Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"I see others paradoxically getting killed for the ideas or illusions that give them a reason for living (what is called a reason for living is also an excellent reason for dying)." - Albert Camus, The Myth of Sisyphus

-

Life has always been such a cruel, fragile thing.

From the moment a child is born, they are forced to bear the weight of fear and pain and love and sacrifice. It is not immediate; no, an infant knows nothing of these sorts of abstract concepts, but in time, as all humans do, they will learn. They must. After all, one must learn to bear the weight of love and pain before one can learn to bear the weight of expectations. And what a heavy weight that is–expectations, I mean.

As the child grows, they will (hopefully) become most familiar with the concept of true, unconditional love. A child should find it in a mother or a father, someone who can be called family–someone who provides gentle words, a firm but loving hand, and unyielding support. Someone who can bear the pain for them; someone who can teach them love before suffering. After all, a child, above all else, deserves love. And a child is loved if they are in a position to take that love for granted.

Not all children are born so lucky.

Some do not become familiar with the concept of love unless they, in the same moment, also become familiar with the ache of absence. When they come to learn that the world is not fair, at least, not truly. When they learn that they have to become familiar with such things like pain and sacrifice at an age when they should be just barely learning to understand love. It will inevitably twist their perception: love and suffering, when learned hand in hand, will become irrevocably intertwined as if one cannot exist without the other. 

And a child who is forced to learn suffering too early is a child who was failed. A child who, despite being born into a world where people are supposedly equal, was left to the wayside merely due to the circumstances of their birth.

Societies in the modern era love to tout their grandiose foundations: equality, fairness, meritocracy. But everyone knows, regardless of their willingness to accept it, that these foundations are nothing but gilded lies–falsehoods spewed from silver tongues, meaningless platitudes slathered with gold that fails to hide the rot.

Man has not, is not, and will never be created equal.

This is a fundamental truth of society. And nothing highlights this truth more than the naivety, or lack thereof, of a child.

Many children are lucky enough to learn love before loss, but some are not so fortunate. Some are forced to become acquainted with the short end of the stick before they could ever fathom that they could have had more–should have had more. Some are forced to kick and scream and fight with bloody teeth and blackened eyes before they are ever given the chance to realize that they should have had support. That though survival is not deserved but, rather, earned, they should have had someone by their side to shield them from the lies and show them how: how to fight to survive; how to survive in order to fight. This is another fundamental truth of living.

And that's how it's always been, hasn't it? It is nothing but a never-ending cycle: fight, survive, breathe, rinse, repeat.

Sometimes it is a fight in the most literal sense–broken and bloody knuckles, jawbones painted in bright purples and sickly yellows, bent and twisted limbs that will forever ache when the temperature drops and the wind blows. Other times, it is more of a metaphor–lies dripping with brutal honesty, thoughts that scream for retribution or release, despair that walks hand in hand with all-consuming ennui.

The tides of fate are relentless and unforgiving, but to fight is to be human.

And isn't that unbearable?

The inevitability of it all.

Regardless, anyone can see that some are, unfortunately, better at it than others, but that is not without reason. Never underestimate someone who walks through society beaten down by its slowly rotting corpse, yet still continues to put one foot in front of the other despite losing fight after fight after goddamn fight. Those who do so are always unequivocally broken, but they are also unbearably kind.

They are to be regarded with reverence. Humans are resilient–yes–but few can survive that sort of brutality, and those that do, well, it is because they were made to. They are loved by something beyond our understanding.

...How painful their love must be. 

(They were made to suffer)

And though their suffering may break them, their pieces can always be put back together. But, should they shatter, mourn. Losing someone who is beaten down at every turn, who sees through lies and grants forgiveness, who knows loss more intimately than love, is no better than an angel who has lost its wings.

The day they give up, Death weeps.

...☆☆☆☆...

Izuku was a child born with stars behind his eyes and constellations etched into his skin. And from the moment he gained consciousness, he exuded a gentle kindness, a delicate sort of golden yellow glow of lovelovelove. He was all soft edges and warm smiles and genuine excitement.

As he grew, he slowly became familiar with the concept of unconditional love. His mother, like him, was soft as a cloud and utterly blinding with her smile. She showered him in sunflower colored compassion and forest green colored kindness, and she taught him to share his kindness with shining green eyes and wispy, ethereal laughter. They were happy–he was happy, as any child ought to be. They giggled and laughed and basked in the warmth of a mother’s unconditional love. But, it was this unconditional love and unending kindness that also, inadvertently, taught Izuku absence, that taught him pain.

Inko was born to be a parent, with her soothing words and patient hand, but Hisashi, Izuku's father, was not. He was not a good man, a fact he'd willingly be the first to admit. At first, he'd tried–he really did. But as time wore on, he tried less and less. He never wanted a child, and when the weight of fatherhood became too much to bear, he left. Izuku was three. And Inko was devastated.

But she carefully picked up the pieces of her broken heart, and with a pained but no less loving hand, held her son. It destroyed her to see a young child who should only know love become achingly familiar with absence, with sacrifice, with painpainpain.

She tried to shield him from the hurt–she told him that daddy went to work in America, but he wouldn’t be back anytime soon–but at her words, the stars behind Izuku's eyes dimmed, and he grew solemn. It was then that she knew that she had failed, that her son was too perceptive to escape the pain. But still, she tried. A good mother will do anything to protect her child from the sordid truths of the world, no matter how fruitless the attempt. Perhaps it was for the best that young Izuku became acquainted with painful truths much, much too early, because it would not be long before he was faced with another.

In a world of heroes and villains, of fantastical abilities and mundane but no less average quirks, the last thing anyone wishes to be is normal. In a world where the amazing is the standard and normal is nothing but pitifully abnormal, Izuku discovered the pain of absence once again.

Quirkless...

The word was uttered like a curse. And though it was nothing but a word, it was a powerful thing. For Izuku, the label of status–of clinical, heartrending mediocrity–became synonymous with loss. First, it was a doctor who crushed his dreams without a care for the aftermath. Then, it was a sobbing mother, whose usual gentle, unwavering support was replaced by ugly apologies and vile, distasteful pity. And through it all, the ever kind and ever loving Izuku kept moving forward with a soft smile made of daisies and quiet tears made of pearl.

But his mother missed something amid her self-loathing and utterly fallible support. Her son was resilient, yes, but no one, let alone a child, easily escapes soul-crushing defeat.

It seems a bit dramatic, no?

To describe a ruined dream and subpar emotional support as if it were the end of days, but, unfortunately, that is an apt descriptor. For in a world of superhumans, to be anything less than, well, super, is no better than death. And though Izuku's mother may have practically glowed with empathy, she would never be able to understand–at least, not in a way that mattered. Because if she did, if she bothered to look even a little bit closer, she would have seen that some of the stars in her son's eyes had begun to fade.

To be fair, the situation was easily misconstrued when Izuku–despairing–posed his question. When Izuku bore his soul to the world and asked if he would still be enough, if he could save others, too. From the outside, the exchange, while heartbreaking, could easily be written off as the destruction of a dream not long after its inception. But it was more than that–it always was. Izuku was not simply looking for honeyed lies or the soft forest green of kindness. No, he was calling out desperately. Am I enough? Am I still human to you? Am I still deserving of a place in this world? Will you continue to love me as you always have?

And as his mother grasped him tightly, sobbing into his shoulder, she unknowingly denied his plea.

That day, four-year-old Izuku learned what it felt like to b r  e   a k.

...☆☆☆...

Time passed slowly, as inevitable as the melting of a glacier drip drip dripping away, but its passing was no less worrisome than slowly rising water–it sneaks up on you, lulling you into a false sense of security until, one day, you look down, and suddenly, the water has risen past your neck, and you are doomed to drown. 

And drowning? Well, that was less of a metaphor and more of the reality of life for Izuku.

His mother continued to stand by him, showing him the love and affection that he, as a child, deserved. Yet, she was the only one. Once word spread of Izuku's...absence, everyone abandoned him. First, it was his friends. Then it was his teachers. And soon, practically everyone–save for a select few–scorned his very existence. 

Bakugou Katsuki–Kacchan–was Izuku's best and only friend. They'd grown up together, laughed together, cried together, and planned a future where they would become heroes side by side. Yet, when Kacchan learned of Izuku's quirklessness, he first grew confused, then became indignant, before he finally settled on rage. He was angry at Izuku's betrayal, at his lies.

How dare Izuku promise him forever when he was so utterly lacking? How would they ever be Heroes together if Izuku lacked the most critical aspect of heroism? A hero without a quirk was impossible, and a pathetic, fragile, little boy made of stardust and daisies could never keep up with Katsuki.

Izuku pleaded to any deities that would listen that Kacchan wouldn't leave him, too. He already knew the ache of absence, and he didn't want to feed the slowly decaying hole in his chest, so he sent out a desperate prayer that his quirklessness wouldn't change anything. That Kacchan wouldn't abandon him, too. But it was in vain. It was always in vain.

"What's a worthless Deku like you doing still following me around? You're useless! You'll never have a powerful quirk like me, and you'll never be able to be a hero. Just give up already!"

After hearing Kacchan's admonishment, he discovered a new type of heartbreak: betrayal. Kacchan certainly wasn't the first person to give up on him, and he certainly wouldn't be the last. But this was the first time he'd ever felt the knife of betrayal slip its way past his defenses before burying itself deep in his chest.

But it was okay. Really. Kacchan may feel this way now, but a Hero never gives up on their friends, and Kacchan was gonna be the best Hero! He would come around eventually, right?

(Denial is an ugly thing. But when hope is scarce, denial can be easily mistaken for the sweet plum color of hope. And Izuku had always loved things that were sweet.)

From that day forward, Izuku stopped being friends with Kacchan. He knew that friendship would have to wait, but that was fine–Izuku was nothing if not patient.

But Kacchan's abandonment, he soon found out, would mean more than just isolation.

It started simple: mean looks, deliberate exclusion, and a few rude offhand comments. The teachers did nothing, so Kacchan and his lackeys grew bolder. They began to steal his belongings, jeer at him loudly in the classroom and in the halls, push and shove him until he was covered in dust and dirt and delicate, indigo bruises. 

Still, the teachers remained blind and uncaring, so his classmates grew even bolder. Izuku was beaten purple and blue and a beautiful, deep, deep crimson. He was locked in closets and lockers until an exasperated adult would come to let him out, only after scolding him for skipping class. He was ignored by everyone unless they were actively jeering at him or hurting him. 

And still, none of the people in his life who were supposed to protect him did. If anything, they did the opposite, passing blame on to him, the victim. Their disinterest only made Izuku's tormentors puff out their chests with pride and loudly declare their superiority. It was as if there was universal, tacit approval that, so long as the only one who was injured was Izuku, all forms of human depravity were allowed.

And Izuku, for all his intelligence, all his perceptiveness, took forever to realize the truth of his reality: that no one cared. That his fears had been warranted. That he truly was nothing more than an absence.

A null.

To them, Izuku was less than human, no better than the mud beneath their feet. And oh, it hurt. It ached. It itched. It itched. It itched. It itched ititchedititcheditiched–

Oh, to be human– what a pipe dre a  m.

Despite the isolation, despite the pain (itch), Izuku smiled. He continued looking to the future with his soft edges and his warm, golden yellow love. As the torment grew worse, Izuku's smile grew wider and wider. 

If you didn't bother to look, you wouldn't see it. The way the stars in his eyes seemed to grow darker and darker as the constellations etched into his skin grew muddied by cuts, scrapes, bruises, and scars. So many scars.

Through it all, Inko remained by his side, and her protectiveness grew as her crow's feet deepened. She worked hard to support their little family, and Izuku loved her for it. He knew that she carried a heavy burden on her shoulders, and he didn't want her to know of his suffering because it would make her burden worse. So he hid his injuries and smiled widely whenever he was in her presence.

(Deep down, Izuku knew. He knew that he was nothing but a child trying to ease his mother's burdens. And he knew that he'd failed. That she saw the quickly dwindling first aid supplies. That she saw the way he flinched at movement and quickly catalogued escape routes. That she saw the purple and blue bracelets that often graced his wrists. That she saw the way he refused to close his bedroom door.

But what else could he do but continue to lie? He had to protect his mother somehow, despite it being a mother's job to protect her son, not the other way around.)

He knew their relationship was imperfect, that he could never be the perfect son, but still, he tried. And tried. And tried. He basked in her sunflower colored compassion and easily shared his golden-tinged love. And though they were flawed, they were happy.

But all good things must come to an end sometime.

And for someone like Izuku, this was yet another undeniable truth.

(Why can't he have one thing, just one, please. please? ple-)

It was late April, just a few weeks into Izuku's second year of middle school. Despite his hope for a new start, the bullying he'd experienced in elementary school followed him, as did his tormentors. Aldera, however, was worse. Izuku spent most of his time there either running or hiding, and despite his concerted efforts, neither was particularly successful.

(Every time he was cornered, he tried to ignore the feeling of decay within his chest, the growing void of nothingness that defiled his heart and soul. But he was losing, oh god was he losing. And as the void grew, so did the i t c h.)

So, on that crisp spring day, when he had failed to successfully run and hide, he was forced to trudge home with a singed backpack, a twice-broken finger, and brand new indigo bruises that mixed with the sickly yellows and vicious greens of the old and healing ones. He felt world-weary and oh so dull, the only thought spurring him forward being that of his mother's gentle embrace.

Yet, as he approached his apartment complex ready to fall into his mother's arms, he was not faced with the usual hustle and bustle of the neighborhood, but rather with plumes of smoke and wailing sirens and police tape. The smoke grew thicker, and the sounds of crisis pitched louder and louder as he approached home. As he walked up to the police line that prevented him from reaching the safety of his mother's embrace, he tried to ignore the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. He peered over the tape, sending out a prayer to any deities listening (as if they'd ever listened to him) that his mother was safe and sound and breathing.

But as he stared at the smoldering wreckage where his home ought to be, he knew. Deep down, he just...knew. That no God would ever care for him. That his mother, who spent her days off relaxing at home, was gone.

He couldn't explain the feeling, but it settled heavily in his chest, sinking like a rock tossed haphazardly into the raging current.

It was this moment that taught Izuku the true meaning of loss.  

Now, one might expect young Izuku to be uncomfortably familiar with the concept already, considering he'd already experienced it time and time again in one facet or another. However, he was unfortunately not prepared for what it truly felt like. To tangibly lose something–someone. After all, it was hard to become acquainted with the true meaning of loss when one does not have much to begin with. But, with his mother's abrupt demise, Izuku was forced to face Death for the first time.

Admittedly, he does not remember much about that day beyond the acrid smell of smoldering rubble, gentle touches that soon turned rough, and the exasperated tones of those who directed him without a shred of sympathy.

(and the itch, oh god how it itched. He wanted to remove his skin and Try. Again.)

He may not recall the crisis, but there was most certainly one thing he'd never forget.

His mind had gone gray and fuzzy around the edges when he spotted the pile of rubble that had once been his home, and now, he had somehow found himself in the bowels of the Musutafu police station, led by a not-unkind police officer toward the morgue. Though she offered him no words, she did shoot him a look of genuine sympathy before allowing him to see his mother's body. His face did not betray emotion; he was too busy floating in the gray, only to be brutally ripped back to reality when the medical examiner pulled back the sheet. 

As his mind snapped back into place and his whole world began to crumble around him, Izuku could only think about how. Peaceful. His mother looked. Lying there on the cold, hard metal sheet. 

He basked in her presence with wonder, her beautiful green hair, elegantly streaked with bits of gray, splayed out above her head in a dainty halo, and the pallid sheen of her ash-streaked doll skin only disrupted by the delicate blue hue of her lips. She appeared ethereal – otherworldly – like an angel laid to rest.

There was no trace of her gentle, forest green colored kindness or her sunflower colored compassion. All that was left was the heavenly azure blue of serenity.

The memory of her empyreal blue seared itself into his mind. He saw it every time he closed his eyes. Every time he let his consciousness fade. Her ethereal beauty, even in death, haunted him. (How could it not?) She, for all her flaws, had loved him unconditionally. So what would he do without her? How could he continue when she was gone forever? Why had Death so callously ripped away someone who shone so brightly? Why wasn't it him? Why was it her?  

Why couldn't it have been him instead? Why? Why? WHY?

There was no funeral.

Midoriya Inko was cremated and released into her son's custody with little fanfare. Izuku had no means to protest, so he collected her remains with a somewhat vacant look on his face and the rotted barbs of apathy wrapped tightly around his lungs. With heavy steps and an even gait, he took the plastic bag that contained her ashes to the beach and scattered them in the water. As he watched the ashes dissolve into the tide, he couldn't stop the bitter laugh that bubbled past his lips. How fortunate, he thought, to have such a poignant metaphor for the feeling in his chest.

As her ashes became one with the waves, he couldn't stop the bittersweet knife of agonizing pain from burrowing itself into the gaping hole in his chest. Watching her go hurt in a way that no words would ever be able to properly describe. But at least now she would be able to travel the world, be able to visit all the places they'd promised to go together. At least now she'd be able to always hear the soothing crash of the waves and feel the calming push and pull of the tide. At least now she would have no more worries. No more pain. No more heartache.

Now, she would be at peace.

The cracks in Izuku's heart bloomed that day. 

And, for the second time, he b r o   k    e.

...☆☆...

Life after his mother died was not kind, but Izuku found himself apathetic in the face of hardship. After all, things were no different, at least not in any way that mattered.

(But they were. At least before he'd had his mother's gentle and unwavering support. Before he'd had some warmth, some kindness, some comfort in his mother's embrace.

Now, there was no warmth. Only the arctic blade of apathy and the blunted edge of disinterest and vile, putrid hate. To be normal is to be abnormal, to be the bearer of absence is to be completely and utterly worthless, they reminded him. As if he could ever fucking forget.)

With his mother gone, he'd become a ward of the state, and foster care would never be kind to a null like him. His new guardians regarded him with thinly veiled disgust, but at least they provided him with a roof over his head, and if he was lucky, a meal or two every week. From the very beginning, they mutually came to an unspoken understanding: he would spend very little time at home, and they would let him do as he pleased so long as he never bothered them. They only took him in for the money, and he only acquiesced to the foster system because he was powerless to fight the heavy hand of the state. So long as he didn't get himself into trouble and made himself scarce, he would have a place to return to, no matter how unkind. All things considered, it could have been much worse–Izuku had long since learned that neglect was the best possible outcome. He didn't need more abuse. He got enough of that at school, thank you very much.

However, there was one silver lining to come from his mother's...passing.

(He couldn't bear to think about it as death. No, to think of his mother as dead would be akin to ripping his heart out of his chest with fingers made of claws and lungs made of smoke.)

Kacchan had backed off from his abuse. He was not friendly by any definition of the word, but he did leave Izuku well enough alone. To Izuku, however, it was too little too late. Besides, others simply filled in the gap left by Izuku's former friend turned tormentor.

All those years ago, Izuku had told himself that he'd be patient, that Kacchan would come back around. 

Oh, how naive he had been. 

Cynicism and apathy had made their way into his heart, and now, he was not delusional enough to believe that he and Kacchan would ever be anything more than history. He had no hope ( no denial, he lied), only a decaying void in his chest that he had only just begun to acknowledge. 

Despite this acceptance, he still held onto the childish nickname he'd given Kacchan more than a decade ago. Realistically, he should have let it go long ago, but he just couldn't. Letting it go meant losing a part of his past that was deeply entwined with his mother. Letting it go meant letting go of the illusion that Kacchan still held memories of an Izuku who was worth something, of an Izuku that still had a dream. 

Letting it go meant acknowledging that there was no one left who saw him as human.

Kacchan's nickname was truly the only thing he had left. After all, he'd given up on everything he'd ever held close. To strive for anything felt worthless in the face of society's expectations, or lack thereof. His mother would gently encourage him, would support him in any endeavor, but she was not here, so Izuku let go and began to drift. 

However, no one but Kacchan ever looked beyond Izuku's poorly crafted facade. If they did, they'd have seen how his ambitions had collapsed, but they had always been blind, and something told him that they always would be.

Contrary to his classmate's beliefs, Izuku no longer bore misguided dreams of heroism. In fact, he bore no dreams whatsoever–he'd resolved himself to his fate as nothing but a pebble on the side of the road. Yet, he still held onto his analysis notebooks, despite the perpetual ridicule, but he no longer titled them with the moniker 'for the future.' That implied that he had one. A future, I mean. Yet another illusion he had long since given up on.

He had no ambition, no desire. He was simply drifting through the shades of gray.

Yet, though the stars in his eyes had dimmed, they refused to die. Where thousands of stars had once made their home in Izuku's eyes, only one remained. However, it shone the brightest of them all; it was the flickering starlight of his existence, after all. Though he had nothing left to lose, he carried on, if not for himself but for his mother. She would be sad, he thought, if he joined her too soon.

