Chapter Text
Momo had a stomachache.
Her stomach was always feeling a bit off, nowadays. She walked to her car, heels clicking on the driveway.
Her parents had always hired a chauffeur, but Momo felt like it defeated the purpose of learning to drive if you never drove. She looked up to the sky, which was grey and gloomy, but still bright. The sun shone out from behind the clouds, a hazy white stoplight.
Momo got in her shiny black Jaguar and drove out from her driveway. She traveled exactly five blocks, got out, walked exactly seventy steps to her building, and exactly thirty more to the elevator.
Stepping into her office, Momo smiled at her assistant, took her coffee, and thanked him. She sat down at her desk and started her work.
Momo did this every day, five days a week, 365 days a year.
Her stomachache was getting worse.
Maybe, she thought to herself, I should see a doctor. She sighed and wrote, orderly and neat, on a yellow sticky note, see doctor about stomach.
Momo worked until five, straightened up her office, nodded to her workers, and left. Then she took precisely a hundred steps to her car, and drove exactly five blocks back to her mansion, where she made herself a cup of tea. Maybe, she thought to herself, this tea will will help my stomach.
She drank her tea, read a book, and turned in at nine-thirty, alone in her king-sized bed. Her fingers gripped at the quilt, and there was a lump in her throat. Momo looked up at the canopy above her bed.
She counted sheep in her head and closed her eyes. It was silent, the only sound a low noise from the air conditioner.
She fell asleep, eventually, and slept dreamless, the world beyond her eyes static and grey.
************************************
Momo paused while typing.
She stared at the white wall behind her computer. There was a small scuff in the paint.
She swallowed hard and didn’t blink.
The scuff remained there.
Momo managed to rip her eyes away.
************************************
Momo was washing her face in the mirror, and she stared at her reflection.
A pretty face, grey eyes, pale skin, and thick black hair pulled back in a simple ponytail.
She realized, suddenly, that she was awfully colorless.
Her eyes dipped to her plain white shirt, business casual.
Momo reached to turn the sink off and furrowed her brows at her shaking hand.
Her stomach hurt.
************************************
Everything was quiet.
Momo flipped through another page in her book. It was about the economy, and she found it informative, even though she knew most of everything wherein already.
She looked at her cold tea and set the book down on the table beside her. She glanced at the room, white and big and empty.
Momo was crying before the ache hit her.
She didn’t know why she was crying, didn’t understand- (nothing’s wrong, I don’t get it- you’re reading, don’t you like reading?)
She stood up and wiped her face.
“Nothing’s wrong.” she said aloud.
Nobody answered.
She sobbed. It echoed.
“Nothing’s wrong!” she shouted this time, crossing her arms. Her stomach felt heavy, like she’d swallowed a stone.
And then it hit her- oh, it wasn’t hurting for no reason, was it? It was hurting because she was sad, and- and lonely.
She dashed for her coat, and burst from the door, and for the first time in three years, she drove somewhere without a plan, narrowing her eyes in the setting sun. Momo drove until she was in a place she didn’t recognize, and she got out of her car and set off, city lamps throwing her tall silhouette across the street.
She didn’t know how many steps she took, and wasn’t inclined to count.
************************************
Momo found herself in a neon-lit bar, drink in hand. She wasn’t dressed for a club, not in the slightest, and felt a little silly in her leggings and sweater, especially when a gorgeous woman wearing a green slip dress gave her a funny look from beyond inch-long false lashes.
She took a nervous sip of the drink, and immediately regretted it. She looked down at it, wearily.
The light was pulsing, and the music thumped through her chest somewhat uncomfortably. So what! She was tired of being comfortable. She stood up, abandoning her drink, and made her way into the mass of bodies in the center of the room. She was pulled in by a man with lemon-yellow hair. Momo raised her eyebrows at the man, and gave him a quick once-over.
His hair, odd enough by color alone, was ridiculously accented by a black lightning bolt dyed into it. He was wearing what looked to be a tracksuit, for some reason.
Momo didn’t really mind dancing with him; he didn’t try anything, only swaying from side to side, grinning at her, spinning to the music.
