Work Text:
Izuku is diagnosed quirkless when he is four. At first, he can’t believe it, praying that he is a late bloomer and that that toe joint is wrong. But he’s accepted it by the time he’s six, older and more hurt. Less willing to forgive the world for being such a harsh teacher. For stifling when it was supposed to nurture.
That’s why, he supposes, it’s so surprising that when he’s ten, the world begins to slip.
It happens at night, in the moment right before he falls asleep. He feels a sharp tug in his stomach, on something invisible and new.
He’s not sure what exactly happens as his vision grays out, disoriented and confused. A thread dangles in front of him, gold and glowing, the only thing in his immediate vicinity that still retains any color. He feels the tug again, even more intense. Hesitantly, he reaches out to touch the thread and his hand contacts a gentle, abstract warmth. With nothing else to do, he tries to follow the thread where it leads. He walks slowly, tracing where it goes, tiptoeing through his living room quietly. As he grasps the thread longer, the warmth intensifies along with the tug and soon he finds that he is being pulled towards wherever the thread leads. The pull is slow at first before the world starts rushing by, colors flashing by as he becomes insubstantial, going through walls and over streets.Strangely, his vision stays gray and he soon finds out that the colors are from people. It’s the only color there is.
When the pulling stops he finds himself in a bedroom, clearly for a little girl. But the medical equipment and faint smell of ammonia gives away that she’s sick too, likely with a chronic or terminal medical condition. When he looks at the bed, he sees the girl in black and white vision, tubes around her and in her, helping her stay alive as she sleeps. The golden thread is connected to her chest, where a softly glowing golden ball of light rests, just about the size of a snow globe. She’s too thin, too gaunt for a child that should be bright and full of life. Suddenly, in her sleep, her breath stops. Her chest lurches up, tiny body jerking in a seizure as her eyes fly open, bleary with pain. He can see it, her pain, as the light in her body pulses and flickers.
He rushes forward, carding a hand through her hair. Instinct tells him that no one can hear him while the world still looks black and white. She looks at him, eyes pleading and whimpering and Izuku is right next to her, crying for her, crying with her.
Help me. Help me. It hurts. It hurts. Her eyes project years of anguish and suffering into him. The price of living had been high and she was so young, probably near him in age. He looks on, tears still falling down his face as he reaches down to pick up the ball of light, disconnecting the thread. Rest. He tells her with his eyes. You can let go now. The fight is over. I’m so, so proud of you.
And she does, eyes overcome with relief. Overwhelmed with it. And Izuku grieves.
After he untangles the ball of light from the little girl, Izuku finds himself tugged to a new place. He doesn’t resist the tug as it pulls him away.
He looks around, confused and disoriented but still clutching the light tightly. There’s a river rushing in front of him, but the water is dark and murky.
At the edge of the river, a boat rests with a dark figure shrouded in a long robe, face completely shadowed even as eyes shine out from under the hood like beacons. The dark figure blinks at Izuku’s trembling form.
“How odd. Child, is this your first reaping?”
Izuku stutters out, “Wh-what do you mean?”
The figure points at the ball of light cradled carefully to his chest. “You must be a new one. But you’re also the first mortal reaper I’ve ever met.”
“I’m— I— I don’t get it?”
“The soul in your hands. You are on the banks of the River Styx. Now, let’s not dawdle, you can pass her over and I will carry her across.”
Izuku had known, in the back of his head, but he had prayed it wasn’t a soul he had just taken. Gripping his hair and tugging with one hand, he mutters, “What have I done? What have I done?”
“No, child, you did what you had to. I can see your domain now. A heavy burden for someone as young as you.”
“My domain?”
“Well, you can’t possibly reap all the dead. There are many of us, psychopomps, though you are the first I’ve met that is both human and alive. Your burden is heavy, Midoriya Izuku. You will only ever reap those around the ages 7 to 19. You will face tragedy, but you will not bear this weight alone.”
Izuku takes a deep breath, processing all the information, “Oh—? Um, does it, does it hurt for them when it happens?” Izuku gestures towards the softly glowing light in his hands.
The figure visibly softens. “No, child, it does not. They go in peace. The children are always treated with special care.”
Izuku blows out a breath before steeling himself.
“Can I come with? On the boat? I want to make sure she gets— home.”
The figure jerks a little, as if in shock. “That’s unnecessary.”
“But I want to. I want to make sure she gets there.”
The figure looks carefully at him and Izuku gets the impression of a gentle smile. “Come, child. You may call me Charon.”
Izuku clambers into the boat, still carefully cradling the young child in his hands. He whispers to her, “You’re going to be okay. It won’t hurt anymore.”
