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Aizawa had been hearing about a new up-and coming villain near UA, and he was… confusing to say the least.
He left no trace, he showed no mercy, and yet he was almost kind.
He was young, fifteen or sixteen at the oldest, and really shouldn’t be out on the streets, let alone doing what he was doing, when he was meant to be in school, learning with everyone else his age.
They only knew his age because he had left an introduction note at one of his crime scenes, stating he didn’t want to cause too much trouble, and that they could call him ‘Komori’, and Nedzu had recognised a pattern of writing that fit with someone the age of his own students.
He targeted people who caused problems, the untouchables of the ‘good’ side and the most feared of the ‘bad’ side, leaving them beaten and bloody, and right next to the evidence of their crimes, undeniable even to the most corrupt of courts.
He also occasionally went after civilians or small-time heroes, none of whom seemed to be involved in anything sketchy, and this was where the confusion set in, because the heroes knew that he was precise and ruthless, and yet…
Sometimes, his crime scenes were tamer, his victims conscious - not as scared as they should be, talking about how ‘Komori’ had saved their lives, spared them from a worse fate. They always had injuries that looked bad, but were actually not too deep, and every time, the only clue the heroes would find would be a short, neat, note on lined notebook paper, detailing who was after the victims and how far the authorities would need to go to keep them safe.
Personally, Aizawa would class him as more of a vigilante than a villain, but the fact that he went after anyone, regardless of status, made the police label him ‘villain’. None of them wanted to admit that he had taken out the bad apples, and helped clean up where otherwise they would have gotten away with bad behaviour.
Every one of his crime scenes was brutal, his strikes and slashes unhesitating, not deeper than they needed to be, and with nothing out of place except for the bleeding victims and an open window.
He was elusive, and hard to catch, and so he had been brought in to consult and maybe even capture, but honestly, he wasn’t sure he really wanted to.
He had a feeling, something in his gut from years on the streets, that told him he wouldn’t be the kind of hero that could help this kid, and that he would need to call in someone else, someone brighter.
Unfortunately, he knew exactly who to ask.
—
Komori wore a mask.
It was the one he had chosen; a stylised bat, black with wide, red eyes and lines running along its cheeks. It was also one he’d had no choice in at all.
Komori was a ‘cleaner’, sent by a handler to clean up messes and keep people quiet, trained and refined into the perfect assassin, even if he didn’t kill.
He had been picked because of his quirk, because it meant he would never be found.
He hadn’t known he had a quirk, had just assumed he was good at fading into the background, and that he would spend his life in the shadows of everyone else’s lives.
Oh how wrong he had been.
He was shaken out of his peaceful life when one day, seemingly out of nowhere, he had been snatched from his own home in the middle of the night with his mom, and taken to the man he had only ever known as ‘Sensei’.
His mom had been made a captive, a hostage, so that he would work for them, and use the quirk he hadn’t known he had. Every day he had worried he would show up to the base to find her hurt, and every day it was relief when she wasn’t.
So he followed Sensei’s rules, blending into the darkness and sneaking through windows, doing as he was told.
He was anonymous and efficient, and the police would never catch him, his own quirk and his mask keeping him safe.
—
Midoriya Izuku wore a mask.
He spent his days going to school, trying to blend into the background, to disappear, and act like the only reason his life was awful was the bullies and the loneliness.
All the while, his life was falling apart, had been since he was ten years old, and he went home not to the warmth of a loving mother and a home-cooked meal, but to the cold of an empty flat and the constant threat of death.
His mom was gone, taken and hidden and held over his head, and so he made his dinner, made his lunch, made his breakfast, all to keep up appearances and act like everything was fine.
He did his schoolwork, and hing around the places teenagers were expected to, and generally acted as normal as a quirkless nerd could, and was so, so tired.
He still lived in his childhood home, now devoid of the life it once held but frozen in time, the only major difference his room.
He had taken down all the hero posters, feeling like the eyes of his heroes were judging him, finding him wanting, and not able to bear it. Instead, he put up his mask.
A stylised bat, black with wide, red eyes and lines running along its cheeks
A reminder of who he had to be.
Every day he got up, went to school, and went through the motions, hoping that one day, maybe, a hero would show up to help.
—
Yagi Toshinori wore a mask.
He didn’t know when. One day he had realised that the smile he put on felt different from the one that came naturally, and Yagi Toshinora and All Might had become like two separate people.
He didn’t entirely hate it. It gave him a layer of privacy he otherwise wouldn’t have had, and let him put all his energy into his persona, and be quieter off duty.
He knew when to let it slip, and when to keep it firmly up, and as his body started to fail, his mask became physical, his very face changing based on who he was being.
So when Eraserhead came to him with news of a young, masked villain who he thought he could help, he was intrigued.
All he really knew was that the boy was an enigma, and nigh-on untraceable, and that Aizawa thought he could be steered onto the right path given the proper guidance.
Yagi was honoured that Aizawa thought that was him, and promised himself he was going to see behind the mask, and to the boy underneath.
—
Komori had just turned fifteen when the unexpected happened.
Sensei was sending him out on a job; taking out a police officer who was getting a little too close to one of his pet projects by sniffing around a bar he owned, and something felt off. He couldn’t put a finger on it, but his instincts were telling him that things were about to change, and that this job would be hard.
