choked by the suppressant foam from the robots and the lack of sustained fuel. Acrid smoke curled towards the hole in the ceiling, blending with the dust still hanging in the air. Izuku’s ankle throbbed in time with his heartbeat. Bakugou stood rigid, waiting for an answer to his unspoken demand for a plan.
“We start by—” Izuku began, pushing himself up the wall.
A shadow detached itself from the deeper darkness of the loading tunnel, silent as a drop of ink in water. It resolved into a lean, tired-looking man with long black hair and a tattered capture scarf. He stood between them and the broken exit, his eyes glowing a faint, dangerous red before fading to their usual obsidian.
Eraserhead.
Aizawa dropped in just as Izuku said that. His gaze swept over the scorch marks, the smoldering foam, the destroyed robot chassis Kirishima was currently stamping into flatter metal pancakes in the main warehouse. His eyes finally settled on Izuku, then Bakugou, then back to Izuku.
“You start by explaining to me why you are in a very previously active battle zone, Izuku.” His voice was flat, calm, and cut through the residual adrenaline like a surgical blade. “Without a license. Without gear. Without a quirk. You’re a teacher. Not a hero.”
He said it calmly, before looking to Bakugou. “And you. Why didn’t you contact me originally?” He glanced past Bakugou’s shoulder to where Kirishima was now waving sheepishly, his hardening receding. Aizawa looked at Kirishima, opening his mouth as if to say something, then closed it. He merely hummed, a low, dissatisfied sound. He didn’t have anything to say to him.
“Sir, I—” Izuku would start.
“Hush.” Aizawa didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to. “We will talk at the school. For now, fill me in. Properly.”
The sirens were right outside now, red and blue lights painting the alley in frantic streaks. The sound of boots on rubble, shouting voices. The perimeter was being secured. They were now trapped in this ruined cave with a far more intimidating force than any robot.
Bakugou, bristling under the implied rebuke, jutted his chin toward the main warehouse. “They were after Kirishima. A targeted snatch-op with pro-grade tech. We followed a chemical trail here. Found this.”
He didn’t elaborate. He just stepped aside, letting Aizawa’s gaze take in the dreadful collage on the far wall.
Aizawa walked forward, his movements economical. He stopped before the web of data, his eyes tracing the lines of analysis, the photos, the chillingly accurate weakness assessments. His expression didn’t change, but the air around him grew several degrees colder. His hand rose, and a single finger touched the edge of the recent photo of Izuku on the U.A. field. His nail tapped once, softly, on the words ‘Primary Source’.
He turned back to them. The silence was heavier than the smoke.
“They’ve been inside,” Izuku said, his voice hushed. The confession felt like pulling splinters from his heart. “They’ve been watching. The new Quirk Theory lab… the curriculum consultations… I thought I was just being paranoid. I accepted the grants, the access… I talked about historical quirks, about evolution… I… I gave them a framework.”
“You served them the class on a platter,” Bakugou ground out, the anger simmering again, now directed at the situation, at the faceless man in the hologram.
“Yes.” Izuku didn’t flinch from it this time. He met Aizawa’s impassive stare. “The lead machine, before it fled, played a message. From someone in a lab coat. A blank mask. He said… he thanked me for my ongoing contribution. That they were close to understanding ‘the Gift’.”
Aizawa’s eyelids lowered slightly. “The Gift.”
“Capital G, probably,” Kirishima said, trudging over, wiping robot coolant off his arm. “Sounded seriously creepy. Like a cult or something.”
“A cult with a cutting-edge R&D budget and military hardware,” Aizawa mused. He looked at Bakugou. “You engaged without authorization, compromised a potential intelligence site, and initiated property damage. Standard.”
Bakugou’s teeth clenched. “They had Kirishima in a net.”
“I’m aware.” Aizawa’s gaze didn’t waver. “That doesn’t make your method protocol. It makes it effective. This time.” He shifted his weight, the capture scarf shifting around his shoulders. “The machine that escaped. Description.”
