Chapter Text
The noises are odd.
“-further worries?”
“Not as far as I can tell.”
He lists sideways in his seat multiple times, barely finding the strength to dig his fingers into the side of the chair and grip to keep himself balanced. Hold tight. Keep strong. Stay balanced. It shouldn't be so hard, but it is, and it takes all of his attention to not fail at this task.
It's all he can focus on. The voices in front of him, talking over him, barely reached his ears. They were barely words to him -merely sounds, dozens amongst many, that his ears catch but his brain can’t quite filter.
His head feels fuzzy. Like he’s here, but not here .
“The subject has been responding quite nicely to the procedure; I am certain that the final treatment can be administered in four days.”
Another day, he would have perked up and listened.
Another time, he would have memorized what he'd heard.
But those were ideals out of his reach at the moment. And maybe, forever. Remembering is but a word and even its meaning was sliding between his fingers and getting lost in the void in his head.
The voices stop, and he spots Man with the Glasses looking at him. He wants to gaze back, to look into the glasses and see the human behind them, but it’s hard to keep focus. His attention keep slipping off the man like water off a duck’s back wait how did he know that when did he learn that what are ducks-
Ultimately he stares at the concrete wall behind them, giving up on the idea of paying attention and instead letting himself drift, the only real goal filling his empty head was breathing in and out.
It’s easier.
.
.
.
“Thank you, Doctor. I hope the preparations will go smoothly.”
They stopped talking.
He blinks, a slow drowsy sweep of blond lashes. His eyes adjust, focusing on the large black shape in front of him. It’s the Man in the Chair. He’s leaning down where he’d propped him up, his tall frame seemingly swallowing the space around them.
He feels small.
Scared? No.
It’s too complex of an emotion for him to feel. He knows the word, should know what it feels like, but there is nothing in his heart at all.
“Do you have any questions for the Doctor, little one?”
He stares blankly at the scarred, inhuman face.
“....Doctor?” he asks, if not croaked.
His voice comes out more slurred than he’d expected. It’s been happening a lot more lately. Just like his thoughts, each time he tries to talk he has to force his tongue to move through what feels like molasse, thick and heavy and weighing him down.
He asks a lot less questions, as a result.
The mutilated things that pass for lips on the man’s face twist upwards, as if he was smiling. He’d never seen him smile.
Or at least not as far as he can remember.
“Good, little one.” The man goes to reach for his wrists, to help him up, but suddenly pauses and readjust the direction of his hands. “Hm, it would be preferable to make sure.”
He stays quiet. There’s no fear, no apprehension rising within himself at the sight of the approaching hands aiming for the sides of his head. He waits with patience that comes easily, the patience only a wounded, dying animal could have in front of a predator.
Because soon enough there is, once more, nothing.
.
.
.
Rinse.
Repeat.
The Man in the Chair is always there, always by his side. Chisel in hand, always ready to take away another piece.
Was it always this way?
.
.
.
By the time he hears the answers, by the time they feel comfortable talking about what they want in front of him, he's long lost the urge to discover them.
Maybe that’s why they did not care anymore, to speak in front of him. There is no risk of their secrets getting out when the one listening in couldn’t even understand them.
The truth flies over his head like a sparrow, wings spread as it soars into the great unknown. Fast, fierce and free, out of sight and out of mind before he can make sense of the information presented.
.
.
.
“How did the raid go, Tomura?”
There's a response from the man in front of them, but he can't grasp it. He lays there against the Man in the Chair’s namesake, staring emptily forward. Legs crossed, on the floor, back against hard metal. There's a pant leg against his side, but looking would require moving and that is more that he could do.
It’s too hard to look.
Too hard to think.
He feels a large warmth on his head; one of the Man in the Chair’s hand, caressing his hair carefully as if he's a precious thing to keep.
There’s no part of him that bothers pulling away. He feels like a vegetable, rooted to the ground and subject to its caretaker’s will, dependent on them for food and water, merely existing for the whim of their owner.
Sometimes he thinks he wants to move, to kick, scream and cry, to break out of this mood he's slowly sinking into, but it's easier to just lay there and take it than go through the effort and try to have a cohesive thought.
….what was even in here to save?
.
.
.
Something’s different.
He can’t quite put his finger on it, but he’s certain something was changing, drastically.
The Man in the Chair was carrying him.
