𝓐 𝓜𝓮𝓪𝓷𝓼 𝓽𝓸 𝓪𝓷 𝓔𝓷𝓭 | Katsuki Bakugou x Male Reader

Chapter 2

---

Were there Capitol hover planes speeding in to blow them out of the sky? As they travelled over District 12, (M/N) watched anxiously for signs of an attack, but nothing pursued them. After several minutes, when he heard an exchange between Kan and the pilot confirming that the airspace was clear, he began to relax a little.

Shoto nodded at the howls coming from (M/N)'s game bag. "Now I know why you had to go back."

"If there was even a chance of his recovery." (M/N) put the bag on a seat, where Buttercup began a low, deep-throated growl. "Oh, shut up," (M/N) told the bag as he sunk into the cushioned window seat across from it.

Shoto sat next to him. "Pretty bad down there?"

"Couldn't be much worse," (M/N) answered. He looked in Shoto's eyes and saw his own grief reflected there. Their hands found each other, holding fast to a part of 12 that Nezu had somehow failed to destroy. They sat in silence for the rest of the trip to 13, which only took about forty-five minutes. A mere week's journey on foot. Toru and Itsuka, the District 8 refugees who (M/N) encountered in the woods last winter, weren't so far from their destination after all. They apparently didn't make it, though. When (M/N) asked about them in 13, no one seemed to know who he was talking about. Died in the woods, it seemed.

From the air, 13 looked about as cheerful as 12. The rubble wasn't smoking, the way the Capitol showed it on television, but there was next to no life above ground. In the seventy-five years since the Dark Days - when 13 was said to have been obliterated in the war between the Capitol and the districts - almost all new construction had been beneath the earth's surface. There was already a substantial underground facility there, developed over centuries to be either a secret refuge for government leaders in the time of war or a last resort for humanity if life above became unlivable. Most important for the people of 13, it was the centre of the Capitol's nuclear weapons development programme.

During the Dark Days, the rebels in 13 took control from the government forces, trained their nuclear missiles on the Capitol and then struck a bargain: they would play dead in exchange for being left alone. The Capitol had another nuclear arsenal out west, but it couldn't attack 13 without certain retaliation. It was forced to accept 13's deal. The Capitol demolished the visible remains of the district and cut off all access from the outside. Perhaps the Capitol's leaders thought that, without help, 13 would die off on its own. It almost did a few times, but it always managed to pull through due to strict sharing of resources, strenuous discipline and constant vigilance against any further attacks from the Capitol.

Now the citizens lived almost exclusively underground. They were allowed outside for exercise and sunlight but only at very specific times in their schedule. They couldn't miss their schedule - (M/N) included. Every morning, he had to stick his right arm in this contraption in the wall. It tattooed the smooth inside of his forearm with his schedule for the day in purple ink. 7:00 - Breakfast. 7:30 - Kitchen Duties. 8:30 - Education Centre, Room 17. And so on. The ink was indelible until 22:00 - Bathing. That was when whatever kept it water resistant broke down and the whole schedule rinsed away. The lights out at 22:30 signalled that everyone not on the night shift should be in bed.

At first, when (M/N) was so ill in the hospital, he could forgo being imprinted. But once he moved into Compartment 307 with his mother and sister, he was expected to get with the programme. Except for showing up for meals, though, he pretty much ignored the words on his arm. He just went back to their compartment or wandered around 13 or fell asleep somewhere hidden. An abandoned air duct. Behind the water pipes in the laundry. There was a storeroom in the Education Centre that was great because no one ever seemed to need school supplies. They were so frugal with things here, waste was practically a criminal activity. Fortunately, the people of 12 had never been wasteful. But (M/N) once saw a girl crumple up a sheet of paper with just a couple of words written on it and he would have thought she had murdered someone from the looks she got. One of (M/N)'s few pleasures in 13 was watching the handful of pampered Capitol "rebels" squirming as they tried to fit in.