Chapter Text
There was a secret in the quirkless community, something that every single one of them eventually learned. Quirked people rarely had to think about it, but those without one kept it in the back of their minds. It was possible for a quirkless person to gain a quirk, assuming their parents were quirks. It just... required torture, and a decision.
Some snapped easily, killing themselves before they could become dangerous. Others, like Midoriya Izuku, prayed they never reached that point. Every quirkless person knew what would happen to them.
When a quirkless person gained a quirk, it was always powerful, usually deadly, and almost impossible to control seeing as they never had the mutations necessary to thrive. Most of the time, if one appeared, it was because the user was being tortured beyond what their minds could handle, and, in exchange for their sanity, they gained a quirk strong enough to destroy those hurting them.
Every single time a quirkless person became a false negative, there was at least one death involved. If not more.
He never wanted to hurt anyone, all he ever wanted was to be a hero, to save people. Izuku's entire life was dedicated to being a hero and helping people. But that wasn't possible anymore. He had finally given up.
He stared into dull green eyes, watching in detached amusement as his body was kicked and burned through a cracked mirror further down the alley. It leaned against the dumpster, having clearly been thrown away. He almost felt bad for it, an old antique thing with a heavy brass frame. How many faces had it seen, he wondered, how many people had walked passed?
He liked mirrors, they never lied, never changed how you looked. If you were having a bad day, the mirror would show it, usually with darkened, bloodshot eyes. He always liked that you couldn't lie, the mirror in his home was the only thing that got to see the truth behind the fake smiles. He was soft, he supposed, for the truth.
Heroes were supposed to be truthful, like the mirrors were. Yet, somehow, Bakugo could become a hero, but he couldn't? Bakugo, who was primed for the role since they were toddlers. Bakugo, who would be the perfect hero despite not having any heroic qualities to him. Bakugo, who had always been a little cruel, and a little violent, was allowed to save people, but he couldn't?
What a joke.
Bakugo was the complete opposite of what a hero was in his mind. From the stories he read growing up, even before the diagnosis, heroes were supposed to be kind, chivalrous, courageous, honest, hard working, and noble. They were supposed to be people that helped others because everyone deserves help. Heroes were supposed to make people feel safe. So why, for their entire lives, did people consider Bakugo of all people to be worthy of heroics?
Another harsh kick to the ribs, already broken no doubt, brought him out of his mind. He wondered dully if today was the day he'd join his kind. Unless Bakugo stopped soon, Izuku would die here, in this filthy, smelly alleyway.
Bakugo would never be a good hero, and Izuku was probably going to take his last breaths next to someone who should have been his best friend. He was going to watch himself die.
His eyes burned for a moment, whether with tears or the blood running down his forehead, he didn't know. But it hurt, almost worse than his thoughts did, but only for a fraction of a second.
Something felt different, though, once his eyes locked once again on his mirror self.
Wait.
His eyes...
They had always been emerald green, like his mother, wide and innocent in appearance, with a spark of intelligence that he hid. But they weren't. They looked weird, with a mirror-like film covering his entire eye. There was no more dark pupil, no more white sclera, no more green iris. No, all that remained in his eye sockets were a shiny, reflective surface that he was pretty sure someone could see themselves in.
The realization came to him with the force of a train. He was breaking. He had made the decision, subconsciously, that he'd always hoped would never be necessary.
Which meant, if he was right, death would follow his every move until he understood what, how, his powers worked.
It made sense, in a dark, twisted way, that today was his breaking point. He'd woken up, after all, when he'd taken enough the day before to never have to worry about it again. Yet, he had. Only to be ridiculed, sexually assaulted by one of his teachers, told to kill himself by the boy he'd known his whole life, attacked by a villain, broken by a hero, and...
And what? He was in an alleyway, getting the shit beaten out of him, yet still alive. He was still feeling the same boiling rage that he hid away behind shyness and meekness. He had finally shattered.
A bitter laugh broke out of him, echoing around the dirty hide away, and causing his classmates to pause. He hadn't really planned on being alive today, but he'd woken up more fragile than usual, gone through a worse than usual day, and, for once, his control snapped.
He was gone before the sound died away, leaving behind only his blood on the cement.