Chapter 5: The Harvest Files
The word “hard” hung in the air like the smell of ozone after a lightning strike. For a moment, the only sound was the hum of the holoscreen and the relentless tap of rain on the single window.
Bakugou didn’t flinch. A cold, focused stillness settled over him, the kind that came before a detonation. The grief and the guilt were still there, a molten core in his chest, but they were being smelted now, forged into something sharp and actionable. Coming for him? Good. Let them try. It would save him the trouble of hunting every last one of them down.
“They want a template,” he said, his voice low and even. “They can have a front-row seat.”
“This isn’t a fight you can blast your way through, Bakugou,” Aizawa warned, his eyes narrowed. “This is a multi-headed hydra. You cut off one head, two more grow, and they’ve already stolen your blueprint. They know how you think. How you fight.”
“Then we burn the body,” Kirishima said, cracking his hardened knuckles. The sound was like gravel grinding. “We use Deku’s data. Find the heart and cook it.”
“It’s not that simple.” Aizawa moved to the table, slinging a damp, nondescript backpack off his shoulder. He unzipped it and pulled out a thick, sealed case file, the kind with reinforced corners and a biometric lock. It thudded dully on the metal surface. “My source didn’t just have whispers. They had proof. Of the cost.”
His scarred fingers worked the lock. It snapped open with a hiss.
AIZAWA SLAMS A CASE FILE ON THE TABLE, REVEALING CLASSIFIED AUTOPSY PHOTOS OF FAILED QUIRK TRANSPLANT VICTIMS—THEIR BODIES MANGLED, THEIR STOLEN POWERS FLICKERING IN GROTESQUE MUTATIONS.
The images were a visceral punch to the gut.
They weren’t clinical. They were crime scene photos, stark and unforgiving under fluorescent lights. The first showed a man on a stainless steel slab, his torso split open in a Y-incision, but the edges of the wound weren’t clean. They pulsed with a faint, sickly orange light, skin crystallizing into something that looked like jagged, glowing amber. The report footer read: SUBJECT 7 – ATTEMPTED INTEGRATION OF “SOLID AIR” QUIRK. RESULT: ORGANIC PETRIFICATION.
Yaoyorozu made a small, choked sound and looked away, a hand flying to her mouth.
Kirishima stared, his face pale under his sharp red hair. “Hell…”
Bakugou’s eyes swept over the next one. A woman, her limbs twisted at impossible angles, bones visible through skin that had turned translucent and viscous, like unset gel. SUBJECT 12 – ATTEMPTED INTEGRATION OF “FLEX” QUIRK. RESULT: STRUCTURAL COLLAPSE.
Page after page. A body covered in feathery growths that were slowly, visibly consuming muscle tissue. Another where the skin was a patchwork of scaling and fur, eyes vacant and clouded with two different pupil shapes. Failed mergers. Biological rejections. The stolen quirks weren’t integrating; they were metastasizing, turning their hosts into cancerous monuments to ambition.
“They’re getting closer to perfecting the process,” Aizawa growled, his voice gravelly with a contained fury. He tapped a final photo. This one was different. The subject was younger, male. The physical mutilation was less extreme, but the failure was written in the eerie, unstable aura flickering around the body in the photo, a warping of the light above the chest cavity. SUBJECT 23 – ATTEMPTED INTEGRATION OF “KINETIC REDIRECTION” QUIRK. RESULT: NEUROLOGICAL FEEDBACK CASCADE. SUBJECT EXPIRED DURING POST-OP STIMULUS TESTING.
“Early subjects were… discards. Test runs with low-value quirks,” Aizawa said. “Subject 23 had a B-rank defensive quirk. They’re moving up the value chain. The surgical notes indicate a 51% cellular acceptance rate before cascade. That’s not luck. That’s progress.”
Bakugou’s gaze was frozen on the last photo. Not on the technical details. On the victim’s head. A tangle of dark, matted hair. But near the temple, stark against the pallor, was a distinctive streak of a lighter color. Not bright green. A faded, mossy green, dyed and grown out. A cheap imitation.
His breath hitched. His palms, resting on the table, popped with a cascade of tiny, sharp sparks that scorched the metal.
