Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Is it warm in here? Or is it just me?

The buttons at the neck of Izuku's dress shirt feel as though they're trying to suffocate him. He undoes the very top one, tugging his shirt collar away from his skin irritably.

“Let's do something about that hair of yours, kid,” says a voice that sounds as tired as Izuku feels. “You're looking a little scruffy to be on television.”

Izuku blinks out of his reverie to look over his shoulder at Aizawa, who is eyeing Izuku's head of curls pointedly. His teacher is armed and ready with a comb and a bottle of hair gel.

Izuku shoots the items a skeptical look. “I, ah... I've tried, sir. I don't think my hair can really be helped beyond this point,” he shrugs, rubbing at his so-called scruffy head sheepishly.

“I know a thing or to about dealing with stubborn hair,” Aizawa waves him off. “Yours shouldn't be too much of a problem.” The Pro Hero's normally shaggy mane has been effectively slicked back. To Izuku's surprise, his teacher has even bothered to shave for today's event.

“Th-that's okay, Sensei, really. I already fixed it!”

“Yeah. I watched you 'fix' it. It looks exactly the same as before. You need to at least brush that thing, Problem Child.” Aizawa huffs out a sigh. “Look— we're on a time limit here. And I don't mind, kid. Really. Trust me when I say it's good practice to look presentable for things like this.”

Izuku merely shrugs again. Secretly he doubts that anyone will even care, seeing as this is exactly the way he's appeared during all other televised events, anyway. But he doesn't have it in him to argue the point further.

He'd likely be more mortified over having his homeroom teacher step in to fix his unruly hair if he didn't feel so generally... crummy. He wants to blame it all on his nerves, but if he thinks about it, he hasn't felt particularly great ever since their complimentary breakfast this morning. Being forced into nice-yet-stifling dress clothes while his body overheats isn't exactly helping matters. He's crossing his fingers that it's all just nervous jitters versus him suddenly coming down with something, or being a victim of very unfortunately timed food poisoning.

That would be just Izuku's luck, though.

Also— he's pretty sure that Aizawa's severely underestimated what he's up against. The hero grits his teeth and pulls with all his might at a knot on Izuku's head, spitting out a curse here and there and inciting more than a few yelps out of the child. Inko herself tried for years to tame Izuku's curls for picture days before finally giving up and allowing them to just be free. She'd usually given up after Izuku's fourth or fifth "OUCH", though, and to Aizawa's credit, he doesn't seem to be letting those deter him.

Not that Izuku doesn't appreciate his teacher's offer to help. Actually, humiliation and pain aside, the gesture itself is sort of... nice? But it's also foreign. The only person who's ever offered to help Izuku with these kinds of things, other than his mother, is All Might. And even then, it had taken Izuku quite some time to get over being starstruck enough to let that be a normalized thing that didn't warrant a complete embarrassed meltdown.

All Might. The thought of his mentor normally lifts Izuku's spirits but, right now, it stings sharply. That's another touchy subject contributing to Izuku's uncharacteristically sour mood today.

He and All Might had actually had a fight. A fight. Izuku can't discern whether it's shame or his general feeling of unwellness that churns his gut uncomfortably with the thought. He had argued with All Might. Heatedly, too, and though Izuku doesn't necessarily hold his mentor to the nearly god-like standards that he used to (he's come to know the man underneath the symbol, after all; flawed, as all humans are), it doesn't make their parting words to one another any easier to stomach.

To make matters worse, Izuku hasn't had the chance to speak with him at all since. Izuku had had an early start the next day (after barely sleeping a wink the night before and, huh, maybe that's part of why he feels like such crap today) and he hasn't been left alone long enough to piece together anything good or coherent enough to send his mentor over text. Even then— would All Might want to hear from him right now? For all he knows, his teacher could still upset with him. Izuku himself had taken awhile to cool down. But this stretch of silence, he decides, has to be more painful than Izuku letting go of his pride and reaching out first.

No, All Might is no god. But he's still Izuku's idol, his beloved teacher, and the more he's thinking about it, the more Izuku hates that he'd disrespected him— even if he'd felt justified to at the time. He can't bring himself to relive all of that right now, though. He tries his best to push the entire ordeal from mind.

He has to deal with one anxiety-provoking situation at a time. He'll agonize more over his standing with All Might (and craft the world's best written apology!) as soon as today is over.

He's pulled from his worried thoughts when he notices Aizawa frowning at him through the mirror in front of them. Holding Izuku's head to tackle the last of his tangles, he's stopped to press the back of one hand to his student's forehead.

“You're warm,” the hero says shortly. The hand is gone as quickly as it came.

“Oh?” Izuku puts his own hand to his head. “Ah, yeah... I'm feeling a little rundown today. It's nothing major, though!”

Aizawa scoffs. “'It's nothing major' doesn't mean anything coming from you, Midoriya. Pretty sure you'd say the same thing on your own deathbed.” He's quiet for a moment. “When did this start?”

“Um... just this morning. I think around breakfast.”

Aizawa purses his lips. “Do you need to stay back?"

"Huh? Oh, no, no! I'm fine,” Izuku assures hurriedly. “Honestly, sir, I think I'm just working myself up. I didn't realize I'd get so nervous beforehand.” Suddenly he feels embarrassed over the sullen state he's found himself wallowing in all day. He's agreed to represent his school here, after all, and he's determined to do it well.

'Here' being a conference about an hour train ride from Musutafu, where UA speaks with some of the surrounding community once a year about things their school is implementing to stand out from the rest. Traditionally three students, accompanied by their homeroom teacher, attend this small event as not only a chance to represent their school, but also as a sort of low-pressure 'practice' for the kids in dealing with the press and unscripted questions from a podium. This year, much to Aizawa Shouta's chagrin, is Class 1-A's turn.

The three students in question were nearly selected by default. Iida Tenya, of course, being 1-A's elected representative. Yaoyorozu Momo as the class' runner up. And thirdly is Izuku himself— not only because he'd technically reigned in the most votes for class representative in the first place, but also due to the fact that he's gained significant media attention during his eventful time at school thus far.

Izuku's first instinct was to try turning it down, insisting that someone else (ergo: someone better at public speaking) go in his place, but Aizawa had pointed out that it would be good practice for him for that very reason. Izuku found himself caving pretty easily on that front. Speaking to public masses is something he wants to be comfortable with, after all, and he won't get there without experience.

This year's conference has an added layer of pressure to it, though. UA's recently garnered attention hasn't exactly been all positive. Many parents of potential future students have written in over their concerns of letting their children to apply to UA. Principal Nezu had made a point in pulling all three students aside before their departure, employing their aid in easing the minds of the public today.

Aizawa had seemed particularly displeased with the request. Izuku has been meaning to ask him why. But as his teacher is currently in the middle of muttering curse words over Izuku's head, now doesn't seem like the greatest time.

Aizawa finally takes a step back. Izuku blinks at his reflection in surprise. The man has actually managed to semi-tame Izuku's hair. The final result is a neater (though still slightly tousled) head of curls.

“Wow. You actually did it!”

“Don't mention it,” Aizawa says, brushing his hands together, admiring his handiwork with a satisfied smirk. Then his expression sobers and he points at Izuku. “I mean that. Tell no one of this. Word gets out, people start asking me to play hairdresser... I want none of that. Hear me, kid?”

“Ah, y-yeah! My lips are sealed! Seriously!”

“Good,” Aizawa nods. Then he turns on his heel to poke his head into the adjacent room. “Iida? Yaoyorozu? All ready to go?”

Iida strolls in from the joined bedroom, adjusting the collar of his pressed shirt with a “Yes, sir!” He grins over at Izuku with approval. “Looking sharp, Midoriya!”

Izuku certainly doesn't feel sharp, with his dress shirt ready to strangle him as his throat begins to swell. But he musters up a weak smile in return. He can definitely fake it through the next few hours. “Thanks. You too, Iida!”

Yaoyorozu follows behind only moments later, pushing her hair behind an ear and straightening out her long dress. “Ready,” she says, smiling shyly at her two classmates. “Everyone looks great. It's not often we have to get this formal, huh?”

Izuku's smile is more genuine this time. He's found himself relaxing a bit in the presence of his friends. He's suddenly extra grateful for Iida's trademark spring-coiled energy, and for Yaoyorozu's calm poise. Izuku himself may be currently working with the energy reserves of a slug, but even if he can't be counted on to keep it together, he knows he can trust his classmates to steer today's event along smoothly.

Aizawa pauses before opening the door that leads out of the hotel rooms they've been allowed to get ready in. He turns back to face all three of his students, mouth twitching into a frown. “I know you were told that you're expected to quell some of the public's concerns today,” he says, “on top of the usual spiel we have to give during this thing. And I just want you to know that I don't necessarily agree with the school's decision to put you in that position.”

“We're happy to help however we can, Mr. Aizawa,” Yaoyorozu assures him. Izuku and Iida both nod their agreement. “We'll all strive to honor UA's ideals and values with our performances today. We won't let you down!” Iida declares with a salute.

“I know that,” Aizawa sighs, “because you're good kids. Responsible kids. But you are not responsible for the shortcomings of UA. Not every weight needs to be put on your shoulders.” He looks to each student. “I'm not saying this because I don't believe in your abilities. I'm saying this because I think it's... lazy, I'll say, on the school's part. It's not your job to convince people that we're competent.

“That being said,” he continues on, “as much as I pride myself on my ability to avoid most social gatherings, opportunities like this are good. There is value in getting to interact with the community like this. Just... don't feel like you need to answer everything. If anyone asks you anything that makes you feel uncomfortable, don't be afraid to hop to the next question. Traditionally, I'm supposed to stay back and let you handle things, but I'll step in to moderate if the need arises. Got it?”

All three students nod their understanding. Yaoyorozu meets Izuku's gaze, looking a little nervous for the first time. Izuku gives his best attempt at an encouraging smile.

“Alright,” Aizawa declares, opening the door at last. “Let's go, then.”

The first floor of the Imperial Hotel has been mainly barred off from all other guests in order to make room for the conference. The audience members are currently up and out of their seats until the event begins, separated into small groups around the hotel's large ballroom, standing with refreshments in hand as they mingle. Servers visit each group with silver trays full of appetizers.

Izuku eyeballs Iida and Yaoyorozu for their reactions. He wonders why exactly this thing has been set up to feel so... extravagant. UA is fairly prestigious as far as schools go, he supposes, so perhaps it has to do with the type of crowd their reputation attracts.

“Mingle if you want,” Aizawa says flatly. “Or don't. I'll leave it up to you.” He himself looks like he's strongly battling an instinctual urge to whip out his sleeping bag and go curl up in a corner somewhere. His sense of duty seems to win out over this urge, though, because he makes his way over to go speak with some of the panel members, eye twitching all the while.

“Shall we split up, then? Divide and conquer?” Iida asks. He's already heading over to the nearest group of people before either classmate can reply, bowing and introducing himself enthusiastically.

Izuku watches on, ever impressed by Iida's vigor. He clears his throat against the itch lingering in the back of it. Yaoyorozu looks over at him. “Want to start in on the first group together, Midoriya?” she asks, likely mistaking Izuku's physical discomfort as him just being shy. Izuku nods, grateful regardless, and he makes his way over to a group alongside her.

For awhile, it doesn't go too badly. Izuku's never been great at small talk but, thankfully, Yaoyorozu is pretty skilled at it. She does come from a wealthy family; he suspects she's had plenty of practice in dealing with social events like these. She's able to steer most of the conversation with ease, keeping topics both professional and light.

Izuku, on the other hand, feels practically useless. On top of everything else, his head has begun to pound incessantly, making it harder and harder to concentrate on what's being said. He's starting to feel a little groggy, too, which makes coming up with meaningful replies increasingly difficult. So he mainly sticks to plastering on a smile and thanking people here and there. He pipes in a bit when things like his controversial-yet-praised performance in the Sports Festival are brought up, but mostly, he feels like deadweight.

Then someone in the group asks: “Hey, you kids were all there at the Kamino fight, weren't you? When All Might faced down that crazy powerful villain. I remember seeing you guys on screen. Your school didn't allow you to be on the battlefield like that, did they? I should hope not. Were there repercussions for your actions afterwards? How can UA expect to keep any of their students safe if they can't even convince you to follow their rules?”

Alright, then— it looks like they're starting in with these kinds of questions before the conference has even had the chance to begin. Nonetheless Izuku is primed and ready to answer, to fully defend he and his friends' actions that day, but the damn itch in his throat demands his attention now and suddenly he's broken out into an uncontrollable coughing fit.

The crowd around him steps back a bit. One man comes up to gingerly pat Izuku's back in case he's trying to cough something up. Yaoyorozu appears in his line of vision, leaning down to level herself with him, as he's currently hunched over. “Midoriya! Are you alright?”

“Fine,” he rasps out between hacking coughs, and the attempt at reassurance is so pitiful it causes Yaoyorozu to give him a look. She takes him by the arm to lead him away from the crowd, over to the refreshments table in the back. Izuku grabs a glass of water and drinks it greedily.

Yaoyorozu surprises him when she lifts a hand to his forehead. “You're warm!” she exclaims. She pulls her hand back to take him again by the elbow, steering him to sit down in a nearby chair. “If you aren't feeling well, Midoriya, you should sit out and rest.”

“I- uh, that is—”

“Rest,” she repeats sternly, mother-hen mode apparently engaged. Izuku slumps in his seat in defeat. Yaoyorozu's expression changes to a sympathetic smile. “I know you just want to help, Midoriya. You always do. But Iida and I should be able to handle this.”

Sure, Izuku's quickly gone from feeling uncomfortable to feeling downright miserable, but that doesn't help ease his guilt over not participating. “I'll rest here until the conference starts,” he bargains, “and then I'll regroup with you guys.” He ignores Yaoyorozu's protests. “Really, Yaoyorozu, I'm fine! I didn't mean to worry you. I'm just feeling a little rundown— I didn't get much sleep last night. I'll get some rest after the conference. Alright?”

“Are you always this stubborn? ... Fine, then,” Yaoyorozu hesitantly cedes, turning to head over to another small group. “Drink lots of water!” she instructs over her shoulder, pointing at his glass. “And let us or Mr. Aizawa know if you need anything. Okay?”

Shouta is barely able to conceal his scowl.

First of all, he refuses to waste time even pretending to engage in something as mind-numbing as small talk, which makes most of these forced encounters painfully awkward for everyone involved. Even still, he's been making an effort to interact with people for the better part of half-an-hour, now, and he decides that that's more than enough to fulfill his duty for the day.

He opts for a moment of respite before the conference begins. Before his students have to go up on stage and defend themselves and their school from these nosy busybodies. If Shouta allows himself a small mental break beforehand, it may just help to stave off the inevitable migraine the whole thing is bound to give him.

Speaking of migraines...

He should go and check in with Midoriya. The last time he'd caught a glimpse of the Problem Child from across the large room, Midoriya had been slumped down in a chair in the back, looking completely checked out. Shouta lets out his umpth sigh of the day.

He'd known the kid had been underplaying how bad he'd felt. It's the same way he underplays everything else that happens to him.

Before he's able to begin making his way over to his worriesome student, however, he's approached hurriedly by one of the waiters— the same one who'd served them their breakfast in the hotel lobby this morning. The man's previously friendly face is now alight with panic. “Eraserhead, sir, so sorry to bother you. There's someone right outside the building who's yelling for help. We've had a few petty thefts in the area recently. I could call the police, if you'd prefer, but since you're a Pro Hero I thought I'd ask—”

“Where?” Shouta interrupts him. When the server points to an emergency exit nearby, Shouta glances back to locate all three of his students, each scattered across the ballroom. Quickly he determines that the exit is close enough by to where he can shout back to them if anything should go awry. There's currently no need to incite panic amongst this already jumpy group of civilians, after all— especially not if this is something Shouta is able to handle quickly.

He's following close at the man's heels towards said exit. The door is opened and the server points frantically. Shouta reaches for his capture weapon, which has been tucked away neatly under his dress shirt. His eyes scan the surrounding area swiftly.

There is no one to be seen. He frowns, taking another step forward.

“What exactly did you—”

There is a 'bang' as the door slams shut behind him.

His head snaps around to find that the man has disappeared behind it, effectively shutting himself in and Shouta out of the building. Immediately Shouta makes his way to reopen the door— but an unseen force thrusts him back and away.

“The hell?” he barks, furious, steadying himself and crouching to ground his stance. Carefully he presses a palm out to feel at the space in front of him. Mind whirling with the possibilities of what could be occurring, here, he wonders if an invisible security measure of the building has just been activated. Something is blocking his re-entrance into the hotel, but it feels nearly... sentient? He's pressing against something that feels almost gooey, and it stretches taut until it threatens to bounce his hand back. It's as though he's pushing against an unseen trampoline.

Something— someone— has made it so he can't re-enter the building.

It's not a security feature. It's someone's quirk.

The server, then. The man, previously so unassuming, had wanted Shouta out of the hotel. Away from his students. And Shouta had sure as hell made it easy for him, hadn't he? He'd just up and waltzed right out the goddamn door.

Fuck. Dammit to hell. This is why Shouta doesn't trust anybody. And now his momentary lapse in judgement has effectively cut him off from his students. “Shit. Shit,” he hisses, hand reaching straight into his pocket for his cell phone.

"I'd like to ask for everyone to please go ahead and silence their phones,” one of the servers says to the crowd, shortly after everyone has been beckoned back into their seats, “and if you have cameras, you may now get them ready. The conference is about to begin.”

Izuku's regrouped himself with Iida and Yaoyorozu to stand and wait at one end of the stage. He and Iida have long since flicked their phones to silent and stashed them away. Yaoyorozu moves to silence her phone, as well. Izuku's eye catches her screen lighting up right before she drops it away into her purse.

The chattering of the audience members begins to die down. Rustling noises fill the ballroom as papers and notes are readied. The clicks of cameras echo throughout the hall.

And it's hot under these stage lights, Izuku bemoans inwardly. Once again he tugs at his collar uncomfortably. Iida bumps a shoulder lightly against Izuku's. He's looking over at his friend, forehead etched in concern. Izuku doesn't even bother faking a smile this time. He's too busy focusing on standing upright without swaying.

A man, nearly unnoticed amidst all the murmurs and the clatter, walks up onto the stage. He flashes the crowd a handsome smile. Grabbing a mic, he gestures over to the three students waiting off to the side. “Before I go ahead and introduce myself,” the speaker begins, “let us all give a warm welcome to three of UA's finest, here.”

The audience in turn claps politely. Izuku's head pounds like a sledgehammer with the noise.

“Remarkable, are they not?” the man crows. “Their school has been through so much in just a year. But these children have so far endured. And these, my friends, are the faces of our future!”

More polite clapping. Iida and Yaoyorozu are both smiling pleasantly, but each looks a little confused. None of them had realized there was going to be a special speaker going before them— or that there was going to be a speech of any kind, for that matter. And the overly-saturated praise is actually making Izuku a little uncomfortable. Not that he's felt anything closely resembling comfortable recently. He wipes away the bead of sweat threatening to drip down his forehead.

“Where's Mr. Aizawa?” Yaoyorozu whispers over to her classmates. Iida hushes her softly, and she levels him easily with a look. Izuku blinks, scanning the front row of the crowd. Indeed, Aizawa's designated spot near the stage is empty. As much as he'd looked like he'd wanted to, Izuku hadn't noticed their teacher slinking off to hide away somewhere. The event has started a little early and abruptly, so it's possible that Aizawa just hadn't been given the heads up. Regardless, his teacher's unexplained absence only adds to Izuku's growing unease.

“Which, in itself, is very telling of UA, isn't it?” the man continues on. He's a natural presence on stage, capturing everyone's attention with an easy air and a smooth voice. The clatter has died down to a minimum. People have their phones at the ready. Cameras are blinking 'on' and pointed up at the stage.

“After all,” the man says, turning to lock eyes with Izuku. Izuku stiffens with the unexpected attention. He meets the man's gaze warily. “A school is only as good as it's brightest students. I'm right, aren't I, Midoriya?” His charismatic smile morphs into something more giddy. “Speaking of you— how are you holding up, there, kiddo?”

Before Izuku has time to wonder where on earth the man is going with this, and be very bewildered at the way he's just been singled out, his vision swims and the world tilts before him. He doubles over as if the wind has been kicked out of him, gasping for air he's suddenly having trouble getting, because his chest is squeezing tight and his coughing fit has returned with a vengeance.

He hears the worried murmurs of the panel, feels both Iida and Yaoyorozu reaching for him, crouching down with him in their concern. In a flash, the room is filled with purple smoke, and Izuku is forcefully yanked forward and out of his friends' hands.

The air clears only moments later, and Izuku finds himself in the center of the stage. Facing the crowd dazedly, half-kneeling on the ground, half-held in place by the announcer.

The nozzle of a gun being pressed to his head ignites cries of panic and outrage all around him. "Shut up," the man demands, voice rough where earlier it had been smooth, and he digs the nozzle into Izuku's head until Izuku can't help but wince. "I said shut up. Any of you try to get close, I'll shoot this kid. Hear me?"

In all the madness, someone has slapped something roughly onto Izuku's wrist. He knows exactly what it is when he moves to summon One for All but is met with nothing but a low, resonating hum. A quirk suppressant.

There's at least one other person working with the man. Izuku attempts to look around and see who else is on stage with him, but the speaker is holding his head too firmly in place. He's currently declaring something over the increasingly rowdy crowd. Izuku's having a hard time deciphering most of it over his own brutal coughing fit.

"Let me start with this," he can make out the man saying. His rapid switch in tone is bizarre; now, it's light and airy, as if he's about to lead an infomercial. "Everyone in this room has been poisoned."

The shocked cries around the room spike significantly in volume. "I've just released the gaseous form of the same stuff I poisoned this kid with earlier today." The man gives Izuku a small shake for reiteration. "This will be all of you soon enough. Low-grade fever, early stages of respiratory failure. Soon worsening and leading to death, of course. But listen, listen!" he insists when some audience members begin to wail. "I never said all hope was lost, now, did I? You have time. He still has time. And I have an antidote. All you need to do to receive it is comply with some demands."

He gives a gleeful wave to one of the cameras. "Oh, yes, I'm talking to you, too. Because you're watching this as well— aren't you, UA?"

Chapter Text

Uraraka Ochako makes her way across the school grounds, lost in thought and lunchbox in hand. Though only four people are missing from it, UA's campus feels a bit empty today. It’s quiet in particular without Iida's exuberant personality. Midoriya himself isn’t a loud presence, but he’s a bright one nonetheless, and his absence is definitely felt. Midnight has taken over teaching Aizawa’s usual classes; the school day even feels out of place without her sleep-deprived teacher skulking about.

It’s only for one day, she knows. But Ochako hadn’t accounted for how lost she’d feel with the group gone. It’s not as though she hasn’t made good friends amongst her other classmates, but before now, she hadn’t fully realized how often she must subconsciously gravitate towards either Midoriya or Iida throughout the school day.

Well, it’s been awhile since I got to have lunch with Tsuyu, she thinks. This is a good opportunity to catch up with her! She's heading towards the cafeteria to seek out her friend before passing by something that halts her steps.

All Might is seated at a table outside in the quad, muttering something under his breath. His brow is pinched as he fingers through a hefty pile of notes. A small plate of half-eaten food has been pushed off to the side, seemingly forgotten. Ochako blinks at the scene.

It’s not as though All Might himself is an unusual sight. Likewise, it’s not abnormal for UA's teachers to spend their lunch hour in solitude. No— she’s taken pause because she remembers that today is Friday.

Midoriya usually spends lunchtime with his classmates. On Fridays like these, however, he’s fallen into a routine of meeting with All Might to eat instead. Right now the spot across the table from All Might is, of course, empty.

Ochako nearly starts walking again. All Might looks to be deep in thought, and she doesn’t want to intrude. It’s just that his expression seems especially… bothered? The look is out of place for the man. Her teacher could just be aggravated by whatever project he’s currently focused on, but...

Suddenly Ochako finds she's changed her course from the cafeteria, making her way over to All Might, instead. She’ll just have to catch up with Tsuyu after class today.

(She has something she’d like to ask the retired hero, anyway.)

“Hi there, Mr. All Might, sir!”

All Might nearly jumps with an exclaimed "hrk!", jaw snapping shut to end his mutterings, hand coming up to rub at the back of his head. Ochako has to stifle her giggle because wow does the man resemble Midoriya right then. Despite his concentration having been broken, the hero’s blue eyes soften at the sight of his student. The smile he cracks her is genuine. "Good afternoon, Young Uraraka. How are you today?”

“I’m good!” Ochako hesitates, eyeing the empty chair across from All Might. “I, uh… that is… would you mind if I ate lunch with you?”

Happy as he seems to be to see her, Ochako can see that her teacher is more than a little surprised by her request. “I, ah— of course not, my girl! Have a seat,” he sputters out. He pulls his notes closer to himself, giving her room to set down her lunch. Now that she's seeing him up close, there are bags under his eyes.

"Oh, I'm... sorry," she apologizes. "If you need to get some work done, I don't have to stay."

"Nonsense! It was just some research I was doing on my own time. It can certainly wait." Ochako smiles shyly before taking a seat. 

It's quiet between them, at first. Not necessarily uncomfortably. Ochako bites into her peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

She’s found herself to really like this version of All Might. Sure, his heroic, more muscular form had been widely accepted as universally comforting. The very image of the Symbol of Peace had practically radiated power and authority.

This form feels safe, though, too. Calmer, softer-spoken. Voice gravelly and hushed rather than thundering. His smaller frame may scream ‘fragility’ rather than ‘might’, but Ochako’s noticed that his giant hands have almost retained their same form as before; calloused, scarred and blocky. The steady confidence of someone who has undergone decades of hero work is still present, it's just carried more discreetly, now. All Might’s larger form is charismatic and jovial, but in this form, Ochako actually finds him easier to talk to. Easier to be in silence around.

The man in question is watching her curiously. Pleased as he seems to be in her company, he definitely looks a little puzzled. Ochako can guess why— her request must seem pretty out of the blue. It’s not as though they’ve ever spent much time together outside of class.

“Usually, I eat lunch with Iida and Deku,” she ends up blurting out as an explanation. “Well, not today, because today’s Friday. So Deku usually eats with you. And since they’re both out for that conference today… well, I didn’t want you to have to eat all alone!”

All Might looks unexpectedly wounded at the mention of Midoriya. Is he really taking her classmate’s absence that hard? The two do seem to be really close, Ochako supposes— but it’s only for one day! Yeah, you’re one to talk, she reprimands herself inwardly. You’re acting like you’re lost without him, too. But as quickly as her teacher’s pain shows, it’s gone again; his expression smoothes back over in a blink. “You’re a kind girl, Uraraka. Thank you for thinking of me.”

“You also looked like you were worried about something, sir,” she risks saying, unsure if she’ll be crossing a line by prodding into matters.

“Oh? I was about to say the same thing about you, my girl. Was there something you wanted to ask me?” Okay, so, he’s totally avoiding her question. Not unkindly— but still. Ochako won’t push it.

“I was thinking about Deku,” she admits. She feels herself blush as soon as she says it, suddenly self-conscious. She doesn’t want All Might to get the impression that she has a crush on Midoriya or something (no way no sir not her!). All Might looks taken aback yet again.

“I- I see. What... what about Young Midoriya?”

“I just think he was really nervous for today. He gets so anxious about public speaking, you know? And he seemed so down last night,” she sighs. All Might looks… guilty at that? Which only adds to Ochako’s growing confusion. “Did you notice it, too, sir?” she asks expectantly. “I know he’d gone to see you earlier.”

“I... yes,” is all he says, “I’d noticed.” His tone is uncharacteristically subdued.

Weird. But she’s already determined that she’s not supposed to pry further into the retired hero’s strange mood.

“Yeah, well… I texted him this morning to wish him good luck, and whenever he replied, he just didn’t sound like himself. He sounded so sad. So, I’ve decided to surprise him with a gift when he comes back!” Ochako declares, pumping a fist into the air. “To show how proud I am of him for facing his fears like this. And I wanted to ask you, because I wasn’t actually sure myself: do you know what his favorite color is?”

“Ah!” All Might clears his throat. “I believe he likes yellow.”

“Got it. Thank you, All Might!” Ochako bows the best she can while still sitting at the table.

All Might smiles. This one doesn’t quite reach his eyes. Then, seemingly nonchalant, he asks: “You said that you messaged him this morning? And he seemed upset?” He coughs into his fist. “Did he, erm... mention any specifics?”

“Well, no, that’s the thing. He hardly said anything at all. I’m sure they’ve all had a busy morning, though.”

“Ah,” All Might says again, so softly she barely hears it. Then he’s quick to change the subject. “If I may ask, what sort of gift are you planning on getting for Young Midoriya?”

“Oh! Well, you know,” she feels herself blushing yet again, finding it a little strange to be talking about the man’s own merchandise with him, “I thought I would pitch in with a couple others to get him the newest All Might hoodie. It comes in all different colors. He has lots of your stuff, but he’s always happy to add to his collection. I saw him eyeing it the last time we all went to the mall.”

All Might chokes on his drink. Ochako's eyes widen in alarm. “Uh, it’s just… after all this time, can’t believe he’s still such a fanboy…!” her teacher explains weakly, coughing into his fist once more. Ochako can’t help but raise both brows high.

Okay, what in the world is up with All Might today? I’ve never seen him act like this! Maybe I should try asking again— no, don’t pry, Ochako. You’re not supposed to pry!

“Do you… think it’s not a good idea?” she asks uncertainly instead.

That seems to snap All Might out of his peculiar behavior. His skeletal face softens significantly with his smile— a real one this time. He reaches over the table to pat Ochako’s head fondly. “Please forgive me. I’m afraid your observations earlier were correct. I’m not feeling quite myself today. You’re a wonderfully thoughtful girl, Uraraka. I’m so happy Midoriya has friends like you. And yes— I think the hoodie is a great idea.”

And with that, the bell rings out, signaling the end of lunch. Ochako smiles brightly up at All Might. Bizarre interactions and secretive mood aside, it's been nice spending time with the man. “Thank you for having lunch with me today, sir.”

“No, my girl. Thank you for choosing to spend your free hour with an old man like me!"

“Oh, but- but you’re not even old, sir!”

All Might’s laughter is one more thing that hasn’t changed too drastically with his form. Still warm and loud, rumbling like thunder from deep within his chest. “You sound just like Young Midoriya.” 

“Is everything alright with you, All Might?” Nezu inquires lightly, right in the middle of Toshinori’s jaw-cracking yawn. “You don’t look very rested.”

Toshinori rubs at his sunken eyes with bony knuckles. “Oh, yes, I’m just fine. It’s true that I didn’t get the best of sleep last night. Old injuries were acting up, I’m afraid— what with the weather changing and all.” Well, that’s not a total lie, but he’s not about to get into the real ‘why’ with the principal right now.

As if he hadn't been agonizing over the entire ordeal before, Uraraka’s confirmation of Izuku's distress has stricken Toshinori with guilt tenfold. But of course the boy is still upset. And why wouldn’t he be? His successor has always felt things very deeply. He’s an emotional boy— and a teenage one to boot. Toshinori supposes he should count himself lucky that, in general, he hasn’t had to deal with a hormonal outburst before now.

Oh, please. You're not seriously trying to imply this was all due to some typical mood swing, his mind berates harshly. Teenager or no— when has Izuku ever been the type to lash out like that? Never. He had reason. You know where you’re to blame.

He hides a groan, rubbing irritably at his temples. He’d replayed their argument in his head far too many times overnight. He’s not about to do it again.

But to think that the kid will be greeted back home with All Might merchandise? Yeesh. Toshinori is pretty certain that something with his face on it isn’t what Izuku will want to be congratulated with right now. He won’t be surprised if their latest spat has knocked him right off of that pedestal his successor oh-so-stubbornly insists on placing him on.

(It’s not like it was ever realistic to expect he’d stay there forever. Still... the thought stings a bit more than Toshinori would like to admit.)

He couldn’t have outright told Uraraka ‘no’ though. The kindhearted girl means too well. No, instead, he’d chosen to blather incoherent explanations at her. Idiot. These last twenty-four hours have revealed to him that he apparently knows nothing about speaking to teenage children.

“Hey, the little listeners are lookin’ sharp!” Yamada comments. Toshinori turns idle attention to the TV. The conference has yet to begin, but cameras have tuned in to a mostly empty stage. Toshinori perks up a bit when he notices his students standing off to the stage’s right. Pride begins to well up in his chest— they do look good.

And Izuku’s hair— had he actually been convinced to comb it? Toshinori gapes in disbelief. It could only have been Aizawa who'd managed to talk him into it. How, though? Persuasion? Intimidation? (Likely). Toshinori will have to ask for the details later.

If Toshinori had been holding onto any remnants of frustration towards his stubborn teenage so- ah, ahem, successor— they’ve melted away quickly and easily with the mere sight of the boy onscreen. Look at him in his dress clothes! He can’t help but gush inwardly. Then, with a small pang: He looks so grown up.

His eye catches the way Iida reaches over to help steady Izuku while they wait. Toshinori lets out a heavy sigh. He does hope that the boy isn’t experiencing stage fright. Suddenly he could just kick himself for not sending his student any messages of encouragement this morning.

Damn you and your bullheaded pride, Toshinori. This was a big day for him.

His mouth begins to pull a frown when Iida has to reach over a second time, though. He takes a closer look at Izuku. Oh, dear... Izuku really doesn’t look as good as he’d thought. The kid has gone pale as a sheet and is beginning to sweat bullets under the stage lights, tugging at his collar consistently. Is he about to be sick? In front of all these people? Toshinori hastily sends out a prayer to whoever will listen for his ball-of-anxiety successor. Because that experience would be something the boy would forever associate with public speaking, and they’re trying to conquer a fear, here. Not add to it.

He’s too wrapped up in these kinds of fretful thoughts to notice Nezu answering his phone. “Eraserhead. How are things?”

The silence that follows is what causes Toshinori to finally tear his eyes away from the screen. Nezu’s expression remains neutral as ever as he flicks his phone to speaker mode, placing it onto his desk for the two other heroes to hear. Toshinori sees Yamada lift an eyebrow in question. They both turn their attention to the phone.

“Repeat that, please,” Nezu insists.

“I said— I’m going to need you to send over backup. Now. I’ve already alerted the local authorities, but I’m not sure if we’ll end up needing more manpower here.”

A pause. Toshinori shifts his weight towards the phone, eyes flicking back to the television quizzically. Currently, they’re looking right at their students on the screen, and each of them looks fairly calm (save for Izuku). Aizawa’s urgency isn’t quite registering. “Aizawa, what...?”

“I’ve been shut out of the building. Intentionally. I don’t know if they’ve even realized I’m gone yet, but— I can’t get back to the kids.”

Stunned silence fills the room.

“We have the students on our screen,” Nezu assures Aizawa. However he’s wasted no time in reaching out a paw to send out an alert to gather other available faculty members. “They don’t look as though they’re aware anything is amiss.”

“Their phones are off. I’ve called each one with no answer. Keep your eye on them and let me know what’s happening.” Toshinori can hear it: Aizawa is pissed. And worried. His clipped tone betrays both. Neither of these emotions coming from the man are reassuring to Toshinori in the slightest. “You’re sending our people over, Nezu?”

“I’ve sent out the alert, and transportation is being readied. All Might and Present Mic are with me now. Start from the beginning, Eraserhead. What kind of danger do you believe our students are in?”

“I don’t know. All I know is that someone wanted me cut off from them. One of the waiters managed to get me outside by lying about a robbery. He locked me out. Careless on my part,” Aizawa growls, voice tinged with self-loathing, “but I’d had no reason to suspect foul play. He— or someone working with him, I’m not sure— has a force-field quirk that’s not letting me reach any of the doors or windows. I’ve already circled the entire hotel looking for a break somewhere— there’s nothing. The building is covered by it.”

