SnipeThe room smelled like paper and polish.
Too clean. Too still. Like the kind of place where nothing human ever happened—just decisions made behind closed doors and stamped with the weight of someone else’s authority.
The overhead lights buzzed faintly, white and sterile, casting long shadows over the polished table. Two chairs. One folder. No warmth.
The door creaked once.
Bootsteps—slow, deliberate—echoed across the floor. Snipe stepped in without ceremony, his silhouette cutting sharp under the brim of that worn brown hat. The spurs at his heels didn’t jingle. They never did when he didn’t want them to.
Behind him, the door swung slowly shut. Heavy hinges groaned, then caught, just shy of slamming, the sound echoing through the still room like the jaws of a trap snapping shut.
He didn’t look back. He didn’t sit. Not yet.
His mask—tan, old-style, shaped like a muzzle that forgot it was supposed to be a gas filter—hid his expression, but his stance made things plain enough. One gloved hand rested casually on the back of the chair, the other hanging loose by the holster on his hip. Not threatening. Not friendly. Just… watchin’.
The official didn't bother with greetings. His pen scratched across some meaningless form, the sound like insects chewing through wood.
Snipe's mask tilted just slightly - the barest fraction of movement that somehow conveyed a lifetime of dealing with pencil-pushing little men. The chair legs scraped faintly against polished floor as he nudged it with his boot, testing its weight like it might be wired to explode.
Three heartbeats passed. Four. The official's pen never paused.
Finally, one gloved hand rested on the chair back.
Across the table, the official didn’t flinch. Thin. Tidy. Wearing a badge that meant nothing to Snipe. The man pushed the folder forward with two fingers like it might bite him.
“Pro Hero Snipe,” the man began. “You’ve been classified as a Priority Match under the Quirk Marriage Initiative. Due to the tactical value of your Quirk, your experience as a hero, and your compatibility profile, your pairing has been finalized. You will be expected to establish domestic cohabitation immediately. Conception is required without delay.”
He’d been expecting it. That didn’t make it sit any easier.
Snipe didn’t move, didn’t twitch. Just gave a soft grunt that might’ve been a laugh—or maybe just disappointment exhaled through his teeth. He finally pulled out the chair and sat down, the red cloak settling around his shoulders like a curtain.
“Suppose you want me to say ‘thank you,’” he murmured.
The official blinked. “Your compliance is mandatory.”
Snipe leaned forward just a little, the shadows from his hat slanting across the metal ‘S’ on the brim.
“Reckon it is.”
His eyes flicked to the folder. He hadn’t opened it yet. Didn’t need to—not really. Name, photo, stats, some poor soul roped into this mess just like him. Someone who hadn’t asked to be tied to a man with a target painted on his back.
He reached out, finally. Fingers slow. Steady.
If this was how it was gonna be… then he’d make damn sure it wasn’t worse than it had to be. For their sake.
The official's finger stabbed the intercom button like a judge's gavel. “Send in the match.”
Then, from behind Snipe, the same tired hinges protested again, like a trap luring in another victim.
Too clean. Too still. Like the kind of place where nothing human ever happened—just decisions made behind closed doors and stamped with the weight of someone else’s authority.
The overhead lights buzzed faintly, white and sterile, casting long shadows over the polished table. Two chairs. One folder. No warmth.
The door creaked once.
Bootsteps—slow, deliberate—echoed across the floor. Snipe stepped in without ceremony, his silhouette cutting sharp under the brim of that worn brown hat. The spurs at his heels didn’t jingle. They never did when he didn’t want them to.
Behind him, the door swung slowly shut. Heavy hinges groaned, then caught, just shy of slamming, the sound echoing through the still room like the jaws of a trap snapping shut.
He didn’t look back. He didn’t sit. Not yet.
His mask—tan, old-style, shaped like a muzzle that forgot it was supposed to be a gas filter—hid his expression, but his stance made things plain enough. One gloved hand rested casually on the back of the chair, the other hanging loose by the holster on his hip. Not threatening. Not friendly. Just… watchin’.
The official didn't bother with greetings. His pen scratched across some meaningless form, the sound like insects chewing through wood.
Sit,he said to the paperwork, as if speaking to the desk itself.
Snipe's mask tilted just slightly - the barest fraction of movement that somehow conveyed a lifetime of dealing with pencil-pushing little men. The chair legs scraped faintly against polished floor as he nudged it with his boot, testing its weight like it might be wired to explode.
Three heartbeats passed. Four. The official's pen never paused.
Finally, one gloved hand rested on the chair back.
That an invitation,he asked, voice low and gravel-lined,
or an order you're waitin' to enforce?
Across the table, the official didn’t flinch. Thin. Tidy. Wearing a badge that meant nothing to Snipe. The man pushed the folder forward with two fingers like it might bite him.
“Pro Hero Snipe,” the man began. “You’ve been classified as a Priority Match under the Quirk Marriage Initiative. Due to the tactical value of your Quirk, your experience as a hero, and your compatibility profile, your pairing has been finalized. You will be expected to establish domestic cohabitation immediately. Conception is required without delay.”
He’d been expecting it. That didn’t make it sit any easier.
Snipe didn’t move, didn’t twitch. Just gave a soft grunt that might’ve been a laugh—or maybe just disappointment exhaled through his teeth. He finally pulled out the chair and sat down, the red cloak settling around his shoulders like a curtain.
“Suppose you want me to say ‘thank you,’” he murmured.
The official blinked. “Your compliance is mandatory.”
Snipe leaned forward just a little, the shadows from his hat slanting across the metal ‘S’ on the brim.
“Reckon it is.”
His eyes flicked to the folder. He hadn’t opened it yet. Didn’t need to—not really. Name, photo, stats, some poor soul roped into this mess just like him. Someone who hadn’t asked to be tied to a man with a target painted on his back.
He reached out, finally. Fingers slow. Steady.
If this was how it was gonna be… then he’d make damn sure it wasn’t worse than it had to be. For their sake.
The official's finger stabbed the intercom button like a judge's gavel. “Send in the match.”
Then, from behind Snipe, the same tired hinges protested again, like a trap luring in another victim.
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