Chapter Text
I, Izuku Midoriya, was a perfectly average boy on the surface. Every day, I would wake up, endure school with absolute apathy, train, eat, and go to sleep without a thought in my mind. According to my mother, I used to be a bright boy who was altruistic in every sense of the word, but I couldn't remember that. All my mind could process now was the most logical path forward. Inko, my mother, said that the accident that claimed my father's life was the incident that incited my memory loss and personality shift, but she didn't know what happened. Nobody did.
After that day, I felt unbridled rage. Boiling anger bubbled underneath the surface of my skin and pushed me to train every day. I would work until my fingers bled and exert myself until I puked. This drive was as mysterious as my long-term memory loss. I had a routine that focused on grip strength and lung capacity. There was a hefty amount of cardio and free running as well. I didn't know why those things were important, but I trained like my life depended on it—and maybe it did.
I walked through life in monochrome, utilitarian to a fault. School felt pointless, and I bluntly stated this. Why did I have to go to school if the only thing that happened was bullying and teasing? Even the teachers were in on it, and I never learned anything from them. The only things I learned were what I drilled into my head for hours to get around my memory loss. Going to school today was a waste of time. A hashira's time is more valuable than that of everyone else. I have better things to do with my time.
What is a hashira?
"It looks like Midoriya wants to go to UA, too." That was the scummy middle school teacher. He must have been discussing high school applications.
"Deku?"
"I bet he doesn't even remember what UA is!"
"Ya, his memory sucks!"
"He's still clinging to that useless dream?"
"Idiot Deku with his head in the clouds," one student sang.
"Idiot Deku with his head in the clouds!" the class chanted.
School is useless.
"Hey, Deku!" Kacchan shouted as he slammed a crackling hand on my desk. "Don't think you can stand in the same ring as me! You are a useless, quirkless freak! Don't forget your place! Hey! Are you even listening to me?!" Kacchan continued yelling, but I didn't remember most of what he said. I did remember his last barbed comment. "Why don't you pray for a quirk in your next life and take a swan dive off the roof," he sneered.
It was just another day at Aldera Middle School. Everything blended together, and my foggy memory didn't help. It was a misty haze of utilitarian tasks. I took a new route home, as far as I could remember. I always did. It was to practice free running in urban environments. One portion of the route today brought me under an underpass.
Suddenly, a wall of sludge blocked my way forward. I reached to my side. I'll just cut through this demon and continue with my objective. The sword was not there. It was supposed to be there. Why am I supposed to have a sword?
"Oh, a medium-sized disguise! Hey kid, give me your body! I need to hide," the sludge demon spoke in a garbled voice.
"I'd rather not," I replied bluntly.
The monster ignored me and opted to smother me instead. I was suspended in the sludge upside down. Not again! Wait, isn't this the first time I've ever been drowned? My last breath could only last for so long. Pain shot through my lungs from the lack of oxygen, and my throat was on fire from the goop forcing its way in. My life flashed before my eyes, and intense feelings of Deja Vu clouded my judgment.
It started with simple things like playing on the playground with Kacchan. The most prominent of those memories was the day we discussed the kanji in our names.
"Hey, Izuku can be read as Deku!" Kacchan announced.
"What does Deku mean?" the kid with wings asked.
"Deku means useless!" Kaccan replied.
Then, the memories got closer to that day—memories of my deceased father. He had wine-red eyes and fluffy, black hair. I got my freckles, face, and hair texture from him. I got my pale, teal eyes and viridian hair color from my mom.
"Dad! Dad! I want to be a hero!" I announced while bouncing around the living room.
"That's nice, Green Bean," he replied. "Do you know what the most important aspect of heroism is?"
"What? What?" I asked in childish glee.
"It's helping others."
"Saving people like All Might?"
"Yes, saving people like All Might," he replied with a gentle smile.
More memories of people putting me down for my lack of quirk flooded my mind, only to be contrasted by my father's overwhelming love and support. I didn't need anyone else to believe in me because my parents did. I remember that now. I felt at peace after regaining those memories, but my consciousness was beginning to slip. I had suffocated for what felt like an eternity.
"Damn kid, do you have a breath-holding quirk!?" The sludge demon complained.
Then, a nearby manhole cover exploded from its place and clattered on the asphalt. "I AM HERE!" a familiar voice shouted.
A powerful gust of wind blasted the sludge from my frame, and I finally passed out.
While blacked out, I began to see the memories of another—no. Those were my memories, too. They were from a time long before quirks existed. There were no heroes or villains, but there were demons, and with the demons came the Demon Slayers Corps.
"The Mu in Muichiro means useless," chanted Yuichiro, my twin brother. Muichiro was my name.
My parents in that life died tragically on the same stormy day. My father died trying to get medicine for my mother's illness. He never got that medicine, and my mother died as a result. Yuichiro was killed by a demon a year later, and I snapped, falling into an apathetic, memory-loss-inducing funk, much like in my current life.
I was Muichiro Tokito, The Mist Hashira, a child prodigy who rose to the top two months after picking up the sword.
My reminiscing was cut short by someone tapping on my face.
"HELLO, YOUNG MAN! ARE YOU WELL?"
Oh… All Might came to save the day.
The number one pro hero showed off the sludge demon, which he shoved into two two-liter bottles.