His smile was gone, though. No one deserved it anymore. In its place was a cold sort of neutrality, an inhuman sort of nothingness to juxtapose Izuku's inherent absence, and his missing smile and monochrome demeanor seemed to be the driving force behind Kacchan's tentative ceasefire. If Izuku didn't know any better, he would have thought that Kacchan was unnerved by his quietude. And if they interacted at all, Izuku would discover that he was right.

Katsuki was unnerved. The sunshine boy made of stardust and flower petals and golden-tinged love was replaced with an empty shell, a husk. Contrary to popular belief, he wasn't heartless. He knew that Auntie's death had hit Deku like a freight train, but, despite that knowledge, he did not expect Izuku to change so drastically. 

He had always seen through Deku's piss poor attempt at cheeriness–that smile had always been so terribly fake–but now, he almost preferred it. Deku had always been disgustingly kind and energetic. He took up space, despite being nothing but an absence, and Katsuki had always hated it. How dare he exist beyond the bounds of his absence ( how dare he be defined by anything other than his quirk when Katsuki was never given that luxury? ). 

But...but now, Deku was eerily silent. He still scribbled away in those notebooks, but that was all that was left. Gone were the mumbling, the stuttering, any signs of life, and in their place was a thousand-yard stare and a pitifully blank expression.

And Katsuki didn't know how to react to Deku's silence, so he just...didn't. Avoidance had always been his closest friend when he didn't know how to face his problems. But this was hard to avoid. The disgustingly bright gleam in Deku's eyes had been replaced with a flickering void. What was once like witnessing the stars in the night sky was now like staring at a black hole. And Katsuki... Katsuki didn't know what to do. 

So he did nothing. And that was something, right?

...☆...

There are some moments in life that are inevitable, events that will occur no matter the path you take. They are as unavoidable as the passing of time, as the fall of a state, as the heat death of the universe. These moments are inescapable turning points, machinations–expressions of love –mandated by those beyond understanding. And they will always come to pass without fail.

Such is the tragedy of Fate.

It's always the same. Izuku's third year of middle school. April. His teacher and his classmates loudly jeering at him for reaching for a dream he, according to them, has no right to even consider. Kacchan threatening him with a ( sour ) tone of superiority that reeked of insignificance. It's always the same.

Such is the tragedy of Fate.

When school came to an end that day, Izuku quickly gathered his things to make his exit, but he was not fast enough. (He's never fast enough). Unfortunately, his teacher's declaration earlier drove Kacchan to finally break his silence. As Izuku moved to put away his journal, a burning hand slammed it back down on the desk, but Izuku couldn't even find it within himself to be mad, let alone flinch at the assault. He glanced up, feeling nothing but resignation bubbling up within himself as he met Kacchan's glare. He did them both a favor and pretended he didn't notice Kacchan's slight flinch as their eyes met. If it had been a year ago, Izuku might have regarded Kacchan's reaction as much-needed character development, but now it registered as nothing more than a passing blip in his monochrome existence.

"Why are you still bothering with that pathetic dream of yours, Deku? I'm the only one in this shithole who's gonna be a hero, and I'm not gonna let a shitty, useless freak like you get in my way. If you’re still alive and delusional enough to even go to college, let alone UA, I'll kill you my damn self, got that?"

He punctuated his declaration with a growl and a few threatening pops of his quirk, singeing the already battered and blackened notebook. Izuku kept his face frighteningly neutral, forcing himself to withhold a sigh as he hunched over and refocused his gaze on his notebook.

“You won't need to worry about that, Kacchan. I won't be applying to UA–I just needed to write something on the paper," he murmured, shifting his gaze down (submissive) to the worn texture of his desk.

"Hah! As if. I know you're fucking lying," Katsuki growled as he yanked the notebook off the desk. "If you were telling the truth, you wouldn't still have your stupid little notebook. You're still taking these shitty stalker notes like they'll make up for your useless, quirkless self. When are you gonna learn that you have to be strong to be a hero? No matter how many stupid little facts you write in your freaky little notebook, it'll never make up for the fact that you're pathetically weak," he sneered.

He turned his attention to the notebook for a brief moment, his face twisting in disgust before unceremoniously chucking it out the window. And Izuku could do nothing but watch it fly from his spot at his desk, fatigue settling deeper into his bones. Though he heard the soft splash of it landing in the koi pond, his expression remained carefully blank, his gaze transfixed on Kacchan's hands. ( Hands, watch his hands, threat. Threat–).

However, his actions backfired. His lack of reaction seemed to only set Kacchan off further. He growled, as if Izuku's demeanor personally offended him ( it probably did), and leaned into Izuku's face, placing one hand threateningly on his shoulder( run, hide–). Kacchan's expression was painted with a hateful grin that forewarned nothing but the worst, yet Kacchan did not use his quirk. Still, the subtle heat and the pungent aroma of caramel struck fear deep in Izuku's gut. ( And something else, he thought absently, but that feeling was hard to name. All he could decipher was its wrongness).

"Remember, Deku, you are worthless. You are nothing. You will never become a hero. You will always be left behind, chasing after me. I am the best, and only I will surpass All Might. You won't even make it to the starting line, so you take your stupid notes and keep wearing that annoying blank look, you will never be one of us," he pulled back with a cheshire grin, still holding Izuku's gaze. 

Then, he lit up with mock joy, as if a fantastic thought popped into his brain, "Ah, I just had an idea," he twisted his face into a malicious smirk, "If you want a quirk so badly," but his eyes–his eyes; they were swirling with something heavy and conflicted, but still, he continued. “Why don't you take a swan dive off a roof, and pray for one in your next life!"

Katsuki's words hit Izuku like a ton of bricks. His vision faded from the soft gray of emptiness to the dark, stormy gray of despair. His apathetic facade shattered, and his head filled with static, Katsuki's words reverberating through his mind like the rush of an avalanche. It hurt, oh God, did it hurt to hear those words slip past Katsuki's lips. Suicide baiting was not a new experience, but hearing it from Katsuki was. Fuck, it hurt. It ached. It itched. Oh, how it itched ititchedititchedititch–

Izuku didn't know how long he sat at his desk, alone, in the empty classroom. He didn't even notice Katsuki leaving. It could have been an eternity; it could have been ten minutes. It didn't matter.

So Kacchan was gone for good, huh?

( but that's nothing new. He's been gone for a long, long time, but denial is ever so sweet and desperation is oft-alluring, like a honeyed lie told with rotting teeth dripping with fool's gold)

That's fine. Everything will be fine. It has to be. He's been alone at the bottom for so long that this should change nothing. It wouldn't change anything. (But it did.)

So Izuku did what he always did: he exhaled his grief, picked up the pieces, and slowly put himself back together.

If there was a silver lining, it was that he made it out physically unscathed. What a low fucking bar.

So, he allowed himself to get lost in the gray once more, finding comfort in the muted monochrome of emptiness that swallowed the despair. He would process the...confrontation(?) later.

Sighing to himself, he grabbed his worn yellow backpack and wandered out of the school, only stopping for a moment to fish his notebook out of the pond. As he passed through the school gates, he decided that he would treat himself ( after the day he's had, he fucking earned it, yeah?)

Ever since he'd moved in with his foster parents, he'd begun to wander the city day in and day out until it was sufficiently late enough for him to sneak back into their house. As a result, he was often out wandering the city until midnight, and he usually left the house before the sun rose, so it was to be expected that he'd wandered through all of the city at one point or another. He knew the back alleys and underpasses like the back of his hand, and after months of trial and error, had finally figured out all the best places to go dumpster diving for a meal. And today was Friday. Which meant that the convenience store several blocks down from Aldera would be throwing out all their expired sandwiches and onigiri today. If he was lucky, he'd be able to score something somewhat filling and only mildly expired for dinner.

As he began to wander in the direction of the store, he allowed his mind to drift. He hummed to himself, fantasizing about what he might find as he walked down the road through a familiar underpass. He was lost in the gray, so focused on what little comfort the world had to offer him that he failed to pay attention to his surroundings. 

What a terrible mistake that would be. 

(love, an unintelligible voice whispered)

He didn't hear the telltale clatter of the manhole cover flying off, nor did he hear the Villain speaking to him until it was too late: its cold, murky tendrils had already slithered up his arm and pushed their way into his throat.

And like the flip of a switch, he was drowning. Drowning. The pungent muck consumed his senses, shoving its way through every available orifice: it burrowed up into his sinuses, slithered its way down his esophagus, filled up his ear canals. Later, he was sure that, if it had more time, it would have pushed in through his eye sockets.

Its movements had been quick, and had given him no time to react until he was suffocating–drowning on dry land. If he could have, he would have let out a bitter laugh at the ironic juxtaposition. Instead, he could only struggle as panic tore its way through his chest. His vision began to tunnel, and his limbs felt heavy as lead as his life slowly drained away. Oh god, he was dy i n g.

In a desperate attempt to free himself, he violently jerked his arms to break the grip of the toxic sludge pushing its way into his body, but it was worthless( isn't it always? ). His arms were firmly pinned to his sides. Still, he continued to thrash through the burning of his lungs and the wash of tears clouding his vision. Distantly, he thought he may have heard a laugh–was it the Villain? Was it laughing as he drowned, powerless to save himself?

Oh.

He really was powerless.

Wasn't that sobering?

To have the sweet plum of denial so brutally replaced by the vile taste of reality.

Izuku found himself relaxing at the thought. He really was nothing. A pitiful absence. Lesser. Sub-human.

Perhaps it was time. Time to stop this pathetic fight. Time to give up on his wretched existence.

So he went limp, and the darkness swallowed him whole.

.

.

.

hey

kid

starchild

love

it

is

not

your

TIME

.

.

.

He awoke violently, gasping for breath as echoes of harsh, unintelligible whispers grated against his ears. He jolted upright, his vision still blurred and his lungs burning, the slight ache of a slapped cheek faintly registering in his periphery. He doubled over, letting loose several wet coughs as he tried to rip himself from unconsciousness.

When he finally reoriented himself back to reality, he suddenly noticed the hulking figure staring down at him with concern. He glanced up, and for a moment, forgot how to breathe, because oh fuck. That's All Might.

He froze, unable to move even an inch before the burning in his lungs forced him to double over again, coughing violently.

"Ah, you're finally awake! Don't worry, you have nothing more to fear, young man! For I AM HERE!"

Izuku could barely breathe. Not only was All Might himself here, but he also saved him. Him! All Might! Izuku did his best to calm his breathing and pushed himself to his feet, stumbling a little as he righted himself. He did his best to ignore what sounded like an amused snort coming from the hero as Izuku got his bearings. All Might (holy FUCK ALL MIGHT) opened his mouth like he was about to say something, but Izuku beat him to it.

"Ohmy-oh! All Might! Thank you so much for saving me! This is, like, the greatest day of my life if we ignore the sludge that almost killed me, haha. I can't believe it's really you! Hey, uh, if it's not too much trouble, do you think I could get your autograph? And-and, wow, oh fu-gosh, what are you doing here? I thought you were over in Chiba, but you're here, and you just saved me, and I really, really thought I was gonna die. Holy sh-"

All Might interrupted Izuku's panicked word vomit with a booming laugh that Izuku desperately hoped was amused. Because holy shit. He hadn't rambled that much in years, and lord(s?) knows, he did not need to embarrass himself more in front of his idol. That would be just what today needed.

"It's good to see your lungs are back in working order, my boy. I'm glad you seem to be alright. And don't worry about an autograph, I've already signed your notebook," he said, pointing at Izuku's notebook, which was gently placed on top of his yellow backpack. "It's the least I could do for being just a tad late! Those sewer tunnels are really confusing, you know!"

Izuku paused as he processed All Might's words before frantically scrambling to shove the notebook into his backpack, not even bothering to check the signature (he didn't want to get slime all over his most prized possession). He quickly hauled his bag back on his shoulder before turning to address All Might once more.

"Thank you so much! I hate to burden you again, but if it's not too much trouble-"

"All in a day's work, my boy," All Might interrupted him, feeling around in his pockets, "Now, " he said, holding up a soda bottle filled with green goop, "I need to take this Villain down to the station. I'm glad to see you are alright, but I must be going!"

"Wait! Just one moment! I have a question I wanted to ask you-" he shouted, reaching forward. But it was too late. All Might's legs tensed as he readied himself to jump.

Then, as unintelligible whispers scratched the edges of his consciousness, Izuku tripped. Forward. Into All Might. Right as he jumped.

Fuck.

(Much, much later, he would come to realize that he had not tripped, though at the time, it was a logical conclusion. But no. He hadn't tripped.

He had been pushed. By some unseen force, by the thin red strings that tie people together, who's to say? It matters not.

Such is the tragedy of Fate.)

Suddenly, they were flying. Izuku was sure that All Might was chastising him as they shot through the sky, but his words disappeared into the roar of the wind. And then, as quickly as they'd taken off, they'd landed on a rooftop overlooking the city.

Izuku let go of All Might's leg, rolling along the rooftop, backpack and all, coming to a stop a few feet away from All Might. He resisted the urge to groan and shook the daze from his head, trying to regain his bearings. He glanced over to check that his idol was still present, only to flinch at All Might's disappointed stare.

"That was incredibly dangerous, my boy. What question could you possibly have that's worth risking your life for?"

Izuku shook off the stare and dropped his backpack on the ground before pushing himself to his feet. He may have tripped his way into this, but there was no way in hell he was going to miss his chance. He took a deep breath, chewing over the question he'd wanted to pose to his idol for almost a decade ( it had gone through numerous iterations and changes, but it always boiled down to the same points in the end). He steeled himself and turned to fully face All Might, the Symbol of Peace, the man who risked everything every day to save others with a smile. The man who remained the sole shining light in his sorry existence. The only Hero that Izuku trusted enough to save him.

He squared his shoulders and lifted his chin in defiance to the world, as if a facade of confidence could overcome a decade's worth of self-loathing in an instant. He exhaled all his worry and his fears, and for the first time since his mother passed, allowed himself to inhale hope.

"You've always said that so long as one has the drive to help others and the determination to better oneself, that anyone can be a hero. No matter their quirk or their gender or their sexuality, a hero is in the heart," he paused, curling his fists at his sides, "So, do you think that someone like me, someone who is quirkless, who is treated as nothing more than the dirt beneath society's feet, can also be a hero?"

He leveled a hardened gaze at the Hero as he awaited his answer. He knew it was a loaded question–he'd phrased it like that on purpose. Distantly, he was surprised that he actually got the chance to ask it, despite reciting the damn question to himself over and over and over again for years.

Now, all he had to do was wait. The question was loaded, sure, but it was also a softball–all that All Might needed to do was give the PR approved response, and the whole interaction could be over with. Besides, All Might's words wouldn't mean anything; it was his eyes that would betray his true feelings.

However, as the saying goes, no plan survives confrontation with the enemy.

In a surprise twist, All Might erupted with steam, the cloud enveloping him before dissipating completely. Izuku could do nothing but gawk as he stared at the skeleton of a man that stood in All Might's place.

"A transformation quirk? Surprising, but not altogether unexpected..." he faintly heard himself say.

The skeleton man coughed wetly, red, red blood dripping from his lips. He quickly wiped it away before fixing Izuku with a weary yet wary gaze.

"Close, but not quite. This form is the result of an injury I sustained a year ago," he paused, as if considering something, before lifting his shirt to reveal a gnarled crimson hole riddled with scar tissue. "It was a fight that was never announced to the public, and even though justice ultimately prevailed, I lost half of my stomach and my right lung. Though I am still very much All Might, I can only sustain my hero form for a limited amount of time each day."

Izuku gaped, aghast. What sort of Villain was capable of doing this much damage to All Might? And why was he telling Izuku all of this? Who in their right mind tells a national secret–because this was most definitely a secret that could destroy Japan as they knew it–to a child?

All Might dropped his shirt before letting out a ragged breath and looking away. His shoulders sagged, and his eyes took on a faraway look. He looked not dissimilar to a man who carried the weight of the world on his shoulders.

"To answer your question, young man, I would say no."

For the second time, Izuku froze in the presence of his idol.

"To be a hero, you need more than just heart or determination; you need strength and durability. Heroes with powerful quirks and years of training become permanently maimed or even die every day. Heck, look at what happened to me. It's fine to dream, but without a quirk, it will be impossible for you. You should really be more realistic–"

With All Might's words, the last of the people that Izuku had desperately clung onto for some semblance of humanity slipped through his fingers like the sand of an hourglass. He had miscalculated. He was so sure that he'd have to determine a real answer from All Might's body language that he'd never even considered that the man would offer him bitter, amber-hued pragmatism.

An overwhelming sense of wrongness consumed him as his head once again filled with static and harsh whispers scratched at the edges of his consciousness. Amidst the wrongness was the itch, but he ignored it.

He didn't understand why he was so upset. He didn't even want to be a hero anymore, so why did he feel so utterly destroyed? Why did it feel like all his skin was rubbed raw and put on display for the world to see? Why? Why? Why?

(itch-)

"-I'm sorry, my boy, but I can't in good conscience send a powerless person such as yourself into the fray. Pick a safer path where your weakness won't hold you back."

Izuku remained frozen, his feet rooted to the ground as All Might finished. His mind was racing, but his body was still. Yet, he forced his eyes to remain transfixed on the broken man who bore the title of hero. On the man who, in no uncertain terms, reaffirmed every terrible thing that had been said or done to Izuku. On the man who just condoned every act of violence perpetrated toward the quirkless.

He could do nothing but watch as All Might nodded to him, all but demanding Izuku keep quiet about his injury, before disappearing past the roof access door. And just like that, it was over. The moment of a lifetime.

A soul-crushing defeat.

After All Might left, Izuku stared at the empty space his childhood hero had occupied in a daze. Finally, after what seemed like a millennium had passed, he slowly sank to the ground, pulled his knees to his chest, and sobbed. Over the years, he'd learned how to cry silently, how to swallow his sobs and choke back his gasps, but, for the first time in what could have been forever, he allowed himself to be heard. Heartrending sounds of despair ripped their way out of his lungs and past his lips. His body shook with effort as he pulled his legs closer, hunched over further, and made himself smaller. Then, he cried. And cried. And cried. For what felt like minutes, hours, days, weeks. Agonizing sobs heaved from his chest as his heart clenched and his stomach seized until his ribs ached and his lungs screamed for air.

The sounds of heartbreak are not easy to hear, nor are they any easier to make. And throughout all this pain, all this... despondency, all Izuku could feel were the fractures in his heart spreading further and further until finally, like porcelain, it shattered.

The question he had posed to All Might, a pointlessly articulate utterance that would ultimately be nothing but a forgotten blip in the Symbol's memory, meant everything to Izuku. From the outside, it was a silly thing, nothing but an easy question that should have earned him a predictable answer, but to young Izuku, with stars in his eyes and soft, green colored kindness in his heart, it was a question bearing the weight of his very existence. All Might could never have known, but his question carried the same weight as the one he had asked his mother years ago. Am I worthy? Can I too be treated as an equal in this society? Or have you also forsaken me? Can I be anything more than an absence? Or am I doomed to forever be subhuman?

And All Might, the man who claimed that anyone can be a hero, declared Izuku exempt from the status of anyone. And if you are not anyone, well, that only leaves one option: to be no one. 

Deliberately or not, All Might denied Izuku's right to exist. Denied the only light in the darkness that stubbornly refused to die. Until now.

Be realistic, he said.

At those words, Izuku wasn't sure if he wanted to laugh or scream or cry. Realistic, to a quirkless child like Izuku, meant only one thing: death.

It was an old, oft-forgotten but oft-repeated tale–a quirkless child, after years of abuse and harassment at the hands of nearly everyone, chose to take their own life. The statistics for quirkless suicide rates–the only ones regarding the quirkless that anyone bothered to keep track of–were abysmal: nearly seventy-five percent of quirkless youth do not live to adulthood, and of that seventy-five percent, the overwhelming majority choose to take their own life. That is what realistic meant to Izuku.

Yet, Izuku could still not find it within himself to blame the man. Naivety and ignorance are not sins; a God cannot be held to the same standard as Man. All Might had lived so long as a God that he'd forgotten what it was like to be human. The word realistic fell from his lips with the practiced ease of a man who could never fathom the weight the word carried. It was laughable, in a way, how the denial of a dream he no longer held could hurt ( itch ) this terribly.

And if Izuku hadn't been so utterly destroyed by his childhood idol in a matter of minutes, he probably would have laughed. But instead, he let out a shaky breath, glanced out over the horizon, and tried to center himself. He watched as the soft pink and lavender hues that graced the sky painted a beautiful picture, but if anything, the gorgeous sunset left Izuku feeling off-kilter and empty. He could not enjoy its beauty–not now, not when his heart had been so brutally ripped from his chest.