A familiar green-haired corpse that wasn’t Izuku.
The irrational, furious hope that had flashed for a millisecond—that it was him, that the mountain was wrong—shattered into something uglier. This was something else. This was a message. A mockery.
“What is this?” Bakugou’s voice was dangerously quiet.
Aizawa’s expression was grim. “Subject 19. Found in a river two months ago. No ID. Quirkless according to all registry scans.” He slid a separate sheet from the file. It was a closer shot of the face, bruised and water-swollen but clear enough. A young man, probably early twenties. The moss-green streak in his hair was deliberate. On his collarbone, peeking above the autopsy sheet, was the edge of a faded, homemade tattoo. It was crudely done, but recognizable: a stylized, smiling mouth.
The symbol of the fan club. The DekuSquad. A desperate, obsessive tribute.
“They’re not just taking quirks,” Kirishima whispered, horror dawning. “They’re taking people who look like him? Why?”
“Insurance. Misdirection. Spare parts.” Aizawa’s lip curled. “The notes are sparse, but there’s a reference in Subject 19’s file to ‘psycho-somatic template alignment.’ They might believe a physical or psychological resemblance to the donor could increase compatibility. Or they’re creating a pool of lookalikes to confuse any investigation into Midoriya’s… disappearance.” He closed the file, the snap of the cover final. “This is the reality. They are methodical. They are ruthless. And they are iterating. Every failure teaches them something. The next subject might not fail.”
The war room felt airless. The holographic city map on the main screen cast swirling red shadows over the gruesome file.
Bakugou pushed back from the table, the legs screeching. He walked to the window, his back to them, shoulders tense. He watched the rain distort the city lights. A kid with a dyed green streak, probably idolizing the very hero whose legacy was now being used as a blueprint for this butchery. Used as a lab rat and tossed in a river.
Izuku gave his life to stop this. And they were using his image to keep doing it.
The fury wasn’t explosive. It was a deep, frozen lake, so cold it burned.
“The heart,” Bakugou said, not turning around. “Prometheus Biomedical. You said it’s a fortress.”
“It is,” Yaoyorozu affirmed, her voice regaining some steadiness as she focused on the technical problem. She brought up the architectural schematics again—a gleaming, fifty-story tower of glass and reinforced composite. “State-of-the-art security. Biometric locks, internal seismic sensors, automated defense systems. A direct assault would be a siege, and they’d have time to scrub every server before we broke through the sub-levels.”
“We’re not doing a direct assault,” Bakugou said.
“Then what?” Kirishima asked.
Bakugou turned. His eyes were crimson chips in the dim light. He pointed at the autopsy file. “We use their own methodology. They want a template? We give them one. A flawed one.”
Aizawa’s eyes narrowed, calculating. “Explain.”
“They’re accelerating. They’re getting desperate because they know the data is out there. Their timeline is compressed.” Bakugou stalked back to the table, planting his hands on it, leaning over the hologram of the tower. “They want me? Fine. I’ll walk in the front door.”
“That’s suicide!” Kirishima barked, standing up so fast his chair toppled.
“It’s a controlled detonation,” Bakugou snapped back. “You think I’d just hand them my quirk? They want Katsuki Bakugou, Pro Hero Dynamight, the volatile powerhouse. So that’s what they get. Loud, predictable, and pissed off. A perfect distraction.” His gaze swept to Yaoyorozu. “You said their security is automated. Internal sensors. What’s the one thing that kind of system can’t handle?”
Yaoyorozu’s eyebrows furrowed, then lifted. “Overwhelming, contradictory stimulus. Too many triggers at once. It would force a system overload or a manual override.”
“Exactly. I go in. I make a scene so big every eye, every sensor, every guard in that tower is locked on me.” He looked at Kirishima. “While I’m the fireworks, you and Creati here use Deku’s backdoor maps. You slip in through the maintenance sub-level he flagged. You find their real server core, the one not connected to the public network. You plant the data-scorcher Aizawa’s source must have provided.”
