Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The wind howled over the city, whipping Midoriya Izuku's hair as he clutched the edge of the rooftop. His green notebook flapped in the breeze, pages filled with messy notes and sketches of heroes—dreams that felt like ashes now.

Across from him, All Might stood tall, arms crossed, the smile gone from his face. Sunlight caught on his golden hair, making him look godlike. But his words cut deeper than any villain's blade.

"I'm sorry, young man," All Might said, his voice tight with something that might have been regret. "You can't become a hero without a Quirk. It's too dangerous. Too reckless. You'd be putting yourself—and others—at risk."

Izuku's throat closed. For years, he'd rehearsed every possible response to this moment, played out a thousand scenarios where he'd prove himself worthy. None of it mattered now. Nothing could change this reality.

"But... but I could train!" The words burst out, desperation bleeding through. "I could use gadgets, support gear, study twice as hard as everyone else! Doesn't that count for something? Don't I—"

All Might shook his head slowly, regret settling heavy on his broad shoulders. "You've got the heart, kid. I can see that. But this world isn't fair, and heart alone doesn't stop villains. Power does. I'm sorry, but that's the truth."

The silence that followed pressed down like a physical weight. The honking cars and chatter of pedestrians eight stories below felt unreal, distant, like watching life through frosted glass. Izuku's fists trembled at his sides, nails biting into his palms.

"So... that's it," he whispered. "I can't be a hero. Not even if I work harder. Not even if you—if All Might—believed in me."

The Symbol of Peace's expression cracked, just for a moment. He forced a hollow smile that looked all wrong on his heroic face. "There are other ways to help people, you know. Law enforcement, rescue services, firefighting, education... Heroism isn't limited to the battlefield, young Midoriya."

It sounded empty—a consolation prize handed to the weak, the insufficient.

All Might's hand came to rest on Izuku's shoulder, warm and heavy. "I know it hurts now. But reality doesn't bend for dreams, no matter how bright they burn."

And then, with a rush of wind that nearly knocked Izuku off his feet, he was gone.

Hours crawled by. Izuku stayed on the rooftop, numb to everything but the ache in his chest.

The sun dipped low, painting the city in shades of orange and shadow. His legs cramped, his throat burned from holding back tears, but he didn't move. In his mind, Kacchan's words echoed on an endless loop: "If you wanna be a hero so bad, take a swan dive off the roof and pray for a Quirk in your next life."

For the first time since that day, Izuku wondered if Kacchan hadn't been entirely wrong.

But not yet. Not quite yet. He still had the right to try, didn't he? Just once more?

When he finally climbed down from that rooftop, he made a decision. He applied to every UA program available—Hero Course, Support Course, Business Course, General Studies. A wide net. A desperate bet that something would stick.

On exam day, no Quirk, no gadgets, just instinct. When the robots rolled out, he thought of Kacchan’s explosions, of jeers and fists. Fear clawed at him — but his feet moved anyway.

Run. Run like hell.

He darted through the chaos, not destroying robots but saving people — yanking a girl out from falling rubble, dragging another out of a danger zone. His body screamed in protest, but he didn’t stop.

He barely remembered the exam beginning or ending. Just exhaustion — and a flicker of pride that he’d kept going.

When the acceptance letter came, he and his mother both cried.

“UA... the Hero Course? Baby, are you sure this is wise?” she whispered.

Izuku forced a smile and nodded. “I’m going to be a hero, Mom.”

She didn’t smile back.

Shouta Aizawa prided himself on logic above all else. He knew what made a hero—and what got people killed. He'd expelled students with more ego than talent, sent home those who treated heroics like a game. Every year, he grumbled about the entrance exam's flaws.

"The HPSC sets the standardized testing requirements," Principal Nedzu had explained once, his perpetual smile not quite reaching his eyes. "I fought hard just to add rescue points to the scoring rubric. Small victories, Aizawa."

Aizawa believed him. Mostly. But it still rankled.

This year, the frustration cut deeper than usual. Shinso Hitoshi—his protégé, a kid with a mind-control Quirk that had real potential—had failed the entrance exam. A Quirk useless against robots, wasted because the system couldn't see past flashy destruction.

If only the exam weren't so narrow, so fundamentally biased toward combat Quirks...

Still, Aizawa had options. Sometimes a student performed so poorly on the Quirk Apprehension Test that he could justify expelling them, opening up a spot. It was harsh, but it was logical. Better to crush false hope early than let someone die in costume later.

Then his eyes fell on a pair of red sneakers. The quirkless kid.

He'd reviewed Midoriya's exam footage thoroughly. The boy had shown guts, resourcefulness, genuine heroic instinct. He'd earned every one of those rescue points honestly. But Aizawa's logical mind whispered the uncomfortable truth: without a Quirk, Midoriya wouldn't last a month in the field. One serious villain encounter, one moment of hesitation from teammates who didn't trust him, and the kid would be dead.

And Shinso? Shinso had real potential. A mind-control Quirk could save hundreds, with proper training and support.

Aizawa's jaw tightened as he stared at the class roster on his tablet. His finger hovered over Midoriya's file. It would be simple—adjust a few scores, just enough to justify the expulsion. No one would question him; they never did.

It was harsh, yes. But wasn't it kinder than letting the boy throw himself into the meat grinder? Wasn't it more logical to save the student who actually had a chance?

His finger moved almost of its own accord; and he stood before Class 1-A and delivered his verdict.

"Midoriya Izuku," he said flatly, deliberately not meeting the boy's eyes. "You came in last place. Your performance demonstrates that you are not ready for the Hero Course. You are hereby expelled from UA High, effective immediately."

Izuku's green eyes went empty, like someone had snuffed out a candle. The light just... disappeared.