As he watched the sun continue to slowly sink beneath the horizon line, Katsuki's words began to echo loudly in his mind: 'If you want a quirk so badly, why don't you take a swan dive off a roof and pray for one in your next life!'

It was not the first time someone had told him to kill himself, to rid the world of his pathetic existence, but it was the first time the words had actually had their intended effect. The bi-monthly spider lilies left on his desk, the notes left in his locker, the taunts and jeers from his classmates–none of them had particularly bothered him. At the end of the day, they didn't know him, so how dare they attempt to pass judgment? After his mother died, there was only one person left who truly saw him, who had experienced his soft, golden love and knew of the thousands of stars in his eyes, and that was Katsuki. So to hear Katsuki, his former friend and number one tormentor, cross that line felt like a death sentence.

Katsuki had been the one. The only one. The only one left who knew, and yet, he still condemns you to death.

Any other day, Izuku probably could have found the resolve to keep moving forward, to push on with the knowledge that his and Katsuki's relationship had become so deeply twisted that Katsuki had forgotten who Izuku was. But on top of All Might's condemnation? It was too much. It was too much.

So, as he continued to stare out over the horizon, the sun long-since sunk beneath the waves, he lost himself to the overwhelming feeling of loss. It was a tragedy, truly. So pitiful, yet so inevitable.

As he glanced up into the night sky to gaze upon the moon and her ineffable presence, he felt the embers of his existence flicker and die. Not with a scream or a whimper, but with deafening silence.

(This is what you deserve, his mind screamed, for placing the burden of your withering existence in the hands of a God who would never feel its weight in the first place. It's pathetic, truly. You couldn't even be honest; you couldn't even be direct. All Might could never have known that denying a child their dream could result in this, yet you pretend as if you're doing him a favor by not blaming him when you are the one to blame.

Break.

Shatter.

Remove your skin and start anew–)

He slowly pushed himself to his feet and made his way over to the ledge surrounding the roof, his backpack forgotten where he'd dropped it. He kept his eyes locked on the moon, soaking up the gentle, dewy rays that blanketed the inky night. He ignored the whispers and shrieks clawing at the edges of his mind and gave into the itch. (He'd never given it much thought, but what itched was not physical but metaphorical. It was as if his mind were screaming at him to claw himself piece by piece from the land of the living. )

He glided his hand on the thin railing blocking the ledge of the building in the midst of a daze. Then, he effortlessly hopped the fence, dropping down to face the city. He felt nothing for no one as he calmly paced forward to sit on the ledge, his feet dangling above the abyss. He finally tore his eyes from the moon and glanced down at the alleyway beneath his feet. From this height, the concrete looked soft and inviting, akin to his bed after a long day. It called to him, not for the first time, but hopefully, it would be the last.

He didn't let himself think about how his mother, green hair haloing her pale skin and serene-blue lips, wouldn't want to meet him again this way. He didn't let himself think about how Katsuki, who had finally given up on him, might stare at his desk, empty of all but a lone spider lily, bearing the burden of guilt. He didn't let himself think about how All Might would come to regret his words as he fell from the pedestal he built–he was no Atlas. He didn't let himself think about how the otherworldly voices were clawing for purchase in his periphery, calling out for him to stop. No, he refused to let himself think.

He had nothing left to lose.

He allowed a small, wistful smile to grace his lips–one that was soft and gentle and pure. One that was for no one to see but himself and Death. He took a deep breath, inhaling the crisp spring air and exhaling all his regrets and sorrows, feeling nothing but a resolute sense of finality. Still, he continued to smile.

Then, he closed his eyes and pushed off–

His body felt weightless as the wind ripped and tore at his clothes. His stomach fluttered and danced as if it were filled with butterflies waltzing in the spring evening. His chest filled with warmth as he realized he could finally be at rest–that he would soon see his mother again. Behind his eyelids, the stars went supernova, burning brighter and brighter, until their light, finally, fizzled out.

Falling. So this is what falling feels like.

Then, he hit the ground. With a snap, a crack, and a sharp flash of blinding pain, the world went quiet.

And Death began to weep.

♤♡◇♧

And now, for something entirely different.

Chapter Text

And now, for something entirely different.

....

Death.

The Grim Reaper.

The Soul's Guide.

A light in the darkness.

A faceless wanderer through time.

That which bears Witness.

It is often said that the only constant in life is change, but that is nothing but delusional drivel spouted by those who refuse to face the truth: the only constant in life is Death. Now, some may say this is nothing but a pseudo-intellectual antithetical statement meant to make one sound more intelligent than they are. And they would be right. But, for the sake of giving Death the introduction it deserves, let's assume, for the sake of argument, of course, that Death is not merely a facet of change, but rather the driving force. (Suck on that, you nihilistic contrarians. Wait, why are you booing me? )

Now, where were we? Right.

A lantern in the dark.

A soft presence by the bedside of someone left to rot.

A gentle caress followed by a final breath.

To some, Death presented itself as world-ending devastation. To others, Death is nothing but a gift, a warm embrace as the embers of life flicker and fade.

Death witnessed the inception of life.

Death will witness the end of times.

Death is the only constant.

Death is the

Beginning                Past 

           Middle                     Present

                  And End                   And Future

And Death is tired. Exhausted. Weary. Worn out. Run down.

Completely and utterly wasted.

.....

To whom it may concern,

It's me, the lovely Death (deity, indescribable existence), not to be confused with death (What happens when you fuck around and find out ♡♡). And like, it's high time someone around here gets off their ass and does something about the shitshow that is the mortal realm. Thus, I will be filing a formal complaint on behalf of all other indescribable existences and other casualties of humanity's nonsense. Because what the absolute fuck.

Ever since they learned that banging rocks together made fire, humanity has been on a downward spiral. I mean, humans have always been trigger-happy little animals, always ready to take each other out at a moment's notice, but things have wildly spiraled out of control in recent years. Especially once they started being born with those fun little party tricks. I mean, damn. Like, a dude develops the ability to glow like radioactive piss and suddenly it's time to start a war or twelve. And here I thought the shitty Austrian with the amphetamine addiction and a fucked up mustache was bad, but the wars over their dumb little party tricks made that all look like child's play! It's like they don't even think! I have enough work as it is, and they've been forcing me to work more and more while they all keep gutting each other in the streets. It's damn inconsiderate.

And I mean sure, they've stopped their "wars" ever since the glowy bunny-eared bag of muscles showed up in Japan, but, like, it's not much better! They beat and belittle each other over their silly little tricks, and frankly, I couldn't care less if there isn't an uptick in deaths, but I digress...

Now, onto my formal complaint. These humans have no respect for any world except their own (and even saying that is fucking pushing it). Sure, there hasn't been a decrease in religions of any sort in the past few centuries – in fact, it's been quite the opposite – but still, they've really done it this time. In all the millennia I have existed, never have I ever once seen them treat a Fated Starchild with such malice or disdain. It's like they're too stupid to even notice. They're incapable of looking past their noses, too engrossed in their mundane little 'abilities' – quirks, whatever – to see when a child has been blessed anymore.

The child already must face their Labors – the Weavers must express their love somehow, after all – but on top of his Fated trials, he also has to face the wrath of humanity. It's difficult to watch him struggle day after day, and it seems that the trials meant to teach him the universe's love have blended with the suffering he faces at the hands of his peers. It's an utter travesty. How will he ever realize he's loved? That he's fated for greater things?

How will he ever realize his duty as the Scale?

If things get worse, I may have to step in. What should I even do? I've never had to interact with a starchild directly! I'm just Death! I'm just a guide! I'm not equipped for this.

This wasn't in my job description, but now I'm required to take on more work for the same pay? Ridiculous.

And, if the boy continues down this path, I fear the worst. I fear that he may join us too soon, that he will never fully realize his destiny.

So, to whom it may concern, I reiterate, what the actual fuck.

Do something before I have to step in. Because if I have to, shit's gonna go sideways for real.

With love,

Death ♡♡

....

Perched upon the roof, Death watched. Watched as the starchild sobbed and sobbed, his heart shattering with the betrayal he'd suffered at the hands of his hero. This moment may have been a Labor–an expression of the Fates' love–but the pain was still real. And the despondency, a uniquely human emotion, was so utterly overwhelming that Death almost felt itself wishing it could empathize. But it couldn't. No, Death was never meant to be anything but a silent observer, a Witness who stands steadfast, ready to guide wandering souls into the loving arms of the Abyss.

However, as it watched the starchild's sobs taper off and fade into hiccups, it couldn't help the feeling of foreboding that flooded its consciousness. Death has been around a long, long time. Death has seen countless battles, and whether they were between millions of desperate soldiers or between a person and their own mind, the outcome never changes. Where a battle occurs, Death is bound to appear, and its intuition was rarely ever wrong. Out of all the deities that remained, Death was the most familiar with human impulsivity. It dealt with the aftermath, after all.

And in Death's less than humble opinion, the Fates were about to lose their Scale. The starchild was too far gone–he had suffered too many losses too quickly. He was still young, yet he had nothing left to hold onto. And if Death didn't do something soon, the Fates would lose the first starchild born in centuries.

But Death...Death is a Witness. It is not an actor. It has no power in the realm of the living.

Death may be omnipotent, but only in the realm of the dead. When it came to the living, it was powerless. Such was the weight it was burdened with as the Witness.

So Death watched, perched on the ledge of the building, hoping desperately that the starchild would not break, would not shatter. But, it feared it was too late.

And, unfortunately, Death's concerns were warranted. It was forced to watch, helpless, as the starchild let out a breath and stumbled toward the ledge of the building in a daze. From its perch, Death noted that the stars in the eyes of the child were painfully dim–they flickered and spluttered like a candle wick that had frayed with age, fading rapidly in the bright moonlight.

And it continued to watch as the starchild perched himself on the ledge beside Death and gazed out into the city beyond. If Death had a heart, it was sure it would be aching with regret and sorrow at the sight of a child so young, burdened with the pain of suffering. It was certain that it would feel righteous indignation at the injustices the child had faced. But it didn't have a heart. Death did not feel. Not in the way that humans did. It could, on occasion, feel sorrow. But those instances were rare.

And yet, Death had a feeling that this would be a moment where sorrow would slip through the cracks and overwhelm them.

It heard the child breathe deeply, and was forced to watch as the starchild shut his eyes and smiled. It was a fragile thing, the starchild's smile. But somehow, Death knew that the smile was for no one but the child and Death itself.

Then, the moment Death dreaded came to pass. The starchild pushed off and began falling into the painful embrace of Mother Earth. And as the child fell, Death began to weep. Another starchild lost to the abyss.

Another child taken too soon from the mortal plane.

Another child falling into the loving arms of Death itself.

...

...

No.

NO.

Death could not give up on the child.

It may be nothing but a Witness; it may be powerless to the living, but fuck, if it couldn't save this child, then humanity really was doomed. Besides, their stupid quirks were powerful, right? There may not be many who could bring people back from the throes of death, but it had happened before. It could pass off its influence as a quirk or something, right? But was that the correct choice? Or would the child suffer more due to its influence?

Humanity, especially in this modern era, was overflowing with hubris. They'd pushed the boundaries of what should be possible time and time again. And in doing so, had weakened the shackles that chained the powers that be for millennia.

And now, Death was about to witness the end of a starchild before their life could really begin. It had to do something. The Weavers of Fate had so much more love to share. Ugh, why did humans have to go and ruin everything? Again.

So, Death stepped off the ledge and down onto the alley floor below, ready to face the soul of the starchild once he stepped into the Abyss.

It watched with no absence of pain in its chest as the boy seemed to flutter to the ground like a leaf in the breeze, aching with the knowledge that it was utterly powerless to do anything until the boy had hit the ground. And hit the ground he did.

Death was sure it would hear the echo of the starchild's bones crunching and organs becoming pulp for a few centuries. The sound was heartwrenching; the sight was more so. And Death was, well, Death. It had seen a lot of its namesake. (Oohh insightful commentary, moron. You're welcome.)

It continued to watch as the blood began to pool around the boy, waiting patiently for the final embers of life to fade away. It took agonizing seconds, but the boy took one final shuddering breath before his eyes became glassy and his body became frighteningly still. 

Minutes passed in deafening silence. 

One second. Another. Another. The crunch of a leaf. The whisper of the wind. Another beat-

And then, the boy stood up.

Er...well, his soul did.

The wandering soul of the starchild stared down at his body, his gaze transfixed on the way the blood was pooling redredred around his head. Mesmerized by the pale, glassy-eyed visage of his corpse, seemingly watching as his blood-speckled lips turned a comforting shade of blue.

Then, with a jerk of his head, the starchild ripped his gaze from the corpse and began to look around. Death watched and waited, telling itself that it was simply letting the child come to terms with what came to pass. In reality, however, it was internally screaming.

What was it supposed to do? It came to meet the boy with the intent of undoing what had just been done, but it was coming up short with how that would actually work. Sure, it could bat the child's soul like a tennis ball back into his body, but would that heal him? Or would he be suffering until his body gave out again? It was certain that it had the ability to give the child enough power to ensure that something like this never happened again, but at what cost? And with what outcome? It had never bestowed its power on a human before–let alone a freaking starchild.

If it interfered, what kind of sanctions would it face? Would it be an overreach? Death had never had any reason to give a gift to a human before.

But, it thought resolutely, if it could save this starchild, if it could preserve the will of the Fates, it would.

Besides, it reassured itself, any ability it passed along to the starchild could probably comfortably mimic one of their quirks. Probably. Maybe.

...

...

Well, there was only one way to find out.

Full send.

So, Death squared its shoulders and coughed–wait, coughed? Fuck, real smooth, Death, reeealll smooth.

At the sound, the starchild whipped around to face Death. Just as Death was about to say something, the starchild's eyes sharpened before blowing wide with shock, his face painted over with a complex series of emotions that Death could not even begin to properly interpret. Then, the starchild's face twisted into an awful scowl, his eyes making promises veiled by poorly concealed hatred.

Well fuck.

♤♡◇♧

Izuku was feeling okay. Well, probably only kinda sorta okay. On second thought, he was probably the furthest from okay that he'd ever felt. But, how else was he supposed to feel as he watched his blood leak from his corpse as his lips turned blue from oxygen deprivation?

It was surreal, staring down at his corpse. He barely recognized himself. It wasn't until he stared at his own glassy, dead-eyed stare that it really sank in. That was his dead body bleeding out on the pavement.

And if that was his body, then where was he? Actually, what was he? Was he dead and waiting to be carted off to his doom in hell? (There was no way he was going to heaven, not with his life, not with the way his prayers were ignored without fail.) Does that mean that souls and gods and demons and ghosts and all that supernatural stuff were real?

And most importantly, what now?

He jerked his gaze away from his body (oh god it was worse than he could ever have imagined; his skin was stained crimson and his lips, though they were tinted blue, could never, ever even come close to replicating the empyreal azure that graced his mother's face like an angel's kiss), shifting his head to scope out his surroundings. So far, it looked like nothing had changed–he was in a crusty alleyway surrounded by refuse and dirt. It was fitting, he thought, that someone like him–someone who was treated like nothing more than garbage in the street–died in a place like this. That he died so pitifully alone, cold and shivering and covered in blood.

However, a cough jolted him from his musings on poignant metaphors, and he quickly whipped around to find the source of the noise. But what he was faced with was something he never could have expected–or, perhaps, it was exactly what he should have expected. Because there, standing right in front of him, was his mother. 

And she was as lovely as the day she died.

Her eyes were filled with sorrow, and her body language was marred by uncertainty, but still. There she was. The person he had missed more than life itself. The person he would have given anything to see again (and distantly, he knew that he had given everything to see her again, but it didn't feel right. No, it felt wrong. Wrongwrongwrong-)

He was overcome with emotion: deep-seated longing, dreadful warmth, overwhelming joy, and white-hot, stabbing shame. He had wanted nothing more than to see her again, but he knew (oh God did he know) that she wouldn't have ever wanted to meet him again this way. He wanted to run–to turn his back and put as much distance between them as possible–but instead, he froze. And he watched as her face grew solemn and her eyes lacked the forest green colored kindness he'd always come to expect. He couldn't face her. Not now, not as he was, not after what he did. But he couldn't move. He was paralyzed with fear. 

However, the closer he looked, the more wrong she seemed to be. Absent was her kindness. Absent was her compassion. Absent was her aura of otherworldliness. No. This...this thing was not his mother. It was a cruel hoax, a piss poor attempt to capture her essence, her soul.

The realization was a heavy one. And with it came the burden of an emotion Izuku knew inside and out, and yet, he'd never truly let himself fall into its welcoming arms. His face fell into a seething glare, his lips twisted with a vengeful scowl. Pure, unadulterated fury twisted and writhed beneath his skin, slowly clawing its way up his spine as it thundered in time with the roaring of blood in his ears.

"You're not my mother," he seethed, "So who. The fuck. Are you?"

He watched, his fury and hatred emanating off of him in waves, as the detestable figure wearing the skin of his mother (it was utterly loathsome, and he wanted to Rip. It. Off.) minutely shrunk in on itself before the figure visibly blurred and shifted. Their body became shrouded with black fog that coalesced in wisps before dispersing again, revealing a new form that only made his scowl deepen and a snarl escape his lips. Katsuki.

"Who the fuck do you think you are?! Are you wearing the face of my mother and Katsuki to mock me? To kick me while I'm down? Just show me the way to Hell and get the fuck out of my way," he spat, the sense of wrongness in his veins writhing and twisting in time with the fluttering wind.

He was enraged at the figure before him, but hiding just beneath the boiling rage was heavy, deep-seated exhaustion. He'd just died for fuck's sake, and now some ghost or demon or something was messing with him. Plus, looking at an uncertain expression on Katsuki's face was damn unnerving. Whatever this was, he wanted to be done with it. Now.

Not-Katsuki's face quickly fell into a mask of neutrality, his eyes glowing black, wisps of black fog gently orbiting his body. He lifted his hand (Danger. Run.) and pressed it to his forehead before sighing.

"Shit."

Huh?

"Way to go. You've fucked up your first impression," Not-Katsuki muttered to himself.

Uh...

Izuku felt his glare falter with confusion. If Not-Katsuki was trying to intimidate him or throw his sins back in his face (that's what demons do, right..?), he was failing miserably.

"I'm, uh, not sure who you're seeing right now, starchild, but know that I'm not them," Not-Katsuki grumbled, gently massaging his temples.

"Yeah, no. I got that," Izuku retorted, his anger bleeding away in favor of visible exasperation.

Izuku tried to stare him down, but Not-Katsuki's form began to blur and became almost painful to observe. It was almost easier to look at him out of the corner of his eye than it was to look at him directly. How it was possible for something consumed by endless darkness to be so bright, Izuku did not know. But then again, he was standing next to his corpse after, in not-so-kind terms, yeeting himself off of a roof, so perhaps it didn't really matter. Making sense of something so far removed from reality made his brain hurt, so he forced himself to focus on the problem at hand.

"Well, you're dead-" Not-Katsuki began again.

"Thanks, I hadn't noticed," Izuku countered, smirking slightly at the marked frustration on Not-Katsuki's face.

Not-Katsuki gave him a look at the interruption, which Izuku returned with a huff, crossing his arms.

"Anyways," it clapped its hands together, "Welcome to the Edge of the Abyss. I am the Witness, but you can call me Death, and I will be your Guide," it said, spreading its arms wide.

Its image blurred once more, the wisps of fog floating around it exploding out before coalescing loosely in the blank silhouette of a person. Despite not appearing as a stereotypical grim reaper, Izuku could help but think how...fitting it was that Death was faceless and featureless. It was just a shell, a husk, something malleable, its form ephemeral and constantly changing.

Izuku found himself sighing at the dramatic display (how did that work? He didn't have lungs? Or did he?). This stilted, awkward conversation was not what Izuku expected to have to deal with right after he died, but apparently, he was not free of uncomfortable conversations even in death.

"Okay," he replied blankly.

Death may not have had a face, but Izuku was sure it was pouting.

"Just okay? Most people think my dramatics are cool, you know? Why are you being so boring?" it whined like an offended child. 

Izuku chose to disregard its question outright.

"So like...are you gonna do something? I'm dead, and you're here to what, lead me to the afterlife? Condemn me for my sins? Send me to some esoteric circle of Hell? Or are you just gonna stand there with your dick in your hand?" Izuku huffed, arching his brow.

"Snarky, aren't we, starchild," Death retorted, a hint of mirth finding its way into its tone.

"Yeah, well, I don't exactly feel the need to be pleasa-"

Death cut off Izuku's retort with a snap. It split in two, creating a clone of itself before gesturing towards Izuku's corpse. Izuku's mouth clicked shut at the display, watching with thinly veiled interest as Death's clone moved to stand vigil over his body.

