Chapter Text
The reforms had passed, but the fight was far from over.
The Commission had been forced to adapt, rewriting laws, loosening restrictions, allowing civilians more autonomy over their own abilities. But the changes had come at a cost - public trust had fractured, protests had continued, and the debate over whether the system was truly sustainable had only grown louder.
And now, the cracks were starting to show.
Inside the Commission, officials were divided. Some believed the reforms were necessary, a step toward progress, a way to prevent another disaster like Momo’s exposure. Others saw them as a dangerous precedent, proof that vigilantes could force the system to bend, a sign that control was slipping.
The tension wasn’t just internal.
Public unrest had barely settled. Some civilians welcomed the changes, relieved that they could finally use their Quirks without fear of legal repercussions. Others argued that the reforms didn’t go far enough, that the Commission had been exposed as flawed and needed a complete overhaul.
And then there were those who believed the opposite - that the reforms had weakened the system, that heroes were losing authority, that vigilantes like Momo had set a reckless example that would lead to chaos.
The Commission was struggling to maintain control, and the pressure was mounting.
And the trio was still caught in the middle.
Midoriya, Bakugou, and Shouto had never been officially accused of anything, but suspicion lingered. They had worked with Aegis Innovations, had been close to Momo, had been involved in too many incidents that now raised uncomfortable questions.
The scrutiny hadn’t faded.
Their reports were still reviewed with more detail than necessary. Their movements were still monitored. Their interactions were still analyzed, dissected, picked apart for any sign that they knew more than they were letting on.
And the Commission wasn’t done searching.
Momo had disappeared, but they hadn’t stopped looking.
Because as long as she was out there, she was proof that the system wasn’t as untouchable as they wanted it to be.
The protests hadn’t stopped.
Even with the reforms, even with the Commission’s attempts at damage control, the unrest remained. The changes had been necessary, but for many, they weren’t enough. The system had been exposed as flawed, and now, people wanted more than just adjustments. They wanted transparency. They wanted accountability. Some wanted to dismantle the Commission entirely.
The streets were filled with voices demanding answers. Signs called for investigations, for resignations, for a complete restructuring of hero oversight. News outlets struggled to keep up with the shifting narrative, some defending the Commission’s authority, others questioning whether it had ever been justified in the first place.
And at the center of it all was Momo.
Her name was everywhere - on banners, in speeches, in articles dissecting every decision that had led to this moment. She had become more than just a vigilante. She was a symbol, proof that the system had failed, proof that heroes weren’t the only ones capable of protecting people.
The Commission was losing control of the conversation.
For years, they had dictated the rules, had shaped public perception, had ensured that heroes remained the foundation of society. But now, civilians were questioning everything. Why had Quirk usage been restricted for so long? Why had only heroes been allowed to act? Why had someone like Momo been cast aside when she had done nothing but prove her capability?
And the Commission had no good answers.
Because the truth was undeniable.
The system had survived for decades on the belief that only a select few were worthy of the title of hero.
Now, the world was starting to wonder if that had ever been true at all.
The unrest was no longer just protests. It was movement.
What had started as scattered demonstrations had grown into something larger, something organized, something the Commission could no longer dismiss as temporary outrage. Civilians weren’t just demanding answers - they were demanding change.
And they weren’t waiting for permission.
Independent safety networks had begun forming in major cities - groups of civilians trained in emergency response, using their Quirks to assist in crises before heroes even arrived. Some were former rescue workers, some were simply people who had decided they weren’t going to stand by and wait anymore.
The Commission tried to shut them down.
They issued statements, warning that unregulated intervention could lead to disaster, that heroes were still the best-equipped to handle emergencies. But the public wasn’t listening.
Because the public had seen the truth.
They had seen Momo Yaoyorozu, a woman the system had deemed incapable, step into the void left by bureaucracy and inefficiency. They had seen her protect people, fight for them, do what heroes were supposed to do. And now, they were asking themselves - if she could do it, why couldn’t they?
The Commission was losing control.
And the more they tried to tighten their grip, the more people slipped through their fingers.
Some officials pushed for harsher regulations, for stricter enforcement, for a crackdown that would remind civilians who was in charge. Others argued that doing so would only prove Momo’s point - that the system wasn’t built to protect people, but to control them.
The divide was growing.
And the world was watching.
The Commission was fracturing.