Izuku provided it, detailing the photoreceptor, the agility, the specialized appendages. “It destroyed its data drive before it ran. The hologram said it was just a copy. That the original analysis continues.”
“Means this place is a node. A collecting point.” Aizawa finally looked away from them, scanning the ceiling, the ducts. “Forensics will tear it apart. You won’t be involved.” He fixed Izuku with a look. “You are compromised. You will return to the campus and you will not leave. You will prepare a full report of every interaction, every meeting, every piece of correspondence related to your Quirk Theory course and its funding for the last two years. You will not teach until this is cleared.”
Izuku felt the words like a physical bar slamming down. Confined to campus. Benched. “Sir, I can help—”
“You have helped.” Aizawa’s tone was final. “Unknowingly. Now you help by being a contained variable. We will use your access, your history, to trace them. But you will do it from behind a desk.” He glanced at Bakugou. “You’re with him.”
“What?” Bakugou spat.
“You broke protocol, but you identified the threat vector. You’re now the lead on mitigating it. Your assignment is to liaise with campus security, review Izuku’s findings, and act as on-site protection detail until we determine the scale of the infiltration.”
“Protection detail?” Bakugou looked like he’d been told to swallow a live grenade.
“He’s the ‘Primary Source,’” Aizawa said, deadpan. “And you’re the one who pointed it out. Congratulations. You’ve volunteered.”
Kirishima scratched his head. “Uh, what about me, Mr. Aizawa?”
Aizawa regarded him for a moment. “You’re a documented target of an active, sophisticated kidnapping ring. You’ll be assigned a protective detail from your own agency. Coordinate with Fat Gum. And try not to get netted again.”
Police and HPSC personnel began to flood in through the main doors and the hole in the wall, a swarm of sealed suits and grim faces. The scene was being taken over, pushed beyond their reach.
Aizawa took a final look at the wall of files, his expression unreadable. “The war’s over,” he said, so quietly only the three of them could hear. “But some people never got the memo. They’re not fighting for territory anymore. They’re fighting for knowledge. And that’s a much harder enemy to punch.” He tugged his scarf up. “Van’s outside. Get back to U.A. Now.”
The drive back was silent. Izuku sat in the back, watching the ruins of Kamino blur past, replaced by the dense, normal city lights. The weight of his ignorance pressed down on him. He’d been so focused on building a future, on guiding the next generation, that he’d left a door wide open for the past to creep back in.
In the passenger seat, Bakugou glared out the window, his jaw working. Bodyguard. Babysitter. For Deku. The irony was so thick he could taste it, metallic and bitter.
Kirishima, driving, broke the quiet. “So… we’re basically bait in a super-advanced trap now. Cool. Manly, even.”
“Shut up, Hair-for-Brains,” Bakugou muttered, but there was no heat in it.
The gates of U.A. loomed ahead, imposing and safe. But as they passed through, Izuku didn’t feel safety. He felt like he was carrying the infection inside with him. He looked at the darkened windows of the dorms, the familiar silhouette of the main building.
Somewhere in there, in the systems, in the very foundations, was a thread. A connection. And the man in the blank mask was holding the other end, gently tugging, waiting to see what else would unravel.
The U.A. gates closed behind them with a hushed, hydraulic sigh that felt more like a cage shutting than a return to safety. The main path was deserted, lit by soft, solar-powered lamps that did nothing to dispel the chill Izuku felt in his bones. Kirishima peeled off with a fist-bump and a promise to call Fat Gum, his heavy footsteps fading toward the visitor’s lot.
Bakugou fell into step beside Izuku, not speaking, his hands shoved deep in his pockets. Every line of his body screamed of thwarted motion, of an engine forced to idle.
They were headed for the main building, for the sterile light of Aizawa’s office, and the walk felt endless. The dorms were dark, quiet. Izuku’s eyes tracked to the windows of his own classroom, dark and silent on the third floor.
His students would be asleep, or playing games, or cramming for a test. They had no idea. Their biggest concern was Monday’s Foundational Heroics simulation. They were expecting him back, slightly limping maybe, with another inspirational story about past graduates. They expected normalcy.
He had given them a target painting instead.
