Chapter Text
Izuku Midoriya is born quirkless.
Technically, it’s a medical oddity It’s already quite rare to be quirkless these days, but to be quirkless when neither of your parents are? That is especially unusual. In fact, it’s practically unheard of, and Izuku and his mom spend a long time clinging onto that slight hope that, somehow, the tests are wrong.
But he has an extra toe joint, and unfortunately for him, it’s not exactly likely that it’s just going to disappear.
He’s crushed when his mom finally sits him down and breaks that to him. He’s hasn’t seen very much of the world, yet, and he doesn’t know much, but it’s no secret that there are no quirkless heroes—not even one.
Izuku tries his best to make his mom think that he’s okay with this. It’s not particularly successful, because he’s six, and consists mostly of him trying to stifle sobs and cry quietly instead, of him trying his best to hide the bullying from her. So he doesn’t tell her when the kids at school stop talking to him when it becomes apparent that his quirk is never going to manifest, or when Bakugou Katsuki pushes him to the ground and calls him ‘Deku’. Quirkless, weak, useless, Deku.
“Izuku,” she says him one day, crouched in front of him. She’s cradling his face in her hands and turning it this way and that to examine his bloody, split lip. Her voice is soft, and her touch even softer, but there’s strength there, something firm and uncompromising. “My brave baby boy. You don’t have to do this for me, honey. You know that right? You shouldn’t have to worry about confiding in me.”
And he does—know that, that is. But Izuku wants to be a hero one day, wants it to the bone, in the most visceral and instinctual parts of himself. It’s so wrapped up in who he is, in his very identity that it must be tangled up in him down to the DNA, a misprint in the genetic code that won’t let him want anything else, even though he’s trapped in a body that wasn’t built for it.
And Izuku knows what heroes do—he’s seen it on television, watched All Might save the world on repeat for hours. He’s seen All Might climb out of the rubble in the aftermath of one of his worst fights. The camera angle can’t quite conceal the bloody injury in the hero’s side, though through the grainy footage it is impossible to discern how serious the wound is. It looks painful though—yet All Might smiles still as he declines any help from the paramedics tentatively flocking onto the scene now that the main threat has neutralized, and instead turns to aid in the rescue efforts.
Ah, Izuku remembers thinking. So that is what it means to be a hero. It’s not just about how many bad guys you catch, then, or even how many people you can rescue. It’s not just a job where you punch your card, do your duty, and then go back home to rest at the end of the day. It’s a constant responsibility. It’s about doing everything you can to ease the suffering and the burdens of others—about giving everything you can, even yourself if need be.
And that? Izuku knows that he is weak, and useless, and quirkless. But he doesn’t need a quirk to do that. That, he can achieve.
His mom has enough on her shoulders already. It might be a sign of the straits that they’re in that though he is only six, she can’t conceal the burden that she’s struggling with from him, just trying to pay all the bills on her own.
Izuku thinks it’s probably because his father stopped sending her the money that he was supposed to a while back. These days, it’s not uncommon for the parents of quirkless children to get divorced. The societal expectation for children with a quirk of some kind, even if it’s just a weak one, is too high, and when that expectation is not met, it seems that usually one parent or the other ends up too disappointed to stick around for long.
Izuku is not just another statistic as far as this goes, though. He doesn’t even remember his father’s face, actually, because the man hadn’t even stuck around for long enough to learn whether or not Izuku had a quirk or not. He might know at this point, actually, but it probably wasn’t a factor in his decision to walk out.
That fact is a blessing in disguise, Izuku supposes. He doesn’t know how he’d deal with being the reason for the loneliness he sees in his mother’s eyes sometimes, when she stares at the empty seat at their dinner table.
And then one day, when Izuku is eight years old, his father comes back.
Izuku is hiding behind his mother’s legs, peeking out from behind her thigh with a shy curiosity. Hisashi Midoriya is a tall man. He is wearing a well-tailored business suit, and despite his height he is not particularly bulky, though through the lines of his well-pressed shirt Izuku makes out a lean physique.
His father leans forward as if to examine him in return, and Izuku shudders. There’s a cool, clinical observance in those eyes that makes Izuku worried that his father’s quirk might be one that lets him dissect people with a glance. Izuku can’t stop himself from clutching more tightly at his mother’s leg, hiding behind her fully now.
His mom doesn’t take her eyes off of the man in their doorway, but she reaches back and runs a soothing hand up Izuku’s forearm, comforting even though Izuku can feel that she’s tensed and cautious in front of him.
“Hisashi,” his mom says, and Izuku marvels silently at how kind her voice is, considering the circumstances. It is firm and gentle, the way she speaks to Izuku when he’s done something wrong and she wants to explain to him exactly what. “What are you doing here?”
His father clears his throat, much more composed than Izuku ever is when his mom fixes him with that stare of hers. “Inko,” he says. “Can we talk?”
In a perfect world, Inko Midoriya would have discovered the truth of her husband long before he showed up at her door asking for favors, and when he finally did she would have spit in his face and slammed the door on his foot to send him on his way.
