Zero Distance

The last of the evacuees shuffled past him, smoke-streaked and trembling. Izuku kept his voice steady as he counted them off, checking faces against the mental list he’d been reciting since the moment the apartment stairwell collapsed. One more from the third floor—he’d wrapped a scarf around the girl’s mouth himself, pressed her hand to the rail, told her to keep moving even when the lights cut out. He heard the coughs, the distant groan of weakened beams, the rough bark of a firefighter telling someone to stand clear. The sirens were louder now, close enough to numb.

He let the power ease out of his limbs, the hum beneath his skin fading until it was only him, tight-chested and covered in ash. The building still stood, singed and listing. It would have been worse. It almost was.

“Deku!” A paramedic jogged up, half her hair stuck to her cheek. “You good?”

He nodded. “Just—water, please.” He took the bottle with shaking hands, forcing them still as he drank. He didn’t realize how hot he was until the cold hit his throat. When he lowered it, the paramedic had already turned to herd a group onto stretchers. The street was a web of controlled chaos: hoses splashing, orders shouted, bystanders pressing at the cordon, phones up, hungry for proof they’d brushed against disaster and heroism both.

Izuku pulled in a breath, then another. He replayed his path through the smoke, the ragged edge where he could have pushed harder, faster. Always more to learn. He rolled his shoulders back and scanned the scene again, making sure there were no small figures clinging to railings, no calls he’d missed. When the chief waved him over with a short, appreciative nod, Izuku returned it, feeling the familiar flush of embarrassment at praise that never quite fit the way he lived the moment itself.

He drifted toward the perimeter, letting the firefighters take command, and his gaze snagged on a public screen mounted above a convenience store. The footage was already looping—grainy, from a distance, but unmistakable: a thunderclap in a tight alley, light fracturing off explosions that moved with strategic grace. The camera struggled to keep up with the fast, brutal arc of a figure in black and orange, the shockwave tossing hostile silhouettes like paper. Sparks lit up the frame, the air itself seeming to recoil before settling into a stunned, admiring hush that even a cheap microphone couldn’t dampen. A ticker scrolled with words—APEX HERO DYNAMIGHT STOPS GANG RAID IN SOUTH DOCKS—along with raw numbers: civilians rescued, property damage minimized, suspects apprehended.

Kacchan.

Izuku’s mouth went dry, different from smoke. He stepped closer to the screen like that would make any difference, like he could reach into the image and press pause on a moment he’d missed. Katsuki’s moves were sharper now, refined in a way that took years and relentless stubbornness. The angle of his wrist when he redirected the blast. The measured spacing between detonations so the shock didn’t collapse the dock scaffolding. Izuku’s brain did what it always did, cataloging, admiring, comparing—no, not comparing, acknowledging. He could almost hear the cadence of Katsuki’s breathing, the muttered calculation under each choice, the same relentless drive that used to burn so hot it singed everyone standing too close.

A kid near the barrier yelled, “Did you see that? He’s insane!” and it drew a laugh from his friend, breathless and awed. Izuku felt that old, complicated twist inside him, the one that never learned how to sort itself. Pride loosened his ribs—of course Katsuki would nail it, of course he’d do it clean, loud, controlled. It was right that the world saw. It always had been.

And yet—the sting was there, stubborn as a splinter. Not because Katsuki outshone him. That was familiar ground, almost comfortable. It was the distance. The shape of the space between them had changed over the years—from childhood cruelty to begrudging respect to this strange, polished professional silence—but it was still a space. They hadn’t spoken beyond necessity in months. He knew that was partly his fault, retreating into reports and training, into the blur of patrols that left little room for anything that wasn’t duty. Still, even knowing that didn’t stop the ache.

Izuku watched the clip roll again. He remembered the way Katsuki used to tilt his head at the sound of applause, like it was a challenge rather than a gift. He wondered if he still did. He wondered, stupidly, if Katsuki had seen his own rescue today and grunted something dismissive before replaying and dissecting each stumble in private. The thought warmed him and hurt at the same time.

A push notification buzzed at his wrist. He glanced down, expecting another request for presence at the scene, but it was a news roundup pinging the same footage he was watching. Another chime followed it—congratulations from someone at his agency for the successful rescue. He thumbed out a quick reply, short and sincere. Thanks. Team effort. He slid the device back into its secure sheath and forced his ears to tune to the present: a mother calling for her son, a fireman reassuring her, the small hiss of foam as a hotspot cooled.