"What are you doing?" he questioned, his brow still arched as he carefully scrutinized the clone. It was eerie, watching the clone peel itself out of the fog. 

"Eh, gotta keep an eye on your body somehow while we get down to business. We're on a time crunch, after all," it said, rubbing its hands together.

Izuku opened his mouth to prod further, but before he could, Death snapped again, and the black fog exploded out, engulfing his surroundings. The inky mist consumed his senses, yet it did not feel like drowning–not in the way the sludge had. No, it felt strangely comforting, soft and gentle and desperately warm. But, as quickly as the fog appeared, it dissipated, dropping Izuku...somewhere. (Nowhere?)

Well, wherever he was, it was nothing short of absolutely breathtaking, and he greedily drank in the sight. He was faced with something that could only be described as a void. Much like the vast expanse of outer space, the inky blackness stretched on for an eternity in all directions; he looked up, down, left, right–everywhere–but no matter where he looked, there was nothing but empty space speckled by pin pricks of starlight blanketing the expanse.

As he gently floated in the void, it wrapped itself around him comfortingly, like a warm blanket, cradling him in its embrace; he was overwhelmed by a sense of calmness, forcing down the urge to shut his eyes lest he fall into an effortless slumber. Shaking off the urge, he turned his focus to the myriad of stars–heavenly bodies, his mind whispered–scattered throughout the space. His eyes grew soft, and a gentle smile found its way onto his face: here, surrounded by darkness and starlight, he was overcome with a sense of contentment, of belonging, the starlight gently caressing his limbs and slowly filling the yawning hole in his chest. It felt like returning home; it felt utterly serene.

He could stay here forever, simply floating along, breathing in the warmth seeping into his bones, so he shifted, curling himself into a ball, and slowly shut his eyes-

"Oi, I know the Abyss feels wonderful, but I can't have you falling asleep, starchild."

Izuku was ripped from his peace by Death. Ugh, what now? He cracked open an eye to stare at the interloper disdainfully.

"What? Aren't we done now? I'm dead, and this feels like it could qualify as the afterlife. Leave me alone, old man," Izuku grumbled.

Death let out a humorless chuckle.

"Ha, no. Not by a long shot, starchild. This is only the beginning," it replied.

"You keep calling me that. Starchild. Why?" Izuku asked, choosing to ignore the rest of Death's positively harrowing statement. (The beginning? He was dead, and most would typically consider that the end.)

"Ah, you're finally asking the important questions, aren't you? Good. Simply put, a starchild is a human blessed by Fate. They are souls who shine brightly and, as a result, are showered with the Weaver's love and attention, but it is not without a price. Starchildren are to be the Scale. The bearers of Balance within the mortal realm. They are the protectors of Fate, and must act on its behalf to protect the mortal realm from any who wish to see it collapse."

Izuku was stunned into silence. There was. So much information. In Death's admittedly short statement to parse through that it was overwhelming. What did Death mean that he was loved by Fate? A shining soul? A Protector? Him? He couldn't even protect himself. Couldn't even protect his mother. He was pathetic. He was powerless. And most importantly, he was dead.

"Hold up. I'm confused. What the fuck do you mean I'm loved by Fate?"

At his question, Izuku was sure he saw Death's face soften. (Well, as much as a faceless visage could conceivably soften, that is.)

"Ah, the Weavers of Fate show their love through trials. Labors that test your mettle, your integrity, and in doing so, allow you to grow stronger. Through your suffering, you grow, such is Fate's love."

Izuku's brow furrowed at Death's statement. The Fates showed their love...through suffering? Wait. That meant. That meant that all the pain, all the loss, all the sacrifice–every shitty little thing he'd endured–was the result of heavenly manipulations? He'd suffered every damn day of his life because the Fates (Fate, singular?), what, liked that his soul was fucking shiny?? They decided before he was even fucking born that he would have to bear the burden of their expectations and, as a result, would have to fight and claw and scrape for even a scrap of human decency?

They'd screwed him from the start. He wasn't the problem; no, it was never fucking him. It was the goddamn deities who played with humans as if they were dolls, as if they were nothing but puppets to be led through some predestined story.

Izuku felt a scowl fall onto his face, his eyes narrowed, and his muscles coiled with tension. His heart rate accelerated rapidly, and he struggled to calm himself enough to pry for more information.

"So you're telling me," he started slowly, "that every shitty little thing, every beating, every loss, every goddamn minute of suffering, was because of the Fates? Because of-of some fucking higher being fucking around with my life specifically?" he fumed, unable to keep his furious incredulity from leaking into his voice.

Death's head tilted back and forth as it mulled over how to answer Izuku's question, and Izuku found himself growing impatient. He so desperately wanted to explode with anger, to cry and rage and scream until his lungs ached and his throat ran dry, but he was no Katsuki–he knew that anger that bled hot and fiery would never be truly his–no, his anger was cold and sharp and venomous. If he was going to get answers, if the deities, Weavers of Fate, Fates–whatever–were well and truly the puppeteers of his suffering, he would need to be calculative and assertive–his white hot wrath would need to be tempered into a sharp blade for him to press to their necks. 

"Yes and no," Death answered tentatively, "Fate is not so...binding as you believe it to be. Humans, if they believe in Fate," Death seemingly scoffed at the notion of disbelief, "Have a tendency to think that it is inevitable–immovable–but that is a fallacy. Humans largely are the creators of their own Fate. Their actions are not controlled by Empyreans, but rather a cascading set of circumstances decided by their own actions. Only a starchild must bear the whims of Fate, and only a starchild is faced with their Labors. You've experienced two, though there are surely more to come."

Izuku's brow furrowed as he pondered Death's words. He did not want to let go of his anger, but Death's sincerity gave him pause. Was Death to be believed? Or was Death not to be trusted? What were the Labors he had already experienced? And what-

"Actually-" Death continued, cutting into Izuku's ruminations, "It is because of the actions of Humanity that you and I are even having this conversation right now."

Izuku's face scrunched with confusion, and Death let out a sorrowful chuckle.

"You are the first starchild in almost three centuries," it began, its tone somber, "Much has changed in the mortal realm since then, and I am among the few higher beings who have interacted with Humanity in that time. As a result of their," Death paused to chew over its words for a moment before exhaling and continuing, "shall we say, negligence, you were not given the proper tools to succeed in the modern era. Because the Weavers do not generally concern themselves with the complexities of human society, they miscalculated. You were, unfortunately, sent into an unkind and unforgiving world. No starchild should ever suffer as much as you have, not in such a short period of time, not at the hands of your peers. It seems the Fates forgot just how vicious those who exist outside of their controlling hands can be."

Izuku's mind was reeling, the beast of anger within him scrambling for release, screaming for retribution. He let out a shallow breath as Death's words twisted and writhed in his head before clicking into place; it was not difficult to interpret exactly what Death was implying, and if Izuku was right–and he was absolutely sure he was–then Death was saying that the Fates simply forgot to give him a quirk. Forgot to give him the one thing that would allow him to be treated with respect, with dignity. 

And like a gunshot on a protest, it set off a war within him.

Before today, Izuku had long since given up disparaging his quirklessness–in fact, he'd come to terms with it. He did not think of himself as lesser simply because he lacked a quirk, yet he could not stop himself from begrudging others who could coast through life guilelessly because they had something he did not. The life of a quirkless person could never be comparable to that of the quirked: he, without fail, needed to acquiesce, to allow himself to be stepped on or overlooked, to always forgive and never forget in order to keep on living, despite the only conceivable difference between him and the quirked being a bit of luck.

And now, after all his soul searching, all his desperation, all his anguish and acceptance, he has to come to terms with the fact that his life was nothing but misery because the Fates simply forgot? No. No. He couldn't let his suffering be diminished in such a manner. He couldn't allow that. Not after everything; not after he'd been beaten down and broken mercilessly, day after day after goddamn day because of his perceived inferiority. He was not broken simply because he was quirkless–he was broken because society had decided that he had no place, that he was better off as food for the worms. 

No one, no matter their convictions, no matter their dreams or desires, has the fortitude to withstand unmitigated vilification every second of every day; Izuku would know. He'd killed himself because of it.

But, this time, instead of narrowing his eyes and settling his face into the glare that had become so frighteningly familiar, he evened out his expression into a mask of neutrality and allowed his eyes to communicate what his words could not. Behind his eyelids, there was a spark, and then another, and then another, until, finally, the stars ignited and millions of pinpricks of light bloomed within his irises once more. However, these stars were different from those he was born with–gone was the soft golden glow of love, gone was the forest green of kindness. In their place raged a transparent blankness, a pale, arctic fury so cold that it sapped the warmth from the soft Abyss surrounding him.

And the Abyss reacted in kind. The heavenly bodies dimmed, and the gentle starlight receded, plunging both Izuku and Death into a frigid darkness. And Izuku watched, ice beginning to fill his chest, as Death reeled backwards slightly.

"You...you are unhappy. Why?" it questioned, tilting its head.

Izuku didn't know where to even begin with Death's question, so he kept silent, his expression a mask of apathy, his eyes alight with malice. Death did not back down from Izuku's challenge, however, waiting patiently for a response to its question.

It was a strange being, Death. One moment, it acted almost childish, and another, it acted as one might expect of a deity. It was a contradiction. Darkness that shone brightly; maturity weighed down by naivety. Whether its ignorance of Izuku's rage was nescience or blatant disregard, it did not matter. He would communicate it one way or another.

"It is disappointing, but not entirely unexpected, that you do not understand. I guess I wouldn't expect a being like you to," Izuku began, his voice an unsheathed blade, "So I'm only going to say this once: I don't care about whatever 'plans' Fate or its Weavers or whatever may or may not have had for me, I don't care if I have a job that I never agreed to, and I don't care whether the world thrives or crumbles away to dust. Their society-" he spat, his words dripping with venom, his teeth bared in a sneer, "-means nothing to me any longer. I refuse to be a pawn. I refuse to play anyone's games. I've made my peace, and no matter what you offer me, be it the most powerful quirk in the world or even...even godship, I will not give in ever again, and I will acquiesce no further.  So listen carefully, Death, Fuck. Off. Leave me to my afterlife."

Death's shoulders sagged, its head hung slightly with some unreadable emotion. If Izuku didn't know any better, he would think that Death appeared...sorrowful. Mournful. And despite its demeanor, Izuku could not sense a hint of pity or anger at his words. It was almost as if Death was...not empathizing, but something akin to empathy.

"If only it were so simple," it murmured, and Izuku's conviction–his rage–faltered.

"I have been watching you for a long, long time, starchild. I've had to stand by and watch as those outside of Fate tried their damndest to break you. What they did to you was deplorable; I would never deny you that fact. But, as much as it pains me, I cannot allow you the peace you so rightly deserve."

Izuku's heart stuttered in his chest. What?

"You still have more that you must do. The world's balance is tipping, and you are the Scale, regardless of your desires. The Fate of one such as yourself is not so changeable, so I am forced to act in order to rectify the sins of Man. However, this time, you will not be alone."

"...rectify?" Izuku muttered to himself, his shoulders shrinking in and his eyebrows furrowing.

He was having a hard time. Processing...all of this. His words may have had an effect on Death, yet it seemed that both were powerless to stop the march of Fate. No matter how much he argued, how viciously he fought, he knew with unshakeable certainty that he could not avoid it. At that realization, the cold rage that had consumed him like a hurricane faded to a mere ghost of what it once was–it was still present and vying for his attention, but emotional overload at the inevitability of it all was beginning to set in, and he was having trouble settling in his own mind.

"Yes. I am Death, the Witness, powerless in the realm of the living, but almighty in the Abyss. I may have been unable to help you in life, but I can grant you power in death-"

"Excuse me?! Who said I want your fucking power?" Izuku growled, his mind snapping back into place as a hint of desperation found its way into his tone, but Death pushed on, undeterred.

"We do not have much time left, so I will keep this short. I cannot grant you a quirk, but I can grant you something akin to a quirk-"

"Didn't you hear me? I don't want your fucking power, whether it's a quirk or not. I did not kill myself to be granted power; I did it so everything would end," he cried despondently as his rage gave way to sorrow, his eyes wild and his breathing ragged.

Izuku fell silent as all signs of fury collapsed inward, and his mind fell into the pits of despair. Death watched carefully as his eyes glazed over, becoming clouded and distant. It could see the sorrow eating away at the starchild's soul, the once shining beacon of light dimming in tandem with the faded starlight of the Abyss.

When Izuku did speak again, his voice was empty and pained.

"I did it to see my mother again," he whispered, his voice cracking and his eyes glinting with a sheen of unshed tears, "But you are denying me even that kindness."

Death looked upon him softly.

"I know, starchild," it whispered in kind, "But I cannot grant your wish. Not now–not yet."

Izuku's chest began to tighten, his lungs screaming for air–it seems even in death, the soul remembers. He reached up to grip his hair, yanking mercilessly at the strands as desperate thoughts flooded his mind. Finally, he couldn't take it anymore, and he fell to pieces for the second time that day. He let out a heartrending sob and collapsed to his knees as gravity returned to him. The Abyss had been so kind and so loving–so warm–mere moments ago, yet now it felt foreign and overrun with despair. The once gentle caress of starlight had become disdainful and unpleasant. He was not welcome here. The Abyss was rejecting him too. He pressed his face into his hands to shield his anguished tears from view, and after a moment, he felt a presence over his shoulder and a cold hand gently squeeze his arm. He could not hear Death's words, and its soothing tone was inadequate balm for his grief. But eventually, as all things do, his sobs ceased and his tears tapered to a trickle.

Finally, he looked up and was shocked at what he saw: Death was wearing the face of Yamamoto-san, the only teacher who'd ever shown him kindness. The only teacher–only person besides his mother–who allayed his fears and soothed his wounds. He'd only known her for a few months before she was fired halfway through his first year of elementary school, but her actions had been one of the only reasons he had clung to hope for so long. She had proven to him that there were people who cared, even if they were few. 

He'd forgotten about her. How could he forget her?

Her face slowly melted away as Death returned to its faceless countenance, but the reminder sparked something within Izuku. The tiny flame of determination that had been snuffed out by All Might and Katsuki burst to life within him once more. Though it remained small, its presence pushed Izuku to stand and face Death, resolve evident, the starlight behind his eyes glowing with conviction. And Izuku was not sure how he knew, but Death smiled.

"That's it, my child. Now, are you ready?" it asked not unkindly.

Izuku shook his head no. He was not ready. The fire of determination was alive within him again, but he didn't think he was strong enough, didn't think he was brave enough, to face the world that had rejected him so resolutely. Death laughed–it was a small, precious thing, Death's laughter–and shook its head.

"You will do fine, starchild. This time, I will be by your side," it smiled, holding out its hand.

Izuku looked down at the hand, staring blankly at it. Whereas he had been overwrought with emotion before, his exhaustion gave way to a muted emptiness. The conviction he had felt just moments prior was already beginning to wane, but he tentatively reached out to take Death's outstretched hand. Just as he was about to grip it, he looked up and stared directly into where he believed Death's eyes would be.

"Promise me," he waited for Death to acknowledge him, "Promise me that I can see her again. That when I'm finished with what is required of me, I will be able to return to the Abyss and come home to her."

Death looked at him carefully, the wisps of fog that had been absent in the Abyss beginning to swirl around its body gently, the way a cloud floats across the sky on a warm spring day.

"I promise-" and Izuku took Death's hand, vanishing in a flash of light.

After Izuku had gone, Death looked up, searching desperately for unknowable answers.

"Good luck, starchild, " it murmured, "I hope I did the right thing," and the starlight pulsed and brightened in response.

Then, with a snap, Death vanished, leaving the Abyss an empty void once more.

...☆...

Izuku jolted awake, freezing in the pitch black. Then suddenly, his body lit up, black flame consuming him so quickly he did not even have time to scream.

Chapter Text

Progress is not linear, not by any means. In fact, healing is often cyclical–one is more likely to take one step forward for every four to ten steps back. It is best to remember this when trying to grow, when trying to change for the better.

Relapse does not invalidate progress; rather, it is merely a symptom, an understandable occurrence when pushing forward. It only becomes destruction when one hesitates to pick themselves back up, pull themselves back together, and try again.

I urge you to remember this.

One moment is not enough to magically fix the rot, just as one moment is not enough to completely shatter someone. There are always a myriad of events or circumstances leading up to a watershed moment, evident or not, but one thing is always for certain: there will always be a catalyst.

The path of healing is different for everyone and is only finished after mountains of hard work and self-reflection, yet, in the end, it is always worth the Labor.

...☆...

Izuku jolted awake, freezing in the pitch black. Then suddenly, his body lit up, black flame consuming him so quickly he did not even have time to scream.

The black flame spread out from his chest, quickly licking its way down his body until everything was alight with a darkness that somehow glowed brighter than the sun. In any other moment, Izuku would stop to appreciate the stark juxtaposition, just as he had with Death, but in this moment, all he could do was twist and writhe and scream without sound. The pain was excruciating–it was as if everything within him was being ripped to shreds. It felt as though someone were scraping needles on his bones and pressing hot coals on his intestines and stripping the sinew from the marrow and muscle in his limbs. It burned so desperately frigid, and it felt as though he was being turned inside out, his organs and entrails and viscera melting into a puddle of putrid crimson sludge only contained by the wretched pull of his skin.

And then, in a flash, the flame died, and Izuku collapsed. His muscles felt like jello and everything hurt, but, despite breathing in shallow gasps that only seemed to rattle his ribcage, everything felt alright. Well, not exactly–he did feel as though he'd been hit by a truck, and considering the circumstances, that wasn't a...flawed assessment. He grit his teeth and twitched violently to the side as he felt his bones realign and click into place.

That felt...not good, he mused.

His head twitched again as he felt his chest seize, its emptiness being filled–for lack of a better way to put it–by organs once more. With a gasp and one final twitch, his body relaxed back onto cold metal as he panted like a dog in the sun.

His vision swirled and spotted around the edges, but he couldn't really tell just how much the pain had affected his visibility–wherever he was, there was no light, just a cold metal sheet under his back and a piece of white cloth, somehow untouched by the flame, lying across his waist. For a brief moment, he began to panic as he noticed just how close the walls and ceiling were, but it passed in a flash. He was thankful for his exhaustion; he was too tired to properly panic, so he fell into old habits. He exhaled deeply and settled his mind, assessing his predicament and likely location. Considering his lack of clothing and...small room(?)–not to mention the weird pressure around one of his big toes–he was probably in a morgue. Joy.

If that was the case–and it most certainly was–then he had to find some way to escape said morgue. He didn't want to end up on the wrong side of an autopsy table, that's for sure. He shivered at the thought, subconsciously bringing his hand up to his chest to feel for autopsy scars, and was thankful that his chest felt relatively normal. He let out a relieved breath and turned his body as much as he could before feeling around on the door locking him in. He sighed with relief when he felt a handle on the inside (best not to think about why that's there, he mused). He pushed down the handle and slowly opened the door just a crack–it'd be terrible if he scared the daylights out of some pitiful morgue employee. Lucky for him, the cadaver room was empty, and based upon the lack of people and bodies present, as well as the starlight pouring in from the window, he guessed that it was late in the night.

He slowly pushed the door further ajar, cringing a little as the hinges creaked loudly, the sound reverberating around the empty room. He carefully pulled himself out of the metal box before unceremoniously dropping to the floor in a heap. The floor was cold, and so was he, suddenly cluing him in to just how...indisposed he was at the moment. He grimaced and pushed himself to his feet, grabbing the white cloth and wrapping it around his waist. He paused and listened carefully for any signs of movement before he slowly crept forward towards the door to the hallway. Once he'd approached the door, he peered through its embedded glass window, looking left and right down the hall. Down at the end, he could just make out a sign pointing towards the employee locker room, and his eyes lit up–if he was going to find clothes, the locker room would probably be his best bet.

He cautiously pulled the door to the morgue open and crept slowly down the hall, sticking close to the shadows along the wall. As he crept, he took the time to really take in his surroundings: the paint on the walls was chipped and flaking away, the floor was missing tiles in a few places, there were little bits of dirt and refuse clinging to the baseboards, and there was a pervasive, sickly sweet stench hanging in the air. Izuku couldn't help the dry chuckle that escaped his lips. It seems that even in death, he'd been tossed in a place meant for only the lowest of society. Sure, the state was technically responsible for laying him to rest, but they sure as hell weren't going to shell out much money for a quirkless orphan's burial. Frankly, he was mildly surprised that they didn't just toss him in the incinerator on the spot.

Why didn't they do that? He thought to himself, Wouldn't it have been easier to just get rid of me immediately? Why take the time to store my body and prepare it for burial–fuck, that's morbid to think about–but still. Maybe it's because it was a suicide and there's some sort of investigation? Does Death have anything to do with it? It did send its clone–twin?–to stand vigil over my body. Hmmm, that still begs the question, though, why keep a dead, quirkless nobody around at all?