But this is not a perfect world, and Izuku’s mother does neither of these things. Instead, she sighs, reluctant and hopeful all at once, and she says the words that will haunt her for years to come.
“Of course,” she tells him, ushering Izuku to his room so that the adults can talk. “Come on in.”
Izuku paces the length of his room anxiously. What does his dad want? Does he want to be a part of their lives again? That particular thought sends him stumbling into a halt. How does he feel about that? On one hand, Izuku has wished for years to have a father like all his classmates. Not—of course, Izuku corrects himself hastily—because his mother isn’t enough for him or anything. She’s all that he’ll ever need.
But...sometimes it’s hard not to wish for a little more, even though the very thought makes his chest tighten up with something sad and bitter. And if his father comes back...that means things will be easier for his mother again, right? That she will have someone better and stronger than Izuku to help her?
But at the same time, Izuku remembers the way that his mom had started crying when his father’s checks had stopped arriving in the mail, and he remembers the way she had started arriving home from work late at night and how much more exhausted she had seemed when she did. He remembers how much harder it had gotten to make her crack a smile, though she always tried her best, and he can’t help but think that no one as kind as his mother ever deserves to be that tired. He can’t help but think that he doesn’t know if he can ever forgive the person who did that to her.
Izuku takes a deep breath.
It is terribly rude to eavesdrop, Izuku knows. He knows because he has a bad habit of doing it a lot, and whenever his mom catches him she tries her hardest not to laugh when she explains that fact to him.
Still though, Izuku is sure that as long as he doesn’t get caught this time, it will be alright.
He ventures close to his door and drops to the floor, pressing his ear against the gap between it and the door.
Their voices are soft, whispering. They don’t want Izuku to hear, and it almost works, but not quite.
“Hisashi,” his mom says, and to Izuku’s surprise she doesn’t sound like she’s about to cry. She sounds angry. “What the hell is this? You can’t just come back here after all this time and ask me to let you take my son—”
"Our son,” his father tries to correct her, and Izuku hears a thud, like someone has slammed their hands on the table.
“My son,” he hears his mom snap, and now—now she sounds like she’s cracking a bit, voice wavering the way that Izuku’s does when he’s about to break into sobs—but Izuku has never heard anyone in such distress manage to sound so venomous before today. He’s never heard her sound that way before today. “You do not get to leave for six and a half years and then decide you’re entitled to his time.”
There’s a long moment of silence, and then when his father speaks next it’s softer, like his mom has finally managed to shatter the act and break through to something human. “You’re right,” his father says, quieter now. Defeated. “You’re right. But I—I’d just hoped for a chance, I suppose. To get...to get to know him.”
Now his mom falls silent, as if she’s thinking about his father’s words. “Do you really think you deserve it?” she asks.
“No,” says his father, after a long pause. “But I have to try. Just...just for a weekend, Inko. Please.”
His mom says something more after that, and Izuku can hear that she still hasn’t dropped her guard, but at this point her words drop off, her voice now too quiet for Izuku to discern.
In the end, that doesn’t matter, because the choice is Izuku’s.
His mom bends down in front of him and kisses his cheek and asks him if he would like to spend the weekend with his father.
“You don’t have to, darling,” says Inko, tucking a wild, loose strand of hair behind Izuku’s ear. “But...he is your father. I want you to be able to choose whether or not you give him a chance. That choice was taken from you the first time...I think it’s only fair that we give it to you now.”
In the future, Izuku will regret nothing more deeply than not saying no. He’ll cry himself to sleep and wish he’d wrapped himself in his mother’s arms and buried his face in her shoulder, that he’d clung to her and never let go.
But Izuku looks at his mom, kneeling down at his level, and then glances up at his father, who is standing tall above them both.
He doesn’t think he likes his father.
But heroes forgive, right? They’re kind, even to the people they don’t like.
So Izuku makes a mistake that he’ll berate himself for for years, a choice that he’ll look back on with self-hatred and the empty sort of grief one feels for something they lost without even knowing, and he says: “Okay.”
Inko Midoriya has always been prone to fits of severe anxiety, and it is to this that she attributes the way that fear builds in her chest as her ex-husband drives away with her son in his car.
She knows she’ll be lonely. Izuku has basically been her only companion for years, aside from some of their neighbors, though she doesn’t particularly wish for anyone more. After all, he’s her son, so soft and gentle and kind. There’s no one else she’d rather spend her time with.
But it’s just two days. She’ll be alright for that long, and Izuku will be too. Hisashi is a deadbeat, to be sure, the sort who cares more about his job and his money than his own child—or at least he was the last time they were together, when he walked out on them. But even back then, she would have trusted him with Izuku for two days. And if he truly has grown, then perhaps there’s a chance that the two of them could even fix their relationship.
Inko feels a little ill at the thought. Something like nausea rises in her stomach when she thinks of Izuku wanted to spend every weekend with his father, or worse— wanting to live with the man full time.
“Calm down, Inko,” she mutters to herself, patting her cheeks sharply in an attempt to stop the spiral. “Calm down. It’s what Izuku needs here that matters. Plus,” she says, finally forcing herself to turn away from the street that Hisashi’s car—now well out of sight—had driven down and closing the apartment door behind her. “It’s just for the weekend, after all.”