He should head back to the office, log the report, update support staff. He should shower. He should do a hundred things that didn’t include standing under a screen and tracing the edge of a face he knew so well he could map it in the dark. The hero in the video raised a hand to keep bystanders back as police cuffed the last suspect, his mouth moving in a curt directive the audio didn’t catch. The camera zoomed, awkwardly. Just before the clip cut, Katsuki glanced up, like he heard something beyond the crowd. The frame froze on him mid-breath. Izuku felt the habit of a lifetime pull taut—the urge to be there, to say one thing sharp enough to meet him in that charged space without breaking it.

He pulled his gaze away. The night pressed cool against the sweat on his neck. In the distance, the city carried on, indifferent to both their victories. He wiped a streak of soot from his cheek with the back of his hand and turned toward the command vehicle, the echo of the screen following like a shadow he chose not to outrun.

The agency lobby still smelled like smoke and gun oil. Katsuki shouldered through the glass doors, damp collar stuck to his neck, and was met with a wall of noise.

“Boss! The docks were a clean sweep!”

“You trended for, like, twenty minutes—”

“Zero civilian injuries reported—”

“Tch.” He swatted a towel at the nearest sidekick’s face without looking, heading for the locker room. “If you’ve got breath to waste, you’ve got forms to file.”

They trailed him anyway, orbiting like gnats that had somehow earned their salary. Someone shoved a bottle of electrolyte drink into his hand. He took it because it was efficient, twisted the cap, and downed half without stopping.

“Property damage came in under the budget threshold,” Mina—his logistics lead, not the U.A. classmate—said, reading off a tablet as she speed-walked to keep up. “You’re going to get the Commission off our backs for a week with those metrics.”

“Don’t flatter yourselves.” Katsuki’s locker groaned under his grip. He tossed his gauntlets inside, then the shredded overshirt. Granite dust fell in a gray drift onto the floor. He tugged on a clean black tee and leaned into the mirror. His hair was a lost cause. He left it.

“Brigade Captain Tanaka asked if you’d guest on his stream. I told him no.” Mina planted the tablet on the bench, careful, like it was a ritual. “Also, we got a donation flood in the minute the clip hit public.”

“Fine.” Katsuki rubbed a thumb over a fresh scrape at his jaw, a ghost of heat still prickling under his skin from the last blast. He knew where he’d misjudged a timing by point-three seconds. He could feel it in the ache along his deltoid. “Push the PR crap to tomorrow. Today, we do debrief.”

A chorus of “yes, sir” and “got it” followed. The crowd thinned, professional lines reasserting themselves as he cut across to the briefing room. The big screen on the wall idled on an agency logo. He sank into the head chair like it might bite him and gestured impatiently. Mina flicked the tablet and the footage came up—already ripped from the municipal cam and cleaned. He watched himself move, detached and clinical.

“Pause at ten point six.” The frames froze as his boot connected, the blast angled down to dissipate force across the concrete. “That support beam should’ve fractured.” He glanced at the damage overlay. “Why didn’t it?”

“Municipal reinforcement last month,” said Koga, his reconnaissance lead. “Composite steel. You compensated for the old girders.”

Katsuki grunted. The corner of his mouth twitched. “Update the structural catalog. I don’t want to go in blind on city contracts again.”

The notes were already typing themselves. Someone slid him a protein bar. He ignored it and tapped a sequence with his knuckle against the table—once, twice, a habit from school when he’d pace and think and hate being watched doing it.

“Bring up the rescue registry.” Mina split the screen. A neat column of numbers lined up: injuries, property, time elapsed. He didn’t have to ask for the second tab. It opened without comment, and there it was: DEKU—LIVE INCIDENT SUMMARY. Hospital admitted: zero. Evacuation time: four minutes, eighteen seconds. Structural collapse prevented: probable. Cost: minimal.

He stared at the line that said 4:18. His own lower right read 5:03. Different scenarios, different risks. It didn’t matter. It mattered.

“Zoom in on his evac path,” he said, and if anyone in the room raised a brow, they didn’t show it. The map of the burning apartment complex popped up, little green dots moving through the stairs and hall. He tracked them with a forefinger as if he could feel the heat off the walls, like he’d been there. There—he took the southern stairwell even after the first collapse. He’d tripled back to guide the third-floor group. Katsuki’s throat tightened, a flash of something too tangled to name sparking and dying out.

