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He’s the youngest they’ve seen and they know. The people who come through these doors are usually desperate, having seen too much, fought too much. Or maybe, beat down on too much, starved too much. You come here when you’ve got nothing left to gamble except your own life and your own will.
Six chambers, one bullet. Spin. Click. Click. You win. If you win, you make enough money to pull yourself out of whatever slump you’re in. You walk out the door and don’t look back. You don’t have to worry again.
Spin. Click. BANG. You’re dead. You don’t have to worry again.
The crowd, faceless and watching, are making bets. They all have their own reasons for being here.
There’s two, maybe three people a night who go through the door. Usually, at least one person makes it back out, all of them if it’s a really good night. None of them, if the night is particularly cursed.
The first time, Izuku doesn’t quite draw a crowd. He’s young, yes, but there are enough strangers who have passed through the doors that the regulars care mostly only for the bets, for the adrenaline high of gambling and money. The ones who will watch him carefully, those are the ones who want him to die. The ones who will turn away-- well, maybe they’re feeling a little uncomfortable.
He’ll never quite know for sure though, as the blindfold is fastened over his eyes. He’s led from the left wing onto the stage, into the spotlight, aware of its heat even if he can’t see it. The blindfold is wide enough that it covers a decent portion of his face, masking his eyes, round cheeks, and freckles. The mess of green hair on his head, though, is still distinctive as ever. The Announcer says, monotone and deadpan, “Next up, Viridian.” An apt name as any. He can’t see it, but he knows what is happening based on the man who went before him, the man who had walked away alive and richer for it. The Announcer, disguised and shrouded in the dim lights of the rest of the stage, makes a careful show of loading precisely one bullet. He can hear the rotating cylinder spin. The gun is slipped into his hand, and he brings it to his head in one arching, smooth motion. The gun clicks one time, safety off. He doesn’t bother hesitating, pressing on the trigger.
(He won’t see it, but his lack of hesitation draws out a few sharp inhales).
Click. He lives another day. He does not know if he is happy about that. The Announcer congratulates him, ushering him to the other side of the stage and to the back. Right before he exits the stage, a voice in the audience shouts, “Hey, kid! How old are you?”
He tilts his head in the direction of the voice, and clearly states, “14,” offering no other explanation and giving no visible reaction to the audible uptick in muttering he hears. He doesn’t offer any other information, letting the Announcer guide him away, take off his blindfold and assure him that they will be bringing him the money soon as long as he waits backstage.
He leaves that night, with enough money to make his mom and him comfortable for the next few years, at least. He’s not quite satisfied. Not disappointed, no, but he doesn’t feel any better. Still drifts along, wondering if it’s too much to ask for to just die already.
He makes his way home, and that’s that. Or it should have been.
Before:
Izuku had had plenty of suicidal thoughts before. He was quirkless, thinking about death was pretty much a prerequisite. It was the first time, though, that he had really considered a plan.
Before, he just thought about it. What it might be like. That he wouldn’t fight it if he did. But now— these days he wants.
So it’s easy, to look online. The internet has always been his turf, his own sanctuary shielded from the rest of the world.
It’s not hard then, to find the show. He’ll gamble his life for money but he’s done that for much less anyways. He doesn’t mind, it’s quite preferable really.
He asks the right questions, looks on the right site and soon he has a location and a time.
The next night, at 1:00am, he slips out the back door, climbing over the balcony and crawling down the fire escape. He makes it to the street and goes to the directed address, perfectly on time at 2:00am.
It’s, as expected, in a poorer part of town. He knocks on the door and no one answers, but then he says, “I’m here to play.”
The Announcer opens the door. “Really, kid?”
“Yeah.”
The Announcer shrugs. “Alright. It’s your life.”
And he’s in. The building is nicer than it looks on the outside. He supposes that makes a warped sort of sense, considering that people are betting on the lives of people here.
Second night, he draws a real crowd. He’s young and he’s won. He shouldn’t be back. No one comes back to play after they have that much cash in their hands, but no one else is probably as recklessly suicidal and quirkless like he is.