He finally looked at Aizawa. “You’re the ghost. You’re on the outside, monitoring police bands, Prometheus’s internal comms. The second their system blinks or our package is delivered, you call in the real cavalry. Not to save me. To raid the place while it’s in chaos and grab every piece of paper, every drive, every sick fuck in a lab coat.”
Silence settled, broken only by the low hum.
“It’s a good plan,” Aizawa said after a long moment, a hint of grudging respect in his tone. “High risk. Theatrical. It relies on you being a convincing enough target to hold the attention of a fully staffed corporate security force.”
“I’m a convincing target,” Bakugou said, no boast in it. It was a fact.
“And if they manage to subdue you before we complete the objective?” Yaoyorozu asked quietly.
Bakugou’s smile was all teeth, a cold, dangerous thing. “Then their shiny tower, and everyone in it, comes down with me. But I’ll make damn sure you have your window first.”
Kirishima stared at his friend. He saw the resolve, the calculated fury. This wasn’t a suicide run. It was a spear thrust, aimed straight at the monster’s throat, with Bakugou as the sharpest point. The most dangerous part was that it made sense. It used the enemy’s desire against them. It honored Izuku’s intel. It was also the kind of plan that had a survival probability hovering somewhere near zero.
He righted his chair and sat down heavily. “You’re insane.”
“Yeah.” Bakugou didn’t deny it. “You in or not?”
Kirishima let out a long, slow breath, then hardened his skin briefly, the familiar, gritty sound filling the space. “Tch. When have I ever been out?” He looked at Yaoyorozu, then Aizawa. “We’re gonna need a hell of a distraction.”
Bakugou nodded once, a sharp, decisive jerk of his chin. He looked at the autopsy file, at the photo of the kid with the green streak. Then he looked back at the tower schematics, his reflection superimposed over the blueprints.
“They want a show?” he murmured, tiny sparks dancing across his knuckles. “I’ll give them a finale.”
The planning took three hours, a feverish blur of blueprints, code strings, and harsh coffee. Aizawa’s source had delivered: a compact data-scorcher, a thumb-drive loaded with a vicious worm designed to eat itself and everything connected to it. Yaoyorozu’s fingers flew, integrating Izuku’s backdoor schematics with real-time city grids. Kirishima paced, his hardened skin clicking softly, running contingency drills in his head.
Bakugou sat apart, silent. He wasn’t looking at the plans. He was staring at his own hands, flexing his fingers, watching the faint sparks that leapt between them. He was mapping the fury, channeling it, packing it down into something dense and precise. He thought of the look on Izuku’s face in the mountain, the resignation and the resolve. He thought of the kid in the river with the dyed hair. The cold in his chest crystallized.
“You need a trigger,” Aizawa said, breaking the silence. He tossed a small, discreet wireless earpiece onto the table in front of Bakugou. “Not a command. A signal. Something we’ll hear that means you’re compromised beyond the plan.”
Bakugou picked up the earpiece, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger. He thought for a second. “I’ll say ‘kindling’.” His voice was flat. “If you hear that, the tower comes down. Don’t wait. Don’t hesitate.”
Kirishima stopped pacing. “Bakugou…”
“It’s the signal, Shitty Hair. Not a conversation.” He inserted the earpiece, the fit familiar, a ghost of a hundred past operations. It felt different this time.
The van they stole was a bland, electric delivery model, smelling of old vegetables and disinfectant. Rain streaked the windshield in endless, shimmering curves. Yaoyorozu drove, her knuckles pale on the wheel, her eyes constantly flicking to the rear-view screen displaying tower security feeds she’d hacked. Kirishima was a hulking shadow in the back, checking and re-checking the seals on his gear.
Bakugou stared out the window. The city passed in a smear of neon and wet asphalt, a world oblivious to the cancer growing in its gleaming heart. His reflection was a gaunt ghost superimposed over the bright signs. He didn’t recognize himself.
“Two blocks out,” Yaoyorozu murmured, her voice tight. “External scanners are nominal. No elevated alert status. They’re not expecting you.”
“They will be,” Bakugou said.