That’s how Izuku’s life continues. He follows the threads usually two to three times a day, once after school, once before he sleeps, and sometimes, once when he’s sleeping.
His eyes grow old as he delivers souls. He watches life too young snuffed out over and over again. Potential slipping away. But sometimes, he cannot help but be thankful. The children he reaps from the hospital are so tired. Sometimes still bright, but there is something heavier lined in their bones and he aches for them. There is something so distinct about the silence that pervades his world when it goes gray, and that quiet feels like the slow drive of a black hearse and funeral casket. He still cries for every soul he must take, until mourning becomes synonymous with homework and dinner.
He gets assigned to accidents too, car crashes and fatal mistakes. Izuku just does his best to make these quick, so they don’t get a chance to remember. To process. He tells them don’t worry and that the world will learn to move on without their brilliance, if ever so gently, if ever so quietly.
Izuku is so soft for these kids. He loves them as soon as he meets them and long after, making sure to board Charon’s boat each time, watchful and protective, making sure that they make it home. That they truly get to rest. It’s so easy to love them, and harder to let them go, but he does, every time. Because they deserve it. Because they are worthy of rest.
He knows faintly, though, that Charon is also protecting him. He has yet to reap any child that results from malicious intent and actions. It’s only a matter of time, though. He cannot be shielded forever. It’s a weight Izuku carries with solemnity, though he still cannot regret what he does. The dead have been kind to him, and he is glad that these children may feel love one last time. Let it be the last feeling they have.
Izuku tilts his head up, blinking tears away. He’s on the boat with Charon. After he gets off the boat, he’s always automatically tugged back to the surface, though it’s nice that he can choose where he reappears (it had taken a few times before he’d realized). But quietly, he thinks that he does not want to go back. Here, there is only peace and all of time stretching out, infinite and patient.
Charon glances at him, bright, fiery eyes focusing on Izuku before fixing on a different point in the distance. He starts, slowly saying, “Child, you know of the tale of Persephone and Hades, correct?”
Izuku rubs at his eyes before peering up at him curiously. “Yeah?”
“The part about the pomegranate? Some of it holds true. Pomegranate is the fruit of the Underworld. It seeks to keep. If you eat a pomegranate, it will extend your duration here. It’s not permanent as of now, but as you consume it, you might risk it becoming permanent.”
There is no hesitation as Izuku’s eyes light up and he says, “I want to stay with you.” Charon puts a hand on his head, warm and fond, but also a little sad. In his other hand, he twists his wrist, allowing an open section of pomegranate to appear before handing it to Izuku.
Izuku holds it with reverence, hands still so gentle, eyes shining. He wonders if there is irony that he finds comfort in the dead and those that deal with them.
“You should not want to stay with me. You still have a life to live, Izuku. You’re mortal. I can wait for you.”
Izuku shakes his head, “No, no, I want this. You’re safe. You care.” His eyes are pleading and so soft. Charon cannot turn him away. Izuku has been hurt so deeply by humans, other people. Charon will never turn him away (he’s protective).
Charon lets his hand card through Izuku’s hair, smiling faintly as Izuku’s eyes close and he leans against Charon’s leg. He curls closely into Charon, reveling in the feeling of safety and home . The world can keep spinning without him. It doesn’t need him. He doesn’t need it. He’d be happy if he stayed here. ( The dead are kind).
“You know, it’s peculiar.”
“Hm?” Izuku makes a questioning noise as he looks up from carefully soothing the soul lying in his lap.
“You’re the first mortal psychopomp I’ve come across. And you’re a gentle soul. It’s very different.”
“What do you mean?”
“Being a psychopomp is often something deities are born into. Rarer so, the dead are punished by becoming reapers. Yet, you are an exception.”
“I don’t mind. I met you here. And the Underworld is not so bad. I like it here.”
Charon watches him sorrowfully, “A gentle, gentle soul,” he murmurs, resting a hand on Izuku’s shoulder.
Izuku leans into it, “They hurt so much, the children I carry. I do not mind sending them to sleep.”
“The overworld has hurt you dearly, but still you bear the weight of their mistakes.”
Izuku does not deny it. “Living is what’s hard, Charon. When it is my time, I will join you gladly, as friend and family.”
Charon produces an opened pomegranate in response and Izuku smiles, carefully pulling off a few seeds before popping them in his mouth. Charon’s hand never wavers from his shoulder and Izuku pauses in eating once in a while to reassure the soul in his lap.
