Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Mom,” Izuku’s small voice wobbles as the words escape his lips in a breathless plea. “Mom wake up,” he shakes the woman’s shoulder as forcefully as an eight year old can.

Ashes and flames flutter around them as if they aren’t about to consume them whole. The boy's green eyes are wide with terror, and tears stream down his cheeks in a cascading fashion.

“Please,” he cries as he throws his arms and head to rest on his mothers stomach, “I can’t lose you mom.”

…In loving memory of Izuku and Inko Midorya…

He can distantly feel the blood pooling down his face, and decorating his freckled face in a gruesome way. His innocence adorned with a crimson liquid muddying the image of the young boy. Innocence drenched in blood, what a cruel world to live in.

A screech escapes his lips as the wood beneath him gives way, and time freezes. He feels as if he’s not in his body anymore as he reaches for his mother who is getting further and further away. He’s falling, and when he thinks back he’ll realize that that was the moment it all clicked.

…him and his mother were taken from us when they were far too young…

He can’t help himself as he reaches for what he will miss the most. It’s as if his mind knew that nothing would ever be the same. His hand knew to try and grasp at the most precious thing he ever had. In the end, evil prevailed and Izuku was none the wiser.

…may they rest in peace, and know nothing but love and freedom…

—

White walls greet Raiden’s vision as he finally comes back to himself. He’s on his cot, in his room, screeching beeps sounding him awake. He scrubs a hand over his face, his fingers tracing the scar that slits through his left eyebrow.

He’s lying on his stomach, and takes the chance to unfold his purple wings and stretch them upward to the ceiling. The muscles deliciously untense with the release of the night’s sleep. The tips of his wings scratch against the ceiling, and he brings them back to a horizontal position to stretch outward as if he were gliding through the air.

The purple wings catch the dull light and the sheen of iridescence coats them with a shimmering effect.

He doesn’t know why he’s dreaming about that now, after everything. It’s not like he can do anything about it, or find any semblance of solace in the memory. That was the day the world stopped hiding behind closed doors.

The dam finally broke, and the floodgates were laid bare. Nothing could have prepared him for the surge of never ending waves. They crested over him and overwhelmed every bit of him. The whispered tales of heartache, sadness, and anger. That’s what the world truly consisted of, after all. Bits of happiness are nothing but fleeting moments preparing you for the next crash. 

The ache in his wings finally sated he gathers himself to his knees and bends backwards. His muscles burn and soothe the clumped, unused muscles. He stands and rolls his head, two loud cracks erupting from both sides.

He changes out of his sleepwear, and adorns black sweatpants and a similar tinted shirt. The shirt has the sleeves cut off, which show the scars that smatter his skin in jagged lines, and ruthless patches. Some overlap, other’s trail along never being touched, and some cover others–as if the first scar wasn’t enough.

The door opens, and his eyes meet his handler. Quite the wishy washy man who can never make up his mind if he hates Raiden or not. “Razoredge, we are to report to Madam President. Fall in.”

He does just that, and after passing through the underground halls of the facility, they travel up an elevator until they reach one of the top floors. It takes a while, because his quarters are below ground. They can’t have their most guarded secrets in the light of day, after all.

His feathers pick up vibrations, voices, and shifting positions. His feathers minutely twitch, but he fights the inherent need to shift and move his feathers. Avians are vocal, and twitchy creatures. Razoredge, although an avian, is stock still and never moving unless carefully calculated.

Raiden trails behind his handler, Mitch, and steps to the side, saluting a woman by bending the arm at the elbow and resting four fingers on his temple. She is sitting behind a mahogany desk, her back to the floor to ceiling windows. Her dull blonde hair sleeks back, and rests just below her shoulder, and her blue gray eyes meet his own.

Eyes swooping into a stern slant, and a slight downturn of her lips is the expression she constantly sports. Sometimes he wonders if her face muscles ever get tired.

“Stand down,” she dismisses and turns to talk to Mitch as if Raiden isn’t there.

Feathers slightly sift across his bare arms and he suppresses a shiver. 

“General officer Mitch, we have a new mission for Razoredge. All For One is gathering his bases, and with it he’s crafting a new scheme. An underground group known as the League of Villains is supposedly set to debut sometime in April, and we believe they’re going after UA. While Nedzu most definitely has an inkling on the matter,” her eyes rest on a folder beneath her hands folded in each other, “he is ill equipped to take on such a foe.”

Mitch’s attention is wrapped on the woman, while Raiden stares at the windows past her. What he would give to fly freely among the clouds…

“Since Razoredge looks to be about the age of a first year the board and I have decided to send him to UA,” she watches him for a reaction, but his face remains impassive. “Enter the general education course and do not draw attention.” It almost feels like she’s addressing him directly, but he knows that's not the truth.

Mitch nods, and he must’ve been given a subtle cue from Madam because he sends Raiden outside. However, his hearing is more extensive than he ever led the Hero Commission to believe, so he placidly waits and listens from outside the office.

“He is not to make connections. I know he has a hyper intelligence, but he cannot show that off. I owe the principal a favor, and this is a means of evening our score, but I do not want him intercepting my asset. Find a way to make sure our special officer doesn’t give that stoat anything to look into.”

His feathers pick up the slight shift in air, as if Mitch nods.

The President continues, “he will stay under his usual name, but his full alias will be Raiden Azuma.”

Raiden slowly blinks, he doesn’t know how to feel about taking the last name of his handler. However, he can’t find it in himself to feel any emotions over it.

“He is registered as quirkless. He may not reveal his ability to conceal himself from sight, and must hide his wings at all times. The board and I wish for him to do sub-par on the test and in the course in order to evade any suspicion. I do not wish for his intelligence or quirk to be apparent, so he will be stated as quirkless and his test scores will be the lowest possible, but still having the ability to make it into the course. Am I understood?”

”Yes, Madam President,” any possible facial features were lost on Raiden as he listened from behind the wall. Raiden stands tall, back straight, and the model image of regality, and the guards around watch him with a sort of malice he never quite cared to understand.

 “We do believe the social aspect will be a long term asset to Razoredge’s success. However, those connections may never reach anything more than surface level. He is not to invite others to his apartment, or discuss anything of relevance about himself. He may lie if he so needs to, I don’t care, but he may not be compromised. Whatever it takes.”

An involuntary shiver snakes up Izuku’s spine at the dark statement. Why would she want him to hurt people? Why is he so important to them that he needs to hurt people to keep his secrets? They surely don’t act like he’s important, not that he cares, but the hypocrisy is confusing.

Raiden can feel Mitch’s unease. “Madam, I know I do not need to say this and that you undoubtedly know, but this is a risky measure. With the press digging into the HPSC, and getting closer and closer to some things, are you completely sure this is the best choice?”

Raiden didn’t expect Mitch to have the chops to say such a thing. Although Raiden’s role is different, Mitch’s isn’t much different. Mitch may have authority over Raiden, but many people have authority over Mitch. 

Raiden was somewhat of an… exchange , while Mitch works here for a wage. They’re both similar and in completely different worlds.

”It’ll blow over. Razoredge is our best agent, and we can’t afford to put any less on the line. If All For One gets his way, the whole world as we know it will pay the price.”

Wow, she made herself sound so noble after saying she was willing to let Raiden kill. The HPSC has a special talent for making their words sound better than they are.

He tunes out the rest of the world, and follows behind Mitch as he exits the room with a grim expression. Once more in a lull as Mitch leads him back to his cell room to pack for the mission.

Gripping the handle hanging from the ceiling of the train car he gazes out at the flurry of passing buildings surrounding the train car. He’s wearing his black cargo pants, and black compression shirt. He has a duffel bag with the minimal amount of clothes, his UA uniform, and mission uniform.

Clouds dance past the shiny glass, and the sea glitters a distance away. Izuku distantly remembers going to the sea once, he doesn’t remember with who, or why, but he remembers the sea foam coating the lapsing waves.

Lapping over his feet, the cool pressure doing wonders for his feet. Why did his feet hurt? He can’t remember. He will never quite remember his mother placing him in regular shoes, even though he needed quirkless shoes .

The train announces his stop, and he trudges through the populated station, and out into the streets of Musutafu. It’s uncomfortable to strain his wings so close to his body, and they uncomfortably tuck onto his arms and back. They ignite irritation in old and new scars.

Two holes in the back of his shirt that allow for the wings don’t reach the human eye, due to Izuku’s quirk. His quirk gives off the illusion that there is no hole to begin with. Unless you’re really looking for it, nobody would know the optical illusion is there.

Well, that’s somewhat of his quirk at least.

He pushes against the waves of people walking the streets, and catches hints of conversations. People talking on their phones or to their kids, husbands, or just dead silence. 

With his enhanced hearing it’s overwhelming, like the sea full of a thousand crashing waves. Cresting over him without his better judgment, never relenting and forever forcing.

He was tortured trained to endure such noise, but there’s a difference between training and being in the environment. He can’t remember the last time he was out in the public in broad daylight. Usually he’d stick to the shaded allies if he needed to be out during the day.

Luckily, he makes it to his apartment building before he can descend into any certain depths, and awaits the receptionist to realize he’s there. She startles when she looks up, not having noticed his arrival, and her smile is nervous and riddled with uncertainty.

Raiden speaks up, his tone brusk. “I’m Raiden Azuma. It is to my knowledge that my father bought an apartment the other day.”

She looks at her computer and back to him, “oh my apologies. Can you sign this for me please?” She places a clipboard with a few papers attached onto the higher platform of her desk. Raiden signs it, and looks back at her awaiting some sort of interaction.

Clicking a few things on her computer mouse, she then hands him a key without greeting his eyes again.

He sits carefully at his desk, awaiting his screen’s command. As if on que Mitch appears on his laptop screen, and narrows his gaze at Raiden.

”I assume you’re settled in by now?”

Raiden’s expression is blank, “yes, sir.”

”These next few days you may do as you please, as long as it’s in the confines of your apartment. There’s food prepared in the fridge. I expect you to be ready for the entrance exam in two days. Over and out.”

The screen goes black, and Izuku is bathed in an inky blue darkness. He can see just fine, but he doesn’t quite know what to do. He’s never really had the ability to do what he wants, not without consequence anyways.

Contrary to popular belief, Izuku does have a mind of his own. It’s a little foggy, and guarded, but it’s there. One of his favorite things to do is learn. That being said, one of his least favorite things is social interaction. So, he’s going to learn how to do social interactions.

He settles his wings over the back of the chair, which was thankfully designed for an avian, and watches YouTube for the remainder of the night. 

Emotionally speaking he isn’t the most profound. The only emotion he knows how to feel anymore is the careful blankness that’s coated him for most of his life, and a rather toxic one that leaks into him sometimes. He doesn’t know what it is, but it makes his skin crawl, and his body fidget uncontrollably. It’s not a good emotion, and he needs to learn how to control it, especially because heroes are always the trigger of such maliciousness.

——

YEAR 1 – file: 6_iz.mi_mutation_feb.yr1

location unknown.

A sluggish haze wrapped around his senses and muddled just about everything. He wanted to open his eyes, but he couldn’t push the function to do so. As if he was locked in his mind, and a darkness of his own creation.

Why didn’t they save me?

Subtle prodding, a pinch in his right arm at the elbow crease on his forearm, and an uncharacteristic silence. He was used to moving constantly. Whether it be running from a particularly angry Katsuki, or a game of chase his mom would craft for his enjoyment. He was always used to running, and moving. 

“The subject is prepped for procedure. We will begin at 0900 hours.”

Who even said that? It didn’t sound like a regular doctor.

Moving isn’t an option, but it's a necessity. His skin crawls with the knowledge he is not in control of himself. He can’t move. He loves to move.

He resigns to his fate, and allows the darkness to embrace him in every way possible.

It’s the heroes’ fault.

——

——

YEAR 1 — file: 6_iz.mi_mutation_mar.yr1

location unknown.

“Doctor Garaki, at hour 1200. Subject number 6’s body has adapted well to the mutation. Progress on using the mutation is slow, but day by day we are seeing progress.”

Strapped to a medal beam behind the doctor is a green haired boy with black wings. The wings protrude from just above the small boys’ trapezius muscle. He is forced to stand as the medal chains wrap him to the pole, his slim form barely able to take labored breaths.

The small wings were nowhere close to done, they would grow exponentially in the incoming days. It had only been a few days since the procedure forced the new body parts into him.

”Feathers are picked out every hour in order to cause feeling in the subject. The flinching, and facial expression of the subject suggest there is feeling in the wings. Wing color is black at the moment, but is subject to change.”

The doctor turned off the receiver he was speaking into.

”Now, what do you say about a little game, Six?”

The boy’s lolling head barely lifts to look at the doctor. His once bright green eyes now dull with reality. A world a five year old was not meant to know reflected in the shadows of his eyes.

”If you can lift your wings for me you will get a reward in return. But, if you don’t lift them I will be forced to have your mom take the punishment.”

He wants to scream, but his body can’t even muster the energy to open his mouth. He wants to cry, but his body hasn’t had water in days. He wants to move these things attached to his back, but his body refuses.

Unfortunately, the refusal of his body also brings about a dizzy spell, which then causes the already empty contents of his stomach to be emptied onto the floor. His body is dry heaving, and he can’t quite stop it.

His stomach drops not only at the dry heaving, but also the repercussions. His mother.

Tears he doesn’t have the ability to muster threaten to spill from his eyes, and his weak cracking voice whispers, “pl-plea-se n-n-no.”

A door slams somewhere out of his vision, and he knows that his efforts were for nothing. His mom was going to suffer the same as him, no matter if he tried to or not. The odds were never in his favor, and it was his fault for thinking they ever would be.

—

—

YEAR 1 — file: 6_iz.mi_mutation_mar.yr1

location unknown.

He hates heroes liars. They’re flashy, proud, egotistical, and liars . They’re vermin, scum of the earth, and never deserve the praise they receive.

Stomach flat against the rectangular medal table, he lays motionless. He’s not allowed to move, and whatever was injected into his arm made sure of that. An uncomfortable weight lies on his back, but he doesn’t have the heart to acknowledge the weight.

A woman’s voice, ”right wing. 3, 2, and 1.”

He lifts his right wing as high as he can, and he feels the tips of his feathers touch the ceiling. It’s disgusting how the extension of his body he was forced to have has now indoctrinated itself as a part of him.

An emotionless tone, “left wing. 3, 2, and 1.”

His left wing lifts, but doesn’t reach the ceiling like the other. He wants to sigh, knowing what will happen next, but it’s no use. It’d be a waste of energy. A minute tinge echoes through the wing, and the wing shoots towards the ceiling and bends back the feathers that scrape against the ceiling.

A grimace threatens to crawl onto his face, but he can’t. He lies motionless, as always.

The itching of a pen on paper grates against the insides of his skull, and he wants to reach and cover his ears. The urge to launch at the woman behind the voice and scrawling of the pen, but the notion dies as soon as it sprouts. The once promising flower of an idea shrivels beneath the weight of too much sun. The sun is the reality of the situation.

”Fold.”

He folds his wings back down and they rest on his back. He hears a snapping of some sort, and it’s most likely the woman putting on her usual latex gloves.

He’s proved correct as his feathers are prodded, and an itch in his spine forms as a result.