He slipped quietly across rooftops, checking street names as he jumped from building to building, coming up on his target.
He really didn’t want to do this one, but he had no choice.
He arrived, noticing two scruffy-looking men, one blonde with a moustache and one wearing a grey scarf, chatting on the street corner, and making sure they weren’t looking as he shimmied down onto a planter and picking the window open and squeezing through.
He glanced around the apartment. It was dark, only the light of appliances letting him see anything, and made his way to where he had been told the bedroom was.
His ears were pricked, honed in on every tiny sound, his heart pounding.
These jobs were always harder.
He approached the bedroom and knocked on the door.
There was a rustling from within, and then soft footsteps, cautious and slow, and then the door opened.
Komori pulled himself up into his full height and confidence and pushed into the room.
“I’m here to help you.”
Komori handed the man a letter, flicking on the light, not giving him a chance to ask questions.
The man was skinny. So skinny he looked more like a skeleton than a man, with messy blonde hair and hooded dark eyes. He was tall, and he carried himself with more confidence than his lanky frame would suggest. He seemed… oddly familiar, and Komori tilted his head in curiosity, the only way he could emote in his mask.
The man scanned briefly over the note, face blank and not giving anything away, before it fell to his side in his hand, and made eye contact, pupils almost glowing blue in the darkness.
“I know, Komori.”
Izuku felt his heart begin to pound, body tensing, ready for a fight, and he heard the door lock click shut behind him, because this was a trap, and part of him was relieved that he wouldn’t have to hurt anyone, and that he might finally be stopped, but the rest was sacred, because he knew what he had done, and that he wouldn’t be forgiven.
He froze on the spot, just waiting for the first jab, waiting to be slammed to the floor and dragged off, but seconds passed, and the man wasn’t moving, and he was still tense, heart still pounding, and then the man was moving.
He jerked into a ready stance, hand hovering over the blade at his waist, eyes locked on as the man… sat down?
He watched as his long legs folded in on themselves awkwardly, joints creaking as the man groaned in pain or strain, and as he settled into a cross-legged position, sighing in relief. Komori watched as the man relaxed, seemingly unconcerned by the boy seconds away from holding a knife to his throat in front of him, instead patting the floor in invitation to join him.
Izuku looked to the window (barred, the reason he hadn’t come straight into this room) and the door (locked, he knew, probably at least one person on the other side, unknown, dangerous) and then to the floor (just a floor, just a man sitting down, unknown, dangerous, but probably not too strong).
Komori weighed his options, noted the non-threatening posture and lack of bloodlust, and tentatively sat down out of reach, one foot planted and ready to move.
The man smiled, seeming to relax further into himself, taking a moment before he began with whatever he wanted to get out of this.
“I’m Yagi, my boy. I’m working with the heroes and police to deal with your cases.”
Komori remained silent.
“We are concerned about the damage you have been causing, but have reason to believe you are… rather younger than the authorities initially suspected.”
Komori’s fingers twitched over his blade.
“Some people were keen to see you incarcerated but Eraserhead managed to convince them to let me talk to you first,”
Komori’s fingers stilled.
He knew about Eraserhead. He was one of the less trigger-happy heroes. Someone who could be reasoned with. Someone who cared.
“If you want to stop, I can help you.”
Komori remained silent.
Yagi remained silent.
“How,”
Komori’s voice was quiet, tentative, and it seemed to surprise Yagi.
“Well, first of all, we would need to take a statement, make sure we know what exactly is going on, and then we would work with you to figure out the best way forward.”
Komori was taken aback. He was expecting to be locked up, never to be let out, to be a villain forever, unable to escape, but instead he was being offered kindness, offered help, and while he aches to accept, he knew he wasn’t the only one at risk.
“I- I can’t,” he gritted out, voice now trembling, “he- he’ll hurt her, hurt my- my mom.”
Yagi was quiet for a moment, considering, weighing new information, and while his expression and posture was calm, Komori could sense an underlying anger that he really hoped wasn’t directed at him.
“I’ll deal with that. What matters is what you want, my boy. You shouldn’t have to be doing this,”
Komori felt a fine trembling throughout his entire body, hope wanting to well up while he furiously tamped it down, not wanting it to be jerked out from under him.
“How… HOW can you promise that?”
Yagi considered for a moment, before he started to steam.
Komori tensed up again, hand now on the handle of his knife, and watched as the man before him filled out, clothes no longer hanging off him, instead straining against muscle.
Before he knew it, All Might was sitting in front of him.
He stared, not comprehending, hand slack on his knife in shock.
All Might was obscured by steam again, and then Yagi was sitting in front of him once more.
He smiled. Just smiled, face open and sad and understanding, and Komori started trembling.
There were so many feelings rushing through him, confusion warring with awe warring with painful hope, and he finally slumped to the ground, fight gone out of him in the face of his childhood hero, looking at him not with disdain but with compassion, and he decided just this once to try trusting.
“You..” he swallowed, voice suddenly sticking in his throat, “you promise?”
Yagi reached out a hand and set it gently on Komori’s knee, the first comfort he had had in years, and he launched into him, gripping tightly onto him, unable to cry but overcome with emotion.
The mask slipped, and Izuku let it.
Things were going to change.