Aizawa’s voice crackled in their earpieces, a disembodied presence from some unseen perch. “Comms check. Riot, Creati, your entry point is clear. Ground-level utility door, code updated per Midoriya’s cache. Security patrol just passed. You have a ninety-second window.”
“Copy,” Kirishima grunted, shifting his weight.
The van slid into a dank loading bay behind a closed florist, a block and a half from Prometheus Tower’s sleek, illuminated spire. The engine cut, leaving only the drumming rain.
No one moved for a long second. The air in the van was charged, thick with unspoken words.
Kirishima reached over and punched Bakugou’s shoulder, not hard, but solid. A familiar, wordless gesture. “Don’t do anything too stupid, yeah? Save some for the rest of us.”
Bakugou didn’t look at him. He watched a rivulet of water trace a path down the window. “Just get the damn job done. I’m not saying ‘kindling’ for my health.”
He pushed the van door open. The cold, wet air rushed in, sharp and bracing. He didn’t look back. He stepped out into the alley, the door sliding shut behind him with a final, soft thud, cutting off the world of his friends, of plans, of anchors.
He was alone.
The rain immediately plastered his hair to his scalp and seeped into the collar of his dark, non-descript jacket. He began to walk, hands in pockets, footsteps echoing in the empty alley. He wasn't Dynamight, not yet. He was just a man in the rain, moving with a deliberate, gathering purpose.
He passed a flickering holographic ad for a quirk-enhancing vitamin. He passed a sleeping form bundled in a doorway. The tower grew, swallowing the skyline ahead, a monument of clean, arrogant lines.
At the base of its wide, manicured plaza, he stopped. He took a slow, deep breath, the air tasting of wet concrete and city grit. He shrugged off the jacket, letting it fall to the slick pavement. Underneath, he wore his black combat gear, the familiar compression armor, the grenade-shaped bracers. He wasn't hiding anymore.
He stretched his neck, a series of cracks echoing in the quiet. He rolled his shoulders. The simmering cold inside him began to boil, rising from his core, heating his blood, traveling down the nerves of his arms to his hands.
He stepped onto the plaza.
The first security scanner, disguised as a decorative light post, emitted a soft ping and shifted from green to yellow. A calm, synthetic female voice echoed from a hidden speaker. "Identification, please. Unauthorized use of protective gear on Prometheus grounds is prohibited."
Bakugou ignored it. He kept walking, his pace even, measured. His palms faced the ground. Tiny, intense pops sparked to life in his cupped hands, sizzling the rain that fell into them, sending up wisps of steam.
The security system's voice sharpened. "Halt. Present identification immediately."
He was twenty yards from the towering, revolving main doors. He saw the silhouettes of guards moving inside, alerted by the system's escalation.
He stopped. He lifted his head. A slow, feral grin spread across his face, devoid of any real humor. It was a predator's smile, all teeth and promise.
"Identification?" Bakugou's voice, loud and clear, cut through the rain's whisper. He raised his right hand, palm open toward the sky. "You wanted a template."
A searing, condensed blast of light and concussive force erupted upward, not at the doors, but at the rain-heavy sky itself. The thunderclap of the explosion shook the plaza, shattering the calm. Car alarms three blocks away began to wail.
The tower's facade of serene corporate order evaporated. Crimson alarm lights strobed to life inside the vast lobby, casting frantic, bloody shadows. The synthetic voice was replaced by a blaring, harsh siren.
Through the chaos in his earpiece, he heard Kirishima’s breath, tight and focused. “We’re moving. Distraction received.”
He heard the shatter of tempered glass as his friends breached their entry point far below.
The massive revolving doors ahead of him disengaged, locking shut. Instead, a series of heavy, reinforced security barriers began descending from the ceiling inside with a mechanical groan.
Bakugou cracked his neck again. The cold was gone. Only the heat remained.
He leaned forward, one palm facing the armored glass, the other braced behind him. Orange light gathered, swirling and violent, between his shoulder blades.
“Okay, you vultures,” he whispered, the words lost in the scream of sirens. “The show’s starting.”
He rocketed forward, not as a blur, but as a controlled, screaming missile of pure destruction aimed at the heart of the fortress. The glass wouldn’t be a door. It would be an invitation.