“What did he look like?” Yamada asks, voice tight. He motions to the screen. “Because there’s a guy on stage, now.” A man— lanky, blonde, probably somewhere in his late twenties— has appeared in the center of the stage. His description is hurriedly given to Aizawa. “It's not him,” Aizawa mutters.

The man is rattling off some flowery speech about UA and the kids. His syrupy tone strikes Toshinori as forced, disingenuous. It only adds to his spiking sense of unease.

Then the man bizarrely singles out Izuku, who looks dangerously close to keeling over, and Toshinori feels himself start to straighten in his seat. Not one part of him likes the way the man is grinning at his kid. Then Izuku just... collapses, coughing so violently it sounds like he’s going to hack up a lung, and Toshinori's knuckles start to go white where his hands are gripping at the arms of his chair.

None of what he's seen so far has helped him piece the situation together. All he knows is that they need to start making their way over to that hotel. Now.

The next fifteen seconds erupt in chaos. The camera’s lens is abruptly covered in smoke; the sounds of frantic audience members are all that can be heard. Toshinori stands, barely registering his chair toppling over in his haste. Yamada is up as well. Nezu is updating Aizawa, who is sounding progressively frustrated. But Toshinori is not listening. His eyes are glued to the screen, waiting for the smoke to clear, torn between his itch to get the hell going and his now near desperate need to know what's happening.

His legs threaten to give out beneath him when the clearing smoke reveals the man shoving a gun roughly to Izuku's head. His hands shoot out to grab at the desk and steady himself. The villain rants and raves at the crowd, clearly unhinged, digging the nozzle of the gun into Izuku's head until the boy winces in pain.

Toshinori had thought he'd known fear before. This fear is all-consuming; it claws viciously at his insides, snatches the air from his remaining lung, screams into his ears until they ring. It causes his heart to stutter in his chest before plummeting down into what's left of his stomach. 

This kind of fear bone-chillingly whispers that Toshinori's entire world is about to be ended before his very eyes.

The villain keeps prattling on, though, not immediately shooting Izuku, and air is reluctantly returned to Toshinori. Good, because he's started to feel lightheaded. Then the horrible man reveals that he’s just poisoned the entire crowd, has long since poisoned Izuku, and Toshinori sees red.

The man (coward, Toshinori seethes, because only cowards use poison as their weapon of choice, let alone against children) turns to gleefully address the camera after announcing he has an antidote. He’s beckoning UA to listen in as well.

“I’ll be involving the police force from this point on,” Nezu announces. He hands off the phone to Yamada, leaving him to be the one to update Aizawa who, by the sound of things, is about ready to blow a gasket. “It looks like we’re dealing with a hostage situation. He’s going to try to bargain with us.” Calm as his words are, there is the promise of a threat underneath them.

The villain is yelling over the hysterical crowd once more to "simmer down" and hear out his next statement. Toshinori risks a quick glance at his other students. Both Iida and Yaoyorozu had seemed fully prepared to rush towards Izuku before the villain had turned a gun on him. Since then, they’ve remained frozen in place off to the side, looking torn with what action to take next.

“Now, admittedly, I only have enough antidote for one person,” the still-unnamed villain is saying. “One measly vial on me, I’m afraid. But this one here,” the man points a thumb back towards Yaoyorozu, “can make anything as long as she knows the ingredients for it. Right? I’ll give her the recipe to make more of the antidote as long as you're all willing to work with me. Simple as that.” He pulls out a bulky phone, winking playfully as he tosses it to land at Yaoyorozu's feet. “But if anything happens to me in the meanwhile, all that knowledge dies with me. So, no funny business. No trying to follow me. Got that?”

The villain gestures for another man— who, until now, has remained quietly off to the side— to take Izuku's other arm. They work together to lift the increasingly languid boy fully to his feet. Izuku's vicious coughing fit has subsided, but he's trembling where he stands, and it's clear to Toshinori how the poison has already taken it's toll. My boy— oh, my poor boy, is all Toshinori can think, breath hitching sharply, one hand subconsciously reaching out towards the television screen. Izuku.

"This one will be coming with me," the villain says. Toshinori goes rigid. No— "He'll serve as an example of what'll happen to each of you if my demands can't be met within a reasonable time frame. And on that note, folks, I bid you a temporary farewell." He motions towards the phone he'd tossed to the ground. "Trust I'll be in touch with you shortly."

His lackey (who, based upon his description, has been gruffly confirmed by Aizawa as the server from earlier) places a hand on the villain's arm, other hand still holding Izuku up. The three of them begin to fade out from the stage. Their images wobble like a failing TV channel until they disappear completely with a loud 'crack'. 

"Your friend from earlier isn't the one creating the force-field, Shouta," Yamada snarls, "so it looks like there must be at least one more party member at play. I'm going to guess this phony 'server' guy's quirk is similar to Kurigori's. Hopefully there's a limit on how far they can teleport."

"Eraserhead," Nezu takes the phone back from the other hero, "try again to get in touch with our students. We'll stay on this channel as we make our way over, but it's of utmost importance we re-establish contact with them. We don't know what kinds of demands this man is going to make."

Yamada wastes no time, snatching up his jacket and storming out towards where the rest of the faculty has gathered. A thunderous Toshinori isn't far behind. "All Might," Nezu says haltingly, "I mean this with no disrespect, but perhaps you should stay behind for this one."

Toshinori bristles. "Oh, no, Nezu. There's no way—"

"Your impaired immune system is not up to par. We have no way of knowing how far this gas has spread, nor how long it'll linger. If it's somehow leaked outside of that building—"

"I'm assuming we're bringing protective equipment with us?" Toshinori counters sharply. "You can't ask me to stay here, Nezu. I will not. I know I'm no use to you in this form. I just need to be there after we," he falters, "after we save them."

Please, he prays out again, fervently and to anyone who will hear him, chest tightening awfully with the memory of their parting conversation, don't let those be the last words I get to say to my boy.

Chapter Text

Izuku lands hard onto the ground with a muffled "oof", a cloud of dust glittering the air around him with the impact. He blinks dazedly at the abrupt change in scenery. The panicked crowd that had watched him with horrified eyes is gone, replaced instead by an empty, dimmed room. He struggles instinctively and furiously as the grips on his arms move to lift him, nearly catching one of his captor’s faces with an elbow.

“Hey, squirt, knock it off.”

Izuku slackens briefly to get a better look at his kidnappers. The man who had hijacked the conference looks fairly young. Blonde, skinny, smug expression— overall, not very physically threatening. His gun is still pointed and ready at Izuku’s head, though, which is enough to quell Izuku’s struggling for the moment. The other man holding onto Izuku was their "server" earlier today, he realizes— the one who must have slipped Izuku the poison. He’s of stockier build, more intimidating after ditching his waiter uniform, clearly the brawn of the two.

“Watanabe,” the first man addresses the stocky one, gesturing with his chin to a nearby stairwell, “go down a few levels and scope out the place. I want to confirm that it’s still abandoned.”

“And the kid?” 'Watanabe' asks. His polite tone from earlier today has disintegrated into something more gruff. The guy’s a decent actor, Izuku thinks distractedly, I’ll give him that. The younger man smirks in response before reaching out, callously yanking Izuku back by his shirt collar.

Izuku stumbles back a step or two until his shoulders smack into a support beam with a thud, sending an aggravated flare to spike through his ribcage. To his building frustration, he’s sent into yet another coughing frenzy.

The younger man uses this opportunity to snatch Izuku’s hands, pulling them both back and behind the support beam. Immediately Izuku moves to twist away but Watanabe halts him, reaching out to pin both of the boy’s shoulders back against the beam, buying his partner time to tie Izuku’s hands together.

The blonde steps back and brushes off his hands, gesturing towards Izuku as if saying ‘that takes care of that’. Watanabe nods, heading towards the stairwell as instructed.

Before he descends the steps, however, Izuku’s eye catches him patting something away into his shirt pocket. The scant amount of light from a nearby window glints off of it. Silver— just like the quirk suppressant locked onto Izuku’s wrist. Could that be the key? Izuku fingers the device behind his back idly. Tears prick at his eyes from his latest coughing fit, but he stubbornly wills them away. Just have to figure out how to get it from him…

The first man moves to look out of one of the windows. Izuku takes the chance to quite literally catch his breath and scan his surroundings. They seem to be on the very top floor of… well, somewhere. An abandoned building, his captor had said, so they’ve definitely left the hotel. Through the one dust-caked, half-boarded window Izuku can see anything out of, he can make out other buildings. Ones he thinks he recognizes from their ride to the hotel earlier today. I don’t know exactly how far ‘Watanabe’ was able to transport us, but it looks like we’re still at least in the same general area.

His captor appears to be watching for something outside. “UA won’t give in to whatever your demands are, you know,” Izuku says firmly. He’d meant for the statement to hold a lot more authority, but it’s hard to achieve with his voice growing so hoarse. He attempts to clear his throat. “They don’t bargain with criminals like you.”

The man looks over his shoulder at Izuku, interest seemingly piqued by the initiation of conversation. He strolls over to where Izuku stands tied and tucks his gun away.

“I wouldn’t be so sure. You’re more than a typical ‘missing child’ case— and people already lose their shit over those. You’re a famous child from a famous school. I don’t doubt they’d do nearly anything to get you back, if not just to save their reputation.”

Izuku frowns. “What are you going to ask them for?”

“Oh, we’ll see.” The man pulls out a phone identical to the one he’d thrown at Yaoyorozu’s feet. He tosses it into the air, catching it nonchalantly in one palm. “I’m still mulling that one over.”

That causes Izuku to balk. “W-what? You mean you don’t even have a plan?” He knows he’s not exactly the one with the upper hand, here, but he can’t help the incredulity that seeps into his tone. Is this guy nuts? Does he… does he have any idea who he’s up against?

To threaten UA, with the very lives of its students and civilians as bargaining chips, all without an actual purpose?

It’s nothing short of absurd.

The man shoots Izuku a look, undeterred. “I have a plan, kiddo, don’t you worry. I just mean that there’s nothing specifically of UA’s that I actually need. Whatever I end up asking of them will just be a fun bonus.”

Izuku blinks in response. His foggy-brained state has sharpened significantly with the adrenaline of it all, but he's still not functioning at 100%. Is that why I’m not comprehending this? Or is this guy just really not making sense?

“Funny, isn’t it?” The man hums. “Even with all these fancy quirks nowadays, sometimes nothing beats the classics. Like the good old ‘gun-to-the-head’ method. The look on everyone’s faces.”

Izuku’s brow starts to crinkle. The man continues on before he can interject.

“Not everything is about money, kid. I’m the only child of a multi-billion dollar family. I hardly need to bargain with UA, or even it’s wealthiest pros, for anything like money. So what is it I want?” The man chidingly taps the top of Izuku’s head with the edge of his phone. “Call it a much needed lesson in humility. I want you all to realize how little control you actually have.”

“... ‘You all’?”

“Heroes,” the man spits out. His mouth has pulled into a displeased frown. “So many of you— take All Might, take Endeavor, two prime examples— are arrogant enough to believe you can control the world with the power of your fists. Or claws, fins— whichever quirk fits the bill. Your arrogance has allowed you to believe you’re qualified to this level of near godhood.

“My family owns one of the world’s largest pharmaceutical companies. Do you see their faces plastered everywhere? For all the good they do for people, for the countless lives they’ve saved, are they revered as gods among men? I simply mean to serve as a reminder of how inflated your egos have become. How narrow your world-view is. The ‘control’ you have over society is an illusion— one you’ve become far too comfortable living in. And I broke it with nothing but a good old-fashioned gun, some theatrics, and some self-made poison.” He glares down his nose at Izuku, now, utter contempt coloring his features. “You all can still be brought down to our level of ‘helplessness’.”

The longer the man prattles on (and boy does he likes to talk, Izuku laments inwardly, his headache pounding relentlessly in it’s pained pleas for quiet), the more something begins to knot and twist uncomfortably in Izuku’s gut. He’s pretty sure it’s not due to the poison.

The bitterness and resentment in the man’s tone calls to Izuku a little too familiarly. It hits a nerve that’s rooted deep, buried away, and he dreads the answer to what he already knows is true:

“You’re quirkless?”

The man’s eyes narrow into angry slits, as if Izuku has meant this as a slur. As if he knows anything about Izuku. “Save me your damn pity, kid. I’m not the one here who needs it. I, with nothing but a special ‘cocktail’ made by yours truly, have just publicly subdued one of the most powerful kids in Japan.” His grin is crooked. “A spoiled brat who’s likely never wanted for anything. Not with that flashy powerhouse of a quirk. I know the world has to have adored you since day one. If only we could’ve all been born as lucky as you.”

Izuku exhales. Slowly, deliberately. Fatigue has begun to tug heavily at his limbs. As much as the insinuations boil his blood (the man is wrong, so blatantly wrong, Izuku could tear his arguments apart one hundred times over; so why do his words still cause Izuku’s chest to ache?) he won’t waste his remaining energy on this. Izuku doesn’t need to prove anything to the likes of him.

“You have no idea what you’re talking about,” is all he mumbles. He sinks down the support beam (slowly, so that he can adjust his tightly roped hands along the way) in the hopes that sitting down will allow him to conserve some energy. His legs have gotten weaker, wobbling more by the second. “You don’t know anything about me.”

“I know enough.”

Izuku shuts him out after that, letting his thoughts whir into overdrive. His hands begin to fiddle with the ropes that bind them. Without my quirk, and with how weak I’m becoming, I won’t be able to just rip free of these... He bites his lip. He’ll have to break one of his hands. Or at least dislocate one of his thumbs. That’ll allow him to try to squeeze one hand through the rope and free himself. That’s fine— how many other times have I broken my own bones, anyway? I can do this.

He’ll work at it whenever his captor’s back is turned, perhaps while the man is calling Yaoyorozu and Iida with his demands. The sudden thought of his friends causes Izuku to freeze in his tracks, because there lies yet another barrier.

He— along with everyone else— is working under a time limit.

Izuku manages to keep his voice steady, even as his mouth goes a bit dry with the question: “How long do I have to live?”

The man scratches his chin, as if Izuku has just asked about something mundane as the weather. “Without the antidote? Another hour, hour and-a-half tops. Don’t fret, kid; you’re no good to us dead. Not yet. We’ll give you bits of the antidote if your school takes too long to comply. Not enough to cure you— just enough to keep you on the brink. At least until we can get you back to my lab for more.”

Izuku glares. “You- you still aren’t planning to give me back, even if UA agrees to bargaining?” Not that Izuku is assuming they will. They shouldn’t— not for him. He swallows nervously. But, Iida and Yaoyorozu… and those conference members...

There’s more than just his own life at stake.

“We’ll draw this thing out with the crowd at the hotel. Milk it until it’s not fun anymore. But you? We’d be stupid to let you go. You’re a kid with a powerful quirk, one who has plenty of people rooting for you to be the new face of their hope, and you were neutralized by someone quirkless on television. No— there’s way too much fun potential in taking you along with us."

Izuku decides he'll use this guy’s love of extensive monologuing to his advantage by starting to work on his hand. An hour to an hour-and-a-half… that… isn’t much time, he thinks, beads of sweat trailing down his face. But I’ll make it work. Just have to keep him talking. If I can get out of here before he starts making any demands, and grab the antidote on the way, I can still help everybody. He squeezes on one hand with the other, pulling on it to test which way he could most easily break it from this angle. He schools his expression to remain blank.

“You chose a sort of mediocre event to crash, didn’t you?” Izuku attempts to keep the conversation going. “A school conference? Why not choose something bigger? Also— you utilized someone with a quirk to help you. Doesn’t that defeat the purpose of your ‘message’...?”

His captor shrugs, turning on his heel to head back towards the window. He appears to be growing bored of their conversation. “Doesn’t matter how ‘big’ the event was. The location and participants were prime. The video will circulate through bigger news stations, anyhow. As for utilizing quirks— they were merely support items. It was my weapon, my poison, my presence that struck fear into everyone. And that’s all the public needed to see.”

Watanabe’s approaching footsteps echo from the stairwell. “All clear, Isago. We’re the only ones in the building,” he announces once at the top. He nods to the phone in his partner’s hand. “Ready to make the call?”

“Is it that time already? Oh, good! This is where things really get fun.” ‘Isago’ smiles. “What shall we ask for first? Money isn’t an issue, of course, but that doesn’t mean we can’t ask for it. Or maybe we should step right out with the big guns. For instance: I could take my pick with any villain locked away in Tartarus, demand their release in exchange for the antidote. That could be fun; send the heroes into an ethical crisis. How much are all your lives really worth, compared to the ones potentially lost by releasing a dangerous criminal? See how much they enjoy the opportunity to really have to play ‘God’.” Izuku’s heart rate spikes with that particular suggestion.

“Yeah, yeah… that’s too good an opportunity to pass up. What else, though? Oh! I have another idea.” In a burst of excitement, Isago claps his hands together, smiling at Izuku. Izuku pauses his efforts with his hand, growing a little nervous under the man’s gaze.

“Midoriya here will help us pick.”

Yeah, right, Izuku scoffs inwardly.

“Which hero is your absolute favorite, kid?”

Izuku stays quiet. Shakes his head quizzically as if to ask ‘why would I answer that?’ but Isago is already snapping his fingers like he's reached an epiphany.

“You know what? I already know. You’ve been pictured hanging out with him, after all; you’re a big fan of All Might.” Isago’s grin stretches further. His teeth are perfectly aligned and white and, somehow, that only makes the sight more unnerving.

“We’ll go with that, then. He’s actually a perfect choice, being so universally adored and all. Oh, this will be great. UA won’t turn this down, either— it’s an easy enough way to comply and save you all. The only thing it hits is their pride.”

Izuku's heart thrums wildly at the implications of whatever that means, dread weaving through him as he watches Isago begin to dial.

“Is that everybody, Iida?” Momo calls out, tying together the last of the masks she’s made. She’s not even certain they’ll be any help at this point. But as soon as the villains had disappeared into thin air with a sickly Midoriya in tow, the crowd’s panic had ignited into hysteria, and seeing as she’s yet to be contacted by said villains, she’d had to start doing something. So, as what little protection she could think to offer, she'd created masks. She'd handed them out to everyone in the anxiously pacing crowd, her own mind racing all the while.

We’ve already inhaled the poison. But wearing these can’t hurt, I suppose… just in case there’s more of it still lingering in the air, she thinks solemnly. I don’t know what other use I can be of right now, anyway. She tightens a fist around the bundle of masks.

“Yes. From the conference, anyway," Iida answers. Almost immediately they’d ushered everyone out of the ballroom, closing the doors and securing any open spaces with a glue created by Momo, in an attempt to prevent any potentially lingering gas from leaking out to the rest of the hotel.

They had quickly discovered that they couldn’t leave the building— not even with well-aimed kicks to doors and windows by Iida, or explosive devices created by Momo. Their attempts hadn’t even reached their targets. Both Iida and Momo’s small bomb had been physically thrown back, as if snagged by an invisible rubber band. They’d then decided to gather the conference members into the hotel’s kitchen in order to keep everyone in one place. No one from the audience had a quirk very useful for their current situation, and no one else was trained for emergency scenarios, anyway. A couple of people had volunteered to go off and search for the hotel’s security room in the hopes that an activated security feature was all that was preventing them from leaving.

One of the crew members had suggested leaving his camera on. “The villain wants to speak with UA, right? This way they can be, uh, ‘present’ whenever he calls,” he’d said, fanning himself with his free hand as he’d become drenched with nervous sweat. “And the authorities can keep an eye on what’s happening.” No one had argued the point.

“I went to warn all the hotel guests on the first two floors to stay put in their rooms until we can ensure their safety,” Iida’s voice, along with his hand chopping the air in front of her face, pulls Momo right out of her thoughts. “As soon as I tried to reach the third floor, however, the elevator wouldn’t budge past floor two. I attempted to use the stairwell, but I was physically halted by the same unseen force as before. It threw me right back down the stairs!”

Momo frowns. “If it were truly a security measure, wouldn’t it cover all the floors? Why would it stop after only two?” She bites at her lip. “Iida… with this being a ransom situation, it seems more likely that the villains are trapping us in. I think it’s somebody’s quirk.”

“Trapping us in,” Iida nods gravely, “and keeping everyone else out.” His expression is steeled. “I do hope Mr. Aizawa is alright. They had to have known that, had he been present, his quirk would have been able to stop them from vanishing with Midoriya.”

Momo’s heart sinks at the thought of the villains getting to their teacher first. She palms her forehead with a sudden thought. “Mr. Aizawa gave us his number this morning! Shouldn’t we at least try calling him?” She hurries over to dig through her purse. Her jaw nearly drops at what she finds when she lights up her phone’s screen.

She’s missed not one, not two, but twelve calls from their homeroom teacher.

“Iida-- he’s already tried calling us. Many times.” Iida’s eyes widen in alarm as Momo brings the phone to her ear.

She redials her teacher’s number, forcing her hand not to shake. Twelve missed calls! Is he alright? Has he been trying to reach out to us for help? I knew something was strange about his absence at the conference. If only I’d checked my phone earlier… She doesn’t end up having to wait very long for answers. She’s barely hit the ‘redial’ button when she‘s greeted with her teacher’s gruff voice.

“Yaoyorozu!” Aizawa almost sounds out of breath. “Are you alright?”

Momo releases the breath she’s been holding. “Mr. Aizawa! I- yes, we’re alright, are you? Where are you?”

“Locked out. There’s some kind of quirk covering the building and I can’t get back in,” he says lowly. “Have any of you tried to leave?”

“Yes, we have. We ran into the same problem.” Momo locks eyes with Iida, who is watching her expectantly. “Mr. Aizawa… Midoriya was taken. And the rest of us, we’ve- we’ve been—”

“I know,” Aizawa interrupts her. His voice holds something… soft, uncharacteristic. Momo can’t quite put her finger on what it is. “I called the school as soon as I was locked out. UA saw everything live and kept me updated. Pro Heroes are on their way now. Has that man reached out to you yet?”

“No, not yet.”

“Alright. Make sure you keep one of the cameras on. The channel has been turned off for everybody but Principal Nezu and the authorities, so they’re the only ones who’ll be watching at this point.”

“Yes, sir.” She takes a deep breath. “I made masks for everyone.” Why she mentions this, she’s not entirely sure. Maybe just to make him aware that she’s tried to do something. “I… I don’t know if they’ll help. I know we've already breathed in the gas. But—”

“Good thinking, kid,” Aizawa's assurance is immediate. Whether he actually believes it’ll help or not, she’s not certain. “How are the two of you feeling? Any symptoms?”

“None yet.” She clutches the phone tightly. “But, Midoriya— he didn’t look too good.”

“We'll get him back. Don’t worry. Keep me on the line with you, alright? I want to be around whenever that prick starts making demands.”

As if on cue, the older, blockier phone buzzes in Momo’s other hand, and even though she’s been anticipating it this entire time (or perhaps because of that), it startles her so much that she jumps.

She waves wildly to Iida even though he’s only about four feet away. “He’s calling!” she exclaims, and she hears Aizawa's grunt of acknowledgement. Iida abruptly closes the short distance to plant himself firmly by her side, holding his hand out expectantly. Momo hands him her personal phone, switching it to speaker-mode to allow their teacher to listen in, indicating she'll be the one to answer the villain's call.

She flicks the ransom phone 'on'.

“... Hello?”

“First off, I wanted to apologize. I never did properly introduce myself,” the voice says. “For all intents and purposes, you may call me ‘Plague’.”

There’s no option to put this phone on speaker, Momo notes with some irritation, so she’ll have to relay everything the man says to her. “And what is it that you want?” she asks stiffly. “We’re listening.”

“Quick to get to the point, huh? Atta girl. I knew I liked you. You’re right, you’re right; we are working under somewhat of a time limit, after all.” Iida eyes Momo with concern when her grip on the phone tightens.

“I’m going to be bold and demand two things off the bat, actually. I’m sure one will be easier to do than the other. But I do want both done.”

“I’ll be sure to relay the message.” Momo says, tone clipped. “What are these two things?”

“Firstly— I want a villain released from Tartarus Prison.”

Momo pauses. Huh? She locks uncertain eyes with Iida, who looks like he is itching to be of more help. “Which— which villain?”

“Doesn’t matter to me. UA can take their pick. I know they have pull; I want them to deal with the authorities in releasing one of Tartarus’ big boys. No fuss, no muss, no funny business about planning a recapture the minute they’re set free. Once I have undeniable confirmation that it’s been done, I’ll call you with the list of ingredients for your antidote. And on the chance that you lie to me about it being done— well, I’ll just kill Midoriya, here. Got that?”

Momo’s heart threatens to pound right out of her chest. Would UA… even consider agreeing to something like that? What purpose does this guy have in demanding the release of any one of Japan’s most dangerous villains, without so much as a preference for which one?

Very hesitantly, she relays the demand aloud for everyone else to hear. Iida’s face drains of all color. Aizawa's end of the line has gone chillingly silent.

“The terms for returning Midoriya are separate.”

“Okay...?” Momo feels the blood rush from her ears. She knows Aizawa is here, even in his current radio silence— she knows Iida is here, a steady and protecting presence— she knows that UA is watching and that, ultimately, they will be the ones making these decisions. But in this moment, she can’t help but feel as though the weight of this entire situation is resting on her own shoulders, threatening to crush her beneath.

She straightens to stand at her full height. Forces her grip on the phone to stay steady. “What 'separate’ demand do you have for Midoriya?”

“I want All Might on public cameras admitting personal defeat to me. I want him to declare that there is nothing UA can do for you, nothing he can do for you; that the hope people have always placed in heroes is falsely given.

“I want him to beg me to spare Midoriya’s life.”

Chapter Text

One day earlier :

“Dang— would you take a look at the sky this morning?” Kirishima commented, voice cracking with sleepiness. The early sky before them was painted a bright red. A sheet of clouds danced across it, giving the world a misty, surreal glow. “Cool, but also… kinda eerie, huh?”

“‘Red sky at morning, sailors take warning’,” Asui quoted as she tied up the laces of her shoes. Her classmates looked over at her with curiosity. “My grandpa was in the navy. He always used to say things like that,” she explained. “A red sunrise can be an indicator of bad weather approaching. You know— the rising sun is illuminating the underside of storm clouds coming in.”

“Or you could just stick to watching a damn weather report,” Bakugo rolled his eyes as he zipped up his gym jacket. “They told us a storm is coming. That’s the entire reason we’re out here this early.” Izuku shot him an exasperated look, zipping up his own jacket, as well.

“Well, in case you ever find yourself without modern conveniences to tell you these things, Bakugo, it’s just a tip to keep in mind,” Asui said, brushing off Bakugo’s abrasiveness with ease.

“Cool stuff, Tsuyu. Another survival tip to add to my toolbelt,” Kirishima said. Asui gave a small smile before rising from the bench she’d been sitting at.

“You guys ready? We should get to it. We don’t have a ton of time before class starts.”

A handful of students had agreed to gather at the training grounds before today’s classes began, seeing as they wouldn’t be able to utilize it later due to the incoming rain. In Izuku’s case, tomorrow’s schedule would also be packed with the conference, so he in particular wanted to make sure he didn’t miss out too much on training.

To Izuku’s never-ending surprise, Bakugo had not only insisted on joining in on the informal practice session; his longtime classmate had actually offered to partner up with him.

Actually, Bakugo had agreed to train with him more than once, now. After Izuku’s accidental discovery of Blackwhip, they’d both quickly realized that Bakugo’s quirk and fighting style were effective to practice it against. Bakugo’s speed and ability to rapidly shift his direction mid-air provided Izuku the challenge of utilizing Blackwhip with a fair amount of control. Their training sessions normally involved Izuku attempting to snatch Bakugo with one of his quirk’s inky tendrils.

Today, though, Izuku’s plan was a bit different.

“Thanks again for working with me today, Kacchan!” Izuku said, jogging to make for plenty of space between them and the other students on the grounds. “I think I’m finally starting to get the hang of Blackwhip. I have a few ideas, and—”

“Shut up and quit thanking me, or I’m never doing this again!”

Izuku sighed. Bakugo’s offer to help indicated that he was attempting to treat Izuku with something resembling decency— but that didn’t make him any easier to talk to.

Their training session began pretty much per usual. Bakugo leapt to and fro, frequent cracks popping in Izuku’s ears as Bakugo propelled himself through the air with his explosions. Izuku would either try to keep him at bay with a defensive tendril (this he’d gotten better at— Bakugo used to be able to mockingly reach out and tap him with a small explosion every time, the shock of it causing Izuku’s hair to literally stand on end) or he’d try to catch his elusive classmate with one of his whips.

Today, after the fifth try, Izuku did it. With one of Blackwhip’s arms, he’d reached out and managed to snag Bakugo. He’d accurately predicted which direction the boy had been about to shoot himself in by observing the way his body had twisted in mid-air.

“Kacchan,” Izuku tried to get his classmate’s attention once more. He took a step back after his small victory, releasing the other boy from his quirk’s grip. “I have an idea.”

“Catching me once doesn’t mean you’ve mastered anything yet! Training is for fighting, not talking,” Bakugo snapped, landing hard in the dirt. “Don’t make me regret offering to work with your chatty ass.”

Fine, then. Izuku wouldn’t explain the rationale for what he was about to do. He pulled Blackwhip in to hug his arms rather than reach out, subduing the quirk for the moment.

“Start from further back. Come at me with a bigger explosion.”

Bakugo gave pause, cocking his head and narrowing his eyes. “Why?”

Izuku fought down the urge to roll his eyes. “I’ve been trying to tell you ‘why’ and you keep telling me to quit talking,” Izuku pointed out, which instantly had Bakugo flailing with rage and shouting “Fine, whatever, I’ll do it! Shut up!”

“Don’t hold back,” Izuku requested as Bakugo stomped away. “Other than keeping the others in the arena in mind. Hit me with everything you’ve got. Okay?” As if he really had to worry about Bakugo not trying to severely maim or kill him. This time, though, the boy’s aggression would allow Izuku to see if his theory could really work.

Because recently, Izuku had been thinking. (‘Obsessing’ might be a better word for it; Izuku’s brain had always spun with too many thoughts, after all). Not too long ago, he and Bakugo had sat down with All Might to discuss One for All’s past users, along with Izuku’s yet-to-be-unlocked quirks. ‘Float’, Shimura Nana’s quirk, was supposedly next— but this was all just speculation. Izuku hadn’t missed the way his mentor’s face had lit up fondly at the possibility, though.

To give All Might some piece of his master back would be… well, it would be great. The least he could do for his hero. Really, Izuku was eager to unlock any one of the past users’ quirks, and he’d determinedly set his mind on figuring out how to do so.

Izuku had plenty of knowledge about varying types of scenarios that ended in children manifesting their quirk for the first time. (That information had been tucked under his belt for a long, long time. He’d memorized it when he was young, back when he’d spent his days waiting, wishing, praying for a quirk that was never meant to be. Not through what would end up being natural means, anyway.) He’d studied everything made available to him about the past users, he’d trained as often and as hard as he could, and with any free moments he’d found in between, he’d wracked his brain to try and muster up new theories.

And even with all this— nothing had come to pass.

Am I the problem? Is something wrong with me? The looming thought was an old one— one that had trailed at Izuku's heels like a shadow for most of his life. Then he’d received One for All and the thought had been quelled, the same way a shadow shrinks and fades in the face of dimmer light. It had never been fully erased, though, and in the glaring light of recent events, the shadow had begun to take shape again.

“Don’t try to rush these things, kid,” was all All Might had said, whenever Izuku had come to him in his disappointment over his recent lack of progress. “Everything in due time.” The conversation had left Izuku feeling impossibly worse than before. Not because his mentor had seemed upset, or had said anything unkind. No, Izuku knew the man, and he could tell that he was worried.

About what, though? Was he worried that Izuku couldn’t pull through with this? Worried that Izuku wouldn’t be enough to handle One for All, or all they were still discovering the quirk had to offer? Izuku had found himself so afraid of the answer that he hadn’t dared to ask.

Izuku was normally pretty good at not having to rely on milestones to validate his worthiness for One for All. Even his early struggles to control his quirk hadn’t deterred him; Izuku was never a stranger to hard work, after all. All Might had picked him, and for a long time, that alone had been enough.

But between Izuku currently feeling like he was stuck in the mud as far as progress, and All Might’s recent (and, suspiciously enough, secretive) stress and worry, it made Izuku wonder if his mentor ever shared the same doubts that Izuku held about himself.

Because the man had to wonder sometimes, right?

If he’d made the right choice?

Presently, Izuku shook himself before these kinds of thoughts could choke him. Bakugo was yelling over at him impatiently. For the first time in his life, Izuku was grateful to the boy’s grating voice for pulling him out of his own head. He refocused on the situation at hand: he was about to try to awaken one of his hidden quirks.

Blackwhip had come to him during a moment of emotional distress. Was born out of Izuku’s defensiveness, his rage.

Fear was another powerful, all-consuming emotion he was sure to encounter on the battlefield.

And to his great shame, one thing he still feared, deep down— one thing he couldn't fully bring himself to trust, even as the boy had begun to treat Izuku with a flicker of what might be respect— was Bakugo.

Izuku's hope was this: if he could try to expose himself to a somewhat similar fight-or-flight feeling as what he experienced during battle, maybe it would be enough to trigger one of his quirks. Better here, in the safety of training, rather than in the middle of a real life-or-death crisis.

(Not that Izuku had ever 100% counted Bakugo out as being capable of killing him. That very thought was going to help him today though.)

It was just a theory. But theories couldn’t be proven until they were tested. 

And Izuku had always been a curious child.

“Ready when you are!” Izuku called out to his classmate. The other boy was looking increasingly pissed off with being told what to do.

Bakugo snarled, then, sparks crackling at his palms. The air around them was beginning to grow chilly. It nipped at Izuku’s face, and he shuddered.

Bakugo yelled out and, with a loud, thunderous crack that nearly had Izuku wondering if the storm had arrived early, the boy was high in the air above Izuku. He hurled down a large explosion, eyes gleaming—

— and Izuku responded by flinging himself towards said explosion, deactivating both Full Cowling and Blackwhip once they’d worked together to propel him high into the air.

For a moment, the world around him went quiet. All other noise was blocked out by the rapid thudding of Izuku’s own heart.

And yet...

… even alongside this dizzying rush of adrenaline, this sense of world-freezing fear, nothing miraculous happened; no newfound quirk revealed itself to him. Izuku let out a shaky breath, the sounds of the outside world rushing back to his ears with a loud 'whoosh'. In the final moments before the explosion could actually encompass him, he readied a tendril of Blackwhip, planning to reach out and pull himself out of the inferno’s way by grabbing at one of the nearby stadium lamps.

Before he could even reach out an arm, though, something rammed into his stomach with the force of a freight train.

Bakugo had appeared through his own explosion to kick straight into Izuku, knocking him to fall opposite of the blast. In the split-second before Izuku’s direction was forcefully reversed, he could feel the heat of the fire on his face; close, but not quite enough to burn, as though someone teasingly hovered a hot iron just over his skin. Bits of debris smacked into his face and arms, and he was hurled into the dirt below.

A large cloud of dirt was kicked up upon impact, filling the air around them. Izuku gasped for the air that had been knocked out of him. When the dust began to settle and clear, he was greeted with the sight of Bakugo, whose boot was still grinding mercilessly into Izuku’s stomach. The boy’s eyes glared down at Izuku— hard. His shoulders rose and fell with each noisy, haggard breath.

“What,” the boy growled out, “the fuck,” his foot twisted down even harder into Izuku’s diaphragm, “was that?”

“Kacchan— get, get your foot off,” Izuku wheezed out. “I can’t breathe—”

“Hah! Damn nerd’s worried about fucking breathing! Like you’d be breathing at all if I’d let you finish pulling off whatever the fuck kind of stunt that was!”