After awhile, Izuku starts the conversation again. “I’m glad she’s out of there,” he says quietly, “She was in so much pain when I was pulled to her. She didn’t deserve that.”
“No one does,” Charon comments in reply, “You just understand that better than most.”
“Am I broken?” he wonders.
“No, just gentle. The world does not understand how to handle children like you with care.” More quietly, he thinks that the living do not deserve Izuku. The dead can see his kindness, his gentleness, and they treat him with careful, cupping hands. Encouraging. It is no wonder that Izuku asks for the pomegranate, just to stay a little longer.
Izuku is familiar with death. Growing up quirkless, and still regarded as so, is it so farfetched he might crave it too? Death is relief. Rest. A true home, all accepting, all encompassing.
He gets it. He does. Maybe that’s why he’s uniquely suited to being a psychopomp. It’s never been a burden or punishment for him. He lets the kids close their eyes and takes them away, where the world and its greedy eyes can no longer steal from them. Here, they can let go. They don’t have to be tired anymore. They don’t have to be anything except kids.
He gets his first suicide case when he is twelve. He looks at the boy, likely around 16, looking at the empty bottle of pills and slacking body, slipping further and further away into an eternal kind of sleep. Izuku cries for him because he understands. Because he sees the hurt, the pain, and the desperate loneliness. Because he wished someone had noticed, that someone did listen. Because like all children, he had deserved better. Izuku looks at this boy and thinks that the world has failed him. That he has hurted for long enough. And when he picks up the boy’s soul, the world is quiet and his heart hurts, but he does not regret.
“You’ve done enough. You are enough. You've done so well. You’re allowed to let go now. I promise I’ll be here. I promise I’ll catch you. I have you.” Izuku whispers a litany of promises and handles the light in his hands carefully. He lets love pour into his words, even as his throat aches and he can feel the resonance in his own feelings. His own yearning.
He says everything he wishes someone would tell him. Everything he would like to hear.
The long, spindly fingers rest in his scalp, gray and impossibly old, knowing in a way that Izuku will never be able to comprehend.
“I would drown them in the Styx for you. Leave them in the Acheron, toss them in the Cocytus, burn them in the Phlegethon and never give them the relief of the Lethe.”
Izuku sits at the bottom of the boat, peaceful, eyes half-closed as he leans against Charon.
“I would not want that from you,” he says softly. He smiles up at Charon so they know that he is so thankful for their care.
He turns to watch the gray-black water, swaying with the rocking of that boat, unchanged by the passage of time. The Underworld is supposed to be harsh and unforgiving, but here, in the boat with Charon, under the swimming reflections of water on the rock ceiling stretching high above them, he thinks nothing has ever been gentler to him.
“I could deny them passage into Elysium. Trap them on the shores of the Styx,” Charon offers.
Izuku sighs fondly, grabbing the hand resting on his head and moving it to cup his cheek before leaning into it and letting his eyes flutter shut. “I would not want that from you either,” he exhales. Charon lets him rest his head there before moving his hand up to run through Izuku’s curls, then stooping down to loop his arm across Izuku’s shoulder and pull him closer to the dark, pooling fabric covering his legs. Izuku goes willingly, leaning into him. He’s safe here.
“Let me rage for you, Izuku,” Charon pleads.
Here’s the thing that people forget: Charon may first and foremost be a guide, but a guide is also a protector. He defends the dead fiercely, and does the same for the entrance to the Underworld. He is the one who watches over the rivers. He is the one who navigates rivers of fire and misery, who will do anything to bring people home. To rest. And protecting Izuku? The easiest thing he’s ever done.
Izuku keeps his breathing steady as he leans against Charon. “I don’t need your rage, Charon. Being here with you is enough.”
Charon looks down, watching Izuku before sighing. “ You are so gentle, Izuku. You deserve better.”
“I don’t want better . Just this. This is enough.”
“Do you ever wish that you did not become a psychopomp?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Death is not always kind, or soft, or easy.”
“Living hurt me more than death ever has.”
Izuku gets assigned more of the suicide cases these days. Maybe it’s because of how deeply he feels for them. Maybe it’s just chance. Maybe it’s because Izuku loves recklessly and selflessly and wants to give these children that love so desperately, the love that they deserve. It’s so easy to love them. It’s so easy to love them the way he wishes he was loved on Earth.
There’s no longer anger or hatred in him to direct at the people who hurt him. Anger and hatred require energy, a certain kind of fuel. Izuku doesn’t have that anymore. He’s tired, and has more important things to focus on. These days, all he holds onto are the faint bitter aftertaste of injustice and consequences that never happen. And that molasses-slow, ever-present exhaustion when he isn’t doing his job as psychopomp.