This time, when the Announcer calls out “Viridian,” the regulars snap their heads up and focus in on the familiar mess of curls, dark green and hectic. The muttering picks up significantly and Izuku can feel the pressure of the crowd’s eyes on him through the blindfold.
Just like last night, the gun is loaded with dramatic flair. Spin.
Just like last night, he brings the gun to his head without fanfare and click. click.
Two, in succession. He lives, again. His eyes move rapidly under the blindfold. This is Izuku’s game and there is no losing for him.
He lives— he gets money for his mom. He dies— and well, he finally gets what he’s been searching for.
The crowd grows louder as he’s pulled off stage by the Announcer.
“Hey, kid. So what’s the deal? Why’re you back here? The money?”
Taking off the blindfold, he looks at the Announcer. “Can’t use the money if I’m dead.”
“So what then? You got a death wish?”
Izuku smiles in response, sweet and soft. It emphasizes his round cheeks and youthful face. It makes him look innocent and hopeful. This of all things— of all the rotating cast of hopeless, broken people who have walked through these doors, this is what disturbs the Announcer.
A kid so ready to die. So hopeful to.
“I don’t think you should come back here, kid. You’ve got to have something else to do.”
That damned kid just looks at his eyes like he knows, smile still sweet and soft, as he says, “No, no I don’t. I make good money for you too.”
And the kid isn’t wrong.
He doesn’t want to explain that he is getting at least a little attached, so he just sends the kid off with his cut of the money.
He really hopes he never sees the kid again but he knows that’s not going to happen.
Izuku enters the door a third night, in a row.
The crowd makes a real racket this time, when they see him. It seems like the crowd has grown too.
Same procedure as usual. Spin. Click. Click.
He lives, and it is still bittersweet at best.
The Announcer looks at him worriedly, with probing eyes and steady fingers as the blindfold comes off backstage.
Izuku just smiles again, that same one, sweet and soft and breaking. A touch fragile.
The Announcer lets Izuku see him— he’s covered and wears a face mask but Izuku can make out that he’s tall, male, in his late twenties to early thirties. Dark eyes, long fingers. Steady gait.
Izuku grabs his hand and pats it gently, letting him know that the trust has not gone unnoticed. He can tell, the Announcer doesn’t like it that a kid his age keeps coming back. He’s trying to build trust to convince Izuku to stay home .
Izuku doesn’t have the heart to tell him it won’t work.
When Izuku gets home, he finds a slip of paper with a phone number in his pocket. It must be the Announcer’s.
He grabs his own cell phone, typing it in.
[3:23am]
Hello, this is the kid.
Hey kid. You free afterschool tomorrow?
Yeah. What about it?
Meet at this café? [location.link]
Sure.
Izuku doesn’t know why he’s answering this stranger. He doesn’t even know the guy’s name and he knows that the Announcer does illegal, well, everything considering.
He just doesn’t think he cares enough anymore to protest.
School is hard. Kacchan and his “friends” hit him and try to lock him in the janitor’s closet. He gives them the slip and runs, throwing them off by heading straight to the café instead of the expected route home.
He makes it there and slouches into a booth tucked away into the corner, not even bothering to make the pretense of taking out work to do. It doesn’t matter anymore.
He stares off out the window. He does not know how long he sits like this, but it must be awhile before a hand ruffles his hair.
Izuku jerks his head up, meeting the eyes of the Announcer, who still has a face mask obscuring the lower portion of his face but is dressed in casual attire and is now seen as having dark hair.
He sits down across from Izuku.
And...they just talk.
For hours, about everything and nothing at all.
It’s warm and easygoing. The aura is affectionate, and Izuku feels safe for the first time in awhile. Like he can actually relax for a moment.
It starts to get dark, and Izuku gets ready to head home.
Before he goes, the Announcer says, “I know from our talk about analysis that you’re a smart kid. You got that going for you. You shouldn’t come back tonight, alright?”