“Get off,” Izuku demanded, growing impatient, using both hands to push Bakugo’s boot off of his chest. Bakugo watched on irately as Izuku scrambled to his feet.

“Why in the hell did you deactivate your quirks, you stupid, fucking nerd?”

“I was trying to explain to you before— stop, Kacchan,” Izuku exclaimed when Bakugo quickly closed the distance between them, fist in the air as though he wanted to hit his classmate.

“Do you have some kind of damn death wish?!”

Oh, the irony. It sent Izuku’s head reeling. “Seriously? You’re seriously asking me that?” Izuku practically squeaked in disbelief, finding his voice again after a moment of speechlessness. “Weren’t you the one who told me to jump off a roof not too long ago?” Bakugo’s face drained a bit of color, but his scowl stubbornly remained. “Since when have you cared about whether I live or die? You’ve nearly killed me hundreds of times!”

“If I had actually wanted to kill you,” Bakugo ground out through gritted teeth, “you’d be dead already.”

“Okay, well— why did you even listen to me, then, as far as coming at me with a huge explosion? What were you assuming I was trying to do?”

“I thought you were just going to try some ranged shit with your stupid Blackwhip, or— I don’t know! Something a normal person would do! Not throwing yourself into the damn explosion and dropping your quirks along the way!”

“I was trying to unlock a new quirk,” Izuku sighed, brushing the dirt off of his clothes. He’d definitely have to clean up before classes began. “You know how a lot of late bloomers end up finally discovering their quirks in a sort of ‘freak’ situation? Something that causes their emotions to run high? Blackwhip only appeared when I was angry and on the defensive. I thought I would try to see if…” Izuku hesitated, not exactly comfortable with the idea of admitting to his childhood bully that he still feared him. He pressed on anyway. “I wanted to see if fear would activate it. That fight-or-flight adrenaline you get during battle. And I’d rather try that out here, and not in the middle of a real crisis, where I’m more likely to actually be killed in the process.”

He looked at Bakugo imploringly. “I had a plan. I wasn’t trying to die. But I was trying to be… close enough to it? To try and replicate that kind of fear. Does that make sense?”

It did to Izuku. He didn’t see why it shouldn’t to anyone else. Bakugo’s response was a rough shove to Izuku’s chest, sending the other boy stumbling back. The angry look on his face hadn’t been dissipated (well, nothing in Izuku’s power could do that), but the boy did look less like a bull ready to charge.

“Are you trying to say my explosion couldn’t have killed you? Are you underestimating me?! I could kill you easily.”

“My quirks were only deactivated for a few seconds," Izuku said somewhat flippantly. "I was about to re-summon Blackwhip before you knocked into me, to pull myself out of the way.” He shrugged. “If that was too slow, I could've activated Full Cowling, too. There was never a huge chance I would have died— I would've been injured at worst. Not trying to say that’s ideal, either, but…”

Bakugo’s lip lifted into a snarl again.

“Fucking nerd!” he hissed. Interestingly he’d dialed his voice down a few notches, as if to ensure the rest of their conversation stayed private, even though they were still a good distance from any of their peers. A couple of classmates had started to look their way curiously, but no one had seemed alarmed enough to investigate.

Bakugo screaming at Izuku was, unfortunately, a common enough occurrence.

“What kind of bullshit logic is that? Breaking your bones all the goddamn time, throwing yourself into stupid-ass kamikaze situations. You know, that’s one of the things I really hate about you, Deku. You act like you want to be the Number One Hero, but if you keep this shit up, you’ll never live to see the day.”

The insinuation caused Izuku to physically flinch. “Kacchan—”

“It’s no fucking wonder you have All Might so freaked. Do you want what happened to the stupid fourth user to happen to you, too? Because it sure as hell seems that way sometimes.”

The world around Izuku froze again.

“What do you mean, ‘what happened to the fourth user’? What did he do?” Izuku asked. He felt like he had to pull the words out, and they were too slow. “Do you—” his mouth went bone dry, “do you know something I don’t?”

It was Bakugo’s turn to freeze. A flash of something unreadable had crossed over his classmate’s face. For once, he seemed to realize he’d said something he shouldn’t have. Izuku couldn't feel satisfaction from it, though— not when his own insides were busy turning to lead.

”Shit.” His classmate’s voice suddenly sounded small. Or maybe he was just speaking normally for once. Hard to say when the boy’s baseline consisted of screams and growls. “All Might… hasn’t talked to you, then.”

Izuku could’ve sworn his heart was attempting jump right out of his chest, it pounded against his ribcage so hard. “Talked to me about what?”

“If he hasn’t said anything, then it’s not my business,” Bakugo snapped out, turning on his heel to leave, looking like he wanted nothing more than to escape the situation. “I just figured with the way that you are, he should probably at least warn you about some of this crap—”

Increasingly insistent, Izuku pulled the other boy back by his arm, ignoring the look of shock it earned him. “You can’t bring up something like that and then not explain it to me.” He tried not to let his growing desperation seep into his tone. “What has him freaked out? What has he told you that he hasn’t told me?”

They’d talked about this, he and All Might. Izuku had been convinced they’d settled this whenever he’d confronted All Might for leaving him in the dark about Nighteye.

I thought he was done keeping secrets from me.

“Just drop it, you damn nerd, I shouldn’t have said shit,” Bakugo spat, ripping his arm out of Izuku’s grasp, but he eyed him with what looked like a touch of fear. As if he knew he’d screwed up. But, as always, Bakugo chose to mask fear with anger. “Can’t even trust you to not nearly off yourself during a stupid training exercise. How the hell is he supposed to trust you with anything else?”

True to Asui’s prediction (and, as Bakugo had so helpfully reminded, the weather reports), the rain fell early that afternoon.

Izuku’s eyes listlessly followed steaks of rainwater as they trickled and trailed down the window. The day between training and his final class had been one big blur. School was nearly out, and at this point, he was utterly incapable of sitting still. His brain buzzed like a bees nest, and the rest of him demanded action, too. His legs bounced, and his pencil tapped at his desk.

Izuku’s hurt over the situation had begun to fester into anger. Similar to the frustration he’d felt when he’d learned about Nighteye— but this, somehow, hit even more deeply. All Might had opened up to Bakugo? Bakugo was in on something that Izuku wasn’t? About Izuku’s own quirk?

Honestly and truly, Izuku had been fine with Bakugo being in on their meetings regarding One for All. It even eased the burden a bit, having another person to share the secret with. But, call him petty, Bakugo getting information before Izuku felt like a line was being crossed. At the end of the day, One for All was his and All Might’s.

Bakugo’s words wouldn’t cease their chanting in Izuku’s head. Izuku felt almost childlike for rising to the bait of them. But it was his inner child, the disregarded quirkless kid, that demanded for answers the most.

All the adults in Izuku’s early life had been consistent in one thing only: their dismissal of Izuku. When he’d gone to them in tears, hands fidgeting as he admitted to being bullied, he was dismissed. “Bakugo really is something special. We don’t want take any action that could interfere with his path… We’ll certainly talk to him, alright? But we’re not changing his class. He’ll grow out of this phase eventually. Can you hang in there until then?” When he’d asked them if he could ever be a hero, if he could chase after his wildest dreams just like everyone else got to, he’d again been dismissed. “There just aren’t any quirkless heroes, kid. It’s time to stop dreaming and start planning more realistically. Your very nature limits you— you have to keep that in mind.”

And so Izuku had learned two things very early on. One was that he would have to stick to relying on himself. The second was a harder pill to swallow: he was most likely the only person who would ever believe in himself.

Then, one miraculous day, in the first prayer he'd ever felt be directly answered, he'd met his hero. All Might had been the first adult— no, the first person, besides Izuku's mom— that he had allowed himself to trust. And even then, his mother hadn't believed in Izuku. All Might had.

Their mutual respect was one of the only external pillars Izuku had come to be able to rely on. Something already fragile within him had cracked today at just the implication that it might be a lie.

Izuku breathed a sigh of relief when the bell ended both class and his suffering. He waved a distracted hand at his friends when they called over “Good luck tomorrow, Midoriya! Kick butt at that conference!” and then made sure to take an extra long time to pack up his things, not wanting to leave alongside everyone else. He waited until each classmate had finished excitedly piling through the doorway to make his own exit.

His feet automatically began their stride in the direction of All Might’s office, his mind frantically running over it’s list of things to be said to the man—

“Oy, Midoriya,” Tokoyami’s voice halted him as soon as he’d stepped outside. “Your inner turmoil practically radiates off of you in waves.” His classmate was leaned against a wall under a corner of the building, just out of reach of the rain. He was watching Izuku thoughtfully. “Do you need to speak to someone about it?”

“Ah! H-hey, Tokoyami,” Izuku stammered out. “I’m… uh.” He wasn’t very good at lying, so he wasn’t about to try. Especially not when Tokoyami seemed particularly good at discerning the truth.

“You don’t need to talk to me, if you don’t want,” Tokoyami waved a hand. “I just mean that you should talk to someone. I’ve noticed that you’ve seemed… quite hard on yourself recently. I wasn’t going to pry into matters, but then today, you’ve had such a heaviness about you. It made me wonder if things had finally come to a head.”

Izuku knew he hadn’t been socializing with his friends as much recently due to his latest quirk obsession. To everyone else, it probably seemed like he was on an overly-intensive training schedule. “I just have… things to work on,” Izuku chose his words carefully. “And I haven’t been improving in the ways that I’d like to.”

“Hm. You’re patient and understanding when it comes to those around you,” Tokoyami hummed. “Perhaps it's time you extended that same grace to yourself.”

Izuku blinked, touched by his classmate’s unexpected concern. “I’ll, uh…” He wasn’t sure exactly how to go about doing that, but... “I’ll try. Thank you, Tokoyami. Sorry to worry you.”

“Just wanted to check in,” Tokoyami assured him. “Your demeanor today has been… dark, uncharacteristic of you. It caused me to worry a bad moon might be on the rise.”

“Ah... a what?”

“It’s a saying.” Tokoyami pulled his hood over his head, stepping away from the building and into the rain. “To describe that sense of unease before bad things happen.” He eyed Izuku knowingly before heading towards the dorms. “Please, Midoriya. Take better care of yourself.”

Though he’d had multiple warnings for the impending storm, Izuku had never bothered to grab an umbrella. He held his jacket over his head to shield himself from the increasingly heavy rainfall, storming his way up the stairs to All Might’s office, feet splashing with an obnoxious splat on every step.

Even in the midst of his frustration, Izuku still took the courtesy of knocking over just barging on in. He waited for the distracted greeting of “come in” before entering.

All Might was hunched over his desk, scribbling on what looked like one of their classes’ homework assignments. His mentor looked up from his work, beaming brightly at the unexpected sight of Izuku. Immediately, and quite unwillingly, Izuku felt the edges of his anger dull. All Might’s happiness to see him was so... well, genuine, that it took him off guard. Nervousness suddenly began to trump his determination to confront the man.

“Good evening, Youn- oh, Midoriya, you’re soaked!” All Might exclaimed. “Did you not pay attention to the weather warnings? Where on Earth is your umbrella?”

“I didn’t think to grab it,” Izuku mumbled, hanging up his dripping jacket onto a coat rack near the door. “It’s fine; I’ll change soon.”

“Please do, kid. The last thing we want is you getting sick.” All Might seemed too alarmed by Izuku's soaked clothing to notice his stormy expression. His mentor’s attention soon flitted back to his paperwork, though, and he started on his notes again, falling into his usual routine of multitasking while Izuku came to visit. Izuku didn’t miss the dark bags under the man’s eyes.

He, like Izuku, had seemed exceedingly absentminded as of late. The man hadn’t done anything like shoo Izuku away, but he’d definitely been less… attuned. As if his mind was constantly elsewhere. It wasn’t just with Izuku, though, so before now, he'd tried his best not to take it too personally; his mentor had been distant in general. Izuku himself had been so preoccupied with taking the quirk matter into his own hands that the two hadn’t had much time together.

“How was class today?” All Might's question was light.

Izuku couldn’t honestly say how class was today. “Something happened during training," he muttered instead.

Now he had All Might’s full attention. The man lifted his head from where he’d been hovering over his work. “What do you mean?”

Oh, God, here we go, here we— just start from the beginning. Give him the facts, give him a chance to explain himself, and don’t get over-emotional. Izuku took a deep breath in order to try and ground himself. All day he’d been mapping out this conversation in his head, and he still didn’t know how to say this.

“Kacchan and I paired off to train together before class. And I tried something… I tried a new method to activate one of the other users’ quirks, because nothing else I’ve done has worked.” He bit at his lip. He wouldn’t get into the details of that right now. Bakugo’s oh-so-smooth reaction might be an indicator that Izuku’s plan wouldn’t be well received by most. “It didn’t work, obviously… and, um… Kacchan got really upset with me.”

All Might was watching him with rapt attention. “Okay,” he said coaxingly. It made Izuku wonder just how nervous he must look. “What exactly did you try to do?”

That thing was happening again— where Izuku could hear his heartbeat drumming right in his ears. Apparently he was taking too long to answer: All Might’s forehead wrinkled as seconds ticked on by. “My boy, what is it? What did you—” The man’s eyes widened as if realizing something. “Were you injured?” He stood, then, giving Izuku another once-over, maneuvering around his desk to get closer to the boy.

“Kacchan told me something, All Might,” Izuku's voice was firm. Halfway between his desk and Izuku, All Might slowed to a halt, startled by the shift in the boy’s tone. “He said you’re both worried I’ll end up ‘like the fourth user’. What did he mean by that?”

All Might blanched. Opened and closed his mouth a couple of times. Then: “He said what?”

Izuku bristled where he stood. “So he does know something I don’t?”

His mentor was clearly taken aback. The man shifted on his feet uneasily. “Young Bakugo… spoke out of line.” He sounded frustrated. “I don’t know why he would—”

“You know what? I’m glad he said something. Otherwise I wouldn’t know you were still keeping things from me,” Izuku accused, crossing his arms. His heart thrummed wildly in his chest. He didn’t enjoy speaking to his childhood hero this way— not at all. But the ache of betrayal had resurfaced with a vengeance as soon as All Might confirmed speaking to Bakugo.

All Might looked stricken with shock at his successor’s sudden assertiveness. “Midoriya—”

The hurt welled up in Izuku again and it overflowed; gushing out, out, out. “I’ve had people choose to trust Bakugo over me my entire life,” Izuku blurted out, tears falling as soon as they’d formed. “If you… if you start doing that, too, I can’t… I can’t…”

The desperation in his voice startled even himself. All Might’s face immediately crumpled with it. As if spurred to action the man crossed the rest of the room, hands reaching out to hold Izuku’s shoulders, but Izuku quickly backed away, right out of his mentor's reach. He willfully ignored the man's wounded look as he squatted down, knees cracking loudly with the effort, to be eye level with Izuku. Concern— along with something akin to panic— had washed over the man’s harsh features. “Midoriya, my boy, I haven’t chosen anyone over you. Not in this, not ever.”

Izuku refused to look at him; couldn't trust his tears to refrain from becoming full on waterworks. He was frustrated enough with his own emotions for taking the wheel so quickly. He stubbornly stuck to looking out the rain-stained window. A flash of lightning lit up the sky, briefly illuminating the small office space. The thunder rolled in soon after.

“This information was in no way exclusive to Bakugo. He was merely inquiring into the notebook I showed both of you.”

“What information, though?” Izuku snapped, tears still rolling. “Whatever you told him, it was important enough to scare him.” He couldn't stop his hurt from bleeding into each word. It was heard loud and clear, too, judging by the way All Might looked more and more pained. “I’ve given you plenty of chances to tell me whatever you told him. I ask you all the time how your research is going, if there’s anything I can help you with. Do you… do you not trust me?”

“Oh, my boy,” All Might murmured. His voice was tired, yet impossibly gentle, even in the face of Izuku’s accusing tirade. “It has nothing to do with trust. Please never doubt that I trust you. It’s… I don’t know all the details of what I was speculating with Bakugo. I just didn’t want you to be burdened with information that may or may not be true.”

“That’s been your excuse for not telling me things before, too,” Izuku pointed out bitterly. “When has that ever ended well?”

All Might studied him for a long moment. He looked both guilty and torn, as if deciding between several things he wanted to say. “You’re absolutely right in that we need to make decisions together,” the hero finally said carefully. “This is a partnership, and not a dictatorship, after all." His eyes, still brimming with concern, searched Izuku's teary face. "But, Young Midoriya, the fact of the matter is this: I am your mentor, and you're still a child. I am entitled to keep certain things to myself. Especially until I can discern whether they’re even true or not. Why would I give you information that’s not been verified— especially when it would only cause you to worry?”

“Whatever it is, it’s worrying you,” Izuku argued persistently. He wiped at his face with an already rain-dampened sleeve. “I've seen the way you’ve been the last few weeks. I knew it was something to do with One for All, too, because you're always working on that notebook. You’ve been getting less sleep; you're always caught up with your research. Who says that I’m okay with you shouldering everything alone?”

“Again— I hate to keep pulling this card, kid, I really do— but you are the child,” All Might reiterated. His tone was growing increasingly firm, starting to leave less room for argument. “I’m not about to burden you with any more than is absolutely necessary. You shoulder enough crap that you shouldn’t need to.”

“Or you just don’t trust me to shoulder more,” Izuku grumbled out. A small part of him, the part that could still identify reason, told him he might be being excessively stubborn. Izuku had encountered enough stubborn people to recognize it, because speaking with them felt almost impossible— like talking to a brick wall. And right now, Izuku felt darn near immovable. He was aware that he wasn’t hearing everything All Might was trying to say, that he was nitpicking the parts that would allow him to lash out.

But it was as if the same inner child that had risen to Bakugo's bait today was here to stay, finally allowing himself the tantrum he'd never before dared to throw. Always too considerate of others and what made them comfortable. And even in the discomfort his 'tantrum' was currently causing, it felt almost cathartic. A release of sorts: the unheard quirkless boy was once again trying to voice his pain, but this time, he demanded it be heard.

All Might ran a weary hand down his face. “I don’t think you’re hearing me, kid, because we’re officially going around in circles here.” A hint of exasperation had begun to creep it’s way into his tone. “It’s not a matter of that. I do trust you.”

“You don’t though.” 

All Might rose from the uncomfortable looking crouch he’d been in, throwing his hands in the air as if in defeat. “What do you need me to say, here, Midoriya?” His voice warred between demanding and pleading. “I’ve given you my reasoning. I don’t know what— what can I do to convince you otherwise?”

“Tell me whatever you told Kacchan about the fourth user,” Izuku demanded. “I don’t care if it’s speculation, or a rumor, whatever. You say you’re trying to keep me from having to worry, but today Kacchan told me that I have you 'freaked out'. You think knowing that isn't stressful for me? You might as well just tell me. If you keep on hiding things from me…” I’ll keep wondering if it’s because you don’t find me worthy enough, or trustworthy enough, to know them. "The pattern is that something bad happens every time you try to 'save' me by not telling me things. What’s it going to take for me to get information before a crisis has to happen? Another arch-nemesis of One for All showing up out of the woodwork? One of my new quirks backfiring on me?”

The next words felt like acid on his tongue, but he released them, anyway. They’d burned just as badly when Bakugo had thrown them at him, after all. “Kacchan seems so convinced I’m going to drive myself to an early grave, so maybe that would finally convince you you should’ve talked to me earlier—”

“Midoriya Izuku.” All Might’s voice was like a thunderclap, laden with both anguish and fury. It caused Izuku to literally jump. “That’s enough.” Of all the accusations he’d thrown at his mentor, today, nothing had seemed to wound him as deeply as this. “Of course I’m not going to wait until you’ve— you’ve—” He didn’t even seem able to finish the sentence. “How could you even suggest something like that? What on Earth has gotten into you?"

Well, there was certainly no turning back, now. Izuku felt a bit queasy under the wrath of his mentor, but he'd been pushing and prodding for this. At this point he'd just have to keep plowing through headfirst to the finish line. He glared up at his hero, who was now glaring right back.

Is this what you wanted, Izuku? that small part of him asked.

"You want the truth, then?" Oh, yeah, All Might was angry. Izuku's jab had definitely done the trick. "The truth is this: yes, I've been worried. Why in the hell wouldn't I be worried? The fourth user died young— as you know all the users relatively did— and it's very possible that this has to do with the very nature of One for All. You, as well as the rest of us, may have a shortened lifespan due to the very nature of our quirk. And seeing as... seeing as your body has already taken such a toll, all while you're still so young..." All Might's face was pinched. Guilt began to roil up in Izuku's gut. "I don't want to accept things like that, to make you think about that, until I know it's true. You're a teenage boy, you should be... you should be worrying about passing your classes, for God's sake."

For the very first time in this conversation, Izuku was the one rendered speechless. His hands began to fidget. "All Might..."

"Another possibility is that the fourth's quirk was... I've been fearful that, whatever it is, when it does appear, it won't be a good match for you," All Might continued on bitterly. "It's possible that his own quirk lead to his death— and that worries me just as much."

It was becoming, disturbingly so, more and more clear as to why Bakugo had said what he did today. "Why- why do you think it won't be a good match?" Izuku stammered out meekly.

"Because I suspect his quirk was something borderline self-sacrificial. And you... you already have a tendency to act that way." The heaviness in All Might's voice weighed on Izuku, too. "You only think of others. It's a wonderful trait with a glaring blindspot, and that's when it comes to anything to do with yourself. For me to know that- that you have a quirk hidden in there somewhere that might reveal itself at any time, that might project you to that kind of fate more quickly..." All Might's voice shuddered on an exhale. "Yes, it scares me. You going and trying to activate a quirk with that sort of nature scares me. I do trust you, Midoriya, in all ways but one: and that's when it comes to keeping yourself safe. And since I'm not... since I'm not physically able to do that for you anymore..." his voice cracked, along with the rest of Izuku's resolve. His mentor regathered himself. "I won't apologize for what I can do to protect you. If your wellbeing means me keeping certain things to myself until I think you're ready— then so be it."

He looked down at Izuku, thunderous and determined. "You place plenty of value on everyone but yourself. And if this is the only thing I can say to get through to you— you can't be a hero long-term with that kind of mindset. You can't, Midoriya."

As Izuku stared up at his hero, chest heaving with emotion, he was unexpectedly stricken by a vivid memory of his mother.

"Oh, Izuku," she'd sobbed, holding him to her chest, one of the many days he'd come home from school, expression blank and injuries from bullies hidden. "When will I be able to stop worrying about you?"

You're still causing everyone to fret over you, aren't you? a familiar voice, Izuku's lifelong shadow, whispered in his ear. Funny you ever thought you could rely on yourself. People have always felt the need carry your extra weight.

"You act like you want to be the Number One Hero, but if you keep this shit up, you’ll never live to see the day," Bakugo’s voice rung through his head. "It’s no fucking wonder you have All Might so freaked."

"Your very nature limits you— you have to keep that in mind," the adults of his past said.

"You can’t be a hero long-term with that kind of mindset. You can’t, Midoriya," All Might’s voice echoed again.

You are a burden, his own voice said, the loudest and clearest of them all. You heard All Might. You’re a burden on him, just by being who you are. You're the reason he’s been running himself ragged with stress. And now here you are, throwing a tantrum like a child, all because the Symbol of Peace didn't do things your way.

If All Might had chosen differently, had picked someone more level-headed, he wouldn’t have to deal with any of this.

The waves of guilt were strong enough to have cleared his head where it had been previously fogged with anger. But the wounded child within Izuku needed validation for just one more thing. The most important thing.

"You say you trust me, so be honest with me," Izuku said numbly. "Please be honest. I have to know." All Might shifted a bit, his small nod indicating he was listening, even as his jaw was still tight with anger.

"Does any part of you regret giving me One for All?"

That was the last thing All Might was expecting out of Izuku, based on the way his jaw absolutely dropped. He'd gaped helplessly, wordlessly at Izuku—

And—

It's possible he would have answered eventually. Izuku wouldn't know, because Present Mic arrived, then, in apparent determination to win the award for 'Most Horrid Timing on Earth'. The hero stepped noisily into the office behind them, and the boom of thunder nearly shook the walls, it's volume amplified with the sudden opening of the door.

"Yo, Yagi," Present Mic exclaimed, pulling his umbrella to shut, wiping his muddy boots off on the mat. "Sorry, I would've knocked, but it's raining so hard out there, I didn't think you'd hear it. Principal Nezu wanted me to drop off these— oh, hey, Midoriya-ah," he stammered out suddenly, eyes flicking back and forth between mentor and student. "I, ah— shit, I'm sorry. Am I interrupting something? I can... come back later—"

Without looking back Izuku sprinted for the door, straight past Present Mic, who jumped back with his hands up in surrender. "Whoa, kid, you don't need to leave!"

Yes, actually, he did need to leave. Couldn't bear to stay here another moment if he tried.

Because All Might, interruption or no, had hesitated.

And that alone was enough of an answer for him.

It wasn't until sometime after two a.m. that Izuku finally managed to get ahold of himself.

Countless times since then he'd picked up his phone, glancing at it before placing it back on his nightstand, repeating the process every few minutes or so. He'd opened it up to his text conversation with All Might. Nothing had been sent or received since a few days ago, when they'd been casually discussing something for class.

He had a bit more clarity, now. It had taken more than a few rounds of frustrated tears to reach it. After hours of agonizing, replaying the conversation in his head, hearing things he hadn't allowed himself to the first time, Izuku had firmly pushed his wailing inner child back in his place. His childhood idol wasn't perfect, and his logic may have not even have been, either; but his mentor was only human. And Izuku had had the gall to freak out on him for being such. As if All Might hadn't had enough pressure from the world to be faultless.

Of course he had hesitated at Izuku's final question. Izuku had just spent the last several minutes raging senselessly at the man; what else had he expected? 'Yes, I'm thrilled to have this clearly emotionally unstable boy, who I've just spent time explaining is far too reckless for the quirk I've gifted him— the very same one who's been screaming at me for the last few minutes now— as my successor. Couldn't be happier!' Really, if the man had been about to say 'yes', Izuku would never be able to blame him.

Izuku would do his best to make this up to his hero.

A couple of times his fingers had began to type out a text, itching to say something, stopping and erasing when it never seemed good enough.

He was so sorry, though. He was so sorry.

Before he knew it he'd fallen into a light, restless sleep; after what only seemed like minutes, he was awoken by an excitable human alarm clock named Iida, shaking him and ordering him to go brush his teeth. Immediately he'd checked his phone, still being held loosely in his hand, to see if he'd ever ended up sending anything, or perhaps if his mentor had reached out to him first.

Neither option had ever ended up happening.

Present day :

The moment Isago demands for Izuku's beloved hero to publicly humiliate himself, to denounce everything he's ever stood for, to grovel to this no-name of a villain for Izuku's sake, Izuku makes his decision without even a second thought.

"Give me an hour." Izuku blurts this out loudly enough to where he hopes Yaoyorozu can hear him through the phone. His voice interrupts the specifics Isago is walking Yaoyorozu through about the Tartarus villain (such as 'release them in a public place', 'I'll need video proof as it happens', etc.). Both Isago and Watanabe's eyes snap to coldly land on Izuku. "Yaoyorozu— give me an hour. Don't let UA give in to this guy, not yet, just— ask them to give me an hour," he reiterates pleadingly. "Ask them to please trust me."

Releasing a villain from Tartarus was... Izuku isn't even sure if that would be plausible. Even if it was-- who knows how many innocent people that would put into harm's way? And as far as All Might's specific request went...

Izuku has clearly caused his mentor enough grief. He refuses to be this entitled villain's bargaining chip; refuses to be any more of a burden to his hero than he's already proven to have been.

I'm getting out of here. And I'm taking the antidote with me.

It's possible that even an hour will be pushing it. Isago had told him he has 'an hour to an hour-and-a-half'. So Izuku will play it safe, for his own sake, and he'll bank on one hour only.

Ideally, though, I'll get back to everyone sooner than that. I don't think I'm that far from the hotel. Isago won't stop looking out the window— maybe we're still even within view of it. If I can just get the antidote back to them, it can be tested for it's ingredients— Yaoyorozu or a medical team can multiply it, and we can all be healed.

But if I take the entire hour... At this point, it's hard to say if his pouring sweat is due to nerves or illness. It's possible it might be too late for me by the time I get to them. But at least I could still save everybody else.

The rest of those poisoned have more time on the clock than he does. If he does die in the process, or fails otherwise, UA will still have time to bargain for everyone else's sake. Hopefully help will have arrived by then to save the hotel's victims another way.

A sharp knee to his chest yanks him out of his thoughts, and Izuku yelps with the pain of it. "Mind your place, brat," Isago snarls. "You're hardly in any position to be throwing out demands of your own."

To Izuku's spiking alarm, when he coughs this time (which is beginning to sound more and more horrible), a small amount of blood sprays onto the floor between them. He glares darkly, determinedly, up at his captor. Isago grins right back at him, eyes glinting with challenge.

Hopefully Yaoyorozu heard him. Not only for the chance to spare UA of fulfilling any ransom— but the thought of putting this guy in his place isn't half-bad, either.

An hour, he thinks resolutely.

I can do anything in an hour.

Chapter Text

Momo stands frozen, and the rest of the room seems to have iced over, too. Iida and the cameraman have their eyes glued to her dutifully. The drop of a pin could be heard in the silence of their wait.

“I just heard Midoriya,” Momo finally breathes out. She covers the phone’s mouthpiece with her hand so that this won’t be heard by ‘Plague’. The villain is currently busy snapping at Midoriya for his outburst. “He asked me— asked all of us— to ‘give him an hour’.” 

She flinches when she hears Midoriya yelp as if struck. His subsequent coughing fit has grown deeper, hoarser than earlier. He sounds awful. “It…” She wills herself not to start crying. “It sounds like they're hurting him for trying to talk to me…”

Iida’s face tightens. “Give him an hour?” he reiterates sharply. His usual intensity has heightened into something more fierce with the knowledge of harm befalling his friend. “What do you think he meant by that?”

“He doesn’t want UA to give into the demands,” Momo explains shakily. “Maybe he thinks he has a way out.”

Plague is speaking to her again; quickly, she releases her hold over the mouthpiece. “I’ll give UA some time to make their arrangements,” the villain says. His tone holds significantly less patience after Midoriya’s unexpected interruption. “Expect a call back from me shortly. I’ll be checking in to ensure things are on the move.”

Midoriya’s hacking in the background is sounding increasingly weak. Panic bubbles up within Momo. “Wait!” she exclaims before the villain can hang up, or move to hurt Midoriya again. She doesn’t know how else to aid her classmate in this moment except to plead. “Please, don’t— don’t hurt Midoriya anymore. Just leave him alone.”

Plague huffs out a laugh. “Sorry, sweetheart. Afraid that’s not up to you. That’ll depend on him and how well he decides to behave. With how lippy he’s getting, All Might would be wise to hurry things along.”

The call ends with a ‘click’.

Momo hastily relays any unheard parts of the conversation, along with descriptors of Midoriya’s deteriorating condition. “Maybe they’ve told Midoriya something?” she suggests, a hand fiddling with her bangs nervously. “He must know something we don’t. Right? To ask for such a specific time frame…”

“Mr. Aizawa,” Iida says, voice firm. He turns to address the cameraman as well. Behind his spectacles, grey eyes glint with newfound determination. “If UA is willing to abide by Midoriya’s request, I ask that Yaoyorozu and I be permitted to utilize that time, as well.” Momo looks at him questioningly.

“There were two men up on stage with Midoriya,” her classmate explains. “Clearly the second man had a transportation quirk. I’m not certain whether the poison itself was something man-made, or Plague’s own quirk; regardless, it seems unlikely that he himself is the one creating the barrier around the hotel. I’m only going based off of how most quirks operate, but I’d think he’d have to be actively concentrating to hold a field this large for this long. It's more probable that the field is being created by a third person. And I’m not certain where those two men took Midoriya,” his eyes meet Momo’s, “but that third person would most likely still be in this building. Within the field itself.”

“It’s where they’d be the safest,” Momo agrees, eyes widening. “Holding this barrier from somewhere outside is too risky, seeing as they have to have counted on Pro Heroes arriving. The entire surrounding area will probably be searched.”

“If you’ll choose to trust in Midoriya, and in us, Sensei,” Iida declares, “allow us to use Midoriya’s time request to find this potential third party. I don’t know what exactly Midoriya is hoping to pull off...” His expression falters before hardening again. “But he's never let me down before. Not once. And if Yaoyorozu and I are able to successfully detain this villain in the meanwhile, we have a chance to bring down the barrier between us. Everyone here can get the medical help they need.”

Aizawa’s silence over the line has stretched on so long, Momo has started to wonder if maybe he'd hung up on them. “We’re dealing with too many unknowns, here,” Aizawa finally says through what sounds like gritted teeth. “We have no idea what ‘an hour’ means for Midoriya’s health. Or yours.”

“I guess... that’s where trusting him comes into play,” Momo says softly. “He must have a reason for requesting that specific amount of time.”

“I… need to hang up for a moment, to speak with UA.” Aizawa’s sigh crackles through the speaker. “Pick up the phone immediately when I call back. Be careful.”

Be careful?  “Are you… giving us permission to try to find the villain?”

“It’s possible UA won’t be willing to stand back,” Aizawa responds. “However— I’m not going to be the one to tell you ‘no’ to taking action in the wait for decisions to be made. I am going to insist on staying connected to you both in the meanwhile, though, so I’ll say it again: pick up this phone immediately when I call back. We don’t know how capable this potential third villain would be. And you both have been…” He trails off with a frustrated huff. “Brush up on your game plan while I discuss things with UA.”

Another ‘click’. Silence follows it, heavier than ever until it’s broken by Iida, who lifts his arm to cough into the crook of it. A faint sheen of sweat has gathered onto his brow. Momo herself fights against a sudden swell of nausea.

Oh... oh, no. The symptoms are beginning.

‘One hour’, Midoriya had pleaded at the expense of that madman’s anger. Momo turns to face the camera.

“We trust Midoriya,” she tells UA. Fearfully, determinedly. “Please, if you would— place your trust in us, too.”

They are all well-trained professionals here, Hizashi knows. Some of the most qualified in the country, in fact. Saving people from unfortunate situations is quite literally in their job description. Point being: the ‘unfortunate’ part of all this really shouldn’t come as a surprise to any one of them. If heroes are summoned to handle a crisis, they’re not typically arriving into a situation involving smiles or sunshine, or even basic concepts like ‘fairness’.

Things such as ‘calm’ and ‘logic’ and even ‘mental clarity’ want to fly right out the window whenever these things concern people you actually know, though, and attachment to people isn’t something so easily stomped out by training. The thought of losing someone you care for is never not terrifying. Having your own students threatened, held out of reach, and to your latest knowledge, dying— kids who you’ve trained and helped nourish, who you’ve proudly watched get their sea legs over the past year— is no exception.

Part of the staff has boarded onto one of UA’s small emergency aircrafts. Regardless of the decisions they end up making, they are working under a time limit, and they’ll need to arrive on the scene as quickly as possible. Unsurprisingly, everyone is tense where they’d normally attempt to act a little more level-headedly, a bit more reassuringly. 

But there is ‘reasonably on edge'— and then there is Shouta and Yagi.

It may be putting it too simplistically (the comparison is kind of childlike, but Hizashi likes it, anyway) but Shouta and Yagi have always reminded him of a cat and a dog. Shouta is a cat because... yeah, does he even need to explain that any further? The guy is what he’d call an acquired taste. He’s slinky, he creeps around, and he doesn’t like his hair getting wet. He’s secretly a big softy, too, but this is met with indignant hissing if ever said to his face. Yagi is like a big and lovable retriever— that one hardly needs explaining, either. The dude is loyal and boisterous, and sometimes a little clumsy over his own giant paws. The universally ‘family friendly’ pet.

