It was gone, obliterated. The place was mostly deserted by now, and looked like shit. Rubble, debris, shit everywhere…god this place looked like crap. The monster or demon that had crawled out of whatever had been messily defeated, its guts everywhere, and Saitama was bored out of his mind. Sighing, he plopped down on a rock and sat in the rubble, chin on his hands. He sniffed.

That was quick.

He exhaled through his nose. He should probably start on his way home. It was getting late. A thought prickled in his mind, and he felt an itch where he couldn't scratch. Scraps of metal glinted, shining and broken near his foot. Little puffs of dust clouded when he kicked his feet. Mmm..

Maybe I'll pick up some food on the way home.

llllllllllllllllllll

Ten minutes later, he was in a late-night grocery store, picking through whatever was available at the lowest price. Dim lights overhead cast long shadows on his face, and lit up his bald head like a beacon. He frowned. He mindlessly filled up his grocery basket, not thinking. His fingers ghosted over the fresh apples, and he thought he remembered something about not having to pick which ones were best. He chewed his tongue. He just felt like something was missing.

But, something had been missing for years, hadn't it? He thought, chewing on the inside of his cheek absentmindedly. Nothing to challenge him, no monsters mighty enough to give him any fight…Saitama pursed his lips, and scrunched up his nose. Concentrating. It was hard to recall what emotions felt like. This was unusual effort for him, but today he felt like he should try.

Empty…empty…empty…but he'd always felt empty, well, since he became a hero anyway…why…

No…no…this emptiness is new, unfamiliar…something…something

Sirens wailed off in the distance, blaring in his sensitive ears.

Ah. Time to go to work again.

llllllllllllllllllllllllll

He finally got home, and dropped his slightly singed grocery bags in a tiny heap on the floor. Saitama stood in his doorway quietly, eyes half-lidded with fatigue, a quiet desperation, and he felt nothing. An empty nothing, one that clawed at his insides. He gazed out into his tiny home. It was so quiet. His kitchen light seemed so faint, maybe it used to be brighter…? He just remembered things being brighter. He scratched his head miserably, chin dropping to stare at the floor. I think. He remembered this emptiness, he, he…

clack

Shooting his head up, he scouted quickly to identify the source of the noise.

Mmm. Disappointing. It was just a pen, rolling onto the floor. Numbly, he stepped forward, his white cape swishing behind him. He was still in his hero's clothes. Maybe he should change.

Kneeling down, he grasped the pen in his hands. He didn't…had he always had this pen?

He shrugged. Probably. He tossed it somewhere behind him. He shivered. Squatting there listlessly on the floor, he changed his mind. He just wanted to go to bed.

Not bothering to change out of his suit, he clambered down onto his futon and wrapped himself in a blanket covered with hearts. Little black hearts that dotted the fabric, a blanket big enough for two. He curled into himself, eyes squeezed shut. He fisted his sheets, frowning. He swore…he could almost remember feeling warm.

lllllllllllllllll

"Oi, xxoub!" he shouted. "Hurry up!"

"Yes, znjajj!"

He turned. The shout had come from somewhere behind his left ear. He felt warm. There was nothing behind him, an empty street, beige, everything was beige, a boring color but looked nice. The sky was blue. Short buildings flanked the street, brown dust coated the road. There were strips of fluffy white clouds in the square of sky he could see between the buildings, beyond the street. The sun was warm on his back. The light was soft, the kind of golden light that comes from a sunset. He spotted movement from his right. He rushed towards it, and doing so felt familiar, a sense of déjà vu, like he was following a script line for line.

He pounced on the man innocently trying to run down the alley.

Where do you think you're going?

He pinned him to the ground, and grinned. "Where do you think you're going?" he said, the teasing, indignant tone of his voice spilling from his mouth.

The man stated seriously, with an unperturbed air of someone who knew him, "I was certain that this was a nchxxjouoa ayhj khas, zkhbygi."

Why not go this way? It's much prettier.

Saitama frowned. "What?" he said, deviating from his lines.

"Nnjajlk,.oizp. Hlkjla, wjhkha usoa?"

Way more romantic, too.

Ow…ow…ow…Saitama's head hurt. Throbbed, with pressure building behind his eyes. His vision blurred, and he couldn't see the man's face anymore. But he was right there, right in front of him. Saitama reached out to touch him, sorry for the loss. His face had been so pretty.

"…zjzkla?"