Izuku reaches across the table and squeezes his hand before letting go.
He walks out, not responding to the request.
He shows up that night. The Announcer looks at him, before sighing and nodding, allowing him to proceed. It’s day four he comes back, and people have started to come to watch him, specifically.
The routine goes the same, but this time, as he leaves— survived, disappointed, that same click twice in a row— he hears that low mutter and voices that accuse him of cheating.
He thinks really, it’s his shit luck. Some people would argue that his luck is good, too good, but Izuku knows this is just another way fate is coming to bite him in the ass.
He can’t even die right.
He feels just a little twinge of guilt though, staring into the eyes of the Announcer, who looks relieved he’s made it out and increasingly concerned that he’ll come back again.
That’s why Izuku doesn’t tell him about his plan. The Announcer is emotionally compromised, for him. (It makes him a little warm inside, makes that sweet and soft smile easier to give. He just hopes when he dies that the Announcer will forget about him quickly).
They meet again at the café.
Izuku never says a word about the burns crawling up his arms, or the bruises spattered across his legs. He just settles into the same booth, quickly and quietly.
The Announcer drops in, about the same time as before. Just like yesterday, his greeting involves carding a hand through Izuku’s messy hair, and it makes a smile bloom across Izuku's face.
They talk again, and the Announcer lets Izuku ramble on, asking questions in the right places and nodding along when appropriate.
It’s nice to be heard. To be seen.
Izuku is already rapidly growing fond of the man. He hopes for the Announcer’s sake that he does not get too attached to Izuku.
Again, at the end of the day, he tells Izuku not to come back. Pleads with him to stay home.
Izuku doesn’t listen. Can’t bear to, not when living like this is not living at all.
He’s always bleeding these days.
It’s the fifth night he comes back that Izuku really starts hunting for death.
On the stage, it happens the same. They announce Viridian, and the crowd gets louder, though this time it is with off handed remarks that this is just a ploy, and he won’t die anyways.
As the Announcer loads the bullet, Izuku suddenly speaks out, “Add another.”
The Announcer freezes. Izuku can feel him hesitating even if he can’t see it through the blindfold.
“Wh—What?”
“Let’s raise the stakes. Everyone says I’m cheating. I’m not, but I got some fucked up luck.”
“Are you sure about this?”
“100%. Add another.”
The Announcer knows he can’t refuse, not without jeopardizing himself and his own reputation on stage, which on second thought, is probably exactly why the kid asked at that moment.
The crowd of voices picks up in volume and stares intensely at the Announcer loading another bullet. Izuku can feel the tension in the air, the anticipatory energy.
Izuku’s hand is as steady as ever. The cylinder spins, and Izuku brings the gun straight to his head. Click.
Everyone holds their breath.
Click.
No one else hears it but Izuku can hear the Announcer’s sharp exhale right before he grabs the gun from Izuku’s hand— almost too quick as if he’s been waiting to snatch it away— and ushers him into the wings, guiding him backstage.
The blindfold comes off and Izuku goes to leave but the Announcer grabs his shoulder.
“Kid. Hey, kid. Come on, you can’t keep doing this. Please, you’ve got to have someone in your corner. You don’t need to gamble your life like this, night after night.” The Announcer is almost begging him, his eyes pleading for him to just go home and stay away.
Izuku already feels his lips pull into that damning smile, still sweet, still soft, but just a little jagged.
He turns away, ready to walk out the door with money in hand.
“We’ll need three for tomorrow night, Announcer.”
The man inhales and Izuku walks out the door, into the cool night air.
The next day, Izuku texts a quick sorry. before silencing his phone.
They aren’t meeting today.
He brings the red spider-lily that had been sitting on his desk at school home, spinning it idly between his fingers.
He grabs a tall glass from their kitchen, filling it with water and dropping the flower in before setting it all on his desk.
Staring at it, he leans his head on his hand and lets his mind drift away. Death had always been a candid subject for him, especially so when his entire class had been insistent it was always around the corner for him.