She’s wrong, of course, but it’s the sort of error that is impossible to realize until it’s already far too late.
The start of Izuku’s weekend with his father is awkward and stilted enough that even Izuku picks up on it right away.
It’s morning, so his father drives them both to get breakfast before they head to his place.
“So,” Izuku says brightly, gesturing widely enough that his father twitches in his seat, “then All Might was able to nullify the villain’s flames by using his Texas Smash!”
“Um,” says his father, and Izuku gives him a toothy grin, taking the confusion as a request for explanation.
“The ground in the area where they were fighting was composed largely of soft sediment! So when All Might used the Texas Smash, the wind it generated to stirred up so much dust that he was able to largely stifle the villain’s ability to create sparks and reduce the villain’s field of vision, allowing him to take the villain into custody pretty easily! Isn’t that cool?” Izuku gives his dad a hopeful glance. All Might is super cool, he knows, and he’s pretty sure that he can’t think of any better way for them to start bonding together! Because there’s no way his dad doesn’t like All Might too, right?
Izuku has to fight the urge to let his face fall when his father does not immediately light up at the mention of the world’s greatest hero. Instead, his dad crinkles his nose in confusion, and even Izuku—never quite the best at social cues, picks up that his dad isn’t the craziest about this discussion.
“You sure know a lot of big words, kid,” his father says instead. “You must be pretty smart, huh?”
Izuku blinks. “I don’t know,” he says dubiously. “No one’s ever told me that before.”
His dad makes a noncommittal noise as he pulls into a parking space in front of what looks like a small family restaurant.
When they’re seated and a waitress has pushed menus into each of their hands, his father looks at him and gives a weak half smile. “Go ahead and order whatever you want, kid.”
“Oh, are you sure?” says Izuku, curiously, and after an approving nod from his father, decides on the pancakes.
When their food finally arrives, Izuku has to blink when his father leans forward to mess with his food.
“What are you doing?” Izuku asks, tilting his head to the side curiously.
His father pauses, a deer in the headlights. “Do you...need your food cut up for you?” he asks, sounding extremely confused.
Ohhh. Izuku’s brow furrows. He sees now. It’s probably hard for his father to distinguish age appropriate behaviours because he hasn’t interacted with many children Izuku’s age. “No,” he says reassuringly, giving his father a knowledgeable nod. “I’m eight.”
His father rocks back in his seat, pursing his lips in what Izuku is pretty sure is embarrassment. “Ah,” he says. “My apologies.”
“It’s okay,” says Izuku cheerfully, trying to give his father as understanding of a smile as possible. “It was nice of you to think of it!”
An expression flickers across his father’s face for a moment, that Izuku would dismiss were he not keenly aware what irritation looks like from years of provoking it in others.
Ah, he probably came across as a bit pedantic, then. It’s not something he actively tries to do, but he knows that it happens, and he’s sure that it must be particularly annoying to feel talked down to by your eight year old son.
Izuku coughs awkwardly and goes back to eating. They don’t talk again until they’re back in the car.
It’s even more awkward than trying to hang out with some of the kids from school, but Izuku can’t help the small hope coming to life in his chest. Maybe this won’t be a total disaster after all.
The next day, his father asks him if he would like to go run some errands with him. It’s a bit early, and Izuku—who has never really been a morning person unless under duress—would much rather go back to bed. But he’s also never been one to turn down an invitation to a social gathering, considering how rarely he gets invited to them, and he figures that he has a special obligation to try extra hard in this case.
So he drags himself out of the bed in the guest room and says: “Yeah, give me five minutes!”
They’re halfway to the grocery store when it happens. His father’s phone goes off, and it must be someone pretty important because the second his father’s eyes alight on the contact name, they’re pulling over so his father can pick up the phone.
“Yes?”
Izuku strains his ears, but can’t quite make out anything that is being said on the other end of the line. But he doesn’t really need to in order to know that it must be something urgent. His father straightens in his seat and gives Izuku a nervous glance.
“Right now, sir?” his father sounds a little nervous, and starts drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. “No, no, I’m not trying to—I’m just, I’m with my son right—wait, what ? Bring him? You can’t be serious.”
They must be, because after a couple more terse exchanges, his father sighs and hangs up. “Change of plans, kid,” he says, and pulls the car into a u-turn.
His father bends the speed limit until they make it to a less populated part of town, pulling up behind a building that Izuku doesn’t recognize.
He’s just unbuckling his seatbelt when his father takes him by the shoulders. “Listen to me, Izuku,” says his father, brow glistening with a light sheen sweat, lips thin. Izuku can’t help but squirm uncomfortably at the sudden pain in his arms—his father’s hands are far, far too tight. “You will not tell your mother about anything you’re about to see, do you understand?”
Izuku’s chest hitches, and he bites back what he wants to say—that he doesn’t keep secrets from mom, not unless he really has to. But this is his father. He can trust him, surely.
“Okay,” says Izuku, and his father lets him go.
The building they go into is nearly empty. His father steers him down some twisting corridors until they happen upon a conference room, which he pushes open and quickly takes a seat next to three others.