"How would one go about killing a demon without a proper neck," I muttered, tilting my head in curiosity. “…oh, it’s a quirk… so… not a demon. It was a villain."
"WELL, IF YOU'RE OKAY, THEN I MUST BE GOING!" All Might shouted as he readied to jump away.
I didn't stop him. I was preoccupied with my newfound memories. I absent-mindedly walked through the streets on my way back home, not registering the villain fight nearby. Finally getting home, I collapsed into bed and was out like a light. While I slept, my memories fit into place like puzzle pieces—the memories of both my lives. Two sets of memories, fourteen years in length, created a mosaic of tragedy and pain. The biggest part was still missing. That day was still missing.
With a solid chunk of my memories returned, I began to practice my Mist Breathing techniques. My current body couldn't keep up with my previous life's skills, so I needed to reacclimate. My new routine was to wake up first thing in the morning, meditate to practice Total Concentration Breathing, go to school, continue to practice Total Concentration Breathing, go back home to do homework, head to the forest to practice the Mist Breathing forms, return home for dinner, wash up, eat, and go to bed. My memory still had some holes, but some would be filled while I slept.
That day was still missing.
-x-x-x-x-x-
Four months passed, and the UA entrance exam was half a year away. I couldn't train as hard as I had in my first life because I still had school, so it took twice as long to reach a hashira level. I took my training to a new level, practicing in the cityscape rather than the forest. My mother bought me a wooden training sword. She wasn't comfortable giving me a real one yet, much to my chagrin.
I switched my early mornings to late nights, more reminiscent of my time in the Demon Slayer Corps. I would sneak out my window in an outfit of baggy black clothes and basic combat boots. I hopped from rooftop to rooftop with my wooden sword strapped to my waist. Occasionally, I'd pull out my sword and perform a Mist Breathing technique. There weren't any demons to fight, so I just pretended to have opponents.
Tonight was different. While leaping over an alley, I heard a scream from below. I readjusted my trajectory and landed on a fire escape overlooking the scene. As the Mist Hashira, I specialized in stealth and misdirection. My baggy clothes obscured my movements, and I always moved silently, so I didn't make a sound as I assessed the situation.
There was a teenager and a group of thugs. The thugs cornered the teen against a wall. One of them had a knife. Having seen enough, I dropped from the fire escape and drew my wooden sword. The thugs fell like puppets with cut strings. I didn't even need to use a proper Mist Breathing form. Without looking back at the teenager, I lept back up the fire escape and onto the rooftops once more. I felt like a million bucks. I saved somebody… I can be a hero!
That night, the final pieces fell into place.
-x-x-x-x-x-
"Dad?" I asked, staring up in awe at the man. "You're an underground hero?"
"Ya, Green Bean. That's why I have to go away sometimes." The two of us were up walking toward our ancestral home in the mountains when everything went wrong.
A massive explosion shook the area, causing the windows of nearby houses to shatter. A cloud of dust filled the air, and I lost sight of my dad.
"Dad! Dad, where did you go!?" My voice cracked from yelling at the top of my lungs. "DAD!?" I ran, and I ran. It burned. It hurt.
I turned the corner and froze. My dad had a fire-breath quirk. It was fitting for the descendant of charcoal burners.
When I turned the corner, I saw my dad using his quirk to fend off a horde of villains. It was terrible. Rubble was everywhere, and the ground shook with tremors of a distant fight.
"Green Bean! RUN!" Dad yelled. He stood over a wounded man. He looked old, and he was in a yellow hero costume. My dad was protecting him from the villains. "IZUKU!"
I couldn't move. I could only watch in horror as the villains closed in on my dad and that man. I watched them kill him, my father, my unwavering pillar of support.
"Dad…"
He was dead. They murdered him. All he was doing was helping. He didn't deserve to be killed. It was so cruel.
There was so much blood… red, red blood… Dad's lifeless red eyes. ALL I SAW WAS R E D.
When I came too, the tremors from the distant battle had subsided. Red surrounded me. It was more blood—not my blood. I held a bloody chunk of concrete. All around me lay the bodies of the villains who killed my father. Most of them were killed by rubble from that distant battle, and I killed the rest.
"Why!?" I shouted into the night. "WHY!?" I sobbed. I broke down in hysterics. I cried and dropped to my knees as the dust settled. The small village we were passing through was burning.
My head whipped to the side as I heard someone calling for another. The man came into view as he searched through the rubble. He had green hair, glasses, a tattered blazer, and a polka-dot tie. He was calling for someone named Toshinori. The man made eye contact with me, and I froze. He came closer to me, and I panicked. I got up and ran away as fast as I could.
I rushed home on foot as fast as I could. I probably ran for hours. It was all a blur. I slammed into the small apartment I called home, screamed, and rushed to my bedroom. My small eight-year-old body was pushed to its limit, and I promptly collapsed on the floor.
-x-x-x-x-x-
The next morning, I finally felt whole. I was at peace with myself and who I was. I felt like nothing could go wrong. Oh, how far I was from the true horror of the coming revelation. Mom made breakfast like every morning that we ate together. Everything should have been normal, but I noticed that Mom wasn't feeling well. It was worse than the little cold she claimed it was.
Colds don't make previously healthy people cough up droplets of blood.