Aizawa was already at his desk when they entered, the only light a harsh halogen lamp that carved deep shadows under his eyes and across the piles of paperwork. The room smelled of old coffee and exhaustion. He didn’t look up as they entered, just pointed with his pen to the two chairs facing the desk.
“Sit.”
Izuku sat. Bakugou remained standing for a three-count, a final, tiny rebellion, before slumping into the other chair with a creak of protesting plastic.
Aizawa set his pen down, aligned it perfectly with the edge of a file folder. He finally looked at them, his gaze moving from Izuku’s bandaged hand to the dust still ground into Bakugou’s gear.
“Start from the beginning. Not the warehouse. Earlier. Izuku, what were you doing in a restricted sector of Kamino Ward?”
Izuku swallowed. “I was following Bakugou. He was on patrol. I… I had a suspicion. About the patterns of the minor incidents he’d forwarded to the faculty channel. They seemed geographically clustered, but also temporally spaced. Like a survey.”
“You’re not a field analyst. You’re not licensed for recon.” Aizawa’s voice was a dry, uninflected fact. “You were explicitly told, after the incident with the press last autumn, to report anomalies. Not investigate them.”
“I know. I just—”
“He didn’t do anything wrong,” Bakugou cut in, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. “I’m the one who was on patrol. It’s my sector. My agency handles the calls there. I engaged a threat. He happened to be there.”
Aizawa’s eyes slid to Bakugou. The temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees. “He ‘happened to be there’ in a zone flagged for unstable architecture and suspected low-level villain activity, which is expressly off-limits to non-combat personnel. You saw him there. You then proceeded to involve him in a direct engagement with highly organized hostiles.”
“He can handle himself,” Bakugou snapped, a familiar heat rising in his words.
“Can he?” Aizawa asked, so softly it was almost a whisper. He let the question hang. The memory of Izuku being pinned against the beam, of the needle-like probe seeking him out, was a vivid ghost in the room. “That is not your judgement call to make. Not anymore. He doesn’t have One For All. He has a teaching degree and a warning on his file.”
Bakugou’s jaw clenched. He looked away, a muscle ticking in his temple. Aizawa had flipped the script. This wasn’t about protocol or agency jurisdiction. It was about responsibility, a currency Bakugou had spent a lifetime trying to earn.
“I didn’t ask for his help,” Bakugou muttered, but the fight had left his voice. It was just ash.
“You didn’t send him away, either,” Aizawa said. He turned his placid, relentless attention back to Izuku. “So. You had a suspicion. Instead of coming to me, or to any active hero liaison, you decided to personally tail a top-ten hero into a hazardous area. Why?”
Izuku felt the weight of his own miscalculation, dense and leaden in his stomach. He thought of the hologram’s thanks. “Because I thought it was my problem to fix. I thought if I could just… see it for myself, understand it, I could contain it. Before it touched the school.”
“And how’s that working out?” Aizawa asked, not unkindly, but with a brutal clarity. “Your solution to a potential threat was to walk directly into its line of sight. You didn’t contain anything. You confirmed to them that you are an active, curious variable. You led them, and by extension their interest, straight back to this campus.”
Each word was a needle. Precise. Accurate.
“It’s not fair to the students,” Izuku said, the words escaping in a breath. He wasn’t arguing. He was just stating the crushing truth. “They’re expecting me Monday. They have no idea.”
“No, they don’t.” Aizawa nodded. “And that’s your fault. You were told to get help. You chose to play hero alone again. This is the consequence.”
Kirishima, who had been standing near the door trying to look inconspicuous, rubbed the back of his neck. “Uh, sir, to be fair, it was a really chaotic situation. Things just kind of exploded. Fast.”
Aizawa’s gaze didn’t leave Izuku, but he acknowledged Kirishima with a slight tilt of his head. “I am aware of Dynamight’s involvement. His predisposition for rapid, explosive engagement is well-documented. His failure was professional.” Now he looked at Kirishima. “Yours was personal. You saw your teacher, powerless and injured, in a live combat zone. And your priority was the fight, not extraction.”