Izuku lingers in the doorway, and then decidedly does not process what he’s seeing.
There’s a large screen mounted on the far wall, showing footage from some sort of raid being done by a hero agency. The news channel keeps showing clips from a fight between a young female hero—and a group of thug-level villains interspersed with commentary.
There are also a series of smaller screens that show what is happening in the raid in much greater detail, though in grainy black and white. It’s security camera footage from the building the raid is happening in. Theoretically, Izuku has no idea how his father and his coworkers got their hands on the live security footage.
Izuku thinks that he should know what this means, there’s a siren blaring in head, a red flag being waved in front of his face, but the puzzle pieces just won’t click. He doesn’t understand.
The conference table that his father is sitting at is quite large, though it is only occupying four people. His father is sitting at the table’s right side, and to his left, at the foot of the table, is a young adult woman with short purple hair and a nose ring. Clad in a dark leather jacket, she looks like the sort of student many of Izuku’s teachers would shake their head at in disappointment, the sort they’d call hopeless and give up on in a second.
To her left is another woman. Izuku has to actively work to repress the urge to shy back when he sees her, not wanting to be rude. She looks a little older, hair in a dignified bun, black as pitch, and has a scar that winds up the side of her face like a river snake. To Izuku she seems almost a mirror image of his father, posture straight, eyes calculating, black suit immaculate. Izuku’s first impression of his father had been that the man’s gaze was dissecting, terrifying, and this woman seems worse, in a way. Her eyes rake over him, and Izuku gets the sense that they aren’t just taking taking him apart. They’re looking for the most painful way to do so.
She turns to his father and says, with a hint of a European accent: “ That’s your son, Hisashi? He doesn’t look like much.”
Izuku frowns. He doesn’t know much about this sort of thing, but it’s pretty rude to insult your coworker’s kid, right? But she doesn’t look afraid of being reprimanded by her boss or anything, and his dad doesn’t say anything in return either.
He shifts on his feet. The hair on the back of his neck is rising, he can hear sirens in his head—going off, screaming danger danger danger but he can’t quite figure out why.
He steps back.
“No need to be so afraid, son,” says a voice, snapping him out of his reverie.
Izuku stops, blinks, and stares at the person who had spoken. Though they had called him son, the man who had spoken was most certainly not Izuku’s father. The new man is sitting at the head of the table— Izuku can’t comprehend how he had missed him on his first glance-over of the people in the room, like he was a distortion in an otherwise clear image. The man doesn’t look particularly intimidating. He’s not dressed as formally as Izuku’s dad or the black-haired woman, but is also not as irreverent towards any possible existing clothing regulations as the punk girl. From where Izuku’s standing, across the room from him, he can see that the man has no suit jacket in sight, white dress shirt rolled up to the elbows. His hair, a chestnut brown— dyed , Izuku notes absently; the man’s roots are growing out a bit, and they’re black—is ungelled, falling in his face a bit as he looks up from the paperwork before him and gives Izuku an inviting smile.
This has to be their boss. His position at the conference table and the way that the others all glancing at him, waiting for some sort of cue, suggests that despite his more casual dressage, he holds some power that they don’t. And he seems...nice actually. Much more so than the other two do, or even than his own father has, since they’ve come here.
He steps inside, and closes the door behind him.
“Take a seat, son,” says the man.
It’s a relatively large table, so there are plenty of empty seats for Izuku to choose from. He wrings his hands together, glancing around, before skittering over to a spot on his father’s side of the table, at the corner that puts him closer to the smiling man than the punk girl.
The woman with dark hair glares at Izuku again, and he can’t help but quail slightly beneath it, reaching for the back of his father’s suit jacket, trying to clutch at it for comfort.
His father doesn’t react, but Izuku is distracted before he can notice by their boss leaning forward again. He’s looming above Izuku a bit, rather than bending down so they’re face to face like most adults who want to talk to him do.
“So tell me what your name is!”
Izuku smiles back. He’s still deeply uncomfortable, and there’s still something about this that’s giving him goosebumps, like a centipede’s been dropped down his shirt and is now trailing it’s way up his spine. But he was raised to have manners, to reciprocate friendliness with friendliness, and he knows his mother wouldn’t have him do anything less.
“I’m Izuku,” he says softly, still not letting go of his father’s shirtsleeve, and the man rocks back in his seat, looking delighted with the information.
“Well, Izuku,” he says, voice saccharine. “I’m very sorry to take this time out of your busy day, but I promise you that I’ll let you and your dad go as soon as possible.”
Izuku nods shyly, as the adults all finally— finally —draw their gazes away from Izuku and begin talking to one another.
What they’re saying doesn’t really make much sense—a series of hushed, jumbled mutterings as Izuku watches the news anchors discuss the footage of the hero-villain fight—
“The shipping operation has been compromised—”
“No shit, asshole, but what the fuck are we supposed to do about it?”
“Do you know how many million yen our organization has invested in this?”
“It’s her, that female hero—”
“I swear, she’s everywhere we turn these days. She’s quite...well, if only we knew what her quirk is.”
