My Hallucinations Ahh

Midoriya sat in the driver's seat of his fallen steed, staring blankly at the rising column of smoke curling lazily into the University of Arizoma sky. The once-mighty 2006 Chevy Malibu, which he had, mere hours ago, declared to be the pinnacle of affordable yet high-performance engineering, had betrayed him. It sat there, immobile, a silent testament to the folly of youthful overconfidence.

He reached for his trusty notebook, Vehicle Analysis for the Future, Vol. 13, flipping through pages of lovingly detailed diagrams, data points, and hastily scribbled notes about compression ratios, fuel economy, and the supposed superiority of mid-2000s American sedans. "A car is an extension of its driver's will," he had written just the night before. "It is not merely a means of transportation, but a philosophy in motion." And yet, as he stared at the smoke rising from the hood, Midoriya was forced to confront the possibility that his will had, in fact, been extended directly into the afterlife.

The tow truck arrived with the inevitability of fate itself. A grizzled man in a grease-stained jumpsuit wordlessly hooked the Malibu to his rig, sparing Midoriya only the slightest glance before gesturing for him to get in. As the tow truck lurched forward, Midoriya felt an odd sense of detachment, like a warrior being carried off the battlefield on his shield. This was not how things were supposed to go. He had envisioned something grander—perhaps a slow-motion montage of him and Ochaco speeding down the highway, the wind in their hair, the Malibu's six cylinders roaring in mechanical harmony. Instead, he sat in silence, gripping his useless notebook like a relic of a bygone dream.

By some stroke of cosmic comedy, the tow truck's destination was not just an auto repair shop but also the insurance office. Midoriya barely had time to process this absurd convenience before he was ushered inside, where a woman behind the counter asked him, in the most monotone voice imaginable, "Do you have full coverage?" He blinked. He had never even considered insurance before today. In fact, he had been so convinced of the Malibu's invincibility that he had written, in an uncharacteristic fit of arrogance, "A true driver does not prepare for failure. He commands success." He looked down at that exact sentence in his notebook and quietly shut it.

Several forms, a barely comprehensible conversation about deductibles, and a humiliating call to his bank later, Midoriya was handed a repair estimate that made him consider alternate career paths. The mechanic, a man whose entire personality was 'chewing loudly,' offered a consoling pat on the shoulder. "Y'know, kid, sometimes cars just don't wanna live no more." Midoriya nodded solemnly. He understood that sentiment all too well.

At the very least, he needed a drink.

That was how he ended up at Texas Roadrage, a steakhouse and bar that promised a uniquely reckless dining experience. Their slogan, "Drive Safe, Eat Big!", seemed to mock him personally. Midoriya stumbled inside, still processing his vehicular downfall, and found himself greeted by a waitress who looked… oddly familiar. Something about her eyes, the grin that was just a little too wide, sent a chill down his spine. She was dressed as Bakugo dressed as Ochaco.

Midoriya, his brain already running on fumes, merely blinked at her.

"Howdy! What can I getcha?" she chirped.

He did not know this person. And yet. And yet.

"I, uh… a drink?" Midoriya croaked.

"Lucky you! We offer free spirits if you're the driver."

Something about that statement felt legally questionable, but Midoriya was far too exhausted to object. Within minutes, a glass was placed in front of him. He did not ask what it was. He did not care. He drank. It burned. He drank again.

As the evening stretched on, Midoriya found himself unraveling in real time. He rambled to the waitress about the downfall of his car, about the cruelty of engine failure, about the philosophical implications of combustion itself. "If pistons are the heart of a car, then does that mean my Malibu had a heart attack? Did I—" he hiccuped, dramatically pointing a finger at the ceiling—"neglect my steed?"

The waitress, still smiling, rested her chin in her hands. "That's real deep, sugar. Tell me more."

Midoriya stared at his empty glass, his mind swimming in a haze of alcohol and existential despair. The world wobbled slightly, the dim neon lights of Texas Roadrage smearing into incomprehensible streaks. He exhaled sharply and leaned forward, hands clasped like a man on the verge of discovering some profound universal truth.

"You ever think about wheels?" he mumbled, eyes unfocused. "Like—really think about wheels?" He tapped the table for emphasis, missing it twice before landing with a dull thunk. "We take them for granted, right? But they're perfect. The perfect shape. No corners, no edges, just… round." He traced a circle in the air, entranced. "But what if we're the wheels? What if we just keep spinning, round and round, never actually getting anywhere?"

The waitress, still grinning, rested her chin in her palm. "That's real deep, sugar."

He nodded solemnly. "It's too deep. Like, imagine you're a little caveman, right? You just invented the wheel. You don't know about highways, you don't know about combustion engines, you're just out there rolling logs down a hill, thinking, Wow. I'm a genius." He sighed, staring into the abyss of his empty glass. "But now? Now the wheel is part of something bigger. Trains. Planes. Cars. Destiny."