He paused his train of thought as he reached the locker rooms–he could mull over his body's state after he had clothes. He stopped in front of the door, gently pressing an ear to it to listen for anyone who may or may not have still been present. He thankfully heard nothing and slowly pushed the door open, keeping his thoughts focused on the task at hand and his eyes peeled for any signs of movement. When he saw none, he quickly rushed inside and shut the door behind him.

He pressed his back to the door and relaxed, letting out a sigh of relief. He shook his head a bit and set to work opening lockers and digging around for any items of clothing–and hopefully, a pair of shoes–that would fit him. Finally, after fifteen minutes of searching, he had come up with an old, ratty t-shirt, a sweatshirt that was three sizes too big, and a pair of baggy jeans that he'd need to cuff and find something he could use for a belt. All in all, he was pleased with his haul, though he was less than enthused that he hadn't found anything that would qualify as underwear, and he hadn't found a single pair of shoes or socks. Well, he would have to make do with what he had. He quickly got dressed and then used the small pen knife–it was the best thing he'd found among the lockers, and it was fucking finderskeepers, no takebacksies–to cut a strip of cloth from the sheet that he had worn on the way here so that he had something to keep his pants from falling down.

Just when he'd finished tying the strip of cloth around his waist and readjusting his pants, he heard the sound of hushed whispers and heavy footsteps echoing from the hall. Fuck. He quickly scrambled into the corner of the room, pressing himself into one of the empty lockers and quietly shutting the door behind him. He peered out from the grate in the locker and silently kicked himself when he noticed that he'd left the white sheet he'd shorn for his belt in a pile next to one of the benches. With any luck, the interlopers wouldn't enter the locker room, and if they did, they wouldn't notice the sheet.

But Izuku forgot that things never go as he wanted them to, because the voices and footsteps drew closer, and he heard the door to the locker room open. He quickly pushed himself deeper into the locker, ducking down so he wouldn't be visible from the grate.

"-telling you this is a bad idea!" a high-pitched voice hissed.

"Relax, will ya? I'm telling you, I've done this a buncha times before, numbskull. Besides, who'd miss the kid's body anyway? He's just another dead null, " a deeper voice growled. 

"I dunno, Tajima, I still don't think it's a good idea. Didn't you hear? All Might is supposedly looking after the kid's affairs," the higher voice responded, a slight warble hidden in its tone.

The deeper voice–Tajima–scoffed.

"You really think that All Might, the number one hero, would be lookin' after some quirkless freak's body? Get real, that's just some nonsense rumor."

Izuku's ears perked up, on guard as the footsteps moved closer. It was obvious the two people were talking about him, unless there was another dead null who had some connection to All Might, he thought bitterly. He scowled at the thought that Mr. Realistic would have anything to do with his funeral or affairs in any capacity. It was probably just a guilty conscience or some PR stunt spurring his actions–Izuku doubted that All Might's motives were genuine after their last interaction. Sure, he didn't blame the man for his words, but that didn't mean that Izuku wasn't still upset, that it didn't still hurt.

Izuku was ripped by his thoughts as the voices began again, this time just two lockers down from where he was tucked away.

"Why are we in the locker room anyway? I thought we were meetin' them in the cadaver room so they could nab the body?" the high voice asked.

"Eh, left my wallet earlier–needed to grab it, so I figured I'd kill two birds with one stone," Tajima grumbled back.

Izuku heard rummaging next to him for a few beats, and in that time, he didn't allow himself to breathe. One wrong move, one wrong sound, and he was caught. And he absolutely did not want to find out what happened when the thugs to his left discovered that the body they were trying to sell had gotten up and strolled out of the morgue.

"Ah, found it. Come on, moron, let's go."

The footsteps began to recede, but before they left, Izuku heard them pause.

"Hey Tajima, do you see that sheet over by the bench? Doesn't it look like one of the ones we spread across the bodies? Why do you think it's in here?"

Izuku felt his heartbeat stutter to a halt. Fuck, he was so fucking screwed. His breath hitched as he tried to keep it even, and he felt his grip tighten around the pen knife clutched in his hand. A bead of sweat dripped down his forehead and into his eye as he tensed, but he refused to move to rid his eye of the burning sensation.

"Eh, it's probably nothin'. You know how Asahi loves leavin' his clothes everywhere. Remember last week when I found his socks stuffed in my medkit? The moron probably dropped his t-shirt and forgot about it," Tajima grumbled.

The higher voice hummed.

"You're probably right. Sorry. I'm feelin' real jittery–these guys always freak me the fuck out when we meet 'em. I mean the buyer's already intense, but I swear I can hear screamin' comin' from that trippy portal of theirs."

"Best not to think about it," Tajima muttered, "Alright, come on, we got a body to sell."

Izuku heard the door pull open and then shut loudly behind the two men. He didn't allow himself to breathe again until he'd heard the footsteps recede. When he was sure the coast was clear, he slowly pushed open the locker and jumped out. He let the tension drain from his shoulders but kept his head on a swivel, listening for the sound of the men returning.

He quickly made his way to the door and pressed his ear against it. When he heard nothing, he steeled himself and pulled it open a few inches, peeking out to assess the hallway. It appeared clear, so Izuku stepped out and quietly shut the door behind him. Then, he turned and ran as quickly and silently as he could in the opposite direction from the cadaver room. If he'd heard them correctly, they had returned to sell his body to some mysterious buyer, and when they discovered him missing, they would probably check the locker room first, seeing as he'd left the white sheet on the floor. He silently thanked himself for having the foresight to keep the toe tag attached–that way, they wouldn't be able to tell if the white sheet in the locker room was actually him or if it was just a lost item that had made its way into the room somehow.

He breathed out a sigh of relief as the exit came into view, and with a hard shove, he pushed the side door open, silently thanking the state for sending him to such a shit morgue that the clearly alarmed doors were faulty. He stepped past the threshold and quietly shut the side door behind him, breathing in the noxious air of the refuse-filled alleyway he found himself in. Ahh, freedom at last.

He turned, cracked his neck with a grin, and disappeared off into the night, the bright moonlight reflecting softly off the unsheathed blade of the pen knife still clutched in his hand.

...☆...

It had been two weeks since Izuku had his whole world turned upside down. Two weeks of constant self-doubt, anxiety that would come and go in waves, and a strange sort of apathetic rage. For the past year, his emotions had virtually dried up, yet, in only a single evening, they had all slammed back into his head and his chest all at once. All because of a moment of weakness, a moment where he let them win. ( He thought he would be more...upset about the whole ordeal than he was, but he was feeling strangely detached from the whole thing. Maybe it's because he's still in panic mode, but that was for him to mull over another time. ) 

And though he was struggling–let's make that clear–he wasn't sure he missed the monochrome lens he's viewed life through since his mother's death. Despite the extreme way he pulled himself out of his dissociative state, he couldn't help but look for silver linings. At least the world wasn't a sea of grey anymore. However, he wasn't sure the tsunami of emotions was any better.

Granted, he was thankful to some extent–they helped him be more reactive to oncoming threats. Defending from threats wasn't a new thing for him, per se, but at least before he had somewhere to escape to; now he had nowhere. He was homeless, and while he wasn't on the run, sometimes, it felt almost as if he was.

He spent most of his time hiding in back alleys and on fire escapes, hunkering down during the day (a fourteen-year-old alone and not in school would surely raise suspicion) , only emerging at night for food and other necessities of life. It made him somewhat thankful for his time in foster care–if it wasn't for his foster parents' neglect, then he would surely be struggling right about now. But he had already learned the ins and outs of feeding himself and keeping himself safe on the street. He knew where and how to get food, he knew how to disappear into a crowd if needed, and, against his moralistic instincts, he'd developed mildly sticky fingers. He wasn't going to be pickpocketing like a sleight of hand master, but he knew a few tricks. The only downside was that he was only confident in utilizing them in large crowds, which meant joining evening shoppers out in the main streets, and that had its own fair share of hurdles, namely, heroes. 

But he was small, light on his feet, and knew how to escape notice, so he fared relatively well. It also helped that he had managed to grab a pair of shoes from a donation bin, despite them being three sizes too big. If he had gone out without them, he was sure he'd have been stopped and questioned.

However, needing to join the populace had caused him to make a few...observations about himself. The first was the most obvious: his worldview had shifted drastically. Now, one might expect that to refer to overall outlook or a shift in morals, but no, in this case, it was literal. The way he saw the world was vastly different. His world had become a sea of crimson Threads. They were everywhere, dancing and writhing and twisting through the air. Some were as thick as his fist, while others were as thin as fishing twine; some were finely woven and delicately held together, while others appeared to be made of coarse rope that tore and frayed. It painted a strange picture, and it made entering crowds overwhelming, especially the first time he'd seen the Threads in earnest. 

At first, he was confused, but then it hit him. Death had droned on and on and on about Fate, and well, one of the most well-known symbols of Fate was the crimson Threads that linked people together. It made Izuku curious: Death had stated outright that humans were not controlled by the whims of Fate, yet everyone had a Thread. He had yet to see a person without one, and at this point, Izuku came to believe that all living beings had one (he noticed that even the alley cats had their own, and they were beautiful in their own right).

He had become so overwhelmed with curiosity, in fact, that he chose a person at random and decided to grab their thread and follow it until he couldn't anymore. However, when he wrapped his hand around the Thread, his brain was overloaded with blurred images, most of which sprinted through his consciousness in bursts of light and indecipherable flashes. He reeled back and was forced to abort his attempt–he didn't know what that had been, but he wasn't sure he wanted to. He had an idea, though, and if it was what he was thinking, then he most definitely did not want to know. 

He shook off the mental images, ignored the twinge of the migraine that followed, and picked another Thread to trace, this time gently holding it between two fingers. He traced it for several miles through the main streets, across parks, and under bridges seemingly at random before the Thread finally stopped, and when it did, it was only because Izuku physically couldn't follow it any further–the Thread had descended into the ground in some random alleyway. He wasn't sure what that meant, just that he had another dead end. He'd shrugged it off, unwilling to let himself dwell on the implications, and disappeared into the back alleys in search of a place to stay for the night.

One thing he had learned the hard way was the major downside of the Threads: they were everywhere, and their ubiquity made going anywhere and doing anything extremely hard. Sometimes they were so thick that he was functionally stuck–he couldn't move through the wall of Threads in front of him, because, for some reason, they were tangible only to him, and no matter how hard he tried, he could not push his way through. 

So, in a fit of frustration, he'd closed his eyes and gripped his hair tightly, mentally screaming for them to go the fuck away so he could peacefully go find some dinner, and lo and behold, it worked. Well, sort of. Once he had calmed down and evened out his frustrated breath, he noticed that the Threads had faded from view, though they were still there to some extent, twisting and writhing in the corner of his eye. Yet, if he wished to see them again, all he had to do was will it, and they popped into view. It was, unfortunately, much, much harder to will them away, but he hoped with time, it'd become easier.

Izuku didn't have to spend much time pondering why he could suddenly see Threads of fate: their mystery was surprisingly anticlimactic. He didn't need Death to descend and give him an hour's worth of exposition–he was perceptive enough to know what they were and why he saw them. Death had mentioned he was the 'Scale' or some shit–the 'Bearer of Fate' or whatever grandiose term the deity wanted to use. Pretty self-explanatory, if you asked him.

He had a job he'd been forced into doing, and it revolved around protecting Fate (??maybe??), so it made sense that he had been given some way to conceptualize it. He idly wondered if the other starchildren (ugh, he wanted to puke at that name. It was really, really half-assed, but, he mused, not even higher beings can be perfect at everything, hey?) saw the world the same as he did, or if they saw it differently. Regardless, the Threads were relatively benign, more of an annoyance if he was being honest, though they did have some utility, he begrudgingly admitted. 

They were a good indicator that there was another person in the area–an animal's threads looked different–and it made avoiding everyone unbelievably easy. He wasn't trying to get mugged, or, God forbid, dragged back into the foster system, thank you very much. He'll take the cold concrete of an alley over the heavy hand of the state any day.

The Threads weren't the only change in his life, though. But the other ones were much more superficial and more...aggravating than anything else. Though Izuku begrudgingly admitted to himself, they had made disappearing much easier.

Whatever Death had done to him when it had shoved that weird black flame into his body, it had changed his appearance. And not in a 'look, the plain boy is hot now' sort of way, but in a 'damn, that kid looks like a sickly Victorian child' way. 

Whatever the black flame was, it had sucked all the pigmentation–all the life–out of his skin and hair and eyes. Whereas before he'd had rosy cheeks and green hair that reminded him of his mother, now everything about him was shockingly pale. His skin was pallid and only served to emphatically highlight the scars that marred his skin; his eyes, once a warm forest green, had faded to such a light green that his irises almost blended in with his sclera in the right lighting; his hair was shock white, not unusual in a world of quirks, but certainly abnormal. 

And it was frustrating, because Izuku missed the soft green tones. It was as if he'd lost not only a piece of himself, but also one of his only remaining ties to his mother.

But, despite the physical changes and the Threads assaulting his vision, he was doing okay. Well, to be fair, he was doing about as well as one might expect after successfully committing suicide, then being told his whole life was a lie by the God of Death, breaking down in front of said God of Death from emotional overload, and then being forcefully resurrected by a mysterious power (that he was still staunchly ignoring, thank you very much).  

Well, actually, when he boiled it down like that, it sounded terrible. 

Maybe he wasn't doing okay? Hell, he really had no way of knowing, no point of reference. Granted, he was in purely survival mode at the moment, which meant he was functioning almost exclusively on pure instinct rather than critical thought.

But the weird in-between phase was not to last. In truth, he'd been floating by, riding the emotional waves and scrambling to adapt to his altered existence and survival on the streets. He knew that the weight of what had happened had yet to truly hit him. It was as if he spent the past two weeks on his knees, begging for the other shoe to drop just so that he could get it over with. And, for once in his sorry life, Fate seemed to hear his prayers. Though he wasn't sure he liked the outcome.

It was a Friday night (he thought, based upon the higher number of people out and about. Though he wasn't really sure how long he had been dead, and unless he wanted to go digging through the trash for a newspaper, he had to guess.) almost three full weeks after his resurrection, when everything came crashing down. He was in the entertainment district, hiding out on a fire escape across the way from a crowded bar. He was waiting for a drunk person to stumble their way out so that he could nab a wallet–he hoped that they would have enough cash to get a blanket of some sort at the thrift store. He had already managed to scavenge a backpack from a dumpster, and it was...functional, for the most part. But he was cold, and it wasn't like he was stealing credit cards, just cash. 

(He knew he was rationalizing crime, something that he would have been vehemently against a few years ago, but now it was a necessity. Survival is not easy; one must adapt if they are going to keep themselves fed and warm.)

It was still early, which meant he'd have to wait at least an hour longer before anyone was drunk enough for him to pick their pocket without notice, so he settled in, thankful for the televisions on the bar's patio. He was only half paying attention to whatever news segment they were running, spending most of his time watching for an easy mark when he heard it. The characteristic booming laugh.

Bright yellow, royal blue, and ruby red overtook the television screen before the man himself–All Might–popped up on screen, his signature grin in place. Izuku felt his body go rigid and his breathing pick up as his eyes locked on the screen. Where normally he'd have felt a twinge of excitement, looking at All Might now just made Izuku's stomach curl with dread.

He couldn't look at All Might's face without seeing gaunt, sunken eyes and hollow cheekbones. Without seeing an angry, crimson hole, making a mockery of a once muscular chest. He couldn't look at All Might without hearing the word 'realistic' play on loop in his brain, repeated over and over and over again with increasing levels of disdain. 

He shuddered at the sound, but steeled himself to watch–All Might very rarely did public service announcements, so whatever this was, it had to be something at least mildly interesting.

As he turned his thoughts back to the television, his eyes latched on to a forest green armband circling All Might's left bicep. He furrowed his brow, wracking his brain for any reason All Might would add something so innocuous to his Hero costume. The number one hadn't changed his costume in such a simple manner before, usually favoring large rebrands–great for limited edition merchandise, he scoffed to himself. The picture it painted was strange, but nothing really to write home about.

But then, the man began to speak. And Izuku felt as though his heart was ripped from his chest a second time.

"I am here! To present you all with an important, All Might-approved message! I have always done my utmost to protect, to be the Symbol of Peace, so that Japan and the world can live without fear. It has always been my goal to ensure that everyday citizens such as yourself can live in peace, knowing that I am out there fighting, protecting you from the scourge of Villains seeking to bring undue harm.

And now, I AM HERE to let you know that it is your turn! I want you all to remember that all people, quirk or no quirk, mutant quirk or so-called villainous quirk, are deserving of love and respect. Discrimination is unheroic and even downright villainous, and I, All Might, have always and will always do my utmost to prevent quirkist discrimination. And now, you all must do your part too! Come together, accept and love your differences, and support each other! A united front against the scourge of Villainy is bound to succeed, so do not be an agent of chaos and put down your fellow men, women, and children for something out of their control.

I would like to end on a message to all of those people who have experienced discrimination due to their quirk or lack thereof: you are not alone. We, the heroes of Japan, are working hard to bring you the justice you deserve. So, if you are experiencing discrimination, please do not hesitate to call-"

Izuku's screaming thoughts drowned out the rest of All Might's announcement. He was overcome with a range of conflicting emotions, the foremost of which was blind fucking rage. He felt his hands clench into a fist, and he was uncaring even when he felt his fingernails break the skin of his palms. He began to shake, his body rapidly oscillating between hot and cold, as if All Might's message was making him physically ill. 

It probably was.

How...how fucking dare he? The absolute human scum. The gargantuan fucking hypocritical piece of fucking garbage. How dare he? How dare he pontificate about equality and anti-discrimination as if he weren't a bigoted piece of shit himself? How dare he try to take the moral high ground and make himself seem as though he was some fucking beacon of equality and fairness, as if his words were balm to the rot that plagued the society he was instrumental in creating? How dare he say such meaningless, disingenuous drivel after condemning Izuku to death? How dare he have the...the fucking-the fucking audacity to say all of that with his chest like he meant it? Like he cared? Because, of course, he would only care after Izuku both literally and figuratively died.

Izuku felt more than saw his vision tint red as his rage overwhelmed him. He felt his mind disconnect from his body, his emotions surging like a tidal wave, consuming his senses and body in their intensity. He felt himself rise from his position and climb up towards the roof, his mind lost to the dull grey daze of despair and the angry crimson of fury. He felt himself continuing to move somewhere, but he was content to drown in the tidal wave of emotion. 

He wasn't quite sure how much time had passed, but when his mind snapped back into place, he was perched on the ledge of a building on the far end of the city, miles from where he started. He was sitting, his sweatshirt stored in his bag, leaning forward to stare over the edge at the concrete below, and when he glanced down, he saw that his arms were covered in angry red scratch marks. He did his best to ignore the sense of deja vu and the sinking feeling that accompanied his new predicament, instead choosing to focus on the anger threatening to overtake his mind once more. 

He was still overcome with rage, with a malice that cut so deeply that he wanted to hurt someone. He'd never felt rage this strongly–not when he was getting beaten into the dirt by Katsuki or when his whole class laughed and jeered at him or even when his pleas were rejected by Death. No, this rage was different. It was new, but it also felt distinctly ancient, as if it were intrinsic to his very being.

Ah, he thought in a sudden bout of clarity, this is what hate feels like. Real hate. Stronger than rage, stronger than loathing–real, tangible hatred.

It made his blood curdle and his stomach ache. And it made him feel wrong, so very, very wrong. He had never hated anything in his life, not truly. But in this moment, he felt the hatred sink into his bones and carve its name into his marrow. All Might, the final beacon of hope in Izuku's life, the one who had snuffed out his waning flame of existence in an instant, had comfortably become the person Izuku hated most. And the person who had killed his mother was still, unfortunately, in the land of the living. A real feat on All Might's part, if Izuku could say so himself.

He curled his hand into a fist, trying to ignore the hatred bubbling deep in his gut, and ran his other hand through his hair as he stared longingly at the pillowy concrete stories beneath his feet and sighed. 

It...it was not All Might's message that he hated–if anything, he was glad for it. All Might had so much influence over Japan, and he rarely, if ever, used it. If it had been even a month ago, this PSA would have had Izuku crying tears of joy, but now, it just felt so hollow, so fake. He already knew the Symbol of Peace's real beliefs. Which begged a question, actually: why? Why now? Why step into the limelight to campaign against discrimination now, of all times? What had changed? Because All Might most certainly hadn't–no one is capable of shifting their worldview so quickly. Well, not unless some tragedy struck, but Izuku highly doubted that anything of note actually happened.