For months, they had operated under the assumption that Momo Yaoyorozu’s disappearance would allow them to regain control. That once she was gone, the protests would die down, the outrage would settle, and the system would stabilize.
But that hadn’t happened.
Instead, her absence had only fueled the movement. She had become a symbol, a catalyst for change, proof that the system had failed. And now, the Commission was split on how to handle it.
Some officials wanted to hunt her down harder than ever. They argued that as long as she remained free, she was a threat - not just to their authority, but to the very foundation of hero society. If she resurfaced, if she continued her work, it would send a message that vigilantes could operate unchecked, that the system could be defied.
Others saw the danger in that approach.
They argued that pursuing her would only prove her point - that the Commission was more concerned with control than actual justice. That instead of addressing the flaws in their system, they were trying to silence the person who had exposed them.
The debates grew heated.
Some pushed for increased surveillance, for expanded search efforts, for harsher penalties against anyone suspected of aiding her. Others warned that doing so would only deepen public distrust, that the Commission was already on unstable ground, that another misstep could be the final blow to their credibility.
No one could agree.
Because the truth was undeniable.
Momo Yaoyorozu had disappeared.
And yet, even in her absence, she was still reshaping the world.
The divide within the Commission was no longer just quiet disagreements behind closed doors. It was turning into something volatile, something dangerous, something that threatened to unravel everything they had spent decades building.
Meetings were tense, arguments sharp, voices raised in frustration as officials clashed over the next course of action. Some demanded immediate action, calling for a full-scale operation to track Momo down, to bring her in, to make an example out of her before the movement spiraled further out of control. Others warned that doing so would be catastrophic, that the Commission was already teetering on the edge of losing public trust entirely, that another misstep could push them past the point of no return.
The pressure was mounting.
Reports flooded in - more civilians organizing independent safety networks, more protests demanding transparency, more heroes questioning whether the system they had sworn to uphold was even worth protecting. The Commission had spent years ensuring that hero society remained structured, orderly, controlled. But now, that control was slipping through their fingers, and they had no way to stop it.
Some officials took matters into their own hands.
Surveillance increased, Task Forces were reassigned, new restrictions were quietly proposed in an attempt to regain authority. But none of it was enough. The public wasn’t backing down, the movement wasn’t fading, and Momo remained a ghost, unseen, unreachable, untouchable.
And the longer she stayed hidden, the more powerful her absence became.
Because she wasn’t just a vigilante anymore.
She was proof that the system could be defied.
The scrutiny hadn’t faded.
Midoriya, Bakugou, and Shouto had never been officially accused of anything, but suspicion lingered. They had worked with Aegis Innovations, had been close to Momo, had been involved in too many incidents that now raised uncomfortable questions.
And the Commission wasn’t letting it go.
Every report they submitted was dissected, every mission analyzed for inconsistencies, every interaction monitored for signs that they knew more than they were admitting. Some officials were convinced they had information on Momo’s whereabouts, that they were protecting her, that they had been complicit in her actions from the beginning. Others weren’t sure, but they still saw them as liabilities - heroes too close to the controversy, too tangled in the fallout to be trusted completely.
The questioning was relentless.
Midoriya handled it with careful diplomacy, answering every inquiry with precision, ensuring that nothing he said could be twisted against them. He knew how dangerous the situation was, how easily the Commission could turn suspicion into something more damning.
Bakugou, unsurprisingly, had no patience for it.
He had already snapped at one official for implying they had aided Momo, had nearly walked out of a briefing when the interrogation tactics became too obvious. He knew they were testing him, trying to push him into a reaction that would confirm their suspicions.
Shouto remained composed, but the weight of it was starting to wear on him.
Every meeting, every report, every carefully worded conversation was a reminder that Momo was gone, that she had cut off contact, that he had no answers to give even if he wanted to. And yet, the Commission kept pressing, kept watching, kept waiting for one of them to slip.
Because as long as Momo remained missing, they were the closest thing to a lead.
The pressure was becoming unbearable.
At first, the scrutiny had been subtle - extra questions during debriefings, reports being reviewed with more detail than necessary, quiet observations that never felt like coincidences. But now, it was blatant. The Commission wasn’t just watching them. They were waiting for them to crack.
Midoriya had started double-checking everything before submitting reports, making sure there was nothing that could be misinterpreted, nothing that could be used against them. He had always been meticulous, but now it was different. Now, it was survival.
