Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Scientists are full of shit. 

Izuku, don’t swear! He can practically taste the disappointment from his mother if she ever caught him using Kacchan’s favorite words. Sorry, mom, he mentally apologized. 

They’re still full of shit, though. 

One would think, after two hundred years of evolution--of the literal upheaval of society--that quirks would be well-studied and understandable. Scientists could explain how certain quirks worked, could explain the genetics of a quirk user’s lineage, could point to some concrete proof of how and why people develop quirks. 

All he’s found is the equivalent of the world’s most intelligent people looking around and shrugging. 

The Hae-Jung Da Institute of United Korea had the most concrete evidence of quirk genetics in the last one hundred years. Pierre Lumore won a Nobel Prize for his work in coining the theory of the quirk factor back in 2083. India currently led the world in the number of research labs for the use and development of quirks. But still, no one could confidently say what caused the first quirk evolutions beyond an unexplainable “mutation.” Nowadays, all humans had mutated enough at some point to have stark biological differences from their ancestors. 

Goodbye appendixes, whatever they were. 

There are billions of people on planet Earth and at least 80% of them have some kind of superpower. Izuku lives in the final age of quirks--soon, the number will rise to 100%. Even then, no one has offered any evidence on why this trend is occurring, or why quirks are getting stronger. Just providing a lot of statistical analysis of populations without providing hard science. Biologically, there is no proof of someone’s quirk status unless there is an obvious mutation or emitter. 

No one can definitely say why people have quirks. No one can definitely say why some people don’t have quirks. 

So when he comes home at the tender age of six after the worst doctor’s visit of his life, he has to wonder. 

How can they be sure? 

The doctor had simply shaken his head and said it wouldn’t happen. He cited an extra toe joint on an X-ray and explained how it was a common occurrence in quirkless individuals. 

“If it hasn’t happened yet, it mostly won’t happen at all. I’m sorry, kid, you don’t have a quirk.” 

Izuku returns home with his mother, shell-shocked and confused. The kids at school had been teasing him for years already, speculating on his quirk status. Calling him weird for being able to read and write better than the other kids, calling him creepy for his mumbling and sharp eyes. In a way, he’d had a little voice at the back of his head quietly wondering if the kids were right. Was he weird? Was he creepy? 

Was he quirkless? Truly? 

He'd teared up and hid in his room. His favorite All Might video playing on repeat. He couldn’t stop shaking. 

Why? Why him? How could he be a hero now? 

He could still be a hero, right? 

When Inko finds him curled up in the desk chair, she’d already started crying. Her baby boy had been so blank the whole way home. His whole world was turning upside down. She reaches out a hand but doesn't touch her son, not yet. 

“Izuku--”

“Mom,” her little boy asks, watery eyes glued to the computer screen as All Might carried six people on his shoulders, “can I still be a hero like All Might?”

I’m so sorry, she thinks to herself. Her lips pursed together to keep in her cries. That wasn’t what her son needed. Even if her heart was breaking for his dream, she’d pull herself together and keep her baby close. She wraps Izuku in a tight hug. The only sounds are his sniffles and a tinny crowd chanting “All Might! All Might!” Her words stick in her throat. I’m so sorry fate has been so cruel to you.

But Izuku doesn’t notice her internal struggle. He feels a brief sting at her silence but knows his mother is simply worried. When she worries, she gets emotional, just like him. It’s hard to talk when you’re a crybaby. He understands that very well. He takes after his mother so much. 

Which brings him to that thought: why wouldn’t he have a quirk? 

Both his mother and father had quirks. If he was remembering some of his parents’ stories right, all four of his grandparents had quirks as well. His mother’s side had Magnetism and Air Puff, and according to Inko his father’s parents had Flame Eyes and Roar. By all accounts, according to those “scientists” with their “genealogy” and “statistics,” he should have some kind of quirk. 

“It’s okay, mom,” he mumbles once his mother pulls away. He doesn’t know who he’s reassuring exactly. 

Inko runs a soothing hand through his messy curls and retreats to the kitchen to collect herself and prepare dinner. Leaving Izuku alone once more with his thoughts. He fidgets and clicks out of the All Might video. His curiosity has always gotten the better of him, it’s how he’s found so many videos of All Might to begin with. Their living room shelves are full of all kinds of books. Inko had joked how he took after his father’s inquisitive nature and her own natural tendencies to try any hobby at least once. So he knows that when he has a question as important as this before him, it’s best to search for the answers himself. 

He pecks out the search engine website, then the following phrases:

“Quirkless heroes.” 

“How to tell if you have a quirk.” 

“Common signs of quirklessness.” 

Each question brings different answers. There are no records of any quirkless pro hero. 

But that doesn’t seem right. Right? He remembered a few bedtime stories his father would tell him when he briefly returned from overseas. How a glowing baby in a hospital was like a beacon of light in a fairytale, how it paved the way for heroes. But how in the beginning, even before quirks, there were rumors of people out on the streets in costumes stopping crime. The one time his father had mentioned them, Izuku had pestered him for more details. But the man had simply shrugged and said they were rumors from some of the pre-quirk history texts preserved overseas. 

So if his father was to be believed, there used to be heroes who didn’t have quirks. Even if it was in the distant past. It made sense; if people with quirks were trying to be heroes when the First Quirk Wars were happening, wouldn’t there be at least a few people who didn’t have quirks who wanted to help? People are complicated, his mother liked to say. There's no one side to any story. Who knows what might have happened in the past just because it wasn’t recorded? 

The answers for "noticing you had a quirk" were mostly from advice columns and magazines. A lot of the search results were for navigating a child’s first quirk activation. Some even mentioned discovering if your quirk wasn’t originally what you thought--maybe a mist quirk was actually a steam quirk, and so on. The only helpful advice for Izuku was cataloging any sensations he felt when he tried to “access” a quirk. But if he hadn’t felt any different in the past few years he’d been trying to attract objects or breathe fire, he wasn’t sure what he was supposed to notice. 

Kids with mental quirks had their own section of advice and forums. Most were for support or classifying the exact type of quirk. Izuku wants to write about some of the more interesting quirks he’d seen discussed but he had to focus. 

Said focus breaks when his mom opens the door and asks him to eat the katsudon she made. He doesn’t speak a word as he sits at the table and furiously eats. His favorite meal in the world and he doesn’t bother tasting it. Inko watches him, concerned, and tries to make small talk about school. Izuku just hums or nods, vibrating in place. After he finishes, she genty grasps his hand before he can excuse himself. She opens and closes her mouth wordlessly. Izuku ducks his head and squeezes her hand back, asking to leave the table to finish looking at the computer. 

Inko doesn’t usually let him spend so long on the computer but he can tell she’s shaken by today’s reveal and wants to spoil him. She nods and lets him go. He’s relieved; he doesn’t know exactly what she wants to say but he doesn’t want to find out just yet. Doesn’t want to hear what she might have answered his question with. 

He doesn’t know what he would want to hear to begin with. 

When he scrambles back up the desk chair, he tries his last search, and there, he grows frustrated. 

No one can actually prove quirklessness. 

If you took two random people off the street where one had a mental quirk and one had no quirk, there would be very few biological differences. Some mental quirks augmented the person’s literal brain, but only a few quirked brains had actually been studied after a person’s death. There was nothing to suggest that all mental quirks would do the same. But there was no physical evidence of a quirk factor, only the inherent assumptions of the “presence” of a quirk. This was only discovered because of suppressant testing and the influence of erasing or altering quirks. Some of the scientific jargon was hard for Izuku to understand but he got the gist: the most effective way someone proved they had a quirk was to use it. 

Even the extra toe joint only accounted for less than 30% of the proclaimed quirkless population! This data was only compiled because of volunteers, sample size, and analyzing hospital records. Since it was a larger commonality than anything else quirkless people had with each other (beyond the obvious), it was generally assumed that a toe joint meant you didn’t have a quirk. 

No DNA strand could reveal a quirk. There was no test. There were only some scans and minor statistics. That’s all it took to give someone a dream-ending diagnosis. 

He chews on his fingernails, confused. 

A ringing notification startles him. A video call request flashes across the computer screen. If this was any other day, he’d be jumping around ecstatic to talk to his father. Now, he’s desperately clicking the ‘accept’ button in need of comfort. 

“Hi Dad.” 

“Hey, Izuku. Your mom told me about the doctor today. How are you feeling?” 

Like I'm sick but I’m not. Am I sick?

“‘M fine,” he mumbles. 

Hisashi frowns sympathetically. The man looks his regular disheveled self, obviously finishing up his work. His tie is crooked and his curly black hair is messy. Izuku almost smiles at the little wisps of smoke that come from his father’s mouth, a bad habit of his when he’s exhausted. 

“I miss you,” he suddenly warbles. The man across the screen--across the ocean--immediately melts. 

“Oh, bun, I miss you too.” 

He sniffles at the nickname. With Hisashi’s responsibilities as head researcher and history professor for the most prestigious university in China, he’s constantly busy. If he’s not teaching classes, he’s out on preserved sites and exploring the world. He’d received the job offer when Izuku was two and his wife had pushed him to accept his dream career. But he was only able to visit his family every three to four months, if only for a weekend. 

Hisashi had been away for two and half months since the last visit. It feels like forever. At least he’s always close with his mom. 

Even if she does work a lot too, she always makes time for him. After all, she moved from activist law to patent law to cut down on work hours, even if she does occasionally take on a social issue case pro bono. 

“I’ll be able to visit in a week.” The man grins when Izuku perks up, eyes still watery. “I think we could use some family time, huh?” 

Izuku nods and picks at his fingernails off-screen. He bites his lip.

“Dad, what makes a person quirkless?”

Hisashi, the smartest person Izuku has ever known and almost as cool as All Might, startles. His forehead scrunches in confusion. “Well…” He drawls, in the tone of voice that typically leads to one of his awful puns and Inko’s embarrassed giggles. 

“No, I mean, I know the obvious,” Izuku rambles. “But why is a person quirkless?” 

The man leans on his desk and props his chin on his hand. “An interesting philosophical question. I'll admit, bun, this isn’t what I was expecting from you when I heard the news.” 

Izuku shrugs, not meeting his father’s digital eyes. 

“Are you actually wondering about it?” The man’s voice is warm and compassionate. 

“I just--” Izuku breaks off. He takes a deep breath like his mother showed him and tries to organize his thoughts. Hisashi has always let him ramble to his heart's content. 

“I just want to know the science of it. Because the doctor said my toes were why I don’t have a quirk but none of the research I’ve found agrees that toe joints mean I’m quirkless. And how do we know I don’t have a quirk? If I j-just try really hard, I could get one! M-Maybe I just haven’t been trying hard enough--” 

He sniffles. 

“It’s okay, bun, you’re okay. Let it out,” his father soothes. 

“It’s not fair,” he whispers in a split second of self-loathing. The computer microphone picks it up anyway. Hisashi heaves a gusty sigh and leans more on the desk. 

“You’re absolutely right.” 

Izuku rubs his eyes and looks at his dad. 

“I know how excited you were about getting a quirk, bun. You’re such a good kid, it’s absolutely not fair that other kids are getting these powers instead of you.” And oh, that feels a little blunt. “But who knows? Maybe it was meant to be this way.” 

“I’m supposed to be quirkless?” He can’t help but ask, incredulously. 

“Anyone can have a quirk,” Hisashi waves off. “But not anyone can be you.” 

“I...I don’t think I get it.” 

“The gods decided you were too strong and you didn’t need a quirk on top of it. Nothing less than what I’d expect from my progeny!” Hisashi exclaims dramatically. Izuku huffs a laugh regardless of his confusion. When his father starts acting like this, it’s time for him to sleep. 

He wants to talk to him about other things, good things. He wants to chide his dad into going to bed. But most of all, he wants to ask...

“But c-can I still be a hero? Without a quirk?” 

Hisashi freezes then obviously thinks it over. 

“It’ll be hard,” the man admits. Izuku droops. If his father thinks something will be a challenge, just how awful would it truly be? The man looked ate forgotten languages for breakfast while grading hundreds of essays. He stared down diplomats and college freshmen alike. 

But then the words register. Hisashi hadn’t said he couldn’t. Only that it wouldn’t be easy. 

“Oh. Oh! Really?” He wants to vibrate in place. He’d climb any mountain or face any challenge in order to be a hero.

The man snorts at his blatant excitement, also catching on that he didn’t deny the question. 

“I won’t lie to you, Izuku. You’re going to have to work twice as hard to get half as far as everyone who has a quirk. A lot of things…” He looks away, “A lot of people, prioritize quirks over anything else. You’ll face negativity everywhere you turn.” 

Izuku pales. 

“But, if you really want to be a hero...well, I think you can do it. You have more intelligence than some of the kids I’ve met over here at work.” 

The tears stream down his cheeks again. His father smiles indulgently as he tries to pull himself back together. 

“I have to work twice as hard. Okay! I can do that!” 

“I know you can, bun. But I want you to really think too, okay? It’d be easier with a quirk, unfortunately. Your mom and I believe in you but we also want you to be healthy and happy. Think about all of the hurdles you’re gonna face.”

Izuku does. He just knows that the teasing will get worse at school when he reveals the “official diagnosis.” Inko and Hisashi were adamant on him confessing who some of the meaner kids in his class were, but having them talk to the teacher only earned him dirty looks. He doesn’t know much about quirklessness but he knows based on the first search he’d done for quirkless heroes that it’ll be an uphill battle. Quirkless heroes hadn’t been recognized in the past. Has anyone tried since then? They must have. Does that mean it’s not possible, if he can't find anything? 

He thinks about the way Kacchan and several others in the class were praised for their heroic futures, all because of their quirks. Always told “yes” just because of their powers. He doesn’t know what’s in store for him but he wants his own bright path. His own way of helping. He wants to save people with a smile, like All Might. 

Hisashi listens as Izuku mumbles up a storm under his breath. He catches a few words and hides his smile. He’d been worried about his son’s mental state when Inko had first called but it looked like some hard truth mixed with loving support was all their little ball of hopeful sunshine needs. 

Izuku frets for a few more seconds, almost anxious at wondering where to even start being a hero. 

“You giving up?” The man looks at him, eyebrow raised and face free of judgement. Maybe a bit of a challenge.

And you know what? 

No. 

No, Izuku would not just accept this. He would not just give up. 

Like All Might said: defeat is not an option for a hero. 

But how to work around it? 

“Thatta boy,” Hisashi praises when Izuku shakes his head furiously, refusing to abandon his dream. 

He beams at his father. 

“So then. What are you going to do?” 

And, well. 