"Keep talking, keep talking…" Saitama murmured without moving his lips. His hand was moving too, stroking itself through this man's hair, though he couldn't tell what color it was. They were together, alone in this dark alley and the sun shined behind him, but they were hidden in the shadows. This man was so hard beneath him, harder than it should've been. But Saitama liked it. He instinctively pressed himself closer, shamelessly against this unyielding surface, this unforgiving body beneath him. It felt familiar. It felt good. He gritted his teeth, and squinted his eyes, trying to see. Blood rushed to his head, to his cheeks, down to his - ah - he gasped, almost moaning when the man's strong fingers slipped around his waist, massaging the tense muscles of his back.

"jhalhSa lja?" the man said. His voice was deep, husky. It reverberated through Saitama's body, the low vibrations soothing him. Exciting him. It was so eager, so sharp, so…Saitama sweated, liquid pooling around his limbs. He groaned. He abruptly straddled this man, kneading him roughly with his hips. Rubbing against this man, grinding his pelvis in between this man's legs - he felt bad, so good, he felt wanted, he felt – he rushed his head forward, dipping in for a kiss- a kiss? Saitama's head swam. Since when did he kiss anybody?

He stopped, confused, but realized he couldn't have kissed the man anyway. He had no face.

And a weight dropped in Saitama's heart, a pull deep inside him and he gingerly got to his feet, and backed away from the faceless man. The sense of déjà vu had vanished. He wanted to tear out his hair, if he'd had any.

It's not you, it's not right it's not right this is wrong

The man stepped toward him, and even though Saitama couldn't see his face he knew he was angry. His metal feet left deep imprints on the ground. The man raised his fists to the sky, and the world erupted in white hot heat that flashed and stormed. Lightning flew from his fingertips, thunderclouds blotted the sky and the sun went out, but it wasn't night. The man screamed, some unearthly sound shattering from his raw throat. Flames licked his black arms and it got dark and cold and Saitama didn't know what to do, but he knew what he always did.

He punched the man straight through the heart.

lllllllllllllllllll

Look at him see what he did

You can't trust him it's been too long he doesn't remember

He will destroy everything. Not even this can hold him

He remembers

He remembers me

llllllllllllllllll

Saitama woke up sweating, sticky, gasping for air. He clutched at his chest. Eyes wide, he felt a throbbing inside of his ribcage that wasn't his own. Adrenaline pulsed through his veins, and he staggered to his hands and knees, trying to crawl away from his bed. His mind was overwhelmed from the avalanche of heightened emotions he was experiencing, so unused to it. He choked, flinging his head forward to spew bile across his floor. His limbs trembled, shaking with energy so fierce and he shuddered, squeezing his eyes.

. Calm, calm, calm…

He inhaled slowly, trying to steady his racing heart. Slowly, slowly, slowly…he breathed. Exhaustion was seeping into his bones, the marrow quieting into something softer, his head growing heavy. He wanted to sleep…

But as everything got quiet, something got louder. He could still hear his heart beat…two thumps in a row, endlessly repeating on a loop. But there was another noise, more. It whirred like an old fan, and he thought he'd like the sound if it wasn't coming out of his own chest.

He stiffened. Out of his own…? He quickly looked down to his chest, long stretches of bright yellow doing little to conceal his form. But it was…yellower? It was brighter. He was glowing.

And he heard it. He felt it. whrrrrrr. Steady inside his chest, next to his heartbeat. It sounded mechanical. Eyes bulging, he screamed. Terror filled him, coming out of nowhere he was never afraid -

It throbbed, it whirred within his chest, and he clawed at himself, fingers ripping through the fabric, forgetting that he was the strongest man in the world and he could probably rip out his own heart if he tried –

His heart was pounding, but there was something there next to it it shouldn't be there the world was wrong –

The walls weren't right, the walls were melting the light was wrong it was coming in through the window wrong everything in his house was his, but it wasn't and it was all disappearing, being swallowed by nothing into thin air -

He peeled back the skin of his chest, his fingers dripping with blood that was black and dark and red.

thump thump

The curved bones of his ribcage shuddered, and finally bent under his might. It hurt to breathe.

His chest wasn't glowing yellow anymore. It was blue. He'd peeled back his skin, blood spurting out of his gaping chest and it was blue. He froze, held still by what he saw. He could see his heart, pumping uselessly, and he could see soft blue light shining out of his heart. It whirred and he swayed, dizzy from loss of blood or – ah, why was it so blue why did it hurt so much. He cried, wailed, pain that wasn't pain rising in his chest, an abyss opening inside of him and - it was an accident. It was instinct. He tore his heart out.