The two men have next to nothing in common but, normally, they coexist without too much of a problem. Perhaps even with a quiet mutual respect for one another’s strange methods. They’ve certainly snapped at eachother once or twice; due to their inherent differences, it’s not often they see eye-to-eye. And each of them has the tendency to be incredibly stubborn once their mind is set on something.

Usually, though, the type of circumstances that tend to rile them up as individuals are pretty different. That’s why he’s always sort of left in awe when they’re able to unite in righteous anger over the same thing. It’s like watching a cat and a dog teaming up to defend their home against the mailman. Or something.

Anyway— where was he going with this? Oh, yeah. The two are currently reminding Hizashi a bit of animals again.

(Except they’re significantly scarier than the pets Hizashi has playfully assigned them to. In fact, today has reminded Hizashi of one important fact: there aren’t two people he’d less rather fuck with.)

Earlier, Hizashi had had to hold the phone several inches away from his ear, because Shouta had been letting his thoughts over the situation be known in no gentle manner. Ever since he’s called back after getting a hold of their students, though, Shouta has been simmering in a silence that Hizashi has come to know to be dangerous.

His friend is something like a time-bomb even on the best of days. Ticking, ticking, ticking; steady, monotone and routine, right up until he’s set off. And best of luck in helping to pick up all the bits and pieces of debris in the smoky aftermath.

Hizashi knows Shouta. Many years of poking and prodding have taught him how to both cause and avoid such an explosion. He knows the man has to be practically wearing a hole in the ground from pacing outside of that hotel. Nezu had earlier instructed him to step away from the building, in case any poisonous gas had managed to seep through, and the command had been swatted away like a bothersome fly. “If it were to reach me, it would have done so already. This barrier can’t hold up forever. I’ll be here when it falls.” His colleague has been rendered powerless aside from making phone calls back and forth, listening in on actions being taken via speaker. To be just out of reach of the students he’d been responsible for— just a wall away and unable to do anything—

No doubt, this is killing him.

Shouta is an undeniable hardass on those kids. Some would argue to the extreme— and they’d be right. But Hizashi knows that it’s only so they have a chance at staying alive in situations like this one.

And Yagi… Yagi…

Unlike Shouta, Yagi is anything but silent. Hizashi can only imagine the look on Shouta’s face right now, but he has a clear view of the one on Yagi’s. For the first time ever, Hizashi can’t help but feel a pang of sympathy for the past villains All Might has put away. He’s certain at least a handful of them had to have straight up pissed their pants.

All this to say: Yagi is not taking the news very well.

“— and what exactly is it that you’re waiting for, Nezu? As if his life is worth something as silly as my pride? Just put a damn camera on me and—”

“Not yet,” Nezu says, impassive as stone. Yagi abruptly stands, pacing the cramped space like a caged animal. His large frame and heavy footfall nearly have Hizashi worrying that the aircraft will shake in midair.

(Unlike Shouta, Yagi has been given the option to take action, but that one option is currently being forcefully wrangled right out of his hands.)

“You’re asking me to just sit here,” Yagi’s growl actually makes Hizashi’s hair stand on end, “when Young Yaoyorozu just confirmed she can hear them hurting Midoriya—”

“I am asking you to use your better judgement. You need to calm yourself, All Might, you’re letting your personal feelings cloud things.” Nezu is by far the most outwardly calm one on the aircraft in the face of Yagi’s tirade, even as he’s the indirect focus of it. The rest of the staff has quieted down to watch the exchange in slight shock. “You’re forgetting what else Yaoyorozu told us: Midoriya received that very backlash because he asked us to trust him. He asked us to wait. He knows something we don’t.”

“My ‘better judgement’ tells me not to trust men who resort to poisoning children to make a point,” the retired hero grounds out. If Hizashi wasn’t fully aware of how highly Yagi respects Nezu, he’d be more than a little worried for their rodent principal, right now. “Who knows if they’re going to give us the time Midoriya has asked for?”

“The demands themselves are odd,” Nezu counters. “They don’t seem correlated. It’s entirely possible that this man does have a personal qualm with you— but if that were the case, why not select a specific villain to demand the release of, such as All for One? Why leave the choice up to us? What is he to gain from these requests? His only aim may be control, or simply chaos.”

“Does it matter what his goal is?” Hizashi pipes in. “The kids’ lives are still on the line.”

“Yagi isn’t being unreasonable in this, Nezu,” Shouta pipes in over the phone. “Midoriya’s request wasn’t exactly discreet. Even if he does know something, it’s entirely possible they’ve switched up their plans due to him reaching out. This villain sounds unstable as hell.”

“We can’t just immediately give into one demand while we hem-and-haw over the other,” Nezu says haltingly. “Not when both involve lives on the line. And you all know it.” Yagi’s jaw ticks. Shouta grumbles something unintelligible over the line. “This ‘Plague’ seems to have greatly overestimated my pull with the government,” Nezu continues. “I’m in the middle of trying to communicate with them over whether such a feat with Tartarus would even be plausible. It’s not something I can make happen with the snap of my fingers. They’ll share our same fears; will this man even hold up to his word? It’s entirely a gamble— and it's one they may not be willing to make.”

“Fake a villain’s release, somehow,” Hizashi says, throwing his hands up. “Use old footage. Film fake footage. Whatever— how’s he gonna know the difference?”

“That’s precisely the problem. Would he know the difference? We simply don’t know enough about him.” Whereas Yagi has stopped, Nezu begins to pace. A paw pulls ponderingly at his chin. “Does he himself have higher ties? If he’s somehow able to discern a fake, he’ll kill Midoriya, anyway. That needs to be taken into consideration.”

He pins Yagi with a solemn look. “Publicly admitting defeat isn’t ultimately going to save Midoriya, All Might. Not if this villain believes we've failed to fulfill a deal with Tartarus.”

The aircraft groans as it hits a bout of turbulence. Anyone still standing takes a seat, save for Yagi and Nezu; they merely reach out to touch a wall or seat to steady themselves. Yagi visibly deflates a bit from where he’s been standing tall with fury.

“Scans of the villains’ faces from the video are being run to help identify who they are,” Nezu attempts to reassure him. “No one seems to recognize either one off the bat. Once we gather more information, though, we'll have a clearer vision on where to go from there. But even so— we need time to sort out these logistics. We need to take the time that Midoriya has asked us for; to speak with government officials, to consider alternative methods.

“And so, All Might, you will do as we ask— as your student was brave enough to ask, all at the expense of these villains’ wrath— and you will wait.”

The rest of the fight seems to drain out of Yagi. He lowers slowly into a nearby seat, placing his head in his hands with a long, shaky sigh. The rest of the staff has started to look away, as if to give the hero as much privacy as the tiny aircraft will allow. Nezu looks at him with unmistakable sympathy.

“I’m sorry, All Might,” the principal says, softly enough to where Hizashi is certain no one else hears. He himself is the nearest one, and he almost misses it. “I know what he means to you.”

“No,” Yagi murmurs back, voice thick. “You don’t.”

Nezu’s face softens further. “You have to trust that you’ve trained him well. Besides that— we’re not just sitting idly by, nor are we leaving this solely upon his shoulders. We’re on the move. Try not to mistake my reasoning with being uncaring. We will get our students back.”

Face still hidden in his hands, Yagi’s only answer is a curt nod.

The principal turns on his heel to head towards the front of the aircraft, pulling his phone to his ear. Shouta hangs up on Hizashi just as abruptly, insisting that he needs to get back to the kids. Left with nothing to distract him other than the low hum of the aircraft, Hizashi watches Yagi with growing pity. This side of Yagi is… well, unfamiliar, to say the least.

Actually, Hizashi has seen a lot of previously unwitnessed sides of the Symbol of Peace in the past twenty-four hours. He feels as though he’s just been walking into one storm after another.

Last night when he’d interrupted what he knew had to be an argument between Midoriya and Yagi— based on the kid’s splotchy, teary face, and his colleague’s clenched jaw— he’d wondered, not for the first time, if those old rumors that flew around campus were true. The ones about Midoriya being Yagi’s secret kid. What Hizashi had unintentionally barged in on had 100% looked and felt like a familial argument.

Midoriya had sped past Hizashi, and the look on Yagi’s face had nearly sent Hizashi running right along with him. He’d stood in the doorway in what quickly made for one of the most awkward moments of his life, the torrent of rain pounding so hard it splashed inside and onto the mat.

“Do you, ah…” he’d pointed back out the doorway with a thumb, “wanna talk about that?”

Immediately he was answered by a harsh, breathed out “No.” Yagi’s demeanor had then sagged similarly to how it’s doing now. The old hero had moved to sit down at his desk, pinching his brow with his fingers, posture slumped. Hizashi’s second attempt to help was waved off weakly, and so he’d finally ceded. He'd set his delivery onto Yagi’s desk, apologizing for… whatever the hell had just happened.

He’d left, and he hadn’t seen the retired hero again until they’d met in Nezu’s office to watch the conference. Even then, Hizashi had kept his lips sealed. Yagi had seemed determined to stay a closed book on the matter, and so Hizashi wouldn’t push.

But now, after Yagi’s emotional exchange with Nezu, Hizashi can’t help but wonder again about those incessant rumors.

He chances a question he hasn’t asked in a while.

“Yagi,” Hizashi says gently. He hasn’t stopped feeling like he needs to walk on eggshells around the man. Yagi acknowledges him with the slightest rise of a brow. “That guy’s request regarding Midoriya is awfully… specific.” Yagi stiffens under his hands. “Are… are you sure that you and Midoriya aren’t related? And that this guy didn’t find that out, somehow? I mean… if you think he might be specifically targeting you, or has some beef with you, that information could be helpful. Narrow down who this guy is— or even if he’s working for someone else. If— if you still wanted to keep your ties to the kid on the downlow, no one else outside of this group would have to know.”

Rather than acting flabbergasted while denying the accusation, as the man has done in the past, Yagi merely sighs. “I’ve already spoken with Nezu about the possibility of something like that,” he mutters after a beat. “He thinks it’s unlikely that I’m being directly targeted at all.” The hero hesitates. “And no. We are... not related.” His voice is heavy with… regret? “Not in the way that you’re thinking.”

Huh. That’s… not much of an answer. But one look at Yagi’s crestfallen expression has Hizashi dropping the matter like a hot potato. Instead he slumps back in his seat, letting out a heavy ‘whoosh’ of a sigh, his foot tapping at the floor impatiently. Though the Imperial Hotel is an hour away by train, flying will shave the time down to about twenty minutes or so. By the time they can even arrive on the scene, that’s already a third of what Midoriya has asked for. Time seems simultaneously too fast and too slow.

“I’m sorry,” he says, sincerity coloring his tone. Yagi finally lifts his head from his hands. “I agree with you, you know. Sitting and waiting— it sucks. It fucking sucks.” Hizashi bites the inside of his cheek. “The kids each seem to have a game plan, though, and I believe in them. They’ll manage to keep themselves alive until we can intervene.” 

UA’s hands may be frustratingly tied for the moment, but someone here has to remain optimistic in favor of those kids. And since the Symbol of Peace seems so unable to give his trademark smile, Hizashi can only attempt to fill the man’s gigantic shoes.

He won’t delve into the possibilities of what Midoriya’s plan in particular might be, though. Not right now; not with Yagi. He doesn’t want to direct the hero’s attention to what may or may not be happening to the kid at this moment. Hizashi had been there for Yagi’s initial reaction to Yaoyorozu’s tearful confirmation of Midoriya being harmed by the villains, thank you, and subsequently, he won’t be touching the subject of Midoriya's wellbeing with a ten foot pole. 

(As pointed out earlier, thanks to Shouta, Hizashi is an exceedingly quick learner when it comes to knowing what will set someone off.)

“For being thrown into this shit, they really are handling the situation like pros. They’re brilliant kids, Yagi. We’ve got to give them credit where credit is due.”

“Yes,” Yagi agrees on an exhale. He straightens in his seat, as though attempting to regather himself. “They are brilliant.” The shadows hooding his eyes are especially grim, though, and the blue of his iris’ glint brightly in contrast. “They’re not the ones I’m wary to place faith in.”

“Yeah,” Hizashi sighs again. “I know.”

Fuck this day, Shouta thinks.

Fuck this situation. Fuck ‘Plague’, that arrogant prick. Fuck the local authorities for attempting to usher Shouta away from the hotel while they checked the surrounding air for poisonous gas. It's clean, they've confirmed— which is fantastic, really. It’s just that Shouta has already tried to tell everyone that he’s been right outside the building this entire time, so fleeing at this point wouldn’t have done him any good, anyway.

Besides— he’s not about to up and leave his students. 

Not again.

Actually, he’ll take that last ‘fuck’ back; calling the authorities has been the one useful action Shouta’s been able to take all day. Already they are on the move, evacuating any guests from every floor above where the invisible field ends. The ones equipped with the ‘powerhouse’ quirks are attempting to see if any one of them will be effective in breaking into the barrier.

Still, though. Fuck the rest of the things he’d mentioned.

But most of all— fuck Shouta himself for ever walking out that door.

It’s not that he’s given into the despair of thinking they’ll never see their students alive again. Shouta, contrary to how others might peg him, wouldn’t consider himself a pessimist. He does consider himself a realist, however, and the reality here is that their options are limited. The whole thing makes him grind his teeth, easing up only when he thinks they might start to crack.

There are few things he hates worse than feeling trapped.

The fear in Yagi’s voice had been clear as day, even over the crappy quality of the phone’s speaker. Yagi, ever the optimist, may be more emotionally driven than Shouta, but he is actually more rational than people tend to give him credit for. And so Shouta had backed him based on that fact, along with one other: the two of them know Midoriya better than the rest of the staff does.

They both know that Midoriya's plea for their trust means he is thinking of others. It doesn’t necessarily mean that the kid is taking his own health into account.

(Again— not a pessimist. The kid’s mile-long track record validates Shouta’s concerns.)

“Eraserhead, sir,” one woman in uniform pants. She wipes away the beads of sweat trailing down her face. “We’re a smaller force. Our resources are fairly limited. We’ll manage to evacuate anyone above this barrier, but as far as breaking through it, we’ve had no such luck.”

Shouta grunts in response. “UA will be here shortly. One of their heroes’ quirks may fare better. We’ll see if maybe—” 

His focus is yanked to the phone at his ear when the sounds of coughing crackle through it. “Yaoyorozu,” he barks, turning away from the first responder. “Are you alright?”

Yaoyorozu stays quiet a moment too long for his liking. What feels like ice begins to pinprick at the inside of his chest. “Yaoyorozu,” Shouta repeats more firmly.

“Yes, sir, I’m fine. We’re just— people have begun to show minor symptoms,” she responds. “Very minor. We’re alright.” She speaks hurriedly to someone in the background. Based on all the extra noise, Shouta assumes the hotel crowd is starting to get restless.

Yaoyorozu then goes on to tell Shouta a bit of her and Iida’s plan; that they’ve chosen to split up while they still have more strength. Given that they’re working under a time restraint, they can cover more ground, this way. They’ll be sure to regather whenever the symptoms progress in order to move as a stronger unit, she says. 

Shouta nods curtly along with her words, even though she can’t see him. His eyes flick up to the hotel above. He watches distractedly as people are lifted and carried out windows.

“... Mr. Aizawa?” Yaoyorozu asks eventually, her hesitant voice drawing Shouta out of his busy thoughts. “Are you still there?”

Shouta's sigh is quiet. “Yeah, kid.” His chest constricts the slightest bit at the sound of her failing to hold back more of her coughing. "Still here."

And I won't be going anywhere, he doesn’t say aloud.

Chapter Text

With roughly forty-five minutes or less left on the clock, no, Izuku still does not have a plan.

He does have a freshly broken hand, though, which is the closest thing to victory he’s been able to claim today.

Even that achievement had taken longer than he’d hoped. Watanabe had stuck by him too closely; Izuku had felt less than confident in his ability to discreetly break bones under the man’s watchful eye. He knows his likelihood of successfully rushing both captors in this state is next to null. The element of surprise (hopes of, anyway) is just about the only card Izuku has up his sleeve.

Problem is, as much as he’d love to wait for an opportunity of some kind to present itself, time isn’t exactly a luxury he has. Each of his wheezy exhales have picked up a soft, high-pitched whistle. His sweat dampened dress shirt clings at him like a strangling embrace, doing little to guard him from his teeth-chattering chills. His vision occasionally wavers and blurs, like ripples in a pond, and stabbing pains shoot from his head to his toes.

He doesn’t need a clock in front of him to know he’s running out of time. He needs to do something.

This entire predicament has him backed into a corner so tightly that sheer, dumb luck may be the only thing to squeeze him out. And so he’d been mere seconds away from saying ‘screw it’ and jumping into whatever action he could manage to take– poor chances be damned– but then Isago had announced: “Ah, would you look at that, Watanabe! The cavalry’s arrived.” With that, Watanabe had finally pulled himself from Izuku’s side to join his partner at the window.

And Izuku wasted no more time.

The moment the lackey’s eyes left him, Izuku took both hands and pulled them into the beam at a horrible angle, twisting them impossibly past the point where circulation was allowed to his hands. Finally, with Izuku gritting his teeth and jerking his forearms upwards, one of his thumbs snapped under the relentless pressure with a sickening ‘pop’. Before his smarting hand could get the chance to swell, he’d pulled with all his might until it squeezed through the rope, masking his pain and his burning eyes behind a weakened coughing fit.

Currently he pants, blinking rapidly to clear the black spots dotting his vision. He keeps his arms lax behind the beam to look as though he’s still tied. He eyeballs the now-open path to the staircase, heart skipping a beat.

Now would be the perfect time to try and make a run for it…

… but I need that antidote. I can’t go back to everyone empty handed.

'You need to leave, Izuku,’ says another voice in his head. It startles him with its booming authority, but in its undercurrent lies concern, like… All Might? It’s maybe a little too forceful, too bossy, like Bakugo. Discerning like Tokoyami. A mismatched chorus of each voice that’s recently warned him of himself, synchronizing into one single plea in his head. ‘You need treatment. If you wait too long, you’ll be of no help to anyone. UA’s already arrived at the hotel– maybe everyone can be treated some other way.

'You’re dying, Izuku. You’re dying.’

I’m not leaving, his own voice decisively silences the rest. Not without that antidote.

“Huh… lots of big guns showed up,” Watanabe muses, eyes fixed outside the window. Izuku’s near-explosive coughing fits are nothing new to them, and so his captors don’t so much as bat an eye at the current noise. “You sure she can hold all of them off?”

“Oh, I’m sure.” Isago waves a flippant hand. “As long as she remains undisturbed.”

She? Izuku pauses. Is there another villain back at the hotel? Before he can wonder what to do with this slip of information, a loud ‘crash’ and resounding clatter ring out from a floor or two below. The three of them go completely still.

Izuku tries to slow his anxious breathing. His eyes flick between both captors.

“You said there was no one here,” Isago hisses after a beat. Watanabe shoots him an indignant look. “Yeah. Because there wasn’t.”

“Then what was that? Go take another look.”

“Boss, there’s no way in hell someone made it all the way up here that quickly. Half the stairs near the bottom are out. It’s probably just some animal that’s nested up in here.”

Isago exhales through his nose, tapping his foot irately, glaring at Izuku as if this is somehow his fault. Izuku frowns.

“You– fine, fine,” Watanabe sighs. “I’m going.” Isago waves him away dismissively. Watanabe glowers a bit as he heads for the staircase once more.

Izuku thanks his lucky stars (they’ve always been hard to spot); his captors are separating. And the bigger physical threat of the two is the one leaving. He doesn’t dare hope that the commotion on the floor below indicates help arriving, but whether it be a homeless person living in the building or a colony of rats that have knocked something over, Izuku could hardly care. A window to take action has opened itself up.

This is it.

Watanabe’s footsteps echo with his second descent. Izuku’s earlier scan of the near-empty room had only found one item of any significance– a tin bucket, tipped over in a corner under a stringy mass of cobwebs.

It’s not much. It’ll have to be enough.

“Hey, um…” What should he call him? ‘Isago’? ‘Plague’? He opts out of addressing the man altogether. “... I think I’m gonna be sick.”

Isago looks like he wants to laugh. “No shit, kid. You do remember you've been poisoned?”

Izuku fights not to roll his eyes. “Could… could you bring me that bucket to throw up in?” He lets his fatigue fully color his voice to further lessen himself as a threat.

Isago glances at the bucket, then at Izuku. A grimace pulls at his mouth. “What am I, your nursemaid? Just puke on the floor.”

Izuku’s heart rate kicks up a notch. “Well… if I throw up in the bucket, you can at least toss it out somewhere,” he suggests hoarsely. He doesn’t need to pretend to look and sound miserable– that part is coming quite naturally. “Otherwise, uh… we’ll both be stuck with the smell of vomit for awhile…”

Isago scowls in disgust. If you’re that squeamish about the side effects of poisoning people, Izuku thinks exasperatedly, maybe you should rethink your own methods. “Spoiled brat,” Isago spits. “Can’t even go one hour without needing some sort of special treatment.” To Izuku’s relief, though, the villain does head for the corner of the room, eyes trained on Izuku all the while.

Izuku keeps his expression blank. Thankfully, his nervous sweat is masked by his feverish one.

Isago swipes up the old bucket. He walks back over to where Izuku remains slumped against the pillar.

He's still a cautious few feet away, leaning forward to toss the bucket under Izuku’s chin with a disgruntled snarl–

And–

Like a bull geared to charge, Izuku launches himself off the pillar into the strongest headbutt he’s ever attempted. White stars explode into his vision when skull meets skull. Somewhere beyond the tea-kettle ringing of his own ears, he hears Isago’s pained roar; the man clutches at his own head while stumbling up and back, one hand groping blindly for his gun. Izuku throws himself into Isago’s midsection in a tackle before he can reach it. Together they fall, and with an eerie ‘crack’ of the back of Isago’s head meeting concrete, the villain goes still.

A secondary ‘crack’ is what pulls Izuku’s attention through the stars still dazzling his vision. Panting heavily, he pushes himself up and off of his captor. First and foremost, he checks that Isago hasn’t– well, died. He releases a shaky breath of relief at the sight of a rising chest and twitching eyelids.

Good. Izuku has never killed before– he hadn’t necessarily wanted to start today.

What’s not good is that the secondary ‘crack’ had been the man’s clunky, ancient looking phone. It’d been shoved into Isago’s back pocket– now, it lies busted open from impact. Shoot. Izuku frowns in frustration at the cracked device. It would have been helpful to get a call in to UA, or the authorities, or even his friends at the hotel…

He fumbles his unbroken hand around Isago’s shirt pocket until he pulls out a glass vial, cool to the touch. His relieved smile feels more like a grimace. His immediate fear had been that the antidote had shattered. He cradles the tube of purple, bubbling liquid more carefully than he remembers holding anything, and then he pockets it away.

In his short-lived victory he moves to stand, but with his head feeling like it might split open with every movement, it takes him a few tries. Eventually, unsteadily, he makes it to his feet.

The stars in his vision swirl together like a whirlpool with the upwards motion. Izuku takes another look at the unconscious villain below. Isago’s slumped form is seen in glimpses between swimming stars.

After all that talk, Izuku thinks with as much grim victory as he can muster, you got bested by a quirkless kid. How about that?

God, though, his head. It pounds like a sledgehammer. His swelling hand throbs like a heartbeat. His chest seizes, his stomach lurches–

True to his earlier word, he does end up vomiting, right onto the floor next to Isago. He misses the tin bucket the man had brought over to him.

Whoops.

“What’s happening?” Ochako blurts out when 1-A’s murmuring suddenly spikes in volume. “Did someone manage to get through?”

“No,” Jiro sighs, twiddling with an earphone jack between her fingers. “They were just hoping that Cementoss might be able to manipulate the ground underneath. Looks like he couldn’t.”

Ochako hops on her toes a few times in a frustrated attempt to better see the screen. Most people have gotten up and out of their seats, pacing or leaning against tables as the news plays out, and unfortunately for Ochako, she is not one of UA’s tallest. The screen is currently half-blocked by anxious students. She would simply use Zero Gravity to rise up and get a better viewing point, but Midnight already seems to be losing patience with her failed attempts to keep the class in line.

“I’m sorry, Kirishima, you know I am– but you also know very well why I can’t just take you all to the scene,” their teacher had said firmly, hands on her hips. “I know you want to help. Understandably so. But this is a job for the pros. They have plenty of hands on deck.”

“What if my quirk could get through, though?” Kirishima had demanded. A chorus of other students who were certain their quirks could be of use quickly chimed in. Midnight unsuccessfully motioned for everyone to simmer down, pressing a thumb to her forehead as if staving off a headache.

When most of UA’s teachers had suddenly up and bolted in the middle of an admittedly yawn-worthy mathematics lecture, 1-A had been more than confused. Just after Midnight had stepped in to take over Cementoss’ teaching period, giving a calm yet carefully vague explanation of ‘something requiring some of the pros’ attention’ popping up, Mineta had promptly screeched: “Guys! A news alert just popped up on my phone! Something happened at the conference!”

And that’s how they’ve found themselves with the classroom’s TV screen pulled down, flicked on to the news channel. All eyes remain glued to helicopters hovering over the scene, and to heroes– both local to the town and their own teachers– attempting to break through an invisible, impossible wall.

They’d not witnessed the initial fiasco live. But the moment that the clips were replayed of a very sickly Midoriya being grabbed by the villains and taken as hostage, 1-A had, for lack of a better term, freaked out.

“That nerd is such a goddamn trouble magnet,” Bakguo growls. His pen bends with a quiet ‘snap’ in the tightening grip of his fist. “I’m not even surprised.”

“What? This isn’t Midoriya’s fault, Bakugo,” Kaminari defends immediately. Bakugo taps his now-broken pen rapidly against his desk.

“Did I say it’s his fault? All I’m saying is I’m not surprised.”

An increasingly nervous Ochako wrings her hands. She shifts when a new presence to her right interrupts her train of thought. Todoroki has quietly made his way over to her from his usual seat in the class. “It’s alright,” he says lowly. His expression is guarded as usual, but the corners of his mouth have pulled into a frown. “I’m worried for them, too.”

They don’t have any more footage of what’s going on inside the hotel. Midnight, when pressed for more information, reluctantly told them what she knew– that particular footage isn’t being aired immediately to the public. So far, the only follow-up to Midoriya’s capture they’ve witnessed is various heroes trying and failing to break into the hotel.

“They’ll be okay,” she assures Todoroki with a confidence she's not sure she feels. Midoriya’s image appears again on the screen and she winces. He… he’d looked terrible. Oh, Deku. She goes back to wringing out her hands again.

With limited access to information, and no options to intervene, she’s left to pray that the three of them are able to successfully hold their own.

Vaguely, muffled by the tail-end of his own heaving, Izuku hears Watanabe yell out something indistinguishable from somewhere below.

He wipes at his face with a sleeve, ignoring the stark red smear left behind, and he scrambles to hide along the side of the staircase. A firecracker-like ‘crack’ whips the air near Isago’s unconscious form a moment before Watanabe’s image wobbles into view, like a lost TV channel finding focus. The man’s boots land with a heavy ‘thunk’ next to his newly incapacitated boss.

For a moment, all is still. Watanabe’s back is to Izuku. The lackey looks to the bucket, to Izuku's rope now lying on the ground, and then to Isago.

“Ah, fuck,” the man exclaims.

Don't think, Izuku. Just do!

Izuku is scurrying down the stairs before the man can so much as turn his head, three at a time, stumbling at the end and nearly slipping across debris-covered floor as he sharply rounds the first corner he finds.

Through his own noisy breathing he can hear Watanabe thundering after him. “You’re not gonna win this race, squirt, you think you can outrun me–?”

Izuku zips around yet another corner. He has no idea where he’s going– his only thought is to keep the burly villain off his tail. He clamors forwards when he spots the next staircase down. If there’s any actual single emergency stairwell, he hasn’t caught sight of it; many doors have been boarded off, so maybe it’s no longer usable. That’s alright. Izuku knows that if this does turn into a race– once consisting of him trying to outrun a man three times his size with a transportation quirk– running down an open stairwell in clear sight of Watanabe is definitely not the way to go.

No, he won’t be winning any race. But he might still win a mind-game. He has to hide.

He turns one more corner after reaching the next floor before he has to lean over and grab at his knees. Greedily he gasps for air his lungs don’t want to give. Rather than the relentless itch that had initially plagued his throat, and the raging soreness that followed, it now feels more as though stone hands have seized hold of his lungs, unwilling to let them fully expand. His legs tremble like jell-o under his hands.

The rest of the building is so quiet that, even from a floor below, he can hear the creaking of Watanabe’s slowing steps. Then, a sound that’s become familiar; static buzzing before a ‘crack’ like a sparkler. At the end of a darkened hallway, through rows of dirt-covered work cubicles, Izuku watches a blurred shape start to take form. The floor trembles with Watanabe’s landing. Rays of sunlight wash over the man through a half-boarded window, spotlighting the dust rising from the impact of his boots.

The villain cocks his head to the side, listening for Izuku.

Izuku shrinks in on himself, putting a hand over his mouth to muffle his breathing. He begins to inch backwards along a wall. Mercifully, the bit of sun peeking through doesn’t reach anywhere near him. Other than the scant amount of light let in through broken boards, the building’s lighting is dim. For once he’s thankful for his smaller size– he’s able to keep his steps light. They don’t give away his location like Watanabe’s thudding ones do.

Where’s the next staircase down? Izuku’s eyes flit around the darkened space. Several ‘thunks’ and resulting crashes occur as Izuku watches the walls of cubicles begin to collapse. Watanabe is impatiently knocking them down in his search. “Where are you, kid?” the man calls out. “You’re not gonna get anywhere far in your state. Might as well give up now.”

Izuku ducks behind a row of desks, crawling on his hands and knees over to what looks like the remains of a coffee refill station. Pain stabs at his broken hand as he repeatedly bears weight on it. He bites at the inside of his cheek.

A significantly closer ‘thud’ sends Izuku crawling a bit faster before his foot snags on some kind of cord. Blindly he scoots backwards, away from whatever’s ensnared him, when his back bumps into a vending machine.

The familiar ‘crunch’ of a bag of chips falls into the swinging door, ready to be consumed. It must have been just barely hanging on, too stubborn to come out for whoever had once tried to pay for it. The simple sound might as well be a bomb dropping in the silence. Izuku freezes.

Another ‘crack’ fills the air just over Izuku’s head and tousles his hair. He darts to dive behind a haphazardly placed filing cabinet only seconds before Watanabe lands on the desk he'd just been under. The desk groans with the weight, threatening to crack with a metallic ‘squelch’. The villain jumps down, irately tearing the vending machine onto it’s side. It's logo lights flicker on and back off again as the glass shatters out.

“Enough games, kid,” the man bellows. “I’m just about done playin’ with you.” He kicks out a whiteboard, which topples onto the filing cabinet with a ‘bang’. Izuku scurries again, under desks and through a thick blanket of debris dirtying the floor, using Watanabe’s rage-fueled ruckus as an opportunity to move more quickly.

As he reaches the end of another row of desks he spots a dark, hollowed out space in the wall. The next staircase. He sucks in a breath and, quietly as possible, with Watanabe still pummeling through office furniture in the background, he hurries to continue his trek downwards.

How far up are we? How many of these do I need to get down? He’d been able to see the tops of surrounding buildings from the room he’d been captive in. They could be anywhere near twenty stories up. Not to mention Watanabe had said the stairs near the bottom were out…

An unforgiving set of chills sweeps over his body in protest. It’s a nauseating contrast to the blazing heat he feels radiating off his skin. I’ll just have to cross that bridge when I get to it.

As he side-walks down the stairs, half-turned to keep an eye out for Watanabe, a ‘crash’ similar to what they'd all heard earlier rattles from behind him. He practically jumps out of his skin and turns on his heel.

A flock of pigeons look like they've recently crashed in through a window. Izuku has just stepped foot into what looks like had once been a staff kitchen. More birds are coming through, joining the ones already busy pecking away at a tipped over box of old cereal. Talons shift through layers of dirt and shuffle broken glass shards around, causing a high-pitched ‘scratch’ with every movement.

Birds. A random flock of birds had been what initially led Watanabe away. Hungry pigeons had opened for Izuku his one and only window for escape.

Sheer, dumb luck indeed.

Another ‘crack’ bursts in his ears and a gust of air hits his face. Watanabe, summoned by the noise, takes shape in front of Izuku. He lands heavily, scowling down his nose at the boy.

“End of the line, squirt.”

Izuku ducks to grab a handful of dirt and glass shards, tossing it up into the man’s face. Pigeons squawk at the sudden commotion; quickly the kitchen is abuzz with the frantic flapping of their wings. Watanabe roars, one hand grabbing at his face while the other bats away frenzied birds. Again Izuku runs, chest ablaze, down a hall where he spots the next staircase.

I’m down three floors. Keep going. Keep going.

Halfway down the steps, a fiercer, whiplike ‘crack’ lashes out before a piece of the wall Izuku is scaling crumbles and collapses under his hand. Drywall rains down on him like chalky snowfall. Watanabe has transported himself above and behind Izuku’s head, kicking himself off the rotting wall and sending pieces of it crumbling. Izuku stumbles down a few more steps before a hand snares him up and back like a reeling fish hook.

Izuku twists around in defiant, exhausted protest, kneeing the man in the gut so hard he drops Izuku back onto the steps. He scrambles back to his feet, only to be roughly hoisted into the air by his shirt collar. Watanabe twists the fabric so tightly that Izuku’s airway is blocked.

“You little shit,” the man spits out. Both of the man’s eyes are pink– one of their whites is scarred jaggedly red by the glass. “You’re gonna pay for that.”

Izuku gasps to pull air through his constricted airway. Tries to cough. Neither are allowed by Watanabe’s grip. His vision fades to grey, then black. His eyes start to roll back before landing on Watanabe’s shirt pocket.

The key. Izuku’s quirk restraint key.

Nearly blinded by black dots, deafened by static filling his ears, Izuku swipes to elbow Watanabe right across the nose. His captor curses loudly. Izuku’s hand dips into the man’s shirt, fumbling desperately until fingertips brush across something metallic, but Watanabe pushes him up against the wall before he can grab hold. The man’s hot breath hits Izuku smack dab in the face.

“You’re done. You ain’t worth the trouble. UA can find you dead here for all I give a shit–”

The creaking wall behind Izuku decides to collapse in on itself completely. A landslide of drywall and dust pours over their heads. Izuku grabs onto Watanabe’s forearms with both hands, using them to leverage himself, and with an 'oomph' he lifts both legs to kick into Watanabe’s chest like a mule. It sends the man stumbling back, and in his need to shield his own head from the crumbling wall, he drops Izuku. Izuku tumbles down the last several steps, gasping out in agony when he unceremoniously hits the bottom.

But he doesn’t have time to recover. He doesn’t have time, period. Blindly, arms shaking, he pushes himself off the floor and forces himself around the next corner he sees, passing several rooms before ducking into a random one. He scurries to hide behind the door. His back thumps against the wall in his exhaustion, and he slides down slowly.

This isn’t working, he bemoans inwardly, chest heaving. He hears the familiar ‘crack’ of Watanabe’s quirk again, but it’s further away now, off down another hallway. Looks like Izuku had shaken him off his trail during the wall's collapse.

I still have so far down to go– I can’t just keep trying to outrun him. Come on, Izuku, think. What’s his quirk’s weakness? Every quirk has a weakness. The only thing he’s been able to pick out is that the man seems to need ‘recharge’ time between each transfer– he’s never done it in rapid succession, even when it would have been convenient for him. Otherwise, he would have just been able to transport himself in front of Izuku‘s every step. If Izuku had to roughly calculate, he’d guess it seemed to take at least fifteen seconds of downtime between transfers.