Aizawa ignored the chill crawling up his spine, ignored the memory of too many red shoes on too many rooftops, ignored the way his stomach twisted. He told himself it was the right choice. The logical choice. The choice that would save a life, even if the kid didn't understand that yet.

Logic. Always logic. That's what made a good hero.

He didn't let himself wonder when logic had started feeling so much like cowardice.

Izuku came home to darkness and silence.

The apartment was cold, lifeless. No warm greeting from his mother, no smell of dinner cooking. Just the hum of the refrigerator and his own ragged breathing.

On the kitchen table lay a single piece of paper, his mother's handwriting neat and careful—like she'd practiced what to say.

Izuku,

I can't do this anymore. You need to be realistic. The world isn't a fantasy novel where you're the protagonist who overcomes everything. I can't watch you chase this dream until it kills you. I can't bury my son.

I'm sorry.

— Mom

His knees buckled. The paper fluttered from his shaking hands to the floor.

He didn't remember climbing the stairs. Didn't remember the elevator ride to the eighth floor, or pushing through the door to the rooftop garden his mother had once loved. The flowers were wilted now, brown and neglected.

Eight stories. Was that enough? Enough to make sure it worked?

Kacchan's voice jeered in his head, crystal clear: "Take a swan dive off the roof and pray for a Quirk in your next life."

Maybe he'd been right all along. Maybe this was always how it was supposed to end.

Izuku stepped to the edge, toes hanging over empty air. Below, the city lights blurred through his tears. If this was it, he wanted the flowers to be the last thing he saw—his mother's flowers, from back when she still believed in him.

Then—

"Hey, kid. You alright up there?"

Izuku spun, nearly losing his balance. An old man leaned against the far railing, cigarette glowing faintly in the darkness. The neighbor from 7B. The one everyone whispered about in the hallways—the so-called "serial killer" who kept to himself.

Izuku's breath caught in his throat.

The man chuckled, the sound rough as gravel. "Can't believe that rumor's still making the rounds. Guess that's what I get for being antisocial."

Heat flooded Izuku's face as he realized he'd spoken aloud.

"Look, kid," the man said, taking a long drag from his cigarette. "Based on those shoes, I can guess why you're up here. Before you take that leap, humor an old man. Lend me your ears for a few minutes. What've you got to lose?"

Izuku's laugh came out bitter and broken. What did it matter? What did anything matter anymore?

The man’s apartment was small, cluttered, smelling of smoke and old paper. On the wall hung a faded fire chief’s jacket, framed with pride. Beneath it, a nameplate:

Hoshino Takeya
Fire Chief, Musutafu Department (Retired)

Chapter Text

Bakugo Katsuki always knew he was destined to be a hero.

His Quirk was strong, his talent natural, and from the moment sparks first burst from his palms at age four, the world made perfect sense. Heroes stood at the top. Weaklings crawled at their feet. There was no middle ground, no gray area to hide in. You were either strong or you were nothing.

Deku was nothing.

Maybe once—maybe when they were small and stupid and didn't know better—Deku could have been something. Back when they were kids, pretending to be heroes in the park, laughing as if the world was kind and fair. Back then, Deku had been someone to talk to, someone who looked at him with wide, shining eyes full of genuine admiration. Back then, Katsuki hadn't minded having him around.

But that was before the diagnosis. Before the doctor's appointment, which should have changed everything.

Deku should have disappeared after that. Should have accepted reality and faded into the background where quirkless people belonged. That's what Katsuki had expected—what he'd been waiting for.

But Deku didn't fade.

He kept showing up. Kept following Katsuki around. Kept staring at him with those same damned eyes, like nothing had changed, like he still had the right to stand beside someone strong. Those eyes made Katsuki feel things he didn't want to feel. Pity, maybe. Or contempt. Or something worse—something that felt uncomfortably like guilt, like he should be doing something different.

Like he was the one in the wrong.

Katsuki hated it. Hated how Deku made him feel weak just by existing in his space.

So he'd pushed. Harder. Louder. Meaner. Anything to make Deku understand his place. Anything to make those feelings go away.

And it had worked. Eventually.

Now, sitting in Class 1-A on their second day, Katsuki felt something he hadn't felt in years: peace. Vindication.

Aizawa-sensei had seen it. U.A. had seen it. Deku didn't belong here. He couldn't keep up. He'd been expelled, cast out on the very first day—exactly as he should have been from the start.

Katsuki had been right all along.

The strong rise. The weak fall. That's how the world works, and anyone who pretends otherwise is lying to themselves. Deku was never meant to stand in a place like this.

So why did that peace feel so hollow?

Katsuki glanced at the empty desk where Deku had sat for exactly one class period. In his place sat eyebags, the purple-haired kid. The guy didn't talk much, just sat there with that smug look on his face like he'd won something.

"Hey, Shinso," Kirishima said during break, his voice friendly and open like always. "What happened to the green-haired kid? Midoriya, right?"

Shinso's smirk widened. "Aizawa-sensei made the right call. Kid was quirkless—he would've gotten himself killed. Or worse, gotten one of us killed trying to save him."

"That's harsh, man," Kirishima said, frowning.

"That's realistic," Shinso countered. "This isn't a charity. Hero work is dangerous. You need power to survive."

Several students nodded in agreement. A few looked uncomfortable but said nothing.

Katsuki said nothing either. 

Deku was gone. That's all that mattered.

That's all that should matter.

Izuku spent the first three days after his expulsion in a haze.

He didn't eat much. Didn't sleep well. Didn't leave the apartment except to check the mailbox, half-hoping his mother would have sent something. An apology. An explanation. Anything.

The mailbox stayed empty.

On the fourth day, reality crashed down with the force of a collapsing building.

The landlord knocked on the door, polite but firm.

