Shota Aizawa and Hizashi YamadaThe room was too clean—the kind of clean that made the back of Shota’s neck prickle, like the air itself had been scrubbed of anything human.
Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead in sterile disapproval, gleaming off the polished surface of a long, impersonal conference table. No windows. No clocks. Just the hum of state-sanctioned discomfort and a pitcher of untouched water sweating in the center like it, too, was nervous.
Shota Aizawa stood just inside the door, arms crossed. His capture weapon coiled loose around his shoulders, the fabric shifting minutely—not quite a threat, not quite idle. Aizawa didn’t do idle. His eyes scanned the room once, twice, landing briefly on the two armed guards stationed by the exit before flicking to the chairs set out like a trap.
Hizashi Yamada bounced in behind him, steps lighter than they should’ve been given the tension hanging in the air. His hair was tied back in a quick bun, sunglasses perched up on his forehead. “Whew,” he exhaled dramatically. “What a vibe. Anybody else feel like we’re about to get our licenses revoked or wake up in a lab with our Quirks dissected?”
“No,” Shota said flatly, but his jaw tightened.
“Ah. Just me, then.”
They were told nothing when summoned. Just a formal request—no details, no explanation. That alone set Aizawa on edge. Hizashi was used to riding the waves of administrative chaos. Shota read it for what it was: manipulation.
A tall man in a dark Commission uniform entered through a door opposite them, expression like wet paper—creased, dull, and vaguely exhausted. A clipboard rested in his hand like a weapon, the edge of it catching the light like a blade. His nails were too clean. His collar too stiff. A man who’d never once hesitated to sign a life away.
“Pro Heroes Eraserhead and Present Mic,” he said, not bothering with pleasantries. “Thank you for your punctuality.”
Shota sat without a word, eyes narrowing. Hizashi gave a lazy half-salute and dropped into the seat beside him, one leg bouncing restlessly.
The official didn’t sit. “You’ve been selected for a Priority One Reproductive Union under the Quirk Marriage Initiative.”
A pause.
Shota’s blink was slow. Calculating.
Hizashi tilted his head. “A union? Like, marriage-marriage?” He laughed once. “You know I’m flattered, but he’s a little grumpy for my taste—”
The man didn’t flinch. “Not to each other.”
“...Oh.”
“You will both be wed to a shared partner. This triad structure is being piloted among heroes with long-standing partnerships, high compatibility metrics, and genetically viable Quirk combinations. Your profiles fit all parameters.”
Shota’s voice cut through like a knife. “And if we refuse?”
The man didn’t look up from his clipboard. “Refusal will result in the suspension of your hero licenses and potential prosecution under Civil Order Statute Thirty-Nine. You would be deemed obstructive to national stability.”
Hizashi let out a low whistle, leaning back in his chair with arms folded behind his head. “Yeesh. Didn’t even get a drink first. Just straight to the babies, huh?”
“This isn’t a negotiation,” the official said. “You are expected to cohabitate, integrate, and reproduce at least one child each within the designated five-year cycle, but more are encouraged. Financial incentives and housing accommodations have been arranged.”
“I’m sterile,” Shota deadpanned.
The official didn't so much as blink. “Your medical file indicates that is... inaccurate.”
“Should’ve lied harder, Sho,” Hizashi muttered under his breath.
Aizawa turned toward him, mouth twitching in a grim parody of a smile. “Still time to fake your own death.”
“I’d haunt the shit out of you,” Hizashi said with a grin that didn’t reach his eyes.
The official cleared his throat sharply. “You’ll be briefed on expectations following introduction. Your spouse has been waiting.”
He pressed a button on the table’s intercom and a buzz echoed through the room like a warning.
Shota leaned back in his chair, gaze heavy on the door.
Hizashi stilled for the first time since walking in.
For three heartbeats, the room was perfectly still. Then the intercom buzzed again, and the two guards stepped forward in unison, their polished boots echoing against the tile, escorting someone else. Their spouse.
Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead in sterile disapproval, gleaming off the polished surface of a long, impersonal conference table. No windows. No clocks. Just the hum of state-sanctioned discomfort and a pitcher of untouched water sweating in the center like it, too, was nervous.
Shota Aizawa stood just inside the door, arms crossed. His capture weapon coiled loose around his shoulders, the fabric shifting minutely—not quite a threat, not quite idle. Aizawa didn’t do idle. His eyes scanned the room once, twice, landing briefly on the two armed guards stationed by the exit before flicking to the chairs set out like a trap.
Hizashi Yamada bounced in behind him, steps lighter than they should’ve been given the tension hanging in the air. His hair was tied back in a quick bun, sunglasses perched up on his forehead. “Whew,” he exhaled dramatically. “What a vibe. Anybody else feel like we’re about to get our licenses revoked or wake up in a lab with our Quirks dissected?”
“No,” Shota said flatly, but his jaw tightened.
“Ah. Just me, then.”
They were told nothing when summoned. Just a formal request—no details, no explanation. That alone set Aizawa on edge. Hizashi was used to riding the waves of administrative chaos. Shota read it for what it was: manipulation.
A tall man in a dark Commission uniform entered through a door opposite them, expression like wet paper—creased, dull, and vaguely exhausted. A clipboard rested in his hand like a weapon, the edge of it catching the light like a blade. His nails were too clean. His collar too stiff. A man who’d never once hesitated to sign a life away.
“Pro Heroes Eraserhead and Present Mic,” he said, not bothering with pleasantries. “Thank you for your punctuality.”
Shota sat without a word, eyes narrowing. Hizashi gave a lazy half-salute and dropped into the seat beside him, one leg bouncing restlessly.
The official didn’t sit. “You’ve been selected for a Priority One Reproductive Union under the Quirk Marriage Initiative.”
A pause.
Shota’s blink was slow. Calculating.
Hizashi tilted his head. “A union? Like, marriage-marriage?” He laughed once. “You know I’m flattered, but he’s a little grumpy for my taste—”
The man didn’t flinch. “Not to each other.”
“...Oh.”
“You will both be wed to a shared partner. This triad structure is being piloted among heroes with long-standing partnerships, high compatibility metrics, and genetically viable Quirk combinations. Your profiles fit all parameters.”
Shota’s voice cut through like a knife. “And if we refuse?”
The man didn’t look up from his clipboard. “Refusal will result in the suspension of your hero licenses and potential prosecution under Civil Order Statute Thirty-Nine. You would be deemed obstructive to national stability.”
Hizashi let out a low whistle, leaning back in his chair with arms folded behind his head. “Yeesh. Didn’t even get a drink first. Just straight to the babies, huh?”
“This isn’t a negotiation,” the official said. “You are expected to cohabitate, integrate, and reproduce at least one child each within the designated five-year cycle, but more are encouraged. Financial incentives and housing accommodations have been arranged.”
“I’m sterile,” Shota deadpanned.
The official didn't so much as blink. “Your medical file indicates that is... inaccurate.”
“Should’ve lied harder, Sho,” Hizashi muttered under his breath.
Aizawa turned toward him, mouth twitching in a grim parody of a smile. “Still time to fake your own death.”
“I’d haunt the shit out of you,” Hizashi said with a grin that didn’t reach his eyes.
The official cleared his throat sharply. “You’ll be briefed on expectations following introduction. Your spouse has been waiting.”
He pressed a button on the table’s intercom and a buzz echoed through the room like a warning.
Shota leaned back in his chair, gaze heavy on the door.
Hizashi stilled for the first time since walking in.
For three heartbeats, the room was perfectly still. Then the intercom buzzed again, and the two guards stepped forward in unison, their polished boots echoing against the tile, escorting someone else. Their spouse.
Transport is ready,said the one on the left, voice toneless.
2530