For all of his childish outlook, he won’t deny being a realist too. He likes math and science (even if scientists can be full of shit). If there’s a pattern, he wants to notice it and dissect it. Someone without a quirk has not been recorded as a hero. All of the pro heroes have quirks. Science is finicky on where and how quirks develop. Like his father said, it’d be easier with a quirk. But he doesn’t have one. 

He’s six, almost seven. He’s really young. He knows this. But he’s been shaped by his father’s keen eyes, his mother’s big heart, and the jeers of his classmates. So when he comes up with a crazy idea, he actually thinks it through. Debates the pros and cons. 

His mom and dad are his biggest supporters. They encourage his interests, they laugh and play with him, they pick him up when he falls. So he trusts in them. When he calls his mother into the room, he hesitantly explains what he wants to do next, what he thinks he needs to do to be a hero. His father cackles over the computer and his mother worries her hands together for a few seconds before straightening and brushing her fingers against his freckled cheek. 

“I’ll get the paperwork,” she promises and happily accepts the adoring looks from the two most important people in her life. 

-.-.-.-.-

A week later, Hisashi opens the apartment door to find Izuku and Inko both working at the dining table. He places his suitcase down by the door and accepts the flying leap Izuku gives him. 

“Missed you,” Hisashi mumbles into his son’s hair. Inko stands from the table to give him a kiss, beaming. 

“Welcome home,” she greets. Hisashi grins back. 

"I'm home." 

They spend an evening just curled up on the couch, eating take out and reconnecting. Izuku babbles about the newest All Might villain fight, Inko talks about her team opening an investigation into a support tech company infringing copyrights, and Hisashi recounts how he and a literature professor started a bet over how many students they could get to sign up for the semester’s extra credit project.

The elephant in the room isn’t addressed until it’s late in the evening and they’re all blinking sleepily at the television. 

“How’s it been at school, bun?” Hisashi asks softly. Izuku presses his small shoulder into his dad’s side. 

“Okay,” he mumbles. Inko sighs, half-fond and half-worried. 

“Is anyone giving you trouble?” 

Izuku waits a beat then shakes his head. The young boy grins. 

“Not as much as before!” 

The two adults grimace at the reminder of the teasing their son had gone through ever since the rest of his preschool started getting their quirks. Hisashi tweaks Izuku’s nose with his fingers. 

“That’s good. How’d everyone react?” 

“Ehhh...Kacchan thought I was lying.” 

“Technically…” Hisashi trails off, grinning and waggling his eyebrows.

Izuku laughs at his expression. 

Inko shakes her head good-naturedly. Seeing her reaction, Hisashi forces his face to a neutral mask. 

“Of course, lying is wrong and we don’t condone lying. Right, Izuku?” 

The young boy laughs more, pressing his hands against his mouth to stop the giggles as his parents have a mock-serious staredown with each other. 

“Right,” he wheezes. 

“Hmm,” Inko hums. “It’s not lying if it can’t be proven false.” 

She’s said this a few times to Izuku after he first explained what he wanted. Things would be easier for the boy if he had a quirk, that was an unfortunate facet of their society. Hisashi and Inko had spent hours talking after that video call, trying to hash out details and repercussions away from Izuku. Their son was so smart but they needed to be sure he’d be okay. With their combined force of analyzing socioeconomic patterns in history and working around loopholes in the law, they’d found pretty quickly that they could make their son’s dream a little easier with just a few easy white lies. 

A person would think that the legal classification of their quirk would be strict and thorough when providing paperwork to the government. But with so many people and so many different quirks, the more benign abilities were glossed over. It would be easy to just...pass through the societal barriers placed on their boy. 

They knew Izuku loves quirks. He talked about them at length, even writing down facts about heroes in his lopsided handwriting. He’d practically sprinted around his room in excitement when his parents agreed to his idea and tried to contemplate the best quirk to choose. One that didn’t need to be proven; one that wouldn’t have any effect on others or be visible. Something he could maintain as a lie. Even if it wasn’t flashy, even if it wasn’t a tool to use as a hero, Hisashi knew it would give his son a leg up in life to have a quirk next to his name instead of “quirkless.” Yet still, the quirk would need to be interesting enough to grab the attention of prestigious schools like U.A., the high school Izuku has wanted to go to ever since he learned what high school was. 

Hisashi hates how society treats those without power. He’s been fascinated by the pre-quirk era long before he started his PhD. To know that all of humanity used to be just like his son, and to intrinsically know that he’d be shunned for it, sparks a few embers in the back of his throat. 

Inko and Izuku had brainstormed for hours on what to fill in for the quirk registration. She knew someone from her previous law firm that was a certified quirk specialist who’d sign off on an inspection regardless of truth, as long as it was from her. Izuku had mumbled that other people got to explore their quirks, name them, go into more depth than they needed to about their abilities. Meanwhile, all he wanted was just to say he even had a quirk. To answer “yes” when it would otherwise be “no.”

And Inko, sweet and kind and vindictive, had snorted and calmly explained to Izuku that technically, the quirk registration didn’t need a description. Her own description still read “quirk: Small Object Attraction: attracts small objects.” She hadn’t gone into detail about her ability. Izuku was flummoxed. 

Hisashi had wrangled another video call with his family that next day and confirmed his own description was simply “able to breathe fire.” He’d lost himself in a rant about the unnecessary theatrics of quirk registration; the pageantry of systematic documentation and tracking. Izuku hadn’t understood all of his arguments but he’d understood that his father wasn’t completely happy with the quirk registration policy. 

Izuku, buoyed by the in-depth discussion Inko and Hisashi got into over previous regulation, listened and absorbed the idea. It was enough just to have a quirk, wasn’t it? At least if he didn’t have one to start with. 

“Not just that, though,” Hisashi had said over the connection. “If you want to be a hero, we have to look at some ways to train, yeah? Pretty sure a martial art or something would be good, maybe some kind of sport or running as you get older to help train--” and they lost him to his own mumble storm as the professor wrote down ideas for hero training. Inko, worried for her child more than she could say, had demanded he learn self-defense and first aid. 

Izuku had burst into tears and agreed. His parents supported him. 

Maybe he could’ve been the first registered quirkless hero. He’d still be quirkless no matter what he put on some form, but the rewards outweigh the risks. He’d have one less hurdle, one less worry to heap on his parents. Already the teasing at school concerned them. If he nips it in the bud early, then they’d have one less anxiety about his well-being. Right? 

All he needed was a quirk. It didn’t matter what. 

With that in mind, he’d filled out the paperwork with a surge of confidence. Maybe it was his father’s corny sense of humor. Maybe it was his mother’s cunning and sass. Maybe he hadn’t fully grasped what he was signing up for. Maybe he was already tired of wishing for something he wasn’t. He didn’t need a quirk to give him an edge; not with his smarts, not with his future training, not with his family by his side. So, with only a little bit of spite, the young boy had his mother certify the registration. 

Midoriya Izuku, age six. Quirk: Quirk. Able to give him an advantage.

Now, snuggling between his loving parents, Izuku smiles and dozes, future bright.

Chapter Text

Back when the Quirk Registration Act passed in Japan, the world was still coming to terms with the effects of people suddenly gaining superpowers. Wars broke out in multiple countries, even spanning into what was unofficially nicknamed World War III, where the US and several European countries held a tense standoff with Russia. World War III, the Second Cold War, even the Dawn of the First Quirk Wars: this time period of only six years was called many things as it caused a major global shift. Especially when governments realized there were individuals that could stop a nuke. Or were a nuke. 

When the First Quirk Wars finally exploded through Asia, the chaos was unimaginable. The previously powerless could turn the tides of any militia if they had someone with a strong quirk. These “powers” were hired on all sides. A handful of people running around in homemade spandex in the name of “superheroes” were recruited. Governments conscripted powered soldiers to fight against radicals; civilians died to attacks from both sides as devastation spread within their own countries. The United Nations almost completely fell apart in the wake of the tense decade of infighting and fluctuations of power from an entire continent. 

Scientists and intelligence agencies alike tried to understand the phenomenon of mutated genetics. When the wars settled--positions of authority finally settled, at least in name if not in practice--researchers focused on the root cause: biology. But the agencies? They focused on control. 

To stymie the pervasive fear from older generations about powered individuals, many governments turned their conscripted soldiers and quirked leaders into “heroes.” The lingering memory of comic books and impossible bravery appeased the general public. More and more, countries just like Japan hyped up the heroic ideal and revolutionized their law enforcement. Heroes and villains. Good guys and bad guys. Powered people who were heroes that were to be trusted, praised, admired. 

Heroes were given rudimentary licenses at first. Then as the dream of heroics spread in the citizens, people were to register and take an aptitude test. Programs and schools specializing in heroic skills were born. The government established a new force to moderate the influx of heroes created those first years after the wars ended. 

But with the Heroic License Committee (which eventually evolved into the Hero Commission) passing a quirk registration procedure for anyone who wanted to be a hero, the concept of compiling the quirks of everyone in the country became a hot topic for lawmakers. Who could be trusted as a potential hero? Who could become a potential villain? 

Even while scientists were arguing over the nature of quirks and their origins, political leaders created contingency plans. The law for all quirk registration of Japanese citizens was met with some debate. China, Brazil, Egypt, and Norway were some of the first to finalize the registration process on a larger scale. Japan had followed suit not even a year after the first country. Critics would claim that quirk registration was a monitoring tool for government agencies; supporters would claim it was as similar as a census. Regardless, Japan required all citizens to register their quirk status in their childhood, with a leeway between ages three to seven. Tourists and immigrants needed full quirk registration documents to even enter the country. 

That wasn’t to say the country made it difficult for their citizens to register. After decade upon decade of trial and error, they’d established a well-oiled machine. Within the specified age range, a child’s quirk was to be documented and verified by some doctor or specialist, typically at a regular check-up. If no quirk had appeared in that timeframe, the child’s forms would read “N/A” as a default. Yet with the ever-evolving nature of quirks, changing the details of registration had to be easy. If a quirk didn’t show up until puberty due to hormones, they simply had to re-register. If someone’s quirk had new abilities or wasn’t exactly what they thought it was during childhood, they could change their paperwork. 

Changing the paperwork wasn’t difficult, either. A minor registration fee, an updated file, and then a waiting period of two weeks to get the physical documents. The registration system dealt with a ton of people every day, and just like any civil servant office, could only spend so much time on actual tracking. Powerful and interesting quirks were noticed. Basic or “weak” quirks were essentially ignored except by the people who owned them. “Villainous” or dangerous quirks were secretly flagged. 

Only twice was a debate brought up on false registrations. To many people, it was unthinkable. A person usually takes pride in their quirk; a unique superpower only for them. Understanding that quirks could always develop more as someone got older, registration was forced to be more lax on confirming the full details of a quirk. But in 2104, heroes raided a warehouse of a villain with a smoke quirk only to find that it was poison fog, instead of the generic smoke description that was registered. The man had been responsible for several deaths not connected to him previously. A furious debate occurred over requiring specific updates for quirk registrations. 

The debate had almost died down when a high schooler was revealed to have a traumatizing mind control quirk after she had saved her and a classmate from a violent robber in self-defense. The robber was admitted to a mental institute. Her registration listed her as quirkless. After an investigation, her parents admitted to lying on her documents to prevent their daughter from facing negative backlash due to how her quirk would be perceived. The debate started anew on punishments for falsifying registrations. The issue was resolved after months in meetings and courtrooms: simply lying on a registration would garner a fine, if caught. If the lie caused an obstruction of justice in police or a hero agency’s investigation, it would be a criminal charge. The majority of the population agreed with the decision with only a few vocal naysayers. People would not be required to update their quirk registration regularly. (No doubt the clerks who filed those registrations practically sighed in relief at not having to receive continuous reports from every citizen.) 

Laws shifted away from regulating what someone could put on their registration and focused once more on what a person was legally allowed to do with their quirk. Special licenses, dispensations, accommodations. The world moved on. 

And then the Midoriyas found the registration loophole and decided, yeah. They could afford a fine if they needed to. 

-.-.-.-.-

Professor Midoriya Hisashi typically focuses on pre-quirk era history but cannot deny that the rise of quirks and their impact was incredibly interesting. Like any current history professor worth their salt, they studied the actions the world took to control the “power hysteria.” A lot of cultural history was lost after different revolutions but the patterns of suppressing dissidence stayed the same for most governments through the eras. But with “heroes,” the people were able to accept quirks to an incredibly intense degree. 

As he sits in his office, spinning in his chair, he can’t help but frown. He generally likes heroes. He loves quirks. If he hadn’t been absolutely enthralled with discovering what causes led to society’s effects, he’d probably have been a quirk analyst or researcher. But he also isn’t naive enough to not recognize the growing tension in the heroic industry. The dichotomy between hero and villain; the “us versus them” mentality that continues to grow regarding certain types of quirks. Prejudice was everywhere after all. It had simply shifted to focus mainly on quirks and the users behind them. 

Part of him wishes that his son didn’t want to be a hero. It was a dangerous job for anyone. Accidents happen and there’s always going to be an opponent stronger than you. Quirkless or not, Hisashi just wants to wrap Izuku in bubble wrap for the next ten years. He’d already had a long conversation with Inko when he first moved to China about if his family would come with them. But Inko’s work was important. Her and Izuku’s home was in Japan. He couldn’t completely uproot them and force his wife into a whole new culture. She was incredibly adaptable (and terrifying in all of the best ways, in Hisashi’s opinion) but it wouldn’t be fair to leave her to fend for herself in a new community while her husband worked long hours. 

So they’d stay in Japan and he’d visit as often as possible. There were talks about them visiting him over a school break, hopefully soon. That didn’t alleviate any of the worry or overprotective feelings he had for his family. Izuku especially. His little boy. 

The professor grabs the photo frame on his desk of him and Inko holding each other, a beaming two-year-old in their arms. He stares and smiles at it fondly. 

No, Hisashi didn’t fully accept that his son wants to be a hero, but that was his “fatherly instincts” acting up. Or as Inko would joke, his “dragon hoarding tendencies.” Whatever. 

But he’d be damned if he wouldn’t support his son in his dream. After all, Hisashi has already reached his own dream: exploring ancient ruins, teaching the next generation, a healthy and wonderful family. How could he deny his own flesh and blood the same opportunity? 

Admittedly he likes chaos more than an average person. His time spent researching sociology and the pre-quirk era hasn’t made him supportive of any government, in all honestly. He was a dual citizen of both Japan and China; he’d never work against or betray either country, gods no, but he can’t say he’s loyal to either. He knows what powerful but ignorant men in high positions are capable of. Historically speaking, it’s not the best track record. The hero industry is headed by those kinds of people all over the world. So hearing how his little boy wanted to subvert that system--even if he didn’t truly understand what he was doing--well, the professor couldn’t help but cackle in glee. 

