Within hours the movement fractured broadcast schedules and spilled into 51 statehouses. Video of a small-time hero being cheered at a press conference halted mid-speech as people went online, streaming the proof that the hero's rescue had been directed.
The governor of one state—hitherto a staunch ally of the Commission—watched a live call from a constituent whose family name was on the waiver pages. The constituent's voice trembled: "You knew."
Elected officials moved from denial to crisis mode. A press secretary scripted reassurances, but the scripts themselves were in the leaked files. Anchors who'd been paid to maintain the narrative found their names in the black ledger.
One by one, trusted faces stammered under cross-examination on live television. Some bowed and apologized in tearful, rehearsed statements—statements that only proved they'd been taking their lines from the Commission's PR binder.
The streets changed. Peaceful marches swelled into something more furious. People who had worshipped heroes felt betrayed on a personal level—the shield that had stood between them and chaos was revealed to be studded with coins.
They wanted retribution, transparency, and accountability. Old anger—about unequal enforcement, brutality, and untold abuses—found a match in the new proof. The movement's language hardened from grief to indictment.
Capitals filled with bodies: teachers, nurses, truck drivers, veterans, parents—united in a rage the politicians had not budgeted for.
They lurched from words to actions. Citizens organized general strikes. Public transit workers refused to run certain routes used in "managed incidents."
Journalists walked out in solidarity with colleagues who had been blacklisted. Hero fans, distraught and betrayed, tore down posters and set them ablaze. Statues of decorated heroes were vandalized with the names of the disappeared.
Law enforcement scrambled to respond. Governors called in the National Guard in some regions. But even that was complicated—videos showed portions of the guard units being briefed by Commission aides in ways that matched the leaked planner.
Trust in official orders eroded quickly; soldiers posted unredacted orders online to show they, too, had been lied to. Entire departments of the Commission found their email servers flooded with FOIA requests and hacking attempts from activists.
At televised congressional hearings, senators read aloud the leaked memos and tried to look outraged. On the feeds, citizens who had once voted for those senators rose in the gallery and shouted accusations so raw they made the anchors' mouths dry.
Families of the dead came to the plazas anyway — not to face a savior, but to face the hollow stage where saviors had once stood. The microphone stands were empty. The spotlights were cold. Banners with smiling faces fluttered in the wind and were ripped down by hands that trembled with grief and rage.
They marched to the tall glass building where the heroes once met — the place that used to open its doors for parades, ceremonies, and speeches about justice. Now, the massive shutters were clamped shut; the lobby lights burned but no aide came to greet them.
A line of armored state officers ringed the perimeter, rifles slung and faces unreadable. Behind the reflective glass, shadows moved — shapes that looked like men in familiar costumes — but they were inside, contained.
A mother pressed her forehead to the cool facade and screamed until her throat tore. "You closed the hatch on my daughter! You lied to me! Where are you now?" Her voice cracked and broke, but it carried. People behind her joined in, their pain converging into one relentless chant:
"Where are our children? Who protected us?"
A city official, pale and sweating, stepped forward with a hastily printed statement. His voice shook with the tremor of rehearsed calm. "We are cooperating with—"
"Cooperating?" a grandfather barked, stepping out from the crowd, his voice full of thunder. "You sat with them! You signed the bills! You called them heroes!" He ripped the paper from the man's hands and tore it to shreds. The bits fluttered to the ground like dead birds, useless and forgotten.
Prosecutors had moved swiftly, armed with the leaks that Izuku had unleashed. Warrants were sworn. Court orders issued. The building, once a monument of safety and idolization, was transformed overnight into a holding complex.
All the actually righteous officials who couldn't do anything because of others took this as an opportunity and prepared warrants for all the corrupt officials, aiming to purge all of them at once.
All the heroes were still locked in the premises where hero summit was held, trying to get out of the totally unaware of the chaos that had unfolded behind their back
From within, faint voices leaked through the reinforced walls. A woman's voice, raw and trembling: "We were told to stay put. Legal said… don't speak."
A man with a cracked emblem on his chest sank to his knees, hands covering his face. "We didn't know," he whispered into the sterile air. "We didn't—"
But outside, no one believed that anymore.
A mother stepped forward with a photograph, holding it against the glass where a familiar figure could see it — her daughter's smiling face, the caption: Gone October, Facility 13. The hero flinched, backing away as if the image burned. He mouthed something — maybe I'm sorry. The mother spat back, voice shaking with fury, "You closed her. You lied."
News vans circled the perimeter. Reporters shouted questions that went unanswered. The building's PA system played a single recorded statement from a caretaker lawyer: "All parties are in custody pending investigation." That phrase — in custody — hit the public like a lead weight.