The ceiling of the sky rumbled, deep and dull from so far away. He looked up and noticed that he was standing in a pile of wooden and concrete rubble - the remains of his home - staring at the sky and clutching at his still-beating heart, his fingers wrapped around its soft gooey flesh, blue electric light swirling within its ventricles. The world was falling around him, pieces of the night sky fell past him. They were dark, and filled with stars. There was nothing behind it, nothing behind the sky. Everything was black, and dark, and he could feel nothing – not with his heart in his hand -

llllllllllllllllllll

It's getting weaker

What will you do.

I am going to save the world

It's not yours to save anymore. Let it go

You can never let it go, not like that. He never stopped being a hero. Not even in his dreams

lllllllllllllllllllll

He was floating, or not floating in the black nothingness of the void.

He hadn't formed a thought in a while, but if he thought about it he didn't think he'd been nowhere for very long.

He was trapped somewhere, he was sure of it, maybe in some mind trick one of his enemies had thought up.

Sometimes, though, he heard whispers…voices beyond his hearing that would come from across the void, as if the void were an ocean he could cross and not just blackness filled with nothing. He sighed.

He could only wait, though. He was the most powerful force in the universe, but there was nothing here.

…

"Saitama."

He turned, twisting his back in the darkness. Where - ?

The universe trembled, the black void shuddering before him and it split in half, white light spilling from behind the black canvas.

"Saitama."

His eyes focused on the figure silhouetted by beams of white light, a figure fast approaching him. Saitama gulped.

He was…

The figure stopped before him. Impressive and imposing, it stood out against the darkness, its light obliterating the endless night. Lips parted, and Saitama waited to hear his name fall again from the pink tongue he saw behind white teeth.

…

"Oh. Let me fix that for you."

And abruptly Saitama found himself whole again, stuffed inside some loose pants and his oppai hoodie loosely hanging from his shoulders. He rolled his muscles. He felt good. He looked back up at the creature again.

Robed in light, translucent robes Saitama glimpsed a dark body, well-formed underneath his handsome head, which was adorned with pale yellow hair. Dark, amber eyes met his and burned through him. They prickled uneasily on his skin, but in a way that made Saitama think he's been looked at before, by those eyes.

Saitama's lips were dry, chapped. He licked them, and didn't see how those bright dark eyes outlined in inky black followed his tongue's movement across his mouth.

Saitama cleared his throat, pulling at the edge of his hoodie. "Uh…who are you?"

"You don't remember?" he looked crestfallen.

Saitama stuttered, panicking. "Uh…I…no? I…you seem familiar, I guess but…" he scratched his head thoughtfully. "Sorry."

"…Genos?" the creature said helpfully, his eyes looking hopefully down at Saitama, his strong voice suddenly small. "My name is Genos?"

"Uh…I…" Saitama patted his pockets, as if looking for something. He scratched his head furiously. His ears were burning and he was sure his entire scalp was red. "…that's a nice name." he finished lamely, gritting his teeth.

The creature – Genos – steadied his face into a firm, stoic expression, and waved his hand, bringing Saitama closer.

"Do you know where you are?" Genos said kindly. Saitama stared up at Genos' face, and even though he could see Genos' arms waiting in an open embrace around him, he felt like he was being swaddled by a soft whiteness.

"I…I was at home, and then I was dreaming and…there this man, this guy and…and then…" Saitama froze. His eyes zeroed in on the whiteness – the feathers - obstructing his view of the dark universe. His fingertips brushed against the soft feathers, and lightly traced a path upwards along the rigid bone underneath until he regained his senses and snatched his fingers back, mortified.

Genos looked at him curiously.

"You're…you're…" His voice died in his throat, and all of a sudden he found himself breathless. His eyes widened and he was petrified, awed. He stared at Genos.

He wasn't sure what he was supposed to say in front of an angel.

He glanced quickly at Genos' eyes, and just as quickly shunted his gaze downward. Was he even allowed to look at an angel's face?

Pale fingers tenderly grasped underneath his chin, and though they were strong, they were shaking.

Saitama tried to ignore the fact that he could feel warm, moist breath at his temple.

"Sensei…Saitama…"

Saitama's breathing hitched. A question formed in his mind, wild and crazy and painful, and he dared to glance up at Genos.

Genos was right there, staring at him like he was going to disappear, like he was the only thing in the universe (and right now, he sort of was), his skin glowing, his entire being shimmering with power and beauty.

Genos gazed intently at him, mouth curling softly, encouraging him to speak.

"I…if you're an angel, then…aren't I…?"

"Yes," Genos said firmly, regret low in his voice. His left arm gave into temptation and curled around Saitama's waist, his words falling from his lips like stones.

"You're dead."