The music itself was definitely something punk; the man singing had a bit of a distorted tone to his voice, and the lyrics were indistinguishable to her. She squinted at the stage and saw the outline of a bird-beak mask over the singer’s face. That would explain it.
The drums sounded almost angry, sharp and persistent. A beat dropped and the spotlight flickered to the drummer, a man with coal-red eyes and a dandelion puff of white-blonde hair bursting from his head.
He started rapping, fast, and if Momo couldn’t hear the lyrics before, she definitely couldn’t now. There were a few curse words being spat out, and the hairs on the back of her neck stood up at his demeanor, loud and mad.
His many piercings glinted in the light, as he finished his last verse and grinned, jagged, each hit on his drums getting more and more powerful.
The spotlight changed once again, falling over a short girl with purple hair.
Momo’s breath got caught in her throat.
She was playing the bass, hands sliding effortlessly over strings, eyes closed as she leaned into the mic and began to sing.
Her mouth moved sharply as she sang, teeth all bared, voice dancing around lyrics like a wolf chasing a rabbit. Painted underneath her eyes were red teardrops, and from her earlobes hung earphone jack earrings, swinging as she commanded the stage.
Time seemed frozen, and the bass player’s eyes fluttered open. Her half-lidded eyes fell on Momo for just a moment.
Momo’s face exploded in heat as her eyes slid off her, and she started dancing.
Electric, wild, she leapt across the stage, black platform boots stomping- (the kind that had a million buckles along the front) she seemed like a whirlwind, so free, unhinged, but swinging with purpose and direction. Unchoreographed but neat, powerful and chaotic.
Momo could hear her heartbeat in her ears, blood rushing to her limbs, hands nervously jerking to tuck her hair behind her ear. The girl was ridiculously beautiful, purple glitter smeared on her lids, glowing in the glare.
The spotlight widened, engulfing the entire stage, and the bird-masked singer took over yet again. He didn’t have a microphone, so Momo assumed it was somehow built into his mask.
The song ended. The lead singer dragged a hand through his shaggy black hair.
“Thank you! We are Dark Shadow!” he shouted, breathing heavily.
People clapped and whistled as the band adjusted their instruments for the next song. Momo swallowed thickly, unaware that she had stopped moving in the middle of the dance floor, struck by something sweet and strong.
Momo’s gaze kept drifting to the girl- there was just something about her. Maybe it was her presence, the way she moved; maybe it was the quick way she danced through the notes on her bass, the ease with which she played.
Momo had stumbled back to sit down and watch them for the rest of the night, transfixed. Three more songs and they left.
They went backstage, and Momo felt incomprehensibly disappointed that they did not emerge into the crowd, so she lingered in the bar, delicately sipping at her fourth beer.
Someone slid into the stool next to hers. Momo was tipsy, and she hasn’t been tipsy in ages. She looked up groggily at the guy, who she identified eventually as the man with yellow hair.
“Hey, I’m missing my phone number. Can I have yours?”
She cringed at the line, still mourning the absence of the purple girl, mixing her melancholy with annoyance. “I’m gay.”
He hesitated. “Again... you’re the second girl who’s said that tonight.” dejected, he leaned his head on the counter. “I’ll be forever alone.”
She shrugged. “I feel that.”
They waited for a moment, both staring at nothing in particular.
“Hey! Maybe I could set you up with one of my friends!” he slurred, shooting up.
Momo blinked slowly. “How many lesbians do you know?”
“More than average.” he thrust out his hand. “I’m Kaminari Denki, resident disaster. Nice to meet you.”
Momo shook it. “Yayorozu Momo.”
Kaminari tapped his phone open and pulled up a photo, shoving it in her face like a proud grandmother showing off their grandchild’s drawing. “Here’s Uraraka! She’s bi and single, got her heart broken... and Ashido... pink hair for the win, right?”
Momo shook her head and sighed. “I don’t know about this... it would be really awkward, probably, going on a date set up like that... besides, I saw this really spectacular girl, the one in the band that preformed earlier? I’m interested in her. Extremely, uh, very interested.”