“We don’t even know who she is! Just some random hero—”
“I know!” says Izuku brightly.
And...oh. Maybe that was the wrong thing to say. Everyone is staring at him now. His dad and the girl with the purple hair both look annoyed, and the other woman looks disgusted that he even dared speak in their presence. Only their boss looks curious, propping his chin on his hands with a sort of vague amusement.
“Care to enlighten us then, kiddo?” he says, and ah. Izuku recognizes that tone of voice from schoolyard bullies—it’s the way they talk to him when he’s done something wrong and is about to do something worse, the way you talk to someone when you know they’re about to mess up and you’re eager to see them crash and burn.
Izuku squirms in his seat, but doesn’t falter. He hadn’t recognized her at first, but after watching the TV for a bit, he can’t believe that he’d forgotten.
“Well,” he begins nervously. “She’s been calling herself Pangaea. She’s a newer hero and has been working underground a lot, since she didn’t go to UA or any of the other really big hero schools. That’s probably why you’ve never heard of her, even though she has a really powerful quirk!”
“Yeah,” snaps the girl with purple hair. “Some form of earth manipulation, obviously. Probably a variant of telekinesis.”
She gestures at the screen, where they’re showing a clip of the young hero sending a twisting spire of rock in the direction of some foes.
“Nope!” says Izuku. “It’s her feet!”
A skeptical quiet that falls, and Izuku flushes, rushing to explain. “It’s like! Um, um...she’s not...Have you noticed that she’s not actually levitating any of the rock or soil? It’s always connected to the rest of the ground by at least one point? If it were a type of terrakinesis she probably wouldn’t have that limitation. That means that she needs at least an indirect point of communication with whatever she’s manipulating, and looking at her fighting style, the most likely spot for her is the soles of her feet. My theory is that she’s kind of like...talking with the ground? I think she’s sending high-frequency vibrations through her feet and applying direction to it in order to manipulate its state and make it do what she wants!”
There’s another moment of silence, surprised now, rather than annoyed. Izuku’s father looks stunned, mouth slightly agape. Even the man who must be their boss is blinking a bit, like trying to process the statement. He’s no longer smiling like the cat that caught the canary, but there’s a something pleased is pulling at the corners of his lips.
“Do you even have any proof?” says the other woman, her slight accent a bit stronger now, her tone scathing. “This is all just wild theorization. Plus, she looks like she’s manipulating the earth with her arm motions.”
Izuku scoots back a bit, not sure how to deal with the outburst. “I mean—I mean yeah, she does use gestures in correlation with her attacks. But I’m pretty sure I’m right. She could be using arm movements on instinct, or to deflect suspicion from the true nature of her quirk, but if you...well, it’s...pretty hard to find footage of her fights, but if you take a look at what does exist there are some consistencies that point to this, or something pretty close to it, being her quirk. Like, whenever she gets knocked off of her feet or is launched up into the air, she doesn’t use her quirk. Also, her arm movements aren’t always consistent with what types of attacks they create, but her footwork is. There’s also footage of her fighting a villain where the terrain changes from soil to pavement and you can see that she modifies all of her stances, probably to account for the fact that she needs a different vibrational frequency to manipulate it. And lastly, if you look at the soles of her boots, they’re significantly thinner than what you usually see on the shoes of pro heroes, which are designed to be durable and high traction. If I had to guess, I’d bet they’re made out of some sort of special material too, something that allows the vibrations through so she doesn’t have to fight barefoot.”
There’s a silence, it stretches out long enough that Izuku has to resist the urge to fidget fearfully under the scrutiny.
The stillness is broken by a sharp, delighted clap. “Astonishing!” says their boss, pushing his sleeves, which have slipped down a bit, back up. “Where’d you pick up such analytical skills? Did someone teach you?”
Izuku smiles proudly. The man believes him! He doesn’t know if anyone has ever listened to one of his theories before without becoming defensive by the end of it. “No,” he says. “I just really like heroes! They’re the best! All Might is my favorite. I’m going to a hero too, when I grow up!”
“Aren’t you quirkless?” says their boss, a hint of a laugh in his voice.
Izuku falters, falls back a bit. “Yeah,” he says. “But I shouldn’t let that stop me, right? I mean, a real hero would never give up. Plus, that analysis stuff...I’m really good at it. I don’t know how, but maybe I can use that?”
The man tilts his head at Izuku, meets his eyes and stares at Izuku, calm and calculating. “You are really good at it,” he says, something thoughtful in his voice. “Exceptionally so...you have a lot of potential.”
“You think so?” Izuku can’t help himself. He launches himself out of his seat at that, only the be stopped cold by a hand on his chest—his father’s hand, keeping him from moving too excitedly. His sudden movement has made him the target of suspicious looks from the other two in the room, and Izuku stutters but moves on. “You’re the first person who’s ever told me that.”
The man tssks . “And what a shame that is. Some people just aren’t capable of seeing past their biases. But not to worry, my boy. I’m not one of those people. Masami?”
The punk girl turns, stands at attention. “Sir?” she says, more respectful than Izuku would have expected from the way she’s acted thus far.