He paused, brows furrowing. "No, wait. Not planes. Planes don't have wheels in the sky." He snapped his fingers. "Unless they do. Landing gear." He slammed his fist down, victorious. "Everything always comes back to the wheel."

The waitress hummed. "So what does that make you?"

Midoriya blinked. He opened his mouth, closed it, then shook his head. "A defective axle," he muttered. "A spare tire that got left in the trunk and forgotten. You know when you get a flat, and you're like, Oh no, what do I do? But then you remember—oh! There's a spare! So you pop it on, and you feel like a genius for thinking ahead. But…" He leaned in, voice dropping to a whisper. "That spare tire? It was never meant to last. It's temporary. A placeholder."

The waitress whistled. "That's some sad car philosophy, honey."

Midoriya dragged a hand down his face. "It gets worse. You ever see those cars, the ones just… parked on the side of the road, broken down, covered in dust? Maybe they had dreams once. Maybe they thought they were going places. But one thing goes wrong, and suddenly they're just… left behind. Nobody fixes them. Nobody remembers them. They sit there until they rust away, nothing but a landmark for lost travelers."

His head thudded onto the table. "What if I'm that car?"

The waitress patted his shoulder. "Then maybe you just need a little roadside assistance."

Midoriya groaned. "Or a tow truck straight to hell."

Somewhere outside, tires screeched. Somewhere inside, a shadow moved.

Midoriya lifted his head slowly, as if the weight of the universe itself had settled onto his skull. The room swayed. No—he swayed, like a car idling at a stoplight just before the engine stalls out completely. He squeezed his eyes shut, took a deep breath, and forced himself to focus on the one thing in front of him that still made sense: his empty glass.

The waitress watched him with patient amusement, twirling a pen between her fingers. "You look like you got more thoughts rattling around in there."

Midoriya exhaled, long and slow, as if he could drain the last remnants of his pride along with the alcohol from his system. He rubbed his temple, trying to gather the frayed strands of his mind into something resembling coherence. "Okay," he said finally, voice hoarse. "Let's say you're driving, right?"

The waitress nodded encouragingly.

"You're on a highway. Open road. Nothing but pavement stretching out in front of you, the sun setting behind you, music blasting. You're free. The car hums like it understands you, like it's not just a machine but a… a living thing. Like you and it are moving forward together." He closed his eyes for a second, lost in the thought. "And then." A pause. "The check engine light comes on."

The waitress pursed her lips. "Oof."

"Oof is right," Midoriya muttered. "You don't know what's wrong. Maybe it's nothing. Maybe it's everything. But suddenly, you're not just driving anymore—you're waiting for disaster. Every mile feels like a gamble. Will you make it home? Will the engine seize? Will the whole thing explode? Who knows! But one thing is certain—you can't drive the same way anymore. You can't just go."

The waitress tapped the table lightly. "So what do you do?"

Midoriya shrugged, staring at the warped reflection of neon light in his glass. "Some people pull over. Call a mechanic. Play it safe." He let out a dry chuckle. "Some people ignore it. Keep going. Pretend they don't see the warning. Hope they can outrun the consequences." His fingers traced invisible patterns on the table. "And some people…" He swallowed hard. "Some people don't even notice the light in the first place. They don't check the dashboard. They don't think about it. And maybe—maybe—they're the lucky ones."

The waitress tilted her head. "Which one are you?"

Midoriya chuckled bitterly. "The guy who popped the hood and realized he doesn't even know what he's looking at." He leaned back, rubbing his eyes. "You think you understand something. You study it. You analyze it. You write it all down, and you think—I've got this. And then?" He threw up his hands. "Smoke. Fire. Stranded in the middle of nowhere."

The waitress considered this, tapping her pen against the notepad. "So what do you do next?"

Midoriya blinked. "Huh?"

"Well, you're stranded. Car's busted. Check engine light ain't going away. What's the move?"

He opened his mouth, then hesitated. "I… I don't know." The words felt heavier than they should have.

The waitress leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table. "Maybe that's the problem, sugar. You spent so long trying to understand the machine, you forgot to figure out the driver."

Midoriya froze. He stared at her, mind blank.

The waitress grinned. "Another drink?"

He let out a breath he didn't realize he was holding. Then, slowly, he nodded.

And he did. Oh, he did.

By the time he was ready to leave, Midoriya discovered a new problem: he had absolutely no ability to stand. Gravity had conspired against him. His limbs had declared independence from his brain. He gripped the edge of the table like it was the last stable object in the universe.

The waitress tilted her head. "Need help getting back to your car?"

Midoriya, against all odds, managed to shake his head. "No, no, I got this."

He absolutely did not got this. He took one step, tripped over nothing, and nearly took down a decorative neon sign that read NO FEAR, JUST BEER. The last thing he remembered was the sound of the other patrons laughing as he made his slow, stumbling descent into the abyss.

Somewhere in the night, the silhouette watched.