He folded his arms, casual. “Find me every incident in the last month under ten minutes with over ten evacuees.” He kept his gaze on the screen. “Filter for Dek—Midoriya.”

Mina didn’t miss the stumble. She also didn’t comment on it. “On it. And you, today: suspects apprehended: nine. Injuries prevented: sixteen. Hospital: zero. Civilian compliments logged: twenty-one.”

“Don’t care about compliments.” He shifted in his seat, restless and coiled. The footage of the docks looped again, his blasts falling in crisp sequence. The split screen felt like a heartbeat—his pulse finding an answer in someone else’s data, syncopated and familiar. He’d been pretending that habit had dulled. It hadn’t.

“Fine,” Koga said wryly. “Care about this: your average collateral over the last five operations is down twelve percent.”

“Good.” Katsuki scraped a hand down his face. He hated how tired he felt when the adrenaline bled out. He hated that under the bone-deep fatigue was a sharper edge, the awareness of one name in the room no one spoke unless he made them. “Pull his stats for the last quarter and overlay mine.”

Mina hesitated. “Is that…for internal benchmarking?”

“Do I look like I’m curating a fan page?” His glare snapped, too fast. He couldn’t take it back, so he leaned into it. “We’re not losing ground because we got cocky. There’s a reason I’m number five. There’s a reason he’s top three. Learn something.”

The room accepted it. The graphs appeared, clean lines plotted in different colors, rising and falling over weeks marked by media cycles and holiday spikes. Katsuki’s jaw set. In response time, he beat him twice in twelve weeks, both times on patrols near his own district HQ. Evacuations per minute: Izuku outran him consistently in dense structures. Damage control: Katsuki’s trendline cut lower now, tighter, disciplined where it used to flare. He could see, in charted rhythm, the ways they’d both shaved off their worst impulses over time.

He felt, absurdly, the echo of a schoolyard afternoon, chalk dust in the light, Izuku scribbling notes too fast to read, stubborn enough to bleed for an answer. He pushed the memory down hard.

“Where I’m lagging,” he said, voice flat. “Say it.”

“Evac throughput in mixed-use buildings,” Mina said. No sugar. It was why he hired her. “You’re optimal in open areas. In tight spaces, you compensate for blast risk, so you pull back.”

“Because I’m not an idiot.” He rubbed his wrist. His palms were still raw, the nitro stink caught under his nails. “Design me a drill series. Tight corridors. Variable airflow. Smoke density. Put weights in the evac dummies.”

“We’ll build it,” Koga said. “And your angles?”

“Angles are fine.” Katsuki’s mouth twisted. “They’ll get finer.” He stood, chair scraping concrete. He could feel the room’s attention adjust to his height, to the way he carried the line between dare and order. “You’ve got your notes. I want the drills ready by dawn. And Mina—schedule a call with the Commission to update my equipment requisition. I want new venting on the gauntlets.”

“Already requested.” She paused. “There’s also a summons, by the way. From the Commission. For tomorrow.”

His eyes cut to her. Something thrummed under the word that didn’t belong to paperwork. He didn’t ask. Not yet. “Fine. Send me the time.”

He left them then, the door shutting on their quiet, competent movement. In the corridor, the hum of the building pressed in soft and constant. He let himself slow, just once, alone. He pulled out his phone and, without unlocking, stared at the still image on the lock screen—a stock shot of the city skyline he’d never bothered to change. It reflected his face back at him in the dark glass: sharp, tired, hungry.

Five-oh-three versus four-eighteen. He tucked the phone away, the numbers settling like grit between his teeth. He wasn’t chasing a ghost. He’d never been the type to run after someone else’s shadow. But he could set a pace and force the world to match it. He could make sure that the next time the clock kept score, it would keep it his way.

He hit the stairs to the training floor, hands already curling into fists, the ache in his muscles sharpening into purpose. The drills would be hell. Good. He wanted it. He wanted the noise burned out of his head until all that was left was motion, calculation, improvement. The envy didn’t scare him. It fed him. He fed it back.

At the bottom of the steps, he paused, just once. The image of a burning stairwell, a green dot doubling back for stragglers, flashed behind his eyelids. He breathed in. Out. Then he stepped onto the mats like a promise.