She feels each feather, and preens the bent ones. His wings ruffle as she pulls a particular feather, and he can feel her shift uncomfortably.

Oil is slicked onto the wings, which is not a part of the regular routine. Before he can digest the meaning behind it, an uncomfortable tingling in his feathers and wings morph into an indescribable pain. His nerves are on fire, and his breath catches in an effort to make sense of it all.

He imagines how he used to learn about volcanoes in school, and he confirms his theory that lava must have been dumped onto his wings. They’re hot, and feel like they’re melting.

It’s like a thousand knives piercing vital organs, but it’s all coming through his wings. And, just as he has the thought the pain moves throughout his body. His heartbeat is no longer in his chest, but it’s everywhere. In his ears, legs, arms, wings, feathers. What should be a rhythmic thump is instead an erratic bang, almost like a gunshot.

She walks out of the room, and Izuku lays there for 24 hours enduring the excruciating reality of what his life has come to.

Two people drag him across the floor, his knees and legs scratching against the grainy pavement. Throwing him unceremoniously onto the floor of his cell, they leave without a word.

Someone runs to him, and he’s vaguely familiar with who it is. Green hair. She has green hair. Her eyes are green too, but weren’t they supposed to be livelier? He remembers a glint to green eyes, but no such thing looks at him now.

His wings constantly flick and twitch, overstimulated and causing a constant ache in his back and just about every other bone in his body. He can’t move, he’s motionless. It isn’t the result of something else this time, though, his body won’t move. And it’s his own fault. 

Distantly he hears screaming, but his eyes are half lidded. He somewhat registers it’s the green haired woman who’s screaming. She’s screaming at him. Wait, that’s not right. She’s screaming about him.

It’s the heroes’ fault she’s screaming. If they had been there this never would’ve happened. But really, maybe it’s Izuku’s fault. It was his fault for relying on the heroes.

He lets his eyes slide shut, and the darkness is so comforting. He reaches for the darkness. He wants to grab it with both hands and hang onto it until everything is gone. Maybe he’ll feel bad about it for a moment, because he knows his mother will be upset, but he knows she’s better off. She can make it out of this alive.

A flash of something overwhelmingly cold. His system, which was shutting down, bursts to life. He’s brought back from the brink as his body reacts to the cold. He’s frigid as he realizes they dumped freezing water on him. His body is wracked with involuntary shivers.

However, it worked because he’s trying to push himself up, and his mom guides him in his effort. He feels her hands glide over scars that mar his skin, and his nerves tense at the feather light touch.

Why are his senses so damn sensitive? He can see a speck of dust to the minute detail on the floor. He can hear the retreating guard as he exits the room completely, and is already halfway across the building. He can feel the dust and grime that cakes his skin. 

“Izuku, baby,” his mom whispers as he crunches into a ball-like form in order to be cradled. His petite form fits right against her, and they rest against the back wall, her gaze fixed on the bars across from them.

He just wants everything to be over.

She coaxes his mouth open as she slightly pours liquid down his throat. His eyes are closed, but he gulps down the liquid. Whether it’s soup or water, he doesn’t know or care. 

“I’m sor-“ he tries to plead, but it’s lost to the air around them.

She runs her fingers through his tangled hair, “none of this is your fault baby. You have nothing to apologize for.”

He can feel the love that travels from his moms fingertips and into his bloodstream, before it crawls towards his heart.

They lay like that for a long while, before Izuku finally falls asleep grounded by the beating of his mothers heart.

—

—

“Shooooo please don’t do this,” the exasperated blonde begs.

Shouta holds the cat by the armpits, and it stretches out completely without a care in the world. The little monster just about clawed his eyes out, and his husband is begging for the cat’s mercy?

”She won’t survive, please no!” Hizashi is on his knees clawing at Shouta’s sweater as if he were a crazed animal.

”There’s no other option,” Shouta sighs, and he meets the cat’s eyes. “Air jail is the only thing that’ll get it into her thick skull that I do in fact need my eyes, and they’re nonnegotiable in this living arrangement she has begun to dictate.”

Hizashi has a wide grin, and a wild glint in his spiraled green eyes, “she’s just a kitten! Please lower her sentence, she has so much to live for!”

Shouta grumbles and places the cat back on the floor, where she bolts out of the room, leaving nothing but strangled meows in her wake.

The blonde hugs Shouta’s leg before he can get a word out, and Shouta merely rolls his eyes as he then makes his way back to the couch and slumps into the plush cushions.

The entrance exam is tomorrow, and Shouta is as tired as ever. He’s been on patrols almost every night, and preparing for his classes. He might just keel over any day now with the amount of sleep debt he has no doubt wracked up to insurmountable heights.

Angel, an old white cat with ocean blue eyes crawls onto his chest, and begins to pur. He slowly massages her head, and watches his husband come back into their living room with two bowls of noodles.

It must be a taunt, because his husband knows he can’t move with his angel of a cat on top of him. So, he levels a glare at the voice hero.

Hizashi sits down, and puts his bowl down before throwing his hands up in a mock surrender. “I had no idea she’d be here when I brought it over,” he whines.

Shouta kicks his feet up onto the glass foot table, and shifts his neck to avoid any unwanted cricks that will most likely present themselves tomorrow.

The TV across from him is a distant hum until Hizashi turns up to volume, and peers at it with a suspicious look from behind his red rimmed glasses. 

“The HPSC is still under fire due to the leaked files that surfaced sometime a few weeks ago. Documents of suspicious content against the HPSC have put them in the public’s scrutiny, and there is an ongoing investigation into the matter. Today we got a comment from one of the higher ranked officials saying, ‘the files released were obviously not intentional, but we are willing to admit our faults. Although what is contained is not illegal, we can see how the public would find it distasteful.’“

Shouta almost winces due to the inauthenticity of the comment. They’re telling the public what they want to hear. They don’t care about what they did, they’d do it again, and they’re probably still doing more behind the scenes.

This is just a nick in their image that will be pushed down once one of their spotlight heroes stops a big villain, or puts an end to a long awaited case.

Hizashi and him make eye contact, because although the HPSC is corrupt and has done everything under the sun when it comes to shady business it also threatens the hero world. 

They’ve never been a fan of the HPSC, and it’s why Hizashi never signed a deal for his radio show with them. There’s two types of people in the hero world. Those with the HPSC, and those against not with the HPSC.

Some with the HPSC aren’t there by choice if Hawks’ coming to UA as a teacher—practically being saved by Nedzu—goes to show. Shouta wonders how many more stories there are similar to that.

However, Shouta can’t get over how illogical it is to unearth these documents. The only logical explanation is these were meant to be harmful, so someone is beginning an attack on the hero world. The real kicker is that they’re starting at the top of the food chain.

Against his will, he drags himself on patrol. He knows that if he doesn’t go on patrol he’d likely regret it. Now, more than ever, people need to see heroes. Especially with the Hero Commission under fire.

So, Shouta leaps from roof to roof, and the occasional swing of his capture weapon.

He runs towards screams, and the like. He comforts those who are having one of the worst nights of their life. Being a hero isn’t about the spotlight, at least not in his eyes. It’s about helping those who need it most. It’s about providing safety to those who are helpless in the face of danger.

Nobody is helpless, but in the face of evil nobody is safe. So, he works to right those incredibly selfish wrongs that have come to be a closely abided by phenomena in the generation of quirks. Apparently black and white are the only colors the world cares about.

The gray area, however, is much more sinister in Shouta’s opinion. It’s more logical to look at the crack in between, because that’s where the most prominent issues lie.

After stopping what almost became an assault, Shouta uses his capture weapon to swing up to the railing of a fire escape. The police are whisking the victim and assailant away, and Shouta is a couple minutes away from ending his patrol.

He’s going to be dead tired tomorrow at the entrance exam, but at least he’s only watching. It’s more about potential and seeing who they need to keep an eye on. It’s informative, but he doesn’t have to move or talk.

At least, that’s what he tells himself, knowing his coworkers will keep him from supervising and will run him to his last nerve. They do it so easily, and it’s utterly exhausting. Although, he wouldn’t change it for the world.

He stops by a diner he frequents, and grabs his usual take out order. It contains his and Hizashi’s dinner. A milkshake for his husband also sits secured in a cup holder in the bag, thanks to the workers who he’s come to be acquaintances with. 

They always insist on giving him things for free, but he always leaves money regardless. Heroes shouldn’t take their jobs for granted and prey off of others. It’s their job to help.

As Shouta pushes himself forward along one of the desolate streets, he watches as the stars blink, and dance in the sky. Not a care in the world, and he almost envies their indifference. 

However, the stars somewhat remind him of Hizashi—not because of indifference—and how they’re always twinkling and are somewhat of a guiding light in the darkness.

One of the perks of being an underground hero is the stargazing when things are slow. He’s happy when patrols are lackluster, and slow, because it means nobody is in trouble.

A star shoots by, but it’s irregular to the others. It’s peculiar in a blinding kind of way. Not only is it moving, but it’s glowing in an iridescent light. It flips and spins. It climbs high in the sky, and then plummets like it’s playing around. It speeds up, and slows down, and moves every which way.

What the hell is going on?

Shouta squints to watch it, and the star stops, as if it knows. If a star could turn and face someone, it just did. He feels the star’s gaze. It’s piercing, and it’s looking right through him. It feels like he’s not looking at Shouta, but looking through him and right at the very center of his soul.

He activates erasure on instinct, and clutches his capture weapon with one hand ready for anything, with his carry out in the other.

What Shouta can say for sure is what he sees is not what he’s expecting. What greets his vision is a figure with wings larger than them.

It’s not like Hawks’ wings that suit him and his size, but these wings are big, and bulky. He can’t make out a color due to the distance, but he can see the feathers highlighted by the stars and moon’s sheen that coats them. The moon’s glow coats the figure, but doesn’t highlight any noticeable features.

The wings flap and hold the figure in place as they both stare at each other, but he doesn’t want to let go of erasure even as his eyes begin to burn and his hair floats uncertainly above him. 

A foreboding feeling grates against his conscience. The figure is crafted like an angel, but Shouta isn’t sure if it’s an angel of life or death.

A distant luminescent purple shines where Shouta assumes their eyes are, and they both continue to stare.

Then, the figure cocks its head, looks up, and bursts up into the sky right out of Shouta’s vision. He couldn’t even follow the movement if he tried, and he knows that if the figure wanted to they probably could’ve killed him.

So, Shouta mentally checks off a ‘highly unlikely’ of them being an angel of death, but he doesn’t rule it out.

Now on edge, he continuously swerves through streets and alleys he wouldn’t normally in order to make his way back to his apartment. He feels like he’s being watched, but it seems illogical.

The figure wasn’t harming anyone, and they seemed to be enjoying their…flight. Shouta doesn’t quite know what to make of it, but he’s never seen wings as big as those on a figure so small.

Although, it was hard to discern whether the figure was small because of distance or if they were actually short. Also, the wings could just be making them look small. Shouta doesn’t know, but he knows that it wasn’t a hero. No winged heroes patrol underground, and even then there’s only one avian among the hero world.

He makes it home after a couple more loops to hopefully shake off the eyes he swears he could feel. Angel rubs and arches into his leg as he takes off his shoes, and places his capture weapon on a hook by the door.

The take out now on the kitchenette bar, which resides a few steps into the apartment from the door, and to the right. He switches on the light, and it dully lights up the room. Shouta fixes himself a plate and puts the rest in the fridge.

Hizashi is slouched and snoring on the couch, and Shouta winces at the knowledge of how his back is going to be screaming at him in the morning. He’d wake him up if he didn’t know how bad Hizashi has been sleeping lately.

He’s been dealing with the backfire on the hero community on his radio show, and trying to soothe the inflamed public. He’s not alleviating the situation for the HPSC, but for heroes in general.

Shouta sits down at their bar, and sinks into the back of the seat. He pulls his computer towards him, which was sitting by the edge of the wall.

He scrolls through databases of wing quirks, but doesn’t see anything that quite matches the figure of the night. Most winged heroes usually have a more reptilian design. Scaly wings are more prominent, as opposed to the feathered wings he saw.

After a brief sigh, he looks into Hawks’ file, but finds nothing of interest. So, the figure wasn’t a hero. They were either a civilian or villain.

Avians are quite rare, especially with the ability being so useful to hero society. There’s no doubt in Shouta’s mind that the HPSC would love to get their hands on the quirked individual.

Or maybe they have.

Chapter Text

Hawks isn’t quite sure about a lot of things. The who’s, what’s, when’s, where’s and whys. Okay, maybe he doesn’t know anything.

It’s not his fault though, the last few months have been a whirlwind. It’s hard to go from being a pawn to being a rook.

Is that even the right analogy?

All he knows—and at this point this is all he knows—is that he’s not the Hero Commission’s pawn anymore. Is it possible he’s now the pawn of a homicidal stoat with the codes to nuclear weapons and more…quite possibly. Is that his problem right now? Nope.

His problem is the fact that he has no idea what to wear these days. He’s still Hawks whether he’s a Commission lackey or not. It’s kind of odd to wear his signature suit in light of recent events.

Hawks won’t say Nedzu saved him, because he did not, but he did something very similar. He gave him a life outside of his job. His life used to be his job.

He was only living in order to carry out the parameters of his job. Now he’s allowed to do whatever he wants. Well not quite whatever, there were conditions to the deal with Nedzu.

The conditions were somewhere along the lines of I’ll get you out from under the Commission's thumb and you will in turn be a heroics teacher at UA. It was a bit of a no brainer.

However, now Hawks is standing at the entrance of UA directing students to their designated testing rooms with the stoat on his shoulder. He found it better not to ask why the principal wanted to stay there lest he wanted a few feathers plucked out.

Student’s awe filled gazes toward the number three hero were obvious, and Hawks gives a lazy grin in response. Nedzu had warned him there would no doubt be attention around the hero, but Hawks already knew.

A few students drag their feet as if that’ll hold the exam at bay, some speed by hoping to speed it up and get it over with, while others relish in the here and now.

Some do none of the sort and just walk by with their back ramrod straight, and complete blankness sprawled across their face like they couldn’t give a rat's ass.

”Hey, do you need any help on directions towards your testing room, chicklet?” Hawks aims the question at the odd teen. A feather or two twitch minutely at the interaction. The boy seems shorter than his build would suggest.

His outfit is rather plain with a blue gray long sleeve shirt, and black sweatpants. Hawks is sweating bullets due to the afternoon heat, but the teen looks like he couldn’t care less.

The raven haired boy peers at the number three with tired blue eyes. His wavy hair reaches just above his eyebrows. He seems utterly unimpressed, and the eye bags only reinforce the notion. “No thank you.”

Hawks nods at the boy, but watches him go through the doors nonetheless. His feathers are never wrong, so why are they detecting a sort of aura around the boy? It’s more of a feeling that something should be there, but isn’t. Like looking at a painting for so long after drawing it, and then realizing you forgot the portrait’s eyelashes.

Nedzu’s departing acknowledgement and jump from his shoulder snaps him out of his senses and back towards the last of the students filtering in.

Hawks makes his way through the doors and his mind goes on autopilot as he walks down the long halls towards wherever he needs to go.

The students are all inside, and Nedzu is going to wherever Nedzu goes. Hawks wouldn’t put it past the rodent to be roaming the vents. There’s no other way he’d know everything he seems to know.