When he turns fourteen, he gets his first abuse case. It rips something from him, screaming and kicking.
He knows he’s being bullied at school, but he’d never called it abuse. Until he sees the same burns, the same bruises on a dying child. Someone had taken it too far and left her to die.
That day strips him of his ignorance. And he mourns for her.
She had wanted to die, had waited so patiently and let it come to her with relief, a balm to all her sorrow. And god, her pain, when Izuku had arrived he’d lunged at her and cut the thread as quickly as possible, collapsing in the corner, cradling the light between his hands and whispering frantic, soothing words. He rocked them back and forth, still reeling from the sheer agony and anguish he had felt when he arrived.
After he sends her off with Charon, he departs from the boat and appears back in the house where her body is. She’s so small, so cold, and Izuku is livid. She’d been locked away in a basement, beaten and starved.
Creeping upstairs, letting himself slip into that gray vision, he slips through the door and walks to the only other room with color, which must be whoever was abusing her. He seethes at the man in the room, who is sleeping peacefully, before snatching the phone and walking downstairs.
Calling the police, he doesn’t wait for someone to greet him. Using the abuser’s phone to report him is the ultimate irony. Izuku starts talking, “Please send people to XXXX XXXXX street. I would like to report a murder. The man at this residence has abused and now murdered a child he keeps locked in the basement. It’s too late for her but god, please don’t let him get away with this . She was in so much pain when she died.” He lets his voice crack on the word “pain” before he hangs up, not waiting for a reply.
He doesn’t want to admit it, but the scariest part of this whole experience was that when he looked into her eyes, he had seen a reflection of himself.
This is the first call.
Over the next year or two, Izuku will become an enigma at the local police station. They can’t call him a vigilante, exactly, because he somehow almost always calls when the perpetrator is asleep, or they find the perpetrator restrained with no sign of injury or struggle.
However, they do know a few things. The person who calls is male, and likely young. A teen, probably between 13 to 17. They are leaning towards him being 15 years old, and a hero school reject, except that he only ever calls in very, very particular cases. The victim is always, always a child, and they are always too late to save the child. And it’s clear that the caller is always devastated that he never makes it in time.
About 8 months after his first call, the precinct already knows to redirect his calls directly to Detective Tsukauchi as soon as they hear his voice. The calls are always a herald of death, a reminder of how they will never be able to save everyone. At the same time, however, the calls are an opportunity to get the victims justice, even if they might not be around to see it.
“Hello, Detective Tsukauchi speaking.”
“It’s me again, Detective. I’m sorry our calls always end up like this.” After months of vaguely consistent calls, their conversation is more casual than it would be otherwise.
“You know, you could always help us more directly by coming down to the police station and explaining how exactly you get all this information. Especially to give the kids a chance.”
“I wish it was that simple, Detective. It would make our lives easier if it worked that way, but if you can’t tell, I only get the information after the child is dead.”
“Your quirk related to that?”
Izuku doesn’t give anything away, answering noncommittally, “I wish it were that simple.”
“Nothing?” Tsukauchi half-jokes, “Fine, at least, give us something to call you besides your case file number and the ‘grim reaper.’”
Izuku snorts on the other side of the line, amused by the irony of it all. He decides, what the hell, and figures that Charon will get a kick out of it when he says, “Nah, that’s not me, but you can call me the Ferryman if you want.”
“That’s a little morbid.”
“Not if you know death the way I do.” The sentence faintly rings true to Tsukauchi.
“It’s been good talking to you, detective. I wish we could talk in better circumstances.” Izuku goes on to list the address and the pertinent information about the victim and murderer, before hanging up, eyes sad and shoulders hunched as he thinks about the cold body and young soul he had recently delivered.
The first one to see the Ferryman, surprisingly, is actually Eraserhead.
He wasn’t even on the case, he’d just been on patrol before the earpiece had announced that someone had called in a murder just down the street from where he was.
He lets them know he’s headed that way, saying, “This is Eraserhead. I’m headed to the scene now, it’s about a street down from where I am right now, so I’ll get there first.”
As he starts swinging to make his way there, Tsukauchi comes on over the communications line to offer more information, “Eraserhead, I’m letting you know that the Ferryman called this one in. He’s a suspected vigilante we’ve been keeping our eyes on for the last 9 months now. The perpetrator is always restrained without signs of struggle, which is why we haven’t been able to pin anything on him yet. However, from what we understand, he only finds out about the murder after it happens, so you’ll be dealing with a body. A child’s body, likely. His quirk is unknown, though we have suspicions it might be related to how he gets the information.” Then Tsukauchi pauses.