Izuku would face a ton of dangers from all sides. Villains, skeptics, even the Hero Commission. But what could they do? Very few people had abilities that could verify the existence of quirks in someone else and those individuals were all highly sought after. They wouldn’t need to pester Izuku about his "quirk" until the boy already proved what he'd be capable of. Hero schools didn't verify quirks beyond receiving a student's registration. The Hero Commission might cry foul if his son is discovered before he gets a hero license but Hisashi has full faith it'll take them too long to understand Izuku's true quirk status. The fire breath user wants to chuckle at the thought of a bunch of stuffy suits being shown up by his bright boy. 

Underground or rescue heroics would be best, Hisashi muses, still spinning in his office chair. Izuku wouldn’t be All Might in terms of power but he’d beat out the Number One hero in heart, that was for damn sure. He’d have to work harder than anyone else but Hisashi knows his son can do it. This was the same kid who liked reading the dictionary so he could talk about his father’s research; the same kid who asked for leniency against his bullies; the same kid who cried when he found out their extremely rude neighbor’s cat had died and demanded they bring the man a card and flowers. 

Izuku was too good of a kid to not be a hero. Too much heart. Hisashi knows in his soul that there’s very little that would stop his son from running towards his dreams. 

Hisashi gently places down the photo frame on his desk. He shuffles the haphazard mountain of essays he still has to grade--which, shit, he needs to do soon--before finding the few informational brochures he’d picked up or printed. Healthy eating, exercises for young kids, different martial arts dojos near the apartment that Inko and Izuku live in. He wants to compile a comprehensive list for Inko to choose from. Sometimes it’s hard being a supportive father across an ocean but he loves his son. Designing a training plan? With his research skills? Easy. 

Izuku will be a hero.

It’s Hisashi’s job to be there every step of the way. 

-.-.-.-.-

Izuku knows the first time his new “quirk” was revealed would forever stay with him. He’d kept his mouth shut the first few days. People teased him but he still had classmates who were sometimes nice to him, just wanting to play outside with whoever would join in. He’d watched and waited, wondering how one goes about introducing a loophole quirk to classmates. 

It’s three days after his mom submitted the registration that the teacher receives his updated file. The peppy woman grabs everyone’s attention. 

“Class! Exciting news, Midoriya has developed his quirk!” She held the file in her hand, beaming. The rest of the class cheers. Izuku blushes. “Midoriya, it says here that you have--oh, um. I...I’m not sure, actually. This must be a typo, hm Midoriya-kun? Would you like to tell the class what your quirk is?” 

And, like a fool, he screws up his courage and walks to the front of the room next to the teacher. He faces his peers and their encouraging looks and offers a wobbly smile. 

“My quirk is called Quirk.” 

“...what?” 

One girl near the front asks. 

“Huh?!” Kacchan shouts loudly, not understanding and not happy about it. 

Izuku blows out a breath. 

“Yeah, um, it’s called quirk and it gives me an advantage.” 

The teacher’s face was priceless as she realized that no, that wasn’t a typo on the young boy’s paperwork. She smiles a bit too wide. “Oh, Midoriya-kun, that’s so...interesting!” 

“What kind of advantage?” A boy with no nose asks. 

Izuku, having had prepared multiple answers to his mother’s faux interrogation when they made this decision, just shrugs. He’s clamming up with all of the curious gazes on him. 

“I don’t know yet.”

The kids burst out in confused conversation with each other. Several classmates shout questions at him. 

“That is the weirdest quirk I’ve ever heard of.” 

“That’s not a quirk!” 

“Are you for real?” 

“Stupid Deku!” 

The rest of the day was filled with questions that Izuku tries to answer as vaguely as he can. Kacchan frowns and grumbles until the bell rings. The blonde ends up cornering him on the playground nearby to demand answers.

If anyone asked Izuku who his best friend was, he’d say Kacchan. They were inseparable ever since they could speak. Sure, they hadn’t talked much lately after Kacchan fell in the river bed a few months ago, only when his mom and Aunt Mitsuki met up. But friends didn’t always have to be right next to each other or talk all the time to be friends, right? Kacchan was amazing and would be an incredible hero, no doubt about it. Izuku wants to see his best friend shine.  

Which is why he’s a little startled at the tiny explosions coming from Kacchan’s palms. He’d obviously been practicing, Izuku notes, because the size is larger than the sparks they used to be. He knows Kacchan’s quirk acts up when he’s emotional. Ever since Izuku’s announcement, Kacchan had been scowling. He never did like not knowing something, it’s why he was one of the smartest kids in their elementary class. He’d growl when trying to write kanji and his hand wouldn’t cooperate. He’d glare at his parents using bigger words and huff his way through finding out what they meant. 

He’d push Izuku to the ground for keeping secrets, like he does at that moment. 

The shorter boy manages to land on his side and barely catches himself with his legs. 

“What was that for?” Izuku cries out. “Kacchan!” 

“You’re quirkless! You think I’m stupid?” 

“...but...but I have a quirk.” 

“Don’t lie!” Kacchan yells. 

Tears roll down Izuku’s cheek against his will. He sniffles and pushes himself up, his knee scraped. It’s the work of a second to scrub his face. 

“I have a quirk,” he mumbles once more. He doesn’t meet Kacchan’s eyes. His own hands tremble in frustration from where he’s clutching his backpack straps. 

“Stupid!” The blonde shouts, quirk activating in his open palms. Izuku flinches at the noise but the explosions aren’t near him at all. Kacchan narrows his eyes as he watches Izuku's face. The bravery he'd felt when he first came up with this idea is slowly fading beneath those familiar red eyes. Why is Kacchan so mad? Wasn't he the one who said that Izuku would be Kacchan's sidekick when they became heroes? Wouldn't he be happy that Izuku had a quirk now? Why was he still yelling and trying to push him? 

And--oh. 

Kacchan was just going to be mean about this no matter what he said, wasn’t he? The other boy wouldn’t accept any answer with how frustrated he was. Was it...it wasn't Izuku, right? It had been awkward because he hadn't gotten a quirk yet, right? 

If Izuku really did have a quirk that he could show off, would Kacchan still act this way? He pushes the thought away. Kacchan was his best friend. He shouldn’t think bad stuff about his best friend. The boy was frustrated and confused; Izuku felt slightly guilty about actually lying, not that he’d admit to the truth of the matter.

His friend was smart but also loud. If Izuku said anything about the story he and his family made, he’d tell everyone. His mom promised there wouldn’t be a lot of trouble but getting caught as both quirkless and a liar would ruin any chances of keeping friends. He had so few already, he didn’t want to lose them. He doesn’t want to lose Kacchan. 

(He doesn’t think back to that day by the river. He doesn’t want to remember the “don’t look down on me!” and the fear of being left behind in the woods.) 

(He doesn't think "is it me?")

So how was he to keep Kacchan as his friend? He always supports the blonde boy and makes sure to tell him how awesome he is, but so does everyone else. Kacchan didn’t like being hounded by people, often preferring to spend time one-on-one with Izuku even if they hadn’t done so recently. So pestering him for attention might make him angry. He couldn’t reveal the truth about his quirk status even if that is what was angering the other boy the most at the moment. 

"There's no way you have a quirk, stupid Deku!" Bakugou growls, palms sparking as he steps forward. Izuku blanches at the threat but steels his spine. Okay, he had to diffuse the situation. But he couldn't tell the outright truth. Kacchan was his best friend but this was his dream. What was he supposed to do when anything he said might make everything more awkward? 

His mother's advice comes to him: stand up and be strong. His father's advice: what's the worst that can happen?

It's on the prosecution to provide evidence, sweetie. The accused only has to justify. 

"O-Oh yeah, Kacchan?" He grins. "Prove it."

“Hah?!” 

“I have a quirk!" Izuku starts. Words bubble up. "But it’s not something I can just show you! Not all quirks are physical or em-emitters like yours! All the paperwork and the specialist who looked at it say I have one, it's just difficult to see. There's nothing to say I don't have a quirk so stop, just, stop yelling!”

Izuku repeats the rehearsed answers dutifully, maybe a little more forcefully than planned. Technically he’s skirting between being honest and outright lying. Nothing he’d just admitted to is legally false. Kacchan is stunned by his uncharacteristic outburst but still grits his teeth, questions obviously swirling in his mind. He hates being wrong after all, Izuku thinks. 

“Then how do you know you have a quirk?!”

“I woke up and had one, same as you! We’re not fully sure what it does yet but there’s nothing I can show you about my quirk!”

“Argh, prove it! Prove you have a quirk, Deku!” 

Izuku gulps. Takes one step back and shrugs. “Don’t have to.” 

Kacchan’s scream of rage chokes in his throat. 

“Hey Bakugou, wanna play ball?” A couple of kids call from the park entrance with a kickball when they spot the two boys facing off. The blonde glances at them and scowls. A perfect distraction for Izuku to slip away. But there's one thing he still needs to say. One thing he needs Kacchan to know. 

“I’m gonna be a hero,” Izuku interjects quietly before the others are close enough. The crackle of explosions peter off. Kacchan looks back at him, frowning. 

“I’m gonna be a hero,” he repeats, “and I’m gonna work really hard. I’ll be right alongside you whether you believe me or not. But I have a quirk. I’m on the starting line and nothing's going to stop me! Not even you. Have fun Kacchan!”

Izuku huffs a giddy laugh--drying tear tracks and a determined smile on his face--before leaving past the two other boys who are coming to meet Kacchan. His steps feel lighter and his heart only feels slightly heavy with the guilt of keeping secrets. 

And Bakugou watches him run out the park entrance, speechless.

Chapter Text

“Okay, but what if he has a mysterious accident?” 

“Izuku.” 

“Nothing too serious or life-threatening obviously, but–-”

“Izuku.” 

“--maybe something where his arm breaks just a little and he’s stuck in a cast for, like, two months–-” 

“ Izuku. ” 

The ten-year-old boy stops spinning in his desk chair and cuts a glance to the glowing computer screen in front of him. Hisashi stares back, frazzled and wearing his reading glasses. His father frowns at him in disapproval. 

“Kid, I taught you better than that.” 

Izuku clamps down on the “tsk” valiantly trying to escape. That'd be rude. He'll sass his dad but he hates disrespecting him. His fingers fidget with the chair’s plastic armrests and he looks away from the video call window. He doesn’t like disappointing his father like this but he’s too riled up. 

“I know, dad, but–” 

“But nothing, Izuku,” he says, holding up a stern finger. “You know better than to admit anything incriminating on an electronic device.” 

Izuku groans. His head flops back, curls bouncing. “I knooooooow.” 

Hisashi nods decisively. “There is definitely no talk about mysterious accidents or arm breaking on this call. Right?” 

“Right,” he huffs. He kicks out and spins once more until he does another full circle. 

“Sorry,” he says after his father gives him a minute. Hisashi watches him spin fondly. “I’m just frustrated.” 

“I know. I understand. Honestly, I’m really not sure where Katsuki’s recent behavior is coming from.” Fingers tap against a large wooden desk. “Maybe we should talk to Mitsuki and Masaru again.” 

Izuku immediately shakes his head. That would only make the situation worse and both perceptive Midoriyas knew it. Besides, they both knew Hisashi was just spitballing. Izuku really didn’t want to have to sit through another “emergency joint family dinner” again. The silence was painfully awkward and they still haven’t gotten the ponzu sauce off of the ceiling. 

The boy wasn’t going to go into another of his rant-slash-theories about Katsuki’s more…abrasive personality to his father. After four years of it, the man’s heard it all. Ever since the fateful day where Izuku declared his hero dreams to Katsuki, the blond made it his mission to undermine or disprove Izuku’s quirk. 

At first, Katsuki would just stare at Izuku in their classroom. Everyone noticed, but the teacher never commented and it didn’t affect Katsuki’s grades. Izuku would watch back, nervously, wondering if he’d get another yelling match in the park. Red eyes almost dissected him from across the classroom. Surprisingly, those first few months were fairly quiet. His classmates still asked questions about his “weird” quirk to be met with the same answers over and over: "I legally have a quirk” or “my quirk isn’t visible.” Katsuki blatantly eavesdropped on these conversations every chance he could. Even his teacher pulled him aside and asked him how he was doing with his quirk. 

The hesitant pause right before she said quirk strangely almost made Izuku giggle. 

Luckily, he was more professional than that. (At least, that’s what he told Inko that night over dinner, both snickering.)

But when no new information came from Izuku about his abilities, Katsuki grew visibly angry. Never in front of the teachers; the one time he yelled at Izuku for lying, his parents got a call home about their most promising student showing signs of aggression, and is everything alright?

Izuku would hate to listen to that conversation. 

Whatever the Bakugous told their son curbed the anger publicly. Sometimes Izuku would look up from his handwriting worksheet or his coloring and see Katsuki scowling, but he quickly turned away each time. 

With his “not quirkless” status, Izuku actually had a few classmates to play with at recess. Usually tag or kickball, sometimes elaborate fantasy hero versus villain games, but he managed to avoid being alone on school grounds for a while. Kids still wouldn't single him out for a fun time, but they didn't exclude him anymore.

That didn’t mean Katsuki wasn’t smart enough to corner him. And he did. Frequently. 

It followed the same script if Izuku was honest. “Why don’t you talk about your quirk?” “You’re lying to me.” “You think you’re better than me?”

Izuku played his part flawlessly. With each assurance that yes, he has a quirk, it’s just hard to talk about or no, I don’t know if I’m better than you, his confidence in the lie grew. He stopped tripping over his words. His excuses came immediately without suspicion. 

It just enraged the other kid more, but since they were six-turning-seven, there wasn’t really anything Katsuki could do without trying to actually fight Izuku. And Izuku was not stupid enough to accept that challenge. 

…not yet, anyway. 

He’d begun calling him Bakugou to the boy’s face months later, which was awkward for everyone in the family. Eventually, it switched between Bakugou in more formal settings and Katsuki when they were alone--even when not at school, the Midoriyas still met with the Bakugous on occasion. Inko and Mitsuki were fast and close friends from years ago and straining that relationship just because their sons were fighting was unthinkable to Izuku. His mom needed her friends. She deserved all of the amazing friends she wanted. And he liked Aunt Mitsuki and Uncle Masaru. 

It was just Katsuki that was being a little bitch. 

Ohhh, swear jar, he thought to himself, knowing full well he wouldn’t put any money in. His thoughts were safe from his mother’s household rules. Even if she had a sixth sense for his mischief. 

The real frustration came from Katsuki’s years-long stubbornness. They shared the same class throughout elementary school with several of the same friends through the years. Katsuki retained his reputation as a cool kid with an amazing quirk but a quick temper. Izuku maintained his reputation as the weird smart kid who knew everything there was about heroes. They all had their ups and downs but Izuku knew he could’ve had it much worse if he never committed his personal bit of fraud. 