Sometime between then and now, instead of feeling hurt or scared by it, he’d started viewing it as escape. As the only way to truly get away.
Dreams of a soft, spooling darkness wrapping him up. Those dreams kept him sane, as he thought about rooftops and bathtubs and redredred.
Checking his phone, he sees a text take care of yourself, kid.
Izuku smiles, that warm fondness in him growing. This really had been the best choice for him. The safe way out.
Izuku could truly be considered a circus act now. People come back just to watch him play with his life and he could be bitter if he wasn’t so tired.
He stays impassively still as the Announcer calls out his stage name. He can tell that the man is trying to rush, trying to get around adding another bullet. Izuku thinks it’s nice of him to look out for a useless kid like Izuku.
Still though, it doesn’t deter him from demanding the addition of another bullet.
That’s three out of six chambers filled. A 50/50 chance he won’t make it out of here.
Spin.
Click.
Click.
He’s pulled off stage to the roar of the crowd and the Announcer quickly tugs his blindfold off. Izuku blinks away the dark spots in his vision before the Announcer pulls him into a hug.
It feels warm and kind, like caring and compassion. Izuku thinks that this must be what it's like to have an older brother. He’s exhausted, so he leans into it, ignoring how it pulls on the burn on his shoulder.
Kacchan had never pulled his punches.
By the time the Announcer pulls away, Izuku’s got that smile again. Sweet and soft and dying, all mild and cloying.
“Kid— just tell me why. Why, why do you keep coming back?”
Izuku’s eyes are too old, too knowing, and he is gentle when he says, “I’m quirkless, Announcer.”
The Announcer inhales. When you operate in these circles of society, you know what happens to the unwanted, the ones deemed unworthy. Understanding dawns in his eyes and he pulls Izuku in close again, burying his face in the mess of curls before lifting his head to card through Izuku’s hair.
“Okay. Okay. I’m sorry, kid.”
Izuku burrows a little closer. “You didn’t do this. It’s okay. This is enough.”
The Announcer doesn’t fight it when the kid pulls away and goes to leave. The kid turns back and smiles, that same one that tastes like goodbye every single time and says, “My name’s Izuku.”
The Announcer watches him go.
They meet at the café the next day.
For once, the Announcer is there before him.
Before Izuku can even greet him, the Announcer grabs his wrist gently and pulls him down into the seat beside him instead of across.
Izuku goes willingly, easily, even as the Announcer pulls him into his side. He buries his face into Izuku’s hair and just holds him.
It’s enough. It’s too much. (Izuku cries and burrows closer into his side.)
They don’t talk a lot that day. They just relish in being close to one another, in taking up space together.
The Announcer doesn’t tell him to stay away this time, just says, “I’m on your side. Izuku. However you need me.”
Izuku feels so, so grateful. This might be the only thing he’ll miss when he’s gone.
Izuku comes back, again. Like he said he would, like the Announcer knew he would.
This time the Announcer doesn’t fight it when he asks for a fourth bullet. He wonders if the Announcer understands that this might be a kinder way to go, for people like him. That this might be the closest thing to mercy he will ever receive.
Spin.
Click.
It’s not enough though. Click.
He still lives.
He’s a miraculous spectacle, an ant that just won’t die. Even after being stepped on, again and again.
Backstage, the Announcer is gentle with him, careful hands pulling the blindfold off and pulling him into a hug.
He hisses as the Announcer’s hands accidentally press on a particularly bad burn located on his back. He’s quickly spun around and the Announcer yanks his shirt up, spotting the days old burn on his shoulders and the particularly violently colored one centered in his back.
His eyes are a little desperate when he meets Izuku’s eyes, “Shit, kid— Izuku— who hurt you? Who did this?”
Once again, Izuku’s too old eyes meet his and he lets out a chuckle, sad and tired and two shades off bitter. “Who hasn’t?”
The Announcer slips a finger under his chin and tips his head upwards, “Damn it, just tell me.”