Aizawa doesn’t pause as he swings from roof to roof, but files it away, since the detective is rarely hesitant. He’s straightforward and gets the job done efficiently, which is why Aizawa actually likes working with him. “You got any more on him?”
Resigned, Tsukauchi sighs, “Well, as you can tell he’s male. The part you won’t like however, is that he’s young. Likely the same age as your students.”
Aizawa is too professional to stop moving in his shock, but he does let out a low curse. “Noted. I’m coming up to the house now.”
As he looks at the house, dimly lit by streetlights, the door opens and a dark figure, short and dressed in casual clothing, walks out the door.
He swings forward with his capture scarf, and lands on the ground, instantly shooting his scarf out to wrap around the figure. They clearly have some situational awareness as they jerk around, sensing someone approaching, but it’s too late as the scarf wraps around them.
Aizawa reels them in, asking, “Are you the Ferryman?”
They have their hood up still, as they answer, “I am, Eraserhead.” The voice is young, and it makes Aizawa want to curse again, though he is surprised that the vigilante knows who he is. Before he can go to knock off the hood, the same young voice says, “It was nice meeting you,” tilting his head in respect before he just disappears.
He. Disappears.
Aizawa really, really wants coffee. He talks into his earpiece, “Well, Tsukauchi, I didn’t get him, but I know his quirk now.”
“What is it?”
“Warping. The kid’s got a damn teleportation quirk.”
Tsukauchi’s deadpan silence on the other end suggests he also needs coffee. And whiskey. “Of all the quirks, I swear…”
“Shouldn’t that make him easier to find? Teleportation quirks are rare, we know he’s male, a teen, and I can also tell you he’s probably around 165cm to 170cm (about 5’4” to 5’6”).”
“You’d think so, but checking the quirk database right now, only three teens in Japan between 13 and 17 have teleportation quirks, two of which are females and the last, who is male, is supposed to be 17 and 185 cm (about 6’1”).”
Aizawa snorts, “Yeah, the kid was definitely shorter than me, significantly so. That can’t be him. I’d also bet that the kid is on the younger side, probably between 13 and 15 more than anything.”
“That means he’s either unregistered, or more than likely, his quirk is listed as something else.”
Aizawa buries his face in his capture scarf in frustration, “Which means, that there’s probably another aspect to his quirk that we don’t know.”
They both groan at the thought.
(They’re not wrong, but it does not occur to either of them to check for a child who is quirkless. That’s their mistake.)
Being the first and only person to ever meet the Ferryman, Aizawa is quickly dragged into the case. He catches glimpses of the kid a few times, but frustratingly, the kid always disappears before they can talk. That’s why it’s so surprising when Aizawa finds the Ferryman on a roof a few weeks later, and the kid lets Aizawa sit next to him.
He peers curiously at the figure in dark clothing, “Why do you do this?”
Izuku shrugs. “They were just children in the end. They needed help.”
“ You are just a child too.” Eraserhead looks at him, dark eyes piercing and intense.
Izuku smiles sadly, “It would be easier if I was, hm?”
He follows the tug and slips, disappearing into another world that even heroes cannot follow him into.
Eraserhead curses on top of the roof.
“You could be a great hero, still. Then you wouldn’t need to keep calling us in.”
“I don’t want to be great, Detective. I just want to be good.”
Tsukauchi can’t help but wonder who has hurt this boy so deeply? He can’t help but imagine a world where he met Izuku before someone scarred him like this.
(Maybe we can afford to pretend that this world exists. Maybe we can afford to remember a world where Midoriya Izuku is born with a quirk, or gets one. Maybe we can afford to have these worlds, where Midoriya Izuku is synonymous with “hero.” But when we choose to accept these worlds, remember that for every one of these worlds, in another, Midoriya Izuku steps off the roof before high school. In another, he jumps in front of the train, or drowns himself beneath the water. Is murdered and left for dead, betrayed and abandoned. Ends up with the wrong crowd. For every world that Midoriya Izuku finds his way to living, another finds his hands bloodslick, eyes clouded and weeping. Dying, quietly and so, so lonely, because alone and lonely have always been such different things.)
Eventually, they have to admit that the case hits a dead end.
They get used to the calls, and the occasional glimpses of the illusive Ferryman, but his identity is as inconclusive as ever. Even when Aizawa attempts to erase his quirk, he can only not blink for so long before the kid gets the chance to slip away. He doesn’t allow Aizawa to catch him with the capture scarf again either, so his hood frustratingly stays on. It doesn’t help that Aizawa feels an edge of unease as quiet panic projects from the Ferryman’s body each time he does erase his quirk.