(He watches people. He knows their opinions on a bunch of different topics. He overhears his teachers talking about quirks and prejudices. Lack of quirk and prejudices. It’s not always complimentary.)

Yet even through the grade advancements, Katsuki tried to catch Izuku out in a lie. Tried to pry information out with well-timed snarls and tried to intimidate via gym class. He was rude to anyone he considered weaker than him, and Izuku--with all of his contradictions and growing confidence–-bore most of the insults. Izuku tended to just shrug them off his shoulders. He’s heard worse. 

Only once had the other boy crossed the line when they were nine. Hence, the emergency joint family meeting. 

Izuku doesn’t like to think of it too often.

At least Katsuki avoided him for a month. 

But now that the blond boy was enrolled in a special quirk-based fighting class his parents found, he was almost insufferable in bragging about becoming the number one hero. Constantly listening to his “friends” talk about the Bakugou Hero Agency and beating villains, how cool the training center was, how hard he worked on his explosions. Apparently, they were growing bigger at an exponential rate. 

Izuku wasn’t surprised. 

Even when absolutely frustrating, Katsuki would be an amazing hero. No one pushed himself harder. 

Which pissed Izuku off even more when he thought about his former friend’s laser-focus into Izuku’s so-called quirk. The throwaway comment about a weak quirk here; how he’d be a nerdy sidekick at best there. A few minor explosions before class started, right behind Izuku’s desk in order to make him jump.

He could talk about his own training over the years if he really wanted. At extreme length. But knowing his odds, that would only incite Katsuki more. Maybe even increase the demands for a proper fight and they were already getting a bit out of hand.  

No thanks. 

Hisashi’s sigh crackles over the computer’s speakers and brings him to the present. “Alright, well, I’m sure he’ll calm down soon enough.” 

“I hope so,” Izuku hums. He doesn't hold much hope for the near future. His father hears many a complaint about Katsuki’s ruthlessness. This particular video call delved quite deep into Katsuki’s recent confrontation of boasting how he’d beat All Might. Izuku had to physically bite his lip to avoid an argument.

“In the meantime, no plotting accidents until I’m there to give an alibi.” 

Izuku giggles a bit, snapping straight up in his chair and mocking a salute. “Sir yes sir.” 

Hisashi nods regally. “At ease, soldier.”

Izuku watches his father take off his glasses and rub a finger to the corner of his eye. It’s still fairly early in the night, but still late enough that the professor should really be trying to eat dinner. 

“Dad, you need to get some rest,” he says quietly. Hisashi stills. 

“No, no, I’m good. I still gotta hear about your last competition and I know you have the gossip your mother refuses to tell me.”

“Did she tell you how she made a cake for Okinawa-san and he called it trash?” 

Hisashi gasps, affronted. “No way.” 

Izuku nods rapidly. His father whistles, lowly. “And he’s still alive?!”

Another hour passes of them talking, reviewing how well Izuku did in last week's youth martial arts competition (second place overall) and what his sensei said about progressing to the next level. They chat about nosy neighbors and Hisashi’s dumber students who always end up causing hijinks for the faculty. 

It’s when the man yawns that Izuku plants his feet down and frowns. “Dad, I’m serious. You need to eat something and go to sleep.” 

Hisashi hums and stares at the pile of papers next to his laptop, clearly debating with himself. Izuku catches his hand creeping towards a pen as his mind whirs away. 

He clicks his tongue. “Dad.” 

Hisashi grins sheepishly at the camera after he startles. Izuku raises an eyebrow expectantly. 

(Hisashi will never admit this but his son looks so much like Inko in this moment that he could cry. Happy or frightened tears, he doesn’t know. He loves them both so much. He sneakily takes a screenshot, proud of himself for remembering how after his one TA taught him.)

“Alright, alright,” he caves in. Izuku smiles, happy that his father will actually take care of himself tonight. It’s an ongoing battle with the man too far to mother hen him in person, as his mom likes to say.

“Food then bed,” he reminds decisively. Hisashi gently places his glasses on his desk and leans closer to the screen.

“I will. I promise. I’ll talk to you tomorrow, okay? I love you, bun.” 

Izuku smiles back, quiet and aching. “Love you too, dad.” 

Normally he’d flush in embarrassment when his father used his dorky pet name for his son–-and heaven forbid Hisashi try to say it in public, Izuku would go nuclear from turning red alone–-but he misses his dad too much. Nowadays, all they get is video calls and text messages while his father covers another professor’s classes alongside his own and his research. Midoriya Hisashi could be absolutely terrifying in a debate or if he was severely sleep-deprived, but he was a sucker for a coworker in need of emergency family leave. Add that onto higher demand for his research for his department’s funding, and he barely had time to leave his university’s grounds. 

He hadn’t been home to Japan in a year. 

Izuku just wants to hug his dad. 

He’s lucky he can easily do so with his mom. In fact, he decides, closing out his browser and shutting off his monitor, he’ll go do that now. He leaves his childhood bedroom to hunt down Inko for a cuddle, which she happily provides in the middle of the kitchen. 

Softly, she presses a kiss to his hair–-even as she has to start leaning up. Inko squeezes her arms tighter around her growing baby boy for another moment before stepping away and brushing a curl from his wistful face. “I know, dear. I miss him too.” 

Fortunately, her phone blares with Hisashi’s specialized ringtone just minutes later. Izuku watches the loving smile spread across her face as she picks up, Hisashi’s voice clearly asking her to pick what he has for dinner, he’s way too indecisive and both options look so good Ko-chan . Inko walks towards her room, laughing, as she admonishes him into not smothering his meal with soy sauce again. 

Izuku retreats to his own bedroom and falls back onto his chair. He can still catch snippets of his mom’s giggles. He knows the distance between his parents is harder than ever at the moment. He wonders if he can convince his mom to go to China over his upcoming summer break to surprise his dad. They’d gone before a couple of years ago–-which was an amazing trip Izuku would always remember-–but this way they could get Hisashi away from his work for a few days. 

Maybe he and his father could have that spar they’ve been talking about. 

Ever since Izuku joined the dojo–-or daochang–-his father researched almost four years ago, he’d been working hard to improve his physical capabilities with his small body. It was a medium-sized building almost a half-hour away by train, but he loved the elderly man who ran it with an iron fist. Zhao-sensei immigrated to Japan from Henan decades ago and brought with him a hard-won knowledge of Northern Shaolin Kung Fu which he then decided to teach when he saw the sheer number of heroes and battle styles. 

While he trained, his father decided to improve his own body simultaneously. When Izuku asked, Hisashi admitted to needing the exercise but also how he fell in love with the culture and significance behind the arts as he was researching fighting styles for his son. This led to hour-long discussions between the two about what they were learning and the significance of some of the teachings. Zhao-sensei also indulged Izuku with answers to his many, many questions. 

But when Izuku began competing in local level martial arts competitions–-mostly a mix of styles, with the ultimate goal of an actual kung-fu tournament or even performing in a wushu championship one day-–his father teased about a friendly spar. They’d been comparing their progress for years as a bonding activity. Izuku is excited to see how far both of them have grown. As long as they get to see each other. 

He sets the thought aside as he rummages through his nearby bag for his analysis notebook. Having finished his homework hours ago, he hums as he outlines a few of the heroes he saw on the news recently. Where before, he wrote about their quirk and costume, he finds himself delving into their fighting styles and tactics. Strengths in battle and vital weaknesses.

Something else he’s learned from his father and his sensei. 

Izuku grins, focusing well into the night. 

-.-.-.-.-

The next day, he scuttles off the train quickly, side-stepping the people rushing between the platforms. 

Overall, he had a good day. His and his mother’s morning run was pleasant enough, chatting about her cases and the practical applications of the laws involved. He breezed through his class after already reading ahead for several of the subjects. He even finished up the sketches of the heroes he was working on the night before during free time. Katsuki was too focused on something in his own life to notice Izuku, which worked well for him. 

The rest of his day would be spent at the dojo, as he does every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. He runs at a steady pace down the sidewalks until he stops in front of the sparkling glass door. He rests for a second, centering himself, before gently entering the dojo and calling a greeting to his “Shifu” who is already instructing some of the other students in front of the mirror wall. Izuku nods to a few others warming up and hurries into the changing area. 

He still remembers introducing himself to Zhao-sensei. The man had a discerning eye and a habit of turning away students if he thought they wouldn’t take his lessons seriously. His father had called from overseas to make an appointment and while Izuku will never know what was said between them, the old teacher started their introduction pleasantly enough. He was absolutely gracious with Inko and polite to Izuku, who’d stared up at him with awestruck eyes. 

Then the introduction became more of a test. Zhao-sensei had him stretch and run and jump all over the mats. The man simply watched silently while Inko waited in the side room. When Izuku bent over, panting for air, the teacher just tilted his head and asked, with only the barest hint of an accent, “do you know why the painting resembles the painter?” 

Izuku blinks in surprise at the question and hums uncertainly. “Isn’t it…because the painter made it?” 

Zhao-sensei looks him over with a critical eye. “And?”

“Uh, um, well…” Izuku trips over his words before straightening. He remembers reading about the philosophies of his father’s recommended pick, even if he didn’t fully understand them. 

“The painters put themselves in their paintings. What they make reflects who they are. Their art is their actions,” he rambles. A silent pause.

The teacher nods, expression unchanging. 

“Why do you want to learn from me?” 

Unbeknownst to himself, Izuku lights up. He meets the man’s eyes and with fists clenched says, “I want to be able to help people.” 

Lessons started the next day.

He found out later that his new teacher and master asks all prospective students these questions, hence his reputation as a picky instructor. Izuku’s proud of himself for passing the test but also hates himself a little for the sheer physical torment he puts his body through with his training. 

He leaves his bag in the changing room and pads to the floor to sit and stretch his legs. He smiles at a few of the students next to him.

Compared to a few others in the class, he started learning late. Luckily, he’s a quick study. It was catching his body up that took time. Zhao-sensei–-or Shifu Zhao when they were on the mats-–informed him that he’d actually been the average age for new students and to not overexert himself in some desire to catch up. 

Izuku struggled to use correct pronunciations and pay proper respects to his teacher, especially when what they were practicing slightly differed from what he’d looked up. Zhao-sensei still waves his hand in disapproval when Izuku brings it up, how real-life and textbooks vary greatly. The teacher simply encourages his students to call him Shifu in practice but understands the cultural respect of being called sensei in Japan. He asks for solemnity in learning the forms and offers more rigid ceremonies when students get older and become serious about their discipline. Beyond that, the man is surprisingly flexible. 

It fascinates Izuku. Truly, he adores Zhao-sensei for all of his grace and all of his personality, often telling his parents that when he gets that old he hopes he’s half as cool. 

“Alright,” one of the instruction assistants calls, breaking him from his thoughts. “Gather up!” 

Izuku straightens his uniform top, double-checking the buttons. He lines up alongside his peers in front of Zhao-sensei who stands calmly in his orange master's uniform. 

“Bow!” The assistant calls and everyone greets their Shifu. Zhao-sensei nods back. 

“Begin,” he directs as they start their daily warm-up forms. 

Izuku paces himself and times his breathing to each movement. His body needs to flow in each form while he learns them and then he can start adding power behind each movement. 

The evening comes quickly, the sky darkening outside of the large row of windows. Izuku wipes his brow after his last practice spar against one of the bigger students. 

Zhao-sensei orders everyone’s attention. Spars stop, students bow to each other, then face the front. 

“Wind down routine, begin,” he says and walks between the rows of kids and preteens, correcting postures. Parents begin trickling into the front of the building as they wait to pick up their children. Izuku glances up at the mirror to check the crowd out of habit. Sometimes his mother comes and they take the train back together, often stopping for a healthy meal or a secret ice cream, but he knows she’ll be stuck at work for a couple of hours longer with her most recent case. When their instructors complete the final stretches and wish everyone a good night, the crowd scatters to the changing room. 

Izuku gently bumps into Ojiro, as the tailed boy was one of the kids he’s closest to at the dojo. They’ve been in the same classes for over a year now. Unfortunately, it seemed the blond didn’t have the best spar today with how many times he hit the mat and his contemplative frown. 

“You okay?” He asks. He knows just how fun it is to be one big bruise courtesy of the ground. 

“Yeah, I’m good. Thanks, Midoriya.” Ojiro smiles. They wait patiently to get to the cubbies their belongings are in while people joke and yell about the latest practice. The larger boy Izuku sparred with claps a friendly hand on his shoulder and quickly says, “good job,” before leaving. Changing out of their uniforms into their previous clothes takes no time at all before they head to the front to sit in the waiting area and watch the adult students start to trickle in. 

Both boys are usually some of the last to leave. Ojiro is always picked up by his mother, but often not until a solid twenty minutes after the end time. Izuku always offers to wait. 

Choi Han, one of the star disciples of the dojo, spots them waiting and runs up with a grin. Izuku enjoys talking with the excitable university student. Kind of reminds him of a puppy. One with a killer high kick and great advice, but a puppy nonetheless. 

“Hey! How’re my favorite hatchlings?” Choi asks. 

“Good, Choi-san, thank you,” Izuku replies dutifully. Ojiro echoes him but softly. The taller man frowns, concerned after picking up on the mood. 

“Uh-oh, what’s wrong, ‘roo?” 

“Don’t call me that,” The tailed boy half-heartedly complains. Choi's called all of the younger students some form of a nickname since day one. The man shrugs. 

“...I didn’t win any of my spars today.” 

"That sucks, sorry kid. It happens though," Choi says, gently for his personality but still somewhat blunt. Ojiro sighs.

"I know. I don't know what happened, I wasn't my best." 

"You'll be beating everyone up in no time!" 

"Maybe pass on beating me up, Ojiro-kun," Izuku teasingly begs his friend. 

Choi grins at Izuku's joke before his smile falls a bit; Ojiro still looks down. Choi Han was notorious for trying to cheer everyone up. 

"Everyone has off days. You want to talk about it?"

“I feel like I could've won but my limbs wouldn't cooperate. I still don’t know why I can’t use my tail,” Ojiro grumbles quietly. He folds his arms over his chest before awkwardly unfolding them, fidgeting with his hands while his tail curls around his middle. 

Izuku shakes his head, not getting dragged into this argument again. On one hand, with a prehensile tail, Ojiro should be treating it as a limb and training accordingly. He's sure the other boy uses the tail in daily life as much as possible that it feels odd to disregard the limb. A mutation quirk like that was so incredibly intriguing and Izuku had about a million questions, but he held back. On the other hand, it violated the principles of their shifu.