Kirishima flinched as if struck. His broad shoulders slumped. “I… I just reacted. Bakugou had it under control.”
“He didn’t,” Aizawa stated. “None of you did. That’s why there’s a hole in a warehouse and a missing robot with a copy of our security profiles.” He leaned back, the chair groaning. “The apologies don’t matter now. The explanations are for the report. What matters is the next move.”
He steepled his fingers. “Izuku, you are confined to campus. Your classes for the next week are cancelled. Substitutes are already being arranged. You will work from the secure archives in the security wing. You will compile every scrap of data related to your Quirk Theory course, as I said. Every email, every grant proposal, every visitor log.”
He shifted his gaze to Bakugou. “You will be stationed here as the operational lead for internal threat assessment. You will review everything he finds. You will coordinate with the security team. You will also be his shadow. If he goes to the bathroom, you’re posted outside the door.”
Bakugou opened his mouth, a protest clearly forming.
“This is not a punishment,” Aizawa interrupted, his voice dropping into a weary, final register. “It is a tactical reassignment. The enemy has designated him a ‘Primary Source.’ That makes him a living repository of dangerous knowledge and a high-value target. Your job is to ensure that source doesn’t get collected.”
The reality of it settled over the room. It wasn’t about babysitting. It was about safeguarding an asset. A weak, vulnerable, painfully knowledgeable asset.
Izuku couldn’t even look at Bakugou. Shame was a cold sweat on the back of his neck. This was his legacy now: a liability requiring a guard.
“Dismissed,” Aizawa said, picking up his pen again. “The security office will issue you ambos temporary clearance and living quarters. Don’t leave this building tonight.”
They filed out into the bright, silent hallway. The door clicked shut behind them, a sound of absolute finality.
Kirishima exhaled loudly. “Well. That was… intense.” He clapped a hand on Bakugou’s stiff shoulder. “Look, I gotta go meet my guys. You two… try not to kill each other before Monday, yeah?”
He offered Izuku a small, encouraging smile that didn’t reach his eyes, then lumbered down the hallway toward the east exit, leaving them alone in the sterile glow.
Bakugou stared at the opposite wall, his profile sharp and unyielding. “A shadow,” he muttered, the word dripping with contempt.
Izuku closed his eyes for a second. The fatigue was bone-deep, a mix of adrenaline crash and psychic bruising. “You don’t have to do this. I can talk to him.”
“Shut up.” Bakugou pushed off the wall and started walking down the hall, not waiting. “You heard him. It’s a tactical reassignment. So we’re reassigned. Let’s go find this damn archive room. The sooner we start, the sooner this ends.”
His footsteps echoed, a sharp, solitary rhythm in the empty corridor. Izuku watched his retreating back for a moment, this explosive, relentless force now tethered to him. To his failure.
He took a breath, ignored the pain in his ankle, and followed the sound.
He took a breath, ignored the pain in his ankle, and followed the sound.
Bakugou’s pace was a brutal, unrelenting march. He didn’t look back. They moved through the administrative wing, a labyrinth of identical, polished corridors that felt utterly alien at this hour. Their destination was a nondescript door marked ‘S-7: Historical Archives & Secure Storage’.
Bakugou flashed his temporary clearance badge at the panel. It beeped red. He smacked it with the heel of his hand. It beeped again.
“Oh, for the love of—” he snarled.
“Here, let me,” Izuku said quietly, pulling his own badge from his jacket. The one with his teacher’s clearance. He held it up.
The panel chimed green. The lock disengaged with a solid thunk.
Bakugou stared at the door, then at Izuku’s badge. His expression was unreadable, a storm contained behind glass. “Of course,” he said flatly. He shoved the door open.
Inside was a cool, climate-controlled room smelling of old paper and electronics. Rows of servers hummed softly along one wall. Workstations dotted the space, their monitors dark. It was a tomb for information. Their new cage.
Bakugou walked to the nearest desk and slumped into the chair. It groaned. “Well? Get started, Primary Source. I’ll be here staring at the wall.”