He'd taken off his clothes before, something he's sure never happened before but his useless mind doesn't remember the truth, and so he stays quiet. Out of the room they go, to somewhere unknown, out into dark dirty hallways and winding staircases and large rooms full of things and people he does not know-
-until something dark and purple jumps at his face, choking him if for a moment.
Then there is no warm body under him, holding his naked body up.
Just cold.
But suddenly, oh so suddenly, he feels .
An ice cold feeling swept over him, overflowing and choking. Running up and down his spine like electricity, shifting between hot and cold quicker than he can register it.
He doesn’t know what this feeling is. He doesn’t remember its name.
He drowns in it anyways.
Rising from the floor - what floor, what is this where was he?! - he hurls himself incoherently at whatever is nearest. Metal, tall and flat, blocks his path and he bangs against the cold walls of this prison, incoherent in his panic. Slamming shaking, uncontrolled fists against the cold, unfeeling metal, warbled noises leaving his lips as words fail to fully form for he does not remember them anymore.
Nails scrape against the sides of the chamber, breaking as they catch onto the thin, almost invisible seams between the panels. He claws at them until exhaustion takes him, until his throat is dry and his weak legs cannot handle his weight anymore.
Sinking to the ground, he curls up into a ball against the corner of this strange, small chamber. Useless, defenseless, he can do little but wait for things to run its course, for whatever was happening to end of its own accord.
The room is cold and bright. The air tastes of metal. There was something in it -something sharp and electric and terrifying.
As he sits there, watching the room grow brighter and brighter until he had to squeeze his eyes shut, he finds the answer to his question.
I’m scared.
Then pain stabs into his back in three different spots, sinking under his skin like daggers. He opens his mouth to scream-
That’s as far as he got before darkness swallowed him.
.
.
.
In his last moments of coherency, as the sounds of the room grows and grows and his head feels like it's going to split open, he thinks he sees something green in the corner of his vision.
(He's not sure why, but it makes him feel warm.)
.
.
.
The first thing he does is open his eyes.
After nearly six years spent in the dark, the ceiling above his head is the sweetest thing he'd ever seen.
The bed is warm and plush under his naked body. Languishing he stretches his limbs out in an eagle spread, rotating his wrists and ankles and chuckling with mirth at the lack of protest from the new limbs.
Sitting up on the bed, he swings himself to his feet and lands nimbly on the ground. There's no resistance, no pain, and the sheer vicious joy he feels as he stands straight up and feels nothing but a lingering ache from sleep almost has him full blow laughing.
Oh, he loved this.
The potential the future held now -he could taste it.
He sweeps his eyes across the grand room, recognizing it from the time where he had only Quirks to use as his sight. With Ragdoll’s generous contribution, he can sense people farther away, in lower floors of the building. Their presence is only background chatter for him at the moment, too swept up he was in his joy.
They were pawns.
They could wait.
He would rather take his time savoring this newfound freedom -and that, unfortunately, would have to start with fixing a few mistakes.
He's been aware of the pain in his hands since awakening, but it still catches him off guard when he takes a look at them. His long, new fingers were damaged, nails broken and ruined. The good doctor had cleaned the wounds out but they were still injured. He purses his untouched, unscarred lips at this.
Now that wouldn’t do.
He’d just gotten this body, it would be an utter shame to damage it.
Especially after all the hard work he put into this..
A simple regenerative power is plucked from the nest of Quirk within himself and quickly, he puts it to use. All for One watches with satisfaction as the nails grew again and the blood that dripped from the tip of his fingers slunk back under his skin.
His nice, pale, pretty skin.
A chuckle leaves him, rising in strength as he stands up straighter. There’s nothing holding him back, no aching from his spine, no tubes hanging off his body; nothing was keeping this body alive but itself, and it was a joyful realization.
He’s reborn, young and unmarked.
He's beautiful once more. Finding the floor length mirror next to his bed, he walks over and giddy he makes a slow twirl to admire himself. Looking at this new, youthful form with its soft fluffy hair, heart shaped face and slanted eyes, he finds himself satisfied with his choice.
He smiles a smirk full of teeth at his reflection, enjoy the scarlet hue of his new eyes, bright and red like freshly fallen blood. It reminded of his old ones before All Might took them away.
No matter.
All for One knew he shouldn't dig up old, unpleasant memories. Not when there was so much to look forward to.
I’ll make good use of this body, Bakugo Katsuki.