One day he brought Hawks to an esteemed restaurant known for their fried chicken. Okay maybe that’s common knowledge, Hawks does talk about things like that in interviews, but still.

Hawks may or may not be considering buying one of those anti-spy screen protectors where the device is only viewable from a certain angle.

Those interviews always need something. So Hawks gives them useless pieces of information that make the masses seem like they know him. 

His favorite color is red. His favorite hero is Endeavor.

Which is…not true. Lying and manipulation is the real puppeteer of Hawks. He can’t even tell if it’s his fault anymore. Is he doing it of his own volition or was it for the Commission?

He’s not with the Commission anymore, he could easily start being more personal and real. However, he feels like what he says is still fabricated. So what’s the truth? Is he giving them real personal information, or is the information he’s giving fake and it's so fake he doesn't even know anymore.

Before he can spiral any further into his identity crisis he’s been sporting for the past few weeks. Eraser- no, Aizawa , snaps him out of it with a little flick to his forehead. He’s apparently in the teachers lounge, he had to tell someone something, at least that’s all he can think of why he’d go there.

(His body did not autopilot towards one of the few friends he’s ever known and only just recently gained… for your information).

See many people always say there’s no thoughts behind those pretty eyes, but there’s actually too many. These days at least.

Hawks squawks his disapproval at the friendly flick.

Aizawa was one of the first people Nedzu introduced him to, and Hawks made it his personal mission to get on the man's good side. He’s somewhat homeless looking, which Hawks would’ve tried to change but he realized not even his husband had luck in that category. Present Mi- Yamada , is quite a fashionable man and if he couldn’t crack Aizawa no one can.

Hawks isn’t quite sure when the hobo started opening up to him, but it was recent. Nothing outright, but the little friendly things. Subtle flicks to get Hawks out of his overflowing thoughts, making sure he’s eating enough.

Yamada and Aizawa have both taken on the role. Sometimes Hawks will be busy with some documents Nedzu handed him, and he looks up to find a bag of cheez its or a stray jelly pouch awaiting his gaze.

What's odd is Hawks never even saw them place it down, which is unsettling. Hawks is supposed to be able to sense those things with his wings before his eyes catch up. So why is he so out of it?

Why can’t he keep his surroundings in check while he’s around them?

(Why does he trust these people so much that he’s already let his guard down?)

It’s irritating in its own way, because he knows the reason but he doesn't want to admit it. The worst part is it wasn’t even him that came to the conclusion of the recent development.

While Hawks was trying to get Aizawa to open up, Aizawa had the same goal. Apparently they both won, but Hawks didn’t want Aizawa to win.

”Stop thinking you overgrown bird,” the man huffs through his scarf as they make their way through the long hallways. His long black hair cascades around the scarf, and almost makes his eye bags more prominent.

“Don’t you have a nap or something to get to? You look like more shit than usual,” Hawks mumbles. He still gets a little on edge making those types of jokes. Aizawa may look homeless, but he’s a homeless ninja .

The underground hero looks like he’ll keel over any minute. Did he sleep at all last night?

There’s about ten minutes until they need to begin proctoring their exams, so Hawks won’t dwell too much. He begins past the man, but is stopped in his tracks.

”Do you know of any heroes or otherwise with wings similar to yours but bigger?” And Hawks isn’t quite sure how to perceive that, because wing size is a very touchy subject among avians.

So Hawks takes it in stride and playfully downturns his lips, “are you saying I have small wings…” He takes the chance to send a few feathers ahead to his proctoring room.

”What?” Aizawa screws his face together in confusion before his eyes blow wide with the realization of his words. “You know that is not what I meant.”

Hawks’ lazy grin grows exponentially larger at Aizawa’s now exhausted face. “ No one has bigger wings than me, and I mean that in the literal way. At my winged agency I’m the only one with feathered wings. Most if not all the other heroes have bird-related quirks, but no feathered wing mutations. Why do you ask?”

The exhaustion turns into deep thought and his obsidian eyes seem to look at Hawks wings in disbelief at his words. Hawks looks at the clock on the wall and squawks in return.

”All right I gotta go Er- Aizawa. I'll see you at the hero exam, alright?”

The underground hero nods and Hawks shoots through the hallways towards his proctoring room.

He walks in—his feathers returning back to him—and he gives a relaxed grin. Most of the students seem to tense at his entrance. Either it’s because the test they’re about to take is about to start, or because he’s the number three hero.

“You all know how it goes. You have three hours to complete the test in front of you. If you’re done early you may not leave and must sit through until the allotted time is over. You may take as much time to finish the multiple choice questions, but be sure to give yourself enough time for the analyses as well.”

He checks the clock as it strikes nine, right on time.

”You may begin.”

—

Unfortunately, Raiden is smarter than the average person. It’s not his fault, but it's a fact.

Sometimes it’s more of a downside than anything else, because he’s bored. He finished the multiple choice within thirty minutes, and that was after checking it over three times.

Why did he check it over three times?

He had to make sure that he got exactly half of them wrong. He was tasked with having a passing grade by the bare minimum. 

Usually he would finish an assessment and go off and do whatever else. Whatever else was usually training or some other assignment. Regardless, he didn’t have to play dumb.

Whatever, he doesn’t care that he has to act stupid. He cares about the fact that it’s hard to act stupid. He might have accidentally gotten a question right, and then he’ll have to deal with the consequences.

How backwards is that? Worrying that you got a question right ? It’s almost absurd.

Regardless, Raiden focuses on something to cure his boredom. He is the cure to that, so he focuses on what he can.

Right now that’s the concealing of his wings. His shirt has no holes in it because although he can cast an illusion he’d rather not give Hawks, who is his proctor, something to sense with his feathers.

His illusions are strong, but they’re not fool proof. He can make something seem like it’s not there, but it doesn’t mean feathers with enhanced senses won’t pick up on it.

Not having holes for his wings is off-putting and strange. What if he needs to unconceal them? It would sever the wings off.

Raiden hates not having a backup plan. Especially when it comes to his wings. They’re the most vulnerable and most powerful thing about him.

When he… gained his wings they were foreign and appalling. They still somewhat are, but there’s nothing he can do about it even if he wanted to. When he was given his quirk, it was a different story.

It was deemed as conceal after he went with the Commission, which is quite lackluster for what it is. But, he does lie about what his quirk really is, so it’s not exactly their fault. 

See the Commission thinks the only thing he can obscure from view is his wings, which is not true. Raiden has two mental switches. One being his wings, and the next being his wings and body. He becomes impermeable. Not just invisible, but it's as if he isn’t there.

However, he can still see, hear, taste and smell. It’s almost like a spectator mode. It takes concentration to allow one body part to stay permeable because they’re not a part of the two switches, but it's do-able.

If he’s holding an item when he disappears, it disappears with him.

His quirk is more powerful than people can hope to imagine, and that’s why nobody knows. He’s a loaded gun as is, he doesn’t need to be a loaded bazooka.

If the Commission knew…he doesn’t even know what would happen. Everything would change, no doubt, but Raiden can’t fathom what worse they could do.

Speaking of the Commission, Raiden becomes acutely aware of the fact that he comes back to the present to notice he’s making direct eye contact with Hawks. The golden eyes stare right back at him, and it’s almost irritating.

If his wings were visible his feathers would be twitching at the interaction. He notices Hawks wings are smaller than usual, and he notes that a couple of feathers are flying around the scrawling pencils of the students. Most likely keeping tabs on their progress, or if anyone’s cheating.

The pencils, which are grating against his overly sensitive ears. Sure he’s been sensory trained, but when he was getting private schooling lessons at the Commission he didn’t exactly have to adjust to other students because there were none.

Why would he need training if he was never supposed to experience something like that?

It’s like going to a hero school when you hate heroes and want nothing to do with them. It makes no damn sense.

Hawks is still looking at him, but Raiden is looking at his answer sheet. He almost groans as he puts the booklet and answers aside and readjusts his workspace to start the analysis portion. His gloves prevent the scratching of paper on his skin.

He looks at the prompts and formulates his thoughts in his head.

There’s seven prompts and he needs to write a detailed analysis essay on four of them. He chooses two prompts having to do with heroism, one having to do with quirklessness, and one having to do with social interaction. Quite the minefield he’s chosen, but that’s the entire point.

He’s supposed to do poorly on the test, so why not choose things he both hates, and cannot comprehend without wanting to commit some sort of treason.

The clock tells him he only wasted ten minutes thinking, so he has way too much time to write. One thing about learning is that it inherently made him like writing. Analyses, opinionated essays, anything and everything that lets him express his thoughts on a given topic.

If he were to work up a full analysis, that would be the downfall of what isn’t even his UA career yet, because he needs to get in first. 

He starts with the quirkless one first. It’s easy enough. The prompt tells him to write in the perspective of a quirkless person. Seeing as he was a weak quirkless bastard at one point he can write it easily enough.

He needs to draw it out longer though, so he writes more than he should. He writes three full papers on the topic, and he didn’t mean to.

Honestly it’s not his fault. The Commission knows his interests, what else would they use to hold over his head? So, how could they possibly have thought this was a good idea?

As embarrassing as it is, he raises his hand, and Hawks smoothly glides over.

Hawks looks down at him with his piercing golden eyes, ”what's up, chicklet?”

The nickname makes him want to claw his ears out with his own talons. “Paper.”

Hawks skips a beat or two, “huh?”

Raiden presses the words out of his mouth forcefully, and tries his best to sound as normal as possible. He points at his pages of analysis. “I need more paper.”

”Oh!” Hawks chirps in return, and a feather—he didn’t notice leave—comes back with a couple of pieces of paper.

“Thank you,” he grits out, but it comes out normal. At least, he thinks it does. It’s a little monotone and bored sounding, but it wasn’t hostile like Raiden wishes it could be.

Hawks slides back to his desk at the front of the classroom, and Raiden is left to swallow down the odd interaction. He tried his best to have the social interaction be pleasant, doesn’t mean it worked.

Unbothered, Raiden checks the next prompt about heroism, which is where he really needs to reign himself in. If it were his choice he’d write a whole book on the flaws of the hero system. However, he doesn’t think that’d be appreciated at a school most known for its heroics.

Does it really matter if he’s planning to go into the general studies course?

The two prompts he chose are about the ethics of heroism, and what determines a hero. Time to bullshit his way through them. He has the time, so why not see how much he can get away with.

He can shit on heroes as much as he wants on the ethics question, because it’s asking for the morality of them. So, if he highlights the inadequate portions, who are they to judge?

His pencil flies along the page's lines, and he feels eyes watching him as he does so. He catches himself glaring at the paper more than once as he depicts every which way heroism is sometimes more villainous than others let on.

If he spilled the workings of the Hero Commission that would surely be something. They’re already under suspicion, why not fuel the fire? It’s one of his favorite things to do.

Raiden’s a little more chaotic than he cares to admit. He has no qualms about throwing them more under the bus. Hopefully the bus runs them over more than once, they deserve it.

Unfortunately the two prompts take up all the pages Hawks gave him, so begrudgingly he raises his hand again. He’s only an hour in and he’s practically done, and he’s embarrassingly having to ask for help. Of course he could walk up and get some, but it probably wouldn’t be appreciated.

Hawks comes over, a few more papers in hand, and sets it down with a thumbs up following the action. So Hawks was watching him, he could feel it but wasn’t going to look up to confirm it.

Raiden nods, and turns to the last prompt. The last he chose is the hardest and trickiest, but that’s precisely why he chose it. He knows too much about heroism and quirklessness to get them wrong. So, he can do horrible on this prompt in order to equal out the scores and look gruesomely average.

How does socialization shape a person’s self image?

Quite an odd question for a test. It’s smart, really. The principal is no doubt the one who made the tests and prompts, and he’s asking a pretty personal question.

If you were, say, a murderer—or Hero Commission spy—it’d be easy to pick you out on this essay.

It may seem odd, but self image is a very finicky thing. It’s very personal, obviously, and so because of that people tend to be too honest. Poor self image directly correlates to being nurtured as a child, or lack thereof.

So, if he were to bull shit his way through and write about the lack of social interaction, or hint at it, it’d be easily picked up. Not because it’s easy to notice, but because the principal is expecting it. He’s expecting Raiden.

Not Raiden specifically, but an agent. This question is a trap, because he knows government agents are quite lackluster in the social interaction field.

Especially in Raiden’s case, which the principal couldn’t have known, but regardless the cheese is still under the box awaiting him. The rat set a trap for a rat.

If Raiden were to choose a different prompt he’d already be under suspicion. For regular kids it’s a no-brainer question. ‘I went to the park as a kid and I helped my friend who scraped their knee, so I’m selfless.’

And and and, yada yada yada.

Nobody cares, and only those the trap is intended for notice, but regardless Raiden has to think of a way to sound like the rest of his prompts while also not seeming heartless, and depraved of social interaction. Easier said than done.

He takes to the prompt like dancing around a spider. You kinda jump at it, and reel back as if it bit you, when really all it did was move its legs and try and run away.

He dances around the prompt and grimaces at the particularly fabricated parts. Some parts are real, but they’re not necessarily crucial parts of the description. It’s a part of the fluff, but still harsh around the edges.

The problem now is he’s done. He’s looking around at the other students and they’re all still on the multiple choice. Fuck.

The plastic chair against his back is odd, he’s used to his wings being aggravated by chairs. The Commission isn’t accommodating to the wings, so he makes do with it. He’s used to living on the edge of being uncomfortable and cruel. It’s a place where he calls home more often than not.

Pencils continue to scratch and are playing a particularly loud match of tennis in his eardrums. He needs something to focus on.

He’s supposed to be a spy right? Why not pay attention to the hero who escaped the Commission. They’re pissed at him and the situation.

Especially because he’s the reason they’re getting backlash. Well, it’s not necessarily his fault, but he’s the root cause. Raiden has a strong feeling Nedzu is the one behind the files. Raiden wouldn’t be surprised if the stoat was planning on building his own Hero Commission from the ground up.

Blue contacts sit in his eyes, and they itch. He blinks profusely to situate them, but it just makes it worse. Oh well, more uncomfort to deal with, just add it to the pile.

He locks his eyes onto an eraser scrap on his desk, and tunes into Hawks.

The avian is sitting with his feet on the desk, and leaning back in the chair. At least that’s what he assumes with the chair creaking minutely with the strain, and the constant tapping of what he thinks is a boot on wood.

The winged hero has his computer on his lap and is typing lazily. About 38 words a minute are typed, and that’s average. Quite surprising, because the talons get in the way. Raiden can relate, unfortunately, the talons are a nuisance when it comes to typing up reports.

They’re spectacular in the field though.

His breathing is steady, along with his heartbeat. So, nothing important or risky.

A small scuttling noise throws him off, and Raiden makes a mistake. He looks up, and meets the eyes of a rat.

Fuck.

Raiden looks away as quickly as possible, but he has no doubt the principal saw the glance, or felt it. So much for stealth. Raiden will give it to the principal, he was not expecting a vent visit.

Nedzu 1, Raiden 0.5.

To be fair, Raiden is intentionally doing terrible on the principal’s exam, so he gets a 0.5 for that, it's crafty in its own right.