Bakugou had stopped holding back. He didn’t bother with diplomacy, didn’t waste time pretending he didn’t see what was happening. Every meeting was a battle, every question an accusation, and he treated them as such. He had already walked out of two briefings, had nearly gotten himself suspended after telling one official exactly what he thought of their interrogation tactics.
Shouto was starting to feel the strain.
He had kept his responses measured, his actions controlled, his presence neutral. But the weight of it was pressing down on him, tightening around his ribs like something he couldn’t shake. Every conversation about Momo, every implication that they knew more than they were admitting, every reminder that she was still gone - it was suffocating.
And now, the Commission was escalating.
Their patrol routes were being monitored more closely, their interactions with civilians analyzed for any sign that they were hiding something. Officials had started questioning their colleagues, their contacts, anyone who might have insight into whether they had been involved in Momo’s disappearance.
It wasn’t just suspicion anymore.
It was a hunt.
And the Commission wasn’t going to stop until they had answers.
*🕮❀──────✧❅-'♡'-❅✧──────❀🕮*
Shouto had spent months convincing himself that this was just worry.
That his frustration, his restlessness, his inability to focus was nothing more than concern for a missing teammate. That his constant need to search for her, to hear something - anything - about her was just a natural response to the situation.
But it wasn’t.
It was more than that.
And now, he couldn’t ignore it anymore.
It had started as a quiet ache, something he could push aside, something he could rationalize. But as the weeks stretched into months, as the Commission’s scrutiny tightened, as the world continued to change because of her absence, it became impossible to suppress.
He missed her.
Not just in the way one misses a friend, not just in the way one worries for someone they care about. It was deeper than that, heavier, something that settled in his chest and refused to leave.
It was longing.
It was painful.
It was love.
And he didn’t know what to do with that realization.
He had never been good at emotions, had never been good at understanding them, at recognizing them for what they were. But this - this was undeniable. This was something he couldn’t rationalize away, couldn’t bury beneath logic and restraint.
She was gone.
And it felt like something inside him had been ripped away with her.
Shouto knew it was reckless.
The Commission was watching him, waiting for any sign that he knew more than he was letting on. Every move he made was scrutinized, every report dissected, every conversation analyzed for hidden meaning. Searching for Momo would only make things worse.
But he couldn’t stop himself.
At first, it was subtle. He paid closer attention to underground activity, listened for whispers, tracked movements that didn’t align with known vigilante groups. He followed leads that seemed insignificant, hoping that somewhere in the chaos, there would be something - anything - that pointed to her.
But nothing ever did.
So he pushed harder.
He started reaching out to old contacts, people who had worked with Aegis Innovations, people who might have seen something, heard something, known something. He kept his questions vague, careful not to draw attention, but the more he searched, the more obvious it became.
She had covered her tracks too well.
No one had seen her. No one had spoken to her. No one even knew where to start looking.
And yet, he refused to stop.
Because the alternative was accepting that she was gone.
And that was something he couldn’t do.
Shouto wasn’t being careful anymore.
What had started as quiet inquiries had turned into something more deliberate, more reckless, more desperate. He wasn’t just listening for whispers - he was chasing them. Every lead, no matter how thin, no matter how unlikely, was followed. Every rumor was investigated. Every trace of movement in the underground was analyzed for any sign that she had resurfaced.
And people were starting to notice.
Midoriya had pulled him aside twice now, voice careful, concern clear, asking if he was sure this was a good idea. Shouto had nodded, had assured him that he wasn’t doing anything dangerous, that he was just keeping an eye on things.
Bakugou wasn’t buying it.
"You think I don’t see what you’re doing?" he snapped one evening, arms crossed, expression sharp. "You’re gonna get yourself in deep shit if you keep this up."
Shouto didn’t argue.
Because he knew Bakugou was right.
The Commission was watching. Every move he made, every report he submitted, every deviation from routine was being tracked. If they hadn’t already suspected that he was looking for her, they would soon.
But none of that mattered.
Because she was still gone.
And he wasn’t going to stop until he found her.
Shouto hadn’t meant to say anything.
For months, he had kept it buried, pushed it down, convinced himself that acknowledging it wouldn’t change anything. He had focused on the search, on the reports, on the quiet desperation that had settled into his bones.
But Midoriya had always been perceptive.
And tonight, he wasn’t letting it go.