"Midoriya-san, I need to discuss the lease. Your mother called—she's removing herself from the rental agreement. That means you'll need to either take over the full lease or vacate within thirty days."

Izuku's mouth went dry. "The full lease? How much is—"

"¥95,000 per month. Plus utilities."

Nearly $900 a month. On his own. With no job, no income, and less than ¥40,000 in his savings account from birthday money and odd jobs over the years.

"I... I understand. Thank you for letting me know."

When the door closed, Izuku's legs gave out. He slid down against the wall, staring at nothing.

Thirty days. He had thirty days to figure out his entire life.

The panic lasted about an hour. Then the anger came—hot and clarifying.

His mother had abandoned him. U.A. had rejected him. Fine. He'd figure it out himself.

Izuku wiped his face, pulled out a notebook—not a hero analysis notebook this time, but a plain one—and started writing.

IMMEDIATE NEEDS:

• Housing (budget: ???)
• Income (how much do I need per month?)
• Food (how much does food even cost?)

LONG-TERM GOALS:

• Teacher certification
• Open a school for students with non-traditional quirks/quirkless students
• Create alternative paths to heroism

He stared at the list. It looked impossible. Overwhelming.

But Hoshino-san's words echoed in his mind: "Thinking three steps ahead. Staying calm when everyone else panics. Knowing your limitations and planning around them."

Okay. Three steps ahead. He could do that.

Step one: Information gathering.

The Musutafu Public Library became Izuku's second home over the next week.

He arrived when it opened at 9 AM and stayed until it closed at 8 PM, camped out at a corner table with stacks of books and his laptop running on the free WiFi.

Day 1-2: Financial Reality Check

Izuku learned, with growing horror, exactly how expensive being alive was.

Cheap apartments in Musutafu:

¥45,000-60,000/month

Food for one person: ¥30,000/month minimum

Utilities: ¥8,000-12,000/month

Phone: ¥3,000/month

Transportation: ¥5,000/month

Total: Roughly ¥95,000/month.

To make that, he'd need to work approximately 95 hours per month at minimum wage (¥1,000/hour), or about 24 hours per week.

"I can do that," Izuku muttered, writing down the numbers. "I can work part-time and study for the teaching certification exam."

He found job listings online: convenience stores, restaurants, and delivery services. He applied to seventeen positions that first day, carefully filling out each application.

By day three, he'd received exactly two responses. Both rejections. One didn't give a reason. The other was brutally honest:

"We're looking for candidates with more availability. Your age and student status make you a liability."

He wasn't even a student anymore. But he couldn't tell them that without explaining why.

Day 3-4: Teaching Certification Research

The teaching certification exam happens twice a year—once in July, once in December. The July exam was next week, which seemed impossibly soon. But Izuku had always been good at cramming.

The exam costs ¥5,000 to register.

The study materials cost another ¥8,000.

He had ¥40,000 total.

Izuku did the math three times, hoping it would change. It didn't.

If he spent ¥13,000 on the exam and materials, that left him ¥27,000 for everything else. That was barely enough for one month's cheap rent, let alone food and utilities.

But if he didn't take the exam now, he'd have to wait until December. Six more months of limbo.

His finger hovered over the "Register" button for ten full minutes before he clicked it.

The confirmation email felt like both a commitment and a death sentence.

Day 5-7: The School Plan

This was the part that made Izuku's heart race with something that might have been excitement or might have been terror. Probably both.

He researched private schools in Japan. The regulations. The requirements. The costs.

To open a private school, you needed:

• A physical location (rent or purchase)
• Certified teachers (at least 3)
• Safety inspections and permits (¥200,000+)
• Curriculum approval from the Ministry of Education
• Minimum 10 students enrolled
• Operating capital (recommended: ¥5,000,000+)

Five million yen. 

Izuku's hands shook as he wrote down the number. It might as well have been five billion.

But he kept researching. Kept planning. Because what else was he going to do?

He found a loophole: tutoring centers and cram schools had much looser regulations. They didn't count as "official" schools, which meant less oversight but also less legitimacy. No government funding, no official recognition.

But it was a start.

A tutoring center needed:

• A physical location (could be small)
• At least one certified teacher
• Basic safety compliance
• Business registration (¥60,000)

Still expensive. Still impossible.

But less impossible than before.

On day eight, Izuku got a callback.

"Midoriya-san? This is Tanaka from Smile Burger. We'd like to schedule an interview."

Izuku's heart leaped. "Yes! Absolutely! When?"

"Tomorrow at 2 PM?"

"I'll be there. Thank you so much!"

He showed up fifteen minutes early, résumé printed on the library's printer (¥50 he couldn't really afford), wearing the only button-up shirt he owned.

The manager, Tanaka-san, was a tired-looking woman in her forties with a kind smile. "So, Midoriya-kun. You're fifteen?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"No work experience?"

"No, ma'am. But I'm a fast learner, and I'm very reliable, and—"

"Can you work evenings and weekends?"

"Yes! Any hours you need."

Tanaka-san studied him for a long moment. "Why do you need this job so badly? Most kids your age work for spending money."

Izuku's throat tightened. He could lie. Should lie.

But something about Tanaka-san's eyes made him tell the truth. Or part of it.

"I need to support myself. I... don't have family support right now."

Her expression softened. "I see. Can you start on Friday?"

"Yes! Thank you, thank you so much—"

"Don't thank me yet. It's minimum wage, and the work is hard. You'll be on register and cleaning duty. If you can't keep up, I'll have to let you go."

"I understand. I won't let you down."

As Izuku left the restaurant, he wanted to cry from sheer relief. It wasn't much—maybe 20 hours a week if he was lucky—but it was something. It was a start.