Fluorescent lights flattened everything in the Commission building. The walls were too white, the floor too clean, the air too dry. Izuku adjusted his tie in the blurred reflection of a glass directory as the elevator chimed and slid open. He stepped out with a polite nod to a receptionist who didn’t look up. The summons message was still open on his phone. He tucked it away before it reminded him of the file name again: Directive 7-C, joint briefing required.

Footsteps echoed from the far end of the corridor. He knew the stride before he saw the shape: clipped, heavy-heeled, with that restless, barely leashed impatience he’d learned to measure his own pace against. Izuku stopped without meaning to at the junction where the hallway widened. His pulse picked up as if his body had a private, ingrained response for this one person and refused to forget it.

Katsuki came into view, hands in the pockets of a black bomber jacket over a shirt that clung to his chest like armor he couldn’t stop wearing. There was a scab along his jaw—fresh—and the small, familiar scorch at his cuff where fabric had lost an argument with heat. He’d cut his hair shorter. The world went a degree quieter.

“Deku,” Katsuki said, like the name was a formality, like it had never burned.

“Bakugou.” Izuku kept his tone even. He shifted his weight so his sore wrist wouldn’t show. “You got the same summons?”

A scoff. “Obviously.” Katsuki’s eyes swept over him with medical precision, quick, cataloguing. Izuku felt it anyway: the scan, the silent arithmetic, the way Katsuki’s gaze settled for a breath on the faint bruise at his temple that he’d covered with makeup and a combed curl. He stood a fraction straighter without deciding to.

“Congratulations on the docks,” Izuku said because it was true, and because the silence between them always teetered between familiar and unmanageable. “Your team moved fast.”

Katsuki’s mouth twitched like he was fighting a reply he wouldn’t give. “I don’t need compliments from you.”

“Then take it as data,” Izuku said, gentler than he meant to be. He tucked a thumb behind his belt just to keep his hands from giving him away. “It was efficient.”

Katsuki’s gaze cut to the side like he might smirk. He didn’t. “Saw your evac numbers.” The words landed like a body check delivered with care. “Figures.”

Izuku held his eyes for a heartbeat. The old ache pulled at his chest, that complicated mix of pride and something softer he never let fully form. “We all have our strengths.”

Katsuki’s jaw flexed. “Don’t start.” He looked past Izuku down the hall, toward the frosted glass doors with the brass letters spelling COMMISSION. “They want something.”

“They always do.” Izuku blinked and the overhead lights caught the edges of his lashes. He hated how aware he was of the space between them—three paces, a breath too much, history filling all the rest. He stepped aside, leaving a lane. “You headed in?”

“Yeah.” Katsuki didn’t move right away. The pause stretched, held. Izuku felt himself falling back through time—the clatter of desks in 1-A, the shock of an explosion at GN training, the quiet after the sports festival when they both pretended not to be listening for each other’s steps.

He found the smallest smile and kept it contained. “You look tired,” he said softly, and it was unforgivably intimate in a place like this.

“Occupational hazard.” Katsuki’s tone came out flat, but something in his gaze flickered and focused. “You’ve got a tell when you’re covering a limp.”

Izuku bit back the reflex to apologize. “I’ll manage.”

“Don’t I know it.” Katsuki’s exhale was short, almost a laugh stripped of humor. It warmed and irritated in equal parts, something Izuku had never learned to defend against. He felt heat rise in his chest in response, a pull he tamped down. Not now.

A staffer rounded the corner and froze, then took a step backward like she had stumbled into a live wire. Her quick retreat brought Izuku back to the present with a start. He smoothed his tie, the fabric catching on a frayed thread.

“Let’s not be late,” he said.

Katsuki took a half step forward, as if his body had chosen before he had. They matched without meaning to. Izuku caught the edges of Katsuki’s scent—clean soap, a hint of metal and whatever he used to cut the smoke after a long day. The proximity made Izuku’s skin prickle, a low current under his rib cage.

As they walked, their reflections kept pace in the glass, doubling them: two men in suits that looked like costumes they’d been forced into, shoulders tense, eyes forward. Katsuki glanced at him again, quick and unreadable. Izuku used the moment to look back. There were fine lines at the corners of Katsuki’s eyes he hadn’t noticed from a distance. The urge to touch, to smooth thumb across that small proof of time, hit hard and ridiculous. He swallowed it.