He let out a sigh, allowing his eyes to glaze over as he stared out over the brightly lit cityscape. Now that the anger had somewhat faded, Izuku was left feeling hollow. He had an unending hatred that he had no way to express, but, despite his rage, despite his mind screaming at him to lash out at the world and All Might, he did not particularly want to. All Might served a purpose, regardless of his real beliefs; his intent, his motive, is what really mattered.

And Izuku did not know what to do with his feelings or with himself, if he was really being honest. He had been doing nothing but surviving for the past few weeks, focusing on what was immediately in front of him. But now that he thought about it, his whole world had been tilted on its axis. He'd died. For real. And then he'd been told that he was born to be puppetted by Fate, that not even his death was his own to dictate. And it left him feeling powerless, hopeless, and confused as to what to do next. 

What could he do? He was nothing but a child. He was fourteen. He's fourteen and he's alone in an unforgiving world. He's fourteen, and he's legally dead. He has no home, he has no family, hell, he hasn't even got a name anymore. Izuku Midoriya was dead. The green-haired, green-eyed, depressed yet gentle quirkless child was dead. But he's not.

He's still here.

Sure, whatever Death did to him slightly changed his appearance, but besides superficial changes–and that weird black flame that burned cold, but he absolutely did not want to think about that right now–he was still Izuku. But he wasn't. Or rather, he couldn't. Be Izuku anymore, he meant.

Izuku was best left dead. Best to be thought of as nothing but food for the worms, left to rot where society expected him to be.

So what was he to do now? Death told him a bunch of bullshit that was overwhelming at the time, but now, in hindsight, was frustratingly vague. He huffed in irritation, pulling at the shock white strands of hair on his head in an attempt to ground himself.

Fuck. Fuck. What now?

He let out a shuddering breath and tried to calmly remove his hands from his hair. He dropped them down into his lap, clasping them tightly as he took deep breaths. He swallowed down the terror of being faced with a tomorrow when he'd never planned on making it past today. (What does someone like him even do with a life they are forced to live?)

He let out another shaky breath. Okay, everything was going to be okay. He'd been alone for most of his life already, and now he didn't have to balance on a knife's edge at school or his foster parents' house anymore. There was no one out looking for him. There was no one to look for him, so he was in a surprisingly good position to start over from scratch. And, he grumbled to himself as he lifted one of his hands in front of him, he had a kinda sorta quirk now? Sort of. Maybe.

He sighed to himself and willed the black flame to burst forth, and he watched, transfixed, as it twirled and danced across his fingertips. He felt a twitch and glanced down to see the angry scratches marring his arm alight before the flame snuffed out, leaving light pink scars where the bloodied scratches had once been.

He should be surprised, delighted even, that the flame he'd finally let himself see again healed him so readily. But he wasn't. The flame made a sour feeling settle into his throat. It felt wrong. To have a gift such as this forced upon him. Yet he knew that even a few months ago, he might have cried with joy to have this power. But it was a victory that felt unbelievably shallow. 

He sighed, staring deeper into the flame that was still flickering happily along his fingertips. He knew that it was a part of him, that it brought him back from death. He knew that no matter how much he ignored it, it would remain within him. And he knew that the not-flame was Death's gift, but what was it truly? Because he didn't think it was actually flame– fire doesn't heal.  

He shook his head, clasping his hand into a fist, and extinguishing the flame. He shuddered minutely as he remembered the feeling of his bones reorienting and his organs reforming within his body back at the morgue as he mulled over the not-quirk he was not-blessed with.

"I can smell your curiosity from here, starchild," Death whispered right next to his ear, amusement obvious in its tone.

Izuku jumped, but thankfully managed to swallow his yelp. He turned to glare at the faceless visage peering at him curiously mere inches away from his face.

"Would it kill you to make some noise? Fuck, " Izuku hissed through his teeth, his eyes narrowing.

Death leaned back and laughed boisterously, black wisps of fog dancing in time with its laughter.

"Heh, you should see your face right now. Priceless. Do you know how often I've wanted to do that but couldn't because humans can't see me? Ah, finally, I can live my dreams," it chuckled, sighing contentedly before plopping down next to Izuku.

Izuku eyed Death warily, a scowl still plastered on his face, before turning to face the lit cityscape with a huff.

"Where the hell have you been? It's been three weeks since you booted me back to the realm of the living, and I haven't seen hide nor hair of you," he demanded pointedly, not amused by Death's antics.

Death hummed noncommittally, its gaze focused on the black flame that kept bursting to life along Izuku's fingertips before being snuffed out. Izuku watched in his periphery as it shifted its gaze to Izuku's face, no doubt noticing the way his brow twitched with concentration every time the flame was snuffed out. It shook its head and let out a sigh.

"The energy of the Abyss is not easy to master, but it is certainly powerful. And from the way you wield it so easily, I can see that your body is a fantastic conduit, but you are fighting it too much," it paused as if in thought, and Izuku tried his damndest to appear as if he wasn't waiting for Death to say more.

"I thought it'd take you a while, but it's not like I have a point of reference. Figures a starchild would be able to use it easily," it muttered to itself.

At that, Izuku's ears perked up, and he turned to face Death.

"Why are you talking about this-" he lifted his hand and the flame burst forth on the end of his index finger, "-as if you've never seen anyone else use it before?" he asked, tilting his head slightly.

Death exhaled through its nose (Do deities need to breathe? Or is Death just mimicking human traits? Wait, no, another time, Izuku-) and the wisps of fog around its head began to twitch anxiously.

"Mmm, that's because besides me – and you now, I guess – no one else has ever been able to use it before. It is the energy of the realm of the Dead, so only I have control over it, and it's not like I've ever just given partial control over to anyone before. Sure, some have tried to steal it and use it for-"

Izuku cut off Death's old man ramble.

"Wait, wait, wait, let me get this straight. You," he pointed at Death with his flaming finger, "Have never given anyone your power before." Death nodded tentatively, "And then you saw me, dead, and said, 'damn, I need to save Fate’s newest toy-'"

"I resent that–I don't think of you that way-"

Izuku pressed on, undeterred.

"And just what, slam dunked my soul back into my body alongside what feels like a massive amount of Abyss energy–as you call it–hoping that it would, what, heal me? Give me power to 'smite the enemies of the realm'?" Izuku finished, incredulous.

Death hummed.

"Well, when you put it that way..." it trailed off, seemingly embarrassed.

Izuku was at a loss. Back in the Abyss, Death had seemed so self-assured, so–for lack of a better way to put it–godlike. But now, sitting next to him on a roof Lord(s?) knows exactly where, it seemed no less fallible than any other person. Had Death, a fucking deity, just winged the whole thing? Had it just shrugged, crossed its fingers, and hoped that everything worked out? Because if that were the case, then Izuku felt like he might be more screwed than he originally thought.

A God just figuratively (maybe literally) handed him a massive bomb before slapping him on the ass and tossing him into the world with a 'go get 'em, kid.' 

And Izuku...he couldn't even find it within himself to be mad. He was feeling bewildered, sure, but mad? No. Not after the deep-seated rage towards All Might, he'd just barely managed to swallow. Compared to that, this situation felt little more than irksome. He let out an incredulous laugh and snuffed out the flame on his fingertip before turning back to the cityscape.

"You sound...unhappy again. Why?" Death asked after a few moments of pensive silence.

Izuku huffed out a laugh, glancing at Death out of the corner of his eye.

"Do you really want to know?"

Death tilted its head back and forth, mulling over the question. The wisps of fog gently floating around its head began to orbit its body at a slightly quicker pace, colliding with each other every so often and breaking apart in tiny little bursts of smoke.

Is it conflicted? Death seems to have some sort of emotions, but they are starkly different for humans, despite being able to mimic them relatively well. Maybe the wisps of fog are an indicator. Something to think about more later, he mused.

"Yes, I think I do," Death finally responded, its wisps stuttering briefly.

Izuku hummed, thinking over just how to communicate his thoughts to a being so deeply tied to Humanity despite being unable to truly understand them.

"I'm not sure I will be able to explain why so easily," he began, lifting his hand to run it through his hair, "So instead, I'll ask you a question. Did you know what was going to happen?"

Death tilted its head.

"Did I know what was going to happen when?"

"What was going to happen when you shoved my soul back inside my body, laced with the power of the Abyss? Did you know whether or not it would heal me? Or would it have just prolonged my suffering before I died again? Did you know it was going to affect me in this- " he gestured at his shock white hair and eyes and skin devoid of pigmentation, "-way before it happened?"

Death fell silent, its wisps stilling in the bright moonlight illuminating them. After a few moments, Death seemed to have found an answer, but by the way it was so frighteningly still, Izuku was sure he would not like the response.

"No, I did not," it said softly, "But I had to do something. When I sent you back, I infused within the energy my will. 'Rebirth.' 'Healing.' 'Protection," it paused, turning its head. It muttered something else, but no matter how Izuku strained his ears, Death's words were lost to the wind.

Izuku sighed and shook his head dismissively, leaning back a little to gaze up at the stars. How he wished his mother were still here. She would know what to do, how to proceed.

"So what now?" Izuku asked after a few moments of pensive silence.

Death remained silent, peacefully taking in the bright twinkling lights of the city.

"Your future, though guided by the hands of Fate, is still yours to decide, starchild. You can do anything–it's up to you. The tides of Fate will lead you in the right direction, I’m sure of it," it hummed.

Izuku scoffed.

"So what you're telling me is that I'm on my own, huh? Joy," a hint of bitterness finding its way into his tone.

"Mm, that is one way to frame it, sure," Death conceded, "But also, it means that it is your choice to do what you wish. You had dreams before, yes? Why not do that?"

This time, Izuku laughed, and it was a loud, mean thing, the bitterness seeping through.

"What? Go off and be a hero? Me? Yeah. Right."

Death turned to look at him, head tilted in confusion, wisps of fog gently swirling around its head. "You...greatly confuse me, child. I have watched Humanity since its inception, but I guess I've never really had the chance to handle human emotion up close. I do not understand. What is wrong?"

Izuku hummed noncommittally, “Don’t I have some big thing to stop? Prevent the balance from tipping or whatever inane nonsense you said? Let me guess, there’s some sort of big bad villain out there I have to stop from destroying the world like one of those cliche pre-quirk comics, right?” he deflected. 

Death stared at him, and he was sure that if Death had a face, it would be wearing a disbelieving stare. 

“Mm, something like that. But that can wait. The Weavers will lead you in the right direction–they will ensure you are where you need to be when you need to be, but it will be up to you to stop it on your own,” Death replied cooly, cradling its head in its hand, “But that’s not what we’re talking about right now. What’s wrong, child?”

Izuku looked down, staring intently at his splayed fingers. He traced their lines with eyes, making note of every little nick, every tiny scar that marred once pristine flesh.

He was too tired to keep dancing around the point. Might as well give Death something. Besides, who was it gonna tell? His mom?  

"I...I-no. I just-it's hard to explain," he paused, emotions flaring deep in his chest. He opened and closed his mouth a few times, brow furrowing with concentration before beginning again, "I was already becoming...disillusioned, I think is the right word, with Heroes on the whole before I spoke with All Might, and I think after that, it feels. Wrong, I think. Becoming a hero."

And like a toddler who's doing their best to understand the world around them, Death responded, "Why?"

Izuku let out an airy laugh.

"I'll match your question with one of my own. Do you know how my mother died?" he asked softly.

Death shook its head.

"I did not see it, no. I only acted as her Guide," Death replied carefully.

Izuku winced. He has forgotten that Death would have met his mother. Would have gently led her to the Abyss. It was not something he wanted to think about. Ever. He had only just come to terms with her passing, and even that was tenuous at best.

"There was a fight–a Villain," he started, "And...and they-she...they were-they were fighting, and..." his face twisted with pain, and his heart rate began to accelerate. He opened his mouth to continue, but he felt his throat close up and his tongue swell in his mouth as his eyes burned with unshed tears. He couldn't. He still couldn't talk about it. Not yet. Not even with Death. It was too difficult–it felt like taking a knife to a gaping wound and digging back in deeper, twisting and tearing at the festering, weeping hole.

His mouth snapped shut, and he lifted his hands to vigorously scrub away his tears. He didn't need another mood swing this evening–Lords knows he's already felt more emotions in the past three weeks than he has in his entire life.

"Why did you stop, starchild? Why are you upset?" Death questioned. 

Izuku shook his head.

"It is. Still too difficult. To talk about her passing. Every time I try to broach the subject, I just. Can't. It's been a year, but it still feels like I'm drowning every time I think about it. Just...just I can't be a hero. They're nothing but gilded lies. And they fail. Often. Or at least often enough. They caused the collapse, the fire, not the Villain. And then, they...they couldn't," Izuku's voice cracked, the pain of talking about his mother's death too deep, "They couldn't save her. Couldn't fix the problems they caused," he finished, staring intently down at his lap and ignoring the burning shame and rage within his chest.

Death tilted its head, the wisps of smoke dancing around it coalescing in its palm, bringing a distressing sense of stillness to the rooftop.

"I may not be able to fully understand the pain of losing a loved one, but know this: you should not blame yourself, nor should you blame the heroes for their failure. Blame does nothing but cause heartache, and, unfortunately, she was never theirs to save."

Izuku whipped his head up to face Death, his hands clenching into fists and anger bursting to life once more in his gut.

"What do you mean she wasn't theirs to save? They're heroes. It's their job to protect the innocent, to avoid collateral damage. It's their job to protect, not destroy, " he hissed, his eyes narrowing at Death.

Death hunched its shoulders and looked away, seemingly intent on looking anywhere but at Izuku.

"Death, what do you mean by she was theirs to save?" he asked again, a note of warning in his tone.

Death still refused to look at him. Izuku stared at the featureless black hole that was the form of the God of Death, his eyes sharp and his mind whirring. What could it have meant- wait. Back in the Abyss, when Izuku was dead, it had said something about trials–Labors–prepared for him by the Weavers. And Death said he had already been through two. At the time, Izuku had brushed it off–he'd fought tooth and nail ever since he was diagnosed quirkless, so the Labors could have been anything, but Death also mentioned that Fate did little to dictate the actions of men. So whenever they did lift their hands to act, it had to have been something major–earthshattering–even if it was only so to him.

And...and the only earthshattering moment in his life not carried out by his own hands or the doctor when he was four was...his mother's death.

When their apartment building collapsed into burning rubble, almost everyone had made it out alive. The flames were abnormally hot, and collapse usually spelled disaster, but the whole ordeal, despite being perpetrated by the heroes on scene, was considered a resounding success. In fact, the rescue operation had been quick and efficient, leaving most with only minor injuries. There had only been one casualty, and that was his mother. She had died after their kitchen was hit by a chunk of flaming rubble, which left her trapped in a burning apartment where she succumbed to smoke inhalation.

But now that Izuku thought about it, the event was strange. The fight should never have made it into the residential district, and the heroes on scene were fighting with powers that they had yet to replicate. Last Izuku had checked, the hero who was responsible for the blaze, Infierno, was tanking in the rankings due to his desperation to recreate the strength of his attack.

It was almost as if someone...something had led them there. Had supercharged the heroes' quirks. Had inserted themselves into the situation in such a way that ensured the death of Midoriya Inko.

The realization hit Izuku all at once, and with it came the same frigid, intrinsic rage that he had felt in the Abyss. The Weavers of Fate. They had-they'd taken her. Ripped her away from Izuku. Removed her light, her kindness, her love, from this world. And for what, to make him suffer? Give him some sort of tragic backstory like a lame anime protagonist? Or, as Death put it, show him their "love?"

Izuku felt his back straighten and his form go rigid. He felt his face drop into a mask of neutrality as his hands clenched tighter. When he spoke, his tone was as lethal as a blade dipped in venom, his eyes as sharp as a knife pressed to your throat, the blood slowly dripping down the accursed blade.

"My mother. Her death was one of the Labors dictated by Fate, wasn't it?"

Despite the venom, despite the rage, he kept his tone measured and quiet. Biting. Finally, Death acknowledged him, turning to face him carefully. It observed him for a moment before nodding.

"Yes...And from your suffering, you have grown. Such is the love of Fate," it murmured, unwilling to meet Izuku’s blistering gaze.

Izuku had to fight to keep his face neutral, to keep himself from lashing out in rage and pain and betrayal. He took a deep breath to ensure his voice did not waver, swallowing down the roiling whirlpool of emotions threatening to overtake him like a cyclone to a fishing boat. And as he did so, he watched on blankly as Death's form flickered and shifted until he was faced with the form of a gaunt All Might–all sunken eyes and hollowed cheekbones, body drowning in the fabric of his oversized clothes.

"And you knew about it," Izuku said. It was not a question, but a statement, resolute, that they both already knew the answer to.

The mockery of All Might's visage nodded again.

"The Weavers–you–saw fit to take a life. Murder the kindest and most loving person I have ever known to get to me. To teach me a lesson. To show me your love?" his tone scathing but hollow. There was no room for denial.

All Might–Death–paused, opening and closing its mouth, and Izuku could see the wisps of fog swirling rapidly in its eyes. After a few moments of trying and failing to speak, All Might sighed.

"Starchild, it is best to learn this lesson now. Do not dare to judge the actions of Empyreans by the morals of Man. It will never work, and you will never find peace. Humans are too different. They–you–value different things. It is best to come to terms with it now before you are faced with more pain than necessary," it consoled him hesitantly.

Izuku sucked in air through his teeth, feeling the knife of betrayal twist deeper, ever deeper, into his gut. Death knew. It knew and, instead of preventing his mother's demise, instead of offering comfort, even if it was false, did nothing but justify the actions of Fate. 

Because of course it would. It was not human, and as it just so kindly reminded him, it would never be able to understand.  

It may have even had a hand in her death, and even if it didn’t, it hadn’t done a thing to stop her death. It would never do anything out of goodness, out of kindness–not for Izuku, not for Fate’s precious toy, he thought bitterly. 

Death was only here to protect the interests of itself and Fate. It had never had sympathy or empathy for him–it only brought him back so that he could be a slave to their whims. So that they could continue to take and take and take from him. So that they could puppet him like a scratched and fraying doll, watching him suffer with a cruel hand as they led him through a game of their own creation. He was their, and by association, Death's, toy–their pawn. And it made him sick with rage.

...

...

No. No. He would not be a pawn. He would not participate in their sick and twisted games. They could try to make him suffer, try to take things from him, but there was nothing– no one –left to take. And he would make sure it stayed that way. They could harm him, take his limbs, take his senses, but he was never letting them take another life to teach him a fucked up lesson.

In fact, it was probably best if he removed himself from the equation entirely. Sure Death had saved him once, but it couldn't keep doing that forever. Sure, he had the weird healing black flame, but surely that had its limits.

(And oh, the thought tasted so sweet, like a plum in summertime. How Izuku loved things that were sweet, regardless of whether or not they rotted his teeth–that part of him would never die, would never change.)

He settled back into his bones, feeling the weight of his decision heavily in his chest. He was going to kill himself again, his deal with Death be damned. And this time, he would stay dead, even if he never saw his mother again. He was sure that she would understand.

He clenched his fists tightly around his knees and allowed the resolve to settle into his mind. Then he turned, carefully facing All Might's sickly visage, and smiled. Brightly.

All Might's brow furrowed with confusion, the wisps of fog bursting forth before beginning to rapidly encircle his head.

"Why are you smiling, starchild?"

Izuku turned and grabbed his bag–he didn't want to lose another good backpack, just in case. Then, he braced his hands on the ledge and turned to face All Might once more. Unbeknownst to him, the starlight of resolve was alight behind his eyes once more, shining brighter than it had in years, this time glowing a soft yet sickly light green. This was not the forest green of kindness; it was the tepid green of loathing.

Staring directly into the pitch black holes where All Might's eyes would be, he let his smile fall from his face.

"Fuck you."

And then, for the second time, he pushed off, relishing in the feeling of flying before he hit the ground, and the world went dark once more.

Chapter Text

Two weeks. Two weeks of this absolute bullshit, and Izuku had little to nothing to show for it. For two weeks, he'd been trying everything under the sun to remove himself from his pitiful existence. And yet, he was still here. The only thing that had changed was the angry red scars on his wrists, the rope burns around his throat, and his intimate understanding of what it felt like to die. Yet, despite his herculean efforts, he failed. Every. Single. Time.

He'd done everything he possibly could in his quest: overdosing on stolen pills, hanging from the rafters, suffocation and exsanguination, drowning in shallow and deep pools, electrocution and arrhythmia, blunt force trauma–hell, he'd even doused himself in lighter fluid and set himself ablaze. But, each time, without fail, the black flame licked out of his wounds and healed him. It even kept his body moving when its base functions had broken down–how else could he explain his survival after literally walking up from the ocean floor back to dry land? And every single time, without fail, Izuku only felt more exhausted than he was moments before.