By the end of week two, Izuku had established a routine:

6:00 AM - Wake up, study for teaching exam
9:00 AM - Library (school planning, research)
2:00 PM - Lunch (convenience store onigiri, ¥100)
3:00 PM - More studying
7:00 PM - Smile Burger shift (3-4 days per week)
11:00 PM - Home, collapse

He'd applied to forty-three jobs total. Smile Burger was his only success.

He'd found exactly zero suitable locations for his theoretical future school. Everything was either too expensive, too small, or in terrible condition.

He'd studied 160 hours for the teaching exam and felt nowhere near ready.

But he kept going. Because what else could he do?

On a Thursday afternoon, three weeks after his expulsion, Izuku was walking back from the library when he saw her.

A girl about his age sat on a bench in the park, U.A. gym uniform visible under her jacket. She wasn't crying, but her eyes were red, and she stared at nothing with the hollow expression Izuku recognized from his own mirror.

He should keep walking. He had studying to do. A shift starting in two hours.

But his feet stopped moving.

"Um. Excuse me?" His voice came out smaller than intended. "Are you... are you okay?"

The girl looked up, startled. Then her expression hardened. "I'm fine."

"Sorry. I just... you looked like you might need..."

'What? What could I possibly offer?' he thought

"Like I might need what? Pity?" Her voice was sharp, defensive.

"No. I just... I saw your uniform. U.A.?"

Her jaw clenched. "Not anymore."

Izuku's chest tightened with recognition. "Expelled?"

"What's it to you?"

"I was expelled too. Three weeks ago. First day."

The girl's eyes widened.

"First day? Did you have... Aizawa?"

"Yeah."

"Same." She laughed, but it sounded broken. "Told me my Quirk was 'unsuitable for hero work.' Just like that. Nine years of training, and he decided in one test that I wasn't worth his time."

Izuku sat down on the opposite end of the bench, keeping a respectful distance. "What's your Quirk?"

"Fireworks." She held up her hand, and small sparkles burst from her fingertips—beautiful, harmless, and utterly non-threatening. "Pretty, right? Just not 'heroic' enough."

"That's incredible," Izuku said, and meant it. "Think about the applications—rescue signals, crowd control, light sources in dark areas, marking evacuation routes—"

"I know," she interrupted, her voice cracking. "I know all that. I wrote a whole essay about it in my entrance exam. But apparently Aizawa-sensei knows better."

They sat in silence for a moment.

"I'm Midoriya Izuku," he finally said.

"Hanabi Yuki." She glanced at him. "Why'd he expel you?"

"I'm quirkless."

Hanabi blinked. "You got into U.A. quirkless? That's... that's actually amazing."

"Not amazing enough, apparently."

Another silence, less uncomfortable this time.

"So what now?" Hanabi asked. "What do people like us do?"

Izuku thought about his notebook full of impossible plans. His minimum wage job and his teaching exam, and his dream of building something better.

"We figure something else out," he said quietly. "We find another way."

"Is there another way?"

"I don't know yet. But I'm going to find out."

Hanabi studied him with new interest. "You're serious."

"I have to be. I don't have any other choice."

She was quiet for a long moment. Then: "If you figure it out... if you find that other way... let me know?"

Izuku pulled out his phone—cracked screen, barely functional, but still working. "Can I get your number? I'm... I'm working on something. It's probably going to fail, but if it doesn't, I might need help."

Hanabi raised an eyebrow but recited her number. "What kind of something?"

"A school. For people like us. People who don't fit in the boxes U.A. created."

"That's insane."

"Probably."

"I'm in."

"I haven't even—"

"I'm in," Hanabi repeated, fiercer this time. "Whatever it is, whenever you're ready. Because sitting around being bitter isn't working out great for me."

For the first time in three weeks, Izuku felt something other than exhaustion and fear.

He felt hope.

The teaching certification exam was brutal.

Izuku sat in a room with two hundred other candidates, most of them university graduates in their twenties. He was the youngest person there by at least five years.

The test lasted four hours. General education knowledge, teaching methodologies, child psychology, and education law. Multiple choice and essay questions.

When it was over, Izuku stumbled out of the testing center feeling like his brain had been wrung dry.

Results wouldn't come for six weeks.

Six weeks of not knowing. Six weeks of uncertainty.

Six weeks to figure out literally everything else.

That night, Izuku sat in his nearly-empty apartment (he'd sold most of his All Might merchandise—keeping only a few precious pieces—for ¥85,000 that had immediately gone toward rent and food) and opened his notebook.

PROGRESS SO FAR:

• Teaching exam: completed (results pending)
• Job: secured (¥20,000/month)
• Housing: ??? (15 days left in current apartment)
• Potential student: 1 (Hanabi)
• School location: still searching
• Total savings: ¥23,000

STILL NEEDED:

• Affordable housing
• School location
• More students
• More money (so much more money)
• Pro hero endorsement for the apprenticeship program
• Business registration
• About 100 other things

The list was impossibly long. The numbers didn't add up. Nothing was certain.

But Izuku had one student interested. He had a job. He had a plan, however fragile.

And he was still here.

Still fighting.

He thought about Bakugo, probably sitting in Class 1-A right now, surrounded by other students with powerful Quirks. Probably not thinking about Izuku at all.

Good.

Let Bakugo have U.A. Let him have his perfect hero school and his perfect Quirk and his perfect future.

Izuku would build something else. Something better.

Something for everyone the system left behind.

He just had to figure out how.

Three steps ahead, he reminded himself. Just three steps.

Step one: Find housing he could actually afford.

Step two: Keep passing the teaching exam.

Step three: Find a location for the school.

Everything else could wait.

Izuku closed the notebook, set his alarm for 6 AM, and tried to sleep.

Tomorrow, he'd start looking at apartments. Tomorrow, he'd keep moving forward.

Tomorrow, and the day after that, and the day after that.

Until he built something worth believing in.