The rest of the time the principal sits there, and so does Raiden. He doesn’t look around, he doesn’t do anything much. He sits in his head, and runs through everything he’d rather do than sit in this hard chair, and dusty room.

He debates telling the school they have a rat problem more than once. The stoat must’ve stirred up some dust in the vents because Raiden sneezes a couple times as a result, and he doesn’t miss the students starting to glare at him every time he sneezes. They’re silent sneezes, but the motion still stirs up distracting noise.

“Time is up!” Hawks announces. By the time he’s through the first word Raiden is already out of the classroom, and headed straight for somewhere away from the vents, and everybody else.

—

YEAR 1 — file: 6_iz.mi_mutation_apr.yr1

location unknown.

Izuku has a weakness, and they know it.

It’s not fire, and it’s not water. They know he could care less about dying, or anything close to that. What he cannot live without is his mother.

And they know it.

He tried so hard to keep the secret close to his chest. Right beneath his heart. What he forgot to take into account was the tendency the doctor has to strip him apart piece by piece.

He was bound to find out.

Izuku doesn't even know who he is anymore.

How could he with parts that aren’t his and thoughts that have no place in his mind?

Today is what the doctor likes to call training. It is training, but more harsh than a normal person would think.

He must fight fellow captees. To the death.

Izuku is small. Smaller than normal. He hasn’t grown since they got there, and he can’t remember when that was. He can barely remember Katsuki. He’s already forgotten his voice and eye color.

He was an explosive blonde. That’s right, his power was explosions. Explosions that Izuku never envied, because he saw the truth behind it.

Izuku is older than Katsuki by a year and a half, but they were still thick as thieves. Even when the younger started to go deaf from the explosions, Izuku came up with ways to avoid it.

What color were his eyes? What was the pitch of his voice?

He’s knocked out of the thought process as an explosion sends him into an already crumbling cement brick wall. A large imprint is left behind as he slides to the grimy floor.

His wings ache, and it’s a strain to push himself back to his feet. He slowly claws his way up, and drags a foot behind him as he trudges towards the attacker.

A grown man with a fire quirk. His saliva is explosive. It’s disgusting, to be honest.

The guy has to hock up a loogie in order to have any offensive position against Izuku. He almost wants to laugh, but it dies on his tongue right next to the ash mixing with his own saliva.

The room is on fire, and flaring too close to his wings for comfort.

He flaps his wings once to give him an extra boost—and relieve his twisted leg from any further injury—as he jumps over a line of flames, and pushes both feet into the man's chest. 

The man falls backwards into the floor with widened eyes, and a grimace.

Izuku relishes in the accomplishment, but hates himself for doing so.

I wouldn’t have to hurt him if they just saved me.

The hypocrisy makes him crazed, and the glint in his eyes burns with pent up…something. He doesn’t know what it is, but it feels like battery acid. It coats his arms, legs, heart, tongue, wings, eyes. It smothers him. So, he pushes harder.

When he comes to all he can see is crimson red. It’s all over him. The battery acid is gone and it's replaced with blood. He’s scattered in chunks and pieces. The man in front of him is no longer on earth, but hopefully somewhere better. 

I killed him. I killed him. I killed him.

Anywhere is better than here.

That man was like Kacchan. Explosive, and lively.

Izuku’s breathing quickens, and his heart smashes against the insides of his ears. It’s almost in his throat. Or is it blood in his throat?

His hands are so red. He can’t look at them, so instead he crumbles to the burning floor. The smoke is suffocating, and he longs for the explosions again.

That man is dead, and Izuku will never see Kacchan again.

Red. Kacchan’s eyes were red.

—

—

YEAR 1 — file: 6_iz.mi_mutation_july.yr1

location unknown.

Something broke. He doesn’t know where and he doesn’t know when, but it’s gone. Everything is gone.

There’s something leaking somewhere inside of him, and it’s almost given everything it can. He has given everything he can.

He’s shackled to a chair, his head lolling against his chest. His hair is long since grown, almost reaching past his jawline.

Feeling isn’t what it used to be. Physically and emotionally. Everything is numb.

He’s constantly floating in between the lines of life and death. Is it possible to drown as you float? He feels like he’s so high that he’s choking on air. He’s asphyxiating.

He can’t feel anything.

”Your talons are set to come in soon, Six.” The doctor’s voice is like nails on a chalkboard. It’s the voice in his dreams, both while he’s awake and asleep.

Izuku is often in a state of freefall. He can be awake with his eyes open, but he’s also not. He’s somewhere else completely. The depths swallow him whole, and drown him in pain, despair and agony.

He lets the tides take him. He doesn’t fight back.

The doctor checks the shackles securing his arms and legs. “I think it’s high time we speed up the process.”

He feels a tug, and an explosive pain in his finger. He barely cracks his eyes open to look at the cause.

His ears are ringing. It’s more of a buzz. A deep, baritone hum swishing in and around his ears. 

It’s static. He feels like static. 

Half lidded eyes latch onto the perpetrator. He’s missing a nail. Missing is poor terminology, more like it was taken. It was yanked out of his finger.

It’s a nice reminder, really. He’d forgotten. He’d forgotten nothing is his. Not his body, not his thoughts, nothing. Nothing is his, and it never will be. He’s a vessel for whatever it is they hope to achieve. Nothing more, and nothing less. He’s disposable.

The doctor continues to take out each nail, painstakingly slow. The static increases until his vision starts to look like it. He’s in so much pain that he doesn’t feel it anymore.

But it’s okay.

He’d rather it be him than his mother. She can still get out. She can be saved. She still has everything in check.

He’s scattered. His thoughts, his body. He’s not whole anymore. There’s a crack running straight through him. His scars barely even do the crack justice.

The crack isn’t real of course, but it mine as well be. He can feel it all the same. It’s a gaping hole, and with every second the last of his feelings, emotions, and self dribbles away.

It used to cascade like a waterfall. Falling, running, as fast as it can trying to get away. Now it’s whatever’s left that’s slowly dripping through. It’s all in a broken water pale, and there’s practically none left.

All the nails are gone on one hand, and he looks at the doctor. Really looks at him. Right in the eyes, he meets the doctors gaze.

The doctor has his usual wicked grin, but there’s a reflection in his eyes. It’s something like relief.

Why? What is so relieving about tearing Izuku apart piece by piece. It’s like taking apart a full puzzle and then trying to connect the wrong pieces. Izuku is no longer whole, and its random pieces smashed together.

He's wrong.

Izuku’s small voice is breathless, and hoarse with unuse. “Why?”

The doctor seems delighted at the notion of describing the torture he’s forcing onto Izuku. It makes him want to vomit up the lunch he didn’t have.

”You’ll have to be more specific Six. There’s a lot of answers to a simple ‘why’.” The doctor as unhinged as he is still manages to hold conversation quite well. That is if you’re asking him about what he’s doing to you.

”Why me?” Izuku’s voice wobbles, and if his body had any water to spare he’d be crying. His eyes sting with the want to cry, but nothing comes.

The doctor taps his chin, while the pliers with his nail still attached sits in his other. Izuku does his best to maintain eye contact with the doctor.

”Well, you’re lucky you know. You were useless. We made you useful.”

Useful. They made him useful.

”You weak, quirkless bastards have no place in the world.”

Weak, quirkless bastard.

“Imagine what you’ll be able to do after your full transformation Six. You will be unstoppable. You will be useful, and it will do you well.”

Unstoppable.

“Think of yourself as a bucket. Before you were with us you were empty. A waste of space, really. Now, you’re about a quarter full. You’re holding a liquid that is essential to the success of the world. You will help bring about the change the world needs. Once your bucket is completely full, then you will finally be useful Six.”

A waste of space. You will finally be useful.

Izuku nods, because it all makes sense now.

He knows the true secret now. He was so focused on his own, that he never looked around him. He never reached out for the secrets that began to close in on him.

Now the cat is out of the bag, and it knocked over the very last bit of essence that had been dribbling through the crack within him.

The heroes never came because he’s not worth saving .

—

Shouta is tired.

He was up at all hours of the night, and got barely a wink of sleep. His large yellow sleeping bag has never looked so enticing as it sits below his desk.

His coffee mug reads ‘have a nice day’ with the middle finger being the ‘i’. Hizashi got it for him years ago, and it’s been his favorite mug ever since.

Shouta is frustrated.

He’s beginning to think the winged individual from last night’s patrol was a figment of his imagination. Nobody with a wing quirk quite like that exists. He called Tsukauchi about it, and the man owed him a favor so he checked their databases.

Obviously, someone could be lying about their quirk, but not with a mutation. Mutations are too easy to pick out in a crowd, and oftentimes their IDs are checked by the police.

It’s offensive and intrusive, but it’s what their world has evolved to. Mutations and mental quirks are the most “villainous” quirks according to the general public.

People don’t like what they can’t control. So, the idea of someone being in their head, or having different anatomy than them terrifies them. They feel inferior.

At the end of the day inferiority is the root cause of a lot of things.

His computer chimes with a notification, and grabs him out of his thought process in a forceful tug.

Nedzu emailed him telling him there’s a student on the roof.

A couple questions run through Shouta’s head. The first being how many hidden security cameras, or something of the sort reside on the roof . The second being why the hell is there a student on the roof?

It’s not even the first day. A student hasn’t even made it into the UA program yet, and is already causing trouble.

Shouta grumbles into his scarf about him having to be the one to reign in the wayward examinee, but makes his way through the halls nonetheless.

He hugs close to the wall as he makes his way upstream through the droves of students all headed towards Lunch Rush.

Ascending a particularly hidden staircase—that no student should be able to pick out—he makes it to the roof access door. Which is locked.

There’s no other access to the roof.

Shouta unlocks the door, and it’s many bolts to keep it shut, and is hit with a gust of wind that whips at his face and hair.

The roof is gravelly, and grainy and not meant for teacher or student presence. But, there on the elevated ledge sits a student dangling their legs over the side. 

The boy is dangling his feet over a 21 story building without a care in the world, and it irritates a nerve in Shouta’s psyche. Does he have no regard for danger?

“You know there’s locks on the door for a reason, kid.” Shouta isn’t necessarily hostile, but he’s not known for his comfort either. He sits somewhere in between the lines of monotone and irritated.

The raven haired boy doesn’t turn around, and he doesn’t reply either.

Shouta wants to forcefully grab the boy and drag him away from the edge, but that could startle him. Did he not hear him, or is he ignoring him?

He crosses the length of the roof, and crosses his elbows onto the ledge, and looks up at the boy.

The boy is quite short, now that Shouta can see most of him. For how short he is, he seems quite toned behind the baggy clothes. He’s wearing sweatpants and a long sleeve shirt in the midst of spring.

He’s leaning backwards, holding onto the edge, and swinging his legs loosely.

The kid’s head doesn’t move from where it’s angled at the sky, but his dull blue eye latches onto Shouta in a little less than a glare. “I know.”

Shouta keeps his expression carefully blank as usual, and nods at the revelation.

“Well, at least you’re competent,” Shouta mentions.

The boy just continues to bask in the spring’s flaring heat. Surely he’s hot in almost winter weather attire, right?

Shouta himself is starting to sweat in his own long sleeved shirt, sweatpants, and scarf.

However, the raven haired boy seems more than content soaking up what the sun has to offer. Now that Shouta is up close he can see how pale the boy is.

Like the sun isn’t something he gets to frequently see or embrace.

Freckles smatter his cheeks like small stars.

“You’re a little ways from the lunch room,” Shouta tries.

The boy sighs, “not hungry.”

Silence is swept in between them by a gust of wind.

Shouta is close to telling the boy to leave when he hears the comment. “You guys have a rat problem.”

He sounds bored, and not even a sliver of a smile takes place.

Shouta lifts a brow in return. “And where have you seen rats?”

“The vents. I couldn’t stop sneezing because of it actually. It was quite distracting during my test.”

Narrowing his brows, Shouta looks forward at the cloudless sky. 

Surely the boy isn’t talking about Nedzu…

If he were although it’d be funny, as an employee of said rat wouldn’t he have to take action? Shouta acts as if he didn’t hear it.

“What course are you applying for?” Shouta is curious if he’ll ever see the boy at UA if he passes.

The boy turns to look at Shouta, and he looks exhausted. Not necessarily like he hasn’t been sleeping, but as if he’s seen and experienced so much he’s left chronically tired. Like he’s years older than his actual body.

“General Studies,” and there’s no room for further comment.

“Well if you get down from that ledge and go to lunch I’ll let you be considered for the course. Otherwise I might have to take your papers out myself,” Shouta hums. He’s not serious, but it sounds like he is.

“You’d need my name…wouldn’t you?” The boy cocks his head in question.

“Wouldn’t be too hard to figure it out.” His freckles are as much as an identifier in it of itself.

Shouta wonders what the boy's quirk is. Telekinesis? He’d be able to get through the locks and then redo them, possibly. Whatever it is, it’s probably more useful than General Studies students tend to have. More mundane quirks make up General Studies.

The boy stands up on the ledge, and Shouta’s heart thumps in his chest as the boy looks out of the surroundings. He looks peaceful, which doesn’t seem to be a usual emotion. So, Shouta lets him.

Pivoting, and jumping down to the roof, the boy meets Shouta’s eyes. “It was nice to meet you…”

”Aizawa,” he adds.

The boy’s back is militaristically straight, and his gait is swift and efficient. ”It was nice to meet you, Aizawa.” The boy is closing the door behind him.

Shouta realizes he never got the boy’s name.

—

 Raiden will never liked heroes.

They’re too much. They’re flashy, loud, egotistical, lazy, and liars. There’s nothing good about them.

The man he met on the roof was a hero, and was nothing like the heroes he views in his head. However, he could be a liar. He could be masking his true intentions.

Before Raiden could fall victim to anything of the sort he removed himself from the situation. The homeless looking teacher seemed friendly enough, if not a little boring, but it doesn’t matter.

Heroes are all the same. Above ground or under. Dead or alive. They’re all the same.

When Aizawa disturbed him on the roof he was none too pleased, to say the least. Of course he couldn’t outright glare at the man, and he wouldn’t even if he could. At the end of the day, it doesn’t matter.

Raiden doesn’t care. He’s not allowed to care. Caring would give way to too many unseen variables. It’s better if he stays on the outskirts.

He enters the lunch room, and the amount of noise smashes into his ears all at once like a cresting wave.

He closes his eyes, takes a steady breath in, and lets the wave wash over him. The noise filters out, and everything is back to normal.

He wasn’t lying when he said he wasn’t hungry, so he makes for an empty table in a corner. There’s not many people around, and the occasional elevation in noise from laughter or something of the sort.

Some people know each other, while others are making new connections.

He watches everything around him blossom like flowers in the spring. The occasional rain of laughter, and niceties sprinkle through in lieu of sunlight. Sometimes there’s a new bee that sits down and adds to a conversation.

A garden blooms in the cafeteria. One only Raiden can see.

One Raiden can’t join. Won’t. One Raiden won’t join.

He’d be a weed in the garden. The prickly eyesores take up space, and drown out the blasting colors around them. There’s no use for weeds in a garden, so he takes it out of the equation.

An explosive blonde boy yells at a table of kids somewhere in the distance. Raiden watches as his crazed eyes and wicked smile cause a chain reaction in the group of people around him. He may seem angry, but it’s just his personality peaking through.