The flame always pulled him back from the brink of death against his wishes, yet he still had to cede the little stamina he had to the flames. It was an unfair trade if you asked him–he didn't want to be saved, so how dare the Abyss take what little energy he had?

It didn't make sense (but it did, in some sick, twisted way) that the flame would act of its own free will. It almost felt like one of those kiddie leashes parents get for particularly unruly children: it gave him the illusion of choice, the ability to dance on the line of life and death without impediment, only to get yanked back down to Earth right as he was about to run off. And whether he tried over and over and over again to deplete the Abyss energy from his body (surely it was not infinite; all healing quirks have their limits) or whether he tried something as absolute as immolation ( the black flames had simply swallowed up the regular flames, roaring stronger, brighter in the aftermath ), it did not matter. The black flame would heal him regardless of whether or not he willed it forth; he would gasp for breath like a fish out of water, and he would return to consciousness no better off.

When Death had said that it would force him to live, it meant it. Despite dying in innumerable ways, Izuku had yet to recreate the out-of-body experience he'd had the first time. He'd yet to successfully return to the Abyss. And all the while, Death was watching him in the wings. It said nothing regarding his desperate quest to die; instead, it sat to the side, watching him with the gaunt face of All Might's injured, deflated form, pity in its eyes, and a mask of sorrow on its face.

(It knew that this was a pointless quest, a desperate plea for freedom, for denial of Fate, and to Death, watching Izuku die over and over and over again was penance. It knew that the boy would not react well to his Fate–it had been around long enough to be able to determine what type of human Izuku was–and it could not help but feel responsible for the starchild's continued suffering, despite knowing that it would have happened regardless. So it did what it did best, and continued to bear Witness to Izuku's plea, silently praying that it could grant his desperate wish.)

Finally, after a third week of trying more and more impractical ways to die, Izuku relented. He was sitting, curled up in a ball in a dirty and refuse-filled alleyway, not far from Dagobah beach, his head resting gently on his knees, his arms wrapped tightly around his legs. The desperation–the fire he'd felt only weeks ago–had dried up and dissipated along the warm evening breeze. He felt hopeless–despondent–in the face of the burden he carried. He'd resolved to fight back against his Fate, that he would remove himself from his sorry existence, thus freeing himself from the machinations of beings he couldn't even begin to understand. 

But, as with all things he'd resolved to do in his life, he'd failed. Death's influence was too strong, and Izuku's resolve was too weak. He didn't think he could bear much more of this before he broke for real. Every single final breath; every time he'd felt something foreign in his lungs, be it blood or water; every broken bone or ruptured organ; and every desperate, fleeting wish, he remembered all of them. In visceral detail. And each time he failed, he could feel a piece of himself, of his sanity, fading away.

He couldn't go on like this. He just couldn't. But he couldn't just give in to the will of Fate either. That would mean that he was giving himself over to beings who were essentially the masterminds behind his mother's death. Behind his own suffering. And that was something he just couldn't bring himself to do.

So what should he do?

It was a lose-lose situation regardless. Either he continued to die at his own hand until he eventually lost every single bit of himself (he shuddered; insanity would not be a good look on him) or he gave in to the whims of Fate and let himself be led around on a leash for the foreseeable future ( as if he wasn't shackled already ). Both options sounded absolutely terrible, but even now, as he sat in a pool of his own rapidly cooling blood and thinking absently about the angry red lines along his forearms, he still somehow felt that insanity was the better choice.

He lifted his head from where it was pressed into his knees to stare up at the sky, only to feel slightly irked when his view was blocked by a rusty fire escape. He spotted Death out of the corner of his eye but pointedly ignored the deity. It was Death's fault he was in this mess in the first place. If it hadn't butted in, if it hadn't bothered to save him the only time in his life he didn't want to be saved, then none of this would be a problem.

But, at the same time, was it? Was it truly Death's fault? Izuku had done nothing but think these past few weeks–well, when he wasn't, you know, actively trying to kill himself–and most of that time, he was ruminating on the two conversations that he shared with the deity. And in the time he'd spent thinking about Death's words, Izuku couldn't help but feel like there was a sense of powerlessness behind them. 

The way Death spoke, it was almost as if everything was predetermined–that despite its so-called omnipotence in the Abyss, it was nothing but a puppet too. That it had not saved him to prolong his suffering, but rather because it could save him in such a way that would ease his suffering. By this point, Izuku was under no illusions that he could truly escape the heavy hand of Fate except in insanity–and even then, he wasn't so sure.

(Maybe he should just give in? He was just a child, and he was revolting against beings beyond his understanding. And something told him that it was a fruitless endeavor, but he was nothing if not spiteful. If he were to give in, it would be on his own terms, and he would play by his own rules. No, he shouldn't give in. No, not yet. There was still more time. And it's not like his so-called benefactors had actually told him anything. Except for Death. But Death doesn't count.)

He huffed out a sigh and dropped his head to rest on his knees, zoning out at the graffiti-covered concrete wall directly in front of him. He absently wondered if he should move–he had gotten enough blood on his backpack as of late, and these were new pants, but he couldn't find it within himself to care. He was just so completely and utterly exhausted. Yet, there was no escape.

Despite his resolve waning, Izuku was not done yet. There were still a few things he hadn't tried. He hummed to himself, mulling over the pros and cons of stealing and then drinking bleach when he was ripped out of his musings by a loud crash. He stilled and pushed himself closer to the wall, willing the Threads into view. He slowly turned his head, looking around for the source of the crash when he spotted a Thread floating lazily above his head. It wasn't particularly unique or memorable, nor was it very bright. It glowed a muted red, and it was forgettable in almost every way.

And unfortunately for him, he was boxed in–the alleyway he'd sequestered himself within was a dead end, and he was currently flush with the corner. His only saving grace was that he was small, and his form was partially hidden by bags of garbage. But, as the crashing became louder, his heart rate began to accelerate: whatever was in the alleyway with him was coming closer, and soon enough, his hiding place would be discovered. He unfurled himself and shifted so that he was crouched and ready to pounce, his pen knife unsheathed and gripped tightly in his hand. He dropped his backpack as he moved, kicking it slightly so it was obscured under the pile of garbage.

He sucked in a breath and peeked around the garbage bags that made up his rather lackluster hiding place. However, that was the wrong choice, as his shock white hair was easily spottable in the darkness of the alleyway.

"Hey! Who's there?" he heard an angry voice call out.

Izuku didn't say anything, quickly pulling himself back into his hiding spot. He heard loud, unintelligible grumbling coming his direction, and his breathing began to grow quicker and heavier.

"Oi, I know you're there. Quit hiding and come out while I'm still feeling polite," the man growled.

Izuku let out a shaky breath and pulled up his hood. Even though the man had spotted him, Izuku hoped that the alleyway was too dark for the man to make out his features. He slowly climbed to his feet, his pen knife still clutched in his hand, and made his way out of his hiding spot. He was thankful for his large hoodie: it made it difficult for anyone to get a good look at his body shape, and the sleeves were long enough to cover his hands, allowing him to wield the knife without the man seeing it.

He slowly stepped into view, not ten feet from the angry man, whose figure was only somewhat illuminated by the setting sun at his back.

"Oh, it's just a kid," the man grumbled, lifting his hand to rub his chin.

While the man was mulling something over, it gave Izuku plenty of time to observe him. The man was scruffy-looking–his once light blue shirt had a large rip at the bottom, and his shoes were mismatched. The man's scraggly beard seemed like it hadn't been trimmed in months, yet his head was completely devoid of hair. Homeless then, Izuku mused.

"Hmm, well I sure don't appreciate being watched by a kid, even a scruffy street kid like you," Izuku scoffed inwardly, the guy should really take a hard look at himself before he calls Izuku scruffy, "But, now that I think about it, this works out great. I've been feelin' real pissed off as of late, and the gods just happened to drop the answer to my prayers right in front of me. How fortunate," the man chuckled to himself as he rubbed the back of his head.

Izuku went rigid.

What?

"I don't want to bother you, sir. I'll leave if you want this alleyway. I'm new in town, and don't want to step on anyone's toes. I'm sorry if I'm in your territory," he said, trying to placate the man.

The man seemed to preen a little bit at Izuku's deference before he caught himself.

"Yeah, you should know better than to invade old man Takahashi's territory, shouldn't ya. That's alright, kid, you'll learn, but what's a mistake without consequences? I'll give you a choice, kid: hand me all your money right now, or I beat the shit out of you," Takahashi said, a wicked grin splitting onto his face. His teeth–if you could call his pointed fangs something as mundane as teeth–were yellowed and chipped, and somehow, they matched the sickly yellow of his eyes.

Izuku's blood ran cold. He didn't have any money–he'd spent what little he'd stolen on meeting his own end and the occasional meal. He was also a street kid, and said as much to Takahashi, so theoretically, he should know that Izuku wouldn't have any money. Izuku took a deep breath and tried to subtly look for an escape when suddenly, an idea hit him. 

All this time, he'd only been dying at his own hand, but perhaps if someone else were to do it? Perhaps it would stick? He felt a desperate sort of hope flood his system, and his mind started to race at the prospect.

Why? Why didn't he think of this sooner? Of course, this could be the answer. The world was vast and full of a plethora of unknown and deadly quirks. Surely one of them out there could put him out of his misery. Perhaps not this man's, but hey, Izuku didn't know that for sure.

Well, there was only one way to find out.

He scoffed, and allowed as much disdain to overtake his demeanor as possible–he needed Takahashi to be pissed enough to want to murder him.

"Even if I had any money, why the hell would I give you any?" he sneered before spitting at his feet, "You're just another homeless fuck, same as me. Why the fuck should I listen to a piece of shit like you?"

Takahashi's form quickly began to shake with rage at Izuku's abrupt shift in demeanor. His face fell into a glower, and his fists curled at his sides.

"Why, you little fucker! How dare you talk to me like that in my own fucking territory? Oh, I was fucking pissed before, but I was going to be nice and let you go after a few punches, but now I think I'm going to rip your pretty little tongue out of that smart fucking mouth!" he shouted before lunging forward, his arm outstretched.

Izuku dodged to the side, just barely scrambling out of the way of the man's hand. Just because he resolved himself to die didn't mean he wouldn't go down without a fight. Losing so quickly would be pitiful, and after his first death, he'd resolved to stop rolling over and taking beatings.

The man stumbled into the garbage bags beside where Izuku was just standing, but quickly righted himself, turning quicker than Izuku would have expected before swiping at Izuku's hoodie. Izuku tried to scramble towards the mouth of the alleyway, but didn't get very far as the man caught hold of his hoodie, yanking him back.

He flipped Izuku around–and Izuku couldn’t help but notice the man seemed to struggle to move Izuku’s body–before pulling his curled fist back and punching him right in the jaw. At the blow, Izuku saw stars, and his vision began to blur. The man let out a rage-filled laugh before punching Izuku in the head and stomach again and again. Izuku tried to lift his hands to defend himself, tried to angle the pen knife in his hand to stab Takahashi in the wrist or something, but his arms floundered uselessly. 

His vision began to tunnel and his ears began to ring, each punch sending waves a pain through his body. He was sure he could hear Takahashi rambling manically, but all he could focus on was keeping the black flames at bay and the unfortunately familiar taste of blood in his mouth.

The man let out another satisfied chuckle and loosened his grip on Izuku's hoodie, huffing with exertion. Izuku absently noted that the man’s arm was shaking. Huh. Either he’s starving or he’s pathetically weak, he thought.

"You talked a big game for such a pathetic showing. I didn't even need my quirk to beat you to a pulp. Serves you right, you little shit," Takahashi sneered, pulling back his fist for another punch.

Izuku could feel it; his consciousness was slipping, just as he could feel the black flame fighting to heal his wounds. He doubted this guy had a quirk that could kill him, but at this point, he was ready to try almost anything. He dug deep and decided to spit everything he wished he could have said to Katsuki or any of his other bullies at this asshole. He ignored the Abyssal flame fighting for release and twisted his face into a bloody grin.

"I bet you get off beating up little kids, you pathetic cumrag. What? Does it make you feel like a man to punch down? Does it make you feel big and strong, you pathetic sack of shit? I bet this is the only way you know how to show love," Izuku snarled before spitting blood right in Takahashi's eye. Takahashi screamed with rage, tightening his grip on Izuku's sweatshirt and yanking him forward with more force than Izuku expected. Then, in a flash of movement, Takahashi's hand snapped forward and wrapped around Izuku's throat. 

He squeezed, murder in his eyes and a vein popping out of his forehead, leaving Izuku gasping for breath. Izuku lifted his hands and tried to pull Takahashi's arm off, even managing to make a few shallow cuts on the man's wrist with his pen knife, but it was no use. His vision blurred completely, and the ringing in his ears crescendoed to a shriek. His breathing became labored, and he felt his arms fall limply to his sides as his knees began to give out.

Then, as his consciousness began to fade and the grating whispers of beings untold began to scratch at the edges of his mind, he lost the fight with the black flame. It burst forth, surging out of his chest, blanketing his upper body. In a flash, Izuku's consciousness returned with a vengeance as he felt his injuries begin to reset themselves. Izuku tried to forcefully snuff out the flames, but it was no use.

Suddenly, a loud yelp caught his attention. Izuku whipped his head up just in time to watch Takahashi shriek and begin to backpedal, crashing into the concrete alleyway wall. Izuku stared, transfixed, as the black flame crawled up Takahashi's arm, not spreading so much as moving on its own before settling in the center of his chest. By this point, Takahashi was screaming and flailing his arms at the flame, trying desperately to put it out, even ripping his shirt off in his desperation to rid his body of the flame. 

“What the fuck is this, you fuck!” Takahashi demanded, desperation bleeding into his tone as he batted the flames uselessly. “Put it out. Put it out! ”

But it was no use–the flame continued to burn.

As the flame slowly started to grow, Izuku stood frozen, unsure what was happening and unable to push himself to do anything about it. The flame wasn't healing Takahashi, but it wasn't exactly harming him either. It was just. There. Smoldering and crackling with delight. But, despite the lack of physical harm, Izuku could see that Takahashi's movements were beginning to waver. The man's eyes glazed over, taking on a dazed look, and his body began to slump in on itself.

"I would put those flames out if I were you," Izuku heard directly to his right, snapping him out of his stupor. 

He felt a pang of anxiety race through his chest and scrambled forward, placing his hand in the flames before willing them away. Only when the flames had been snuffed out did Izuku let out a soft breath of relief.

Izuku watched as Takahashi slumped to the ground; whether he was fully unconscious or simply dazed, Izuku didn't know, but he sure as hell didn't want to stick around long enough to find out. He quickly grabbed his backpack from his hiding place and booked it out of the alleyway–Takahashi had been screaming loudly, and Izuku sure as hell did not want to still be present should a hero decide to turn up.

He ran down the road, speeding past passersby, and ignoring their shouts at him to slow down or to stop. He let his anxiety and adrenaline take charge, his feet pounding on the pavement as he continued his desperate flight. He made several twists and turns, running down alleyways and main roads, until finally, he found himself at the refuse-filled Dagobah beach. He dove into the pile of junk, pushing past walls of garbage as he sprinted down the winding paths carved through the mountains of waste by those who'd weathered the beach turned monolithic trash heap. He didn't stop to catch his breath until he popped out the other side, collapsing on the thin stretch of sand between the garbage and the waves.

He collapsed face down in the sand, his heart beating loudly in his ears, his breath becoming shorter and shorter and shorter. He pushed himself up, drawing his knees tightly to his chest and leaning backwards to rest on the remnants of some faulty washing machine. His breath began to stutter and catch; his eyes were blown wide and unseeing as he stared out over the ocean, his thoughts racing at a pace he couldn’t hope to keep up with. 

What was that? Holy shit, what was that? Whatwasthat? Takahashi didn’t look hurt, but he didn’t look not hurt. Izuku-he-he’d just been trying to die. Again. And the stupid, idiotic, unwanted flames had hurt the man. Sure, he might have deserved it, but still. Izuku had hurt someone.  

It didn’t matter that it wasn’t on purpose. It didn’t matter that the man was in the process of trying to kill him. No. None of that mattered. 

What mattered was that Izuku was trying to ensure that he never hurt anyone ever again, yet here he was, failing miserably in his first measly attempt at human interaction in almost two months. 

God. God. What the fuck?

Izuku could feel the anxiety rising within him. He could feel its barbs digging into his lungs and its fangs penetrating his aching bones; his heart began to beat rapidly, the pounding rush of blood roaring in his ears. Unconsciously, he lifted his hands to tug at his hair, but he did not feel it. Death might have been speaking to him, but he did not hear it. His eyes–cast out over the dark, roiling sea–were glassy and unseeing. His breaths came in rapid misfires and short bursts, and part of him, absently, so absently, wondered if it would be better if he never breathed at all.

He could feel the panic, the fear, so intrinsic to his being rise and overtake him in its entirety. He found that this feeling was as new as it was devastating. It went beyond anxiety, beyond fear: it was hysteria. He couldn't believe it–didn't want to believe it. But he could not deny the truth.

Why? Why did he finally have a fucking quirk and it turned out to be everything he’d never wished to have? Why was he forced to live, to hurt, to hurt others, when all he wanted was to die? Should he consider anyone he ever hurt a casualty of Fate’s games? Should he have to? Should he feel guilty for dragging others into his sorry life? Should he feel terrible for forcing those who could decide their own Fate to have that ability ripped away? And why? Why won’t they just let him give up? Why would they force him to continue when his very existence means nothing but misery and anguish, and-god, why? Why, why, why, why, why?

Izuku’s lungs began to ache, and his vision blurred with a veil of hot tears. He couldn’t breathe-fuck, he couldn’t breathe-

Why wasn't he dead? Why did he have to put up with this? Why did he only bring about pain? Suffering? Was he good for anything bright? Was he good for anything of worth? Why must it hurt? Why must he hurt? And why did it feel like he was still plunging to his death? God, GOD. He was stuck like this. Stuck in an endless loop of death and suffering and death and suffering–and love–and death and suffering. Why was he dying? It felt like he was dying. Was he still dying? Why was he not dead?

Dying. Dying, dying, dying.

“-ild. Sta-”

Dying, always dying, but never dead.

Like a rotting corpse, dragged clawing and screaming like a vengeful wraith back into the realm of the living. A shell, cracked and shattered, its pieces tenuously held together by superglue and tape, yet there were still gaps, still pieces that never returned when he came back.

WHEN HE CAME BACK.

Because. He. Came. Back.

But he left pieces of himself back in that alleyway, back on that roof. And they were pieces he would never get back. He would never be the same. Things would never be the same. Nothing would ever be the same ever again.

“-hild! Star-”

He would always be fractured, never whole. He would always be searching. Searching for the pieces of himself that he could never reclaim. And he would not be free. He would never be free. His life was not his own. His will was not his own. His fate was not his own.

It felt like the world was creaking, crashing, crumbling down around him. The edges of the world were pushing inward, ever so quickly in and in and in until his body and his heart and his lungs were creaking and crashing and crumbling in an implosion of everythingeverythingeverything.

His thoughts were becoming disjointed, his emotions and roiling tidal wave threatening to drown him where he had collapsed. He wanted to laugh, oh fuck how he wanted to laugh, but any further exertion would surely cause him to implode, and how terrible that would feel. To implode only to be forced back together again. The agony, never-ending; the peace would never come.

And desperately.

“-id. Chil-”

Ever so desperately.

He had been overcome by it. Ever so desperately he had been overcome by the desperation. The jolt of longing, the itch (oh god, not the itch) to tear himself asunder and start fresh, yet even now he would be denied. He could tear himself limb from precious limb, only to be pieced back together like some old, oft-repaired doll.

Always dying, never dead. Always always always dyi n g. 

Never Dead.

Oh, for peace. What he wouldn't give for peace. But that too, he was denied-

“IZUKU!”

Izuku’s thoughts came to a screeching halt, the frigid rush of icy fingertips gripping his cheeks, ripping him out of his death spiral and back into the present. His heart continued to thunder in his chest, and his eyelashes clumped together, thick with salty, wretched tears. And yet, though his breath remained ragged and short, his gaze sharpened with attention as he stared into Death’s forlorn eyes. 

It was wearing his mother’s face again. 

And though the sense of wrongness and fury bubbled up within him, he couldn’t help but begin to calm as he stared into a pair of eyes he knew better than his own. 

“That’s it, child. Breathe. Yes, just like that–breathe,” Death encouraged gently. 

Izuku nodded slightly, shutting his eyes (so he wouldn’t have to stare at the ghost of what he desired most) and focusing on the feeling of cold digits gently pressing into his cheeks. It took several minutes, but eventually, he wrangled his breathing back under his control and managed to stem his tears. Thankfully, Death withdrew its grasp on its own, allowing Izuku to throw his head back and stare up at the fading sunlight. 