But Aizawa’s not attached, even when he starts calling the kid a “ problem child.” He isn’t concerned for the kid, no. He’s definitely not fond of the kid. Surely not.
Katsuki knows Izuku almost as well as himself. So it’s obvious, when the change had happened. No one else noticed at school but Katsuki did. Earnest hope died away, and he watched as Izuku’s dreams faded to dust, folded into the past.
The change happens not quite overnight, but quickly, and afterwards, Katsuki catches Izuku staring off at nothing, at something, at everything. Somehow, he knows it is greater than he could ever hope to understand.
Katsuki still lashes out, still calls him Deku because it's a habit and because he wants to see a reaction he can recognize. He wants familiarity and routine and to pretend that he beats Izuku down for his own good. That the name Deku is a needed reminder.
He still wants to have these comforts, this childish ignorance. But these days, there is no hurt from Izuku. No hunched back, no pleading eyes, no trailing feet. No following, no hope, no dreams. Izuku just takes his insults with infinite patience, silent, solemn, and watching.
Izuku is patient with him, these eyes old and eternal, telling him “ I have seen things you could never imagine.”
And Katsuki believes it. He knows that wherever Izuku goes when he stares into the distance, or disappears to when Katsuki tries to tail him home, it is some place that Katsuki cannot follow.
He looks at his hands, his fire-bright-force-BOOM and finds himself lacking.
After the change, Katsuki had bullied Izuku less, confused at the newly aged look. And slowly over time, he found that it wasn’t rewarding anymore. That time had taught him something, that growing up did happen, ever so slowly. By the time they reach the end of middle school, he stares into Izuku’s eyes, green and infinite, a pupil dark with birthing stars and dying galaxies, and finally lets Deku slip from his fingers. Their paths diverge quietly and Katsuki lets go of Deku, and lets himself acknowledge that this is Izuku.
When exams come around, Izuku does not apply for U.A. It is the final nail in the coffin.
The last day of middle school, they part ways and they have not reconciled, but there is peace now. Tensions have slackened, so when Izuku passes by him and says, “You better be number one,” Katsuki lets his eyes flash and smirk widen, fierce and raring to fight.
He tips his head and replies, “You fucking watch me, Izuku.” Izuku’s answering smile is brilliant and proud.
Then it turns mischievous and Katsuki watches as Izuku winks and disappears in front of his eyes. (He pretends he doesn’t see something sad flash in them).
Katsuki blinks in shock, but shakes his head with a wry smirk. There are some things he will never understand about Izuku. And miraculously, Katsuki finds that he is okay with it. Those aren’t his secrets to have. Fucking nerd.
“Am I bad for taking the children? Am I a bad person?” Izuku chokes out.
“What do you mean?”
“I think some of them, maybe some of them, had a chance. A little one, but a chance.”
Charon looks over. “They were in pain.”
“But it’s still a life.”
Charon cups his face in his hand. “No, Izuku. I think it makes you kind. Strong. So, so brave.”
Izuku lets himself blink the tears out his eyes and allows them to drip down his face. His voice is filled with anguish and agony when he whispers, “They hurt so much. So, so much.”
“So you take them away and let them go.” Izuku nods in response. Charon does not know if Izuku’s gentle soul is perfect for this or the worst possible person to get the job.
He feels their pain so intimately, but that compassion allows him to treat the souls so kindly.
Izuku feels a sharp tug in his gut. A call to a reaping had not been so visceral since his very first. He drops everything he’s doing and follows it there.
Appearing, he looks around, disoriented as he takes in the scene. It looks like a bomb has gone off, with fire from several places. Wildly turning his head, he tries to figure out where he is. As he looks down, he watches a black hulking figure rage, fighting against several smaller figures. He looks deeply into the hulking black figure and realizes with dawning horror that it’s not one person. It’s multiple people, dissected and cobbled together, screaming and in so much pain. He can’t imagine what kind of person would experiment on people like this, but he isn’t about to let them suffer any longer. Without hesitating, he blinks in front of the figure and tugs all six lights free, cutting their threads.
The hulking black figure flops over, dead without the souls left to power it. Unaware that he hasn’t traveled to the Underworld yet, Izuku looks tearfully down at his arms, full with the six balls of light. “Shhhh, it’s over now. It’s over. You can rest now, I promise.” There were three kids in there, and three adults, and while he is assigned to kids, he’s able to take adults when it’s their time too. This time, he is glad to be able to reap all their souls together.