Goodness, how drunk was she? Momo didn’t normally go around spewing every silly thing that crossed her mind to strangers. Kaminari, however, had perked up in his seat.
“Jirou Kyoka?”
“You know her?!” Momo gasped. Butterflies made their way into her stomach at the thought of actually seeing her again.
He shrugged again. “I did say I know a lot of lesbians.”
Momo’s eyes almost popped out of her head. “She’s gay too?!”
******
Kyoka propped her legs against the car window and stuck her hand in a bag of Takis.
Streetlights faded in and out of view as they breezed down the highway, the city lights glittering in the distance, a mishmash of reds, blues and whites.
Sero was playing some sort of lo-fi rap, low volume. He nodded along, transfixed on the road.
Kyoka took the moment, which seemed so peaceful, to think. The music thing was going good. Not spectacular, but good. They were getting regular gigs, and their online fanbase was slowly expanding.
But it wasn’t just her career that she thought of while staring over Musutafu. Something rose in her, a bubble of contentment and wonder- she was who she was supposed to be, here with her friends, out on the town. Something about the urban world at night always made her sappy and exited.
Bakugo broke through the calm by sticking his head through the front seats, eyebrows drawn down in his trademarked ‘I’m going to explode your face’ expression. Resting bitchface, except all the time, not just resting.
“That’s the shittiest song I’ve ever fucking heard, Soy Sauce.” he said, gripping each seat like he was holding on for dear life, which was ridiculous, because Sero was the tamest driver of them all. “Change it to something good, for once?”
Sero turned to grin at him. “You want to pick the song? You bring the car.”
Bakugo’s face contorted in indignation and he slammed back into his seat, arms crossed. Bless his heart, Sero was their chauffeur for the time being- the train in the city was not a close walk to any of the clubs in Musutafu, and none of the bandmates could afford a car.
“You know, Bakugo-kun, maybe you should invest in a pair of earbuds.” Tokoyami suggested calmly from where he sat next to Bakugo.
Bakugo grunted, rolling his eyes. “Jirou, hand me that bag.”
Kyoka passed the Takis behind her, and licked her fingers. Sero wrinkled his nose. “How can you two eat that stuff? It’s like, all the bad parts of spicy in one weird-ass chip cigarette. They don’t even have any flavor.”
“Chip cigarette.” Kyoka snorted, wiping her hands on her jeans.
Sero gave her a disgusted look. “I have napkins in the center console.”
She furrowed her brows. “The what?”
Sero patted the armrest in between their seats. Kyoka squinted. “That thing has a name?”
He nodded. “Yeah, it was in the car’s instruction manual.”
“You read your car’s instruction manual?”
“Can you guys please fucking shut up!” Bakugo snapped from the backseat.
“Hey, we’re on Wikipedia!” Tokoyami interjected, ignoring Bakugo’s outburst.
Kyoka turned around and leaned towards him. “No way!”
He nodded, dark eyes shining. “Look, here we are. Dark Shadow.” he handed her his purple-and-black-striped phone.
Kyoka took it and began reading.
Dark Shadow is a Japanese punk rock band from Musutafu. The band’s lineup consists of lead vocalist and guitarist Fumikake Tokoyami, bassist Kyoka Jirou, and drummer Katsuki Bakugo. Founded by the trio in college, the band has yet to sign to a record.
Their debut album, Quirks, was released in 20XX, and soon after, Severed Head Bleeding was released in late 20XX, which features more songs in the death metal genre.
Kyoka scanned the rest of the article, clicking on her own name afterwards to see her wiki page. She handed it to Bakugo, who read it with a smirk.
“Bet you a thousand yen that Kaminari-chan did it for you.” Sero said, teasing.
Kyoka shook her head. “If Kaminari-kun wrote it, Bakugo-kun’s link would lead to Gordon Ramsey’s page or something. Nah, I think we’re finally hitting it big!”
Bakugo slipped Tokoyami his phone back. “Of course we’re getting big. We make good music, and it’s a hell of a lot better than the shit they play on mainstream now.” he finished his sentence by biting down aggressively on a Taki.
Kyoka rolled her eyes and smiled.