My Hallucinations Ahh

Midoriya just wanted a burger.

It had been a long day. Longer than usual, even. The kind of day that stretched itself out into eternity, where each second seemed to actively resent its own existence, dragging its feet through the mud of time itself. His feet were sore, his mind was foggy, and the only thing tethering him to this plane of existence was the alluring, greasy promise of a DcMonald's Number 3 Combo Meal with a large side of "I Deserve This."

Unfortunately, fate had other plans.

The drive-thru was packed. The line stretched endlessly, like a divine punishment inflicted upon all who dared crave convenience. Midoriya found himself stuck between the curb and the bumper of the car behind him, trapped in an inescapable purgatory of honking impatience and static-ridden fast food speaker feedback.

And, of course, the universe had a sense of humor.

Because the car in front of him—the very reason this drive-thru had ceased to function like a well-oiled machine—belonged to none other than Bakugo Katsuki.

From the looks of it, Bakugo had been engaged in a verbal war with the intercom for what must have been five minutes now, and neither side showed any sign of backing down. The static voice of the worker crackled incomprehensibly through the speaker, while Bakugo's increasingly creative insults escalated to a point where even the surrounding vehicles seemed to collectively hold their breath.

"I SAID NO PICKLES, YOU ABSOLUTE CLOWN," Bakugo barked, his voice raw with frustration. "DO I SOUND LIKE SOME KIND OF PICKLE-LOVING EXTRA TO YOU?"

"Sir," the voice on the other end droned with the exhaustion of someone who had long given up on life, "you ordered the Spicy Pickle Deluxe."

Midoriya sighed. There was no way he was getting his food anytime soon.

He slumped against the wheel, staring blankly at the menu screen ahead, which flickered ominously like it, too, was tired of Bakugo's nonsense. The glow of the artificial light cast strange shadows on his hands, and for a brief moment, a feeling—an odd, creeping familiarity—settled over him like a heavy fog.

The workers here. They seemed... off.

Midoriya frowned. He didn't know why, but there was something about the cashier in the window, about the cook visible through the tiny opening of the kitchen, about the lanky figure sweeping the floors with all the enthusiasm of a man awaiting execution—something that made his stomach twist uncomfortably.

He had seen them before. Hadn't he?

His eyes flickered to the worker currently handing a bag out to the car ahead. Stringy hair. Gaunt features. Eyes half-lidded with the crushing weight of existential dread. There was an unsettling air about him, a strange dissonance between his uniformed presence and the vague, distant sense of wrongness that crawled beneath Midoriya's skin.

He wasn't sure how long he stared, lost in the depths of his own unease, but at some point, the worker—Shigaraki, the name whispered in his mind like an echo—turned his head.

Their eyes met.

An eternity stretched between them, silent and suffocating.

Shigaraki blinked once, slowly. His fingers flexed involuntarily, the movement twitchy, uncertain. Midoriya's throat felt dry. The feeling—this bizarre, inexplicable recognition—lodged itself firmly in his chest, an itch he couldn't scratch, a thought he couldn't form. He felt like he should know this person. Like he had known him once before, in another life, another world.

But that was impossible.

Right?

"Move it, nerd."

Midoriya barely had time to register Bakugo's voice before the explosive blonde floored the gas pedal, tires screeching as he peeled out of the drive-thru, burger bag in hand, leaving behind a chorus of muffled shouts and one particularly disgruntled manager threatening legal action.

The line lurched forward.

Midoriya swallowed, shaking off the lingering unease as he inched toward the speaker.

He just wanted a burger.