Faintly, he hears a scream of rage from someone with pale blue hair before they start ranting, “You can’t do that! That’s cheating! What did you do to my nomu? You must be a glitch!”
“Shut the fuck up, hand fucker!” A voice screams in reply, followed by explosions.
A warper suggests that they leave and the blue-haired man throws another temper tantrum before leaving with the warper. Izuku releases the tension in his shoulders now that the immediate threat is gone, wanting to focus on soothing the precious cargo in his arms.
Izuku suddenly realizes he knows those explosions and vulgar language. His head shoots up. “Kacchan?” he calls out in disbelief.
“Wait a minute. What the fuck? Izuku? You were the one who just fucking killed that thing?” He gestures wildly at the unmoving figure in front of Izuku.
Another voice calls out, rambling out a list of questions in confusion, “Wait, Bakubro, you know him? Who is he? You let him call you Kacchan? So we don’t need to attack him? How did he just appear…”
Kacchan blows up, in a very Kacchan-like fashion, answering aggressively, “Yeah, I know him. You guys can stand the fuck down. He couldn’t even hurt a fly. Also, how the fuck do you think he appeared, shitty hair? He teleports, like the little shit he fucking is.” Kacchan puts a truly unnecessary amount of emphasis on his meager height.
Izuku takes the time to actually look at his surroundings now. He must be at U.A., since Kacchan is here. “Kacchan, where are we?”
“You don’t even fucking know where you are? How’d you get here then, nerd?”
“Well, my quirk led me to that thing,” Izuku points in disgust at the still figure on the ground.
A curious voice chimes in, “What IS your quirk then?”
“All you need to know is that I can teleport with it to certain places. Don’t worry too much about it.”
Before Izuku can get any further, a voice coughs out, “ Prob..lem...child?”
Izuku suddenly notices Eraserhead, severely injured, but still conscious, being carried away by another student in Kacchan’s class, likely to be moved to a safer place temporarily before the other teachers arrive. Izuku realizes quickly that Aizawa knows his voice. And the teleportation part of his quirk. And probably just heard that whole conversation, enough to put together that he’s the Ferryman.
And Izuku has his face out in the open, for everyone to see. Great. Instead of facing his problems, he thinks, Oh shit, and loudly says, “Uh, hate to cut this short. Wonderful meeting all of Kacchan’s lovely classmates. Good job staying alive. Keep doing that. I’m going to run now.” He disappears to the Underworld, carrying the six souls he’d reaped, carefully not thinking about the fact that he had heard All Might break in and scream “I AM HERE.” as he had done so.
“What’s his name?”
Katsuki huffed. “It’s Midoriya Izuku.”
“How do you know him?”
“I fucking grew up with him. His mom and my mom were friends.”
Tsukauchi nods along. “What else can you tell me about Midoriya Izuku?”
“He’s fifteen. Legally quirkless. Pulled the whole fucking shitty magic show on me and disappeared on the last day of middle school. I don’t know anything else about his shitty quirk besides that he teleports. His mom’s name is Inko. Auntie’s nice, but absent because she works two fucking jobs and takes extra hours and the night shift when she can. She sleeps when he’s at school and cooks dinner for him to warm up. That’s how it’s been according to my mom, the old hag.”
“Do you know what could have driven him towards vigilantism?”
“He used to want to be a fucking hero, when we were kids. Stopped wanting to sometime in middle school, or towards the end of elementary school, but he could never sit around and watch someone get hurt, fucking nerd.” Katsuki once again huffs at this, but his eyes show a tinge of respect.
Tsukauchi sighs again, noting that Bakugou had told the truth the whole time before standing up. “Thank you for answering our questions. You’re free to go.”
Katsuki nods sharply, shoving his way out the door. Tsukauchi just drops his head into his hands.
It’s shocking to everyone, then, that Izuku actually reaches out to them first.
“Hey, Eraserhead.”
“Problem child.”
“Can you get Tsukauchi on the phone?”
“Why?”
“I mean. The jig is up, but I want to tell the whole story, and I need Tsukauchi to confirm.”
“Why don’t you come with me back to the police station then?”
Izuku snorts. “Nope, nope. I don’t think so. Plus, I can just disappear anyways.”
“Not if I keep my eyes on you.” Aizawa threatens.
“And explain to me how you’re going to keep that up the whole way back?” Izuku asks innocently. Aizawa snorts and dials the detective’s number.
“Hello, this is Detective Tsukauchi speaking.”
“It’s Aizawa. I got Midoriya Izuku next to me. He says he’s ready to talk, and he wants you to confirm.”