The one really great thing about this dojo outside of the people and the arts itself is how Zhao-sensei simply didn’t care what your quirk was. Every form, every lesson, was done quirkless. Zhao-sensei explained how their bodies had to be the ones supporting them, not their powers. Any power they had should come from within and then–-and only then–-would they be able to master the use of their quirk. Advanced students could begin incorporating their quirk in specialized routines, but only if they planned on being a hero. Choi Han himself had talons on his hands and feet. According to the man, he’d had to pad both during his beginner lessons until he reached a higher stage. Izuku and Ojiro had seen other adult students using water or bullets during their forms. 

Zhao-sensei had many discussions before with Izuku when waiting, about the easiest quirks to incorporate into the Northern style and how competitions were all regulated differently than previous generations to prevent any and all quirk use. They had actual quirk-nullifying devices on hand. Izuku, once referees checked his quirk (which always earned a raised eyebrow or a snort), wore many a quirk suppression cuff or collar. He even practiced with one on occasion, just to acclimatize to the weight. While he wasn’t exactly concerned about actually cheating with a quirk, he wouldn’t tell any of the officials that. 

Choi grins at the two. “You also need to stop sneaking in those karate moves, Shifu sees all. That might be throwing you off.” 

“I mean. Maybe. These kicks are a good fit for me, but I also really like karate, so it’s hard not to do it too,” the other boy admits. 

“You do both?” Izuku interrupts, surprised. Kung-fu and karate had some serious differences. His friend nods. 

“My dear sweet ‘roo, you’re implying you like karate more?!” Choi mockingly gasps. Ojiro glares. 

“No, I end up using some of these stances in my karate lessons too.” 

Choi shakes his head in sympathy. “That’s why you go for a familiar, complementary style. One that’s similar enough you won’t get caught at practice.” 

“Hey, I’m still learning!” 

“I think you’re doing pretty good, Ojiro-kun,” Izuku notes.

“Thanks,” the boy smiles then turns to give a stink eye to the chuckling older student, “at least someone thinks so.” 

“Ah, you know I’m playing. You two are the best in your class after all.” 

Izuku ducks his head, grinning at the compliment. Then becomes curious. 

“So wait, do you also do more than one style, Choi-san?” 

“Oh, well, yeah,” the man says, hopping in place and smiling. “Most people going for a hero license train in more than one martial art to cover any weaknesses or to have a variety of skill sets. Makes people real marketable, yes?” 

“Which one do you do?” Ojiro asks, intrigued. 

“Tai chi,” Choi beams. “Centers you really well and suits these bad boys.” He flexes his taloned hands. “Look, ‘roo, it’s super impressive that you’re studying both karate and Northern style. I honestly think you’ll be able to handle both, based on what Nagiri-san was saying when she helps with your class. But if you want to be a hero, you need to find your strengths and hone them. You need go-to moves to master, and then get fancy with mixing styles.” 

The boy nods seriously, fists tightening in the basketball shorts he wore. 

“You want to be a hero too, right greenie?” Choi turns to Izuku. The older man has talked to them many times about his own attempts at hero school and how he’s going to finish his college’s business degree while studying heroics to independently take the license exam. They’ve all shared their dreams of one day becoming heroes. 

Izuku nods frantically. He doesn’t just want this; sometimes, after grueling training sessions and late-night studying of all sorts of important topics, he can’t help but feel that he needs this. He’s got to see this through. 

“Then definitely look into another style. I know Shifu recommended you learn the straight sword style in a few years, I was there when he talked to you, but it wouldn’t hurt to learn as much as possible.” 

Choi then wiggles his eyebrows. “Tai chi’s always fun.” 

“You’re not recommending that to me too?” Ojiro asks, half-smiling. 

“I don’t want to break your brain with too many martial arts,” he jokes. 

Izuku presses a curled finger to his mouth in thought. While he still mumbles here and there at school or in the privacy of his room, the structure and discipline at the dojo has curved some of the habits. 

“...I dunno. I’ll have to look into it.” A random discussion with his dad from months ago idly pops into his head. He hums in thought. 

“Ojiro!” A woman with a beaming smile suddenly calls from the front door. The boy in question hops up, not seeing his tail slightly wag as it always does. “Coming, mom!” 

“Bye, Midoriya, see you next practice!” 

“Bye, Ojiro-kun!”

“Choi, get your butt over here or you’re cleaning the mats on your own!” Another advanced student calls from where he’s warming up. 

“Gotta go, we’re about to start. You heading out?” Choi nods his head to the door. 

Izuku pulls himself out of the chair with a grin. “Yeah, I have some research to do. Thanks, Choi-san!” 

“No problem, greenie. Get home safe!” 

Waving goodbye as he walks out the door, he grabs his cell phone and texts his mom about getting to the train. She sends back instructions on the meal she left prepped for him at home and a bunch of smiley emojis. He shoves his other hand in his pocket and swerves around other pedestrians as an afterthought. 

Izuku plans the rest of his night: online research, some minor yoga, and maybe an episode of his favorite cartoon. Tomorrow he has to turn in his already completed book report and then get to his Thursday dance class. Luckily they were still learning single performer dances, as they’ve been since he signed up two months ago, but his rhythm has definitely improved. He doesn't have to worry about accidentally crushing someone's feet yet. His mom suggested the idea after he finished his junior first aid classes ages ago. He likes the fun atmosphere and even made a few acquaintances, one pink-skinned girl adamantly befriending everyone in the class. 

He wonders what to do this weekend. There weren’t any competitions or special practices. He wasn’t confident enough to sign up for a dance recital yet. He’d be able to read even further ahead in his schoolwork as he usually did during the break, but he needed more stimulation ever since his schedule exploded four years ago. Special lectures at the library, the Young Learners program that taught children basic skills like cooking and sewing, his own pleasure reading of historic battles and philosophies. His father had psychology books on pre-order for him when he finished his latest set of textbooks. 

Izuku sighs, stepping onto his train and standing in the corner. He rocks in time with the rumbling car, the clack of the rails matching the beat he makes in his head. Reflecting on his day, he slips into semi-meditation. He thinks Choi Han has a point. Mastering one style was fantastic, but a hero had to be multi-dimensional. It’d be foolish to rely on only a few tricks. Izuku was supposed to have an advantage quirk after all. He needs the advantage. 

He finds that sentiment popping up more and more. He doesn’t fight Katsuki because he knows he’ll have no advantages (not yet, his mind reminds him once more). His grades are always good, but he dispels any cheating rumors by claiming his quirk just made him remember things better (technically true). But even when he’s in a debate with his mom over a court case, he has to think of every argument point he can in order to win. He has to methodically study the “body language and tells” videos he finds. When he goes out with his friendlier classmates on the rare weekend, he thinks about counting cards for an advantage in games or building better hand-eye coordination for console controllers. 

He might be obsessing over it. 

But, he thinks, a little wry–-maybe too wry for ten years old-–it’s kind of fun. 

He’ll be taking high school entrance exams in just five years. That’s almost the same amount of time he’s already been training. There have already been great changes, and he’s proud of his work, but sometimes it feels like yesterday that he started. He knows its not enough time to master everything he wants to do. 

He’s entertained the thought of making his own support gear after watching the documentary about David Shield, All Might’s best friend. But he is not mechanically inclined. Inko still doesn’t know how he managed to catch the old toaster on fire when he was taking it apart for fun. It wasn’t even plugged in. 

Similar thoughts came and went with coding or hacking; you can’t turn your head in the online world without seeing a free coding class. He played around with it last year and knows some very simple programming basics, but he’s found he’s best at programming people. 

Watching them. Analyzing. He’s a person-hacker, his dad likes to say. Encourages, even. So with his mind and his body, he has to train enough to make it into his dream school. U.A. 

Izuku already knows he’ll accept learning the straight sword forms Zhao-sensei teaches. Honestly, he wants to learn every form he can. His shifu liked to take him aside and compliment him on learning quickly, even calling him a prodigy once. The man had been sure that he’d be an advanced student in no time since he and Ojiro were already technically intermediate disciples. He’ll need to find a suitable second style to complement his knowledge. He’ll be eligible for more thorough first aid classes once he starts middle school. He’s bookmarked videos and websites about parkour, bouldering, and slacklining. 

So, so much to do. 

He blinks out of his self-imposed trance when the conductor announces his stop. Walking the few blocks home from the train station, he kicks off his shoes at the door and heads to the kitchen to start dinner. 

The last little touches are almost done when his mom walks through the front door, cell phone pressed between her shoulder and ear as she juggles her briefcase and keys. 

“Yes, dear, I made it home,” she says brightly into the receiver before looking straight at Izuku, “hi, honey! I can’t wait to hear all about your day, but let me put this down.” 

Izuku smiles and nods, plating up their food. By the time Inko is seated, she has the cell phone on speaker and sitting on the table. 

“Hey, son!” Hisashi calls. “I just happened to grab my own dinner when your mom mentioned the time. Figured I’d eat with my two favorite people.” 

“Sounds good, but I bet what we’re having tastes better,” he teases. Hisashi remains silent over the phone but is clearly pouting. One of his biggest complaints about being away for so long is the ack of home-cooked food. Midoriya Hisashi shouldn't be trusted with a stove by himself. 

Inko covers a soft laugh with her hand before reaching for her chopsticks, Izuku copying her movements. She clears her throat and Hisashi sighs, pretending to be aggrieved but really just fond. 

“...maybe. Anyway!” 

“Itadakimasu,” they all say before digging in, everyone starting to talk about their days. If Izuku closed his eyes for a second, he could imagine all three of them at the same table. 

“What about you, honey? Did you have a good time at the dojo?” Inko checks in. 

“Yeah, it was fun,” he starts babbling about his spars and the dragon stance they’re close to mastering, before trailing off in thought, reminding himself of something from earlier. “Hey, dad?”

“Yeah?” Hisashi responds, mouth obviously full over the phone. 

“That one pre-quirk movie star you really like, he did martial arts right?” A few seconds pause for the man to finish chewing. 

“You mean Bruce Lee?” 

“Right, him,” Izuku took a sip of his tea. “What was the name of his style again?” 

“Well, the one he created was called Jeet Kune Do, though he’s credited with saying that he didn’t so much as create a new style as want to release his followers from clinging to strict patterns. Actually-–” Hisashi’s voice deepens, prepared to start a university-level lecture on the history and philosophies of one of his favorite actors. 

“Dad,” Izuku interrupts, “I’d be happy to talk about it but maybe not now?” Definitely during their next video call. He just didn’t want to use his mom’s international minutes on what was sure to be a very long analysis, especially when her eyes were already unfocusing. She loves her husband, but even Izuku knows that when the Midoriya men ramble, people tend to get sidetracked. 

“I was always partial to that Jackie Chan guy, he seemed so sweet,” Inko says, half in thought, before bringing another bite to her lips. 

“My dear wife, the fact that you know someone in the pre-quirk martial arts films makes me love you all the more.” Hisashi affects a swoon in his voice. 

“‘Sashi, you made me watch them.” They all laugh. 

“At least I waited until the fifth date!” 

While his parents bicker playfully–-he refuses to call it flirting, gross-–Izuku finishes his meal, mind whirring. He remembers when Hisashi first brought up the style way back when. While Izuku had seen a couple of the movies when they first visited his father at his workplace, he was more familiar with the man’s ramblings while he outlined the different benefits and downsides of all of the dojos he researched for Izuku. He definitely remembers that the style flowed more than stick to form. 

If he was to cover his bases, he knew the different Shaolin styles would suffice: Northern, Southern, bare fist, or blade, it didn’t matter. But if he really wanted to cover his bases, he needed to have both a structured form and something unpredictable. If no one could guess his moves…he’d always have an advantage. 

He talks with his parents a bit more, mostly light-hearted and loving. He kisses his mom’s cheek as she shoos him away. Since he cooked, she’ll clean the dishes. He says goodnight to his dad over the phone and promises a video call the next evening, Hisashi bemoaning his own workload for the rest of the night. Izuku wanders off to his bedroom and sits down on the bed carefully, some muscles still a bit tight from his earlier workout. 

All Might smiles back at him from the walls and he yawns, sleepy but not yet completely exhausted. He grabs another notebook, one on his nightstand that he never brings anywhere else. The place he writes his plans, his dreams, and his loopholes. He snatches a pen from off the floor and taps the end to his cheek in thought. The most recent page reviews his new schedule. He scribbles a little box on a blank space and his eyes narrow thoughtfully, plans and preparations running through his young mind. 

He starts writing.

Chapter Text

The alarm goes off at 5:00AM as it does every morning, the jovial “I Am Here!” computerized voice ringing through the room. 

His hand slaps the off button with a vengeance. 

His poor alarm clock didn’t deserve his wrath but feels it anyway. He knows he shouldn’t have gone to sleep around two in the morning, he’d just been so laser-focused on practicing his sleight of hand tricks from online videos that he completely lost track of time. 

All of his mentors would scold him for not taking care of his body properly. Zhao-sensei would make him do so many push-ups if he ever found out Izuku didn’t get a full eight hours of sleep. (Not that the fourteen-year-old ever slept that long any time in the past few years, but he’s learned how to tell believable white lies to his master when asked about his sleep habits.)

The foremost expert in Jeet Kune Do and his virtual sensei wouldn’t be as extreme in any punishments but Shifu Liu had a way of making you feel like a disappointment with only a single look, even through a video call. She had only taught him in person a few times over the years, whenever he and his mom managed to visit his dad in Nanjing. The rest of their lessons were over cameras and phone calls. So while she wouldn’t necessarily know about his poor sleep since they wouldn’t be speaking today, she always gave off the vibe that she knew everything he did. 

He adored it. 

Almost every adult in his personal life would be appalled at how little he sometimes rested but he knew it was because they cared. His mom was unfortunately used to his insomniac tendencies. 

Luckily, once he was awake, he stayed awake. Izuku swung his legs up in the air on his mattress before dropping them, giving his body a little bounce and hyping himself up for the day. It was fairly chilly outside with threats of later rain—anyone would need a moment to force themselves up and out of a cozy blanket. 

But by 5:03AM, Izuku was standing and already beginning to stretch. He spent several long minutes with just the basics before rushing to the bathroom to answer the call of nature. When he was done, his morning routine officially began. 

Downing a large glass of water to refresh himself from sleep. Full stretches, then yoga and some Pilates. An intense routine of push-ups, crunches, and lunges then heading to the pull-up bar he’d begged to have installed over his door. He heads out for a run around his neighborhood, stopping to pet a few dogs out on walks while working on his confidence in talking to the strangers walking them. The rest of the time he spends running has his headphones in, an English lesson video playing. He mumbles translations under his breath as he jogs. 