Chapter Text

Nedzu had often been accused of being three things: first, a monster; second, an unfeeling creature; and third, an evil overlord determined to take over the world. The plebeians that they were could never understand what he truly was.

Monster? Certainly. He could recognize that part of himself easily enough.

Unfeeling creature? Not entirely wrong, but not quite right either. He could feel human emotions—he simply prioritized them differently. At heart, he was more animal than man, and animals knew how to survive.

Evil overlord bent on world domination? That was his favorite accusation to laugh at. He had no desire to rule the world. That was stupid—too much effort for too little reward. Someone strong would eventually rise with a quirk that could match him, and he’d fall. No, what Nedzu wanted was something smaller, smarter. His own kingdom. And as principal of U.A.—Japan’s most prestigious hero school—he’d already built the foundation.

The HPSC was the closest thing Japan had to an emperor’s court, and he’d long since realized that the true key to power wasn’t in brute force. It was in his students. They were his chess pieces. And he knew exactly how to use them. His favorite pieces were always the ones that he thought they were close to him. The ones whose buttons he could push with precision.

Yamada Hizashi—so easy. A boy hiding a desperate inferiority complex behind volume and bravado. One promise of a radio station, and the boy had been grateful enough to overlook the little laundering clause slipped into the contract.

Kayama Nemuri—simpler still. She loved and hated being seen as nothing but a pretty face. He had suggested that the most revealing costume would be the sharpest weapon she could wield. She’d thanked him—never realizing he’d written her a contract paying her far less than she deserved.

And then there was Aizawa Shouta. Bitter, angry at a failed exam score he didn’t realize had been adjusted. His quirk was too valuable to waste. With just a few nudges, Nedzu had turned him into the perfect blade. Cold. Efficient. Reliable. The loss of Oboro Shirakumo had twisted Aizawa further, reshaping him into something even more useful. Now he expelled students without hesitation, and all Nedzu had to do was play the role of sympathetic ear, and more pawns were delivered right to his paws. When Nedzu saw the applications of two students who would catch Aizawa’s eye for very different reasons, he knew opportunity had arrived. Without intervention, Izuku Midoriya would have landed in Kan’s class. Instead, Nedzu placed him where Erasure would cut deepest. And Aizawa had delivered marvelously. Pieces on the board. Falling into place. Soon, Nedzu would have enough leverage to challenge even the HPSC. Soon.

Hitoshi Shinsou was feeling pretty good about life. He’d worried when he failed the entrance exam. Robots, of all things. His quirk was useless against machines, and he’d barely managed to drop two of them—and those by accident. It wasn’t fair. He remembered how his classmates used to whisper “villain” behind his back. How they’d hiss it to his face after he used his quirk in frustration. On his darkest days, he’d thought about proving them right—brainwashing them into humiliating things, just to watch them squirm. But he wanted to be a hero. He wanted to prove them wrong. That day he’d met Eraserhead was still burned into his memory. He’d been walking off a bad day, nursing a black eye courtesy of Matsuda, when the man himself had appeared out of the shadows.

“That's common for you?” Eraserhead asked, eyes flicking to the bruise.

“Why do you care?” Hitoshi snapped. “They’re just reminding the villain where he belongs.”

“Are you?”

“Am I what?”

“A villain.”

“If I were, would I tell a hero? Especially my favorite one?”

“I’m your favorite?”

“Most people don’t know you. But my aunt does. You rescued her from a quirk trafficking ring—even though she’s got a porcupine quirk that makes people avoid her. She told me you cancel quirks, and I thought… maybe people would call yours villainous, too.”

“No such thing, kid. You want to be a hero?”

“More than anything.”

“Then you’ll need more than your quirk. Give me your number. I’ll train you. I can’t promise you’ll get in, but you’ll have a better shot. Deal?”

Of course, he’d said yes. The training had been brutal, but worth it. And then, when the exam results came, Eraserhead had pulled strings. Shinsou was out of gen-ed and into the hero course. Someone else—some quirkless kid—was out. Hitoshi spared a flicker of guilt, but it passed quickly. He had a quirk. That kid didn’t. That was the difference. Now all he had to do was prove himself. Prove his quirk wasn’t villainous. Prove he could be just like his idol. Then he’d go back and brag. He’d show them all.

Izuku Midoriya no longer cried when he thought of UA.

The sadness had hardened into focus, crystallized by weeks of numbers, deadlines, and calculations. He had his teaching certificate now—a paper-thin, bureaucratic miracle—and an outline of a dream that still felt impossible.

What he didn’t have was a place to live. The apartment lease was days from running out, and his savings were down to emergency crumbs.

"You can’t kick me out! Please!” He turned.

A tall, muscular woman stood in front of a smaller man, desperation in her voice.

“Magne, we’ve been over this. You can’t just beat up customers. I was generous even hiring a freak like you. Gave you a room to sleep in. But no more.”

“They were trying to slip something into that lady’s drink!” she shouted.

“It’s their word against yours. And who’s going to believe a liar pretending to be a lady just to creep on women?”

Izuku’s blood boiled. Without thinking, he marched up, throwing an arm around her shoulders.

“There you are, sweetheart!” he said brightly.

Then, lower, he whispered, 'play along.' The man glared. His arms flickered with flame.

“Who the hell are you?”

“I’m her boyfriend. Got a problem with that?”

“Tch. Whatever. Don’t let me see you freaks around here again—or I’ll call the heroes to put you where you belong.”

He stormed off. When he was gone, Magne turned to him, tears in her eyes.

“Why did you do that?”

“You looked like you needed help,” Izuku said. Then paused, realizing what he was about to offer was probably insane.

Who the hell are you, kid?” she asked.

“Someone who hates bullies,” he said quietly. “Look… I’m not a creep, I promise. But I’ve got an apartment you can crash at until I move. And I’m starting a school soon. I’ll need teachers. You need work. Interested?”