Izuku grabs onto the finger, pulling it away gently, “It’s just some kids at my school. You don’t need to worry about it.”
“Do the teachers—?”
“Yeah. Yeah, they don’t care though.”
The Announcer looks away and Izuku just smiles and smiles and smiles as he says, “Thank you for caring.”
“Your family?”
“Would I be here if they cared?”
The Announcer’s hands tremble just the slightest as he pulls Izuku in close, tucking Izuku’s head into his shoulder. He knows their time together grows short. He whispers to Izuku, “I’ve got you.”
He wants so desperately to stop Izuku, to stop his little brother from his determined dream to die. But he’s not sure it’s worth it— to force him to keep living. To betray his trust like everyone else in his life so clearly has. Izuku has so little to cling to these days and the Announcer knows he must be one of the last.
He’s tired of watching Izuku hurt. He’s not selfish enough to force Izuku to stay, but he’s human enough to hurt when he lets him go.
As he leaves school, he texts the Announcer that there had been a situation, and he was going to go straight home after school.
The situation being Kacchan, and the burned notebook.
And the words. God, the words.
Telling him to jump off a roof. To pray for a quirk in his next life.
It had been so tempting to climb up to the top of the stairs and clamber on top of the school roof right then. But he didn’t.
He wants to die in the way he chooses. With the Announcer watching over him. Being with him when he goes. So he just stays quiet and leaves, walking home quickly.
In the end, even this is doomed too. He’s cornered by some slime villain and he feels it crawl down his throat. This must be what it feels like to drown, the panic, the fear, the suffocation. It’s nothing like the steady confidence he has when he lifts that gun. His vision darkens and he wishes that he had seen the Announcer at least once more. At least once more to say goodbye.
Shockingly, All Might shows up. He doesn’t die— and he’s thankful for it for once. Latching onto his idol’s leg, Izuku just has to ask. He offers up the last bit of his hope and faith to All Might, asking,
“Can a quirkless person be a hero?”
All Might answers, “Being a hero is a dangerous jobs with a lot of risks. It’s dangerous if you have a quirk. Without one? Well— in short, no I don’t think so.”
Izuku feels the air get punched out of him. Did he really expect a different answer? The answer is yes, because of that little innocent, naive part of him that had still held on. The small part of him that still wished that maybe someone would say yes. But, like the rest of him knows, the answer will always, always be no.
He runs home blindly, eyes swimming and ears tuning out everything else. He goes numb all over.
(He doesn’t know it but he misses the sound of popping explosions a few streets down).
Bullet five goes in.
Spin. Click. Click.
The crowd has grown, again. Too much, really. It’s getting too loud for a place that’s supposed to be underground. Izuku’s sure everyone in the crowd probably has some reason to be arrested even if most of them could probably pay their way out.
He’s not sure why he’s still alive.
Only one chamber had been empty. He should have died. He wishes he did.
He wishes he could be done now. He wants it to be over.
The Announcer pulls him into the wings, taking off his blindfold and reeling him into a hug. It’s almost a ritual now. Izuku smiles into his shoulder before he lifts his head, smile falling off his face.
“I’m so tired , Announcer.”
“I know, I know you are, Izuku.”
“Are you going to make me stay?”
“No. I’m not going to betray you, like they did. I think you’ve done enough hurting.”
The Announcer knows his morals are skewed. After all, look at the type of entertainment he runs. But he’s still human and Izuku is his baby brother and he is saying goodbye.
Izuku just buries closer, relieved and worn out. Tomorrow, he can be done. He can finally tap out.
The Announcer knows it too, finally offering, “My name’s Mikumo.”
“I’m going to miss you, Mikumo.”
[3:42am]
Do you think I could be a hero?
I think you could do whatever you put your mind to, kid.
Thanks.
(Izuku had been so afraid to ask the last person in his life who cared. Mikumo hadn’t failed him yet and Izuku was so glad he had met him. It would be nice to die knowing that at least one person had looked at him and saw potential.)