“About Ueno,” Katsuki said abruptly.

Izuku blinked. “Ueno?”

“You rerouted through the southern stairwell after the first collapse.” Katsuki’s voice dropped a notch, a low register he used when things mattered. “Smart.”

Izuku’s breath stuttered. He hadn’t mentioned that operation to anyone outside his team. The Commission report was dry, clinical. Katsuki must have gone looking. The warmth that sparked behind Izuku’s sternum was dangerous and steady. “I’m glad someone noticed,” he said. It came out thin.

Katsuki’s lips pressed flat, something like agreement or concession passing through his posture. They reached the doors. Izuku reached to pull one open. Katsuki’s hand shot out at the same time. Their fingers didn’t touch—space, barely a centimeter—and still Izuku felt skin stretch tight across the back of his hand, nerves brightening like they’d been caught in light.

“Don’t get in my way,” Katsuki said, not quite looking at him.

“Don’t expect me to,” Izuku answered, meeting his gaze full-on. His voice was steady. His chest ached. The usual script fell between them, but it didn’t feel the same. It felt threaded with something else, a line they both knew existed and both refused to name.

Katsuki exhaled, sharp. He let the door swing inward.

Izuku stepped through first. He could feel Katsuki at his shoulder, close enough to know where he was without turning. The room beyond waited, cold and official. Izuku didn’t look back. He didn’t need to. The air behind him buzzed, familiar and newly dangerous, like standing near a storm and choosing not to move away.

The conference room had no windows and too many chairs. A carafe of water sat on a runner like a peace offering no one believed in. The single pop of color was a neat stack of red feathers placed at the far end of the table, and the man leaning against the wall beside them, hands tucked in his pockets.

“Gentlemen,” Hawks said, like this was casual and not suffocating. His smile was easy, his eyes not. “Thanks for coming on short notice.”

Izuku took the seat nearest the side wall. Katsuki didn’t sit. He planted himself by Izuku’s shoulder anyway, a looming presence that filled the space like a shield he’d never admit to being. Hawks clocked the arrangement with a flicker of amusement and a tilt of his head.

“This is off the books until I say otherwise.” Hawks tapped his phone and the screen on the far wall lit up, a grainy photo resolving into a pallet of metal cases. A factory floor. Masked men moving in long, practiced lines. “You’ve both heard rumors about Quirk suppressants. The Commission’s been denying the scope. That ends now.”

Izuku’s spine straightened before he could stop it. The label on the case read K-SERUM in stark, block letters. Another photo replaced it, a hospital bed, a man staring blankly at the ceiling. The metadata along the bottom was redacted.

“This isn’t temporary,” Hawks went on, voice losing its drawl. “It’s targeted and it’s permanent. It doesn’t work on everyone. But for the people it hits, there’s no recovery window. No reset.”

Katsuki’s jaw worked. “Where?”

“Multiple hubs. Imports through black market routes in Yokohama, Osaka, and… here.” Hawks zoomed into a portion of the city’s underbelly they both knew too well. His finger traced a path. “The network is compartmentalized by design. It’s slippery. We get one cell; the others go dark.”

Izuku’s hands folded neatly on the table to keep them from betraying the chill running through him. “Who’s running it?”

Hawks clicked to a photo that looked like smoke—grainy, half-shadowed, the angle wrong. “Working handle is ‘Vector.’ No public record. Doesn’t show at the scene. We’ve got a voice sample. Distorted. He’s disciplined. Doesn’t monologue. Doesn’t taunt. He moves product like it’s vacuum-sealed. No leaks.”

Katsuki snorted. “So you dragged us in because you’re out of people you feel like sacrificing.”

Hawks’ eyes softened, just for a beat. “I dragged you in because your Venn diagram is a circle where it matters. You fight like you’ve got each other’s footwork memorized.” He tipped his chin at them. “And because you don’t quit when the playbook fails.”

Izuku absorbed the words, felt them seat in his chest and go still. “Parameters?”

“Long-term infiltration,” Hawks said. “No hero identities. Deep cover. You’ll be planted as mid-level operators with a skill set this network needs.” He tossed two manila folders down the table. They slid and stopped at Izuku’s fingertips. “You don’t need to open those yet.”