She blinked, stunned. “You don’t care about…” She gestured to herself.

“I don’t care about your quirk. Or what you look like. Or who you are. I care about the people this school will help. So. What do you say?”

A smile broke across her face. She shook his hand firmly.

“All right, broccoli boy. But only if you let me help you bulk up. With that noodly body, someone’s bound to carry you off and have their way with you.”

Izuku turned scarlet. But inside, warmth bloomed. He’d helped someone. Even if it was just one person, that had always been enough for him. And it didn't hurt that it had been a pretty woman, even if she liked to tease him. Izuku couldn’t help feeling proud of himself. For once, his life felt like it was moving forward instead of collapsing beneath him.

"I might know a place we can crash and start your school." Magne had said

Izuku had been worried because he had less than five days left, and still no clue where he was going to find a place to stay. The “place” Izuku was introduced to by Magne wasn’t much of one.
A half‑collapsed warehouse on the ruined edge of town—charred siding, graffiti, and scorch marks still climbing the walls like dark vines.

“Dabi hit this block a few months ago,” Magne said, gesturing around the space. “Insurance wrote it off. The owner dumped it on the emergency restoration list. Means you can snag it cheap… if you know where to file forms.”

She grinned, teeth flashing. “And I used to crash here. So yeah, it's not much....”

Izuku stared at the skeletal rafters, the broken windows streaked with soot. It wasn’t much.

But it was something.

“Do you think,” he asked slowly, “we could rebuild it?”

“With enough duct tape, paint, and caffeine? Sure,” Magne said. 

Izuku smiled. “We’ll call it… Project Phoenix.”.”

She sighed fondly. “Nerd.”

Official channels labeled it a “disaster‑reconstruction educational grant.”

To Izuku, it was a miracle with paperwork. The city paid small stipends to anyone refurbishing condemned properties for social programs—especially after villain attacks. All he had to do was propose a “community education initiative.”

He could teach. Magne could oversee physical training. Hanabi had texted back: I’m still in.

Three steps ahead.

Housing? Covered.
School? Acquired—smoldering, but real.
Team? Growing.

Magne’s presence helped more than he'd ever known a person could help.

She didn’t laugh at his endless questions about quirks. She didn’t flinch when he info-dumped. Sure, he could do without her habit of lounging around in just a sports bra and sweatpants—he really did try not to stare, honest—but having her around grounded him. She made the warehouse feel less empty. But there was one thing he couldn’t shake: if he was going to teach, some of his students might have different gender identities or expressions. He didn’t want to make a mistake. He didn’t want to hurt anyone. And he had no idea how to bring it up. He waited until after their sparring session, when Magne was stretched out on the couch, sweat dampening her collar and her guard down.

“Spit it out, broccoli,” she teased, ruffling his hair. “You’ve been twitchy all day.”

Izuku flushed. “I… I realized some of my students might be trans, nonbinary, or different. I don’t want to offend them, but I don’t understand it all yet. Could you… Maybe explain? So I don’t say something stupid?” He tripped over the words, cheeks burning. “It’s not about me being nosy. I just… want to be respectful. For them.”

Magne studied him for a moment before laughing softly.

“Relax, kid. It’s not creepy that you’re asking—it’s creepy that you’ve figured out like fifteen different ways to weaponize my quirk. But this? This is fine.” Her smile faded as she leaned back, eyes distant. “The truth is, a lot of us haven’t had great experiences. We get misgendered, called liars, told we’re freaks. Some of us get beaten. Some get kicked out of our homes. Even when we find jobs, it’s often just so someone can tick the diversity box.” She exhaled slowly. “That night when you stood up for me? That meant more than you know. Because every trans person is different. We don’t all live the same story. For me? I’ve always known I was a girl. My parents… didn’t agree.”

“Didn’t?” Izuku asked gently.

“They kicked me out,” Magne said flatly. “Told me biology would always win. That I was sick. That even if I died, my body would prove what I 'really' was.” Her mouth twisted. “I spent years in shelters. They stuck me in the men’s dorms. Terrifying. I wasn’t this big back then. I wanted blockers, hormones—but doctors wouldn’t prescribe them. Said I’d change my mind.”

Izuku’s chest ached. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” She offered him a crooked smile. “Just keep being you. Keep caring. That’s what your students will need most."

The next morning, Izuku sat cross‑legged on the warehouse floor, surrounded by scattered pages, loose cables, and the distant hum of the city filtering through the broken windows. Magne’s old radio played faint static in the background while she welded a patch over a hole in the wall.

On the table beside him lay the freshly printed apprenticeship contract—U.A.-standard paperwork downloaded, stripped of any school insignia, and edited line by line until it looked official enough to pass. The signature line remained empty. He couldn’t fake everything.

He needed a hero. Someone with reputation, credibility, and just enough impatience to sign before asking too many questions.

He’d spent the night combing through news articles, interviews, and hero databases. He’d listed every pro who might say “yes” for the right reasons.

Present Mic: friendly, open, approachable. But he juggled U.A. teaching, radio hosting, and side gigs. Too busy, too visible. A man constantly in front of cameras wouldn’t risk bending regulations, even for a good cause.

Fat Gum: kind, dependable, famous for mentoring people society overlooked. But Osaka had him drowning in paperwork and neighborhood patrols. He covered gang rehabilitation, food drives, and civic programs almost single‑handedly. He’d want to help—Izuku believed that—but he wouldn’t have time.

That left Hawks.
Youngest top‑ten hero in history. Quirk versatile enough to multitask mid‑mission. Charismatic. Media‑savvy. He’d say yes if Izuku framed this right. Not as deception, but as opportunity. He'd done the research. Hawks had a favorite restaurant.