Inside, some heroes sat numb and vacant, staring into the floor's reflection as if trying to find a version of themselves they could still recognize. Others pounded on the reinforced doors, screaming for legal counsel, for explanations, for someone to say it was a mistake.
One, a man whose grin had once lit up national campaigns, pressed his forehead to the glass and broke down completely. The cameras caught it. The country watched their "Symbol of Hope" crumble, weeping silently behind bulletproof glass.
Outside, the crowd grew — not just angry families anymore, but students, workers, veterans, and nurses. People who had once cheered those heroes now burned their posters and banners. Anger curdled into action.
Indictments were read aloud on courthouse steps, charges filed in a dozen districts. Arrest teams moved on corporate towers, seizing data and funds. The Commission's board resigned en masse under the blinding light of cameras that no longer cut away. Politicians named in the ledgers stumbled through excuses and denials.
One senator — a man who once called the Commission "the nation's moral backbone" — stood trembling before his voters as a mother waved her signed waiver in the air. "Why did you sign for my child?" she screamed, tears running down her face. "Why did you let them take her?"
The microphone was yanked from his hands before he could stammer a single word.
The empty plazas and shuttered hero building became new stages for truth. Families held press conferences under its shadow, not asking for apologies — demanding consequences.
When a lawyer representing the detained heroes read the charges aloud behind bulletproof glass, a woman with mascara streaked down her cheeks shouted back, "You can keep them behind glass, but you can't hide what they did!"
The nation watched, torn between horror and grim satisfaction. Horror at what had been done in their name — satisfaction that, for once, the untouchable were behind bars.
There were no triumphant smiles left on-screen, no parades, no declarations of peace. Only men and women who had once been adored, now confined to the same kind of isolation they had condemned so many others to.
Outside, the people who had once cheered found an unexpected unity. The symbols of trust had fallen, and for the first time, the masses saw themselves not as victims, but as witnesses to the collapse of a false god.
But the anger did not stay in the plazas. It spread like fire.
Communities organized overnight. Neighborhoods that had once relied on "heroes" began forming their own protection groups — citizens guarding shelters, clinics, and schools against any attempt at "containment control."
Local militias, ex-cops, and quirk users who had been ostracized by the old system now stood shoulder to shoulder. Not mobs — protectors. People taking responsibility because they no longer trusted anyone else.
The economy shuddered. Companies named in the black ledgers saw investors vanish by the hour. Charities tied to hero programs faced bank runs. Private security firms filed for bankruptcy. The oligarchy that had profited from peace began bleeding wealth faster than it could hide it.
Across all fifty-one states, the same chant rose like a stormfront:
"We were lied to. We were used. We were priced."
The Constitution was invoked in angry op-eds. Protestors carried signs quoting it word for word. State legislatures held emergency sessions. Some governors terminated their contracts with the Commission; others called for full federal dismantlement.
The Department of Justice launched investigations into every major hero program. International allies suspended their partnerships, demanding answers. The myth of the "American Hero" was not just cracked — it was collapsing in real time.
Izuku watched none of it unfold from the surface. He didn't need to. He could feel it. Every vibration through the steel walls, every tremor of outrage above, was a confirmation. The facility around him hummed like a living thing — a great, metal beast now fully awake.
The first wave above had been loud, chaotic, necessary — the hammer that shattered illusion. But the next would be colder. Precise. Surgical. He would dismantle the roots.
He walked past the cells where prisoners watched him with silent awe. They were no longer trembling — they were waiting. Waiting for orders. For purpose. Izuku had given them both.
"You've seen it now," he said quietly as he passed. "The truth. They built their peace on corpses and lies. Tear it down — but remember, the innocent are not your targets. Break the system, not the people."
Heads nodded from behind the glass.
He reached the last hatch and paused, listening. Above him, the sound was no longer that of celebration or panic — it was something sharper, truer: the sound of a mirror cracking under the weight of its own reflection.
He smiled without warmth. "Let them look," he murmured, voice a calm whisper laced with venom. "Let them see what keeps them safe."
Then he walked down.
The files remained in that chamber — an entire country's sin compressed into data and ink — but their ghosts were already free. The storm was alive now, unstoppable.
And somewhere across the burning states, amid shattered televisions and broken PR monitors, a mother who had been told her child "died in an accident" now saw the proof, the faces, the names.
She didn't weep this time. She stood. She marched. She screamed until her voice joined thousands of others, tearing through the nation's heart.
The country that had once slept under the shining shields of its "heroes" was finally awake — furious, united, and unwilling to ever again bow to a system built on lies.
And deep beneath it all, Izuku — the boy they had once overlooked — felt their fury answer his own like an echo in the dark.
It wasn't revenge anymore.
It was correction.
If faith in heroes had been the world's currency, then he intended to bankrupt the system — and rebuild it from the bones.
With truth as its foundation.
And blood as its cost.
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