When he returns, it’s straight to some minor weight lifting—bicep curls at the table as he drinks a pre-made smoothie and double checks his schedule for the day on his extensively color-coded phone calendar. He hears his mom’s alarm go off and her shuffle to the bathroom, shower turning on moments later. 

He uses the time she’s occupied to whip up a quick but healthy breakfast for them both. The cooking classes have definitely paid off, much to his mother’s pleasure. He sends off good morning texts to his father (with a link to a conspiracy post he’d seen online about the Bermuda Triangle, renamed the Bermuda Square several decades ago when the mysterious sinkings happened ever closer to Florida, USA) and his closer friends. Ojiro texts back a simple good morning, knowing they’d be seeing each other for practice that afternoon. A few others won’t respond until later, seeing as they all very much liked sleeping in. 

When his mother leaves her room, dressed in her sharp pantsuit but soft make-up, she kisses the top of his head in greeting. “Morning, sweetie. You’re quite smelly this morning.” 

“Mooooom,” he whines. It’s a playful routine, something that happens every morning and comforts him with that fact. They begin to eat, both fairly quiet in the early hours. Inko reminds him that she’ll be swinging by the daochang after work to pick him up from practice. The instruction assistants had him working on a sword dance and she wanted to see it. 

As she cleared away the table, Izuku stood to head to the bathroom but not before kissing his mother’s cheek in farewell before she left for work. He made sure to wish her a good day and compliment her new blush color to which she smiled, pleased. The girls at the dance studio would often talk about makeup and were nice enough to teach him. He had figured at first that it would help with disguises or undercover hero operations but then he just enjoyed painting people’s faces. And giving his mom more compliments was always a good thing in his book. She deserved it. 

After a quick shower, he spent much longer trying to dry his hair properly. Mina, the person he was closest to at the studio, had kindly bullied him into proper curl care when they were thirteen. His parents had simply laughed at his pout when he started the routine but Inko always told him self-care was just as important as training. She even purchased the same products and sent them to Hisashi while praising Izuku’s pink-skinned friend. 

He did his squats while brushing his teeth and flossing. A quirk analysis podcast played as he finished his grooming and began dressing in his middle school uniform. A quick borrowing of his mom’s concealer in the bathroom cabinet covers the dark circles under his eyes. He makes a face at himself in amusement before sighing and beginning his affirmations while awkwardly locking gazes with his reflection. Mental health and self-confidence were important, especially when holding a rigorous schedule or trying to keep an advantage over someone. 

The last twenty minutes before he leaves the house is spent finishing the podcast and double-checking he has everything he needs in his bags. His gym bag has both his school’s gym uniform and the daochang uniform. An extra pair of dance clothes, just in case, plus his ballet shoes. A couple of water bottles and personal hygiene items. And his school bag, filled to the brim with the textbooks he’s already read over several times and his personal reading. Izuku decides on a wilderness survival guide and a book about the history of the yen. He’ll probably finish both today; with how ahead he is in school work and how much he’s mastered speed-reading over the years, he’ll have time. He might work on his hero analysis journal too. He’s already halfway through volume 16 and he has ideas on the newest debut of a capture-specialist team. 

The rest of his bag’s pockets are filled with the essentials: pens, a set of cards to fiddle with, ruler, lock-picking set, erasers, first aid kit, a few jelly pouches for a snack, and what he calls his Advantage Support. The repurposed large pencil case is filled with all kinds of trinkets that could give Izuku an edge if he ever finds himself needing one. Marbles to trip people, clear and colored string for tying, both a lighter and old-school fire starter, a weighted coin for coin flips, gum and other candy to offer to get on people’s good sides. Most recently, he’s shoved a sewing kit and a small UV light keychain in the bag.

The last things he grabs, he shoves into his uniform pockets. His wallet with a multitool card. His phone with an indestructible case. His taser and pepper spray. The last two were trickier to acquire. While the laws banning personal weapons were overturned in 2109, there was still some backlash. But why bother about prohibiting a little taser when a guy with an electricity quirk could instantly kill someone? Granted, most self-defense weapons have long since turned into marketed support weapons. Civilians could purchase the most basic ones…at a heftier price than in other countries. Oh well. He managed to save up some allowance and money from odd jobs to buy a few different things. 

His mother banned him from carrying any of his pocket knives unless going on a long trip or walking anywhere out of Musutafu, but he was allowed his pepper spray and tiny taser for daily protection. Even with his physical training and martial skill, he needed everything possible if he had to deal with a rampaging villain with an extremely destructive quirk. 

No one thought much about pepper spray to the eyes nowadays. 

His phone beeps with his reminder to leave in time for school. The walk is only half an hour, even less if he decides to use the train, but Aldera isn’t worth the effort. Besides, a simple walk is always good for centering himself and working on his people-hacking skills. 

He grabs a thermos of tea before running out of the door. While he wished for coffee, he’d been on a strict diet plan ever since his training ratcheted up when he was twelve. And now that all of his mentors know he wants to take the U.A. hero exam in ten months, they’re even stricter. So no caffeine. He’ll survive…somehow. His father just says he pities him. 

The crowds move with him as he walks. His headphones are in, this time an advanced Mandarin lesson he’d review with his father on their next call, but he splits his attention between grammar and watching everyone around him. Behavioral analysis was so interesting. Just by the way people stepped, you could tell certain things about their lives. Izuku’s brain whirs with all of the observations he made about the different mutation quirks around him; the way the police crossing guard held themselves versus an office worker’s stance; how the mother corralling two young children to school could distract and soothe hyperactive minds while keeping an eye on her surroundings. 

There was so much to learn just by watching. He hums under his breath as he continues on, nimbly dodging a bicyclist and dropping a few coins into the cup of a ragged man sitting on the sidewalk’s corner. Just as he focuses back on the Mandarin lesson—new verb tenses, fun!—an explosion rocks throughout the city. Everyone pauses, frozen. Izuku quickly looks around to take stock of the situation. A gigantification quirk gone wild if the very large man running through the streets was any indication. 

Izuku notices the hero pursuing the criminal. Kamui Woods, excellent capture specialist but known for more spotlight work. Sturdy wooden bindings but flashier than needed. Do more branches take more energy? Are there more structural weaknesses? How dense are the branches, would it feel like an actual tree weighing down on you or are they hollow due to the growth rate? What if—?

He memorizes the bridged pattern of the branches climbing up the giant criminal’s leg, coming up with three different ways to avoid getting caught in that quirk, until he’s shaken from his focus by another boom. A new player enters the field, a masked blonde woman barrelling into the criminal’s side as he shakes off Kamui Wood’s attack. 

The crowd around Izuku cheers. Izuku drinks in the entire fight, short as it is with the newest hero on scene. One just debuting based on her introduction to the civilians watching and the fact Izuku would’ve seen a hero with a quirk like that before. So interesting! He wonders if she can only increase her size or shrink as well, or if physics apply to her with more mass equaling more force behind her punches, or if…

Izuku gently bites the inside of his cheek. A habit he picked up to curb his previous mumbling. He doesn’t slip often, but sometimes he gets too excited. 

Once the streets are clear of the arrested criminal and press interviewing the heroes, Izuku rushes to Aldera Junior High with his brain buzzing a mile a minute. Luckily, he isn’t too late, slinking into homeroom less than a minute before the bell rings. He gives his classmates a sheepish smile. While he isn’t outright bullied, he isn’t the most popular. Some of his classmates nod or wave at him, most ignore his presence. He thinks it might just be personality differences. Bakugou loves to inform him he’s weird and has a useless quirk so nobody wants to be his friend. 

His mom says he just needs to stop doing social experiments on his fellow homeroom students. 

Whatever. They’re the kids he sees most, he might as well! 

Regardless of whatever the other teens in Aldera think, he doesn’t particularly care. They can think him weak with his quirk or creepy with his staring, but he knows what real friends are and he can honestly say he doesn’t need them in this particular lot. 

Slipping into his seat, he pulls out his already-read textbook and a couple of notebooks. The teacher saunters into the room, ready to start the day with unnecessary announcements and a monotone droll. 

He takes the opportunity to write down everything he’s observed from this morning in his notebooks. He flips to different sections as needed. Some were on behavior, some were on psychology, and some were just random thoughts and questions that popped into his ever-moving mind. But a majority of his notebooks were dedicated to heroes and thus he started a new entry for the outgoing Mt. Lady. He had a few details he could add to his Kamui Woods entry when he returned home and could access volume 12. Luckily, with all of the memorization building and brain training games he’d done, he wouldn’t be at risk of forgetting. 

The day drags on. Nothing of note really happens beyond him demonstrating a math problem on the board and getting a text back from his dance buddy at lunch time. 

Mina has been begging him to partner up for a performance because she wants someone who can help her pull off cheer-like stunts in her freestyle routine. Izuku will not give into peer pressure. 

He won’t. 

…hopefully. 

He spends his lunch break on the roof, play-arguing with his curly-haired friend over text about his limp noodle arms and—in Mina’s response—his outright lies. A video on different wilderness plants plays in the background on his phone. His mom also sends a text about a news article she’s reading, most likely on her own lunch break. 

Things are good. 

Until Tekkai-sensei opens his mouth when they’re near the end of the day, their homeroom teacher going over some of the necessary documents and steps for graduating middle school in ten months. 

The class cheers when the teacher says they all want to be heroes, many blatantly showing off their quirks and breaking several quirk use rules. Izuku sighs at the chaos; it’s not like Aldera ever really cared about quirk usage. 

His mother had been very displeased at that. She’d already filed many complaints about the school’s violations of educational welfare and civil conduct over the past few years he’s attended. But even when certain bullying practices stopped against the weaker kids, due to a very heavy hand from mother and son quoting every rule of the school board, the teachers continued to turn a blind eye to what they considered “minor infractions.” Some quirk use that wasn’t harming anyone didn’t matter to them. At this point, the school dodges the Midoriya’s phone calls. 

Izuku managed to convince his mom to hold off on any actual lawsuit. At least until he graduates and won’t have to deal with the repercussions. 

He’s brought out of his terror of seeing his mom laser-focused on contacting other parents for evidence, mostly for litigation and some for blackmail, by Bakugou yelling.

It’s a wonder he’s not immune to the sound at this point. The explosive blond is growling at the rest of the class and claiming that only he’ll be the best. Or something like that. It’s a regular occurrence nowadays, with teachers putting on the pressure of picking out the best high schools and focusing on their careers. 

Bakugou has certainly gotten more aggressive in his day-to-day life. 

As evidenced by another explosion when Tekkai-sensei says, “Ah, Midoriya, you’re applying to U.A. too, right?” 

Which, why. Why mention that? Izuku is pretty sure that’s a breach of personal information. Now he has more evidence for his mom’s case, yay! 

The class murmurs in shock while Bakugou slams his hands on his own desk. Izuku was considered fairly weak, even with his oddly described and never elaborated upon quirk. Any time he introduced his quirk, he received confused or skeptical looks. Many students chose to ignore him and labeled him off. Some tried to prove his quirk over the years, like Katsuki. 

A swift jab to a knee or elbow stopped that often enough. 

But with a “weak” quirk, even if Izuku could defend himself, he would never be considered U.A. material. At least according to his peers. Maybe another hero school, maybe another career, but the best of the best? Everyone in Aldera knew only Katsuki had a chance. Several classmates had mentioned for months about not even bothering for U.A., even before the explosive blond started threatening others that he’d be the only one in All Might’s alma mater. 

Izuku huffs under his breath. His class watches on as Bakugou stomps in front of Izuku’s desk and demands the shorter boy explain himself. 

He looks up at his once childhood friend and raises an eyebrow. 

“There’s nothing stopping me from applying,” he says, keeping his voice as neutral as possible. Tekkai-sensei doesn’t say a word when Bakugou lets off another controlled explosion onto Izuku’s desk. Everyone watches as Bakugou makes yet another declaration about him being the future number one hero and that Izuku is nothing but an extra stepping stone. 

Izuku just watches on. 

If he was a mere stepping stone, wouldn’t it be better for him to get into U.A.? Be a way for Bakugou Katsuki to shine? 

If he was a simple extra, why did what he did matter so much to the teen? 

Simple. 

Izuku carefully examined Bakugou’s snarling face before the blond made yet another veiled threat and stormed to his own chair. He could rage and pretend all he wants, but micro-expressions were hard to hide. 

Anger. Irritation. 

Unease. Desperation. 

Izuku knows Katsuki’s tells better than anyone besides Auntie Mitsuki and Uncle Masaru. Maybe a bit better than the parents even, with his deepening study of psychology and facial expressions. Bakugou is a proud child but held quite a fear of being bested. Every time Izuku easily ran away from him and his backup, or outscored on a test, or stood unwavering between explosions and weak-quirked kids, Bakugou’s jaw would clench and eyes shine. 

He couldn’t accept Izuku being better in any way—too bad that wasn’t Izuku’s problem. 

Midoriya Hisashi engraved that mindset into him early on, when the boys had their first confrontations over Izuku’s “quirk.” The first step to realizing that they weren’t friends was understanding that Izuku didn’t have to change or hurt himself to appease someone he thought was a friend. 

If Bakugou was being harmed, Izuku would help. His dad knew that. 

But Izuku couldn’t do anything about another person’s insecurities or fears when that person wasn’t willing to address or work on it themselves. He knows his mom and dad talked to the Bakugous about therapy and anger management, but it hasn’t seemed to make a difference, if Katsuki even went. Izuku didn’t know. 

He could be a hero that saves everyone with a smile, but he couldn’t be a hero to take on everyone else’s inner demons at the risk of himself. 

It’s when the final bell of the day rings and Izuku stuffs his books into his bag when Bakugou decides to continue his performance. 

Another boom and his desk is smoldering. Great. He’ll have to help the janitor clean that. Mr. Yamori was too kind to be forced to always clean up after the delinquents. Some sandpaper, a few reapplications of varnish, and the handprints should come right off—

“Deku!” Bakugou yells. “Do you think you’re too good to listen to us, you useless nerd?” 

Izuku has had a productive day, one full of mental stimulation and waning social energy. Not to mention just how little sleep he got the night before. His eyes narrow as he finally zips up his bag, notebook and pencils safely tucked away. He’d seen the groupies behind Bakugou eyeing his latest notebook and swiftly removed it from the equation. There were only so many times he’d let another kid burn or pierce his things. Most of the others already learned when he very politely threatened—he means, convinced to reimburse or replace his damaged items. 

He was too tired for this.

“Just because I don’t destroy school property doesn’t mean I’m useless.” His bag is slung across his shoulders. “And I just think it’s more advantageous to ignore you.”

Bakugou’s eye twitches violently at the mention of Izuku’s “quirk.” 