Mikumo is not a good person, but he is a good brother— a phenomenal one.
Izuku wishes he had met Mikumo earlier. Maybe things would’ve turned out differently.
Six chambers.
Six bullets.
Before he goes on stage, Mikumo holds him back. He looks up at Mikumo, bewildered, before he’s pulled into a hug. He melts into it and sighs. This is not so bad , he thinks. It will not be so bad, at all.
“Fly, baby bird. Fly free. You get home safe, you hear me?”
Home had not meant alive to Izuku in a long time and Mikumo knows that too. Mikumo’s words are the last thing he hears before he walks on stage but he makes sure to turn around and throw a secret smile where he knows Mikumo is watching.
This smile is different, it’s relieved, but still sweet. Maybe with a little bit of love, the kind that only comes from living in the worst places.
The crowd is huge tonight, and people pay just to watch at this point. Gambling isn’t even the entertainment anymore. They are here to watch the crazy, reckless, stupid green-haired kid play with a gun and his life.
Six bullets. A full cylinder. Izuku is glad it will be over. He doesn’t regret it though, meeting Mikumo.
His world narrows into that spin.
He smiles at the crowd, that one that is sweet and soft and breaking, before lifting the gun to his head.
The audience is dead silent for once, watching Izuku’s unwavering steady hand go click once.
Izuku inhales and his finger squeezes down to press—
He feels fabric wrap around the gun and pull it away before he can shoot.
The crowd starts panicking, screaming that the heroes are here. Izuku rips the blindfold off, blinking against the stage lights only to see crowd making a mad dash towards the doors. He looks towards the back, meeting the dark eyes of Eraserhead. That must’ve been who took the gun.
Izuku looks away, feeling all scraped up inside, all raw and shattered pieces. He had been so close. He lets out an anguished cry that can’t be heard over the scrambling crowd and stumbles off the side of the stage, desperate to find Mikumo. Mikumo, who’s never hurt him. Who cares. Who will make this better.
Eraserhead makes an aborted motion to grab Izuku but he’s already gone. Backstage, Izuku crashes into Mikumo, asking, “Why? Whywhywhy? Why couldn’t he let me go?”
Mikumo holds him close, shushing him gently. Into his shoulder, Izuku speaks, muffled, “You have to go, Mikumo, they’re going to catch you.”
Mikumo just holds him closer, letting them sink to the floor backstage, rocking Izuku back and forth, “I checked, Izuku, we’re surrounded. Eraserhead isn’t the only one here, he’s just inside. I’m not getting out of this one.” He chuckles bitterly at that.
“I don’t want to be here,” Izuku mumbles.
“I know, baby bird. They keep clipping your wings, huh?”
Izuku’s eyes are bright and watery. “I’m tired. Are you going to help me fly?”
Before Mikumo can answer, Eraserhead finds them, zeroing in on the corner they’ve tucked themselves into. He loops his scarf around Izuku and pulls, yanking him out of Mikumo’s arms. Izuku immediately starts struggling, screaming, grieving, trying to get out of the capture scarf.
“Stop struggling, kid, I’ve got you.”
“ NO. NO, LET ME GO. I WANT MIKUMO, STOP IT.”
Another unidentified hero grabs Mikumo roughly as he stays where he is, silent and still. Watching Izuku. Finally, Izuku stops struggling, turning to meet his eyes as the hero loops one quirk suppressing cuff around Mikumo’s wrist.
“Izuku, baby bird, are you sure? You really want to fly this bad?”
Izuku makes eye contact and smiles bravely, nodding with wet eyes. He mouths a please and Mikumo smiles. If he’s going to get arrested anyways, he can do at least this for Izuku.
Eraserhead looks between them, narrowing his eyes.
Mikumo doesn’t hesitate as he jerks his head backwards and surprises the hero arresting him, leaving the uncuffed hand free to dive into his waistband and reveal his own pistol. He grabs it quickly, using the butt of the gun to knock the hero unconscious and dive away from the scarf thrown his way. Eraserhead has a limp Izuku grabbed by the waist but Mikumo knows Izuku’s eyes are only following him. Trusting him, believing him.