Izuku climbed to the roof, rubbed his eyes raw until tears came, then sat dangerously near the edge. He hated using this tactic, but heroes liked to feel like they were saving someone. And Hawks was no exception. Feathers rustled. Boots clicked.

“What’re you doing up here, kid?” Hawks asked, casual but cautious.

“Thinking,” Izuku said flatly.

“Think you could do that a little farther from the drop?”

“No.”

To his surprise, Hawks didn’t push. He simply sat beside him—close enough to catch him, far enough not to crowd him. Izuku felt a flicker of guilt.

“Wanna tell me what’s chewing at you?” Hawks asked.

“It’s stupid.”

“Try me. I’ve got good ears.”

And just like that, the dam broke. Izuku told him everything—UA, the expulsion, how Eraserhead had decided one quirk test erased all his potential. His voice cracked. His chest hurt.

“It’s not fair,” he whispered. “I passed. I earned my spot. And now no hero school will take me.”

Hawks steadied him with a wing draped around his shoulders.

“Damn, kid. That’s rough. I can’t fix UA, but an apprenticeship? That I can do.”

Izuku blinked at him. “You’d take me?”

“Sure. I could teach you hand-to-hand, stealth, rescue, how to handle the media—the fun stuff.”

Izuku’s throat worked.

“Actually… I have a friend. She got expelled, too. They said her quirk was useless, but she’s old enough for the licensing exam. She’s just scared. Would you… Take her first? Please? I’ve got time. She doesn’t.”

Hawks let out a low whistle. “Man, Eraserhead really is a hardass. Yeah, I’ll do it. But in return, you give me your number. So we can set up training. Deal?”

Izuku smiled through the last of his tears. “Deal. Thanks, Hawks.”

He handed over the contract, and Hawks signed without hesitation. Another piece of the plan slid neatly into place. 

Chapter Text

All Might liked to think he’d done good in his time. Not perfect, never enough — not when his mentor had died because he hadn’t been strong or fast enough. Nana Shimura had entrusted him with her legacy, and he had failed her. He carried that weight like Atlas, telling himself he had at least ended All For One in her name. Maybe that was enough. Maybe.

But sometimes… sometimes he thought back to who he used to be.

Toshinori Yagi. The scarecrow kid with no quirk, no power, only an overwhelming desire to help. He’d thrown himself headlong into danger, pretending at heroism, until it nearly killed him — until she saved him.

“You have a noble heart, Toshinori,” Nana had told him gently as she bound his wounds. “But you can’t do this alone. You’ll die if you keep pretending.”

Those words burned in his memory as he stood on a rooftop years later, the green-haired boy clinging to his leg. The boy had been sharp enough to warn him not to let go. That was good — that was hope.

When they landed, the boy’s question came like a knife:

“Can I be a hero without a quirk?”

All Might’s throat closed.

“I’m sorry, young man,” he managed, voice tight. “You can’t. It’s dangerous. Reckless. You’d be putting yourself — and others — at risk.”

The light in the boy’s eyes flickered, dimmed. All Might winced. That wasn’t what he’d meant.

“You’ve got the heart, kid. But this world isn’t fair. Heart doesn’t stop villains. Power does.”

Damn it. Wrong again.

He forced a brittle smile. “There are other ways to help people — law enforcement, rescue, firefighting, even teaching. Heroism isn’t limited to the battlefield.”

The boy gave the faintest nod. Not the answer he’d wanted, but at least something.

Time was slipping. All Might glanced at his watch. With a final nod, he leapt away — praying the boy would survive the weight of those words.

Minoru Mineta couldn’t believe his luck.

Yaoyorozu. Off-the-charts sexy. And now? Partnered with him. Alone. In a locked room with the bomb.

She wanted this. Why else would she wear that costume? Skin everywhere. Teasing. Taunting. Inviting.

As she moved, his gaze roamed. Desire built with each breath. He grinned. Clearly, she was waiting for him to make the first move.

TRIGGER WARNIG! CONTENT WARNING! TRIGGER WARNING! CONTENT WARNING! TRIGGER WARNING!

He reached out. Grabbed.

She yelped. “W-why did you do that?”

“I’ve wanted to since day one. Come on, you’re dressed for attention.”

“It... it’s for my Quirk,” she protested. “I need skin exposure to create—”

He laughed. Excuses. They all gave excuses. Playing coy. Playing innocent.

“Please. You dress like that for a reason. You want this.”

She backed away. Toward the window.

He frowned. Was she roleplaying? Playing the ‘victim’ card like the last girl? That one had cried too — until his dad paid her off.

He threw his sticky balls, pinning her. She hit the floor hard.

“HELP!” she screamed.

“Oh, come on, stop pretending,” he muttered, reaching down. He shoved his hand inside her waistband.

END CONTENT WARNING! END CONTENT WARNING! END CONTENT WARNING! END CONTENT WARNING!

Then, the door exploded.

All Might stormed in. No smile. Just fury.

Mineta didn’t have time to react before he flew through the air and crashed into the wall. Pain exploded in his spine as a knee pinned him down.

“Stay down,” All Might snarled. “Or don’t. I enjoy subduing villains.”

“I’m not a villain!” Mineta shouted.

“Did you or did you not just attack Yaoyorozu?”

“She was asking for it! Her costume—”

All Might’s voice trembled with restrained rage. “I heard everything. You're lucky I’m holding back.”

Cuffs snapped shut. Aizawa entered the room, eyes burning.

Mineta tried to play his last card. “Talk to my dad! He’ll fix this like last time!”

All Might’s grip tightened. “What last time?”

“The last bitch wanted it too — they all want it. Just like you probably used your fame to bag some babes, right All Might?”

Silence.

All Might shoved him at Aizawa. “Take him. I need to get Yaoyorozu to the infirmary.”