“Will you pass this information on to the relevant parties?”
She pauses, gives Izuku an odd glance, furrows her brow, then nods. “Of course,” she says, and pulls her phone from her back pocket as she slips from the room quietly.
Now the man turns to Izuku’s father, leans back in his seat with a cocky grin, looking delighted, face smug with self-satisfaction, like things have worked out just according to plan.
“I like your son, Hisashi,” he says, drawling the words out. “He’s smart. And funny, wanting to be a hero with no quirk.” His tone has changed now, turned into something cold and uncompromising.
There’s a sudden chill down Izuku’s spine, and he can’t help but feel he’s made a miscalculation. He’s suddenly remembers everything he’s ever read about the art of misdirection, and he’s overcome with the a sudden misgiving, low in is stomach, that he’d been so afraid of the more obvious threats in the room that he’d forgotten that the person who can stab you with a smile is the deadliest of them all.
The man rotates in his seat and fixes Izuku with the stare of a man sizing up a prize. “I think he could be useful to us,” he says. “We’re going to keep him.”
It takes Izuku a moment to process the words. He’s so frozen that he almost doesn’t hear them, and he certainly doesn’t hear his father’s protest (half-hearted, weak, the sort of thing you say more for show than anything else).
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m only here for the weekend, I promised my mom that I’d be back by—”
The man stands, and Izuku stumbles backwards. His legs collide with the chair behind him, and he’s saved from falling back by the man’s hand, catching his shoulder. His hold is tight.
It stings.
Izuku twists a bit. “Let me go!”
The man shakes his head, looks quietly disappointed. “Hey, kid,” he says, sounding much gentler than he feels. “Don’t be too upset, we’ll probably appreciate your help more than she ever could.”
There’s a pain building in Izuku’s left shoulder, something hot and and uncomfortable. He gasps a little bit, tries to wriggle loose from the man’s grip. The man gives him a smile, so wide and hysterical that it’s edges are practically sharp.
A sudden wave of nausea has Izuku pitching forward, the pain colliding with a sudden onset of dizziness to send his world flickering around him, graying out at the edges as he fights to stay conscious.
“Tell me,” says the man. “Have you ever heard of the villain they call Vicious?”
Izuku shudders, shakes his head and presses his hands to his mouth to stop himself from hurling everywhere. The pain increases to a fever pitch, practically a scream in his ear drums, even as he hears the outside world around him quiet. The man’s hand is like a brand on his shoulder, one that he no longer has the energy to squirm away from. His vision is like static now, fuzzy and distorted. Through the fog he can just barely make out his father, resolutely looking away. Great, Izuku thinks.
“Of course you haven’t,” continues the man— Vicious , “and that’s how I like it. People will know my name one day. They’ll know all about me. But only after it’s too late for me to be stopped. Only then. Not a second before. I didn’t get to the top of the villain underground by being arrogant, after all.”
He bends forward, like Izuku, who is on his knees, twitching in pain like an insect skewered by a pin, is a particularly interesting lab specimen for him to examine. “I’m not arrogant about my abilities, nor about the people I choose to employ under me. You may be quirkless, and a child,” he says, and the shriek in Izuku’s ears reaches its crescendo, his world flickers in front of him, like a TV with a bad connection, it fades out and then back in—Vicious is there, and then suddenly he’s an out-of-focus image that Izuku can’t quite set his eyes on, “but I have a use for you, and that’s good enough for me.”
Izuku’s whole world is practically static at this point, alive and violent and noisy and entirely incomprehensible to him. It’s buzzing around him, it’s warping him down to the bone, splitting him open and apart and it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts—
He blacks out.
He doesn’t know how long he’s unconscious for, but when he wakes up, he’s in a different room altogether. He sits up, and rolls his shoulder. He’s not in pain anymore, thank God, but the side of his body that that man had been touching is buzzing slightly, all pins and needles like he’d fallen asleep on it, though the sensation is fading rapidly, growing more indistinct with every second. Izuku stumbles to his feet, rubbing the exhaustion out of his eyes and trying to take stock of his situation.
The room he’s in is much less austere than he remembers the rest of the building being, the only things betraying it as even being the same location are the washed-out white walls and glaring ceiling lights, like a hospital from a horror game. But there’s a bed, that he had woken up in, a bathroom, a desk and a wardrobe. There’s even a TV. It’s not even that small, comparative in size to his bedroom at home.
It doesn’t look like a prison cell.
But the door is locked, and there are no windows, so it might as well be one anyways.
He tugs at the door a couple times despite this fact, rattling the handle. His breathing is coming faster now, hitched and panicked, until he finally has to force himself to give up, step back, and rub at his eyes until they feel raw. He can’t cry. He can’t cry . His mom always says that it’s important to stay calm in times of crisis, but if he lets himself start crying now he doesn’t know if he will ever stop—there’s something cracking open in his chest, a chasm deep enough that he doubts tears will be enough to fill it.
Izuku forces himself back into the bed, and he huddles under the quilt. It’s warm, and soft, and safe, and if he pretends hard enough he can almost convince himself that it’s his mother.