His ears prick at the soft sound of a ‘drip, drop’. Shakily, he pulls himself back up to his feet, poking his head out the doorway. No sign of Watanabe.

‘Drip, drop’. A bead of lukewarm water hits the side of his face. Blearily, he looks up, and then to his left. A steady rhythm of dripping water falls from the ceiling above, gently splattering onto the ground of the hallway. A small section of the floor holds darker coloring than the rest. Water damage. There must be a broken pipe somewhere.

Izuku plants a gentle foot onto the darkened floor. He feels it start to give way with ease. His brow furrows with newfound determination.

Fifteen seconds. That’s all the time he'll have.

If he can get Watanabe to fall during that time, the man won't be able to catch himself.

He grabs hold of whatever debris he can find from the room he’d hidden in– random folders thrown about, scattered pieces of paper, a couple of splintered planks– and he tosses them over the rotting area so as to help hide the obvious dip in the floor. Then he pulls the door closed behind him, purposefully loud, waiting to see if it alerts Watanabe to his location.

Nothing. Louder he bangs a fist against the wall, jaw tightening as he baits the man to come find him.

Not two seconds go by before Watanabe's form begins to fizz to life in front of him, but to Izuku's dismay, it's a couple of feet forward from where the floor is rotting out.

Izuku sucks in as big of a breath as his aching lungs will allow.

Lead him over it, then.

Darting past where Watanabe is about to land, he narrowly misses the man's half-formed arm swiping for him. He leaps across the portion of unsteady flooring and sticks a wobbly landing, scrambling forwards as far as he can get.

The weight of Watanabe, who is right at his heels as anticipated, causes a complete and total collapse of the ground beneath their feet. The floor gives an eerie groan with the extra weight, and then it dips like quicksand with an ear-shattering 'snap'. Watanabe shouts and grabs at Izuku's ankle, bloodshot eyes wide as he falls. With a startled yelp, Izuku is pulled back and nearly down with him– but he catches the end of the handrail that lines the side of the hallway. Sharp pains strike throughout his torso like lightning with suddenly having to bear his own weight.

His feet dangle in mid-air. They're bathed by bits of sunlight streaming through from above. The light reaches down to where Watanabe has fallen, as well. The man has dropped down through not one, but two unstable levels of flooring. Izuku hadn't even heard his captor's actual landing– piece by piece, rubble and wood continue to fall noisily in clumps. A resulting cloud of dust rises to engulf Izuku. He hangs there in the hazy aftermath, arms quivering, breaths coming out in shallow wheezes.

With a pained wince, he looks down below, past his dangling dress shoes. Watanabe's face is only half-visible; the man is lain on his side, covered nearly head to toe in broken wood and chunks of drywall. 

Izuku closes his eyes. Braces himself. With any stray bits of strength he can manage to rally from his dwindling reserves, he works on pulling himself back up and off of the edge.

Time to continue his journey downwards.

Momo's ears perk up at the now-familiar rhythm of 'thunks'. Iida has been kicking down the locked doors of each supposedly unoccupied guest suite. The noise had faded out as he'd traveled further throughout the hotel, but he must be rounding back, now; the 'thud' of his kicks landing against wood have gotten clearer again, though their speed and frequency has lessened. She tries not to feel panicked at that.

He's still looking– which means he's found nothing.

She herself has checked the pool room, the restaurant, the lobby and the cellar. In her increasing desperation, she'd used the pick she'd created to check inside every broom and linen closet she could find. She'd even gone so far as to sift through the larger cabinets of the kitchen. As if their still-figurative 'villain' were someone small enough to play hide-and-seek.

Maybe she and Iida are wrong– maybe there's no third villain, after all. Momo shakes herself (or perhaps it's just another set of chills); they still have... her eyes flick to check a clock hanging on the wall. Twenty minutes. Twenty? Has this really taken that long?

Her phone is latched onto her arm with a self-made armband, set to speaker-mode in case Aizawa needs to reach her. He's insisted on staying on the line this entire time, though they've spoken little since her symptoms first began. She's given him discouraged updates here and there on places the villain definitely isn't hiding, and he'd gruffly notified her when UA had made their landing. Otherwise, nothing.

No word on Midoriya. No word on whether to expect any intervention from government higher-ups. And no word on whether anyone is hopeful about any one of the outside heroes' quirks being capable of breaking through.

'Tick, tock,' reminds the clock on the wall.

Twenty minutes.

As long as there's still time at all, she thinks, wiping back a sweat-dampened strand of hair, I'll keep on looking.

After an agonizingly slow trek down to where the villain still lies in rubble, Izuku begins pulling debris off the unconscious man. He pants, sticking an arm through when he has enough of an opening to the man's shirt pocket, and he deliriously sifts through fabric until he finds his key.

He rolls onto his back and lies there for a moment. It's a break he can't afford– but it's also one his body won't let him refuse. His chest crackles as it heaves. A tiredness he's never felt before begs to pull his eyelids down, but he blinks them back open with force. He knows if they close now, they won't open again. Weak hands fumble with putting the key in the lock of his wristband. It takes far longer than it should; he misses the keyhole the first few tries. It's hard to see. It's hard to think. He shakes himself more awake after realizing the key finally landed itself in the hole, and with trembling hands, he undoes the lock.

One for All hums through him, but it's more like a kitten's soothing purr than a lion's offensive roar. Getting it going is like trying to start a fire with two sticks. A few sparks occur here and there– but it takes energy Izuku does not have to keep it lit. Green wisps of electricity flicker off his skin like dying fireflies. The tiny gust of wind it creates shakes the debris and chips of wood scattered around his sprawled legs. It's enough to help him rise back onto his feet. Enough to keep the darkness longing to envelop him at bay.

He grabs Watanabe's phone, as well. He drags heavy feet over to the next stairwell and begins his next trudge down, clutching at the side-rail like a lifeline with one hand. In the other, he thumbs open the phone.

He doesn't know Iida or Yaoyorozu's number. In fact, there are only a few numbers he's bothered to have memorized. Calling his mother is out– as much as he'd wish to give her his last words, on the very real chance he doesn't make it out of here, she's not the practical choice. He needs UA alerted of his whereabouts as soon as possible.

There is a more practical number to call that he knows by heart, though. (And how could he not know that one by heart? Of course he'd been certain to sit down and diligently drill it into his brain the moment he'd received it. All of his wildest daydreams couldn't have prepped him for the pure shock and joy that came with receiving his Number One Hero's personal phone number.)

He absolutely hates that he does it, but he starts crying as soon as his fingers start dialing. Out of relief, out of fear that perhaps his mentor still hasn't forgiven him, out of terror as death breathes down his neck or simply out of exhaustion– he can't pinpoint the exact reason for his waterworks, this time. But he's a blubbering mess when the call picks up halfway through the second ring.

"All Might," he bursts into sobs as soon as he hears his hero's voice.

Chapter Text

Focus on five things you can see.

A simple enough instruction– one he’d been taught during his school years, part of a mental cooldown and grounding technique. A concerned teacher had once pulled him aside to guide him through it, back before he’d learned to control his moments of hotheadedness. ‘Focus on five things you can see; four things you can touch; three things you can hear; two things you can smell; and lastly, one thing you can taste.’ It wasn’t often he found himself in need of using the 5-4-3-2-1 technique, save for the occasional particularly bad or anxiety-ridden day.

To say that this has been a 'bad day' for Toshinori would be an understatement.

But even his good days haven’t seen him harbor much patience for the waiting game of communication with government officials. Nor have they seen him fare well with feeling like a useless standby.

As soon as their aircraft had touched down outside the hotel, UA’s staff had joined the local forces in attempting a way through the barrier. Yamada had stood and shouted his quirk hoarse. Cementoss had attempted to shift the ground directly underneath the building. When this failed, they’d concluded the shield must be somewhat spherical in nature, circling its point of protection entirely.

Ectoplasm had sent his clones to sweep the most immediate surrounding vicinities, searching for any trace of the barrier’s source. He’d found nothing. Young Iida’s theory of a villain being somewhere on the inside was looking more and more likely to be true.

Speaking of Iida: thanks to the cameraman who has diligently followed at his heels, UA has been able to maintain visuals on their student. It’s helpful on the chance he comes across someone or something, so that UA knows exactly when and where to intervene. It’s also given them some idea of the progression rate of the poison. The normally hyper-energetic boy’s movements over the last hour have already slowed significantly. His determined face has long since drained of all color, and he’s now had to stop between every room to recoup between coughing fits. The last sight of him Toshinori had caught on the screen, sweat-soaked and wheezing, had wracked what's left of his gut with worry.

He now looks as ill as Izuku had when he’d been taken. Toshinori can hardly stomach to think of what that means Izuku’s current state must be.

And meanwhile– still no decision on the government’s end.

Stop it, Toshinori; that’s out of your control. For now, focus on five things you can see.

A slow inhale through his nose helps to mute the busy world around him. His eye catches the stark orange of a traffic cone– one of dozens placed to block off the crime scene. He examines the grainy texture of the concrete below, slowly darkened by drops of light rainfall. A boot steps onto said concrete; it belongs to yet another local hero, stepping back and away from the hotel perimeter. Said hero sighs his frustration at his failure to break through the barrier.

This… isn’t helping me.

He hones his focus to his more immediate surroundings. Watches a bee as it attempts to land on Yamada, who jolts and distractedly shoos it away with a shiver. Looks at the cell phone in Nezu’s hand; the principal’s thumb swipes over it to end a call. His bristled whiskers betray his impatience as he moves to rejoin the group.

Shit. That's not a good sign.

“They’re sending aid,” Nezu starts with. “A specialized forensic analyst to extract the antidote’s ingredients, on the chance we can retrieve it ourselves. An individual whose quirk excels in tracking. A handful of more heroes whose quirks may prove useful in getting through the barrier. Brute force isn’t working; perhaps a quirk that can shift through matter– or otherwise, another transportation quirk– will better assist us. All things we don’t already have on hand here. However, as far as the Tartarus demand goes,” he addresses both Toshinori and Yamada’s unspoken question, “Japan’s government is not willing to comply. Along with the obvious reasons involving the safety of innocents, there’s the message it would send, as well. What would it say to other villains if the powers of Japan gave in to such requests?”

Toshinori understands this. Of course he does. The villains of Tartarus are locked away for no light reasons. He is personally responsible for putting a good portion of them behind bars. It’s the answer he’d already known they’d get– he’d just hoped for something... better. “Will help be here in time, though?” he asks, incredulous. “They spent an awfully long time twiddling their thumbs before deciding to take action.”

“That’s my concern,” Nezu agrees solemnly. “Considering we were never given much time in the first place.”

Toshinori huffs and turns away to pace, close enough to where he can still hear the conversation, even over the noisy whir of the helicopter that’s just landed. Out of it had poured a handful of reporters wanting updates. Toshinori– normally known for his charm and easy nature with news folk– had waved them all away from himself, too held captive by the racing train of his own thoughts to pay their discouraged faces any mind.

They’ll get over it. He has far more important things to worry about.

He listens in as Nezu goes over the villains’ profiles. Their faces have been properly identified through video. “Watanabe Kaito: quirk, transportation. He was arrested a few times in his younger years for petty crimes. Nothing recent, though, likely because he’s moved onto being hired for jobs planned by smarter, wealthier folk. His quirk is useful; he’s able to take objects or people along with him, traveling as far as a few miles per transfer. Unfortunately for us, this knowledge doesn’t narrow down their current location. He could have transported them all once to any edge of town, or multiple times to be… anywhere, realistically.

“Isago Junichiro: quirkless.” Toshinori pauses his pacing. Not only for the eyebrow raising ‘quirkless’ fact– the name itself sounds familiar. “Chief heir of family-owned Isago Pharmaceuticals.” Ah. A well known company having stocked the shelves of most drugstores. “No wonder as to where he got the means and money to craft both a poison and an antidote. Nothing too serious staining his record, other than a couple of incidents inciting complaints of unspecified discriminatory behavior and speech. Even those were effectively wiped off his record with what sounds like the right amount of cash, or knowing the right people.”

Toshinori can’t say he cares to hear the men’s life stories right now. He does burn their names into his brain, though. That information will be made useful later– when (not ‘if’) he gets the chance to deal with them face to face.

“They didn’t work too hard to remain anonymous, did they?” Yamada mutters. “No masks, nothing.”

“Because they want to be known,” Toshinori says, voice heavy like stone. “Well, I’m more than eager to give them the attention they’ve asked for.”

“All Might,” Nezu warns with a sigh. Toshinori scowls and rubs at his temple.

“The government intervention is too little, too late,” he bites out. “A forensic analyst, that’s great– but what good is it when we don’t even know where the antidote is? What good is a tracker if they arrive after our time’s run out?”

Nezu says nothing. He seems to have wisened to the fact that no particular response will placate Toshinori right now. Toshinori turns on his heel to resume pacing.

Nezu is little more than a middleman in all this. None of this is his fault; he knows that. Toshinori needs to step away from people before he ends up inadvertently throttling something or, at the very least, saying something he’ll later regret.

Focus on four things you can touch.

His wrinkled shirt sticks to his skin. He’d been too sleep-deprived this morning to care about ironing it out. Drops of lukewarm rain hit the back of his neck. Humid steam rises from where they land, because the ghostly remains of All Might have been aching, screaming, begging to break out of Toshinori’s skeletal cage. His calloused palm smarts from where his nails dig into it. He makes an effort to loosen the fist he’s subconsciously made.

To reiterate: Toshinori has had a very bad day.

In fact, he can’t remember the last time he had such a rotten couple of days. Unwittingly, like an old wound that aches worse on rainy days, Nana’s death comes to mind. Long since marked as the worst day of his life.

And today will take its place if it ends with you losing Izuku.

The intrusive thought knocks at his mind’s door like a persistent solicitor, one he wants to open the door to shake by its shoulders until it shuts the hell up. It sends him reeling back into the privacy of UA’s parked aircraft, where the commotion of the scene he’s been helpless to assist is better blocked out.

He heads into the too-tiny restroom, trembling hands grabbing at the sides of the sink. His increasingly shallow breaths fog up the glass of the mirror. He squeezes his eyes shut.

Come on, Toshinori, none of that; you need to calm yourself. Focus on three things you can hear.

The crescendoing pitter-patter of heavier rainfall hitting the plane’s roof. A 'pop' from his tightly grinding jaw. A hollow ringing like that of a church bell in his ears.

He had barely survived losing his mentor– his mother. How on Earth is he supposed to fathom losing his–

Stop. Stop. Two things you can smell.

Bleach. This restroom was recently cleaned. Flowery, sickeningly sweet hand soap. He thinks he’s going to be sick.

One thing you can taste.

Metal. It floods his throat like a toxic spill. Up his nose, onto his tongue, a river of blood is hacked and heaved over the ceramic sink.

As he gags miserably, he avoids looking at himself in the mirror. The shadows of his gaunt face only serve as a reminder of his uselessness today. If he’d had even a fraction of his past strength, he wouldn’t have time for a panic attack, dammit. He’d be out there, attempting with all his might to shatter that barrier. If they’d had any sort of clue as to where the villains had taken Izuku, he’d have been there before anyone could have told him ‘no’.

As it stands, there are less than fifteen minutes left on Izuku’s self-set ‘clock’, and he can do little more than be a broken, half-starved man– one having an ill-timed mental breakdown in an aircraft bathroom.

He pushes away from the sink to leave the room with a frustrated growl, thudding down the aircraft’s aisle before halting at a window. He watches one of the news reporters summarize the situation in front of the cameras.

His jaw ticks. The ringing in his ears has yet to cease. Traitorously, not for the first time, he debates stepping in front of and doing just as Plague had asked.

The thing is, he doesn’t even know if it would do any good, at this point. The villain hasn’t reached out to Yaoyorozu since Izuku had intervened. Is this all still going according to his initial plan? He hadn’t given a timeframe of when he’d planned to check in with the hotel hostages. Is Izuku succeeding with… whatever he’s hoping to achieve? None of them have any idea. Toshinori has no idea.

What he does know is that Izuku is still alive. He knows it, because the phantom remnants of One for All that still sliver through his veins are ignited in righteous, protective anger, but not yet in grief. Somehow, in his heart of hearts, he’d know if his successor was gone. The knowledge would have settled into his bones like lead, would have weighed him to sink to the ground.

Toshinori is still standing, and that means Izuku is still living.

Nezu is right about one thing: Izuku is capable, brilliant, well-trained. Absolutely deserving of their trust. Toshinori’s concern rather stems from how perfect a student Izuku is, because he's thrived under the teachings of an imperfect mentor. The boy has eagerly taken the flawed example set forth by Toshinori and soaked it all up like a sponge; everything from his vision and drive down to his most concerningly destructive habits. 

Toshinori’s brief encounter with Bakugo yesterday evening had only cemented his fears. He hadn't gone looking for the boy– quite the contrary. The aftermath of his argument with Izuku had him avoiding people altogether. His hotheaded student had merely passed by him in the hallway during Toshinori’s sullen trek to retrieve something he’d left in the staff room. If possible, Bakugo was in an even less talkative mood than Toshinori. He’d side-eyed his teacher’s curt nod of acknowledgement before stalking right past him.

But then Toshinori remembered what had sparked his disastrous conversation with Izuku in the first place, and he’d stopped.

“Young Bakugo,” he’d started, turning to look back at the boy. Bakugo slowed, but didn’t stop. He’d met his teacher’s eyes over a hunched shoulder, expression guarded.

Perhaps he’d been wary that Toshinori was going to reprimand him for spilling information about the fourth user to Izuku. Toshinori was not. That was his own screw up– he should have gone about things differently with his successor, he knows that. Instead, careful to keep the edge out of his tone, he’d asked: “What happened with Midoriya during training today?”

“Hmph,” Bakugo grumbled. “The same thing that always happens.” He’d barrelled through the doors leading outside, apparently not in the mood to stay and chat about this with his teacher. Toshinori was left alone in the hallway with his trailing echo. “Damn nerd works hard at everything except staying alive.”

Dammit to hell. His boy is so much like him.

No, he doesn’t know if it’s too late in the game to give into Plague’s demands. Even that’s beside the fact that he and Izuku’s final conversation had revealed the boy’s deep fear that Toshinori doesn’t believe in him. What kind of message will it send if Toshinori chooses to comply with a villain over trusting his own successor?

He can’t truthfully say he’s ever fared well with Izuku being in the face of danger, feeling embarrassingly like a fretting mother-hen when he finds himself wringing his hands during even the kid’s more intensive training exercises. But the fact that he’s been rendered quirkless, completely defenseless and unwell in the hands of these men has sparked something unforgiving within Toshinori. It’s taken everything in his power to contain it from becoming a full-blown wildfire.

One thought decides it for him: He’d rather deal with a disappointed Izuku than a dead one.

And so he’ll beg, plead, grovel– whatever it is he winds up needing to do, he hardly cares. He turns on his heel, determined in his decision to trek out into the awaiting swarm of news folk and publicly demand for his boy back, when his phone rings.

“Young lady, please tell me you’re going to get us out of here. I’m a mother! I can’t leave my kids behind…”

“You’ll be okay,” Momo assures hoarsely. “We all will.” She’s said it too many times, now, and to her own ears it sounds robotic and empty. She hates it.

Their symptoms all seem to be progressing a bit more quickly than Midoriya’s had. Maybe it has something to do with the mode of transfer? Midoriya had ingested the poison, while they’d all inhaled it. The rate also seems to be varying person to person; a couple of the older audience members have had to lie down, too ill to stand any longer. Some people have spiked dangerously high fevers. Ice has been gathered and packed from the kitchen freezers to rest against people’s heads and around their torsos. A younger man who’s fared a bit better than the rest has been busying himself by making tea; no one is pretending it’ll help any, but it’s at least a small comfort, soothing for aching throats and lungs. The few over-the-counter medications they’ve pulled from a first aid kit are not much, and certainly won’t keep any poison at bay, but they’ve been utilized to treat some of the worse off folks’ symptoms.

Momo had run out of areas to search. She’s since been making herself useful by creating extra ice packs and comfortable lying areas for the older crew while she waits for Iida to report back, but she forces herself to take a break when she starts feeling faint. She’ll have to start being more conservative with the use of her quirk. It demands energy, after all, and that’s something of hers that’s dwindling.

“... Mr. Aizawa?” she says timidly, after she’s pulled herself away from the crowd so they won’t hear. She rests her back against a tiled wall of the kitchen, under some hanging pots and pans. She looks up at her distorted reflection on a silver pot. Blurry and barely distinguishable– a bit like looking at her own ghost. The pot's surface steams with her breath.

“Yes? What?” Aizawa’s voice crackles from her phone speaker. He’d been in the middle of a heated conversation with someone, but his tone hushes when he switches attention to her. “Something happen? Everything alright?”

She doesn’t answer that. To say ‘yes’ would be untruthful, but she doesn’t want to cause him any more undue worry. Her normally apathetic teacher already sounds strung far too tight. She wipes at her forehead. “I just wanted to check in. Is… is there anyone out there who you think can…?”

“... No. Not so far.” Aizawa’s tone is guarded. “There are specialized heroes being sent over by the government, though, with different skill sets we’ve yet to try out. This barrier is difficult– but no quirk is invincible. We’ll find a way through.”

“Okay,” Momo acknowledges weakly. She fans herself, feeling awfully flushed all of the sudden. “Any updates on Midoriya?”

A longer pause this time. “Not yet.”

She nods to herself. “Okay,” she says again. Absentmindedly she fiddles with an old cooking towel draped over a stove rail. Faded wildflowers and images of cottages are sewn throughout it. She thinks of her family’s summers in the countryside. “I’m… I’m not trying to… sound like I’ve lost hope,” she starts carefully. “But I... I did want to ask you a favor, just… just in case we don’t…”

"Kid. No. Don’t start with this,” Aizawa snaps. Momo jumps at the harshness of it. “We’re getting you out of there, so I don’t want to hear any ‘last requests’. Alright? Not until…” He trails off, cursing something under his breath too lowly for her to make out.

Shuffling noises indicate he’s leaving the crowded area he’s in. A few seconds go by before the background noise quiets down. Even then, he waits a moment to speak. “... alright,” he finally mutters. The snappiness of his earlier tone has dissipated away, leaving a tone she can’t quite put a name to. But it’s softer. “... sorry. What did you want to ask me?”

“It’s okay… and I’m sorry to put this on you,” she says, voice laden with guilt. “It’s just– if we don’t make it out of here, could you just… tell my mom and dad that I love them?”

Aizawa curses again, clear as day this time. 

Tears are rolling down her face, now, hot against already burning skin. She tries to wipe them away with her palms and sucks in a quivering breath. “And that I’m sorry. Tell them I’m really, really sorry. I know I need to stay on the line just in case something happens, so I’m not asking for permission to call them myself. But in case I don’t get the chance to… if you could just tell them for me…?”

The longest silence yet. “... sure thing,” her teacher eventually grunts. It’s barely audible, as if he’d managed to get it out through clenched teeth. “But I’m only agreeing so that you have no doubt it would be done. I’m still counting on you to get out of there and tell them yourself. Got it?”

“Yes, sir,” she whispers. "Thank you." Before the following silence can get too awkward (she can practically hear Aizawa inwardly scrambling with what to say next) she blessedly spots sight of Iida. The cameraman still hovers close behind him.

“Iida!” she exclaims. Her heart rate spikes a notch when she gets a closer look at him. “Oh, oh no– are you alright?” She pushes away from the wall to rush over to her friend, discreet as she scrubs away any lingering tears. Iida’s face is glazed with a sickly sheen, and his breathing is heavy. He leans one arm against the doorframe as he struggles to catch his breath.

“Yes, I’m– I’m sorry. I just over-exerted myself, that’s all,” Iida rasps. “I didn’t mean to push it– it’s just–”

“I know,” she says, voice hushed. Low enough that the fearful crowd won’t hear. “Hard not to. We’re running out of time.”

“... So no news yet, hm?” Iida asks, brow furrowing. At her crestfallen expression, he puts a hand on her shoulder. “Let’s stay together from here on out. Most ground has been covered, now, so we’ll search any remaining areas together.”

“You checked all the suites?” Momo asks. Iida nods. “Every guest room. Every bathroom, every closet, even under every last bed.” He sighs into a wheeze. “Nothing.”

“I’ve… checked everywhere else,” Momo says, eyes flicking over to the crowd. She winces when she hears a few declaring difficulty breathing. The entire kitchen smells of illness and sweat.

Iida firmly takes her hand in his. Momo looks up at him. He gives her his best attempt at a reassuring smile before shielding his face into the crook of his elbow, letting out a whooping cough.

“These villains… they’re especially twisted, aren’t they?” his smile falls into a sneer. He wipes bullets of sweat off his forehead. “Putting on such a dramatic show of it all.”

Yes, Momo thinks sullenly, the whole thing had been rather… grandiose…

She straightens. A light-bulb flicks on in her head.

“... The stage we stood on, back in the ballroom,” she says. Iida tilts his head, not quite following. “Stages sometimes have an open area underneath them to hide people or props for shows– a 'trap room', I think. I was in a few plays as a child,” Momo explains hurriedly. “A third villain likely would have needed to stick close by in order to hear cues from their companions. Right? They knew exactly when to use their quirk to block Mr. Aizawa out. A trap room is somewhere they would’ve remained unseen– and the ballroom in general is somewhere they wouldn’t have counted on us going back to. It’s the one room we haven’t searched.”

“Yaoyorozu,” Iida breathes, tired eyes lighting with renewed hope. “You're brilliant. You just may be right. We need to head back to search the ballroom at once.”

“A phone call is here! A phone call is here!”

A startled Toshinori fumbles around his pocket for his cell. The blocked caller I.D. that lights up the screen causes him to hesitate. The calls he gets to his personal phone are few and far between. Why ‘blocked’? Is it someone from the government involved in the case? Whatever for, he thinks bitterly– to offer something else too little, too late? A more paranoid possibility causes him to stiffen. Could it be one of Izuku’s captors, having pried his number from the boy to make their demands directly? Either possibility has him thrusting the phone to his ear with a snapped out “Yes?”

It's neither. His boy– it’s his boy.

The utter surprise of Izuku’s heart wrenching sobs has Toshinori stumbling in place like a rug has been swept out from under his feet. Briefly he rests his forehead against the curved wall of the aircraft, deflating like he’s been punched in the gut. A shiver of both relief and terror chills him like he’s been doused in ice. “Midoriya?” he manages after a moment. “Oh, God, are you…” Welling tears prick at his eyes at the sound of Izuku’s sobs. These are not like the boy’s past waterworks; they are exhausted, desperate. Delirious sounding. Each one pulls at the already untangling threads of his stability to make him feel damn near delirious, as well. “My boy, oh, my dear boy– slow down, Midoriya, I can’t understand what you’re saying,” he soothes as best he can, unable to quell the shaking in his own voice.

No, Izuku’s sobs are nothing like the trademark waterworks Toshinori has fondly teased him for in the past. They are the cries of a terrified, hurting child. The panic that had overwhelmed Toshinori as he’d watched that coward point a gun to Izuku’s head ensnares him all over again, threatening to rip him in two. “Where?” he pleads, voice tight. “Where did they take you, Midoriya? Tell me where you are.”

“I– I–” Izuku tries, hiccuping. “I’m–” His inability to form words between shuddering breaths ignites something primal within Toshinori. He clutches at the head of a nearby seat until it threatens to snap. His need to shield the boy from his obvious terror is all that keeps his tone anything resembling gentle. “Sshhh, shh, Izuku, it’s alright. I’m here, my boy. I’m here.” He’s never called Izuku by his given name before, not out loud. It slips off his tongue now unnoticed. “I’m right here. Right here. Please– please tell me where you are, and I'll come to you.” It breaks his own heart to rush him– his poor boy is so obviously trying – but they’re running on borrowed time. Izuku doesn’t even seem to hear him, though, hyperventilating more than actually speaking now. The head of the seat cracks fully under Toshinori's grip.

He’ll kill them. He’ll kill these motherfuckers. He’ll repay every last ounce of suffering they’ve inflicted upon his successor tenfold–

“We’re, I–,” Izuku’s wails cease into wet hiccups. “I’m– I’m in an abandoned building. A– a work building. I d-don’t think we’re that far. They were watching the– the hotel from the top f-floor.” The boy sucks in a labored breath like he’s drowning on air. The sound of it rings every alarm blaring within Toshinori and sends him scrambling back to the doorway of the aircraft, where he motions a frantic hand to someone– anyone– outside. The nearest batch of local heroes, lingering back to take new orders from Ectoplasm, snap their full attention to him.

“Good, my boy, that’s good– an abandoned building?” Toshinori quickly scans the area until his eye catches the far-off tops of familiar buildings. Bingo. On their way to the hotel they’d flown over a closed off, older looking sect of town, roped off as if being prepared for demolition. It’s several blocks down– from any of the taller buildings within the sect, though, they’d certainly have a birds eye view of the hotel. “We’ll start clearing them all,” he booms loudly enough for all around him to hear, gesturing wildly again in the direction of the sect.

Ectoplasm briskly nods his understanding, motioning to the group around him to head out. The chief of the local force also barks his orders that send dozens piling into vehicles. Toshinori hurriedly moves with them.

“Midoriya, your captors– are they with you right now?” he asks, barring the fear from his voice.

“They’re– they’re knocked out, for now. I got away,” Izuku breathes. “I got the antidote, too…” 

Toshinori feels dizzy. His heart rises with absolute pride from where it’d previously fallen to the pit of his stomach. You did it. You brilliant, brilliant boy, you did it.

The bright feeling is fleeting, though, quickly melting away when Izuku begins to cry again. “Oh, my boy, what is it?! What’s wrong?” he pleads.

“I think I’m… around ten stories up? I don’t know. I– I don’t think I can make it d-down in time,” Izuku’s breath hitches. “But I’ll hang onto it. ‘kay? I’ll keep the– the antidote safe until you f-find me. I promise. It'll be in my shirt pocket…”

“Wh- what are you–? No, no, Midoriya, I’ll be there soon,” Toshinori stammers out. “The sect you’re in is closeby, we’ll get to you shortly–”

“– and make sure to take my hair, too, m-maybe Kacchan can have it– he knows everything already, so it makes– makes things easier…” Izuku is rambling, now, feverishly slurring over his own words. Before Toshinori’s reeling mind can process what in the hell he’s talking about, Izuku bursts into fresh tears. “I hope it’ll still w-work if I’m already gone. If it doesn’t– I’m sorry, All Might, I’m so, so sorry, I didn’t want to waste it–”

The blood drains from his face, from everything in his body to pool down to his toes, and the rest of him is left ice cold.

No.

No, no, no.

Toshinori finds himself not simply rushing but sprinting through the nearest crowd of on-lookers, jumping into the passenger seat of the nearest departing officer’s vehicle and slamming the door shut after him.

Izuku is talking about transferring One for All. He's dying. Toshinori is listening to Izuku die.  

“And I’m– I’m sorry I yelled at you.” Izuku's breaths have a wet, popping sound to them. “I’m really, really sorry I w-wasn’t successor you wanted–”

My kid– my kid is dying. My precious boy is–

“Fuck,” Toshinori roars when noncompliant traffic-goers slow their route. He slams a massive hand down on the dashboard. Fuck, fuck, FUCK!

“Stop. Stop it. You’re more than I’d ever asked for, Midoriya Izuku,” he growls out more harshly than he means to. “And I’ll tell you that as many times as I need to–” his eyes sting again with hot tears. You’re perfect. I’d choose you a million times over. I love you. Have I never said any of this to you? “I’ll tell you anything and everything you need to hear, once you’re back safe. Understood?” As much as he'd love to reconcile their previous parting words to one another, he’s staunchly unwilling to accept Izuku’s goodbyes.

He has failed to save plenty of people in the past. Failing to save Izuku has never been an option.

Izuku just cries harder. Toshinori mutters multiple curses under his breath as they finally pull into the shut-down area of town, his anxiety to get out the hell of this car sending his leg bouncing incessantly. He doesn’t notice the heat of tears trailing down his face while he jumps out of the still-slowing car to gruffly bark out his orders at Ectoplasm. “Send out your clones, search every last building in this sect, he’s about halfway up one of them– go now.”

“All Might,” Izuku inhales wetly. “I’m not–”

“Yes, you are,” his own voice splinters. He doesn’t even know what Izuku was about to say– that he’s not a worthy successor, that he’s not going to make it– either option is one he’s going to bullheadedly refute. “Listen to me, Midoriya. We’re here. We’re right outside. I am going to find you– I just need you to hold on until I do. Do you understand me?”

Though his mentor can’t see him, Izuku drowsily bobs his head up and down in a nod. The last few steps of the staircase he’s been weakly descending blur together in front of him. Keep moving forward until you can’t move at all. “Okay, y-yeah, okay, All Might. I’ll–”

A deafening ‘crack’ explodes at Izuku’s left ear.

An angry ringing like a train whistle is left in its wake. Air whips the side of his face like a slap; at first, he fears that Watanabe has awoken and caught up to him. But his gaze catches a bullet as it pierces a hole in the wall far ahead of him. Belatedly, he ducks down in case any more gunfire rings out.

He whips his head around to find the source, choking on the trail of smoke glazing by. Vaguely, he hears All Might shout something indiscernible through the phone in his hand.

At the head of the stairwell Izuku has been practically crawling down, his doubling vision reveals what initially looks like a pair of identical Isago's, both scowling down at him over wielded guns. His vision corrects itself and finds the actual, single Isago. One who’s currently locking rage-filled eyes with Izuku.

Dried blood coats a trail down Isago’s face from where skin had been split upon being headbutted. One eye is swollen and purpled from the impact. The villain’s fury as he looks down at Izuku is almost manic; his mouth twitches into a smile as begins his descent down the stairs, gun remaining firmly pointed at Izuku.

His gun. If Izuku had energy whatsoever, he’d kick himself. He hadn’t taken the man’s gun.

Not that he’d honestly know how to use it. But he should have at least ensured that, on the chance Isago were to wake up, he wouldn’t have access to it. His likely fatal mistake stares him down through a barrel. Smoke pours out of it, curling up and into the air like a taunting wave goodbye.

“Did I hear you say ‘All Might’?” Isago asks. The giddy tinge to his voice wavers, like a lid barely covering a pot ready to blow. “Are you talking to your precious hero? No, don’t you move,” he roars as Izuku turns to run, tilting the gun downward to aim straight for Izuku’s chest. “Not unless you want them to find nothing but your dead body when they get here.”

All Might sounds a little hysterical now on the other side of the line. Izuku puts the phone back up to his ear.

“S-still here,” he croaks to assure a currently floundering All Might. “He’s awake.” He glares with as much defiance as he can muster up at Isago. The villain is looking at the phone in delight. 

A pause. “Your captor?” All Might’s voice has cooled to be frigid. “Get away from him, Midoriya, run, or hide, we’re almost–”

Isago reaches Izuku and, with the barrel of the gun shoved into Izuku’s chest, pushes him to walk backwards down the final steps. Izuku moves back involuntarily with a grimace. He stumbles to fall to his knees when the floor unexpectedly dips, and he looks behind him to find… nothing.

His breath catches as he stares down in disbelief.

Watanabe had been putting it lightly when he’d mentioned the stairs near the bottom were out. Izuku is staring through an entire lack of flooring for about ten, maybe fifteen stories. Currently, through splintered edges of what were once floors, he can clearly see the concrete of the first floor of the building.

His heart sinks wearily to fall into the pit of his stomach. Shit… even with more time, I never would have been able to make it out of here…

He faces forward again after something yanks at his shirt pocket. Bullets of sweat dart down his flushed face with renewed force as he watches Isago’s long fingers roll the antidote between them. The man smirks condescendingly at Izuku.

"Oh, kid. It was a very nice try. I’ll give you that.”