Nobody takes it harshly, as surprising as that is. Raiden looks away before he wants to, but he needs to stop.

Analyzing, learning, watching. Those are all things he does out of habit. He takes note of his surroundings, the people and their habits, anything that could be a weakness or strength. 

Lilac eyes and hair glide into his vision as he looks up at the signaling of scuffing feet. A bored voice greets his ears, “hey Sneezy, you not going to eat anything?”

Raiden takes in the eye bags, baggy clothes, and loud purple hair. He was in his testing room.

Sneezy. Oh, he was sneezing a lot. The joke almost flies over Raiden’s head, but he catches it just in time for another comment. “What, you got nothing to say to me?”

”Not particular-“

Static.

He’s in a blank space. Space. He’s in space, but there’s no stars. 

It’s like…he doesn’t want to finish that thought. That’s too much to think about, and he knows it’ll do him no good if he goes down that road of thinking.

Distantly there’s noise in his ears, but it’s almost incomprehensible with how far away it sounds. It’s like he’s underwater. He’s not drowning though. He’s just sinking. Sinking slowly, but he doesn’t need any air.

He wants the air though. Maybe that’s the trick.

A command has him getting up and walking across the lunch room in toe with the purple q-tip.

It’s like he’s watching his body move, but he’s not in control. This always seems to happen. One way or another he always loses the control he so carefully picked back up after the doctor.

Picking up the broken and shattered pieces one by one, his hands bloody as a result of the sharp edges. He did it though, and he puzzled them back together in precise motions. They fit together perfectly.

Now they’re falling away sliver by sliver. Spiderwebbing across the puzzle like glass after a tiny pebble shatters the careful coating.

Something vitriolic seeps into him. It flows into the cracks. It oozes in a particularly lazy motion to replace the pieces slowly falling away.

The distance is closing between the void and himself. He’s growing closer and closer to the surface again, and he’s being propelled by his own malice.

It’s almost painful. The bitterness is deep rooted. He tried to warn them. He’s a weed. A weed with nothing to give but malice, hate, and pain.

He’s dangerous, but they didn’t listen. They never listen.

His eyes are the first thing to return from the daze, and they lock onto the purple boy’s eyes. His arms are next, as they rest at his side of his own volition. Lastly is his legs that conform to his own commands once more.

He barely grits it through his nearly chattering teeth. “That was a terrible idea.”

He’s seething, his bones filling with the white hot anger. It’s just under his skin, and it’s uncomfortable. He’s reached past the line of uncomfortable and cruel, he’s on a completely different page. He’s somewhere on a dog eared page that nobody ever went back to.

Nothing but rotting sinew lays in between the inked letters and sentences.

He’s no longer drowning in static, but he’s caught in the crosshairs of resentment and rage.

If it worked in the past he would ask for help, but he knows the answer. He knows the ‘why’ behind the answer. He knows too much, and not enough all at once.

Distantly he hears Present Mic. He’s explaining the rules, and regulations.

Raiden isn’t listening, but he gets bits and pieces.

Ahead of them is an obstacle course. Quirks are allowed. Interference is allowed as long as it’s not lethal. It’s a competition.

There’s an itch he can’t scratch under his skin. Spiders crawl around the lengths of his arms and legs. Bugs bite at the crevices between his heart and rib cage, along with the weeds subtly growing there.

He needs to get out as quickly as possible. He needs to complete this obstacle course as quickly as possible before the venom he’s sporting inside of him decides to leak out.

”Alright listeners, do any of you have questions?” Present Mic sends finger guns in and around the crowd.

Raiden is in the back, the purple haired kid is somewhere on the far right. Apparently Raiden walked away sometime between getting out from under the quirk, and Present Mic’s description.

Raiden breathes in and out, and centers himself. He can still feel the cracks, and chinks in the armor he so carefully wears, but he can fix everything later.

Right now he needs to focus. He can’t do too well, he needs to be mediocre.

They all line up just before a large white line painted in the dirt, and a buzzer begins to go off every few seconds.

3…

2…

1…

Everyone is running, and Raiden slips into the crowd. He knows only two people are watching the race from the viewing area.

Midnight and Present Mic are the proctors.

If he really wanted to, he could probably get away with using his invisibility, but he doesn’t have confidence in the fact that the security footage could pick it up.

He could easily corrupt the footage, but that would mean there was something to hide. He’s playing cat and mouse with a rat, and somehow Raiden is the fucking mouse.

Speed is one of the two reasons he’s an S Rank Special Officer at the Commission. Not just his wings, but he himself is fast. He’s used to running.

He pulls ahead of the pack, and is the first to climb the rock wall ahead of them. He glides through as if he were flying, although his wings are invisible.

Jumping from rock to rock, latching on and pulling himself up. The rest of the students are about half way up, so he has a decent lead.

The next part is scaling down the rocks, but there’s an occasional platform that juts out to throw a student off.

Some of the students pull themself up as Raiden begins to descend. He makes eye contact with an orange haired teen, who’s sporting a manic grin. The boy bends and touches the ground, and the rocks Raiden’s hands are holding onto begin to sweat.

Dribbles of water grow from the cracks, and Raiden’s gaze hardens.

He just needs to finish the course. So what does he do? He jumps from the top of the tower.

He hears a distant gasp from behind the glass, and the orange haired boy grumbles in irritation.

Raiden needs to keep going. He can feel the fury wriggling beneath his skin, it’s getting closer to the surface.

So he runs. He runs as fast as he can while logs come flying at him from the walls. They swing back and forth horizontally, kept on a feathering rope.

 He’s weaving and running and approaching the final part of the course.

The finish line lies behind a series of tubes running in and around. They’re like pipes that go every which way while intersecting, and resting above and below one another.

Raiden makes a plan to go directly below, because then he’ll be away from prying eyes. While some stragglers are gaining on him, after this they’ll be nothing but a memory.

So, he dives below the metal tubes and crawls far enough in that there’s no room for any security camera or proctor to see. 

He flips the switch, and he’s invisible. When he’s invisible no one else can see him, but he can see himself. He’s in a sort of spectator mode, but since his wings were already invisible now he has the ability to use them again.

So, he flies through the tubes, and gets to the end within a few seconds. He levitates in a blank space between tubes and flips off the switch making his body visible again.

He crawls out, and sprints for the finish line. He probably is supposed to stay, but he keeps running.

He runs out of the mile-long testing room. He pushes the door open with more vigor than necessary, and rushes towards the nearest exit he knows.

The hallways are desolate, and he keeps his feet from making noise. He turns a corner and almost runs straight into the man from the roof. Aizawa, if he remembers correctly.

The man pivots, and puts his hands on Raiden’s shoulders to steady him. Aizawa blinks in surprise at seeing Raiden again, or at least he thinks he does.

However, Raiden is a little occupied on getting out of here.

”Hey kid are you alright?” Raiden didn’t really think the man had the capacity to show care, but there’s concern in his obsidian eyes.

If Raiden could speak he wouldn’t know what to say. Nothing but blinding rage would come out. So instead he signs. Whether Aizawa knows sign language or not is none of Raiden’s concern, at least he tried.

‘Emergency’

Dodging out of Aizawa’s grasp he’s down the steps of UA and out of the entrance doors in less than a minute.

The spring air rushes at him like a phantom opponent. It pushes his wavy hair backwards, but he fights the current. He’s out of UA’s gates, and he vanquishes from view sometime after he’s out of range of UA.

He’s going to lose control soon. It’ll taint everyone around him. He needs the confines of his room to release the bitter rage coiling in his gut. It burns. He feels like a live wire, and he doesn’t know when he’ll strike, but he knows he won’t be able to control it.

Chapter Text

The apartment is dark save for the blue lighting that coats the space. Raiden doesn’t remember how he got to the apartment, but he makes for the bedroom, and phases through the wall.

He crumbles to the ground, and he can distantly feel his mouth moving. Whenever he’s like this he loses control and reverts back to old habits.

Odd mumbling falls from his mouth in spurts, but all Raiden can do is scrunch his eyes closed and cover his ears.

Trying to drown everything out is a risky tactic, and never quite works.

The past always resurfaces when he tries to drown it out. It bubbles up from the depths as if it’s been waiting and biding its time.

He sees green eyes, lively and happy. He’s looking through a lense of a child. A child who’s giggling and just happy to see his mother happy.

Now he’s looking through seeing a blonde haired boy. They’re trotting through a forest with fishing nets. He remembers always trailing behind the younger boy, and Raiden doesn’t know why he did.

The day he was diagnosed quirkless. The worst day of his life flashes before his eyes. Well. That was the worst day of his life at the time. Something shattered that day, but his mom was there to save him. She made him feel loved and like he was enough.

Being quirkless isn’t something to be ashamed of, she would quote daily. His mom was his hero. Someone he could count on. His first ever hero before All Might grew to be his favorite. That’s when he first learned that heroes were liars.

Quirklessness is a flaw in the new world. Quirks are a way of living, and without a quirk he was nothing but a waste of space. At least his mom tried though. He will never fault her for that.

It must’ve been hard having a quirkless son. All the blemishes on his skin from bullies, the stares from the people who knew. It must’ve been a tragedy to her. He wishes he could’ve been more for her.

He is now, but she’s not here to see it. She finally got out of the life she was forced to live.

People always said she loved him more than he could ever know, but they must’ve been liars too. His mom was a great woman, but not even she could love a quirkless son.

Nobody could love a weak quirkless bastard. A waste of space. An empty bucket.

”IZUKU!” A shout echoes through the mound of flames slithering inside his skull. The words of the dead, and alive all combatting in his conscience.

A dead name floating in the air, but still calling out to the very much alive person they’re meant for.

Raiden wants to open his eyes, but if he does he doesn’t know what will happen. He has to believe he can overcome it. So he cracks his eyes open slightly.

Mitch is on his knees, hands on Raiden’s shoulder, and he’s shaking him. His eyes are wide with concern, and maybe fear. The cobalt blues meet Raiden’s dull blue contacts.

Raiden is stuttering. He doesn’t stutter, but he can’t get the words out. He tries though. That’s all he can do right now, is try. That’s all he could do then too. It wasn’t enough then, but maybe now it can be.

”H-h-he-l-lp,” it’s mumbled, but Mitch understands.

Mitch’s eyebrows slant in what most would think is anger, but is mostly fear. Raiden can never read the man for the sole reason of his hypocrisy. One minute he’s looking at Raiden like he’s a bug under his shoe, and the next he looks like he’d burn the world down if it meant keeping him safe.

Maybe it’s more having to do with his job than Raiden’s actual safety though. Mitch would probably be demoted and sent to mall security if he were to let the Commission’s most prized asset die.

That’s it, it’s not real concern.

He feels the effects from Mitch’s quirk, and relishes in it. The overwhelming thoughts and buzzing from before finally subsides. The tidal wave of thoughts rushing towards the forefront of Raiden’s brain finally fizzles out into nothing but a ripple.

Sleep pulls at him from every which way, and Raiden’s eyes begin to droop.

”Thank you,” he slurs out the words before dropping into Mitch’s arms.

He has a third person view of a boy in chains sitting in a chair. His hair is a forest green, along with his eyes. The third person zooms in, and he is the boy and the boy is him.

He’s sitting in a chair, and everybody is looking at him. 

A blonde boy, a green haired woman, a wily doctor, a faceless lump of a man, and a homeless looking drug addict.

It’s an odd lineup of people, but they all represent something.

Determination, peace, reality, pain.

There’s five figures, but he only knows of the four depictions.

Why is the homeless man in this space? His hair is falling over his shoulders, and his baggy clothes are obscuring his real build. His arms are crossed, but he holds all the emotion in his eyes. His obsidian eyes tell a story Izuku will never know.

He’s stuck in the chair looking at the figures.

Beneath his feet is a reflective water. He kicks his feet, and sends water spraying forwards. It doesn’t amount to anything, and it’s fruitless.

The blonde boy with colorless eyes is young, with spiky hair. He has a mischievous grin, and ushers Izuku toward him. Izuku wriggles in the bondage, but it only tightens around him.

The boy fades away in a mist of red and gold.

The green haired woman looks at Izuku and her eyes soften. Her green eyes are full of love, and warmth.

Her arms are outstretched as if offering something Izuku doesn’t quite remember. He knows it's something people who care for each other do. However, it’s a foreign concept to him.

Pain flashes in her eyes, and he wants to take it all back. He wants to run to her and try to be what she wants. He wants to run into her arms and latch onto her and never let go. He doesn’t want her to leave again.

Never again.

As she fades away into a green fog he realizes it was a hug. She wanted a hug, and he couldn’t give it to her.

Next is the wicked doctor, but his eyes show nothing. His eyes are covered by a set of goggles with a blue tinted lens.

It’s not his eyes that reflect anything, but his body language. He looks ready for anything with his weight on the balls of his feet, and syringe in hand. A phantom pain shoots through Izuku’s forearm at the crease of his elbow.

He represents reality, because Izuku had lived in a dream before meeting the man. Meeting is a generous word, more like a forced confrontation.

Izuku had been ignorant to the world, but the doctor had shown him the truth. The doctor did more than the heroes did at least. He showed Izuku the truth.

He gave Izuku strength, even though he didn’t know he was powerless. It was a closely guarded idea, but everyone knew it except Izuku. He was a waste of space and nobody told him except the doctor. The doctor might be a real hero, because he showed him the truth.

Izuku discards the idea as it surfaces. True heroes don’t lie, but they also don’t harm the innocent. Izuku may have been the downfall of society, but he wasn’t hurting anybody.

The doctor vanquishes in the blink of an eye, with no mist to leave behind. The doctor has given all he can, and Izuku is grateful he leaves nothing behind.

Except, the syringe sits in the black liquid where the doctor was standing. The syringe enlarges into a bucket. A bucket that’s a few milliliters from being full.

Izuku is zoomed out again from his place in the chair, and then he’s looking at the chained person again. This person has purple wings that expand taller than the boy. They bend down far above his head, and would reach to the floor if they weren’t crunched behind the chair.

The boy has wavy black hair, and purple raptor-like eyes. Their eyes are slitted, and it complements his angular face. The jawline is sharp, and his body is noticeably toned in the tight fitting compression shirt, and black cargo pants. A sleeveless jacket rests on his shoulder, and a hood reaches down the lengths of his forehead to just above his eyes.

He’s back in the chair, and Raiden can feel the wings resting heavily on his back.

The faceless man that mine as well have a face, because it haunts his dreams regardless. The face of power. The face of evil.

Raiden looks at the man with nothing but malice in his jaded purple eyes. 

All For One. He’d be looking at Raiden if he had eyes, but instead the faceless figure peers at him in an unnerving fashion.

An aura of superiority and power radiates from every crevice of his tailored suit and form. It feels like the man is on a throne ten steps above Raiden, but really he’s ten steps away on the same level as him.

Raiden remembers when he was forced to bow down to the man. He was nothing but an ant to the unruly god the man perceives himself as.

Never again will Raiden ever kneel. He’d rather die than give in.

All for One looks at Raiden, and smiles. A foxy grin that means nothing but pain and suffering. A grin that in Raiden’s waking hour still haunts him on the faces of others, and threatens to send him back to the measly underground basement from all those years ago.