He doesn’t know how long they keep him locked in there. It must be a couple of days, at least, because the door opens every once in a while for someone—usually the punk girl, Masami—to step inside and set a tray of food down on the desk.
Izuku doesn’t try to ask any questions, and no one offers any answers.
That’s okay.
He doesn’t want to know. He doesn’t want to know. He doesn’t want to know.
He shivers, curls up tighter in bed, and wishes with all his heart that he will wake up.
After a couple cycles of meals being delivered, Izuku finally dares venture from the bed again. He’s been staring blankly at the wall for the most part, with breaks to eat and use the bathroom, and been scratching a furrow into it determinedly with his left thumbnail for what must be hours at this point, trying to find some outlet for the nervous energy roiling around inside of him. But his finger is bleeding a little now, and hurts too much for him to continue.
But maybe if he checks the news...maybe they know he’s missing. Maybe they’re looking for him and getting close. Maybe—
He never gets to look. The first couple channels are daytime TV shows, which he passes over quickly. But the first news channel he sees, he stops.
The remote clatters from Izuku’s hands, and he sways. No, he thinks, a cold sweat breaking out on his forehead as he doubles over and retches the meager contents of his stomach onto the ground in front of him.
Underground hero Pangaea critically injured in battle — is her career over?
There’s a grainy, enlarged photo on the screen, another hero dragging Pangaea’s limp, injured form to help. Her face is slack and bloody, and though it appears that the worst of her injuries have been blurred out by the news station, Izuku can see enough to realize that her legs...they must be practically crushed. They’re bent at all the wrong angles.
He’s going to be sick again, so he slams a trembling finger on the power button of the remote, practically collapsing where he’s standing, unable to even make it back to the bed this time before he has to sit down heavily. He shakes, buries his face in his knees, curling up as tiny as possible as if that will help him escape what they’ve done, what he’s done because, God, it had been him. I did this I did this I did this.
He chokes on a breath. He can’t. He knows now, what they want with him.
He wishes he didn’t.
At some point, the door swings open, and it’s Masami, but she’s not there to bring him food this time. She stands there, cold and expectant. “You’re wanted,” she tells him, and when he just looks at her, blank and confused, she scowls and taps at her wrist— hurry up —and says: “Now.”
There’s an uncompromising set to her face. Izuku notes vaguely that she must not be a very good actress. It would have been easy, with her youthful appearance and presentation, to trick Izuku into latching onto her, to trick him into viewing her as an ally rather than an enemy. It’s likely why they’ve been sending her with his meals rather than any of the others. And maybe it would have worked, or maybe it wouldn’t have, but it’s a moot point now because Izuku has felt less hatred in a dozen schoolyard quarrels with Bakugou than he does from a single one of Masami’s gazes.
It’s okay, though.
Izuku knows what he has to do.
He stands up, and follows her.
She takes him downstairs, into a basement of sorts. It’s considerably less well kept than the rest of the building. The tile floor has been foregone for torn, damaged concrete, and the the sickly yellow fluorescent lights are now dimmer, more orange, not quite banishing all the shadows in the corners of the room.
Izuku sidesteps a dark brown stain on the ground in his path; there are a few more like it around the room, some are splattered on the walls, and even a couple on the ceiling. He does not let himself think about what they probably are.
There’s a chair pulled up in the center of the room, under one of the lights. Vicious is sitting in it. Izuku’s father is standing behind him, and decidedly averts his eyes when Izuku comes to a halt in front of them.
“Sir,” says Masami, gesturing to Izuku. Vicious nods, and Izuku hears her footsteps fade behind him, and the door to the basement close behind her as she makes her exit.
Izuku stares at Vicious. The man still looks terrifyingly affable. He’s dressed much the same as he was when Izuku saw him last, though now his hair is pulled back in a lazy half ponytail, like he needed it out of his face before engaging in work.
Vicious smiles, all teeth. “Izuku,” he says. “I’m so sorry we kept you waiting. I’m afraid we had to take care of some matters before I could arrange this meeting with you. I hope your accommodations haven’t been too unpleasant, though. I wanted you to be comfortable.” His gaze falls on Izuku, expectant.
Yeah, except you locked me in and won’t let me leave, Izuku thinks viciously. “Yes,” is what he says though, voice dry and cracking, because he’s doubtful that he actually has any other choice.
Vicious looks satisfied, leaning back in his chair. “Good, I’m glad to hear it,” he says. “Now, I’m going to cut to the chase here. Do you know what I want from you?”
He does. Izuku wrings his hands together, nervous, and stares resolutely at the ground at the villain’s feet. “Pangaea,” he whispers after a moment. “You want me to do what I did to her...to other heroes.”
“Clever,” says Vicious, “as I expected. Yes, that’s exactly what we want—”
It’s a moment of sudden boldness that has Izuku suddenly meeting Vicious’ gaze. “Why me, though?” he says, voice suddenly hotter than even he expected. Vicious looks surprised, and a little annoyed, and Izuku flinches, immediately backpedaling, both physically and verbally. “I mean...I just mean. There’s lots of people who can do that. I’m not the only one. Why would you want to use me? I’m...I’m just a kid.”