He pockets the vial before taking the phone from Izuku, as well.

“All Might! Color me starstruck. An absolute pleasure to finally get a word in with you.”

The shifty gate that has been pitifully attempting to hold back Toshinori’s boiling fury finally breaks at the sound of Izuku’s tormentor’s voice. Rage trickles through him like lava devouring a valley, and he allows it's destructive spread.

“I warn you, villain,” he snarls, shadowed eyes flicking to each empty building Izuku might be in– which one, dammit?! That gunshot came somewhere from the left– “when I get to you, for every last hair you’ve harmed on his head, I’ll–”

“Oh, yes! Do tell me– what exactly will you do?” Plague laughs. “Can you even complete basic house chores with that pathetic new form of yours? I’d pay to see you try to put up a fight. Please, All Might,” he begs mockingly. “I do hope you’ll have mercy.”

Toshinori is not normally a man prone to hatred. The sole focus of it for the majority of his life has gone towards All for One. Today, though, a new target has easily beckoned him.

The man who’s been dangling his child's life in front of him like it’s a game has Toshinori seeing crimson. Rage is all he knows, hatred is all he breathes. It pulsates through him like blood through his veins.

“Not for you." Fury constricts his throat too tight; he barely manages to voice his threat through gritted teeth. Plague’s laughter falters a bit.

“I never did catch your broadcast. You know– the one where you admit defeat to me.” Isago opts to idly change the subject, playing around with the angle of the gun, as if pondering which direction into Izuku’s chest would be best. Izuku’s eyes fight to stay trained on his captor's face. His vision wavers like rivets in a pool. Stay awake. "Did you forget what our deal was? Or perhaps I simply overestimated Midoriya’s worth. Does your student’s life mean so little to you?”

A steamed silence is his only answer.

“This kid is about to die knowing his hero won’t even do the bare minimum to save him,” Isago declares sing-songedly. His smile crooks as he digs the gun into the underside of Izuku’s chin. The ‘click’ of his gun echoes throughout the building. “How does that make you feel?”

Izuku squeezes his eyes shut.

“NO!” All Might’s roar rattles the phone’s speaker. Isago smirks. “No, I– listen, please, I beg of you.” His hero’s voice has dropped every shred of its commanding fury. Shaky obedience is left in its wake. Izuku has never heard him resort to pleading before. It's... disconcerting, to say the least.

He keeps his eyes squeezed shut. He hates this. He hates that he’s being used to do this.

“What do you want? I’ll– I’ll do anything you ask.” Izuku opens one eye to peek warily at the phone. Don’t, All Might. Please don’t. Not for me. “You can record this– broadcast it– whatever you want to do, I-I don’t care. All I ask is that he’s returned to me. Please.”

“Ah! Excellent. Anything, you say?”

“Anything.” His hero’s voice actually cracks. “Anything.”

“You admit defeat to me, then?” Isago’s smile twitches. “The former Number One has finally met his match?”

“Yes,” All Might’s rapid breathing crackles over the speaker. “Yes, I’ve lost. You’ve won. Just– spare him. Give him back to me, I beg you.”

“Wow! Goodness, I’m flattered.” Isago’s grin stretches. The whites of his teeth glint even in the dim light. “Truly, I am. Which is why it’s so unfortunate to have to tell you this, All Might: it’s simply too little, too late.” He sighs with mock pity. “You and UA lost this match the moment you decided to underestimate me. Losing one of your most powerful students to me will ensure you never do again.

"As for you,” Isago turns his attention to a fading Izuku as All Might thunders something Izuku can’t make out, “like I said earlier, your attempted escape– it was good. It’d be amiss not to give props for the fact that you nearly achieved it without the use of your quirk. Bravo, kid, bravo! Brains and brawn– such wasted potential. But I’m afraid all you’ve accomplished is time for my patience to run out. Your so-called heroes won’t be finding you alive when they get here. They won’t be finding the antidote, either.

“You’ve all refused to play by my rules. So why should I continue to abide by them?”

He ends the call, replacing the phone in his hand with the antidote from his pocket.

With a playful wink, he tosses the vial up and into the air. It sails silently over Izuku’s head.

Horrified, jaw slack, Izuku turns. Stares as the antidote begins its free-fall down countless stories.

NO!

He’ll never know if, in the heat of the moment, he’d have chosen to jump for it, because Isago decides for him. The man shoves the butt of the gun straight into Izuku’s chest, sending him toppling over the edge.

And Izuku falls.

He smacks ribs first into an exposed metal beam so roughly his summersaults reverse their direction mid air. Blackwhip shoots out in an attempt to slow his fall, but its weakened tendrils fizz out like smoke; whatever pieces of building they do manage to snag onto are brittle and time-worn, crumbling down to fall with Izuku. He can’t aim them, anyway, not while he’s spinning so wildly through the air. Not when his world is already so dangerously close to going dark.

Distantly he hears the glass of the antidote as it shatters, along with his last chances of success, on impact with the concrete below. He braces himself for his turn. He closes his eyes to block out the sight of the quickly approaching ground as he continues to fall down–

Down–

Down–

Whatever happens next is a disorienting blur. It’s as if One for All flares up in one last, defiant protest, like throwing him an old and tattered lifeline while he’s being swept down a raging river. Izuku blindly grabs out at his quirk’s last ditch effort to save him.

And, suddenly–

He is light as a feather.

His fall slows until he’s held suspended in mid air. Gently, like he’s been caught by a cloud, he hovers a foot or two above the concrete he’d just been plummeting towards. The whoosh of air with his ‘catch’ nearly sounds like a woman’s whisper. He must be hallucinating.

He blinks in dazed wonder at the world above him. Dust particles twirl in a scattered dance throughout the air. Isago’s stunned eyes meet his own from several stories above. After a few moments, as if being lowered in a swaying hammock, Izuku lands ever so lightly on the ground. The knock to his back sends him coughing weakly.

I think… he exhales his disbelief as the darkening edges of his vision close in. I think I finally used ‘Float’.

The second crack of a gunshot– closer this time– escalates Toshinori’s dread to a near-blinding degree; it buzzes through his every limb like electricity racing through wires. His eyes snap to the rough location of it– just a couple buildings down. Mindlessly, with a handful of nearby heroes who'd also heard the gunshot at his heels, he charges.

One for All is not quite done with Izuku, not yet, writhing again as if taking him by the shoulders and shaking him awake. Shouting at him with indistinguishable words that translate as tea-kettle ringing in his ears. Izuku languidly re-opens his eyes; Isago is pointing his gun down at him once more. Izuku flops heavily onto one side just before a bullet cracks the pavement where his head just was.

His hearing is muffled like he’s been dunked underwater. He can barely make out the frenzy in Isago’s voice: “Watanabe, it’s about damn time you woke up– get down there, you useless prick– we’re not letting that brat get out of here alive–!”

Get up, he begs his broken body. All Might is coming. Trembling forearms push him up to his knees. All Might is coming– just hold on– if they take me away, he can’t get my hair. He can’t pass on One for All–

‘Crack’. The landing of Watanabe’s boots shakes the earth behind him.

Get up! He unsteadily rises to his feet.

‘Slam'. A different noise, further away, twin ‘bangs’ of doors opening and knocking against walls. The sound of multiple sets of running feet. A bellow that rings out louder and fiercer than the rest. “Midoriya! Midoriya, where are you?! Izuku!”

The anguish in it brings an old, previously forgotten memory to resurface. Even in the dying light of his mind, he can see it clearly.

He’d been hiding in the clothes rack at the shopping center as a child, absentmindedly having slipped away from Inko and her cart to play his own imaginary game of ‘superhero has to stake out and gain intel on the supervillains at the mall’. He’d been so wrapped up in his own (admittedly very compelling) imagined storyline, that he hadn’t even noticed when Inko began searching for him. It wasn’t until he’d heard his own description being blared over the store’s speakers as that of a ‘lost child’, along with Inko’s frantic calls of “Izuku? Baby, where are you?! Izuku!” that he was finally yanked out of his daydream, for never before had he heard such despair in his mother’s voice. At once he’d hopped out of his hiding place and gone straight to her. She’d gathered him up in her arms, tears streaming down her face, squeezing him tight even as she’d berated “never do that to me again!”

He hears the same naked terror, the same unmistakable fear of loss in his mentor’s tone now. It snags Izuku from his daze just as it had done over a decade before. With everything he has left, with strength he was certain he did not possess, he grips onto the lifeline One for All has been stringing him along with. Clumsily he runs towards the corner that leads to the exit doors. Towards where he hears his saviors scouring for him.

Watanabe has slowed considerably from earlier, but he’s still able to keep up a short distance behind Izuku. The man snarls irately in his chase. Izuku keeps going. All he needs to do is make it around the corner.

A handful of cops and heroes round the corner before he even reaches it. Izuku only has eyes for one.

The dim light further exaggerates the lines of All Might’s face; they are pulled and drawn, haggard looking. Blue eyes widen impossibly when Izuku enters his sight. “Izuku–”

Autopilot carries him forward. Adrenaline being his only fuel, Izuku can’t even stop the trajectory of his legs. He runs smack dab into All Might’s midsection with a choked gasp, sending the man stumbling several steps backwards. He wraps his arms around his hero as his legs give out and, helplessly, he crumbles to his knees.

All Might hurriedly goes with him, both their knees hitting the ground in succession. One hand catches Izuku at his back; the other holds Izuku's head to his bony chest. Izuku can hear the man’s heart stutter wildly, like an old car trying to start. A calloused thumb runs circles against Izuku’s scalp as surrounding officers shout things his mind is too bogged down to catch. All Might's deep voice is muttering something as if in prayer– to Izuku, or to himself, he doesn't know.

Watanabe’s pounding steps have yet to cease from behind Izuku, relentless even as officers point their weapons and shout their warnings. Izuku shivers. If the villain manages to even just lay a hand on him, he can still take him away. One for All will be lost forever.

He doesn’t have the strength or lucidity to voice any of this. He curls further into All Might with a fearful whimper, squeezing his tear-filled eyes shut, hands tightening their grip on the fabric of his mentor’s crinkled shirt.

All Might flinches hard at the sound. His arms further tighten their hold of Izuku. The hand cradling Izuku’s head tucks it more securely under the man's chin. Hot steam hits Izuku’s exposed skin, billowing powerfully all around him. All Might’s chest expands with reborn muscle where Izuku’s face had just rested against skin and bone. Soon, Izuku is completely encompassed by the arms of All Might’s hero form, their sheer mass shielding him from outside view or touch. The rapid pounding in his mentor’s chest is replaced by a low, protective rumble, one that reverberates throughout his entire form like cracking thunder. A wordless, booming threat to the villain who dares approach them.

Only then do Watanabe’s steps cease. Izuku hears the villain stumble to a stop, shouting “holy fucking shit”, before a final ‘crack’ indicates he’s left once and for all, wisely ditching the idea of trying to take Izuku with him.

Izuku exhales a crackly sigh. Despite the illness draining the last of him away, for the first time today, he finds himself almost... comfortable. Not blazingly overheated, not teeth-chatteringly chilled; simply warm. Finally, with Izuku's face pressed against All Might’s chest, his hero’s wildly thudding heart lulls him to rest like a last lullaby.

The darkness has been patient with him. He fights it no more.

Chapter Text

A woman is humming.

It is a soft, simple melody, one foreign yet familiar. He may not recognize its tune, but it still blankets him with comfort like he’s known it forever.

Blearily, fighting against lids heavy as concrete, Izuku reopens his eyes. A figure is looming over him. The backdrop of a velvet sky, dotted with puffs of periwinkle clouds, shimmers brightly behind the stranger. Their silhouette is darkened by contrast.

Izuku blinks as his vision struggles to focus. It is a woman, one with dark hair, half up in a bun while the rest of it trails down her shoulders.

Oh. The silhouette looks kind of like...

“Mom?”

The woman huffs her amusement and– no, this is not his mother. The voice is a few octaves too deep. “Actually, come to think of it,” Shimura Nana says, teasing yet museful, “it’s probably more like ‘Grandma’ to you, kid.”

A perplexed Izuku squints against the light of the oddly colored sky. The clouds above are rushing past too quickly. The purple of the sky ripples like a blanket being thrown and laid out. Am I dreaming? Now that his vision is clearing, the figure holding him in her arms looks less and less like his mother; her eyes are sharp rather than round, steelier than Inko’s. They still glint with fondness, though, and the way her hand runs through his hair while she hums isn’t too far from a mother’s touch.

“Not quite,” Nana answers. Had he asked his question out loud? “You’re not awake, not anymore, but that doesn’t mean this isn’t real.”

The hand combing through his hair is calloused and rough, and it feels less practiced than Inko’s, but it soothes him all the same. He can’t quite remember what had been making him uncomfortable in the first place. He watches Nana’s features soften to look melancholy.

Izuku opens his mouth to ask what’s wrong but, suddenly, he’s very, very tired. His eyelids begin to droop closed once more. Nana’s grip on him tightens, and her hand in his hair stills.

“Not yet, kid. Stay awake. Please. Just for a little while longer.”

Izuku’s eyes crack back open. “M’tired, though,” he tells her groggily. Nana’s eyes flash with something fierce as she shakes her head.

“Stay awake, Izuku. You’ve done well, so well– but I need you to do just a little more.”

The reason for her urgency hits Izuku a few long, foggy seconds later. He remembers.

Isago’s Cheshire cat grin, fading into the dark as Izuku falls, falls, falls. The world goes quiet, so quiet that when the glass of the antidote shatters to bits, it rings out like a bomb. All Might’s voice is like a light at the end of the tunnel, and Izuku will follow it until he can’t anymore. The darkness swallows him up as soon as he’s crumbled into his hero’s arms.

“If I’m not dreaming, then…” Then Izuku has failed. “I’m dying… aren’t I?”

The hand resumes its weaving through his hair. The humming starts up again. A bit more wobbly, this time. Breath tickles his face like the wind. 

“Yes,” Nana whispers mournfully.

In and out, Toshinori’s breathing heaves. Weighted and guttural like that of a provoked bull. Color bleeds back into his vision where it’d previously been washed out by red. Steam rolls off of his skin with renewed force, and his insides ‘snap’ like a rubber band that’s been stretched out too tight. Within moments, he’s shrunken back down to his true form. He hacks and wheezes wetly, trembling with the energy he’s just spent, but his arms don’t loosen hold of their precious cargo. His chin stays firmly buried into Izuku’s curls. His breaths remain heavy as the steam around them dissipates.

Protect him. Protect him, protect him–

Plague’s laughter echoes from somewhere far above. It bounces erratically off the walls to reach the rescue party below. “That’s adorable! All Might thinks that flashing his muscles will help the kid at this point. You’re too late, ‘Number One’. You may have saved Japan in the past, but now, you’ll fail to save one little boy.” Toshinori’s eyes flick to glare murderous intent up at stories above, his chin not leaving its place atop his boy’s head.

Plague flashes a grin from over the edge as his crony reappears next to him. Said crony looks significantly less cocky than his leader. Rightly so: if he’d been moronic enough to take another step towards Toshinori, towards the boy hyperventilating in his arms, Toshinori would have swiftly buried him into the concrete. A grim part of him mourns the satisfaction it would have brought. The pair of villains scatter off and out of sight as nearby heroes shout orders to chase after them. “Honestly? Midoriya should have just let me kill him earlier,” Plague’s scathing voice trails to reach his ears. “That would have been more merciful. Overly-cocky brat deserves every bit of what’s coming. The final stages of my poison were designed to be quite unpleasant for its victims. Clock’s ticking, All Might.” A far off ‘crack’ indicates they’ve transferred out and away once again.

Toshinori’s eyes haven’t stopped burning. Angry tears spill down his face as he holds his successor tighter.

He’d hardly had time to register the sight he’d barged into– a battered Izuku stumbling towards him, how in the hell did he get down here so quickly, I thought he was further up the building?!–  and though he’d earlier called out for his boy, it had been mostly mindless, born out of near-maddening panic rather than actually thinking Izuku would hear him. He’d hardly noticed the weight of his brickhouse of a kid barreling into him. Hadn’t even realized he’d swapped over to blubbered out English instead of Japanese as he’d held the boy close: “Oh, my boy, baby boy, my Izuku; I found you, you're safe now, I am here”, or that Izuku might not even be able to understand most of it.

(Perhaps, subconsciously, he’d done that protectively. Unlike his signature catchphrase, booming and righteous, these vulnerable words were not for all to hear.

They were for Izuku, and Izuku alone.)

No, all he had truly registered was the clarity of Izuku’s injuries and his fright, and that the ugly bastard chasing him down was the cause of both. Yet again, the darker part of Toshinori laments that the man hadn’t come closer with his own apparent death warrant. Toshinori would have been more than happy to sign it.

“ –ll Might? All Might, the villains ran off, you can let go–”

He gnashes his teeth with a warning growl when an unknown hand attempts to try and pry open his grip.

Protect protect PROTECT–

“–’s not hearing us, step back, I think he’s in fight-or-flight–”

Not ‘flight’, his mind corrects distantly, I’m not going anywhere. I’m not leaving him again. He won’t be taken from me again.

“– shit, can one of his colleagues get over here? He needs a familiar voice.”

“I called the crew stationed over at the hotel and requested for Recovery Girl, sir, she’s on her way over with one of the available medics.”

Recovery Girl. His thoughts scramble to form something resembling logic. Yes, Izuku… Izuku needs medical help. Toshinori blinks out of his reverie when Izuku’s weight slumps fully into him. He might as well have wrapped his arms around a small furnace; the boy is blazing hot, burning Toshinori’s chest right through his shirt. Holy shit. “Izuku,” he chokes out. Palming at Izuku’s flushed cheek, he tilts the boy’s head up to get a better look at him. “My boy, my– wake up.” Izuku’s eyes have fluttered closed, and his face is peacefully slack, as though he’s just fallen asleep. The dark circles under his eyes stand out like bruises against pallid skin. His lips are tinged a faint blue.

A contrast so alarming from the face that had looked at him with such betrayal yesterday. That one had been angry, defiant, but filled with color and with life, and now his boy is–

“No.” The word barely escapes numb lips. His hand darts to feel at Izuku’s neck for a pulse. For a horrible moment he can’t find it; until he does, and it’s weak, too fast and sporadic. Frantically he checks the boy’s shirt pocket, hoping against all odds that Plague hadn’t gone through with his threat of taking back the antidote, and his throat tightens to conceal his rage when he confirms it’s indeed missing.

He tucks Izuku back into his chest, one arm scooping under the boy’s legs to hoist him up in a bridal carry. “Is– is she coming?” he curtly demands of the crew. “Recovery Girl.” The remaining team that haven’t left to clear the building nod their heads, stepping aside to allow him a path back outside.

“Yes, All Might, sir, she should be arriving any moment–”

Toshinori wastes no time jogging out the double doors. The light of the sun peeking between clouds is an unforgiving contrast from both the darkness of the building, and the dreary gray of the rest of the sky; it stabs at his head like a dull knife. He speeds up at the blessed, blessed sight of Chiyo already having arrived, hopping out the back of an ambulance. Another medic is seen arranging equipment at her command.

“Why didn’t you tell anyone where you were going, Toshinori?” she’s already chiding, “hurrying off like a bat out of hell–” the color drains from her face when she sees what he’s holding.

“Chiyo,” he whimpers. He rushes towards her, his boy clutched in his arms. “Chiyo– please.”

Chiyo’s face is pinched as she ushers for Toshinori to hop aboard. “Get in.” Her hands work deftly, checking over Izuku’s vitals as a shaken Toshinori lays him down on a gurney. She tsks and heads to one side of the ambulance, waving for the other medic’s attention. “You, drive again. I’m going to care for the boy. All Might will assist me.” It seems she’s taken quick note of the way Toshinori hasn’t quite been able to pry stiffened hands off of Izuku, even after laying him down. Her next order is directed at him: “And you, get ready to pick him back up.”

“O-okay, why–?” 

She ignores him for the moment, pushing a bulky oxygen mask to sit over Izuku’s mouth and nose. Izuku doesn’t so much as stir. Toshinori can do little more than hover over him worryingly. Chiyo then scours through a side cabinet until she finds what looks like a large storage container full of supplies. “This’ll do,” she mutters, dumping the miscellaneous contents of the tub back into the cabinet. “Do you have ice on board? Water?” she asks the medic. After some shuffling around, he hands her a cooler full of ice packs from over the driver seat. He points back with his thumb at another cabinet containing large jugs of water.

As large of a vehicle as it is, it’s quickly feeling cramped with the three of them in the back, and there doesn’t seem to be room for… whatever Chiyo is trying to do. She seemingly decides that this storage tub is more important than the gurney; she motions for Toshinori to pick Izuku back up and, as soon as he does, she pushes the cot out and off the ambulance ramp. To Toshinori’s escalating confusion, she plunks the storage tub down in its place. She signals for the driver to close the door behind them. The vehicle shifts as it begins to pull into the street. “Midoriya has a fever of one-hundred and seven,” Chiyo explains bluntly. “If it stays there or, God forbid, goes any higher, we’ll lose him. We need to cool him down.” 

In less than a minute, the storage bin is filled up a third of the way with ice packs, and every last water jug has been emptied to fill the rest. Hurriedly they work together to strip Izuku out of his debris chalked, sweat soaked outer clothing.

The air in the room shifts when they see the mess that is Izuku’s torso. Uneven dips indicate shattered ribs. The yellow glow of the overhead light illuminates angry bruises, coloring everything from Izuku’s sternum to his lower abdomen, and more of them dot a ring around his neck. One hand is swollen and discolored, certainly broken. Chiyo shakes her head ruefully. Toshinori exhales sharply from his nose when his vision threatens to bleed red again. Together they move to lower the languid boy into the makeshift ‘tub’; Toshinori with his arms weaved under Izuku’s armpits, and Chiyo at the boy’s legs.

A previously dead-to-the-world Izuku flinches with a sucked inhale the moment the small of his back hits frigid water. His whine of discomfort is muffled by the noisy oxygen mask. Chiyo manages to get a handle on his feeble kicks into her as he arches to get out. Toshinori clutches him all the more securely to his chest. “No, Midoriya– calm down, my boy. My poor boy. I’ve got you. I’ve got you…”

They manage to get Izuku to where he’s almost completely submerged in the water. He nearly slips fully under with his squirming. With an “oomph” Toshinori hoists him right back up, squatting on his heels at the head of the tub to keep his arms weaved under Izuku’s. He doesn’t notice the bite of chilled water when his own clothed arms dip in. One hand darts to catch Izuku’s chin to keep it tilted above the water. His other arm stretches to bar across Izuku’s torso, as the boy is still struggling fruitlessly to rise out of the tub. He lays a cheek on Izuku’s head, muttering out apologies as the boy gives up his struggling to weakly cry instead.

“Right, keep him upright,” Chiyo instructs Toshinori, opening a kit to her side. Her brow is deeply furrowed, as if she’s trying to detach from the boy’s clear distress so she can properly think. “I’m going to start an IV.”

“You– you can’t use your quirk to–” His eyes finally leave Izuku to look at her imploringly. The phrase save him dies on his lips. Chiyo’s returning gaze is regretful. 

“No, Toshinori, I don’t dare. He won’t survive it.”

Izuku, stubborn as ever, gives another kick to the tub, stronger this time. Water is sent sloshing over the sides. Chiyo steadies the side of the tub with one hand, the other pulling a needle out of the kit. “Deceptively so. He still kicks like he has a lot of juice left,” she mumbles.

“Young Midoriya!” Toshinori musters up whatever sternness he can into the familiar moniker. He shifts his weight on his toes when they start to go numb with sleep. “Calm down, kid. Please. Don’t fight us.” He takes the arm barring Izuku’s torso to scoop up water with a cupped hand. Careful not to get any into the oxygen mask, he trickles water over Izuku’s flushed face. Runs it through the boy’s hair with a shaking hand. His own tears fall with the raining droplets. “You don’t need to fight anymore. Okay? Let us take care of the rest. Help is here. I am here.”

Chiyo has already successfully placed an IV in Izuku’s less battered arm. She pushes a medication through with a syringe before hanging a bag of fluid. “The antidote was... destroyed, Toshinori,” she informs him hesitantly. Dismay squeezes his already breaking heart with both hands. The end of his phone call with Plague had left him fearful of such. “It was found shattered on the ground. A member of your team called in with the news just before you ran out. The government-sent forensic analyst should be arriving at the scene now. It’s possible they will still be able to make out its ingredients, but until something new can be crafted, we’ll do everything we can to keep Midoriya afloat. I don’t recognize the properties of this poison– otherwise, I could try to do more.”

She looks to Izuku, then to Toshinori. Her clinically stoic demeanor cracks to reveal great sadness. “What we’re doing now is just… attempting to buy him some time.”

“Are you ready?”

They’ve been chipping away at the glue Momo had previously crafted– what now seems like ages ago– to block gas from seeping under the ballroom doors. She’s too fretful over Iida’s weakened state to let him overuse his quirk any longer. Guilt rolls in her gut over the fact that he’s had to use it so continuously this entire time. It has clearly taken its toll; he’s faring worse than she is. For this reason, they’d opted to reopen the tightly sealed doors with lesser means than his charged kicks. Momo herself has resigned to crafting only small, uncomplicated items at this point. Anything more complex requires energy she no longer has. As their time grows short, and the last of their good health dwindles, they’ve agreed to use their only resources more wisely.

Besides, if the villain is in fact hiding out in the spot they’ve narrowed down by process of elimination, it’s better not to alert them with the commotion of barging right in.

All they really need to do is get the villain to drop their quirk. Aizawa, backed by other heroes, is already waiting outside the emergency exit where he was initially shut out of the building. They’re all ready to swarm the area on the students’ command. Find the villain, corner them, distract them enough to get them to let down the shield. Then we can let the pros handle the rest. Momo has pocketed away a couple of flash grenades, along with a simple knife and a rope-weapon called a bola, on the chance a fight does indeed ensue.

After she finishes clasping on her heavier duty gas mask, she helps Iida’s shaking fingers to fix his, as well.

“Yes. I’m ready. Did you hear that, Sensei?” Iida hoarsely addresses the phone attached to Momo’s armband. “We’re heading in.” He looks at the cameraman a final time. “Sir, we don’t want to risk you getting hurt, or otherwise being more exposed to the gas. You should go back and rest with the others. Let’s leave your camera on the ground of the doorway, though. On the chance that…” he grimaces over his next choice of words, “that we fail– and I don’t plan to!– but if for whatever reason we do, UA can at least get some footage and possible identification of the villain responsible.”

The cameraman, pale with his own illness, nods in agreement. Gently, he sets his camera on the ground as asked. He positions it to focus properly. Then he straightens to look at both kids before bowing deep, bending at the waist. “I– I need to thank you both. No matter what happens in there…” he wipes sweat off his face with an arm, “you’ve been real heroes, today. I’m… sorry for the way you kids were treated earlier, at the conference. As though the three of you had something to prove. You’ve more than proven yourselves as adequate heroes. You’re the only reason any of us has had a chance.”

Iida nods, looking taken aback, yet touched. He reaches out to grasp the man’s hand. “And thank you for your courage, as well, sir. Following me around, armed with nothing but a camera while a villain could have been lurking around any corner– you’ve got the bravery of a hero, too.”

The man huffs out a chuckle, which quickly turns into a hacking cough. He dips his head respectfully in Momo’s direction. “Thank you, too, Miss. Go get ‘em.” 

Once he’s off and out of sight, Momo locks eyes with Iida. They nod in unison.

“Let’s go.”

The groaning ‘creak’ of heavy doors opening echoes through the large room. It’s an unsettling sight compared to the one they'd left behind; where there had once been music, chatter and bustle, there are now knocked over chairs and abandoned television equipment. Half of the overhead lights have flicked off due to an automatic timer. The stage remains lit, though, like a museum exhibit showcasing the spot Midoriya was last seen alive. The whirring sounds of air vents kicking up are all that can be heard. Traces of purple gas still trail throughout the air. They slither overhead slowly, like ghostly serpents looking for more prey to devour. 

Momo meets Iida’s gaze again. They reach an agreement without using words. There are many nearby tables, but none are covered, not enough for a villain to effectively hide under. The three of them had gone behind the curtain on stage before the conference started– not that a villain couldn’t be hiding there, now, but they’d stood amongst nothing but cramped space filled to the brim with cleaning equipment. The nearest bathrooms are down the hall, detached from this room. The ballroom– mainly, the stage– marks the very last space left unsearched, a dead end of this side of the hotel.

Momo can only pray that her best and final guess is the right one.

Cautiously, they reach the stage. Iida waves for Momo’s attention. He can’t mouth to her, not through the mask, but he motions with his hands what look like running patterns.

‘Sneak? Or charge?’

Momo pauses. ‘Sneak’, she decidedly motions back, reenacting a person tip-toeing with her fingers. Her eyes scan over the more intricate details of the wooden stage.

Their steps, even if kept light, are likely to be heard if they walk over the top. She gnaws at her lip. The entrance to trap rooms– at least, from what she can remember from childhood plays long ago– were on the top of the floor, but they usually needed some kind of button to open them up. She hasn’t spotted a control panel anywhere. Perhaps there is a quieter, quicker option for entry from one of the sides. This stage is on the taller side; it looks like it could possibly even store band equipment underneath. She knows this hotel has been host to many musical events. Quietly she guides Iida to hover around the sides of the stage, eyes searching for any differentiation in the wood paneling.

She finds it.

She nudges a door open after feeling around for a hidden handle with careful fingers. Her heart stops.

There, sitting under the stage, as Momo had predicted in a last ditch attempt for a solution, is a woman.

A girl, really, as she looks to be only a few years older than Momo herself. She doesn’t know what sort of villain she’d been expecting to encounter, but it certainly wasn’t a girl who looks like she came right off the street. Head half shaved and arms adorned with tattoos, Momo might have even questioned if this girl was just another civilian they’d missed, hiding away amidst the chaos– but she isn’t displaying any symptoms of their illness. Her strained, almost meditative pose indicates she’s been holding her position for a long time, now.

Eyes closed shut, beads of sweat drip down the girl’s brow, as if she’s burdened by the great weight of holding up something unseen. Her hands are outstretched, her fingers splayed wide. At the sound of the door opening, she jerks out of her trance-like state. Her startled eyes meet Momo’s.

“Enough, villain,” Iida spits out, shouldering his way through the door to stand by Momo’s side. His eyes flit to the phone on Momo’s armband to ensure he’s within hearing range of Aizawa. “It's time to release your quirk. You’re far outnumbered by the heroes waiting right outside, and if you won’t come quietly, we won't hesitate to stop you ourselves.”

The woman looks at the two with a touch of fear. Then she scoffs, brushing back her own sweat with an arm, hands remaining splayed and high. “You're both practically knocking on death's door. I’m not scared of you.”

“Fine, then,” Iida rasps, steadying his stance as much as he's able. “I gave you a choice. You’ll answer for the crimes you've committed today.”

The villain freezes, as if stuck with making a split decision. A moment passes before she drops her hands, splaying her fingers out in Momo and Iida's direction, instead.

Iida moves even before she does. Momo quickly follows his lead, tossing a flash grenade to land at the girl's feet.

What must be a smaller version of her shield blocks both attacks. Invisible to the eye as before, and every bit as durable; Iida's heel is slowed and halted just inches before he can get a kick to her torso. Not only is he snagged back, but so is Momo's flash grenade, and it catapults right into a wide-eyed Iida.

The resulting boom shakes the underside of the stage like fireworks have been set off. "Iida!" Momo yelps, choking on smoke. Iida is thrown back and away to hit the ground, landing hard on his shoulder, and the villain wastes no time in bumping him even further back with another shield. He is forcefully pushed right out of the doorway to the stage. He skids back, crashing fully into one of the nearby tables adorned with food. The clattering of pans and the shattering of glassware rings out.

Vaguely, over the newfound ringing in her ears, Momo hears the doors to the ballroom slam open. The bigger shield was dropped! She can only hold one at a time! The villain immediately turns to scurry towards what looks like a small corridor at the back end of the stage. Looks like she had an escape route planned– I can't let her leave! Her concern for Iida is placated by the fact that heroes are pouring in to help. If Momo can capture this villain, maybe they can get answers about the antidote, about Midoriya.

She yanks the bola hanging from her equipment belt. She hurries to stay at the fleeing villain's heels, tossing the rope-weapon to catch at one of the woman's ankles. It snags around both feet to trip her. With a gasp, the villain flails to ungracefully fall down face-first. She glares daggers up at Momo as she rushes to reach the villain, pair of handcuffs at the ready.

She seems a bit sloppy, probably untrained, but scrappy. I need to be careful.

With a splayed hand, the girl shoots another shield up between her and Momo. It doesn't last long, just enough to startle her with it's abrupt hit, but she still stumbles back like she's been smacked by a large bouncy ball. Her ankle twists with a painful 'snap' as one of her heeled shoes breaks.

Dammit! Stupid, impractical dress clothes, and stupid heels! I’m never wearing them to an event like this again– if ever! Momo staggers before diving for the villain yet again.

The villain rolls out of the way, kicking out at one of Momo’s legs in an attempt to trip her, gritting her teeth all the while. She splays her hand up at Momo a final time, more deliberately than before. Momo is forcefully shoved backwards until she's slammed against the wall of the stage.

This time, the shield doesn’t let up. Air is squeezed from her already struggling lungs as the barrier crushes her into wooden paneling. She grunts, straining an eye open to look at the villain, who is watching her with something warring between contempt and rage.

“Why even fight back, you spoiled little bitch? You’re just gonna die down here anyway–”

“Let her go.”

Just as Momo thinks she might pass out, the impossible weight on her chest is mercifully released. She falls to her knees, ankle smarting in protest. Greedily she gasps for the air that’d been stolen from her. She risks a cautious glance up at the villain. The girl's eyes are trained fearfully somewhere to Momo’s left. Panting, Momo follows her gaze.

Aizawa looms in the doorway of the stage. His crimson eyes illuminate the darkened space, like a blood moon does the night sky. Other heroes pour in from behind him, holding up their own quirks, demanding for the villain to stand down. It’s Aizawa’s capture weapon that snags the woman to stumble their way before she's even given the chance to consider cooperating willingly, though. He holds her in his unflinching grip, pinning her under his scrutinizing gaze for a long, tense moment. He frowns as she struggles against his capture weapon before he tosses her carelessly behind him, leaving her to be handled by the surrounding police force.

Momo wants to cry out in relief. She doesn’t have the energy to, though, much less to stand back up. She can't help the trembling that starts when Aizawa makes his way over to her. He crouches to be eye level with her, grabbing hold of both of her shoulders. He takes a long look at her, scanning her over for any injuries.

He doesn’t bother asking if she’s okay. “Let’s get you to the hospital,” he says lowly. His previously vivid eyes have dimmed to be blank, unreadable. “Can you walk?”

She means to tell him about her ankle, likely sprained, means to tell him about her worsening lightheadedness, but instead, she just cries. She leans forward to rest her head on her teacher's chest, shoulders quaking. Instead of stiffening at the contact, like she'd expect, Aizawa surprises her with a tight hug right back. She wraps her arms around him in shaky relief. His hand reaches to gingerly pat at her head. 

“I’ll carry you, then.”

Momo sucks in a shuddering breath. Aizawa’s hand stops patting her head to bring it further into his chest. His own sigh doesn't sound too steady, either.

“You did good, kid.”

Time. A concept Toshinori has always had a complicated relationship with. One of love-hate, he’d say, because time likes to juggle between roles of thief and teacher, of enemy and friend. Time has stripped many things away from Toshinori, some quick and some slow: family, friends, his quirk. For all that it’s taken, time has also healed, and the cycle dutifully repeats. Even as time had once promised– per Nighteye’s grim prediction– to swallow the last of him whole, he had learned to embrace it, for better or for worse, as something written in stone.