He takes a deep breath and says, “Sleep well, Izuku.”
He doesn’t have time to second guess himself as he raises the gun and fires one bullet, directly towards Izuku’s head.
BANG.
He watches Izuku smile and mouth love you, thank you before his eyes blink close and the impact of the bullet forces his head backwards, a bloody hole carving a red ring into his forehead. Eraserhead had moved to dodge, expecting the bullet to be aimed for him, not Izuku.
Mikumo drops the gun. He’s done here, doing the best to imprint that last memory of Izuku in his brain, eyes bright and relieved. Finally, hopeful. And that smile, still sweet and soft and cradling. The way he had said I love you as he died.
The capture scarf winds around him but Mikumo isn’t paying attention. Doesn’t even care. Just lets himself be reeled close and get handcuffed, falling to his knees next to Izuku’s body, bowing his head down to meet the still chest and silent heart, even as his arms are pulled behind him.
He had been so soft for Izuku. So bitter at the world for making his brother’s only way out a bullet. He doesn’t regret the shot, just that it had to happen in the first place.
“I’ll miss you, Izuku.” He wishes he could run his fingers through those curls one last time.
In the interrogation room, Detective Tsukauchi stalks in.
There’s a man, sitting quiet and placid in the chair, quirk suppressant cuffs still on. He looks calm— almost content.
This case had shaken Eraserhead and the detective wanted to know why.
“Why did you shoot Midoriya Izuku?”
“Because he asked me too. Because I love him. Because it was kinder. Take your pick.”
Truth.
“What do you mean “it was kinder?” He was 14, Akatani.”
The man huffs out a chuckle, still infuriatingly calm, “You think I didn’t know that? Maybe you need to look a little closer at his file. He’s quirkless. If you know anything about how society works, you know exactly what that means. He used to come in, night after night, waiting to die. Burns all over his back. No one cared. This was supposed to be his way out. He was going to get out, tonight. You guys just had to go and fuck it up, huh? Had to make me do it instead. You had to take that away from him too.”
Truth. The detective sits there, stunned.
“Then again, what don’t you guys take? Izuku was a good kid and you couldn’t even let him die the way he wanted to. I was just making sure he could finally be done with this. All these people who pretend to care.”
Truth. Shaking himself out of his stupor, the detective asks, “What do you mean he came back?”
“Well, the kid had some miracle luck. Came back four nights, one bullet in the six chambers. Didn’t die, obviously. Day five, he upped the stakes. Asked for another bullet, the next day, another, and another, and another, and another. And today, all the chambers were full. He was supposed to die tonight, by his own hand.”
Truth. The detective scoffs, “So you just help teenagers commit suicide now?”
Mikumo leans back, “You didn’t know him. You don’t know him. And don’t pretend you would care if it hadn’t been for the fact that I was the one who killed him. You would’ve just taken him and sent him away after questioning, and he would’ve gone home and jumped off a roof. He was hurting and I was letting him go because it hurt more to watch himself break to pieces just to stay alive—“
“—he didn’t have anyone in his corner. So I stepped up. I gave him a way out and he said yes.”
Truth.
And that was the thing about this case, right? Akatani had loved Midoriya, and he did care about him. And he did believe that this was the best way out for Midoriya.
This raw honesty and candid complacency made something in Detective Tsukauchi waver.
Akatani and Midoriya, from Eraserhead’s retelling, had truly believed that death had been more merciful for Midoriya.
He got up, going to leave the room. He would come back later to ask about the operations of Akatani’s “show.”
As he left, Akatani spoke again, “Think about it, Detective. If Izuku was 14, he was beat down and broken at least 10 of those years. What kind of damage do you think that does to a kid?”
( When he had died, how much of that walking person was still Izuku? How much of him had really been left?)
Tsukauchi walks out, some fundamental part of him, shaken.