Chapter 66: Shadows in the Laboratory
[Location: Undisclosed - Deep Underground]
The air in this place did not smell like the world above.
It was a stagnant, artificial atmosphere that tasted of formaldehyde, burnt ozone, and things that had been dead for a very long time yet refused to rot. It was the scent of science gone wrong—a cold, sterile stench that coated the back of the throat like oil.
The darkness was not empty. It was alive with the low, thrumming vibration of heavy machinery and the wet, rhythmic bubbling of filtration systems. The only illumination came from the massive cylindrical tanks lining the walls, casting a sickly, bioluminescent green glow that made the shadows stretch and dance like restless ghosts.
Inside the glass prisons, grotesque silhouettes floated in suspended animation. Exposed brains pulsed slowly. Muscular limbs, distorted and grafted together, twitched in a dreamless, drug-induced sleep.
In the center of this cathedral of monstrosities, Shigaraki Tomura sat on the freezing metal floor, his back against a workbench cluttered with surgical tools.
Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.
The sound was visceral—a wet, tearing noise that echoed in the silence.
Shigaraki's fingernails dug into the scarred skin of his neck, reopening wounds that had barely started to scab over. He wasn't just scratching an itch; he was trying to tear off his own skin, as if the failure of Kamino was a physical layer he could peel away. Flakes of dry epidermis fell onto his black pants like a grotesque snow.
"Sensei..." Shigaraki rasped. His voice sounded like sandpaper rubbing against stone, raw and broken. "Sensei is gone..."
He stared at a small, portable television set perched precariously on the desk. It was playing the loop. The skeletal All Might pointing his finger. The scrolling text beneath it was a dagger to his chest: ALL FOR ONE DEFEATED. VILLAIN CONFIRMED DEAD.
The light from the screen reflected in Shigaraki's wide, bloodshot eyes. He looked small. He looked like a child lost in a department store, realizing his father had been violently torn from his grasp.
Shigaraki picked up a heavy glass beaker from the floor. His grip tightened until his knuckles turned white.
With a scream of pure, childish rage, he hurled it at the far wall.
SMASH!
The glass shattered into a thousand glittering diamonds.
"THEY KILLED HIM!" Shigaraki shrieked, his voice cracking into a sob. He curled into a ball, his hands shaking violently. "The heroes... that frozen brat... All Might... they murdered him! I wasn't ready! I'm not ready to be the King! I'm still... I'm still just..."
He couldn't finish the sentence. I'm still just Tenko.
"Oh, stop that infernal whining. It insults his memory."
The voice cut through the gloom like a rusted scalpel. It wasn't comforting. It was high-pitched, manic, and vibrated with an unsettling, venomous fury.
From the deepest shadows behind the bubbling tanks, the whine of an electric motor grew louder.
Whirr... Click. Whirr...
A motorized chair rolled into the pool of green light. Sitting in it was a small, round man, hunched over like a gargoyle. His face was dominated by a thick, grey mustache that twitched not with amusement, but with uncontrollable rage. His eyes were completely obscured by a pair of thick, opaque goggles that reflected the laboratory lights like the eyes of a fly.
Dr. Kyudai Garaki. The Daruma. The Devil's Doctor.
"Doctor..." Shigaraki hissed, glaring at him through the curtain of his messy blue hair. "Get out. Unless you can bring him back... get out of my sight."
"Bring him back?" The Doctor spat, his voice trembling with a terrifying, suppressed wrath. "There is nothing to bring back! The boy's absolute zero left nothing but microscopic dust and ice chips! A century of perfection, a lifetime of evolution, erased on a miserable ruined street!"
The Doctor spun his chair around with violent agility, his fingers digging into the armrests.
"You think this was his grand plan? You think the Master intended to die like a dog in the dirt?" The Doctor scoffed, his voice dripping with venom. "He was the pinnacle of humanity! He was supposed to rule the ashes of this pathetic society! But they stole him from us. They shattered my masterpiece!"
Shigaraki stopped scratching. His hand froze at his neck, blood trickling down his finger. He looked up, confusion warring with his bottomless grief.
"Then... what is left?" Shigaraki whispered. "He left me nothing. Just a broken league and a hiding spot in a sewer."
"WRONG!"
The Doctor slammed his fist on his armrest. The sudden noise made the liquid in the nearby tanks ripple aggressively.
"He left you to me!"
The Doctor pressed a large, red button on his console.
HISS—THUNK.
GROAAAAAAAN.
The sound of heavy hydraulics filled the room. The massive blast doors at the far end of the laboratory began to separate. Cold, white steam poured out from the gap, rolling across the floor like a fog bank, instantly dropping the temperature of the room.
