Chapter Text
He had been told many times in his life that he was useless, worthless and a powerless Deku, but this was the first time anyone had told him to die. He was ten years old now, and he knew his life wouldn’t get any easier, and the words of his bully got to him.
Was it an answer to his problems? He wouldn’t feel pain after death, after all, his mother would be better off without him, the quirkless disgrace of a son, and she could be happy. Maybe his father would come back from America to be with her since he wasn’t there to embarrass him. The idea kept sounding better and better.
He spent the entire day thinking about it. How would he even do it? How could he make sure he’d really die? He didn’t have any way to get a gun so shooting himself was out of the question, if he cut his wrists there was a chance, they could save him and hanging himself would take too much time. He had never had control over anything in his life, so he’d at least like to have control over his death. He could slit his throat, which would kill him for sure, but did he dare to do this? Did he really want to leave this life and his mother, who loved him dearly, behind?
Standing in their bathroom with a kitchen knife in hand he thought that yes, he did want to do this. He looked at himself in the mirror, his goodbye letter placed on the sink cabinet written in green pen, he raised the knife to his throat, tears streaming down his face but smiling, he dragged it quickly across with as much strength as he could muster.
Chocking on his own blood he fell to the floor, unable to breathe blood flowed from his neck and came out of his mouth he smiled for the last time and closed his eyes the last thing he heard was a scream of terror he thought could belong to his mother…
*
Izuku woke up. It was dark and cold. It smelled of something rotting, and it was hard to breathe. There was a plush bedding below him and, on the sides, and top of the box he realized he was in. Was it just a dream? Did he not die? Where was he then?
No, it wasn’t a dream. He slit his throat and died on his bathroom floor. Which meant this was his coffin but how was he awake? How was he alive? And then it hit him. He died and came back. In this world full of quirks what else could it be other than some kind of immortality quirk? And no one knew. They all thought he was dead. But now wasn’t the time to think about his mom and classmates! He needed to get out of his grave, it was getting harder to breathe than it already was.
Panic gripped his chest, eyes widening he started punching the top of the box he lay in, adrenaline helping by giving him extra strength. It took him several minutes before he managed to break through the top of the coffin and then dirt started falling in. He began crawling through it, it was everywhere, in his eyes, his hair, his mouth and most likely even his lungs. Desperate for freedom he didn’t stop crawling. It was a long way to the top, he had been clawing with his hands for what felt like an eternity, crying and screaming and gasping for breath, when finally, he broke to the surface.
Fresh air slowly filtered into his lungs, and he started coughing up the dirt he inhaled, panic was still gripping him tightly as he started trying to regulate his breathing. In and out, in and out. It took him far too long to calm himself. And then the reality of the situation hit him, he had just crawled out of his own grave. He had died and then came back. He had a quirk. This was beyond his wildest dreams. His parents wouldn’t have to be embarrassed by him anymore!
Wait.
His parents, more so his mom, thought he was dead.
How would he even tell them? How could he? He killed himself. They knew that. His mom would never forgive him for that. How could she? He knew it caused her pain. He couldn’t go back. No, he had to make sure they never found out he was alive. He’d just have to hide, get a fake name and stay on the streets. He was smart. He’d survive.
*
Survive he did. Live comfortably? Not so much. But he couldn’t complain. He chose this. He had found an abandoned warehouse at the edge of the city and started to live there. It was an old and dreary place, but it had a functional roof and the room he was in didn’t even have broken windows, although they were boarded up with wood.
He had begun picking up food and necessities from trashcans and occasionally stealing a few smaller things, though he did the second only reluctantly and sparsely. He had managed to find discarded electronics he picked up and used for himself.
He still had a dream. To be a hero. But he was dead. And dead people can’t be heroes. So, he decided he’ll do it the illegal way and become a vigilante. To do that though he had to train. He had been lucky enough to find out with a glitchy phone that had a broken screen, that pro hero Endeavour’s house was in a city not that far away and decided to go and watch him train.
What is a better way to learn how to fight criminals than to watch someone who does it already?
The thing is, he regretted it. When he saw Endeavour and heard him tell a boy his age who must’ve been the hero’s son that they will begin training he had been excited to see, but then he saw what he called training…
“Hi, Shoto! I’m Izuku, I’m legally dead and becoming a vigilante, would you like to join me? I can help you fake your death and get you away from here!” he told the boy once he broke into his room after training ended.