They were sitting in the agency’s break room, the city quiet outside, the weight of everything pressing down on them. Midoriya had been watching him for weeks, concern growing, patience wearing thin.
"You need to talk to someone about this," he said, voice careful, measured, like he was afraid pushing too hard would make Shouto retreat.
Shouto exhaled slowly, staring at the untouched cup of tea in front of him. "There’s nothing to talk about."
Midoriya didn’t argue. He just waited.
And for some reason, that made it harder to hold back.
Shouto swallowed, fingers tightening around the ceramic. "I don’t know how to deal with this."
Midoriya’s expression softened. "Deal with what?"
Shouto hesitated, the words catching in his throat.
But there was no point in denying it anymore.
"The fact that she’s gone," he admitted, voice quieter than he meant for it to be. "And the fact that it feels like something inside me is missing because of it."
Midoriya didn’t speak right away. He let the words settle, let the weight of them sink in.
Then, carefully, he said, "You love her."
Shouto didn’t answer.
Because he didn’t know what to say.
The realization had been creeping up on him for months, pressing against the edges of his thoughts, refusing to be ignored. But hearing it spoken aloud, hearing Midoriya say it so plainly, made it impossible to push aside.
He loved her.
And she was gone.
Midoriya didn’t press him for an answer. He just sat there, waiting, giving him space to process something that had already been true for longer than he wanted to admit.
Shouto exhaled slowly, fingers tightening around his cup. "It doesn’t matter."
Midoriya frowned. "Of course it matters."
Shouto shook his head. "She’s not here."
And that was the part he couldn’t change.
It didn’t matter how much he missed her, how much he wanted to see her, how much it hurt to know that she had cut off contact completely. She had made her choice, had disappeared into the underground, had left without a single word.
Midoriya sighed, leaning forward, his voice quieter now. "That doesn’t mean she’s gone forever."
Shouto wanted to believe that.
But after months of searching, months of chasing leads that led nowhere, months of waiting for something - anything - to tell him where she was, he wasn’t sure he could.
Because if she had wanted to be found, she would have left something behind.
And she hadn’t.
Shouto had never been one to speak impulsively.
He had spent years learning restraint, mastering control, ensuring that every word he said carried weight and purpose. He understood the importance of careful phrasing, of measured responses, of never giving the Commission more reason to scrutinize him than they already had.
But tonight, he didn’t care.
The press conference had been routine - an update on the latest hero initiatives, a discussion on the ongoing reforms, a carefully curated attempt to reassure the public that the system was stabilizing. He had stood alongside Midoriya and Bakugou, answering questions with the same precision he always did, keeping his responses neutral, professional, detached.
Until someone asked about Momo.
The reporter’s voice was steady, but the question was anything but. "Given her impact on the recent reforms, do you believe Momo Yaoyorozu was right in her actions?"
The room went silent.
Midoriya shifted beside him, posture tense, already preparing to deflect. Bakugou exhaled sharply, irritation flickering across his face, knowing exactly how dangerous the question was.
Shouto should have done the same.
He should have given the expected answer - something vague, something diplomatic, something that wouldn’t make things worse.
Instead, he said, "She did what the system refused to do."
The silence deepened.
The reporter hesitated. "So you believe her actions were justified?"
Shouto met their gaze, his voice steady, unwavering. "I believe she protected people when no one else would."
Midoriya inhaled sharply. Bakugou muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like, "You absolute dumbass."
But it was too late.
The damage was done.
And the Commission was going to make sure he paid for it.
The fallout was immediate.
Shouto had barely stepped off the stage before the backlash began. The press latched onto his words, headlines twisting them into something sharper, something more dangerous. Officials were furious, their carefully controlled narrative unraveling with a few sentences spoken on live television.
And now, the Commission was debating whether he should still be allowed to call himself a hero.
The meeting was closed-door, but the tension seeped through the walls. Some argued that his statement was a direct challenge to hero society, that publicly defending a known vigilante undermined everything they stood for. Others warned that revoking his license would only make things worse, that punishing him for speaking the truth would fuel the movement rather than suppress it.
Midoriya was pacing.
Bakugou was livid.
Shouto was silent.
He had known the risks when he spoke. He had known the Commission would retaliate, that they would see his words as defiance rather than honesty. But knowing didn’t make it easier.
Because if they took his license, if they stripped him of his title, if they decided that his loyalty to the system was no longer enough - then what was left?
And more importantly, what would he do next?