Shigaraki stood up, his legs trembling slightly. His eyes widened.
Inside the massive chamber beyond, the darkness stretched for what seemed like miles.
There were not just a few tanks. There were hundreds.
Rows upon rows of vats, stacked high into the gloom. And inside them...
These were not the mindless, exposed-brain creatures that attacked the USJ.
These were darker. Sleeker. Their skin was jet-black, armored with natural chitin. Their muscles were refined, compact, and deadly. Even in their sleep, they radiated an aura of raw, intelligent power.
"Behold, Shigaraki Tomura!" The Doctor threw his arms wide, looking like a mad conductor presenting a symphony of destruction. "The Masterpieces! The High-Ends!"
The Doctor motored over to the nearest tank. Inside floated a creature with a hood of bone and six muscular arms.
"The Master spent years gathering quirks," the Doctor explained, his voice trembling with a dark, obsessive excitement. "He gave them to me. I cultivated them. I refined them. These were meant to be his vanguard. But now... they are your instruments of slaughter."
Shigaraki walked up to the glass. He placed his hand on the cold surface.
Inside the tank, the creature's eye—a single, glowing slit—twitched. It seemed to look right at him.
"You said he didn't plan for this," Shigaraki whispered, his breath fogging the glass. "Why would they follow me?"
"Because I will make them!" The Doctor snarled, rolling up beside him. "The King is dead. Murdered by a false symbol and an icy brat! I refuse to let his legacy end there. I refuse to let hero society celebrate the sunrise!"
The Doctor turned his goggles toward Shigaraki. The reflection of the green light made him look truly demonic.
"I will not let his dream die. I will forge you into his vengeance. I will make you the ultimate weapon to punish every single soul that breathed a sigh of relief today."
Shigaraki stood in the silence.
The scratching stopped completely.
The sobbing stopped completely.
He thought about the ice that had shattered his master—the cold indifference of Aokiji Kuzan.
He thought about the fire that had burned his skin—the chaos of the battle.
He thought about the society that was celebrating right now, cheering while the only father figure he had ever known was swept away into the gutter.
Something inside Shigaraki snapped.
And then, it re-formed. Harder. Colder. Sharper.
He reached into the pocket of his trench coat and pulled out the disembodied hand—the one he called "Father." The grey, dead skin felt familiar against his palm.
He placed it gently over his face. The fingers clamped around his skull. The palm covered his features.
It wasn't a mask anymore. It was a declaration of war.
When he spoke, his voice was no longer that of a crying child. It was deep, hollow, and terrifyingly calm.
"Doctor."
"Yes, Tomura?" The Doctor leaned in, eager, his mustache twitching with anticipation.
"How long will it take?"
"To wake the High-Ends? A few months. To upgrade you..." The Doctor grinned, revealing yellow teeth in a predatory, spiteful smile. "...That will take pain. Lots of pain. Agony beyond your imagination. I have to tear your physical limits apart to rebuild you into a vessel capable of wiping a city off the map. Are you prepared to break your body to exact our revenge?"
Shigaraki looked at the green light reflecting off the tanks.
He imagined the face of Aokiji Kuzan shattering into bloody dust.
He imagined the face of Izuku Midoriya decaying into nothingness.
A low chuckle started in his chest. It grew louder, a dry, rasping sound that echoed off the metal walls, mixing with the bubbling of the tanks.
"Pain?"
Shigaraki laughed, and the sound was like glass grinding in a machine. He turned to face the mad scientist, one red eye glowing through the fingers of the hand on his face.
"I don't care about pain. Do whatever you want to my body, Doctor. Tear it apart. Stitch it back together."
He walked over to a metal railing overlooking the abyss of the laboratory. He gripped the steel bar with five fingers.
Crumble... Dust.
The solid steel turned to grey powder instantly, drifting down into the darkness.
"I will not mourn him anymore," Shigaraki said, his voice filled with a new, abyssal conviction. "I will become the cataclysm you want. I will turn their peace into dust. And I will start with U.A. High."
The Doctor clapped his hands in delight. "Magnificent! Simply magnificent! That is the look! That is the malice that will burn this world to the ground!"
The Doctor spun his chair back to his console, typing furiously, initiating the dark sequences that would change the course of history.
"Then let us begin, my Prince. The world thinks the war is over. They think they won. They are celebrating the sunrise."
Shigaraki looked back at the army of sleeping monsters, his red eye narrowing into a slit of pure, concentrated hatred.
"Let them think that," Shigaraki whispered. "Let them enjoy their false spring. Because when I wake up..."
The lights in the lab flickered and died, leaving only the ominous green glow of the tanks, illuminating the birth of the ultimate weapon.
"...I'm going to decay every one of them."
.
.