the AU where Prime Torino time-travels to the Advent of Quirks era (a time period he did not study for) and picks up two street babies after recognizing one as a miniature AfO
context: Sorahiko's been in the past for less than year. He's been preventing AfO from picking up new Quirks for maybe two weeks, and has dropped off food for the twins a couple of times.
wc: ~1.1k
//
The children stared at Sorahiko with wary eyes, eerily alike for all that they differed in stature and eye color. He didn’t let himself move, save for a tip of his head. The bigger child, the one Sorahiko thought was a young All for One, mimicked him; the smaller boy said in a faltering voice, “Who are you?”
“Call me Torino,” he said. “How about you?”
The smaller boy bit his lip and gave his brother a nervous side-eye. Chibi-AFO ignored him; he only had an unblinking stare for Sorahiko, and truth be told, it was getting irritating. Don’t raise your voice, he heard Shimura chide.
He sighed, then changed tack. “Did you like the food?” At the clear brightening of the smaller boy’s expression, Sorahiko lifted the plastic bag. The boys were younger than Kotarou, but he had vague memories of Shimura feeding her son soft foods before he turned a year old. Surely steamed vegetables and (slightly) overcooked rice was fine.
Chibi-AFO lurched forward without a sound, one hand outstretched, the other still holding tight to his brother’s wrist.
A curse slipped through Sorahiko’s filter; he dropped the bag and Jetted himself backwards, out of reach but not out of sight. The last thing he wanted was to be chased blindly by some murderous toddler.
The showing of his Quirk, however, sparked something in Chibi-AFO’s eyes. A different kind of hunger--one that apparently required both hands now, as he unceremoniously dropped his brother and doubled down on trying to grab Sorahiko. The smaller boy yelped as spikes burst from Chibi-AFO’s skin, and then showed an incredible lack of self-preservation by trying to intervene.
“No!” he cried. “No, don’t! He’s nice!”
Sorahiko dodged another lunge for his neck. Can I hit him now? he begged the Shimura on his shoulder. I’m justified in knocking him out for his own good, right? That’s how this works?
You can’t hit a baby! Shimura scolded. He doesn’t know any better!
Chibi-AFO, as if to refute Shimura’s sympathies, finally opened his mouth to screech, “GIVE!” He kept springing for Sorahiko with his tiny palms thrust outwards; the spikes on his body rushed unerringly for Sorahiko’s limbs. “GIVE IT!”
“Stop it! Stop!”
How much stamina could a toddler have? More importantly, how long did Sorahiko have until the civilians he’d ushered off the street rang the local police station? Sorahiko, out of sheer curiosity, started leading Chibi-AFO in a circle. It felt criminally easy to maintain a generous distance between himself and the toddler, even as Chibi-AFO grew more desperate and enraged at not having easy prey.
“IT’S MINE!” the toddler snarled, out of breath. “MINE! MINE!”
Because Sorahiko wasn’t above taunting a baby, he upped the speed on his Jet. Chibi-AFO’s reliance on his spikes to propel him was the toddler’s downfall; as the chase continued, the production output and quality of the spikes diminished, until it was pure spite that powered Chibi-AFO’s bare feet.
The smaller boy had collapsed long ago by the food, gasping, but he seemed like he registered that Sorahiko wasn’t about to die, because he was now spectating with awe-struck eyes.
“Are you done?” said Sorahiko mildly, continuing to deny the toddler any hope of closing the gap. The boy’s face was getting redder, and scrunched-up, and then the funniest thing happened: Chibi-AFO tripped on his makeshift robe, face-planting into the asphalt.
Don’t laugh, Shimura said, in a long ago memory about Kotarou colliding into a glass door.
Chibi-AFO was trembling, every limb shaking. The smaller boy had shot up, renewed concern pushing him to his brother’s side and babbling something unintelligible. Sorahiko stifled the bark of laughter as Chibi-AFO gingerly lifted his head and goggled at the ground, like he couldn’t believe he’d fallen.
“Be nice,” the smaller boy pleaded, frantically patting Chibi-AFO’s shoulders. “Don’t, don’t, be nice.”
A tiny, minuscule drop of pity collected at the pit of his stomach. Sorahiko made the executive decision to sacrifice his cape, unpinning it from his suit and dropping the heavy fabric onto the boys before going to fetch the food. They startled at the sudden weight, but the smaller boy could only squeak and Chibi-AFO, thoroughly exhausted, could only twitch.
“Let’s try this again,” said Sorahiko dryly. He popped the plastic lids of the styrofoam containers and stuck spoons into two of them, situated both in front of the children, and took his own seat a full meter away. “I’m Torino. How’s the food?”
Huddled under his cape, the smaller boy looked bewilderedly from him to the food, and back again. “Um…!”
“Not hungry,” said Chibi-AFO.
“... Alright. You two have names?”
“No,” said Chibi-AFO, sullen. “Go ‘way.”
As tempting as it was, Sorahiko took a measured breath and let out a controlled exhale. “No. You’re hurting people being out here, and I can help you. Food, and a place to sleep. Do you understand me?”
The smaller boy fiddled with a handful of Sorahiko’s cape. Tentatively, he asked, “Safe?”
Chibi-AFO repeated, in the same tone as before, “No.”
At some point, Sorahiko thought, you really couldn’t justify letting a toddler steer the conversation. He considered his options, and responded to the smaller boy first. “Yes, it’s safe. I won’t hurt you, or him. I just can’t let him hurt anyone else.”
A small hum, and then: “Okay. We go.”
“No!” Chibi-AFO protested, and finally pushed himself up, wincing. Tears pooled at the corners of his eyes, but Sorahiko would place a bet that they were purely reflexive. “No, I’m safe! He’s bad! He hurt me!”
“You hurt you,” the smaller boy sniffed.
The murderous intent flashed on Chibi-AFO’s face again, and Sorahiko hastily stepped in before more blood was shed. He snapped his fingers in front of the toddler. A malformed spike, sloppy in execution and sluggish in timing, tried to pierce Sorahiko’s hand and dissipated before he could even recoil. Exhaustion! Finally!
“Go ‘way,” the toddler demanded.
Sorahiko simply leaned his cheek against his fist, propping his elbow on his knee. Either Chibi-AFO would recover and try for a second time to steal Jet, or he would pass out. There wasn’t any point trying to reason with the brat.
The smaller boy patted Chibi-AFO’s shoulders, but he too went quiet. Eventually, Chibi-AFO slumped flat to the ground again, and his slurred orders dwindled to a faint burbling snore. That was Sorahiko’s cue to creak upright, crouch down, and ask the smaller boy in a serious tone, “Can I pick you up?”
The kid looked at the food.
“I have more at home.”
“... Okay,” he said softly, and in swift order, Sorahiko resituated his cape so it swaddled Chibi-AFO, took him up on one arm, and hoisted the smaller boy in his other arm. There was that squeak again, and a nervous clutching at his flight suit, but Sorahiko’s attention was on thinking about the route back to his apartment.
It would be easier on the kid’s nerves if he walked, but the Meta X gangs were too troublesome to bother with tonight.
“Hold tight,” Sorahiko muttered, and Jetted for the rooftops.
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