Izuku didn’t reply. He moved to another terminal, wincing as he sat. He logged in with his credentials. The screen bloomed to life, casting a blue pallor on his tired face. His inbox looked back at him, a endless scroll of mundane administrative life. Grant approvals. Equipment requests. Guest speaker confirmations.
Every single one now felt like a potential snare.
His fingers hovered over the keys. “You don’t have to stay,” he said, not looking away from the screen. “You can patrol the hallway. It’s functionally the same.”
Bakugou kicked his feet up on the desk, crossing his arms. “And miss the thrilling spectacle of you reading emails? No chance.”
---
Back in his office, Aizawa waited until the footsteps faded completely. He sat in the dark for a full five minutes, the only movement the slow, deliberate tap of his index finger on the desk’s steel edge. The hologram’s words cycled in his head. Ongoing contribution. The Gift.
He’d seen this kind of obsession before. Not with villains, but with academics. A thirst for the root of power, dissected and understood. It was far more corrosive than simple hatred.
With a sigh that seemed to draw from the very bottom of his reserves, he pulled his personal encrypted phone from a drawer. It was a bulky, outdated-looking thing. He dialed a number from memory, put it on speaker, and set it on the desk.
It rang once.
A cheerful, high-pitched voice answered. “Aizawa! I was just reviewing the Kamino incident reports. Most stimulating! The metallurgical analysis of the robot carapace alone is fascinating!”
“Nezu,” Aizawa said, his voice a low drone. “We have a confirmation. The infiltration is deeper than we thought. They have designated Midoriya as a primary resource.”
“Ah.” The principal’s tone shifted, the playful lightness evaporating into something sharp and calculating. “His historical value, or his current access?”
“Both. They’ve been leveraging his academic work. It’s a structured intelligence gathering operation, targeting Quirk lineage and evolutionary theory. They’ve built profiles on everyone.”
A soft clinking sound came from the speaker, like a teacup being set on a saucer. “That is… inconvenient. And Dynamight?”
“Assigned as his protection detail and liaison. He’s… motivated. But this isn’t a problem a punch can solve. It’s a network. We need to cut the head off, and we don’t even know where the neck is.”
“Precisely!” Nezu chirped, but the cheer was gone, replaced by a brisk efficiency. “A passive defense is insufficient. We must change the variable they are calculating.”
Aizawa leaned forward, the halogen light carving deep lines into his face. “I’ve been thinking about that. We need to stop treating Midoriya like a weakness to be shielded. He’s still one of the sharpest tactical minds this institution has ever produced. He’s drowning in guilt because he’s holding a fishing rod but he’s not allowed to reel the line in.”
“You propose we give him a rod of a different sort?” Nezu prompted.
“I think we should show him what she’s making,” Aizawa said, the words leaving his mouth slowly, as if testing their weight. “The project in Support Lab 3. It’s nearing completion, isn’t it?”
There was a beat of silence on the line, filled only with the faint sound of Nezu’s breathing. “It is. The preliminary tests are promising. But, Aizawa, you know the psychological risks. For her, and for him. It’s not a costume. It’s a… statement.”
“He needs to make a statement,” Aizawa countered, his voice firming. “One that says ‘I am not a source to be mined. I am a problem to be solved.’ Sitting in an archive is killing him. It makes him a static target. This… this could make him unpredictable again. On our terms.”
Another sip of tea. A thoughtful hum. “You want to weaponize his vulnerability.”
“I want to armor his mind,” Aizawa corrected. “He’s blaming himself for being a door. Fine. Let’s give him the keys to the locks. Let him see that we’re not just building walls. We’re forging a response.”
The principal was quiet for a long moment. “Very well. Schedule a visit for tomorrow afternoon. I’ll ensure Hatsume is… prepared. And Aizawa?”
“Yes?”
“Do inform young Bakugou. I have a feeling his reaction will be an invaluable piece of data all on its own.”
The call ended. Aizawa sat back, the ghost of a grim smile touching his lips. He looked at the closed door, imagining the two former rivals sitting in silent hostility in the sterile archive room.
Tomorrow would be interesting.