Fuck he was such a mess. One fight where he may or may not have actually hurt someone, and he loses his shit. Pathetic. How he ever thought he could have been a hero, he wasn’t so sure. Not when he reacted like that. Not when the mere thought of injuring another person had brought him to the brink.  

Izuku huffed out a bitter, mirthless laugh, banging his head slightly on the no doubt rusty machine he was leaning against. And for once, Death had done something right–though it had broken its silence, it didn’t abuse the situation by attempting to act all chatty again. Izuku couldn’t help but be thankful. He needed to sort out his thoughts, or at least try to put them back into some form that made sense to him. 

He stared at the sky, letting exhaustion overtake him and settle deep into his bones. He gave himself a moment to just. Breathe. In and out. In and out. In...and out.

The repetition was soothing. Mundane. Normal.  

Absently, he became aware of an uncomfortable lump pushing into his back–oh. His backpack. Right. He shrugged it off his shoulders and pulled it forward, hugging it between his knees and his chest. He leaned forward, resting his cheek against the weathered material, focusing his gaze on the heaps of garbage the locals had deigned to chuck on the beach. 

Amidst his sluggish thoughts, he found one consistent thread and latched on tightly. He needed something to cling to, something to pull him back from the panic that had just threatened to overtake him. So he let his gaze blur and turned his attention inward, carefully addressing his thoughts as if he were nothing but a bystander. 

(And perhaps he was. The familiar monochrome lens had returned, and he felt almost comforted by its muted embrace.)

This...this wasn’t working. Focusing on what was immediately in front of him wasn’t working. He needed to snap out of it. Needed to pull back and assess the situation. 

Izuku didn’t think that he had many skills, but one thing he knew he was better at than most was addressing the bigger picture–taking a step back and looking. If he didn’t know how to view a situation from all different types of perspectives, then his analysis would have been terrible. (Well, it might have been. He’d never really had anything to compare it to, but it was his pride and joy.)  

So, he let out a soft breath and fell back into his old mindset–the familiarity was comforting, and objectivity did wonders for a guilt complex and self-loathing. (There was salvation to be found within the facts. Honesty without the burden of emotion; reality without the weight of guilt.)

So, he ran through the facts:

1. That old asshole had tried to kill him. (Though in his defense, Izuku had tried to provoke him to do so, but also, killing someone over a little blood to the eye was a little overboard, if you asked Izuku.)
2. The Abyss energy (ugh, he needed to think of a better name) had healed him, but once it was done, it had done something new.
3. Though the flame had only healed Izuku up til this point–it had never caught on anything else before, and it sure as hell never acted like real fire–it had spread via the point of contact from Izuku to Takahashi. 
4. The flame didn’t burn Takahashi, at least not in a traditional sense. It didn’t seem to physically hurt the man, and it didn’t spread, but the bigger it got, the more Takahashi seemed to lose energy, consciousness. 
5. Izuku’s memory of snuffing out the flames (though it felt more like reclaiming than snuffing) was spotty, but Takahashi didn’t have a single mark on him–his shirt wasn’t even singed. But, he did appear dead-eyed, almost asleep with his eyes open. 

Okay. So the Abyss energy Death had so kindly thrust into his body did more than just heal. Also, though the energy presented as flame, it carried none of the typical properties of flame. So what were its properties? It was cold, for one. It healed Izuku’s wounds both consciously and subconsciously. Its healing was imperfect–it left behind scars and did nothing to curtail echoes or injuries he’d survived before he’d been gifted it. However, it never left any physical signs of its appearance on anything but Izuku: it would burst to life joyously before fading out once its job was done, not a scorch mark or singe in sight. 

But it had latched onto Takahashi. It didn’t visibly harm him, but as the flames grew, Takahashi seemed to lose consciousness. If the flames were growing in size, that meant that it was feeding off of something, like there was some sort of fuel. But if it needed fuel, like normal flames, why didn’t it catch on the man’s clothes, or Izuku’s, for that matter? 

Actually. Wait. The only thing that the Abyssal flames seemed drawn to was people. Izuku’s stomach began to turn at the thought. Why would it only latch onto people? It latching onto Izuku made sense–it was a part of him, after all. (He’d worry about panicking about that particular thought later.)  

When Izuku had asked Death if it knew what would happen when it shoved the Abyss energy within him, it had said no. However, it had implied that the energy would protect him. Was it latching onto Takahashi something akin to protection? Did that mean that he could use the flame to fight as well as to heal? And with what consequences? 

Clearly, it was something. Death had broken its silence to tell him to stop-

Wait. Duh. Izuku looked around before spotting the faceless deity perched upon an old refrigerator to his right.

"Oi, Death. What was that?" Izuku asked, hoping that the annoyance wouldn’t be as hopelessly cryptic as it had been in their previous two conversations. 

Death stirred from its spot, kicking its legs out to dangle over the sand. Its head tilted, as if in thought, but its gaze remained fixed on the sea.

"Protection."

Izuku fought the urge to roll his eyes and turned to face Death fully, tilting his head up to look at the deity.

"Yeah, no, I got that. But-ugh. But the flame, it transferred from me to someone else. And it didn't-it didn't burn–not in the way flame is supposed to. So what did it do? Because it sure as hell didn't look good, especially if you broke your shitty vow of silence to tell me to stop."

Death turned its head to face him, and Izuku fought the urge to bristle under the weight of its stare. Its gaze was assessing, heavy, contemplative. And if that bothered Izuku, well, he'd keep it to himself, stored deep in his chest neatly beside the betrayal he felt the day he'd learned the truth about his mother's death. Death tilted its head, the tiny black wisps swirling lazily through the air as it mulled over its response.

"The Abyss may self-sustain, but that does not mean that it does not feed. The Abyss is the home of the soul, and the soul is not eternal. However, souls do not perish on their own. A soul is made of stardust, and to stardust the soul must return," it hummed.

"Well, that was a fucking terrible answer," Izuku scoffed, "You’re no help at all.”

Izuku huffed out an irritated breath and turned to face the ocean. It seems Death wasn’t going to be of any help whatsoever. Great. 

Not that it was really all that surprising or that earthshattering of a revelation. It seems it was up to him to figure it out. Ugh.  

Back when he was young, he used to daydream about the day he got a quirk. He imagined himself filled with wonder and awe and a determination to test its limits, to push himself further to see what he was capable of, but now that he actually had power of his own, the task seemed daunting. Impossible. 

Death had claimed that Izuku would no longer be alone anymore, that the deity would be there to support him. What a farce that turned out to be, but he wasn’t exactly surprised. It’s not like he was used to receiving help. Not since his mother...

But would it kill Death to stop being so damn vague? And weird. And enigmatic. Actually, it probably would. And that’s way too many adjectives for an annoying fucker.

If Death wasn’t going to be any help, then Izuku needed to figure this out on his own. It would be difficult, especially because he knew he couldn’t exactly follow the same logic he’d always had–this was not a quirk, so he couldn’t use quirk logic. But that didn’t mean it would be completely impossible to figure out, right? If anything, all he really needed to do was figure out if and how it would harm others. 

Which meant-fuck. That meant experimenting. It wouldn’t harm him, so self-experimentation was off the table, and he didn’t exactly think many people would be willing to volunteer for his trials. Fuck. Okay. This might actually be impossible. 

But still, he had to try. If he was going to be stuck alive, breathing, with a quirk of sorts, then he would need to learn how to use it, at the very least. He didn’t know what he did to Takahashi, but now that he’d had time to sit with the whole incident, he felt a bit silly. He had overreacted, hadn’t he? His overreaction was reasonable–he was dealing with the unknown. He didn’t know what exactly he was capable of, nor how much damage he could do. Frankly, it was his own fault for assuming that the ability was only capable of healing him. 

Most quirks were varied and multifaceted; it was just that most people never had the chance to explore the different applications of their quirks. That, or they never bothered to. And that was something that always irritated Izuku. 

Some people had the most fascinating quirks, but they never bothered to look past the most obvious use cases. He loved his mother dearly, but she was one such case. Her quirk, Attraction of Small Objects, was seen as functionally useless, as weak telekinesis and nothing more. But it could have been so much more than that. Sure, it wouldn’t work on anything that weighed more than twenty kilograms, but how small was small? Depending on how fine her control was, could she have been able to attract things on the atomic level? Subatomic? Could she have been able to separate protons from a nucleus? Could she have been able to separate atoms? Because, if so, she could have been at the forefront of research into atomic fission. She could have been amazing (not that she wasn’t) if she’d deigned to explore the limits of her quirk-

But that was off topic. 

Regardless, Izuku had resolved himself, all those years ago, to be better. To explore his quirk to its fullest in the off chance that he ever got one. And now, he had one. (Though it was against his will. And it wasn’t exactly a quirk. Details, details.) So, he might as well figure out what it did (it’s not like he has anything better to do). And, while he was at it, he might as well see if he could find a better way to protect himself. Though he hadn’t given up on the idea that someone’s quirk could kill him, he wasn’t exactly all that keen on having a repeat experience of the Takahashi incident. 

So, as the waning sun fell beneath the waves, Izuku began to loosely string together his thoughts into the beginning of a plan. But first, before he could do anything else, he would need a notebook. And maybe a nap.                                                                                    

...☆...

The dull thud of skin hitting skin hitting the pavement. The soft trickle of blood. A grunt, a shuffle. The snap of a ziptie and sigh. 

The soft, metallic clink of a lighter. The sharp flare and muted orange hue of embers flickering to life. The rough inhale of a cigarette under the pale moonlight. 

The man, his burnt orange eyes tired but no less piercing, stared disdainfully down at the asshole he’d just caught trying to sneak into a little girl’s room. His lips twisted into a sneer, and he kicked the man in the head again for good measure. Sure, the guy was already beat to hell, but one more kick to the brain wasn’t going to kill him. Or maybe it would. Who knows, he’d probably be doing the world a favor by taking this guy out, but he knew that he shouldn’t, couldn’t, do that kind of thing anymore.

The man sighed and took a long drag of his cigarette, the comforting smoke filling his lungs and soothing the shake of his hands. He kicked up a foot and leaned back on the wall, one hand in his pocket and his head to the sky as he waited for his shiny, young protege to show. 

All those years he spent teaching the kid how to protect himself, how to hide from the police, how to save without asking for anything in return, and what did the kid do to repay him? Gone off and become a hero, of course. A good one too. And though some part of him ached at the betrayal, at the knowledge that the kid would be forced under the thumb of those damn conniving leeches who puppeted society to their whims, he was proud. Proud that the kid had made it. Proud that the kid had taken his lessons and decided to use them for good. To make a positive impact in the way the man himself could not. 

But that didn’t stop the incisive jolt of anxiety from clawing its way up his spine at the thought of what could happen to the kid, should their relationship become known. The man himself didn’t exactly have many friends in high places. In fact, one could say that all he had were enemies in high places. But that was neither here nor there. 

He closed his eyes and took another deep drag of his cigarette, relishing in the head rush and wave of calm that overwrote the anxiety vying for his attention. Exhaling, he lifted a hand to run it through his silver hair as he glared down at the asshole who’d decided to ruin what would have been a perfectly calm night when a voice cut through the quiet. 

“Those’ll kill you, you know.” 

The man huffed out a laugh, turning his gaze from the villain and shoving his hands into his pockets before pushing off the wall to face the silent intruder. He watched, gaze critical and assessing and filled with something soft and warm, as another man stepped out of the shadows. The intruder was wreathed in black, his baggy jumpsuit hiding his figure, the only visible color marring his shadowed silhouette the yellow of his goggles and the stark white of the long, snake-like scarf wrapped around his neck. 

“I can only dream, Sho, I can only dream,” the man replied with a smirk. 

The intruder–the hero, Eraserhead –sighed and rolled his eyes, his hands in his pockets and his boots scuffing against the ground as he meandered forward. He flicked his gaze from the cigarette in the man’s mouth down to the fucker on the ground. 

“What’d he do to piss off the high and mighty Specter?” Sho drawled, sidling up next to the man passed out on the ground, but making no effort to check him out. 

Specter’s face turned sour, “Caught the fucker trying to kidnap a little girl.” 

He swallowed the urge to spit on the utter waste of breath as he glared at the pathetic man heaped on the ground–he couldn’t leave any evidence of his presence, no matter how badly this human trash deserved it. 

Sho’s gaze turned harsh, the corners of his lips twisting into a frown. He bent down and roughly hauled the fucker up, tossing him haphazardly against the wall, but the perp didn’t so much as twitch. 

Specter watched Sho go through basic first aid on the perp before pulling out his phone, no doubt alerting the officers in the area. He smiled a bit to himself, ruffling Sho’s hair and chuckling at the glower he received in return. 

Having a hero in his corner wasn’t exactly new per se–Eraserhead had been a hero for almost a decade at this point–but Specter couldn’t help but marvel at how easy it was to ensure the bastards that needed arresting actually made it to jail. 

Before, when it’d just been him and this scrawny teenager against the world, he’d have to call in tips from a burner and make a run for it before the cops could arrive. It had been a...harrowing process, and there had been one too many close calls, but no matter the danger, no matter the consequences, Specter had to do this. He had to. He was just sorry his habit rubbed off on the kid, and well, look where that got him. 

Sleep-deprived, caffeine-addicted lookin’ headass. 

He shook his head good-naturedly and took a drag of his cigarette as he watched Sho drag the bastard to the mouth of the alleyway. The kid had come so far, that’s for sure–not that it had been all sunshine and rainbows. 

Specter had been a vigilante for upwards of fifteen years–and he’d known Sho for thirteen of those grueling years. Even though it was a thankless job, he’d die before he ever gave up on these people, on his city. One of the only things Specter had done right in his sorry life was instilling, or in this case nurturing, the heroic mindset within Sho. (He probably would have cried real, actual tears if Sho had gone limelight, but that was for him to know and Sho to never, ever find out.)  

He wasn’t a vigilante for notoriety or some weird power-fantasy or due to a misplaced savior complex. No, he wasn’t doing this to be known; rather, he’d spent fifteen years pouring his blood, sweat, and tears into the underbelly of this city, hoping and praying that any help, any safety, that was afforded to the residents of the rundown sector he patrolled would be worth something.

He was doing this for purely selfish reasons–he would never deny that fact–and he was fine with that. It’s not like other people needed to know, and he made it abundantly clear he was no hero. 

Besides, if he smashed someone’s head in and, in doing so, saved someone from what was probably the worst experience of their lives, the person who was saved most likely wouldn’t give a flying fuck as to why Specter saved them. And no one had. Ever. And if they did, well, it meant that they were alive and breathing, the two necessary prerequisites for giving a shit. And that was good enough for him. 

He knew it wouldn’t be enough. There was nothing that he could ever do for his actions to be enough.   

Not after what he’d done. What he’d been forced to do. 

But when he was presented with the chance to escape, to finally have his freedom, he leapt at it. He’d been chained, controlled, puppeted, for so long that he could never remember anything else. He used to spend hours staring up at the ceiling in his room, pretending that it was the night sky, and when he escaped his masters, he spent days only looking up, marveling at the stars and the moon and the clouds and the birds and the sheer vastness of it all. 

But the wonder didn’t last long. 

For as long as he could remember, building a life in the real world was nothing but a fantasy. Yet, when he finally had his freedom, he was nearly brought to his knees by the oppressive burden of guilt spurned forth by the insidious voice in the back of his head that demanded obedience, retribution.  

He’d taken lives, decimated entire bloodlines in the name of power. It didn’t matter that it was never his choice, because he knew that when the day came that he was to be judged, all that would matter were his actions. Vague concepts like motive and intent never mattered in the grand scheme of things, and the means rarely justified the ends, especially when innocent lives were taken in the name of some nebulous and grandiose purpose. 

No, he didn’t deserve to relax and enjoy the beauty when he’d denied so many others the chance to view it themselves. And once he’d had that revelation, he’d run far, far away. Hidden himself, transformed himself, into someone unrecognizable. And then, he took up a name. It wouldn’t be the name of a hero, nor would it be one that garnered images of safety and security amongst the masses, but that was alright. He didn’t particularly care too much about being the next All Might, and he sure as hell didn’t want to be a symbol, but he needed a name for villains to whisper in fear, for the police to demonize, and for civilians to recognize. 

He’d chosen Specter. Not because it was fancy or meant something to him in particular, but because he thought that Ghost or Phantom were a little too on the nose. That, and the title made him feel all mysterious and shit. 

And he needed that. The mystery, the enigma. Because if people knew who he really was, if they knew why he fought so desperately, so harshly, they would condemn him. 

After all, who would look at a pathetic husk searching for absolution in the grimy alleyways of a rundown city with anything other than pity? 

Specter shook off the thought, dragging himself back to the present as he took one final drag of his cigarette before stubbing it out on his boot. He huffed out a breath, glancing over at Sho before bending his knees and leaping up, grasping the bottom rung of the fire escape. He deftly pulled himself up, feeling his joints pop and his bones creak as he shifted. He let out a sigh of relief as he felt his bones lightening, his silent steps increasing in speed as he grappled his way to the roof. 

Just as he hopped over the ledge and plopped down, ready to settle in and wait for the police to leave, he heard the quiet thwipping of Sho’s capture scarf latching onto something. He grinned–guess Eraser was too impatient to wait for the cops. Eh, the villain was out cold anyway, and whatever Sho wanted to chat about seemed important. 

He smirked bemusedly to himself, weighing the pros and cons of lighting up another cig before mother hen arrived, but decided against it. He didn’t particularly feel like pushing his luck tonight. So, instead, he laced his hands together behind his head and leaned back to stare at the stars. He ignored the flicker of movement and the soft crunch of gravel to his right, only turning his gaze from the sky when Sho dropped down next to him. 

Specter disdainfully watched Sho pull out one of those absolutely horrendous jelly packets before deciding to break the silence. 

“Those’ll kill you, you know,” he smirked, ignoring the elbow to his ribs in favor of watching Sho glower and then proceed to empty the packet in four seconds flat. 

“Don’t knock my jelly, banana candy enjoyer. You’re just jealous that I like them better than your cooking,” Sho huffed. 

Specter reared back in mock hurt, spluttering a bit, “And after all I didn’t do to raise you, this is how you treat me? For shame, Sho. This old man’s heart can’t take much more of this, you know.” 

“Then maybe you should stop smoking, moron,” Sho spat back, tucking his empty packet back into his pocket. 

“Oh, come on. Cut me some slack. If you get to drink more than five cups of coffee a day, then I get to have a little nicotine as a treat,” Specter grinned. 

Sho turned to face him fully, the scowl on his face unable to mask the concern in his eyes. 

“Whatever. I’m not doing this with you today. I have news, and it’s important, Orochi,” Sho said, his tone grim and his brow creased with worry. 

Specter’s face fell, his mouth twisting into a stern line, his eyes sharp and calculating. If Sho was dropping his first name, then whatever he’d come to discuss was significant. 

“What happened?” 

“No, no. Nothing’s happened. Yet,” Sho paused and took a breath before meeting Specter’s gaze, “Nedzu informed me of some concerning movement as of late. The Commission has recalled several of its active agents back to headquarters. Though there’s no word on whether or not it’s for some run-of-the-mill meeting or something more dire, you should be ready. It could be nothing–just a false alarm–but you should be prepared for anything. You’ve been a thorn in the side of the Commission for more than a decade, and considering the recent crackdowns on vigilantes up north, I wouldn’t be surprised if they turned their attention here sooner rather than later,” Sho warned. 

Specter tilted his head and rubbed harshly at the stubble on his jawline. This wasn’t good. The Commission had tried to send heroes after him on numerous occasions, but it’d been years since their last attempt. He’d hoped that they’d given up–decided to let him do his thing so long as he stayed out of the media and didn’t make them look bad. After all, they could attribute all his captures to the few Unders in the area, and only the residents of the Eastside were truly aware of his presence. But it seems that the iron bitch at the top still had a bone to pick with him.

Specter sighed, digging in his pockets for a cigarette and his lighter. After that little bombshell, lord knows he needed one. Though Sho eyed him judgmentally as he lifted the cig to his lips, he did nothing to stop Specter from lighting it. 

“Well...shit.”

Sho huffed, turning to lean back against the wall. 

“Yeah, that about sums up my thoughts as well.” 

The two lapsed into silence, their quiet breathing the only audible sound in the dead of night. The Commission was always scheming, always vying for more and more control. And there was nothing they hated more than a vigilante with too much influence and a bone to pick with regulations. Specter knew that they would come for him eventually, but it was still too soon to know for sure. 

 “It could be nothing,” Specter hummed, breaking the silence. 

“Yeah, it could be,” Sho echoed back. 

“But knowing Madame President, it’s probably something.” 

“Yeah,” Sho muttered, looking down, “Yeah, it probably is.” 

“Fuck.”