They say that a revolution is coming. That the days of forced quirk tracking and restrictions will soon come to an end— that someone, something, is going to rise up, and begin a revolt that will start the world anew. Jirou does not believe this. She never has, not even when Denki stands to her side and slams mug after mug of some liquor or another onto the counter in rage while yelling about the new regulations being passed, or when at two in the morning she watches from the shadows as Iida snarls with disgust and kicks a local policeman into a moldy brick wall in the back of some dirty alleyway.
She’d almost believed it could be done, though. She thought it, just for one flickering moment, when she saw Midoriya’s face as All Might gave yet another speech on television. A face of rage, of absolute spite, of a determination she'd seen on him so many times but never quite like this. And it's with that face that she almost believed, completely and genuinely and truly, that he could take the number one hero down through his vengeful hatred alone. The absolute fury of a once-fanboy-turned-villain scorned. But no. Not quite. Nothing is solidified, they are not strong enough, individually or together. The villains will make a stance. But not yet. Maybe not ever, in the way they think they shall.
So Jirou sits idly at the end seat near a wall, her normal seat, at the bar. Over time, the whole place has seemingly become their group’s— she wasn't even sure they qualified as a ‘group’— general gathering area for plotting and planning and quite frankly, hanging out.
Mina and Tsuyu and Uraraka all sit together in a cramped booth on the opposite side of the room, slamming their hands and cups down against the tabletops in delirious laughter. Jirou sighs through her nose and turns to watch Satou nurse a Shirley Temple a few seats over across the bar’s middle bend. Sero cackles obnoxiously in a way that fills the room with even more noise while Denki tells a wildly embellished (‘improved,’ he insists) version of some story, frantically gesturing towards the small television affixed to the upper corner of a wall near the drink shelf that consistently plays the news channel; “DEVASTATION FROM LIVEWIRE AND RED RIOT TEAM-UP ATTACK” rolls boldly across the screen’s bottom text flag.
She's a little tired of this. It's loud, and noisy, and normally that in and of itself would be fine, but she's really fucking bored.
“Where’s Momo?” Jirou asks suddenly to the middle of the room. She's pretty certain Toruu is in here somewhere, she's just not sure where, so she figures she might as well bite the bullet and try to strike up a conversation with the girl who may or may not even be in the room.
A small sniffle from seemingly nowhere. That's her. Toruu always does seem to get sick so easily. “Working, probably. She never takes breaks anymore! It's seriously a wonder she ever does anything else at all!”
“What, she got new customers or something?”
“Not even! She's just gotten distant lately, it feels like.”
“Mm,” Jirou murmurs, and looks off to the side, “…I was thinkin’ about visiting her.”
Toruu snorts in amusement, “You say ‘visit’ like she's far away and you've gotta travel a distance. She's only a handful of blocks away, not even in the next prefecture. ‘Sides, I heard from Uravity that's she's been really itching to see you lately.”
“Well, what would Uraraka know?” Jirou snaps back, harsher than intended. Uravity, Uravity, Uravity. She’s a shit villain, but she gets all the news coverage because she's soooooo beautiful and soooooo talented. It makes Jirou want to strangle her, along with anyone else who dares speak that girl’s name in front of her.
“Geez, I dunno, enough I guess?” she huffs, the rise of her shoulders and lowering of her eyebrows evident in her voice alone, “Hate her all you want, but Ochako knows her shit. Just go see Yaomomo already. Like I said, she's totally at work.”
The rhythmic thump of footsteps and soft yet audible floorboard creaks follow Toruu’s exit. Down where Denki is still weaving his grandiose tale with matching hand gestures, a stool pulls out, and that's when Jirou takes her leave.
Jirou is hardly surprised to open the door and see Mineta looking around the room. He's a pretty regular visitor to the store, she's been told, but he honestly never seems to buy much. Mostly he just reads through magazines near the front and tosses some small cheap items up onto the checkout counter to pay for so Momo doesn't kick him out. The boy hobbles a little when he tries to walk, and she remembers hearing from someone that he got a broken knee or leg or ankle or some shit in a minor scuffle last week down near Shibaru. He glances up at her with big eyes, like always, then down at her chest, for a small flicker too intentionally coordinated to be an accident, and then promptly looks away.
“How's the leg?” she asks, even though she knows she doesn't give half a shit and Mineta knows she doesn't give half a shit and they both know instinctively that nothing is actually being talked about legitimately. She notices that the sleeves on his several-sizes-too-big purple decora shirt are starting to roll down again from the position where he seemingly rolled them up to in the first place. For a villain, he sure knows how to draw attention to himself. Always bright colors, weird fashion, graphic designs, and baggy clothes.
(She's almost a little jealous he can pull it off.)
He shrugs half-heartedly, “Doc said I’ll limp for a good while, but it'll heal up.”
“Mm,” Jirou hums back, and wanders past him over to one of the shelves covered in ornately decorative matryoshka dolls. They're actually flashbangs, of course, but they're certainly pretty convincing and pleasant to look at. She looks back over her shoulder through an empty spot on the shelf, “Hey, where's Momo?”
He looks confused for a brief moment, before something clicks in his mind, “Manifactura? She's in the back, I think. I was wanting her to make me a new steel carrying case, the last one I had got taken by some weird guys when I messed up my leg.”
She nods, and tries to look vaguely interested in the various items along the racks and shelves while she makes her way to the end of the room where the staff door is located. No need to seem desperate, even if she hasn't seen Momo in almost a week and Jirou has been missing her laugh and her smile and the way her hair sometimes falls in her face just before she arranges it back the way she likes it. Idly, Jirou wonders what it would be like to reach over and brush Momo’s hair out of her face for her. Would she huff grumpily? Or would she thank Jirou? Or maybe she would even blush and avert her eyes with a shy smile?
Jirou loves her, loves her, loves her. When Momo moves, she sees an endless sea of character and energy and steely unbreaking determination, and when she speaks, Jirou hears the revolution pounding on endlessly through the air of the darkened night.