Hawks being reset to an ideal state each time he doubts the morality behind a mission... being kept under the commission's thumb no matter what he comes to believe. Whenever he shows signs of doubting himself or his purpose in this whole ordeal, a meeting will be scheduled.

All the memory loss probably piles up very confusing side effects, making him think he's starting to imagine things. One time he'll swear he was soaring over some buildings, only to find himself in the middle of a konbini the next second, staring into nowhere.

Rereading his reports only confuses him more. He doesn't remember some of the things written by him only, and others go against the things he swears he /knows/. He swears he needs a break. Being undercover and getting no sleep must be the cause behind all this, for sure.

But when he checks the files he's already submitted, he finds more than one petition for a break, seen and acknowledged by the commission. His hands tremble as he reads the same symptoms he's been experiencing for the past month stare back at him repeatedly across multiple emails

Hawks can't say anything. It's clear he already did in the past, and his brain can't recall any of it. Each call from his handlers puts him on edge. Could he be one wrong answer away from starting anew? Would anyone even uncover what's being done to him?

Would anyone /care/?

His unease builds up every single day, tightening the corners of his smile during interviews, wearing his patience down in fanmeets he didn't organize. He thinks some members of the League start to notice something might be amiss. All eyes are on him, suffocating him.

He doesn't know what to do. Tell them the truth and hope it comes across as a show of trust instead of a ridiculous, desperate attempt to get on their good side? Stay as he is, burning every evidence he ever writes on paper out of fear of being found out?

The decision is made for him soon enough. He slips. Deemed worthless as he is yet again, he doesn't see the hand reaching for his temple coming, nor does he get to hear the specific orders and memories he's to forge once he wakes up.

The bugs on his wings do, though.

It's late when he drags his feet to the PLF's mansion. He's exhausted. The meeting with the president of the commission went for hours, and he can't even remember half of what she complained to him about. Honestly, the last thing he wants is having to deal with villains.

His opinion doesn't really matter. All is for the greater good, and all that. His wings slide on the polished floor, too tired to keep them poised high.

It would have been no use pretending, anyway. The moment he enters the huge room the League usually stays at, it's silent.

That in itself isn't concerning. Sometimes they're as loud as you'd expect, but other times they're quiet, even cuddling in piles seeking the human contact the rest of society denied them. Hawks gets it. And if he ever looks at them with jealousy clouding his sense, then... well.

It's not something he allows himself to think about.

All the pairs of eyes that are immediately set on him are far more worrisome, because he does have something to hide. His betrayal makes his blood run cold, paralyzing his legs. He's been found out.

It's over. With all actives currently in the facility, there is no way he'll make it out alive. All of his teachings tell him to try.

Not because there is a chance he'll survive, but because failure isn't /allowed/. Even in his last breaths, his handlers won't leave him alone.

His body won't move, so he stands there, hand still clutching at the doorknob in what has turned into a stress grip. He couldn't let go if he wanted to.

Piercing, cold blue eyes dig right into his, signaling his early death. It would take a couple seconds to cremate a traitor.

And then, Toga rushes forward.

"Are you oka-"

Hawks can't help it. He flinches. His wings draw close to himself, as lethal as the blades Toga is hiding in her pockets, nicking her fingers. It's the defense mechanism of wounded prey, not the predator he's named after.

To her credit, she doesn't make a sound. She just blinks down at the bead of blood dripping down her finger, wiping it on her new skirt and sending a concerned look in his direction. The others are gathering closer and closer, and his legs still won't move.

"Hawks."

It's not the voice of a worried girl, but a chainsmoker that gets him to open his eyes. His frame collapses against the door behind him, flattening against the wood.

It doesn't budge.

There is only one thing he can do, if he is to die.

He rips one of his feathers with his free hand, sharpening it enough to cut through steel. Certainly enough to put an end to everything on his own terms as he reaches out to sink it right through his chest.

Except one scarred hand stops him, bleeding all over the improvised blade as he keeps it in place with his bare hand. Hawks stops putting force behind his grip, gasping as blood that isn't his own starts seeping through the front of his shirt. Those blue eyes never leave his.

Dabi's other hand slips over his own, trying to pry his fingers open. By his side, Toga holds a hand over her mouth.

"Hawks. Let go of it."

Maybe it's the shock. Perhaps it's the feeling of his warm blood sliding over his feather, similar to Best Jeanist's. He doesn't know.

But Dabi still manages to get him to open his hand all the same, letting his weapon hit the floor with a clink. He can't make any of his feathers shift their texture as it is.

The villain doesn't seem to care, but his hand is still bleeding. Hawks' eyes can't leave the trail.

His breath hits the side of his neck when Dabi sighs, making the hair of his nape stand on end.

"Look at me."

For some reason, he /does/. The warmth over his shaky hand is far from the inferno he knows could be his undoing, and Hawks' own breath catches in his throat.

A minute passes. The weight of what he's tried to do and the drop in adrenaline makes his shoulders sag with an exhaustion past his age. If it wasn't for the door at his back and the hand still holding his, he would be on the floor.

Only then does he notice the images on the screen behind the table, recognizing the blurry shot as the ugly wall paper in the president's office. Some of his feathers are in the shot, telling him the footage belongs to the bugs on his wings.

The morning he doesn't remember.

The look Dabi directs at him terrifies him for all the wrong reasons. When his heart quickens, he finds no other reason for it but the foreign glint in his eye.

Dabi hums. "We need to talk, birdie."

It's the beginning of the end.

the end. thank you for reading! https://ko-fi.com/therasia