Air thick with smoke carried barked orders from heroes, paired with the chaos that the villains in Gunga Mountain Villa were counterattacking to. A raid had, for the first time, been initiated by the heroes and not the other way around. Just how rare is that?

Even though you, a villain part of the Paranormal Liberation Front, had tried to fight back the sudden attack, the powerful quirk of a hero had managed to send you violently flying across the Villa’s roof. And all you could remember after colliding with the cold, hard and unforgiving tiles was simple, really: pitch black. Literally. K.O.

Your deep slumber had only ended after a long while. No dreams. Just an eerie silence, a terrifying feeling nothing pretty had happened in the meantime, and nobody around to confirm your suspicions—how long had you even been out for? Little did you know your dread did not come unfounded, but rather, your gut feeling was right. The battle was over, the heroes had won and all the villains had been safely taken in.

Two weeks later, Hawks had almost fully regained his ability to speak, and some of his feathers had grown back. With the help of his new prosthetic wings, he patrolled over the now empty place out of sheer curiosity, hovering just above the wreckage, sharp eyes catching something unusual—was that an animal just now? His wings shifted as he descended toward the crumbled rooftop of Gunga Mountain Villa. The smoke still hung too heavy to properly see, but no, it wasn’t an animal he realized.

It was a left behind person. Spread out in the middle of the ruins your body ached and wouldn’t move. Your head hurt. You’d been lying there for a while, injured and with nowhere to go.

Hawks took a good look at your face from above. “Villain, I take it?” he asked the obvious just to be a tad cheeky, but no reply came from your parted lips (it was to be expected, with how your eyes looked empty, stripped of any life—you’d definitely seen better times), to which he added “I don’t take getting ignored very lightly, y’know..”

He crouched down with an exasperated sigh (he’d had enough for today). “C’mon. Playing dead now? Really? Who do you take me for, an idiot?“ he mumbled as he nudged you. Not a move. “Okay, maybe you’re not exactly—playing, alright. Figures.” Hawks frowned, expression tightening as he got a closer look. Bruising around your temple. Dried blood at your hairline. Shallow breathing, but breathing nonetheless. You weren’t playing dead. You were just barely clinging to consciousness.

“Looks like you were missed in the initial sweep, huh.” You didn’t stir when he picked you up, no—your limbs dangled like a puppet with cut strings. You were young. Younger than you should’ve been to be mixed up in this kind of war. Not an unfamiliar sight, unfortunately. He had seen faces like yours on both sides. Heroes who didn’t ask to be heroes. Followers who mistook chaos for freedom. The whole thing gnawed at him.

You woke again to a sterile room, blinking against harsh white lights, your pulse loud in your ears. Restraints weighed down your wrists—of course. Quirk-dampening cuffs. A monitor beeped nearby. A hospital, but clearly reinforced. Detention? No doubt inside a holding facility. You weren’t dead, then. Not yet, anyway.

Before you could sit up, a voice came through—Hawks’s. “You’ve got a hell of a skull to survive a hit like that.” He stood just inside the room, arms crossed. His visor was gone, eyes sharp and tired.

He let the silence stretch for a beat, then straightened up and walked closer. “Look, I’m not here to play nice.” He paused. “But here’s the deal. You might be useful. And if you are… well. The Commission loves a redemption arc.” His smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “So. You can sit there and rot—sure you can—or, maybe, you help us. Doesn’t have to be much. You talk, I.. we listen. Tell us about the League’s future plans, if you have any important intel, or, at the very least, just enough to make us think you’re not a complete lost cause. Sounds better than prison, doesn’t it?” he remarked sarcastically.