(The child dying in his arms has taught him to redefine what he’s previously thought of as ‘fate’, though. The appearance of this curious, brave, overly-exuberant boy in his life had lit a fire under Toshinori to plead for more time. And so just as he’d done during his fight with All for One, just as his boy had determinedly promised to do alongside him, Toshinori will defy fate once more.)

Though he’s danced a dangerous game with time for years, never has he felt quite so rattled by its threats until today. Time is what blurs together as he mumbles useless assurances over Izuku until the boy goes quiet again, alarming both Toshinori and Chiyo with his abandoned fight to leave the tub. Time is what spurs him to scoop the boy up and wrap him in an oversized towel with such urgency, he doesn’t even bother drying him off, rushing the dripping boy out of the parked vehicle and through the doors of the local hospital. Time is what he refuses to waste any more of when the jaded receptionist, without even glancing their way, drones out: “We’re at max capacity, sir. It’ll be awhile. Go ahead and wait in one of the chairs.” And when Izuku jolts upright to gag an alarming amount of blood straight onto his mentor’s shirt, time has drained any remaining patience or shred of formality from Toshinori. His thunderous bellow that Izuku needs help now, lest he barrel the kid right through the doors of the triage room himself, shakes the very walls of the waiting room.

When Izuku’s been placed on a gurney to be wheeled down the halls, and the number of bodies suddenly surrounding him has forced Toshinori away, time whispers that it’s here to steal from Toshinori yet again.

“You’re too late, ‘Number One’. You may have saved Japan in the past, but now, you’ll fail to save one little boy.” Words his own nightmares have already taunted him with so many times. Today, they’ve finally been spoken aloud to ring true.

His hand reaches out to grasp at nothing but air when Izuku’s is fully pulled away. The doors to the hospital ward swing shut behind the bustling medical staff. The hall goes eerily silent with their departure.

Toshinori all but collapses into a nearby chair that’s lined against the wall. His head drops to bury itself in his hands. 

“Clock’s ticking, All Might.”

A mournful keen like that of a wounded animal escapes him, shattering the short-lived quiet of the hall.

Sometimes, when the purple of the sky above them ripples, it also tears open like a tarp. Whenever it does, Izuku gets disorienting glimpses of things he can’t quite piece together.

Being wheeled down corridors of stark white. Every bump he hits feels like a hot fire poker prodding at his back. The lights overhead are white, blinding. They flash too quickly past the figures hovering over him. He tries to pull a noisy, invasive machine off of his mouth and nose, tries to roll off the cold, metal surface he’s been placed on– it hurts to lie flat, it hurts, he hurts – but he is stopped by many hands and rolled back into place. Skeletal features highlighted by gold look down at him fearfully while voices murmur around him. 

Both fire and ice take turns flooding through his veins, clawing at his muscles, gnawing on his bones. Flames dance off his skin while frost invades his lungs. 

But not here. Here, he is cradled in Nana’s arms, and he doesn’t feel anything but profoundly tired. “What’s– what’s going on? I don’t–” he stammers out. Gently, Nana shushes him. Her humming picks up a sense of urgency, though, as if attempting to keep his attention away from the jumbled images in the sky.

Then the hole in the sky closes again, like the opening of a tent being closed by the wind. His half-closed eyes flit to Nana’s pale face.

“Are you…” he blinks up at her with awe. “Are you keeping me from dying?”

A corner of Nana’s mouth lifts into a sad half-smile. “I'm flattered, Izuku, but I'm not quite that cool. I don’t have the power to stop death. I’m merely trying to help hold you from it as long as I’m able.”

“You saved me earlier, though,” he recalls slowly. A surge of excitement clears his cloud of fatigue a bit. “I activated ‘Float’. Was that because of you?”

“Mmm.” Nana’s somberness cracks a bit when she gives him a wink. “The vestiges of One for All don’t ‘watch’ everything in your life, not as clearly as you might think, but we are fairly aware of what’s going on. Mainly through a user’s feelings. And I can feel it. So much so, it almost hurts.”

“Oh… I’m, I’m sorry. What hurts?”

“How much Toshinori cares for you.” Her tone quiets into something wistful. “I may never have gotten to meet you, but it feels as though I know you, too. Enough to know the world isn’t ready to be without you. He certainly isn’t ready to be without you. I may have had to leave him too early... but I can at least do my best to ensure he’s not left again.”

As something in his mind lights up with surprised happiness at her words– All Might… cares for him that much? That he’d practically summoned Nana to come to Izuku’s rescue?– Nana’s hand begins sifting through his hair again. “You know, I never got to be… motherly like this, with them,” she whispers, voice laden with lament. “Not with Kotaro. Not with Toshinori. I never held either one of them like this. Never comforted them, not in the way I should have. Never told them…”

Izuku watches as tears well up in her eyes.

“Ah. 'Could have’ this, ‘should have’ that. We wish for so many things after our time’s run out. I don’t think… that I ever even got around to telling him how proud of him I am. Or that I love him like a…”

“He knows,” Izuku assures her softly when she can’t seem to finish. One of her tears escapes to dart silently down her face. “I’ve heard him talk about you. I know he knows.”

Nana’s watery smile is beautiful as it is wide. “You’re one observant kid. How about you, then? Do you know?”

“M-me?” Fatigue begs to pull Izuku back to sleep. “Know what?”

“How much he loves you, Midoriya Izuku?”

He should have been the one to call the boy’s mother, the last sane bit of his brain thinks to chastise him.

Chiyo had been summoned back to the hotel as soon as Izuku's care was passed over to the medical staff. Nezu sounded as though he was hopeful they had a way in. She'd been apologetic about leaving Toshinori to wait alone, stating she'd be back as soon as she was able, but they both knew she'd done everything she could for Izuku at the moment. Before she'd left, she'd informed him that someone from UA staff had, indeed, called everyone’s parents at one point. The city they’re in is currently under strict lockdown, though, not allowing anyone to leave or enter while the hostage situation is still active, nor while the villains are still on the loose. He doesn't have the highest hopes that they'll make an exception for the parents– for Izuku’s poor mother. Good lord, he can’t fathom being held back during all this, knowing only bits and pieces of what’s happening…

Coward. Disgust with himself churns what's left of his gut for the relief he’d felt at the knowledge that someone else had called Inko. That burden should have been his and his alone: he had promised her he’d keep their boy safe. But today, he can’t even stop himself from falling to pieces, much less keep it together long enough to reassure anyone else. 

God, and you have the nerve to call yourself a hero? Look how far you’ve fallen.

Answers. He needs answers. He’ll call her as soon he has them. Toshinori springs up from his seat, then, pacing and bouncing off of his toes with electrifying anxiety. He is just about ready to go pound on the door for updates when he’s beat to the punch. A graying, bespectacled man steps out of the room.

“Are you… All Might?” the doctor asks. A finger nudges his glasses up the bridge of his nose as he closes the door behind him. “I’m Doctor Furuta. Are you the boy’s–”

“Yes,” Toshinori rasps, skipping technicalities for time’s sake. The logistics of it all don’t matter, not right now. The boy is his. “Will he– are you able to–?”

“He’s… I won’t go as far as to say he’s been ‘stabilized’,” Doctor Furuta says, carefully vague. “But we’ve bought him a bit of time.” Oh, good grief, Toshinori is beginning to loathe that phrase. His heart pitter-patters when he sees the man’s posture slump a bit. “I’m afraid we can only do so much until we get that antidote. I’ve received word that someone has been sent over to extract its ingredients, and thankfully, we have a pharmaceutical team here more than prepared to replicate it. However, if we’re factoring the time it will take to gather said ingredients and make a solid enough supply, I… I can’t make any promises, All Might, but I can assure you we’re trying our best.”

Toshinori swallows against a throat gone bone dry. “How is he now?”

“He perked up a bit after receiving some fluids, and we’re still trying to keep his fever down, but he hasn’t woken past a state of delirium. His lungs have also been critically affected. We took some of the excess fluid off of them with a quick procedure involving a draining needle– but with what’s going on in his body, that fluid is just going to accumulate again. We do everything we possibly can before intubating someone– that is, putting a tube down their throat when their own lungs are too weak to breathe–” and, God, does Toshinori know firsthand what being intubated means– “but it’s likely we’ll reach that point. His organs are actively trying to shut down.”

Toshinori’s insides have long since pooled to jelly. “I need to see him,” he croaks, clearing his throat to try and bring his voice back out of hiding. “Can I see him?"

Doctor Furuta looks at him with a touch of sympathy. “Whatever he was poisoned with, it wasn’t designed to take him out quickly, or… peacefully. I… won’t sugarcoat it, sir, he’s in severe distress. I’m appalled that anyone would think to administer a substance so vile– especially to a child. I’ve maxed out what pain medication I dare give without compromising him further. Even if he wasn’t your family, it’d be difficult for anyone to see him in this state. It’s probably best that you–”

A loud ‘crash’ rings out from the other side of the wall, followed by an ear-shattering wail from Izuku. 

Doctor Furuta seems like a nice enough man– certainly blunt, a bit stoic, but nice– and normally, Toshinori does his best to be respectful of medical personnel and their orders. But if the man had been about to say ‘sit out on this one’, or otherwise try to bar Toshinori from entry, he just may have wound up decking him. Nothing personal, of course, but any of Toshinori’s more delicate sensibilities have long since left the building. He shoulders his way past Doctor Furuta to careen through the doors of the hospital ward.

Izuku is tossing and turning violently, bedsheets kicked askew, anguished wails distorted by his oxygen mask. His body is wracked by twitches here and there as his breathing hitches. It looks as though the nurses had just managed to get him somewhat cleaned up, blood and debris all washed away, but he’s already sweat right through his hospital gown. Blackwhip flares up with every one of his hiccuping gasps, lashing out to swipe at his immediate surroundings. Its tendrils are like wisps of smoke, too weak to do much damage, other than bumping his nearby IV pole to wobble and crash to the ground. The staff backs away from the bed regardless, hands up in the air.

“We’re going to have to restrain him,” one of the medical personnel says, looking to Toshinori apologetically. “We can’t help him if he won’t let us near him. He’s already pulled out two IV’s.”

His poor boy is doing this defensively, likely thinking he’s still captured in his delirium. To restrain him would make things so much worse. He doesn’t bother voicing this, though, instead clamoring to reach Izuku’s bedside when the boy reaches to pull at another IV with a frustrated gurgle. He skips pulling up a chair to instead kneel at the side the bed, taking both of Izuku’s hands in his. “Oh, Izuku– Izuku! Look at me,” Toshinori fights hard to keep his voice firm. “I'm here. You're safe now. Can you look at me, my boy?”

“Noooo, no, no,” Izuku continues to sob deliriously, eyes squeezed tightly shut, but he does curl into Toshinori’s touch. “Don’t– I d-don’t– hurts, it hu-urts–”

“I–" Tears muddle his vision, "I know.” Decades of experience as All Might have welded him into a master of facade. Smiling when he doesn’t feel it, holding any tears back until he’s out of sight of those suffering worse than he. He has successfully borne the weight of many hardships. But under the weight of his boy’s pain, of his agony, he is broken. He couldn't choose what's been the worse brand of torture: having no idea what was happening to Izuku, or being right in front of him, powerless to do anything to help. “I know it does, sweet boy. My poor boy." His voice cracks away into a whisper. "I'm sorry, Izuku, I’m sorry. I'm so sorry.”

Izuku’s eyes are still screwed shut. Tears run out of them to cascade down the sides of his oxygen mask. When Toshinori starts sifting a hand through the boy’s damp hair, speaking mindless nothings, mindless anythings in hopes of calming him, Izuku opens his eyes to look at him foggily. Recognition lights their green bright for just a moment. “There you are," Toshinori says. He can't help the way his voice has hiked up a pitch higher than usual. "My boy. My precious boy. Keep looking at me, Izuku, right at me.”

“Hurts,” Izuku croaks again, twitching as he curls further into himself. He reaches an unsteady hand to pull the intrusive mask off of his face. Toshinori gently stops the smaller, scarred hand with his own. 

“No, Izuku, leave that. You need it to breathe–” 

When Izuku’s next cry and flinch wrack his entire frame, causing another flare of Blackwhip to lash out– not hitting anything in particular, but still a display of the boy’s obvious terror– a desperate Toshinori climbs up and onto the bed with him, gathering the boy up in his arms.

“S-s-sorry, All M-ght, I’m n-not–”

“Ssshhhh. Shh,” he coos into the boy’s hair. “My boy. Oh, my brave boy. My little hero.” He presses a firm kiss to Izuku's forehead, shutting his own eyes tight. Tears escape, anyway, relentless in their downpour. He cradles Izuku to his chest like the precious, precious thing he is. “You’ve done so well– so well. I'm so proud of you. You're safe, now, and I'm here. I am here. I’ve got you. I've got you..."

Izuku's flinches again, panting as he clings at Toshinori's shirt, but Blackwhip obeyingly dissipates. He reaches a trembling hand up yet again. Just when Toshinori is prepared to stop him from going for his oxygen mask a second time, the boy reaches for his own head, instead.

“T-take it,” Izuku stutters. Weakly, insistently, he tugs at one of his green locks. “Take it b-back.”

Toshinori pushes Izuku’s hand back down without another word. His throat has grown far too thick for words, and he no longer has any that’ll be of use, anyway. Instead he lets out a sob right in tune with his boy, shaking his head in a simple but fervorous ‘no’, leaning forward to rest his forehead against Izuku’s feverish one.

As he sits cross legged on top of tangled sheets, clothes stained with blood as he rocks his whimpering sixteen-year-old back and forth like he’s a baby, the Symbol of Peace weeps.

Chapter Text

Adrenaline flees from Momo's body. It drains from her head, through her heart, down her limbs like sand sprinkling through an hourglass. She's left feeling cold and heavy. Her journey from the hotel to the hospital is a hazy one.

Shortly after he'd reached Momo under the stage, Aizawa had been quick to hoist her up into his arms, directing the rest of the rescue crew to head to the kitchens where the rest of the civilians were taking refuge. Momo had groggily watched on as an unconscious Iida was hauled by stretcher to what would end up being a separate ambulance. Recovery Girl had trotted to keep up alongside him, brows knit together as she fret over his apparent head injury. 

Aizawa’s bloodshot eyes had roved over Iida’s limp form, jaw twitching. His anger emanated all the more loudly in his silence. His hold on Momo was tight and guarding, even with the immediate threat having been removed.

Exhausted, heavy-limbed and worried as she may be, Momo has never experienced such dizzying relief. Has never felt more safe.

This is what it means to be a hero, she thinks. This is how heroes are supposed to help people feel. She doesn't say this aloud, simply letting her head fall to her teacher's shoulder with a tired sigh. If we can be cured– if I make it out of today alive– that's what I want to do, too. I want… I want to be like him. Aizawa shifts his weight, not pausing in giving clipped orders to the crew around them, but his grip around her tightens a little.

It isn’t until he has carried her into the privacy of the ambulance, setting her down as he removes his own protective gas mask, that how ill Momo must truly be hits her with full force.

Her earlier adrenaline had fueled her to keep moving forward. It must have also helped mask the severity of her sickness. Her face must show it, now, because a medic hurries to throw a bag under her face. Aizawa's hand is a tad too cool against her blazing skin, resting between her shoulder blades as she vomits miserably. He mutters something indiscernible to the medic.

The world spins around her as she's stuck with IV's and hooked up to hanging bags of fluid. The medic checks over her vitals; it takes her mouth a few moments to catch up to her brain when answering his questions. Her lightheadedness clears somewhat after an oxygen cannula is placed to push extra air through her nose. She peers up at Aizawa through her brain fog. Like a hawk, her teacher is watching the medic work with her, but a far off look clouds his features.

“Has… has anyone found Midoriya?”

Aizawa's eyes don't leave the medic's ministrations. “All Might did.”

All Might? Had she been a bit more lucid, she might have inquired into how their now quirkless teacher had ended up on the rescue team. “... And?” Momo presses instead. She can’t help it if she sounds a bit flighty. “Is– is he okay?”

“... He’s alive.”

That at least allows her to release the breath she'd been holding. “But is he okay?”

“Not sure yet, kid,” Aizawa cedes on an exhale. “I’ll know more once we get to the hospital.” His curtness doesn’t seem to be aimed at her; nonetheless, she stops pushing it. His distracted look makes sense now. He's likely just as anxious as she is to know the details of Midoriya’s condition.

With Aizawa’s intermittent reminders for her to stay awake, she fights the urge to nod off, jolting every time the vehicle hits a bump. She remembers insisting on not needing to lie down on a gurney, but she’s barely aware of getting into a wheelchair to be steered into the hospital building.

She perks up at the sight of Recovery Girl approaching. Her older teacher ushers them into a room, hovering near Momo with clear concern.

“Oh, you poor dear. Here, now, let’s get you into bed…”

Aizawa crouches into her field of vision. Wordlessly he hooks his arms under hers, lifting her to stand from the chair. With the assistance of both of her teachers, she is placed to sit on the edge of the bed. Her teeth chatter incessantly all the while. A light blanket is placed over her shoulders; she grips onto it with both hands.

“What’s the status on Iida?” Aizawa inquires somewhere over her.

“As far as the poison goes? It seems to have progressed a bit further than it has with Yaoyorozu here. I understand the circumstances– I do– but damn it all, that boy never should have been forced to push himself so much in his state. Otherwise, his concussion was a bit nasty, but with proper rest that should be alright…”

With a tight nod, Aizawa excuses himself. With a quieter murmur directed at Momo that he won't be long, he slips out of the room to check on his other student. Recovery Girl helps a shivering Momo change into a hospital gown, fussing over her all the while.

“How about you, dear? Are you in any pain? I’m afraid I’ll have to hold off on healing your ankle– I don’t dare use my quirk unless absolutely necessary until you’ve received the antidote.”

Momo lays down on her side. She pulls the blanket more tightly around herself. “Pain? Um…” Everything hurts, all at once, as if her body itself is one big, throbbing wound. No need to voice that, though. Not while guilt rolls over her in waves at the thought of her classmates being worse off than she is. “I-I’m okay…”

She almost does let herself slip off to sleep this time, relaxing in the comforting presence of a familiar authority figure standing watch, when an unknown person enters the room after a single knock. Aizawa isn’t far behind them. 

A sleek haircut and square glasses, matched with monochrome clothing, give the new woman an unreadable air. “Agent Hara,” she introduces herself briskly. “Recovery Girl, yes? I was told you're a vital part of the recovery team. I’m here to inform you that I was able to successfully extract the ingredients of the antidote. It took a bit longer than expected– much of it had already been absorbed into the concrete.”

The… concrete? What?! Momo stares, jaw slack, feeling slow to comprehend. Recovery Girl just mentioned the antidote, and she didn't sound like there'd be a problem with any of us receiving it… Was she just trying not to scare me…?

The agent continues on: “Nonetheless, I was still able to gather the bare minimum what was needed, and I’ve relayed the ingredients to the pharmaceutical team here. I was told a fresh batch should be ready anywhere between twenty minutes to half an hour.”

“Shit,” Recovery Girl says under her breath. Both Momo and Aizawa look at her, equally surprised at her uncharacteristic choice of language. “He doesn’t have that long.”

“Midoriya?” Aizawa's tone is ice. It sends shivers down Momo’s spine. Recovery Girl’s mouth thins into a line.

“He’s on borrowed time as it is. He’d have been lost to us already, had we not gotten to him when we did.”

Cold sweat prickles at the back of Momo’s neck. “Give me the list of ingredients, then,” she tells the impassive agent. All three pairs of eyes in the room are suddenly on her. “I’ll craft Midoriya’s antidote. And I’ll make more for Iida, and– and anyone else who will benefit from having it earlier than the pharmacy’s batch will be ready.”

Aizawa’s gaze snaps to Recovery Girl. Her teacher's eyes are even more red rimmed than usual, as if they’ve been forcibly pried open for days on end. “Is that... doable? Will utilizing her quirk at this point be too much for her...?” 

Recovery Girl purses her lips. She raises a gentle hand to Momo’s forehead as she assesses her vitals. “Crafting something so complex at this point will certainly drain her, but,” she cedes after a beat, “I'll be frank, it's Midoriya's last option. If you do this, Yaoyorozu, I'll need to monitor you closely. I won’t be leaving your side.” 

“I’ll be fine,” Momo insists weakly, but Recovery Girl quiets her with a firm shake of her head.

“We’re taking no chances. I’ve witnessed the last stages of this poison with Midoriya. It’s… quite unforgiving once it fully takes hold. I’ll need to monitor your health the entire time you’re using your quirk. And if you’re planning on making even more,” she says sternly, “the very next dose you craft after Midoriya's will need to be taken by you. I've witnessed enough of children sacrificing their own wellbeing for one day. Everyone else has time; you can best help the others once you've helped yourself. Understood?”

Shouta looks on as Yaoyorozu creates the bubbling, violet liquid in mere moments, and she pours Midoriya's dose into a nearby vial with shaking hands. As much as she tries to assure them she’s fine, they can all see the way she wilts with her efforts, and Chiyo orders her to rest before crafting anything further.

A pharmacist waiting outside the door insists on giving it a quick inspection. “Since the antidote was likely intended to be taken orally,” she explains, “we need to ensure that it’s safe and effective to be injected, instead. It’s highly unlikely Midoriya-san will be able to ingest anything in his current state– let alone keep it down. An injection will work its way through his system more quickly anyway. Just give our team a few minutes to check it over.”

Yaoyorozu has already begun to craft a second dose under Chiyo's careful watch. Before she can finish, though, deep, painful sounding coughs escape her. Flecks of blood spray the fist covering her mouth as she folds in on herself. Chiyo is rounding on her before even Shouta can, eyes wide.

“It was too much,” the old nurse says, and the finality in her tone leaves little room for argument. “You did wonderfully, dear, but now we'll wait for the pharmacy to–”

“No! Please, please let me make more. I– I want to keep helping,” Yaoyorozu is crying, now, composure cracking with the progression of her illness. “If anyone dies while waiting for the antidote just because of me, I'd never– I'll never forgive m-myself–”

Shouta entirely misses what the staff member who comes to the door updates Chiyo on, because he's suddenly fighting against the urge to turn on his heel and punch the damn wall.

As if the kid hasn't already done enough. She, Iida and Midoriya– they'd each sprung into action when Japan's government wouldn't, when UA couldn't. They'd gone above and beyond where the professionals should have had things handled. Shouta has little doubt that, had his students not taken matters into their own dying hands, that hotel would have become a tomb.

Damn it if he’s not proud of these defiant ass kids, and they've done more than enough. 

“Shouta.” Chiyo breaks his concentration from tending to his trembling student. “I don't imagine you heard what was just said," – She's correct, he hadn’t, how pissed must he look right now?– "but some assistance might be appreciated in Midoriya's room. He's been putting up a fight with the staff. It sounds like Toshinori's calmed him, for now, but it'd be best for you to be there on standby with Erasure.” 

Shouta nods, realizing his urgency to see Midoriya with his own eyes, but his gaze first flits back to a wheezing Yaoyorozu. Chiyo's face softens with understanding.

“I have her. If she does end up being able to tolerate crafting anything more, I'll ensure that she takes it herself. Iida is being closely watched over as well. I promise you,” she says at his look, “these two, for the moment, are safe. I'll be with her. I won't be leaving her side.”

It's what Shouta needs to hear. He nods again, moving to leave the room.

“One more thing, Shouta.” He pauses to look over his shoulder, brow quirked with his silent ‘yes?’ “Careful with Toshinori right now,” the old nurse warns. “He’s in a fragile state, too.”

He can’t say he’s surprised by the sight he ends up walking into moments later. Nonetheless, it still has him staggering to a halt in the doorway. 

On a normal day, on a much better day, he’d fume about the way these two wave their blatant affection for one another like a bright, flashy flag, and then have the gall to act utterly surprised when people ask if they’re related. If they are indeed father and son, it’s the world’s worst kept secret, and he’s told them both as such. But he doesn’t have it in him to even inwardly chastise them for their careless transparency– not now. Not when his eye catches the way Midoriya’s chest stutters while it struggles to rise and fall. Not when he sees that something has shattered on Yagi’s face as he watches the same thing.

The giant of a man is sitting in the hospital bed with Midoriya in his arms, folded over the boy as if in prayer. Shouta can't help but grimace at how much his long legs have to bend to fit. Midoriya himself is hooked up to several IV lines and… crying. Moaning in pain with every unsteady exhale. Not quite awake, but Yagi murmurs saccharine nonsense over him regardless, carding a hand through the boy's hair as he sways in place, rocking them both. 

Shouta glances at the hurried medical staff as he heads to Midoriya’s bedside. A nurse is pressing at buttons on the machine controlling the numerous medications going into the boy’s lines.

“Kid...” Shouta breathes out. He knows firsthand what a stupid, ungodly pain tolerance Midoriya has. Something uncomfortably hot pricks behind his eyes at the boy’s unmasked suffering now. Hesitantly he places a hand on his student's head.

Yagi jolts, red rimmed eyes flicking to Shouta, but he does little else to acknowledge him, attention going right back down to his charge.

“... They’re about to bring in the antidote,” Shouta says anyway. He finds himself unable to tear his own gaze off of the kid either. God, Midoriya, what did they do to you? He's well aware that he's been poisoned, but this... this is beyond a substance simply aiming to kill. Whatever he's been given seems to be torturous.

Shouta's announcement has Yagi's full attention. The older hero’s jaw drops.

“Th-they were able to–? Oh, thank God,” he says, voice thick with tears, and he holds Midoriya’s head closer to his chest. 

The increasingly frantic beeping of the monitor spikes Shouta’s anxiety. He glances up at the screen showcasing Midoriya's vital signs, insides cartwheeling with the numbers he sees. The staff around him seem to share his concerns.

“Call Doctor Furuta back in,” one of the medics says, wheeling a cart of emergency equipment to the bedside. “His heart rhythm is irregular, and his oxygen levels are dipping dangerously low. We need to have the team prepared for the worst.” 

Nana is still speaking to him. 

Izuku tries to listen– really, he does, this is All Might’s master after all, and were he clear headed he'd have so many questions!– but it's becoming incredibly difficult. The previously racing clouds above them have slowed down, dragging across the sky like snails. The light of the sky has dimmed, too. He can no longer see much of anything beyond Nana.

He’s slipping away, even from this place, he knows it. 

Nana is trying hard to keep him here. She'd given up on simply ordering him to ‘stay awake’, switching gears to keep him hooked by way of conversation, instead. In her increasingly desperate reach for topics that will keep him alert, she'd offered to entertain his interest in any one of the quirks within One for All. Unfortunately for him, fatigue blankets his mind too heavily, and he can't recall the questions he knows he must have for her. 

Perhaps even more worryingly, he's also past the point of caring very much.

“You’re so much like Toshi. You know that?” Nana tries now instead.

The abrupt swivel in subjects does cause him to perk up a bit. He had thought the same about her, actually. Having now met Nana, he sees the ways in which All Might mimics his mentor, whether consciously or not. But it’s she who voices the sentiment aloud to Izuku. Without opening his eyes, he raises his brows high.

“... Me? Like All Might?” The words roll out of his mouth too slowly. “How– how so…?”

“Too many ways to count,” Nana hums, “but let me tell you one way you’re different.”

“Hmm. I already know one…” Izuku mumbles, as his weary, exhausted mind conjures up what must be the obvious key difference between him and his hero. “I could never get my bangs to stick up straight like his…”

A beat before surprised, roaring laughter tumbles out of Nana. Her grin cuts through the darkness like moonlight. Her hand tousling his hair is gentle as a breeze. He wonders why she still has tears in her eyes. “No, I’m sure you can’t, and that’s alright. Different hair types and all. Toshi’s always been on the flashier side when it comes to his style,” she says fondly. “Not when it comes to his emotions, though. That’s the point I was going to make. Toshinori has always felt the need to put up a front– to hide his humanity behind a show of strength. I'm afraid I didn't set the best example on that front. You, on the other hand, are an open book. As much as you’ve learned from him, he’s also been learning from you, Izuku. You’ve taught him bravery when it comes to opening his heart. But he still has a ways to go.”

Izuku thinks about this. For a bit too long, perhaps, because Nana is soon shaking him again. 

“Izuku.” She sounds afraid, now.

“Mmm...” Sleep beckons him like a patient siren. But out of respect, he does his best to open an eye to let her know he's still here, that he's at least trying to listen. 

He sees a determined glint in her eye. She's changed tactics again.

“Fine then, Izuku. If you'll hear nothing else, hear this. I have a very important mission for you.”

A mission?

He… still has a job to do. Her tone is grave, demands all of his attention. He nods as best as he can. “Mmkay…”

“I need you to save All Might.”

Oh. Oh? Izuku exhales wearily. That's… that's an important job. The most important job he's ever been given, he thinks. Nana seems to have caught onto what would do the trick. 

Staying awake to save himself is one thing– but to save his mentor? 

“Okay, how…?” he asks, quiet as a breath.

“Simply by going back to him. That's also an irrefutable order, by the way: go back to him."

"O-okay..."

"I also have some instructions for you for when you return, so listen very, very carefully to them. Okay?”

Her tone has lowered from her earlier one, as if patiently attempting to sway a small, stubborn child into doing something they don't want to by bribing them with their very favorite toy. It works; Izuku hangs onto every word she says.

“You and your open book of a heart have more to teach him, little hero. He holds his secrets close to his chest with the intent of protecting those around him. But– as no doubt you've seen– it isolates him. Shuts all of his loved ones out. My own path was a lonely one, all due to mistakes I've only been able to pray he doesn't repeat. But for you– he'll do anything you ask of him, Izuku. Ask him to open up to you.”

“A-ask him to…?” Izuku opens both eyes just to squint at her uncertainly. “Nana, I– I know you've been trying hard to keep me awake, but… do you actually think I'm going to make it…?”

“I know you are,” Nana says, voice raising with newfound determination. “You are going to make it, because help is coming now. And if I've learned anything about you, it’s that you are strong enough to hold on until it arrives.

"I believe in you, Midoriya Izuku. Do you hear me?”

An older doctor– Furuta, Shouta presumes– rushes into the room and straight to Midoriya's bedside. He’s followed by a handful of other white-coated team members. One of them carries the antidote, its purple shining bright against the starkness of the room. 

Doctor Furuta’s hand hovers over Midoriya’s heaving chest as he eyes his vital signs. His features twist with urgency. “Give it, now,” he orders. One of the nurses heads to Midoriya’s other side to inject the antidote through one of his many IV’s. No one bothers to dispute Yagi still being hunkered over the boy like a looming, protecting gargoyle, instead simply working their way around him. With a glance at the toppled equipment throughout the room, along with Midoriya's mangled bedsheets, Shouta can make a solid guess as to why. Letting the retired hero stay right where he is is definitely to their own benefit. 

Shouta considers reminding Yagi that he's here with Erasure should Midoriya lash out again, but somehow, he doubts it would change the current arrangement any.

The room waits with bated breath after the administration of the antidote. Midoriya’s breathing has become more flighty each moment since Shouta’s arrival. His pants for air, wet and horrible sounding, are muffled by his mask, but they still fill the room. The ticking of hands on the clock on the wall echo between Shouta's ears. 

And then…

No, kid, no.

Midoriya's chest falls for a final time. With a quiet sigh, he slumps, fingers losing their grip on Yagi's shirt. The erratic beeping of the monitor falls into a single noted alarm. The bouncing lines on the screen go flat.

We're too late– dammit to hell!

Midoriya's head lolls into Yagi's chest. His features slacken where they'd previously been tense with pain.

A strangled, guttural noise leaves Yagi's throat as he grasps at the child's fallen hand. The team is already moving.

“Heartbeat's lost!” a medic shouts.

“Oxygen levels have tanked.”

“Start chest compressions, and let's get him intubated,” Doctor Furuta delegates, his own hands readying equipment off to his side.

Shouta curses out loud this time. Yagi himself is wordless as he moves to set Midorya down, climbing clumsily off of the bed as he positions to start doing the compressions himself, but at a nurse’s firm coaching, he's forced to leave Midoriya behind to let the staff do their work.

A shaken Shouta backs off to give the team room. He has to pry Yagi back by the shoulder, as the man is seemingly frozen in place. 

“Give them room,” Shouta instructs hollowly. He manages to keep his tone soft, low, as if attempting to calm a frightened stray cat. “We– we need to give them space, Yagi, they're more equipped to help him than we are.” It’s the only logic that seems to convince Yagi to budge any distance from Midoriya. 

His colleague backs from the bed as directed, but not without curling into himself as if shot in the chest. Then the man breaks down entirely into heaving, ugly, heartbroken sobs. 

Shouta decidedly maintains his grip on the hero's bony shoulder. It's all he can do to keep either of them upright.

“Izuku! The time has come. C’mon, kid. It's time to go back!” 

The sky had just gone completely black. A streak of lightning flashes across it now, providing a glimpse of light again. Warbled voices boom down at them like thunder; unfamiliar, fast and stressed, like a sporadic storm. Izuku’s lip wobbles as he looks up at Nana a final time.

“A-am I–?”

“Yes, Izuku, you’re going to live,” Nana breathes. She cups Izuku’s face with a hand. “Go back to him. Alright? You and I will see one another again. For now, go back to Toshi, little hero. Go back–”

Lights dot the sky, coming and going like fireworks. Pulsating like heartbeats. The ‘tarp’ in the sky rips fully open. The picture before him is blurry, like a painting ruined by the rain, but he sees a familiar outline. A figure haloed by gold, shining down on him like the sun. Izuku reaches a hand up towards it–

And he feels Nana's arms disappear from where they've been wrapped around him–

And Izuku his very hardest to do as she's last instructed, tries to focus on the person who needs him to live–

The whir of the defibrillator starting up cuts through the bustle of the room. Thirty chest compressions, two rescue breaths delivered into Midoriya's mouth, “still no pulse” a medic announces. Doctor Furuta barks his orders to the practiced team, and the cycle begins all over again.

Shouta is numb while they press the machine's nodes onto Midoriya's chest. Thirty more chest compressions. Two more rescue breaths. Shouta has to work hard to steel himself against the raw, anguished sobs ringing out from just behind him, unwilling to look away from Midoriya just yet. As if to atone for ever taking his eyes off the kid in the first place.

“Clear him!” The team backs away to clear the area around Midoriya, waiting to see if their efforts have made any progress.

“Shock advised,” the machine drones out, and a jolt siezes through Midoriya. 

A single beat while a medic checks him over, then:

“We have a pulse!”

Shouta feels his mind boggle at what happens next. The breathing tube has just begun to be placed into his throat when Midoriya jerks, gasping greedily for air as if emerging from underwater. He gags, a hint of color flushing his skin as he yanks the partially inserted tube out of his mouth, choking all the while.

The boy rolls languidly onto his side as the medical team stares down at him in surprise, one of them moving to brace him from flopping right out of the bed. Half-lidded green eyes flit wildly around the room, looking for something and seeming to find it.

Midoriya reaches a trembling hand towards his teachers. Towards Yagi, specifically. Shouta stares slack-jawed as tears overfill the kid's eyes.

Yagi is a strong man. The strongest Shouta's ever known, he'll admit. The former Number One still crumbles to dust at the kid's wordless request for him.

“Oh,” he squeaks, voice shot, and he stumbles his way back to Midoriya's bedside. He's fallen to his knees and grabbed at the kid before anyone can think to stop him, crying unabashedly into Midoriya's mess of curls.

The moon has fallen away with the rise of the sun, handing Izuku off into the care of its basking light.

The moon had been gentle and mysterious, but the sun is powerful, blazing, familiar. Its fiery embrace replaces the cradling glow of the moon.

I made it, Nana. I made it back to him.

Whereas before he'd been held just barely from darkness by the moon and its lilting lullabies, now the sun washes over him with its warmth, beams around him generously, lighting his world fully. Promises with brazen authority to keep the darkness at bay for good.