A grin that’s not much of a grin at all, but more of a promise. A promise that you’ll never be who you thought you were ever again.

All for One fades away and leaves nothing but the vivid image of the stone cold smile.

The last figure ahead of him is a seemingly homeless individual who hasn’t slept in probably decades. He couldn’t be more than 30, but his eye bags and demeanor tell stories of sleepless days and nights.

He’s most likely living from one coffee to the next.

However, Raiden isn’t looking through the view of the avian anymore, he’s back in third person. There’s two chairs next to each other.

One is a small boy with big round eyes and radiant green eyes to accompany them, and untameable green curls cresting and waving around his eyes and head. 

The chair next to him holds a boy who’s still small, but taller than his counterpart. He has vivid purple eyes, with slitted black pupils that could dissect anything if given the chance. His hair is a raven black, and it’s about as untameable and messy as the young boy next to him. Purple wings extend from his back, and they droop in the odd rim lighting highlighting both the boys.

The boys are looking at the sleepless man. The man who’s hair reaches just about shoulder length. His baggy clothes are rumpled, and lumpy in the oddest of places.

The man looks in between the boys, where the third person view rests. Forever in between. He’s right in between the line of Izuku and Raiden when under the vision of the hobo.

The underground hero—because that’s what he distantly realizes, this man is a hero—continues to stare into the eyes of whatever is in between the two boys.

He doesn’t know what he is anymore either. Is he Izuku or is he Raiden? Is he forever in between? Is that why the man keeps looking in between?

Is that who the man wants to know? He doesn’t want to know the unlovable child of green, and he doesn’t want to know the unstoppable boy of purple.

He wants to know whatever sits between the two lines. The line is a fine string in the dirt, as if it were drawn with a calculating eye. It’s perfectly straight, and never divulges as it continues endlessly forward. He walks that line like it's a tightrope, and he never missteps.

He wants to know what would happen if he fell, but he can’t. There’s an immovable force that keeps him trotting the line, like a merry-go-round horse forever prancing around and around.

The sleepless hero, with his arms crossed slightly, shifts and even the small movement makes him seem more comfortable. More caring. Like if the boys before him wanted to, they could ask for whatever they wanted in life, and he’d do whatever he could to accommodate the request.

He realizes what the hero symbolizes. He symbolizes everything the little Izuku wanted, and everything Raiden will never have.

—

Shouta is thinking of investing in a better coffee machine. Two oddities within less than 24 hours of each other. The lengths of exhaustion Shouta is reaching is honestly unhealthy at this point.

One is a regular kid with a tendency to wander to roofs, while the other—which is possibly a figment of his imagination—is an omen of death if he’s ever seen one.

Shouta is sitting in his and Hizashi’s shared office room mulling over what he can find.

The entrance exam was days ago, and they’d long since finished accepting the students. The school year starts in two days, but Shouta can’t seem to focus on that.

Instead his eyes peer at the lines on paper wrapped innocently in a manilla folder.

The kid from the roof’s name is Azuma Raiden. Quirk status: quirkless. The only listed family figure is a father, and his home address is close to Shouta’s own.

He’s in the apartment complex two buildings down, which is known for being particularly simple as opposed to the prestigious apartment he and Hizashi live in. Nedzu made them choose this apartment and said something about wanting UA teachers to have the best of the best.

Raiden’s file is quite bland all things considered. Apparently he had a homeschool education which isn’t uncommon, but still rather odd. Especially because most homeschooled students stay homeschooled throughout their life, and they don’t switch.

Those who switch usually are a legacy of the top ten, and they switch in order to enter hero courses and take the same routes as their family members.

The record in front of Shouta shows an undocumented part of time before it states achievements made through homeschooling.

Shouta knows the stigmatism around quirkless individuals, and he’s seen the horrific statistics that make up the quirkless bracket. Most of those who are quirkless are the elderly, and there’s so few numbers of the younger generation that are quirkless that it’s below the hundreds mark.

A harrowing fact is that most of the young quirkless generation don’t live to pass 12, either because of being killed by a ruthless individual or killing themself.

Quirkless statistics are something Shouta has seen before, but it was years ago. 

Sometime after he graduated from UA and was floundering for a multitude of reasons he worked a case with a detective at a police station. It was a quirkless resident who had been being stalked. She was only a kid and the parents filed for protection of some sort, but it was too little too late. A few days after the report, and when the papers finally made it to Shouta and the detective, the girl was gone.

He hasn’t brushed up on the statistics in a while, so seeing such a drastic and tragic number identifying the quirkless population is disheartening with such a steep change.

So, the boy in the manilla folder is an anomaly in more ways than one. Defying statistics and getting onto a locked roof without any of the locks being jostled or moved. Also, he apparently wrote an ungodly amount of analysis on his essay prompts, but got the exact minimum amount of test answers correct to be considered for UA.

He probably wouldn’t have been considered if it weren’t for his analysis. The file on his testing tells almost omniscient knowledge–or knowledge gotten from a rat watching the kid through the vents–about the boy writing through the prompts.

The answers to some of the prompts were troubling. The boy holds very little fondness for heroes, which is odd considering that he applied to one of the best, if not the best, hero school in the world.

The dots aren’t quite connecting.

When Shouta met him on the roof it didn’t look like he wanted to be there anymore than Shouta did.

Shouta puts down the folder and begins massaging his temples. He moves his hair out of the way and realizes he should probably shower too. He’s been invested in his two mystery cases, ones that aren’t even a part of either job description that are applied to him.

Yes, they’re both suspicious in their own ways, but there’s no investigation or anything that needs background checks. Not officially at least.

However, Shouta can feel it deeply in his bones. Right along with the marrow deep inside of him he can feel something festering. Concern? Suspicion? Skepticism?

He can’t quite pinpoint what it is, but it’s nothing good. There’s something going on here that is more than the lines on the shattered pages. There’s more to the story than what’s in the folder in front of him.

The figure from nights ago hasn’t been spotted since, and the kid from the roof hasn’t replied to his acceptance into the General education course. Shouta isn’t saying that there’s a relation between the two whatsoever, that’d be a leap no one would dare take, but there’s still something eerily corrupt and imprecise about the two.

The precinct is buzzing with calls and alerts. Some officers mill around, while others type dutifully at their cubicles.

Shouta passes them and with a swipe of a card makes for the detective’s office. The hallway is quite short, as it’s a pretty small police station. Two investigation rooms for those under suspicion, and a couple offices.

He passes them all and knocks on the dark wooden door with a golden label reading ‘Detective Tsukauchi’.

A shuffling of papers and a strained, “uhh come in.”

Shouta opens the door and is greeted with the sight of an overly exhausted detective with mounds of paperwork on each side of him, and four cups of coffee scattered on the desk. Well, guess everyone’s turned to coffee as their support line these days.

”You’ve looked better detective,” Shouta muses, a small uptick of his lips hiding behind his capture weapon.

”I’ve felt better too,” he hums while quickly glancing up to Shouta, and then back down at his work. “What can I do for you, Eraser?”

The detective and Shouta have been working with each other for years. Shouta, as an underground hero, doesn’t sign with any agencies in order to keep his anonymity.

Of course there’s agencies that support underground heroes and can be of use when needed, but Shouta tends to turn to the police more often than not. He provides information whenever one of the agencies asks him too, but he doesn’t ask for anything in return. They usually have their own hospitals within the agencies, so Shouta keeps his favors close to his chest in order to use those one day. Just in case.

The police need more help than they let on. They’re a capable bunch, but with the corruption of the force, the actual good cops have a much higher workload.

With the recent leak of the HPSC has created a rabbit hole that goes for miles long, and would probably keep going if anyone tried to get any further. However, they need to take one step at a time.

The fragile situation threatens the entirety of the hero world, it’s not just the HPSC that would go down it’s the structure of their society.

So the papers scattered across the suffering detective’s desk are no doubt having to do with the HPSC, along with any other case he may have been pushed into. Shouta feels a little bad about asking for favors and the detective’s help, but he can always say no.

”Has there been any reports of a figure with wings about 5 feet or so in horizontal length flying around?”

The quizzical look of the detective is a common occurrence whenever he hears something particularly unusual. Like he’s dredging up anything his mind can supply, and the coffee coursing through his veins is working overdrive to make a connection of any sort.

”I think I’ve heard the cops around here talking about something like that, actually. All people noted was the stars vanishing as if a figure was blocking them out. Some social media sites, and the occasional doomsday believer think that Satan has finally made it to our world.” Tsukauchi’s hand waves flippantly with his words, like everything is just talk. Which to some degree, it is all talk.

”Yeah I’ve seen the blogs. Doesn’t help much,” Shouta reaches into his mind to picture the almost ethereal figure suspended in the sky with the moon highlighting a brilliant rim around them.

Tsukauchi cocks a brow, “did you see it?”

”I was ending my patrol and saw the stars blinking out. Whatever they were doing they just halted mid flight, and turned towards me. I activated erasure on instinct, and it was a pretty small figure, but large wings to make up for it. I’ve never seen anything like it, and I was hoping you’d gotten more intel than I could.”

The detective has a terrible habit of taking on more things than he can handle. So, when he drops what he’s doing and listens intently to all the facts Shouta begins supplying about the figure it just adds more work to the detective’s already full plate.

Somewhere along the line they begin surfing whatever pictures that were taken, but nothing shows up quite like how Shouta witnessed. All anybody saw was the illusion of the stars vanishing.

They bounce ideas off of each other about the figure’s quirk, and illusions wouldn’t be too far off. Illusions have a delay, so while the figure’s form was blocked out the wings had a slight delay in doing so which alerted the occasional night owl to their presence.

Tsukauchi asked about Hawks and Shouta relayed what he’s asked Hawks, but the detective asked for Shouta to call him to also put him on the potential case. He’d file all the paperwork soon, which Shouta had to wonder how many more hours that take off of his sleep.

They couldn’t start a case yet, but they could build a file of appearances.

What felt like a shoe began to develop somewhere along the way, and Shouta knew it had to drop sooner or later. The figure would return, he could tell by the piercing gaze and confident body structure.

There’s a story behind the brilliant wings, and searching eyes of the unknown entity. An omen of some sort. Life or death, or somewhere in between. The gray area that Shouta hates exploring, but doesn’t have much of a choice.

—

Raiden wakes to fragile silence. His body weight is distributed unevenly onto the wings beneath him as he lies on his back against a metal surgical table. His wings are extended out at each side. His wings expand almost 5 feet to each side, and his wings barely reach half of the length of the room.

Gray walls, white tiles, and a sterile scent. He’s never been in this room before, but it attracts an eerie similarity–smell wise–to the doctor’s lab.

Attempting to shift and situate he feels bands securing his upper body, thighs, and forearms to the metal table beneath him.

Being secured to a tight metal table isn’t a new sensation—and it’s happened many times before—but it’s not something he’ll ever get used to.

One would think after him spending more time on a metal table than a real bed he’d be somewhat used to it, but they’d be wrong. He’ll never accept the foreign concept as anything more than a nuisance.

His breath catches in his throat when he looks at his surroundings more closely. 

There’s a window with a perfect view of him, and he knows it’s one way glass. Raiden subtly notices the suction-like clamps littering his chest, the back of his head beneath his hair, and two sticking to his temples.

Upon noticing the medical clamps Raiden knows whatever happens next will be less than enjoyable.

As if on que a series of images flash through his mind. It must be someone’s quirk, because nobody has seen this let alone taken a video of it.

Raiden watches these scenes play out in his mind, and his eyes look unseeing at the ceiling as he watches:

He’s watching as the doctor plays with Izuku’s blood on his hands and a scalpel clutched in the offending fingers. Well he doesn’t watch, but he feels it. He feels the man cut into his back, and prod around his upper shoulders. Izuku never knew that he’d be where he is today because of what happened that day. Who would’ve guessed that Izuku would forcefully grow wings.

Izuku remembers the pain. It was blinding. Not a single numbing drug was provided, so he felt everything. Fire and ice competed for purchase in his veins. Neither felt particularly good, and both flayed every single nerve ending until Izuku blacked out and came to every once in a while. The procedure was hours long, and Izuku still has no idea what the doctor did that day to attach wings to a quirkless boy.

The pain that day was the worst he’s ever felt. Other things have felt close, but nothing has reached that level of writhing and disorienting pain.

The scenes flashing out of his head, and a new one surfaces.

Izuku is running through flames and crumbling rocks. The walls cave in around him, but he runs to one person and one person only. The only one that matters. The only one he’s fought so hard to preserve, and hasn’t let himself die because of.

His mother lies in a pool of blood, a metal support rod piercing through her stomach as it attaches her to the crumbling floor. They had been on the level above the labs, and that’s when everything began shaking. Everything shattered.

Wind whipped everywhere from somewhere up above. All For One was nowhere to be seen, and his lackeys were running for their lives. However, Izuku ran to one place. He ran to his mother, his home, his everything.

They’d taken away the only thing he had left, and then the ground crumbled beneath him, and swallowed him whole.

Raiden’s eyes return to seeing the ceiling above, and he realizes there’s water in his eyes, and they’re trailing down the sides of his face. He’s crying.

He hasn’t cried since he can remember. He’d abandoned that type of response when it came to the experiments. He knew that it just wasted the water he so preciously needed, and after his mother’s death there was nothing worth crying for.

Raiden stayed in the HPSC building for days after that. He went through mental training, again. They pushed unwanted memories onto him and told him to cope.

They put him in a noise canceling room for an hour, and then threw him into a simulation of a buzzing classroom with pencils scratching, students murmuring, a teacher droning on, the vents spluttering, and a wave of noise that threatened to drown him and keep him away from the surface where air was promised.

It was exhausting. Meals were provided when he did something well, which was of course biased to the person running the trial and training. Some were harsher than others.

Mitch was nowhere to be found, and Raiden isn’t quite sure why. He’s Raiden’s handler, and it’s regarded as a high staking job. Raiden may be treated like the dirt under someone’s shoe, but at least his handler came out with a boatload of cash to bring home to whatever home life he lives.

However, days at the facility in their many sterile rooms, and bland facilities he never saw his handler.

Raiden doesn’t quite remember what led up to him being in the compound again. He’s supposed to be on an assignment at UA.

Instead, he’s currently throwing punches at a lower ranking agent—one who’s paid to be there. They’re on a square elevated mat, with two bungee ropes being the side railings.

Raiden holds his hands near his face in a defensive position as the other throws a punch. He grabs the hand, and uses the momentum to throw the agent sprawling onto the slightly bouncy mat.

The reverberations of the impact tell Raiden where to send his next attack. The agent ascends to their feet and Raiden runs forward, wings flared behind him. The intimidation tactic causes the agent to hesitate, and even without the hesitation Raiden’s leg swings up and strikes the agent down.

He’s bored. He’s been fighting, and winning, all day. He’s sweating and there’s a deep seeded exhaustion settling in his bones.

”Razoredge you’re good to cool down. Your handler will guide you tomorrow morning to a training exercise before you continue your assignment.”

Raiden nods, and phases through the ropes before jumping off the elevated platform.

Mitch is a hard ass. He has less patience than usual, and is an unruly hair away from resorting to violence.