“I’m listening.” Aizawa nods at Izuku after hearing Tsukauchi’s affirmative.
“Well— Um,” he reintroduces himself, “Hi, my name’s Midoriya Izuku. I’m 15 and I’m registered as quirkless. That's why you haven’t found me.”
Aizawa nods along because this is information they have gotten after the identity reveal. Tsukauchi confirms over the phone, just to cover their bases.
Izuku doesn’t meet his eyes. “Well— uh, I was a late bloomer, obviously. I think I was nine when it manifested. But you don’t know the truth about my quirk. It’s not a teleportation quirk, as crazy as it sounds. The teleportation just comes with it. Anyways, my actual quirk is acting as a psychopomp. I, uh, bring dead people, specifically kids, to the Underworld. I hope you believe me, even if it sounds insane.” Izuku keeps staring at his hands, fingers curling anxiously.
It makes a weird sort of sense, Aizawa thinks, and his gut feeling is confirmed by Tsukauchi after a period of stunned silence. He drags his hand down his face, “Yeah, we believe you, kid. But why didn’t you tell anyone?”
Snorting, Izuku says, “Think about it. Desperate quirkless teen claims to have manifested a quirk delivering dead children to the afterlife? People would mark me off as insane or say it’s a villainous quirk. I deal with enough being considered quirkless. You only even believe me because Tsukauchi is on the other side of the phone.”
Aizawa looks at him impassively, even though he feels the urge to wince, “So I’m assuming the calling started when you had to deliver kids who were also the victims of murders.”
Izuku nods weakly, “Yeah. I usually cover other cases more. Accidents, suicides, terminal illness. I’ve seen it all. The murder, as you guys know, only happens about once a month, maybe twice if it’s a bad month.”
Eraserhead clenches his teeth, thinking about Midoriya having to see all of that, still so young and barely lived.
“So why’d you seek me out now?” Aizawa finally asks.
The heavy air hanging around Izuku tells him that he will not like the answer. Refusing to make eye contact, Izuku says, “As a psychopomp, and a mortal, I can go to the Underworld, you know? And I’m getting good at staying. I mean, of course, I’ll still be commuting to do my job but...I won’t be staying here anymore. So— I just kind of wanted to let you know before I disappear off the face of the Earth.”
Aizawa’s staring turns into a full-blown glare, “Problem child, what have you done?”
Izuku glances up, making eye contact before ducking down again. “The whole fruit of the Underworld thing is true. The more you eat, the longer you stay. And I’ve been eating it for— a long time now. The pomegranate is nice. It, um, it tastes like home.”
“Did you know? Did you know that would happen?”
Izuku is whisper-quiet when he answers, “Yeah. I did,” he looks up, eyes desperate, “But this way, I can be safe from people. It’ll be okay, I promise.”
Tsukauchi echoes a quiet truth through the phone as Aizawa grits his teeth. “Damn it, Izuku! You’re human too! There are other ways to keep yourself safe. You don’t have to run away. Tsukauchi and I will make sure that everyone who’s hurt you feels the consequences.”
Izuku’s voice is soft, tired when he says, “I know I’m human. Kami, I know . Most days, I wish I wasn’t, believe me. But I also grew up quirkless, Aizawa. Quirkless. It hurts so much to be human. Can’t I be done now?”
“What’s so good about the Underworld then? Why?”
“The dead don’t lie, Aizawa. They seek rest. Peace. I’m happy there. Let me be selfish, just this once.”
Aizawa’s eyes are heavy and burdened. Izuku meets his eyes, quietly continuing, “I just wanted to give you closure. I’ll be safe there. Don’t worry about me anymore. And maybe, when this is over, I’ll meet you on the shores of the River Styx.”
Izuku smiles, sweet and sad before he follows the tug and disappears. Aizawa reaches out as if to hold him, to anchor him to this earth. He slips between Aizawa’s fingers, a wistful smile still lingering on his face.
When he makes it home, it is Charon that catches his collapsing body and carries him aboard the boat. He cries silently, body heaving until Charon places light carefully into his fingers. “Hold this one for me?”
Izuku leans into Charon, cradling the light close to him. His eyes crinkle gently as he says, “Let’s bring her home.” And the boat goes. And Izuku goes too.
“Hey, Eraserhead.”
“I haven’t been Eraserhead in a long time, problem child.”
“I guess that’s true. I’m glad you got to grow old.”
“I’m sorry you never got the chance to.”
“The blame was never yours to have, Aizawa. Let’s get you home now.”
“Lead the way then, Ferryman.”
And the boat goes. And Aizawa does too. And it is Izuku who carries him.