He knows little else, other than he has been away too long, and this is what it feels like to come home. 

Midoriya does not wake up again, not right away.

The commotion of the room hasn't died down, per say, but its intention has shifted. Thanks to the antidote coursing through his veins, Midoriya's condition has very tentatively been steered towards the road to recovery rather than the one towards death. 

At least, that's what the doctor has tried to assure them, based off of the kid's slightly improving bloodwork and vitals. Otherwise it would have been difficult for Shouta to guess.

Though the antidote is working to reverse the effects of the poison, Midoriya has already taken the brunt of the damage. They've been informed it will take time for his weakened body to flush out the entirety of the toxin, and that it's uncertain what exactly recovery will look like, but it's not going to be easy.

Nothing ever is for you, is it, Problem Child?

The poor kid has already sweat through a handful of hospital gowns. The staff had opted this time around to leave him shirtless, as a harsh fever still ravages through Midoriya. His struggling lungs still require supplemental oxygen to stay afloat. Though unconscious, he's been anything but restful; his entire body tremors, flinching here and there, and he's tearful even in sleep. 

The poison isn't done inflicting woe, it seems. Not yet.

Yagi’s planted at the boy's bedside on a too-small stool. He's been diligently leaned over Midoriya since the moment he'd awoken. Instead of muttering out husky reassurances like before, however, he's been virtually silent. Shouta honestly hasn't paid him much mind; he can't. Yagi's earlier breakdown had admittedly rattled Shouta, and he can't afford much more of that today.

Instead he exits the room to make another phone call (and dammit, is he over making those today) to update UA on the hell that's just occurred. Not that being out in these halls is any less pressing on his nerves; every room in this ward has been filled with poisoned civilians, and he can hear coughing, retching and groans from every which way. He itches to check in on Yaoyorozu, on Iida– Chiyo would've found me, would've told me if things have gone south, right?– he itches to be everywhere at once.

Hizashi, on his part, currently updates Shouta on UA's end of things. What he reports has Shouta itching to be there, too.

“Turns out, the girl is willing to talk,” Hizashi says. “She's beyond pissed that the other two ran off and left her behind. Said they'd sworn they'd come back for her, and that Plague– Isago, whatever his face is– promised her a pretty penny for today's work. Name's Yamauchi Miho and she's just a rookie; don't think she's done much crime outside of petty thievery. High school dropout with kid siblings to provide for. An easily willing accomplice for someone with Plague's resources to coerce and utilize. Lesson learned: always demand your money upfront.”

Shouta grunts noncommittally, pacing just outside of Midoriya's room. Frayed nerves have him moving more jerkily than usual. “Who cares. She’s due for a bigger lesson than how to get paid properly.”

“I know it. Naivety, desperation, whatever– none of it excuses her for what she's done. For all the lives she almost helped take.” Hizashi sighs. “Between her inside scoop, though, and that government sent pro-tracker, Plague and his buddy will hopefully be found in no time. She says she know of at least a couple of places they could be hiding out at.”

“Hmph. Good.”

Hizashi goes quiet for a moment. “Doing alright, over there? Things calming down at all?”

Shouta had already relayed the way they'd almost lost Midoriya. The way they had lost him, even if momentarily. “Guess so. Midoriya will supposedly be on the mend from here on out, but… it's been shitty to watch.” That's putting it lightly. But he's not up for rehashing all of the gritty details.

“Yeah. I… can only imagine. That poor kid. Can never catch a damn break, can he?” The phone is fumbled around a bit. “Hey, we'll touch base soon, yeah? We're gonna go get some answers outta this chick.”

“Sure.” The call ends with a ‘click’, but Shouta stands there for a minute longer. Going back into that room, heavy with Midoriya's illness and Yagi's seething vigil– it's going to weigh on him. But Shouta needs to be certain he's not needed there before he goes and checks in with Chiyo, with his other students. 

He re-enters the room. His colleague hasn't so much as budged from where Shouta had left him. 

He holds back a sigh. "Yagi.” His voice is no more than a low rumble, one that might have been lost underneath the hiss of Midoriya's oxygen mask, or the rhythmic beeping of the bedside heart monitor. But it's still picked up by the retired hero who, posture slumped, stiffens at the sound of another person.

Whatever Shouta is about to say dies right on his lips. Instead, he lets out his weary sigh at the picture before him. The setting sun seen through the transparent hospital wall is a spectacular sight, streaks of blood red splashed all throughout the sky, but right now, it is an unforgiving backdrop to Midoriya's feverish form. 

Shouta had been about to prod Yagi to leave for a bit– to go eat something, to just get a quick breather. Because the man is clearly frazzled as all hell. Not that Shouta is faring much better. But he hadn't missed the way Yagi's hand had twitched over the smaller one of his student's at the sound of Shouta's entrance. He's not about to be budged. And Shouta doesn't currently have it in him to fight his colleage's near bullheaded level of stubbornness.

So, he settles on an update instead. “The shield villain– she's willing to talk. She's got information that should help us find Plague.”

If the backdrop of the blood red sky highlights Midoriya's sickness, it also does wonders for the uncharacteristic rage that flits across Yagi's face. Unknowingly he echoes Shouta's flat reaction to the news: "Good." It's the first word out of the man since Midoriya had awoken. His voice sounds like it's been dragged over asphalt.

And that's that. Neither man has more to say regarding the villains, not at the moment. If Yagi's reasoning is anything similar to Shouta's, it's that dealing with the thought of them means dealing with the fury that will surely accompany it, and what's left of their strained emotional reserves are better spent on the kid in front of them.

Shouta sits at the edge of the bed, opposite of Yagi. He frowns at Midoriya, reaching out to rest a hand on his messy curls. “Just worked on touching these up, didn’t we?” He gives them the smallest of tousles before pulling his hand away. “Forever fighting to keep your champion title of ‘Problem Child’, aren't you, kid.” His frown deepens when Midoriya winces with a pained whine.

Yagi's face flashes with something deeply wounded, too, and he lifts a large hand to cup Midoriya's face. The boy's expression soon smoothes back over. He sinks into the touch, still dead asleep.

A shuddering sigh escapes from Yagi. He reaches with trembling fingers to trace over the kid's features, as if trying to memorize them. The man's face crumples like he might start to cry again.

Shouta is stricken with the vulnerability of the moment. Suddenly he feels as though he's intruding on something private. He quietly excuses himself after another quick hand to Midoriya's head, knees popping as he stands, anxiousness filling him anyway to go get filled in on the status of his other students. He decides he'll go and scout out an extra pillow and blanket for Yagi afterwards. At least a comfier bedside chair. 

Because one thing is for certain: they're in for a long night ahead.

Chapter Text

“Young man... you, too, can become a hero.”

A small, skittish, doe-eyed Midoriya Izuku had knelt to the pavement at those words, hand clutching his chest as he'd cried and cried.

Yagi Toshinori had looked down at him with newfound purpose, excitement flaring something in his chest that had long gone unlit, because today he'd happened across a boy who was so much like him. Quirkless, determined, and brave to a point that almost crossed the line of ‘crazy’.

This child had all the makings of a hero. His passion to do good perfectly mirrored Toshinori's, and Toshinori would help make this deserving boy’s dream come true while also fulfilling his own.

He would do so by bestowing a great gift upon him. The greatest gift he himself had ever received.

Yes, Toshinori had known with absolute certainty that very first day. He had made the right choice. He had made an excellent choice.

He’d been filled with nothing but hope at the sight of the good-hearted, dauntingly emotional kid before him. Hope, and already a spark of–

– familiarity, because somewhere along the way, muddled amongst countless days turned to months spent clearing Dagobah Beach, this little fanboy had started to become his boy. Toshinori's encouraging pats on the back had progressed to playful tousles to the boy's wild, green hair, and to pulling the squealing boy into easy half-hugs. Asking Izuku things like “Did you eat enough today?” came without thought and out of genuine concern, rather than just checking to make sure that the kid was sticking to his training plan.

“Look, All Might! I did it… I did it!”

He'd taken in the sight of a spotless beach with awe, jaw dropping while Izuku roared his victory from atop the trash heap. This kid’s drive actually gave him goosebumps, made his heart prickle with–

– pride, pride so large it had practically puffed out his chest when the boy barely passed UA's entrance exam, even while his insides had knotted with worry when Izuku destroyed his arm. 

They would figure this out. They would, because Izuku was the most determined, hardworking person Toshinori had ever met. And with Toshinori continuing to guide him, the two of them would not fail.

Because, if nothing else, Toshinori could admit he was pretty good at being a hero. And that alone should be sufficient in helping lead the boy to become one, too. 

Right?

“I have to work harder than anyone else to make it! I'll never catch up otherwise… I want to be just like you! The world's strongest hero.”

That he may have been, but Izuku; he'd be better than All Might ever was. The glimpses he'd been getting of his protege’s bright future filled him with total–

– reverence, and he wondered if this kid would ever stop surprising him when Izuku, in his own unconventional way, made a name for himself at the Sports Festival. He had taken Toshinori's instructions so to heart with proclaiming “I am here!” that he was now fully convinced the boy could make anything happen if it was asked of him.

Now… 

On that same thought. 

It was flattering, deeply humbling that Izuku thought so highly of Toshinori that he'd drive himself to impossible lengths to make him proud. But that very same trait of his was beginning to cause Toshinori to–

– worry.

Fiercely so.

That knot in his chest? It never went away. In fact, he suspected that it had made a permanent home for itself. Twisting at his insides when it came to any threat of harm nearing this boy.

Izuku had broken his limbs again. Again, and again, and again. Chiyo warned them that this time of healing him would be her last.

He wasn't worried about Izuku’s potential for a bright future as a hero. That was never a concern, never.

He was worried for the boy, because something was wrong, here, with the way Izuku kept sacrificing his limbs and his health whenever he strived to meet Toshinori's expectations. (He'd long surpassed them; didn't Izuku know that? Had Toshinori ever told him he'd already exceeded any hope and dream he'd ever held for a successor?) He was going through the growing pains of adapting to a quirk too powerful for his young body, sure, but he was concerningly dismissive of the damage done to himself in the process. As if getting hurt was an afterthought; a perfectly acceptable price to pay to fulfill One for All's legacy.

Injuries were… unfortunately, nearly inevitable in their line of work. Even still…

Concern for his successor crept further through Toshinori by the day. He gravely needed to step things up. Where was he failing his boy? Were his instructions unhelpful? He was a good hero, sure, but he was starting to realize that that didn't necessarily translate to being a good teacher.

The thought that he'd been missing something important, something vitally important gripped him with–

– self-loathing, because God, he hadn't killed All for One. The sacrifice of his lung, of his stomach, of decades off of what could have been left of his hero career meant nothing, because that monster still lived on.

Which also meant that Toshinori had passed this burden down onto Izuku. He had all but placed a glaring target onto his boy’s back. His boy, who was still finding new ways to manage a quirk too powerful for his body because he was an amazing child, thriving in spite of a mentor that, Toshinori was realizing more and more, was amateur; woefully inadequate. But the kid was still not ready. And if Toshinori had done his job right the first time, Izuku would never have to be ready.

With his whole heart, he'd believed he'd given his boy a wonderful gift. But, as he was learning more and more, he may have damned him instead.

The weight of that threatened to crush him, some days. Made him feel–

– desperate, and it was all he could do to bow down to the boy's mother, forehead touching the floorboards as Izuku's had once touched the pavement before him. And Toshinori was filled with newfound purpose, just as he was on their fateful first day, but his purpose was no longer just one so broad as fulfilling his destiny within One for All. His purpose was now more simply Izuku.

Because even if the boy left UA– even if he was forced to abandon a career as a hero all together today– Toshinori would not be leaving him.

Inko's tearful response corrected that Toshinori needed to choose to live for Izuku, not die, and when he accepted these terms he felt–

– hypocritical. 

Because it all made sense, now. Why Izuku struggled so. Why Toshinori struggled with knowing how to help him.

Never before had his own mistakes been so glaringly obvious until they'd reflected back at him from off of his successor.

He didn't know how to help Izuku because he'd never known how to help himself. Toshinori had all but modeled these self-destructive behaviors for him.

Hypocrite, his mind chastised, because Toshinori had picked Izuku based on the way the brave-hearted boy had thoughtlessly thrown himself into danger. And now he was berating his successor for continuing that very same tendency.

Hypocrite, because he himself had many times ignored the pleas of others wanting for him what he now desperately wanted for Izuku.

God, he was so, he was so–

– cowardly.

“You can’t be a hero long-term with that kind of mindset. You can't, Midoriya.”

He'd said it out of fear. He’d said it to make a point, because imploring Izuku to consider the importance of his own safety never worked, but pointing out how it might affect his heroics did. His words had stung in a way he'd never intended, though, based on the crumbled look on Izuku’s face.

Him and his damn fear. It either caused him to clam up all together, or when he did manage to speak it out loud, he said things so very wrong.

And when Toshinori choked at Izuku's question…

“Does any part of you regret giving me One for All?”

Nothing had changed from the day he'd met Izuku. Nothing. He'd known he'd made the right choice then, and he knew it now.

And yet, everything had changed from the day he'd met Izuku. Everything. 

Time had tied a dizzying flurry of emotions to this boy and his place in Toshinori's heart; a laundry list’s worth. Pride, guilt, adoration. Sheer gratitude, endless worry, absolute joy. Things were so much more complicated than that day when Toshinori had first looked upon Izuku through a lens tinted by One for All.

Because now, overriding anything and everything else, he looked at Izuku with–

– love.

And when Izuku, his son in all but blood, nearly died in his arms without Toshinori ever even having told him as such, the old hero made himself a fervent vow.

If his boy had been left any room for doubt before, any at all, then things had to be different moving forward.

Midoriya Izuku would never go another damn day without knowing just how cherished he was.

Midoriya Inko is, unfortunately, no stranger to having to wait back.

The first call of the day she gets is from a member of UA's staff she doesn't recognize– Thirteen, she thinks they say their name is?– updating her on the crisis as she scrambles to find a television in the middle of her workday. She catches the tail end of a replay showing her sickly looking son being abducted by criminals at gunpoint, and the phone slips out from her hand.

The second call isn't until later, harrowing hours later. Work has long since relieved her before she could even tearfully attempt to tell them what's happened; news of an attack on UA students is travelling quickly, it seems. This second call is from a doctor. A weary sounding one who gives her a staggering amount of information. Information she has to force herself to take in, because after the brief elation of knowing Izuku has been found, her brain stutters to a screeching halt at the word “flatlined”.

Her baby. Her baby’s heart had stopped. The fact that the doctor had led this call with “the worst of it is over now, Mrs. Midoriya,” is all that keeps her numbly nodding along with the rest of his updates instead of shattering like fallen glass. Part of her does, anyway, but Inko has had to steel herself against the possibility of bad news for a long time, now. Starting the minute her son chose such a dangerous path. The stronger part of her remains standing to do what needs to be done– the part that chants “he's alive. He's fighting. He's alive.”

She has been Izuku’s worried, fearful mother all of his life. What he'd needed her to be all along, though, was a mother who believed in him. She'll try her very best to be so now.

The third call of the day is from All Might. Where the first two callers had been professional, clinical yet encouraging, All Might is sincere and haggard. She hears how he tries not to be for her sake; how he clears his throat to cover the crack in his voice. Strangely enough, the vulnerability is what reassures Inko more than anything else today.

At least Izuku has someone with him who loves him like I do.

She has not yet been given permission to enter the city they're in, let alone the hospital. None of the families of the victims have– not while the villains remain loose with who knows how much more gaseous poison on their persons. Especially with one of them having an elusive transportation quirk. Security at the hospital containing the victims is on high alert. As willing as she is to try her hand at kicking out a few kneecaps to get through, she sags a bit in relief knowing that All Might has been with Izuku through the worst of it all.

“I'm sorry, Mrs. Midoriya. I'm so sorry. But please be assured that neither heaven nor hell will be moving me from his side until you can get here.”

“Why are you sorry?” She demands through her own tears. He doesn’t answer that. He doesn't need to; she knows enough about him to infer that he blames himself. She would never have let her son go back to that school if she hadn't been certain about one thing, though. Whatever things All Might believes he's failed at, caring fiercely for Izuku isn't one of them. “And, I– I know it won't. Thank you, All Might.”

“We have promising intel that should help uncover the villains’ whereabouts sooner than later. My hope is that you'll be able to visit no later than tomorrow. In the meanwhile… try to get some rest, maybe,” All Might suggests halfheartedly. She nearly laughs at the ridiculous notion.

“I think you know as well as I do that won't be happening. But… I will wait a bit more easily knowing you're with him. Please, please keep me updated on how he's doing. And thank you… thank you so much for being there.”

All Might clears his throat again. “Truthfully, ma'am, there's nowhere else I could be.”

When their call ends, Inko blinks. She hadn't realized she'd anxiously paced right into her son's room. Mostly untouched for the last few months, ever since he's been living in the school dorms.

The light from the doorway just reaches the head of the bed. She remembers all too well the nights the pillow had been filled by a tousled head of green. One who’d dreamt of nothing but heroes and of greatness. After years and years of waking up and telling his mother all about said dreams over their breakfast, she'd known in her heart he'd never be satisfied with a life of anything less.

She sits on the edge of Izuku's old bed, sinking into it a little. The comforter is crisp and cool, like new. She lets out a shaky sigh into the dark.

Because Midoriya Inko is, unfortunately, no stranger to having to wait back.

But she is a stranger to being able to trust someone else, anyone else in this world with her only son.

No; she won't be getting any rest tonight. But she will wait the slightest bit more peacefully knowing Izuku is in the most capable hands besides her own. 

Toshinori dutifully switches out the cool cloth on Izuku's flushed forehead by the half-hour. In between, he helps to carefully pull the boy onto his side as a nurse holds cooling pads to his back. As a miserable Izuku shivers under his hands, Toshinori bitterly reiterates to himself that poison is a coward's choice of weapon.

He's biased, of course. His own combat style has never been sneaky, sinister, or slow to get the job done. He prefers upfrontness and efficiency, though he's never been averse to fighting with some flair; but as much pain as his peak form had once been capable of inflicting, he'd never desired to be excessive with it.

(Well– there was one exception. He can't say he had minded All for One’s pained roars when Toshinori had delivered the blows that would end up permanently disfiguring the demon's face. Not even a little bit.)

But Plague's particular flair aims to hurt, to needlessly draw out the suffering, to punish. For such a vile substance to be administered to innocent civilians, to children, to his boy…

He knows as well as any hero that most villains inherently don't fight fair. But Toshinori will never find himself quite able to look back on today's events without experiencing a simmering unforgiveness. Snaked around the part of his heart that had broken when Izuku's had stopped.

(And when, in the not so far future, Toshinori decides to hold a rare lecture in his Hero Training course– one about weaponry methodologies– and he lets himself rant and rave until he's a bit red in the face about how only the most dishonorable and spineless individuals use indirect means such as poison against unsuspecting opponents… well, people may end up looking at him like he's a little unhinged. At least like he's being a bit narrow-minded. Certainly like he's overly passionate about the matter. But he won’t be budging from his stance anytime soon.)

After several rounds of swapping out cooling packs to Izuku's forehead and torso, Toshinori breathes out a sigh of relief when their ministrations help to bring the boy's alarming fever down a bit. When the most recent dose of pain medication starts to taper off, however, Izuku’s body stiffens right up. He curls into fetal position, clutching at the bedsheets with whitening knuckles, sucking in with a pained hiss. His back trembles with every inhale and, heartbreakingly, he cries for his mother. 

Toshinori presses at the ‘call nurse’ button a few more times than necessary, even though one had just left the room minutes ago. It's either that or he'll start to pull his own hair out. 

The cause of Izuku's torment isn't something Toshinori can punch, smash or throttle, much as his hands ache to. 

Then his boy starts tearfully calling out for him, even while Toshinori tries to assure him that he's right there, and the nurse who's arrived gently hands him tissue for his own fresh rush of tears.

But when the kid, eyes unfocused and glassy, looks around the room and mumbles out the name “Nana”, Toshinori barely stops himself from gripping at Doctor Furuta's coat lapels as the man leans over Izuku's bedside. Worry quakes his voice as he demands to know if Izuku's condition is deteriorating again.

Because Nana? Toshinori's Nana? He's heard stories of people seeing the deceased right before they pass. Spirits appearing to accompany the dying into the afterlife. If Izuku is seeing the dead, if he's currently seeing Shimura Nana in this room with them, then–

Please– please don't take him from me, he silently pleads with her unseen ghost. Not again.

“His condition is still critical– but he is fighting this, All Might,” Doctor Furuta tiredly assures him, gingerly patting at– oh. One of Toshinori's hands had made it to clutch at the tail of the man’s coat like a scared child. He can't even find it in himself to feel too sheepish, but Doctor Furuta handles it calmly, likely having decades under his belt of dealing with distressed family members. “It can be worrisome to watch someone experience delirium, I know. But I assure you he's not knocking at death’s door. Not anymore.”

Toshinori tries to slow his panicked breathing after that (because death's door had opened for Izuku, and Toshinori will stand vigil until he's certain the damn thing stays shut). He passes off Izuku’s mention of his old mentor as a fever induced hallucination, as Doctor Furuta had said, barring the fact that Izuku has never met the woman outside of the vestige world.

Perhaps One for All is showing up for Izuku in its own way, doing its part to comfort the boy, too. That thought is a little more reassuring to Toshinori.

Furuta is a good doctor, he thinks distractedly. The man had called each of the student's parents, along with the families of any other victims under his care, to give them detailed updates on the health and steps of treatment for their loved ones. He's overheard some of the chaos out in the hallways, and he sees the shadows under the old man's eyes. He knows firsthand how these emergency scenarios can cause medical personnel to forgo the finer things, such as tending to the emotions of the loved ones involved, but this one has made certain to do so. He will have to properly thank him at some point– whenever Toshinori is a bit more right of mind, that is.

He himself had waited for a lull in Izuku's pain before he had called Inko, in an attempt to shield her from hearing her son's anguished whines in the background. If being held back wasn't hard enough, hearing Izuku's suffering from afar would make it even worse.

(He knows all too well. He... hadn't reacted all too hotly when he'd heard a frightened Yaoyorozu plead for the villains to stop harming Izuku.)

Toshinori had been fully prepared for Izuku's mother to be upset with him. He'd have understood that. He had taken Izuku back to UA under the promise he'd protect him, after all, and now here they were. She was certainly upset over the situation, but instead of reprimanding or blaming Toshinori, she'd thanked him. 

Her implicit trust in him while her son is in this state… he doesn’t feel worthy of it. He holds it close to his chest, anyway.

He loses count of how many dampened cloths he swaps from Izuku's flushed forehead, or how many half-hours have gone by. Enough that his bladder has filled and begun to scream at him. It takes some patient coaxing from the night nurse that Izuku will be fine if Toshinori leaves for a bit. Even then, he strokes Izuku's hair for another full minute, eyes not leaving the boy's face. “I'll be right back,” he finally says. He hardly recognizes his own voice. “Alright?”

Izuku doesn't respond. Not that Toshinori had expected him to. The boy's brow is pinched, and his muscles twitch here and there, as if his nerves are all recovering from shock. Toshinori frowns, squeezing Izuku’s hand with his own before moving to stand. He will be quick.

His knees pop in protest. His back is awfully stiff from being hunched over for so long. He bites back a groan of discomfort as he beckons his legs to move.

The dusky red evening has long since faded into night. Toshinori hadn't pulled himself out of his own head long enough to notice until now. He winces when he flicks on the lights of the restroom. They're a fluorescent white, an unforgiving shock after hours at Izuku's bedside, which has been dimmed except for the soft glow of bedside monitors. City lights wink back at him from out the window. A helicopter whirs as it glides across a faraway rooftop. The city is awake with him tonight in its search for Plague. He should soon ask Aizawa or Chiyo for an update.

The smell of disinfectant is heavy in here. He must have gotten accustomed to the smell of sweat and iron. His chest spasms, and he's caught off guard when he abruptly coughs up blood; suddenly he's very aware of how the rest of his body aches, knees and back aside. 

He must have pushed himself too far by running while carrying Izuku, who is quite heavier than he looks. Even moreso, though, he'd pushed past any physical limits he thought he had when he'd broken out into his muscular form. It's been ages since he'd last done so, and it had only been for a few seconds, but his ability to even do that surprised him almost as much as it had the villain chasing Izuku. The adrenaline that had raced through his veins must have masked the wear and tear it'd done; his weary body certainly feels the pang of it all, now.

Toshinori accidentally locks eyes with himself in the mirror and startles. If he'd looked disheveled earlier today– enough that Nezu had commented on it (and, God, was that really today? Anything before Izuku's kidnapping feels like a lifetime ago)– now he genuinely looks like he'd been the one to flatline and come back instead of Izuku. Heavy bags under already shadowed eyes make him look like the undead. Izuku’s blood stains his twisted, crinkled shirt. His clothes are tattered, his unexpected bulk up having ripping through them. Toshinori sighs, diverting his eyes from his unkempt reflection, hurrying to dry his hands and get back to his successor.

Even as he's tried to be fast, he comes back to the sight of an incoherent Izuku. The boy's eyes are only half open, but he's semi-awake for the first time since… 

Since coming back to them. 

The poor kid is trying to sit up, crying weakly for the kind nurse to let him go. Crying for Toshinori again. Toshinori's chest caves in with it. “Oh, Izuku,” he says thickly, hurrying back to the boy's bedside. “Come here, my boy. Come here.”

Izuku's gasping hiccups are so hard that Toshinori fears he'll start to hyperventilate.

“Shhhh. Shhh. You're alright.” He pulls his boy to his chest and coos into his hair, taking his place to sit up at the head of the bed as he'd done before. He rubs what he hopes to be soothing circles at Izuku's back. He hates that he has no other means to help Izuku. All he can give him are the most tender expressions of his care. He is far beyond caring who is or isn't in the room when he does so, too rundown to notice who may be witnessing him at his most emotionally threadbare.

“I w-want my m-mom…” his boy cries hoarsely.

“I know, sweetheart.” 

“Wh-where’s All M’ght…?”

“I-I’m right here, kiddo.”

Not only is it off-putting that the boy is too out of it to recognize that his mentor is right beside him, but the thought that Izuku has been crying out for him and may believe that Toshinori has not been responding... it grabs and twists at something inside him, just as it does every time. I will always be there when you ask for me, my boy, always.

He isn't certain how long they remain like that for. Toshinori's voice seems to help ease the boy's distress, so he starts to ramble off some personal stories of his; ones he knows Izuku has enjoyed hearing before, and ones he realizes he might not have told him before (and if he hasn't– he will be sure to rectify that whenever his boy fully wakes up, should he want to listen). He doesn't know how much Izuku understands. When his voice goes ragged from use, and his mind is too tired to pull together the details of any more stories, he hums, instead. He loses track of what tunes; some are classics, some are lullabies, but Izuku doesn't seem to care either way. He gives his voice a break only whenever Izuku's discomfort seems to hit a temporary lull. In those moments, he merely drags his hand up and down the boy's back, rocking him in the silence.

And then– during what must be one of the more ungodly hours of the middle of the night– a hopeful spark lights within Toshinori when he dares to think that Izuku's breathing might sound just a little less wet, a tad less labored. 

Doctor Furuta comes to check in on them, then, the lights of the bedside monitor washing over his tired face. His mouth twitches in a relieved half smile when he notes Izuku's less erratic vitals. “There we go. Slowly but surely, he's getting there. His most recent set of lab work shows a small amount of progress with the damage done to his organs, too. I'm comfortable with giving him a higher dose of pain medication,” he says, his hint of a smile dropping when Izuku flinches again. He places a hand on the boy's shoulder. “His body can tolerate it, now, and getting a proper handle on his pain will allow him to get real rest. That's the main thing he'll need from here on out.”

"Yes, that's– that's great, thank you,” Toshinori rasps out as the man titrates Izuku's dose. 

Within a few minutes, Izuku's breathing slows, and his twitching become much less frequent. His grimace finally fades into something more peaceful. His body slumps where it had before been tense.

Toshinori lets out a near silent sigh of grateful relief. He stays seated where he's been at the head of the bed, wary of moving much when his boy is finally, finally showing signs of being comfortable. 

The predictable, robotic beeping of the medical equipment nearly causes him to nod off. Toshinori's sleep the night prior had been unrestful, and the sheer adrenaline of the following day's events have left him bone-tired. With his boy now safe in his arms, finally restful instead of trembling, he leans his head back against the headboard. At last he allows himself to close his eyes– just for a few minutes. He is lulled by the steady rise and fall of Izuku's chest against his own.

Everything’s fuzzy.

Izuku doesn’t have a more eloquent word for it– not one he could conjure up right now, anyway. Not when his thoughts feel about as well formed as putty. Sights and sounds and sensations fly around him just out of reach, as if he’s watching his own life through a kaleidoscope lens.

He’s smooshed up against a warm presence. One with wheezy breaths that rattle into Izuku’s ear. A hand large enough to cradle his entire head is all that keeps it from lolling back. He can feel the long fingers splayed through his hair.

He’s not with Nana anymore. Where did she go? He crinkles his nose. His lids are too heavy for him to open to see who he is with. He groans wearily with the effort, which causes the presence next to him to stir.

“Wh–m,” his sorry attempt at speaking is muffled by the noisy thing on his face. He tries to cough, but it’s too weak an effort; his throat feels thick, full of something he wants to clear out. His tongue is like a brick. He tries again. “Whe-r ‘m I–?”

“Izuku? It's– it's alright, kid, you don’t need to talk…”

“B-t–” His eyes ache in a way that’s familiar. Oh, no, he’s been crying again, hasn’t he? How much? He’s always been such a crybaby. His eyes sting with embarrassment at the thought. “M’ s-rry–”

“S-sorry? Whatever for, dear boy? Shhh… hush, Izuku, none of that,” says the voice. A hand smoothes his hair out of his face, a hand much larger than Nana’s. Even more calloused, too.

He can’t help it. The voice is so nice, so full of affection, that he cries again. The voice shushes him even more gently.

“Oh–” the tone changes, “is your pain getting worse again? We– we need to up your dose, then. Here, I'll call the doctor–”

He doesn't think he's in pain though, not right now. He just feels weird.

“‘m jus’… weird.”

A beat. 

“You're… my boy, did you just call yourself weird?”

Ha. The change of tone from concern to choked bewilderment is funny, he thinks. He means to laugh, but he sneezes, instead. The movement makes his ribs spasm strangely; he doesn't feel any pain with it, though. “Whoaaa,” he drawls out in surprise. 

Another pause before a wet, almost hysterical sounding chuckle. “Ah– I think this means your pain meds are finally working.” The voice sounds relieved, so impossibly relieved, shaky with it. “And… bless you, Izuku.” 

“Blessed,” Izuku sighs, pointing to himself with a heavy hand. At least, he thinks he does. Hard to tell with his eyes closed. Laughter thrums through whatever Izuku's lying against. Far too big of laughter for whatever Izuku’s just said. Izuku's too tired to laugh along; instead he lets his hand flop back down with a long exhale.

“Ah... I don’t think you’re ready to wake up quite yet. Go back to sleep, little one.”

The tone is low, rumbling like thunder into Izuku’s ear, but that term of endearment is one he’s only ever been called by–

“Mom?” he asks groggily. Hadn’t he asked for his mother earlier, too? Where has she been? He wriggles in an attempt to sit up and look for her, but his limbs are all weighed down by lead. His head spins like a ceiling fan with the effort. He huffs his frustration. Is this what being drunk feels like? If so, he never wants anything to do with it. Something brushes away more hair that’s been tickling his face.

“No, she’s… not here yet, my boy, I’m sorry. She will be soon.”

Oh. Oh, of course. This deep, gravelly voice can’t be his mom. It sounds nothing like her. Silly, his loopy brain chastises himself for ever thinking as such. Silly, silly. His soup-like thoughts stir around his head, arranging alphabet noodle letters to try and make sentences. It is a masculine voice, he reasons simply. One that he knows and that sounds like it loves him. 

And the adjacent of a mom that loves him is a–

“Dad,” he deduces in a mumble. No; that can't quite be right. Midoriya Hisashi wouldn’t be here, living in America being one reason of too many, but it’s got to be a dad. 

The presence around him stills. So do the breaths that have been rattling into Izuku's ear. He manages to crack his eyes open. They quickly droop back closed again, but he gets a glimpse of who is holding onto him. Sharp features with piercing blue eyes. That’s All Might, his bogged down brain confirms. I made it back to him, Nana! Did I tell you that already? 

Izuku struggles to reopen his eyes– he’s got to tell All Might about his time with her, about what he's managed to do!– but he gives up the effort when one of the calloused hands cups under his chin. A large thumb runs once over his cheek. He melts under it. Maybe he doesn’t need to be in such a hurry to do anything, after all.

“I m’de it,” is all he whispers.

It's a very, very long time before he gets any response. He thinks of maybe going back to sleep. Until an abrupt sob shakes the bony surface he's been resting against, jolting Izuku slightly.

“Yes, son... yes you did.”

The feeling of something warm hitting his face has his mouth pulling a frown. Those aren’t his own tears. Why is All Might sad? His favorite hero should never, never ever ever be sad.

“D’nt be sad,” Izuku slurs. What was it All Might had said to him, once? All Might’s phrases are usually good ones to repeat for pep talks. Even if the pep talk is being given to the man himself. “‘S on-y room for one cry-aby.” His brow furrows. He can barely open his mouth, let alone get words out correctly. All Might seems to understand what he said, though, because he lets out another laugh. A brief, gurgled sound, as if he’s been caught off guard and is fighting not to spit up blood. A thumb continues to rub the side of Izuku’s face.

“There’s only room for one crybaby, hmm? Is that so?” Fondness fills his rumbling voice with a warmth that washes over Izuku like a bath. “You might have to just relinquish the title over to me for the day then, kid. God knows I've put the work in.”

His tone still sounds suspiciously warbled. Is he still sad? Izuku blindly pats where he’s guessing All Might’s shoulder is in what he hopes is a comforting manner. He thinks he accidentally hits something else, like a chin, but oh well. This is what his mom does when Izuku is feeling down: a gentle, reassuring touch, and a simple ‘I love you’. Hopefully it makes All Might feel a little bit better, too. “D’nt be sad,” Izuku mumbles again. “Love you.” 

A large hand holds Izuku’s more firmly against– oh, yeah, that's definitely All Might’s chin. The prickly stubble of it tickles his palm. He means to apologize for batting at the man’s face, but the hand holds his own right in place where it had landed, giving it a long squeeze. 

“... I love you,” All Might croaks. His voice sounds even worse than before. Maybe Izuku’s pep talk hasn’t been very helpful. “I love you so much. Do– do you know that? Did you know that?”

Izuku doesn’t know much of anything right now. He huffs tiredly.

“I need you to know that, kid. I…” an unsteady inhale. “I don’t know what I’d have done with myself if… if you hadn’t…”

He feels his own breathing start to slow. A quick kiss lands on the hand of his being squeezed. Another kiss, followed by half a dozen or so– he loses count– land themselves onto the top of his head, onto his closed eyes. Izuku melts again.

“I'm sorry that… that I neglected to tell you before, that I neglected to tell you many things before. But I love you, Midoriya Izuku. With everything I have. Do you hear me?”

“Love you,” Izuku drones out again. His mind isn't picking up all the details– not right now. All he knows is that he feels calm, and safe. He thinks it's been awhile since those things have felt true, so he relishes in it. He further sinks into the warmth wrapped around him, and he yawns quite dramatically. “‘‘Mmm' tired."

Another wet sounding chuckle reverberates through his cheek. “Yes, I can see that. Go back to sleep like I told you to, then, you stubborn boy.”

For once, Izuku simply does as he’s asked, and he goes to sleep.