“Ah,” says Vicious, face relaxing. “But that’s exactly why, young Izuku! You’re right. I have met some adults who can do what you do. But never someone your age! I told you when we first met that I try not to be arrogant about the people I hire. And that’s the case here. It’s true, you are a child. There are going to be many aspects of keeping you here that might seem more trouble than they’re worth, to the average person. But I am not average. I,” he lays an index finger on his temple thoughtfully, “have foresight. I’m smart enough to know that if you’re this good at your age, you’ll prove your worth soon enough. I have no use for a strategist who has already reached their peak. But...you? Someone with such natural talent? That I can shape? You may be quirkless, but that alone makes you more valuable to me than half the people I employ.”
Izuku knows what he has to do. He knows what he has to do. He takes a deep, shuddering breath, and he says: “No.”
Vicious blinks, looking as startled as if he’d been struck. “What do you mean?” he says, flabbergasted.
Izuku’s father steps forward suddenly, furiously. “Izuku,” he snaps. “How dare you!”
Izuku’s face feels hot, and his eyes feel wet. Vicious hasn’t left his seat, and Izuku hopes that he doesn’t. There’s probably very little chance of him getting away with this without Vicious doing that...that thing to him again, but…but that’s okay right? Because...because that’s what a hero would do. A hero would rather die themselves than be complicit in hurting others. And Izuku...Izuku might be quirkless, might not be able to protect people from rampaging supervillains or lift collapsed buildings off of them with his bare hands, but this...
This he can do.
“No,” he says again, looking at his dad now, angry. “I-I can’t make you let me go home. But I don’t want to hurt anyone. I won’t.”
“Izuku,” snaps his dad again, taking a sharp step forward. Izuku can’t help himself, gives his father the most furious look he can muster.
“You’re a coward,” he says. It comes out a more sad than angry though, and he’s sniffling now, loud and distraught. There are silent tears streaming down his face now, even though he promised himself he wouldn’t cry. It doesn’t count until I start sobbing, he tells himself, shoulders hitching. “How could you do this?”
“What’s wrong with him?” he hears Vicious ask his father. The villain still sounds legitimately bewildered, like he can’t comprehend why Izuku doesn’t understand what is just good business sense . “Is it the mom thing? Should we kill her? Would that help?”
Vicious says it so casually, so mildly, that it takes Izuku a moment to process the words. “What?” he chokes, and the fear of it paralyzes him. Not mom. Not her. No, no, no.
Vicious looks at Izuku, frozen in place, and lights up like he’s had the idea of the century. “Ah, Izuku, my boy!” he says, sounding delighted. “I have an plan that will keep us both happy, then!” He stands up, and walks over to Izuku’s side, and crouches beside him like they’re old friends, wrapping a large arm around Izuku’s shoulders, hand coming to rest in the same spot where he’d first used his quirk on Izuku.
Izuku doesn’t bother to hide his flinch, and if the villain notices it, he certainly doesn’t care. “Here it is!” he says. “You cooperate with us, then, and I will not only let your mother live, I will guarantee you her safety. She’ll be fine. Yeah, she might miss you a bit, but she’ll be alive and happy!”
Izuku shifts away slightly, uncomfortable, but Vicious’ grip doesn’t let him get very far. “But…” he says softly, trailing off.
Would Vicious do it? Kill his mom?
“Now, if you’re uncooperative, things are going to turn out a little different for Mrs. Inko Midoriya,” says Vicious, and there’s something about the way he speaks, like human lives are a currency of which he has more than he could ever possibly spend, that convinces Izuku that Vicious may be cruel, but he is not a liar. Why would he be, when his most effective weapon is the truth?
Don’t start sobbing , he tells himself, as silent tears trickle down his cheeks. The clench of his heart in his chest is growing tighter by the moment. What is he supposed to do? A hero wouldn’t cooperate with a villain. But a hero wouldn’t sacrifice their own mother to the bad guys either (and even if they would...that’s a line that Izuku, for all his dreams of heroism, doesn’t think he could ever cross).
He thinks about the news, thinks about Pangaea, legs twisted under her in a million different directions, thinks about blood and violence and pain—the memory of it still thrumming vaguely under his skin.
He knows what he has to do. Vicious still has an arm draped over the back of Izuku’s neck, and the weight of it hangs heavy. It’s a noose around his throat, about to pull tight. It’s a python, squeezing him in a deadly embrace as his ribcage cracks beneath. It’s the blade of a guillotine in free fall above him, and Izuku wishes his head would just hit the floor already.
He’s shaking. But he thinks about his mother, and it’s a choice that makes itself. He’d consign himself to fates worse than this a thousand times over for her.
Izuku trembles. He is in a den of monsters, in the grip of one who has struck him where he’s weakest and is now poised for the kill, teeth bared, ready to tear him apart as soon as he breaks, as soon as he stops fighting. And it’s not a choice. Izuku has no choice. Maybe he never did. A tear drips off his chin and onto the ground. He nods, a silent, frightened thing. “Okay,” he says, and it’s what the wolves have been waiting for.
The teeth sink in.