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I Am Iron Man (MHA) Chapter 148: Restorating Kurogiri (End)
🕑 Added 2024-11-11 18:52:35 +0000 UTC[Third Person's PoV]
The sight before Aizawa was heart-wrenching. Oboro’s form was bound tightly by dark mist, as if the Kurogiri part of him was trying to suffocate his existence. His face shifted between the friendly, smiling Oboro and the unfeeling, silent visage of Kurogiri. Aizawa’s throat tightened as memories of their high school days surged to the surface—days filled with laughter, banter, and a bond that had seemed unbreakable.
“Oboro, it's me... Shota,” Aizawa said, his voice straining as he stepped closer. The figure did not react, remaining eerily still. The fog seemed to close in tighter, and the oppressive silence made Aizawa’s heart pound louder in his chest.
Aizawa gripped Oboro—no, Kurogiri—by the shoulders, his knuckles whitening with intensity. His normally calm, dark eyes burned crimson, a fire rarely seen. His voice trembled with urgency as he shook the man before him. “Oboro, you have to wake up! You can't stay lost in this state. They're using your body for things you’d never agree to, things that betray everything you stood for. You have to fight it. Come back to us, please!”
But Aizawa’s fervent plea seemed to bounce off a lifeless shell. Oboro’s figure, an unsettling blend of flesh and swirling, dense mist, remained motionless. The vapor around his feet coiled and shifted, growing thicker with every passing second, threatening to envelop him completely.
Aizawa exhaled, the weight of defeat pressing heavily on his chest. His hands slowly fell away from Oboro’s shoulders, trembling as he took a step back. His gaze dropped, shadowed with guilt as he whispered, “Forgive me for what I’m about to do…”
Without hesitation, he raised his arm and delivered a stinging slap across Oboro’s face, a crack that echoed through the pitch-black space, reverberating with raw desperation. “Wake up!” he roared, voice splintering into a command and a plea wrapped into one.
The slap drew shocked gasps from those watching outside through the holographic projection. They flinched collectively, stunned by Aizawa's rare display of unrestrained emotion.
Undeterred, Aizawa struck again and again, each impact landing with a force that resonated throughout the room. His voice cracked as he admitted through gritted teeth, “It’s not working… he’s not waking up.”
Tony Stark, observing with furrowed brows and clenched fists, turned to Present Mic, “Aizawa heard you even when submerged in someone else's consciousness. If he could hear you, then Oboro should be able to as well. You need to try. Bring back the memories. Remind him who he was.”
Present Mic nodded sharply, the carefree grin he was known for replaced with a mask of solemn determination. He stepped closer to Kurogiri, leaning in as if words alone could bridge the chasm that separated them. “YO!” he started, voice booming instinctively.
The figure in front of him twitched, mist curling away for an instant before returning.
“Try a gentler tone,” Melissa Shields advised, with a weary smile. “We need to wake him, not shatter him.”
A flush of embarrassment crossed Present Mic’s face as he cleared his throat, this time speaking in a rare, softer tone that carried years of unspoken memories. “Oboro… it’s me, Hizashi. Do you remember?”
Oboro’s eyelids fluttered, his brow furrowing as though he were struggling to recall a distant sound.
“Remember our spot at U.A.?” Hizashi continued, his voice barely more than a whisper. “We’d sneak up to the rooftops, sit and watch the clouds drifting by, dreaming out loud about the future. You said we’d change the world, that we’d be heroes that could make anyone smile.”
a tightening of muscles of his face twisted, fighting against the suffocating hold of the mist. Aizawa's eyes widened as he caught the slight change. “It’s working, Hizashi. Keep talking.”
“And the day we came up with Shota’s hero name!” Present Mic’s voice caught in his throat, his smile quivering. “He didn’t care enough to pick one, he was just going to use something lame like his name, so we chose ‘Eraserhead.’ It stuck, didn’t it? Because it was us. It was the three of us.”
Oboro’s face contorted with the strain, guttural sounds slipping from his throat as if battling invisible restraints. Aizawa’s hope surged, hands moving quickly to undo the bindings of the straitjacket that restrained his friend. The material fought against him, and as he struggled, he felt a cold chill crawl up his legs.
Dark tendrils of mist wrapped around his calves, tightening with a merciless grip, pulling him downward. He gritted his teeth, his fingers still working to loosen the last buckle. “Well, this can’t be good,” he muttered through the tension.
“Aizawa!” Hizashi shouted, eyes going wide as he noticed the suffocating mist pulling Aizawa into the darkness. Panic cracked his voice. “Get out of there! Now!”
Tony’s face turned grim as he studied Aizawa’s helmet and monitors. “We can’t disrupt the connection. If we pull him out now, he’ll be trapped in that void. This is our only chance.”
Hizashi’s eyes shimmered, glassy with unshed tears. His voice broke, wavering between hope and despair. “Oboro, if you don’t wake up now, Shota’s going to be lost to us forever. Do you hear me? He’ll be gone, and it’ll be my fault. Don’t let that happen, please… I’m begging you.”
The silence that followed was profound, a breath held by every heart in the room. Aizawa’s body had almost completely vanished into the mist, only his hand remained, fingers outstretched and trembling, reaching for a lifeline.
Oboro’s face began to twitch and turn side to side rapidly as if fighting whatever has keeping him down, his eyes squinted shut before he heard Present Mic's voice once more.
“I SAID WAKE UP DAMMIT!!!”
Suddenly, Oboro’s eyes snapped open, pupils focusing on Aizawa’s fading arm. Recognition lit up his face, and his features hardened with determination. A guttural scream tore from his throat as he thrashed, muscles bulging and tearing through the straitjacket Aizawa had loosened. “Let… me… go!” he roared, his voice filled with the strength of a man reclaiming himself.
With a final, wrenching motion, he freed his arms, grasped at the mist ensnaring his face and body, and ripped it away as it writhed and clawed and sticking at his skin. He stumbled forward, chest heaving with exertion, and saw Aizawa’s hand sinking into the darkness. Without a second’s hesitation, Oboro lunged, clasping his old friend’s hand and pulling with all his might.
“I’ve got you!” Oboro shouted, muscles straining as he heaved Aizawa out of the abyss inch by inch. Aizawa’s other hand emerged, pushing against the darkness as they both fought their way to freedom.
They tumbled onto solid ground, gasping for breath as the last vestiges of mist receded. Oboro’s chest rose and fell, a faint, wary smile breaking across his face. “That’s one good deed… out of many I need to make up for.”
Aizawa closed his eyes, relief softening his features as he let out a long, shaking sigh. “Take your time,” he whispered, voice hoarse but steady.
“And Oboro…” Aizawa called out softly.
Oboro turned his head slightly, meeting Aizawa’s eyes. “Hm?”
“It’s good to have you back,” Aizawa murmured, his voice filled with unspoken gratitude.
