Chapter Text
Izu- no. Plague felt his bones moving within his body. Plague’s least favorite handler had a quirk that could sense and break or repair any part of the body through telekinesis. The pull and push of the quirk repeatedly breaks the boy’s skeleton before healing it again. This process repeated itself until the people in the room were sure that Plague knew his name and that one Midoriya Izuku was no longer among the living.
-
The buzzing of the clippers made Plague’s muscles tense before he could school them into a relaxed stance. It was July 15th, ten years since he had been introduced to the Owner and his handlers. Ten years since Midoriya Inko sold her child to the Owner and left him to be torn apart and put back together at the man’s will.
“I hope you’re ready for tonight, Plague. It’s your ten year anniversary of being mine,” the smooth, baritone voice of the Owner grated against Plague’s eardrums. Minutes later that buzz cut out and two sets of hands pulled the fighter backwards, preparing to clean his hair and return the curls that grace Plague’s head when it’s clean.
-
Pink tongue darted out to lick the blood upon his lips. The soaking wet of his dry hands ‘drip, drip, dripping’ with blood onto the spotless floor. The Plague left no one preserved. Bloody hands reach up against the buzz of the patrons, all calling out his name. Muzzle safely tucked into a box by the entrance Plague uses, the crowd roars in recognition of the boy. His mouth twisted into a sharp smile, bowing to his fans in thanks for their faith. A few of the patrons who had been attending the fights for years called out to Plague. A ‘congratulations’ to surviving another year. Tonight, the crowd would leave well-fed. A five course meal served by the Plague.
The final fight, against a large man with a quirk that allowed him to increase his mass at will by a third of his original weight, left little to be desired. Unfortunately for this opponent, a man named Stye, Plague wanted to enjoy an actual meal for his birthday. Stye laughed when he saw his opponent. Attempting -- and failing -- to intimidate the fourteen year old. The buff fighter grunted, annoyed that his words seemingly fell upon deaf ears.
Spectators roared, jeering at both fighters now that the betting period ended. A buzzer cuts through the crowd, momentarily raising the volume of the crowd’s buzz. The last thing Plague registers before he is evading Stye is the brief recognition of a memory, wasps floating by his head, flying angrily in a swarm at his presence. The pair grapple for a few moments, separating and trading blows before locking together once more. Three minutes after the buzzer sounds, Plague had a hold around Stye’s middle, teeth sunk into whatever he could --a thigh, he thinks through the adrenaline-- and a foot pressed against the underside of the larger man’s chin, resting against his windpipe.
Blood rushed through the fighters, fueling their adrenaline and putting pressure on their opponent. Plague made a split section decision to pull back his foot, Stye gasping out in relief of the pressure, before rapidly straightening his leg once more, pushing Stye’s jaw back and sideways.
The roaring stopped for a moment of blissful silence. The whole room stopped, watched, as something fell from Stye’s mouth, covered in blood.
His tongue.
In the split second that Plague had struck out with his foot and Stye had taken that gasp of air he had lost half of his tongue. The larger man tried to roar, tried to do anything. Plag- Izuku removed himself from the embrace of the dying man and stood. Watching as the large man slowly laughed, spitting blood as he greeted death with the familiarity only those who fight here could have. One more body to remember at night. Six more liters of blood to bath his hands in when he got up in the morning.
Sound rushed to fill the void it left, screaming as Plague reached down to the appendage next to his opponent. Drooled as he gripped it between his thumb and forefinger. And went wild when he held it up like a trophy, turning in a circle so that everyone around the pit could see it before returning to face Stye once more. The sick sound of the tongue hitting its previous owner’s chest going unheard.
“Such a pity, Stye,” Plague cracked out,” I thought you’d be more of a challenge.” A sickly grin overtook the youth’s face as he lifted his hand to his nose and breathed in the scent of Stye’s blood before turning around and going to retrieve his muzzle. His favorite handler, a kind man with a minor healing quirk who kept Plague up to date on schooling whenever he could, was waiting beyond the entrance to the Pit.
“Good fight, Plague, Owner is impressed,” He offered a smile to the fighter. “Tonight we can go over a new topic if you’d like, as a treat for your birthday and the victory.” Plague nodded in response, the muzzle restricting his ability to speak, though the mask was more for aesthetics at this point than anything. The bloodied boy was happy that he could receive these teaching sessions. Plague was naturally curious and the Owner didn’t care so long as Plague kept performing as usual. It helped that Plague was a quick learner and had requested learning about medical practices and the human body in order to take down opponents in more creative and quicker ways, as well.
The door to the Pit creaked shut with a clang, closing the sightline of a pair of black eyes to the fighter known as the Plague.
-
Three months later, as his handler had told him yesterday, Plague was back in the pit. More faces were in the crowd today, eager for the bloodbath promised to them. A leather smell permeated his senses as he waited for the challenger to be released into the ring. Something felt off about the energy of the crowd, the cheering was rougher this time, more violent than usual. One spectator was calling for Plague to rip an arm off. This could easily get dangerous, the crowd control upstairs will likely be on high alert tonight.
Another two bodies had been taken away and Plague was getting ready for his final match. It had been three months since he had maimed someone enough to see the light leave their eyes, but the crowd was demanding blood. A sacrifice to their thirst, and Izuku would be the knife that drew the blood that sated it. Metal on concrete ground out a wavering cry, an attention grabber that announced the sacrifice’s arrival. The pit would once again become the altar upon which Izuku would commit to his duty as the provider of sacrificial blood.
The world went quiet, for a moment the sacrifice was enough to still the cries for blood, if only for a moment, and the sound returned all at once. It took Izuku only moments to realize that there was an unusual lilt to the noise, the words ‘heroes’ and ‘bust’ were thrown around as the patrons scrambled to escape the pit’s location.
“Plague,” his handler called out, muzzle in hand,” come here, we need to go.” His head snapped up, body instinctively moving to obey the command. The muzzle was put in place as the older man led Plague away from the pit and towards a room. Owner was waiting, pacing back and forth while multiple guards moved about, arming themselves to the teeth with whatever they had on hand.
“Ah good, you retrieved him.” Owner’s thick, baritone voice sent fear through Izuku. “We need to get going before those shitty heroes can get here.” The rest of the room obviously knew the plan, swiftly following unsaid orders. They began to move towards a tunnel, Owner opened it, making the others present murmur in surprise. Shouts and sounds of fighting were getting closer as Owner began to lead the way.
They never got a chance to shut the entrance before heroes came flooding in through both sides. His handler pulled him out of the way, whispering instructions for him to stay out of the way and trust the heroes. There were a few colorful costumes flashing around, subduing the guards while trying to move closer to Owner. In the middle of the flashes of bright and muted colors, a shadow moved effortlessly through the crowd.