Raiden is running through flight agility procedures, but there’s a harsh curve that he keeps brushing his feathers against. It probably seems painful, but Raiden is used to it.

However, the handler is not pleased by the sacrificial maneuvering.

He’d rather Raiden do it perfectly with no harm done than him do it quickly, and efficiently.

To Raiden it’s pointless to try and do it without giving everything. He’s always done it that way, so he doesn’t see what’s so wrong about his methods now. 

The Commission has never cared about his tactics so long as his assignment was done.

Mitch on the other hand has always been on his ass about it. It’s bothersome, because Raiden doesn’t understand why he cares.

There’s something etched in the dent in between Mitch’s eyebrows that Raiden can’t comprehend, and he doesn’t want to either. Mitch is a hired hand, so he should act like the rest of them do.

He should act as if Raiden is lesser.

Raiden finds it funny sometimes, when he looks back at his life. Every step of his life he’s been lesser. 

Quirkless: lesser. Lab rat: lesser. HPSC suicide squad: lesser.

Fortunately, he’s the sole member of the suicide squad. The suicide squad is what Raiden likes to call himself because he could die on a mission and nobody would know nor care. Maybe they’d be upset about an asset being lost, but other than that it wouldn’t matter.

He’s a ghost that is caught in the living world. A spirit with no escape to the gates above, or the hell below. At this point he doesn’t care which one he goes to. Heaven or hell they’re better than the mortal world. The world where Raiden will always be tethered to.

”I finished the simulation with no error, and record time. Why is that not enough?” Raiden questions, which he’s not allowed to do.

Mitch cocks a brow, “you should be efficient enough to run a course without sacrificing something in return. That’s not professional, that’s suicidal.”

Raiden stares at him blankly, his wings twitching in confusion.

”If there was a situation where there’s three civilians trapped in a building. Between you and them are multiple upturned and flaming desks. There’s also fire scattered all around the civilians, which is blocking your path. The roof above them is caving in and about to crush them. You’re the only one there, but there’s backup arriving in less than 30 seconds. What are you doing?”

The question has holes in it. “Well, I wouldn’t be in that situation to begin with,” Raiden deflects.

A gruff response greets his ears, “humor me.”

Raiden blinks, “I’d fly through the desks while phasing, and push them out of the way of the caving roof.”

Mitch looks at him as if that’s not the right answer.

”You would die.”

”Well, are those three people my assignment?” Raiden questions.

Mitch seems to thinks about it before continuing, ”yes”

”Then my mission is completed, and there’s one less HPSC goon in the world,” Raiden muses.

Unsatisfied doesn’t fully encapsulate the absolute horror written in the minute expressions of the handler in front of him.

Raiden would probably laugh in any normal situation, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t laugh, it’s not a part of who Raiden Azuma is. Now that he thinks about it, he hasn’t laughed since before everything. Way before the last time he cried, is the last time he laughed.

That day was in many ways like taking his final breath. He did die that day, but his body still lives on. More of a shell at this point, but it still functions properly.

“You seriously don’t see the problem with that Raiden?” Mitch gapes.

Raiden reaches his wing forward, and smooths out the ruffled feathers. “Problem or not, it doesn’t need fixing. I’m an unpaid agent, so I do whatever I need to do to fulfill my assignment.” He shrugs at the words rolling from his lips, and the monotone voice that doesn’t quite realize the harshness of the words.

Any normal person would be upset hearing that coming from someone Raiden’s age, but Mitch isn’t paid to care. He’s paid to make sure the HPSC’s asset is easily deployable to any issue that needs tidying.

Mitch’s features harden, and the emotion is washed away by the wind blowing between them. “Shower, and be ready to leave for your assignment tomorrow morning at 0500 hours.”

Raiden salutes the man, and trudges off to his living quarters.

Chapter Text

Everything is sharpened, and honed again. It always has been, but Raiden hasn’t been put through the HPSC ringer in a long time. He hasn’t messed up and been subjected to punishment in a few years at least.

The speckles dance in the morning sunlight cascading through the blinds, the faint scattering of small animals somewhere around the school, and the ticking of a clock hanging dutifully on the wall. Everything is vibrant and thorough.

He doesn’t know why he was punished, there could be two reasons: he did too well on the scantron, or because he used his quirk in the UA obstacle course…and yeah that’s it.

Surely they didn’t hear the voices screaming at him when he finally made it to his apartment.

Those voices were the ones of his past, which no one but him could confirm. Right?

Nothing else bad happened, at least nothing worth noting.

He is not Midoriya Izuku, he is Azuma Raiden of the HPSC. A special operative. Nothing less, and certainly nothing more.

However, now that he’s back on his assignment now he has to go through a different type of hell: school.

The first day was an orientation in the auditorium given by the rat, and then they were shown around the school by their homeroom teacher. Raiden made sure to note everything of interest, like vents and cameras. He caught a glimpse of the hero course through one of the floor to ceiling windows. They were doing…whatever the hero course does.

From what Raiden saw the class was throwing a ball as far as they could, which was pretty mundane for the hero course. They all seemed to have a nervous tension about them though, so maybe there were stakes to the game.

The man from the roof seemed to be moderating it, and Raiden had distantly thought of the possibility that he’s their teacher. He and the man made direct eye contact at one point, as Raiden was observing. Raiden didn’t blink as he stared into the man’s onyx eyes that swirled with a type of uncertainty Raiden didn’t want to decipher.

Nothing worth noting.

Raiden distantly knows that the man was in his dream, but it’s more of an afterthought. His consciousness doesn’t want to explore the possibilities. There’s too many variables.

Present Mic had urged them to keep moving as he excitedly spoke about their theater program and mundane things.

Things Raiden would never be able to experience.

It’s been a couple days since the first day of school, though, and it’s the last day of the week before their first weekend.

Raiden floats back from his spiraling thoughts daydreaming into the world around him as a few birds make it into the view he’s watching out the window.

He’s at a desk, his head resting on his propped arm, and looking to his right at a particularly wide window. He sat here on purpose on the first day, so he could have something other than chalk boards, fine dust particles, and chittering students to watch.

However, someone up above must have it against him. Well, of course they do. He has a list of proofs about his entire life to see that someone has something against him. Someone with power hates his guts, because there’s no chance in hell he’d coincidentally get matched up to do a group project with the pointy lilac hair—he remembers all too well—from the entrance exam in any other circumstance.

Raiden doesn’t know anybody’s names, because he didn’t care to learn them. 

So, this project is going to be awkward. Raiden can handle awkwardness to an extent, but when it’s suffocating it becomes like a rather annoying fly that can’t leave you alone. 

It takes a lot to annoy Raiden. He deals with a lot of shit, all the time, all at once. So annoying him? That’s almost medal worthy.

Present Mic ushers them to meet with their groups and discuss their plans. Raiden has no idea what they’re planning, but he’ll figure it out. Yet another spectacular conversation starter ‘I wasn’t listening, what the hell are we doing?’.

Lilac eyes make contact with his, but the resting bitch face covering the boy in a dutiful mask doesn’t give Raiden much to go off of. Why does everyone around Raiden like to look dead inside? The roof man, now this kid.

Is there something in the water around here?

Everybody at the HPSC always wears their emotions on their sleeve. Even Mitch is an open book when Raiden tries hard enough. However, the heroes are annoyingly void. If you dig too deep you’ll be lost forever.

Maybe it’s the fact that Raiden will never understand heroes…No that’s not right. He can understand everyone to an extent

…

It’s infuriating.

Raiden continues to sit at his desk while the lilac boy and two others gravitate towards him in an unsure waltz.

Trepidation seeps from their steps, but Raiden continues to stare.

A girl with spider webbing for hair, a boy with nothing particularly notable about his appearance, and the fellow purple-oriented boy that Raiden would rather not converse with. Oh well.

They pull up stools, and Lilac sits next to him. Spider girl and Normy sit across from them and awkwardly smile.

She looks directly at him, “uhhm, I don’t think we’ve met. I'm Kutohime, but I go by Hime for short.”

Raiden takes back all the bullshit he said about a higher deity hating him, because luckily the girl doesn’t reach out her hand for one of those odd shakings of the hand he saw on YouTube. He doesn’t know if it’s something really done in Japan, but it apparently is in the United States.

He’s been to the States of course, but not for long periods of time, and he never truly interacted with anyone. It was more of a ‘protect the president’ kind of ordeal. 

Literally.

He had to protect their president.

“Azuma,” he deadpans.

Normy speaks up, “I’m Sasaki.” His smile is shy, and dare Raiden say, innocent looking.

Raiden turns his head to Purple, who looks about as uninterested as Raiden feels. He sighs, “you can call me Shinsou.”

It took a while for Raiden to realize that it was customary to go by last names. He’d forgotten that since he was a child, because, well they didn’t exactly call him by name where he was for a couple years.

“Oh-sixxxxx we have something special planned for you today!” The doctor's cheerfulness was never a good sign.

Hime takes the reins and starts mapping out the roles of the four of them in order to get the project done “fairly and squarely,” which were her words not his.

Apparently they all need to meet up later in the week at a diner? Since Raiden wasn’t paying attention he hadn’t realized that Present Mic assigned a project. The parameters of the subject are anything having to do with American culture.

So, apparently they’re in English class. He really should have put that together since it is Present Mic in their classroom right now. However, he’s also their homeroom teacher, so Raiden will give himself the benefit of the doubt.

The teacher wants an overarching theme portrayed. Raiden’s group wanted to center their project around the small-town rural aspects created to support the ‘American Dream’.

Ugh, American’s and their dreaming. What a hassle.

Raiden would do whatever. Although, he’d probably call in sick when it came time to actually go to the diner they had picked out. Raiden has a sneaking suspicion that it isn’t required to go to the diner, but Hime, being the social butterfly she is, made it a part of the criteria.

He’d do his work though and he would do it well.

He would not be the kid that mooches off of the group. Not only is that against his very thin and skewed morals, but he also didn’t want to gain his teacher’s attention.

Present Mic’s smile radiates the rest of the classroom, and Raiden had the unfortunate pleasure of making eye contact before he looked away. It took all of Raiden not to accidentally roll his eyes.

He has nothing against the man. He hates all heroes equally, thank you very much.

Raiden zones in and out the rest of the time after the groups disperse back to their seats, and her trudges to other classrooms where teachers come and go with their lessons. He already knows most of the subjects, and his mission isn’t to do particularly well in his classes.

He’ll be disgustingly average, complete his mission, and everyone will live happily ever after.

Nobody wants Raiden to live happily ever after.

His blissfully fake nap (he acts like he’s napping in order to get information on his surroundings) at his lunch table is interrupted by a blaring alarm.

Of course the students all go into a frenzy, because it’s not like this is a hero school that is trained to do any better with staff members being the most respected in their fields!

Raiden, ever the instigator, starts heading towards the odd set of footsteps instead of the blinking exits.

Some people knock into him, but they practically bounce off of him as he braces for the impacts.

He’s memorized each teacher’s footsteps in the building. He almost wants to eye roll at himself for that, it’s so tedious.

However, it’s helpful when there’s an apparent break in. The memorized footings of the teachers are nothing like the frantic steps he hears, and it puts him on guard.

He makes sure no one else—along with rats in vents, and cameras—is around as he hides himself from the rest of the world.

His invisibility is like wearing a long coat, and it’s comforting to him. He doesn’t have to put on an act for those around him. He can think and act however he pleases, and only for himself. He can be himself. Izuku.

Raiden can make out a couple teachers through the windows as he passes through the halls. The teachers are far below with their hands in the air placatingly, but their scowls give away their true intentions. They’re civilly trying to tell off the press for their intrusion.

Their hands are a courtesy, but their protectiveness lies in their rigid stances.

Embarrassingly, Raiden realizes a little too late that he found exactly what he’s looking for.

However, a man beat him there.

An oddly gaunt man, with pronounced cheekbones, hollow eyes and a bony structure is standing in front of a door.

Raiden walks right through the man—the man shivers as he passes through—and Raiden glances at what's inside.

A control room of sorts, and a rat in a chair.

Raiden almost scoffs.

They need to control their rat problem stat. Apparently rats are more advanced than he gave them credit though.

He never expected them to sit in chairs, and watch almost hundreds of cameras dotted all around the campus.

He also didn’t expect there to be heat signatures. So, when the rat turns around and looks directly into where his eyes would be, Raiden has to suppress a shiver.

Rat smells rat.

”I don’t know who you are, but you are most certainly not allowed in here,” the pitchy voice grates against Raiden’s nerves.

If he’s being honest, a lot of things grate against his nerves.

”I do wonder what your quirk is though, it’s quite interesting. Are you our intruder? Or even more interesting, are you a student by chance?” The gleam in those beady eyes is enough to send any courageous man to his knees.

Luckily Raiden isn’t courageous, he is more of the reckless manic type.

Sometimes Raiden likes to fuck with people by pretending to be their conscience. Cut him some slack, he’s a goon for the most manipulative organization in the world. He needs to have some semblance of joy somewhere along the way. But, that probably wouldn’t be appropriate in this instance, as he is caught in a rat trap at the moment.

He also doesn’t want to speak in case he could play it off as the rat going crazy.

Does rat poison work on meddling principals with a knack for world destruction?

The roof man’s steps are getting closer, and if he walked in that wouldn’t be good for anyone involved. Raiden would be revealed, and the HPSC would probably keep him locked away forever, but not before he’d be forced to kill at least one or more of the people in this room.

Ugh.

Raiden does the respectable thing, and runs. He runs through the wall, back through the hallways, past the black-clad teacher, and towards the waves of students. He runs directly into the middle of a crowd, a few people shivering as he passes through them.

He ducks behind a boy into a bathroom, and moves into one of the stalls before he becomes visible again.

His breaths are somewhat quick, but not too much. He’s seasoned in the art of running from prying eyes.

—

Shouta is pissed.

Not only did the press break into UA, but apparently Nedzu set some sort of trap along the way.

He walked into the control room, after dealing with the press, only to hear Nedzu muttering and musing over someone with ‘such an incredible quirk.’

Shouta had no idea what the rat was on about, but it was nothing good.

After a head count they ended up sending the students home.

Vultures. The media were vultures looking for a quick story on All Might, but the crumbling of their wall seemed too much for measly reporters. Sure, they were annoying but they weren’t above the law and most of them respected it at the very least.

Such radical and illogical measures would never have been taken.

So, Shouta is pissed.

A vein in his forehead is practically about to pop as he crouches on the ledge of a building’s roof, and watches for anything that may require his involvement.

It’s been a pretty slow night, and Shouta is happy about it.

However, it's usually the slow nights where something comes to a head.

He’s not surprised when a scream erupts from a distance. However, he is surprised when he gets a call on his com. Underground heroes often handle things themselves, so if he’s being contacted it’s quite serious.

”Eraserhead, are you near Shizuoka?” It's Amplifier's voice.

He already starts running across rooftops and swinging with the use of his capture weapon. “Not really, but I can be.”

It takes Shouta ten minutes to get there, and what he sees is mayhem.

Citizens who should be sleeping in the security of their homes are running for their lives.

A villain, taller than the three story buildings, rampages through the streets. The villain is a large blob of oozing mud, and the mud cakes everything it touches.

However, it’s still solid so it moves through buildings. It’s not a seamless type of move. The monster oozes through the windows, doors and cracks.