Katsuki reached first, flipping one open with two fingers. He scanned and snorted again. “You want to stick me in an outfit like this?” He pushed the paper so Izuku could see the tailored streetwear, the expensive sneakers, the chain. Izuku caught the flash of a smirk before it vanished.

“You’ll both clean up fine.” Hawks moved to the end of the table and leaned, bracing his palms. The energy in the room shifted, air tightening until Izuku felt it in his lungs. “Listen. We lost a hero last month. Not dead. Worse, in his mind. He can’t stop trying to trigger a Quirk that won’t answer. His heart rate spikes every time he reaches for it. He forgets and remembers all day long. We’ve got three more like him that we managed to pull out before they were sold off to private buyers. We think the buyers are testing against specific Quirk families.”

Izuku swallowed. “One For—” He bit back the name, corrected. “High-output kinetic Quirks? Multipliers?”

Hawks’ gaze flicked to Katsuki, then back. “We don’t know the list. We know they’re building one.”

Katsuki’s hand flattened on the back of Izuku’s chair. The wood creaked. “You said ‘buyers.’ We’re talking heroes? Or—”

“Not heroes.” Hawks’ smile sharpened. “People with money and fear. People who want control. People who like to collect.” His mouth pressed into a line. “This isn’t a smash-and-grab. If we knock down a door too soon, the nest scatters. We need the head.”

Izuku looked down at the folder again. The cover identities were detailed. A shared address. Work histories peppered with enough truth to make lying easy. He could feel Katsuki watching him without looking. “Why us?” he asked, even though Hawks had already told them. He needed to hear it again, framed as a reason that could hold.

“Because if either of you goes under, the other will break the sky to pull him out.” Hawks said it without softness. “Because you scare each other into sanity when no one else can. Because the people we’re chasing are arrogant, and they think their tech levels the field. You two are one of the few pairs that don’t depend on a field.” He lifted a brow at Katsuki. “Also because you,” he said mildly, “speak fluent underground without sounding like a cop.”

Katsuki’s laugh was short and ugly. “Gee. Thanks.”

“Timeline?” Izuku asked.

“Prep today. You move in forty-eight hours.” Hawks straightened and the easy slouch returned to his shoulders like a coat. “You’ll have point-of-contact protocols. Two trusted handlers, total. Me and one Commission analyst you will never meet face to face. Your gear is minimal. Scramblers. A dead drop chain.” He lifted a feather between thumb and forefinger. It caught the light. “This will get you a message to me if the world is on fire.”

Izuku felt the room tighten around the word together. He could feel heat along his arm where Katsuki was too close without touching. “What’s our cover relationship?” he asked, flipping the page.

Hawks’ smile curled. “Business partners. Started small. Got big too fast. Need a new supplier. You haven’t decided whether you trust him.” He tipped his chin at Katsuki. “He hasn’t decided whether he wants to burn your operation down or marry it.”

Katsuki rolled his eyes, but his shoulders loosened a fraction. Izuku breathed in, slow. He could taste the metal of the water in the air, the sterile clean that clung to this place, the familiar, bright thread of Katsuki’s presence threading through it and grounding him.

“This is voluntary,” Hawks added, and his voice went gentle for the first time. “You can walk. I’ll find another way. It’ll be worse. It’ll be slower. But I won’t force you into something that might end you.”

Izuku looked up. The decision formed in him like a lock clicking into place. His fear sat beside it, well-behaved, acknowledged. He didn’t look at Katsuki when he said, quiet and certain, “I’m in.”

Katsuki’s answer was immediate. “Like hell I’m letting him do this without me.” He cut a glare at Hawks that didn’t land. “You knew that.”

“I did,” Hawks admitted. He gathered the feathers, sliding one across the table until it rested by Izuku’s hand. He slid another toward Katsuki, who didn’t pick it up. “Then we don’t waste time.”

Izuku closed the folder. The edge warmed under his palm. Beside him, Katsuki shifted, and the chair brushed his thigh. Their eyes caught, just once, and held. The crackle between them wasn’t static anymore. It was a live wire, taut and ready, humming with a promise they hadn’t named.

Hawks watched them and didn’t comment. “Welcome to Directive 7-C,” he said, and his smile, finally, reached his eyes. “Try not to kill each other before the bad guys get a chance to try.”