With that parting shot, Izuku takes a wide step back from the desk and maneuvers so the other desks are now in between him and the angry teens. Bakugou steps as if to follow, glare heated. His ‘lackeys’ don’t make a tactical decision in blocking his route; no, they simply trail after their ‘leader’ with sneers on their face at Izuku’s attitude. 

“Where do you think you’re going?!” 

“I need to walk away.” 

“Ha,” Bakugou scoffs, crossing his arms over his chest with a smirk. “Guess you realize you have no ‘advantage’ against me , Deku. In fact, the only way you’d ever get an advantage against me is by taking a swan dive off the roof and hoping for a less shitty quirk!”

Izuku’s jaw drops open. 

Wow. That one was new. Bakugou was abrasive and liked to call him (and other students with nonphysical or visible quirks) as useless, pathetic. He liked to lord his own power over the other kids and soaked up the teachers’ and administration’s praise about his future in heroics. A lot of stuff was given a blind eye, even though outright violence was curbed. Couldn’t have witnesses or injuries as evidence huh? Nothing to ruin the bright career of a future top hero.

And Bakugou took to it. Never aimed his explosions at others, even Izuku. Even when the blonde was clearly frustrated by Izuku’s run-around about his quirk. He’d call people rude nicknames. 

But suicide baiting? 

Izuku stared in shock at his former friend. He was about to write Bakugou off all together and show him just why a Midoriya lecture was something to be feared amongst the students at the University of Hong Kong. Izuku learned from his father well, after all. 

Yet the tiniest flinch stopped him from verbally eviscerating and embarrassing Bakugou in front of his minions. Bakugou held his superior expression almost flawlessly; except for the tightening around his eyes and the crease in his forehead. Upset. Apprehension. 

Guilt. 

Izuku wants to point it out. He should. But also, he knows from first-hand experience that trying to expose or correct Bakugou’s behavior only makes the blond teen dig his heels in more. It’s been an unfortunate side effect whenever Izuku tried to stand up for others who were being belittled or shoved around. Full-on bullying rarely happened to his other classmates once they hit middle school, what with having a more detailed record of your school life being given to prospective high schools, something most of the elementary school bullies tried to hide. 

But strong quirk users with stronger personalities continued to act how they wanted; adults turned a blind eye to any “mischievous behavior.” Still, Bakugou being the golden child let him get away with most things but not all. The blond knew that and so he didn't resort to outright violence…or anything that would have definite proof of his actions. 

Trying to mention that to Bakugou when he was harassing younger or weaker students only earned Izuku his own insults. Maybe a performative explosion or two, a shove here and there. Called stupid and “what the hell does a Deku like you know?” when pointing out that Bakugou clearly didn’t want to be acting like this when there was the slightest hint of regret in his words or actions. Even bringing up the idea that Bakugou and his lackeys hurting others wasn’t very hero-like caused all out explosions. 

The teachers must’ve discussed this with Aunt Mitsuki and Uncle Masaru, right? The last confrontation before this was in a crowded hallway, someone must have seen. 

It’s just…this is all so repetitive. Bakugou wants to prove he’s the strongest and takes it out on others. He’s a smart kid, so he has to understand that he can’t always do this? That heroes don’t do this? Izuku can never understand. Bakugou Katsuki is the one mind he knows the best and also has no clue about. He’s so contradictory that it practically gives Izuku a migraine. 

Like now. Telling an ex-childhood friend and fellow student to kill themselves because what? Their quirk isn’t as flashy? And then feeling bad about it but instead of doing the decent thing and apologizing, acting cool to impress people that don’t even matter to you. 

Izuku takes a deep breath, centering himself as he always does. The silence of his lack of response grows more awkward. Even Bakugou’s lackeys fidget nervously. 

Because Izuku does have a bit of a reputation. The whole standing up for others thing. The top grades and quick wits. The few times he’s sent an actual bully looking to hurt him tumbling to the ground, whether with a quick dodge, an over-the-shoulder throw learned from his martial arts, or the memorable story of how he sent a pack of older teens careening into walls due to slippery hallway floors. It’s not like it’s hard to memorize the janitors’ schedules and when they wax the floors after school. Especially if you befriend them. 

In the end, Izuku stares at his former friend dispassionately, disapprovingly. Checking his bag is secure on his back, he takes one long stride right up to lackey #1 blocking his way, a boy with extending eyeballs and not much personality. The teen scuttles back at the look on his face. 

“H-Hey, you—”

Before the lackey can even protest, Izuku easily dodges around and hurries into the doorway. Bakugou growls in surprise, startled from the sudden movement and being ignored. 

“Deku! We’re not finished here!” The blond yells. “Don’t even think of applying for U.A.!” 

Izuku doesn’t pause in his stride as he turns, walking backward through the open door and into the hallway. He locks eyes with Bakugou, a storm of emotion behind red eyes, before sighing in feigned boredom. Bakugou’s shoulders bristle. 

“Too late, already thought of it. Gonna do it!” With that parting shot, more sassily dismissive than he usually allows himself to be, he turns back around and races down the hallway. The few remaining students glance his way as he dodges around them but their eyes skitter downwards when they hear the loud pop of Katsuki’s explosions from inside the classroom. 

He huffs to himself as he makes it to the closest stairwell without anyone giving chase. Always so repetitive. Predictable. There were many other parting shots Izuku could’ve given, ones that would call Bakugou out for his cruelty in suicide-baiting; ones that would hurt the boy’s feelings, cutting deep at his not-so-hidden insecurities. How much of a disappointment the blond would be to Aunt Mitsuki or Uncle Masuru if the adults were to hear about this encounter. 

But really, what would be the point? 

Another argument, another round of belittling words that Izuku barely listened to, another day of deftly avoiding hands grabbing at him in misplaced rage. Bakugou’s temper continued to grow, and it had to have been brought up at some point to his parents; Inko certainly mentioned anger management therapy once or twice. The teachers should be keeping an eye. 

It was not Izuku’s job to shove common sense and empathy at his classmate and former childhood friend. 

Even if a hero saves everyone? A little voice in the back of his head asks. One that popped up on his most stressed nights, wondering if he could really juggle everything he planned for himself. If he could really keep lying, hiding behind a “fake quirk.” If he could really be a hero? 

Hell yes , he firmly thought. 

He can be a hero who wants to help everyone. He can be a hero who doesn’t want to only physically save, but inspire others to keep going. Just like All Might. 

But he’s not going to burden himself with other peoples’ anchors when the tools to release them are in their own hands. He’s carrying too much weight himself. 

Zhao-sensei was the one to first knock that belief into him. While his mother and father knew he instinctively went out of his way to help people, it was his shifu that noticed how much responsibility he tried to take for others. Helping his peers train in styles they were failing, creating quirk analysis for those who asked, always eager to please and help however he could at the cost of his own mental energy and time. 

“A river is mighty only when it continues flowing,” Zhao-sensei had said. “Splitting streams and gathering rocks only diverts its power.” 

A hard lesson to learn; one Izuku reminds himself he is still learning whenever he is over zealously jumping in to help others. 

Can’t help anyone if he can’t help himself. 

With a heavy sigh, heart almost aching at the thought of Bakugou’s behavior continuing and fighting his own conscience, he walks from Aldera down the well-traveled path toward the dojo. A few store owners were putting out signs or produce, waving back when Izuku greeted them familiarly. He pops in his earphones once more, choosing an upbeat song he wanted to choreograph a piece to (definitely not one he could partner with Mina with, he was not giving in to her demands!) instead of his usual podcast or audio lesson. 

His walk improved, peppy and stepping in beat to the music as he continued through the underpass he’d walked a thousand times before. 

Until the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. His awareness sharpened immediately, internally thanking his sensei and teachers for drilling in quick reactions and heightened senses when alone. A few meters ahead, a nondescript manhole cover shook. Izuku took two large steps back when it rattled and blasted upwards, followed by a putrid mass of sludge. 

A writhing form of dark green mud spills onto the concrete. Izuku quickly analyzes what he can; viscous substance, hard to see through but flows on its own, arms but no legs, two eyes, sharp teeth set in a wide mouth that grin frantically as they catch sight of the middle schooler. 

“Oh perfect, I needed a meat suit,” a deep voice growls. Izuku sucks in a sharp breath, surprised. Sure, he wouldn’t expect an average citizen to play peek-a-boo from the sewers, but the easy malice in the slime person’s voice definitely pointed to criminal. 

A villain. 

“W-Wait—” he tries, internally cursing at his stutter. What was going on? His knees shook. 

What was happening to him? Was he…was he scared? 

“Don’t worry, kid, it won’t hurt…much,” the villain soothes as pillars of sludge spew from his body toward Izuku with surprising speed. 

Instinctively, Izuku dodges the first…tentacle?...by throwing himself to the right. Another blast of sludge follows him, wrapping around his ankle before he can blink and causing him to trip. 

Shit. Shit, what was happening? His chest almost seizes in a panic, exhaustion from the day catching up to him and mixing with fear. This villain wanted him as a meat suit, he’d said so at the start. Why? In order to have form? For survival? For escape? 

In moments, Izuku is dragged closer to the villain, sludge climbing up his body as he tries to scramble up from his position on the concrete. The criminal leans closer, face in front of Izuku’s with a frantic look in their eyes. 

“Calm down, I just need to hijack your body. It’ll only hurt for about 45 seconds, then it’ll all be over.” 

Izuku grit his teeth, arms trembling at turning his head away as the sludge held him firm and tried to go into his mouth. The rest of his body was freeing up, arms and legs loose at points but unable to find purchase on the ground, yet able to reach his own pockets. Izuku almost gagged at the putrid smell of the sludge surrounding him, eyes watering from the stench and fear. 

Was this how he was going to die? 

Absolutely not. 

The villain screams, gelatinous arms coming up to cover their face while Izuku takes the chance to scramble away, personal safety device securely in hand. 

No one thought much about pepper spray to the eyes these days. 

Izuku toys with the idea of pulling out his taser. Only if the villain continues to attack, he decides. He coughs even as he runs, clearing his throat though the villain never had the chance to get inside. The smell and blow back of the pepper spray make him wheeze. He might need to invest in goggles or glasses or something if he plans on using something similar in his future hero suit. 

While the sludge person is still wailing about their eyes, Izuku pulls out his phone and dials 119 without looking even with adrenaline-shaky fingers. That week spent memorizing every part of his phone’s layout and touchscreen blindly was paying off. 

“Hello, I’d like to report an attempted…uh, kidnapping? Assault? There’s a criminal who attacked me at 1XX Pass near the Hirokoshi Tunnel—” He begins but is interrupted by the villain growling. 

“You brat!” An awful smelling arm rushes towards him from behind. Izuku is almost back at the entrance of the underpass, but he won’t make it in time. The villain is squinting through watery eyes filled with rage, upping their attack with new ferocity. 

Izuku can hear the dispatcher on the phone continue to ask questions but can’t focus on responding while he ducks the arm and slips the pepper spray in his pocket. His fingers brush against the taser as the entire villain swarms around him. Its viscous to the point that there should be a high enough water content for his taser to cause damage. Izuku’s ready, he’s been training, he can’t freeze up now, not again—

“I AM HERE!” 

In a concussive blast, both the villain and Izuku go flying. The villain? Into tiny sludgy pieces. Izuku? Straight into the concrete tunnel wall. 

He blacks out. 

-.-.-.-.-

Izuku wakes up. 

The process is more violent than usual—even during some of his more hyperactive mornings—largely in part to the person slapping him. 

His cheek stings fiercely and his head throbs from what feels like every single hair follicle but he pushes through the pain enough to open his eyes. He’s immediately startled by the large, grinning face close to his own. 

"All Might?!"

He will deny his voice squeaked. No way, not in front of the living legend himself.

"Ah, young man! Excellent, I am glad to see you're okay."

Ignoring the ringing in his ears, Izuku nods, starstruck at the large man before him. All Might is in casual clothes—was he out doing errands? Did All Might run errands? There'd be pictures of him if he did, right? How did no one notice, wait Izuku, focus!—and a hearty smile.

"Now that you're awake, I really should be going. The villain needs to be put behind bars, after all!" With a casual air, All Might holds up a bottle of something moving. When an eye ball floats close to the edge of the plastic, glaring, Izuku swallows.

Right, All Might came and apprehended the villain. His shoulders relax. Then the words register.

All Might was leaving?

(Alarm bells ring in the back of his mind, quiet and overshadowed by having his hero in front of him. Pointing at there being no first responders for a villain attack, no medics nearby for the victim. Pointing at being left alone after being thrown through a wall. He won't think about these things until much, much later.)

"Wait, um, All Might, sir, could I please get your—?" He scrambles, listing to the side and looking around. His bag must have opened when he flew backward, or maybe when he was running, but books and pens were scattered across the concrete. He grabs the near notebook and opens it, only to find an autograph already sprawled across two pages. Izuku's heart leaps, excited. He looks up to see All Might, still grinning, and putting the bottle of slime villain into his pocket. 

“Th-thank you!” He bows, clutching the notebook tightly. 

“I must be off!” All Might exclaims. The hero sketches a quick salute before crouching in preparation to jump. Izuku, still shell shocked, panics a little. 

“Wait, um—” He chokes out. There’s so much he wants to say to All Might. How much the man inspired him to always keep going. To do his best, even when he felt things were impossible. There’s so many things he wants to ask. Not just about the man’s mysterious quirk or his fights or even his opinion on cakes. A question burns at the back of his mind as his hand automatically moves out to grab All Might’s attention. 

Can someone quirkless become a hero?

And then his hand falters. 

Maybe it was the near death experience but it had been a while since he’d thought of himself as quirkless. He’d gotten so used to introducing himself with a quirk that he’d bought into the lie at times. An advantage quirk. He’d drunk the Koolaid, to borrow an odd expression his dad used sometimes. But no, he wasn’t quirkless Midoriya Izuku. Legally, he had a quirk, even if it was only a reflection of the skills he’d strained to achieve. 

Besides, the number one hero was famous for encouraging people to follow their dreams and become heroes. There’s no way he wouldn’t just repeat the same thing as his interviews if a random stranger asked him a question like that. 

“Anyone can be a hero as long as you have the determination!” 

And Izuku? He has determination in spades. Today only made him more determined. He doesn't need All Might’s rote answer. 

“Thank you again!” He calls to the now launching All Might. Emotion clogs his throat.  He vaguely notes how odd the bottle’s position is in the hero’s loose pockets, but surely things would be fine. All Might was the number one with decades of experience, there was nothing he couldn’t handle. Izuku had to keep that mindset for himself. 

The man doesn’t look back in the microsecond it takes him to fly through the sky, but that’s okay. Izuku met his hero today! He got his signature! 