Shouta doesn’t want to know how many have died in the time it took for him to get there. He needs to focus before he can spiral down that train of thought.

Amplifier runs to him, and gives him a brief overview of what they’re dealing with. She doesn’t add much to what he already observed, but she did mention its hesitance toward water.

Apparently a citizen with a water quirk reacted instantaneously as the mud seeped into their house, and the villain reacted. Other than that, the villain has been continuously droning forwards at a slow pace towards an unknown location.

Rocklock and Amplifier have taken to trying to redirect the villain towards the beach, and water, while some other underground heroes have focused on evacuation.

Shouta, Rocklock and Amplifier look at the villain head on, and it’s getting ever closer to them.

The smell is vile, and it takes all of Shouta not to physically gag.

”This thing smells like ass,” Rocklock grimaces, and no one notices the slight uptick to Shouta’s smile behind his capture weapon.

“Hypothetically my erasure should negate its constant creation of mud. Rocklock, can you get close enough to lock it in place before we get a water hero here?”

The lock hero grunts an affirmative.

Amplifier cocks her head, her horns moving with the motion. “I should be able to channel the surrounding higher pitched screams into a frequency that can crack the locked mud, because mud in stasis should hypothetically harden, right?”

”It only hardens if the air temperature is cold enough,” Eraser amends.

It is cold out, but not cold enough to harden.

There’s no ice heroes in the area that he can think of. Melting was out of the question as well, because there were for sure no flame heroes that went into underground heroics.

”Focus your efforts on civilians, we’ll try and stop his movements as much as possible,” Shouta huffs.

There is something off with this entire situation, but Shouta can’t put a finger on it. No regular villain can grow that tall and exude that much power without interference. There’s a part of the puzzle that is missing, stuck under a chair or lost while the manufacturers were making the boxes.

Something is off in their picture, and Shouta can’t tell what.

He uses his capture weapon to get to an adjacent rooftop where he activates his quirk. The moisture in the air seems to immediately cease, and his eyes itch with each breeze that grabs at him on the roof.

It's a rather windy night.

Usually there’d only be these types of winds closer to the ocean side of the city.

Rocklock jumps from the alley he was hiding in and activates his own power to lock the villain.

Mud had stopped caking the walls and oozing from the villain when Shouta activated his quirk. As Rocklock moves to touch the villain, his hand is enveloped in the mud instead. Shouta’s quirk only stopped more mud from being created, but the mud already oozing from the villain is still in action.

In other words, the villain isn’t tangible, and they’re hidden somewhere in the goop.

His eyes are almost burning now.

”Eraser, what else can we do?” Rocklock shouts from below. Shouta is forced to blink, his hair lowering back to his shoulders.

The villain, who was ambling slowly through the middle of the street, seems to have locked onto a target.

The target is a small boy looking around aimlessly further up the street. Shouta watches in horror, and fear grips directly under his ribcage and threatens to strangle him.

The boy is obviously looking for something. Shouta hopes his parents aren’t one of the inevitable few to have died.

Amplifier is too far away, guiding citizens to the outskirts and away from the mud villain.

”Rocklock, there’s a boy further up the street and the villain is headed straight for him!” 

Shouta knows to stay grounded so he can make critical and influenced decisions. He’s seasoned enough to know the ins and outs of the trade. However, children will always be his weak point. He will never be able to get over the world trying to take innocence too soon, and Shouta will do anything in his power to prevent such a fate.

He vowed long ago when he was too late. He’ll never forget the small boy and his mother who he was only a little too late to save. If he were a fraction quicker, they’d still be here.

Rocklock is forced out of the way as the mud villain moves—at a higher tempo than before—right towards the boy. The child can’t be more than five or six, and he stops to stare at the villain.

Horror and terror from the boy’s face mirrors onto Shouta’s own.

Shouta is running across the rooftops, trying to get any vantage point he can as he looks for anything to possibly distract the villain with.

Just as Shouta reaches a roof where he has a clear view of the boy, he realizes he’s too late.

The boy’s widened eyes are locked onto the gaping mouth of the monster before him. His head is so inclined to be able to look that far up it’s almost excruciating to watch.

A muddy hand reaches for the boy, Shouta yells.

Just as the muddy, dripping hand is about to make contact the boy is gone in a blur of purple and black.

Shouta’s scream catches in his throat, and he realizes his hand is outstretched from where he’s planted on the rooftop.

The boy is on a rooftop across from him. In front of the boy is the figure with purple wings.

He looks closer at the figure to get any details, but their back is turned away from Shouta.

He can, however, make out the military grade clothing the figure wears. He also doesn’t miss the elongated knives strapped to their back, and small daggers lining the sides of their pants.

Shouta blinks and the figure is gone, but he doesn’t have time to consider it as the mud villain roars.

His roar is throaty and thunderous. The buildings, including Shouta’s own, vibrate in spite of the groan.

However, the roar takes on a pitch of pain, and Shouta notices the hand reach towards something he can’t see as the villain screams.

The voice in his ear almost makes him jump as Rocklock radios in, “what the hell is going on?”

Shouta is somewhat speechless, because he doesn’t know.

The villain is fighting an invisible force.

Right before anyone can even try and dissect any sort of rational thought the mud begins to lose volume, and expand outwards in waves. The monster is almost melting, as the mouth begins to drip and finally cascade downwards just like its other previously shaped features.

A purposeful scuff of a shoe has him whipping around with his arms already around his capture weapon and ready.

The figure has sharp features, most likely male. A male with a small build and large purple wings far bigger than himself. He has knives at the ready, and a deep glare harsh enough that Shouta knows it’s used often. Purple eyes dish out their own sort of scrutiny.

A mask covers the lower half of his face, and a hood covers his hair. But, his eyes say more than any of his features could.

Cold. Distant. Borderline lifeless.

At the boy’s feet is an unassuming man with a small blade in his left shoulder. It’s not enough to kill, but if it’s left untreated rather soon it could leave lasting effects.

Shouta starts the motion of throwing his weapon, but the figure disappears between one second and the next.

A small wind brushes his hair, and Shouta turns to jab the attacker who was close to getting a hand on him, but the figure flaps backwards and dodges.

The figure’s shoulders tense, and his eyes narrow.

He acts as if Shouta should know something. The only thing Shouta can safely assume is that this figure is a threat.

The purple wings twitch (in irritation).

He realizes the weakness of the wings. From what Shouta knows about Hawks wings are a powerful weapon, but they’re also a great weakness. They’re sensitive, and with how big the wings are it’ll serve as a perfect capture point.

Shouta starts, ”Come easily, or you will be subdued.” 

The figure cocks his head as if he never considered Shouta would speak, let alone those words.

His raptor-like eyes bore into Shouta, and they’re still unnervingly dull.

“Don’t make any sudden moves, okay?” Shouta’s capture weapon is ready to extend at a second’s notice.

The boy moves to take a step towards him, and as Shouta braces, the figure vanishes.

The aftermath of the attack is close to the same amount of mayhem as the attack itself.

People crying for their lost loved ones, homes, businesses. People are frightened for their own lives, but the adrenaline begins to peter out and leave everybody in a lull.

Shouta is on the scene guiding people towards EMTs, but he’s called over by the detective as he arrives at the scene.

”Evening, Eraser,” Tsukauchi looks like he needs a lifetime supply of coffee. Shouta can relate.

Shouta notes the subtle cresting of the sun as the clouds are casted in a light orange.

“Detective,” Shouta nods.

”Did you see what stopped the villain? Everyone I’ve spoken with says they were too far away, or something was in the way. The one frequent line is that there was a streak of purple, a cry from the villain, and then the mud began to shrink and move outwards instead of up.”

If only it were that simple.

”That purple streak was the figure I was telling you about,” Shouta’s hand cards itself through his hair. A tick he thought he’d gotten rid of after high school.

Tsukauchi looks up from his notepad, and his eyes seem to get even more tired, if that’s possible.

”Well, at least we didn’t start a file for nothing,” he mutters as his pen scrawls across the pages. “The villain is being transported to the hospital right now, and they’ve put him on quirk suppressants. They’re going to give us the knife once they’ve stabilized him.”

The knife Shouta had seen in the villain's shoulder.

“It’s wishful thinking to expect any prints to be on that weapon,” he shrugs his capture weapon back into place as it’d began to droop.

”Let a man hope will you,” Tsukauchi huffs.

”From what I saw of his suit it was military grade at least. I don’t know where he could possibly get that. Even underground markets don’t have that high end of equipment, and in the rare case they are, they’re not cheap.”

Tsukauchi lifts a brow.

”Have you been to these markets?”

Shouta scoffs, “you know I have. Remember that mission with Mirko and the underground drug trade?”

”Oh yeah, I suppose that was an underground market,” Tsukauchi taps his pen to his chin in thought. “This isn’t a trigger case, is it?”

He hums, “I doubt it. There’d be more destruction. This villain seemed more aimless, and less aggravated.”

Shouta hears a child crying and his head whips over to an ambulance where the boy that was saved is giving the EMTs a hard time. He’s on the edge of the vehicle, a shock blanket around his shoulders, where a woman tries to apply ointment. He’s kicking his legs and constantly squirming against the treatment. 

Shouta walks over rubble and mud towards the ambulance, Tsukauchi not far behind him.

The boy is small. His clothes are hanging off of him loosely, and his black hair is tousled. He looks up from his feet and sees Shouta. His eyes are swollen from tears, his bottom lip forcing out a pout.

Shouta bends down to the balls of his feet to be closer to eye level with him.

”My name is Eraserhead, what’s yours?” His voice is soft and calming. It’s meant to provide a sense of safety, even if it’s fleeting.

The boy whimpers,”Aki,” tears threaten to spill over.

”My mom- I- she was right behind me and then she was gone,” the tears spill over and Shouta grabs a tissue from the ambulance to give the boy.

”We’re going to find her, I-“ promise…”trust us.”

Shouta knows empty promises won’t do anything. He’d rather have the boy’s trust.

“It’s all my fa-fa-fault,” he wails, “if I wasn’t so u-useless.”

A knot forms in Shouta’s stomach.

”Why would you think that?” He wants nothing more than to hug Aki, but that could do more harm than good. Plus, it’d make it harder for the medic to tend to Aki’s wounds, as Shouta is currently distracting him from the check up.

”It’s because I’m-“ he cuts himself off and looks down at his red shoes. “How did he know,” the boy whispers, but Shouta hears it.

Tsukauchi is standing behind Shouta talking to the medics about the boy's mother and their progress. He’d have to fill the detective in later.

“Who knew what?” He gently prods.

”The one who saved me,” his throat hitches as hiccups threaten to heave his body. Too many tears, and too much exertion.

Shouta’s brow lightens, “did he say something to you?”

The boy nods.

”He- he said he liked my shoes and that I was okay…that everything would be okay. He told me I’m- I’m strong and not use-useless,” his words get quieter and quieter with each word. “I just don’t understand,” Aki blubbers, his lips quivering.

Shouta notices the way the boy draws himself in close, as if he’s trying to look smaller. Trying to look like less of a target.

“How did he know?” The boy asks. He grips onto Shouta’s sleeve like it's a lifeline. “How did he know I’m quirkless,” his lips are downturned and eyes glossy.

Tsukauchi turned around at one point, and seems to realize who they’re talking about. Or, to some degree picked up on something.

While Shouta doesn’t have an answer to the question, he wonders if the figure truly did pick up on it. If they did pick up on it…how?

“He was right, you know, you are strong,” a small smile graces Shouta’s lips. “Also, if being quirkless makes you useless, then does that mean I’m useless?”

The boy's eyes widen and he begins to backtrack, “no! That’s not what I- you’re a hero…”

“Just because I’m a hero I’m not useless,” Shouta shifts his head in question.

Aki’s mouth is open and closing like a gaping fish. “Of course not!”

Shouta sports a knowing look, and the boy’s face screws up in thought. 

Hope begins to seep into the downtrodden eyes. “Are you quirkless?”

”I fight quirkless. I have an emitter quirk, so I rely on myself in order to fight and I don’t have a power to help in that field.”

“Just because you’re quirkless doesn’t mean you’re any less than the rest of us. If anything, you have more of an advantage,” he lays a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Our greatest advantage is them underestimating us.”

Out of the corner of his eye he sees Tsukauchi smile.

”Can you thank him for me? The angel?” Aki stops crying, and his breathing calms down from its sputtering. Hope blooms in his blue eyes, and protection provided by an unknown source—an angel—has created a notion of safety in Aki’s mind.

“When I see him next, I will.”

Shouta knows he’ll see him again, he just wishes he could predict the circumstances. The figure saved not only the young boy, but he stopped a villain they wouldn’t have been able to stop anytime before sun up.

He and the detective step away and linger around the side of the ambulance. Shouta leans against it with one foot. “I think we might have a vigilante on our hands.”

Tsukauchi groans, ”spectacular.”

—

Why?

Raiden doesn’t know why.

Why had that boy been quirkless? Was this some cruel trick by the Commission? Did they truly feel the need to create such bone deep conflict within him that they sent him on a mission to save a quirkless kid?

Well, the call he’d gotten had only told him to stop the villain, and to look out for anything strange.

They never specified what could possibly be strange.

Raiden had noticed the wind which had no right being as forceful as it was. There were no incoming storms, and the sea was nowhere close.

He scoffs as he flies over the city blanketed by his invisibility. The comforting weight helps soothe his jumbled thoughts.

As he nears his apartment and gets ready to touch down on the balcony he picks up on a conversation.

He’s been trained to trigger words and sounds. So, he flies towards the voices, and settles down on the roof bordering an ally.

In the ally are five men. Four of them are huddled around the other, and the other is cowering against the wall. His trembling garbles his speech, and his breathing is erratic.

”I swear I don’t kn-know what you’re talk-talking about!”

One of the instigators with dark blue hair growls, “we saw you.”

Another with pointed ears pipes up, “you’re lucky we haven’t killed you yet.”

“I haven’t told anyone anything!” He squeaks, his eyes widened in terror.

”See! Don’t lie, we know you overheard,” a woman with a bob cut, notes.

“I didn’t tell anyone anything because I don’t have anything to tell them,” he whimpers, his hands trembling.

“If news gets out at all about tomorrow, we will know it’s you,” the blue haired man condones. “We will find you and your entire family, and you will wish you never walked into that shop. You’ll wish you were never born, for that matter.”

Raiden almost scoffs at the tough guy act.

Someone who hasn’t spoken, a teenage boy with brown hair, ”boss, we really should get going. We still need to pick up our equipment, we need it before noon and the shop closes at midnight-“

Apparently the blue haired man is their boss, he certainly doesn’t look like it. However, it explains the broody act.

”Don’t tell me what to do, Yuri,” he whips around to the younger boy.

The younger boy—Yuri—cowers slightly and nods.

Raiden doesn’t wait for the rest, and launches back to his apartment. Something is happening at noon tomorrow, and he has a report to make.

Will he carefully withhold the information about a quirkless boy…most definitely.

Do they need to know that he told the boy what he wished he’d heard as a boy?

Do they need to know that he saw himself in the boy’s helpless eyes and he chose to plant a seed of hope?

Do they need to know he grows further and further from following orders on the daily.

No. No, they don’t need to know.