He carefully places the book inside of his bag with the rest of his things, until he catches sight of the time. 

Ah shit, he’s definitely late. He runs. 

He ignores the shaking in his limbs as he picks up the pace, sprinting through the crowds that come with the end of the day and mentally shaking off the feeling of sludge creeping up his sides. He can’t stop replaying through everything he could’ve done better. 

Every way he failed himself. 

The dojo isn’t too much farther, which is good, and allows him to come up with excuses in order to ease any concerns his Shifu or friends would have. He’s never tardy, hates being late, so he has to have a damn good reason that won’t disrupt his schedule anymore than it already has been. If they know he’s been in a villain attack, they’ll demand he go home or to the hospital. 

And yes, reasonably, Izuku knows they’d be right to do so. It’s what he would do for anyone else; making sure they were okay instead of forcing themselves to train. But as his own moment of fear and weakness comes back to him—how he simply froze when faced with a criminal for the first time—he needs this training. He needs a bit of normalcy, a bit of pushing himself. Once he’s done with his class, then he’ll rest. Get comfort from his parents. Allow himself to decompress. 

But not yet. 

He’s maybe five more minutes of running away from the dojo when he hears the explosions. 

They’re muted, but not far away. At the intersection of a street, he sees a crowd forming around pillars of smoke to his left. To his right, the street he needs to go down to get to class. 

No need to be nosy , he thinks, wary and weary at the same time. There were already many curious on-lookers, and Mt. Lady was holding them back in her giant form. 

A few civilians rush past the crowd, unease and fear on their faces. 

“The heroes will take care of it,” a man tells his companion, who looks concerned. “They’re already on scene, there’s nothing we can do.” 

“I can’t believe those people are just watching though!” The woman exclaims, clutching her hands together. They walk past Izuku, paying him no mind. 

“That poor kid,” she continues. “I hope he’s okay.”

Kid? Izuku’s mind stops. A kid was in danger? He doesn’t realize he’s taking a step toward the crowd. 

“Those explosions sure are something,” The man with her comments. He shakes his head. “A real strong quirk. It’ll be fine.” 

Izuku fully freezes. One breath, two. 

Then he sprints. 

A kid with an explosion quirk. 

Bakugou. 

The crowd of people surrounding a dead-end alleyway part easily when Izuku throws his elbows with wild “excuse me!”s that bring him to the front of the crowd control barrier. Mt. Lady uses her hands to keep the people back. Backdraft is there, spraying down the fires rampaging at each new explosion. 

Kamui Woods and Death Arms stand poised, staring down the villain yelling at them. Death Arms shouts orders at Kamui Woods who says he’s not compatible with the fire. The other hero just tsks and says they need to wait for heroes with more suitable quirks to arrive. 

And as the chaos rages; as the civilians gossip and gasp, wishing All Might was there; as the heroes just stand there; is the same sludge villain who attacked Izuku earlier. Eyes bright with madness and screaming at the heroes to stay back. 

A blond boy in a black middle school uniform weakly struggling in the center of dark green sludge, eyes slipping closed and explosions randomly booming from his hands in panic. 

There is no single moment. No "oh."

There is barely a thought or a plan in his mind when his body just moves. 

He vaults over the wooden barrier, ignoring the shocked cries of the crowd around him. One of the heroes startle at his sudden rush into the alleyway, absentmindedly avoiding the swipe at his shoulder that Death Arms attempts. 

Calculations fly through his brain. All of the “what-if”s from earlier come rushing back. There is no time to doubt himself as he gets closer to the villain. 

Who absolutely notices him. 

“You!” They scream, easily recalling the pepper spray attack. An arm of sludge takes another whack at him—or rather, where he just was. 

Izuku nimbly spins to avoid the heavy attack and uses the momentum to sling his backpack off and straight into the villain’s no doubt stinging eyes. Izuku knows first hand just how heavy that bag is with everything he carries in it. The villain howls in pain, blinking rapidly. 

Just in time to catch the sight of Izuku sprinting closer, swerving to the side of a crushed dumpster and using the boost to jump higher, kicking off the brick wall. Parkour lessons have always been a favorite of Izuku’s, and he uses his momentum and his leg strength to get as high as possible. 

He locks eyes with the villain who smiles nastily as he falls closer to the sludge reaching up to grab him. 

His taser finds the mark. 

The scream of pain the villain unleashes almost curls Izuku’s toes, almost makes him feel guilty, because he’s sure the taser to the already injured eyes is debilitating. An action that could cause permanent injury. 

He forces the guilt down as he reaches his true goal, sliding down the muck that is shaking too much in pain to latch onto him. He grabs a hold of the arm Bakugou still has sticking out, face completely submerged in the villain. An explosion unconsciously goes off, not directly at Izuku but still loud enough to cause a ringing in his ears and heat to burn through his skin. Through sheer willpower and desperation, Izuku yanks. 

Bakugou slides forward, enough that Izuku can scoop his hands into the sludge around the other teen’s face and free his mouth. Can thrust his own arm in behind Bakugou’s head and pull harder, not finding enough purchase but needing to get his airways clear. As the villain’s screams quiet down, body still shaking, Izuku clenches his jaw and whips his head around to the shell-shocked heroes. 

Who are still. Just. Watching. 

“Kamui Woods!” Izuku barks, gripping tight on Bakugou and holding his free arm out to the hero. The masked man tenses then, luckily, finally , sends out a thick branch that curls around Izuku’s hand. With a pull, Izuku and Bakugou are dragged from the sludge and onto the concrete, the nearest fire beginning to burn the outstretched wood and not taking them far enough from the villain’s thrashing shadow. 

“You little shit! How dare you!” The sludge villain screams, blindly flinging his arms around the already destroyed alley. Izuku gasps and quickly drags the unconscious Bakugou out of the way of one arm. He grips the pepper spray still in his other pocket, his other hand protectively holding Bakugou by the chest. The taser trick won’t work again; the eyes are the obvious weakness and though he can’t reach the villain, the villain still hasn’t opened their eyes. Maybe if he—

“Never fear!” A booming voice calls, immediately causing cheers to rise in the crowd. The villain tenses, whipping around at the sound of the man behind him, but it’s far too late.

“Texas Smash!” 

With insane power, All Might throws a punch with enough force the whirlwind obliterates the sludge villain, stronger than what he used before. Bits of slime splatter across the alley, Izuku instinctively ducking to cover Bakugou. Rain begins to fall from the now swirling clouds that appear after the punch. 

The civilians exclaim in delight over All Might’s power and how he changed the weather. The heroes immediately move to damage control, rushing into the scene and trying to wrangle bits of the villain into a container. The press begin flashing their cameras, even as All Might quickly excuses himself. 

But Izuku pays no mind to the chaos that follows an apprehended criminal. His only focus is on providing CPR to his classmate who still remains unconscious, but after checking him over and trying to clear his airways, begins coughing up slime. Bakugou’s pulse is steady enough that he is confident in letting the paramedics running up to him take over. He watches, shaky and almost detached, as they also check Bakugou’s vitals and load him onto a stretcher. 

It’s only when they begin putting the stretcher into the ambulance that he notices a figure standing over him from where he’s sitting, sprawled on the ground. Forcing himself to his feet, he tries to breathe as evenly as possible as the hero still looms due to the height difference. 

Death Arms frowns down at him. “Kid, what’s your quirk?” 

Izuku has had a day. He’s fought the same villain twice on top of regular school bullshit and problems. He was personally attacked. He’s almost watched a childhood-friend-turned-bully-and-weird-rival suffocate to death. So in his stressed and sleep-deprived logic, he gives his most deadpan stare to the now uncomfortably shifting hero and just says: “yes.” 

“What?”

“Hm?” He sees out of the corner of his eye the ambulance finally driving away, sirens blaring. Izuku grips his phone in his pocket tightly. He needs to call both his mom and Auntie. Zhao-sensei also deserves a call because he is most definitely late to class. 

Neither of them pay much attention to the few cameras hidden in the crowd still pointed their way. The main news casters are all interviewing Backdraft or civilian witnesses. 

“What is your quirk?” Death Arms asks again. 

“Yes,” Izuku repeats. 

“Your quirk…is yes?” The hero slowly repeats. Izuku tilts his head and shrugs. 

“It’s a quirk.” His phone is buzzing incessantly against his hand. A paramedic slowly approaches the pair but Izuku shakes his head at her questioning look. Death Arms pinches the bridge of his nose with his ridiculously massive fingers. 

“The hell…” Maybe the hero thought Izuku wouldn’t hear that? “Look, kid, what you did was extremely reckless. I don’t think your quirk helped in this situation so we don’t have to warn you about illegal quirk use but you can’t just throw yourself into an active hostage situation.” 

Death Arm’s voice is loud, enough to catch more of the bystander’s attention. It’s almost enough to cover Izuku’s quiet but incredulous: “excuse me?” 

Almost. 

The crowd watches as Death Arms meets the angry gaze of a middle schooler, who straightens his shoulders and clenches his fists before sliding his hands into the pockets of his uniform. 

“Okay, one: I don’t activate my quirk meaning it’s passive and ongoing all of the time so really, there’s a fine line of illegal quirk use and you should be more mindful of that fact when dealing with civilians. Basic quirk usage law, specifically Article V, Section 8. Two: whether or not I used my quirk, I still did more than you in that situation.” 

Death Arms immediately scowls. “Now, see here—” 

“I saw already,” Izuku interjects, gritting his teeth. “You and two other heroes were on the sidelines watching everything happen. What was it you said? You were waiting for a hero with a more suitable quirk to handle it? Sure, Backdraft put out fires, but there were plenty of ways for all three of you to subdue the villain. Which brings me to point three: this was not a hostage situation and if you think so you obviously need remedial courses.” 

The last part was a barely restrained yell. Izuku took a deep breath while Death Arms sputtered in indignation. He soothed himself by flexing his hands around his phone and taser respectively. Remember, Izuku, sweetie, you catch more flies with honey than vinegar. You can be mad but you cannot let that derail the tone you want for your conversation. Tone and wording are so important for your purposes. Manipulate, don’t bulldoze.

“I apologize, I didn't mean to take that tone,” he says, stilted. “What I mean to say is that in such a situation, where the criminal is already inflicting harm and imminent death on an individual, the first and most important steps would be rescue and detain as it is an active crime . There was no chance of negotiating. That was a last stand, with the intent on maximum damage possible.” 

He doesn’t look at the hero. He doesn’t look at the suddenly murmuring crowd or the glaring Kamui Woods. He stares at the spot on the concrete where the sludge villain was once more blown to bits. There was a dark stain. He couldn’t tear his eyes away. 

“This, of course, being the standard response listed in the Hero Commission’s Mock Licensing Exam,” he continues in a bland tone. “Which also encourages heroes to think outside the box of their quirks and make the most of any opportunity to help someone. You don’t just wait to save someone dying in front of you.” 

At this, he locks eyes with Death Arms. The man is red in the face, a mixture of embarrassment and anger based on his expression. 

“I couldn’t wait. So I, what was it, recklessly threw myself into a dangerous situation, but someone had to save the teen being choked to death. I knew my skillsets, even outside of my quirk—” the mocking inflection makes the approaching Kamui Woods bristle and a few bystanders snort, “—so I did what I could to help.” 

“Don’t look down on heroics, sprout. There’s plenty of danger and sharp decision-making going on. We can’t risk making things worse. We’ve trained for this. You, a civilian, have not and should therefore not interfere. Don’t do these stunts again, okay?” The mask-wearing hero finally speaks, just a few meters from Death Arms’ and Izuku’s stare-off. The teen’s gaze slides over to the interjector, who almost flinches at the fire raging behind those eyes. 

“I would take any danger, whether it’s a villain made of slime or an explosion to the face, to make sure that a kid would go home to his parents tonight. Would you?” Izuku asks, quietly. This statement causes both Death Arms and Kamui Woods to tense, faltering in their postures. Izuku glances between them and then over to where a shrunken Mt. Lady and Backdraft are corralling bystanders away. He notices a few people staring at him with determination and respect. Weird. 

This day really has been too long. He doesn’t catch whatever the two heroes in front of him try to respond with, just done with everything. He had people to call and places to be. 

“Thanks for the assist, Kamui Woods. I need to go home now,” he states, bored.  “Since, you know, I’m underage. Good talk.” 

The dumbfounded heroes don’t stop him as he shrugs on his backpack and walks away, fishing his phone out of his pocket. The crowd of onlookers let him pass with ease. Izuku’s too focused on the dozen missed text messages and three missed calls, one from his sensei and two from his mother. He gulps, nervous. 

He presses his mom’s contact, and it immediately picks up. “Hi mom—”

“Honey! Oh my goodness, Izuku, are you okay? Baby, did you get hurt? Are you still there?” Inko frantically asks. Izuku blinks to himself in surprise. 

“What do you mean? Still where?” 

“You stay right there, I’m on my way!” 

“Mom, what are you talking about? Are you okay? Are you almost at the dojo?” 

“I’m almost to the scene, sweetheart. Are you still there? You’d better still be there, young man. You’re getting such a grounding I swear—” 

Izuku fumbles his phone from his ear, going pale. 

“M-Mom, ahaha, I’m not sure what you—”

“Midoriya Izuku,” Inko cuts him off again. Izuku definitely does not meep in fear at her tone. “I know you didn’t have a medical professional check you over after that dangerous business. What if you have smoke inhalation? And poor Katsuki, I’m texting Mitsuki but she’s driving to the hospital, and we should go too but first your father is absolutely freaking out…” 

Izuku holds his groan. He was planning on telling his mother what had happened today, but ideally where she could see and hold him so she wouldn’t doom-spiral and anxiously ramble like she was doing now. “I’m fine, okay? I promise I’m fine. Are you really coming here?” 

He slows down from his brisk walk. He hadn’t gone very far from the scene, still in the midst of other people leaving work and school in a combination of a shopping area and apartment neighborhood. Knowing his mother, she would absolutely arrive in (now less than) five minutes to the scene of the incident. 

This time he did groan aloud, but already turned to backtrack to where the alleyway was. He should get there soon. “How’d you know, anyway? Did someone call you? How’d they call you when they didn’t even get my name?” 

“...honey,” Inko slowly said, luckily less frantic than before. “Your video is currently trending.”

“There’s video?! Of what?!” 

And as Izuku returns near the street, and as he finally finds his mother running up the sidewalk to him with tears streaming down her face, and as he finally gets to hug his mom and let the stress of the day wash away, he never sees the tall emaciated blond that had tried to follow him, only to duck into a doorway when he’d backtracked to meet his mother. 

It wouldn’t have made much difference anyway.