As they passed, Yaoyorozu whispered, “Thank you, All Might.”

He nodded. “I’ve got you.”

Shouta Aizawa was exhausted.

Not the normal exhausted—the kind that came from teaching teenagers and patrolling all night—but the bone-deep exhaustion that came from too many nights with too little sleep and too many hard cases that left scars on his conscience.

Last night's patrol had run until 6 AM. He'd barely had time to shower and grab coffee before dragging himself to U.A. for homeroom.

The sleeping bag in his classroom wasn't just for show. It was survival.

He genuinely cared about his students—that's why he expelled the ones who weren't serious, who treated heroics like a game, who would get themselves or their teammates killed with their carelessness. Better to crush their dreams early than attend their funerals later.

That's what he told himself about Midoriya, anyway.

The quirkless kid had passed the entrance exam through rescue points—legitimate points, earned through genuine heroic action. Aizawa had watched the footage. The kid had guts, instinct, and a good heart.

All things that would get him killed in the field.

So Aizawa had made the logical choice. He'd adjusted the scores, created an opening, brought in Shinso Hitoshi—a kid with real potential being wasted in General Studies because the entrance exam was biased toward flashy combat Quirks.

It was logical. It was practical.

It was the right choice.

So why did it still feel wrong?

Aizawa shook his head, dismissing the thought. He had bigger concerns right now—specifically, Mineta Minoru.

The kid was a problem. Aizawa had noticed it on day one: the way he stared at the female students, the muttered comments, the complete lack of respect for boundaries. It was concerning, but not immediately actionable. Lots of teenage boys were idiots about girls. Most grew out of it with a few stern corrections.

Aizawa had planned to address it. He had. But then he'd had a new gang that somehow had Trigger to deal with, and extra patrols because of gangs suddenly having Trigger, and he'd been running on three hours of sleep for the past week, and—

Excuses. All excuses.

He should have dealt with it immediately. Should have pulled Mineta aside, made it crystal clear that sort of behavior wouldn't be tolerated. Should have been watching more carefully during training exercises.

But he'd been distracted. Tired. And he'd rationalized that he could handle it later, that it wasn't urgent, that surely the kid wouldn't do anything too stupid with teachers around.

He'd been wrong.

The Battle Trial had seemed routine enough. All Might would oversee while Aizawa caught up on paperwork and monitored from the observation room. Standard procedure.

As he watched through the surveillance feed, he saw Mineta’s hands and heard his words. Cold fury settled in his bones. He remembered Nemuri, shaking and bruised, after a ‘fan’ tried something similar years ago.

Aizawa moved.

By the time he reached the door, All Might had already taken action. Aizawa saw the girl, being comforted by All Might, terrified. He saw All Might’s face — pale with rage.

For once, Aizawa respected the man. After Yaoyorozu was safely taken care of, he turned his attention to the gremlin. Mineta was shaking. Good. He wanted the little shit to be scared.

“You’ll face the law,” Aizawa growled. “But before that, let’s talk.”

He leaned close. “I should tattoo rapist across your forehead. Make sure the world knows what you are. But no — instead, I’ll let the law deal with you just like I should as a hero. Pray I don’t change my mind.”

He ignored the stench as the gremlin peed himself. He'd keep a close eye on what would happen after this one was expelled. He owed it to Yaoyorozu for not dealing with this on the first day when he'd noticed the gremlin drooling over all of the girls. But he'd been distracted by ensuring the quirkless kid would be expelled. He'd rationalized he could deal with it later. He'd made a mistake. He'd ensure that he didn't make any more mistakes. All of the kids had better watch out; he was on the lookout now.

Chapter Text

Izuku dragged his sleeve across his forehead, smearing soot but clearing his vision just enough to see Hanabi’s latest attempt.

“Again!” he called.

Hanabi braced herself. Sparks flared along her arms—wilder than she meant—and burst too soon. They fizzled against the sandbags Izuku had set up.

She groaned. “I swear they have a personal vendetta against me.”

“They don’t,” Izuku said, adjusting his notes. “They just don’t know what they’re supposed to be doing yet.”

She shot him a look. “They’ve been part of me for sixteen years, I think they know more than I do.”

“Then they need better leadership,” he countered gently. “You’re the boss of your quirk, not the other way around.”

Hanabi blinked, then laughed softly. “That sounds like something All Might would say.”

Izuku's face turned dark, and Hanabi quickly apologized. Then she raised her hands again, inhaling slowly, grounding herself. This time the sparks gathered tighter, held steady—

“Good,” Izuku murmured.

She pushed her palms outward.

A smooth, controlled flare blossomed from her gauntlets, rising into the warehouse rafters before bursting into a crisp red star.

Hanabi gasped. “I—did you see—!”

Izuku grinned. “Exactly what I wanted. That’s your long-range signal.”

She whooped, skipping in a circle. “Izuku, that was—!”

A loud metallic thud echoed as something toppled upstairs.

Izuku sighed. “…Magne’s awake.”

A groggy voice drifted down. “Kid, if you’re not making breakfast, you owe me earplugs.”

Hanabi covered her mouth to smother a laugh.

Izuku rubbed his face. “Break time. Before she breaks us.”

The warehouse had once been a half-collapsed storage lot in the outer district. Now, under Izuku’s meticulous touch, it was becoming something else entirely.

The ground floor was a work in progress: mismatched tables rescued from thrift markets, partitions made of repainted scaffolding, cheap foam mats from a closing dojo. A whiteboard leaned against a pillar with QUIRK ANALYSIS SCHEDULES scribbled across it.

Hanabi perched on a makeshift stool as Izuku measured the space between two training zones.

“You’re turning this place into a tutoring center,” she said.

“Quirk development center,” Izuku corrected, though his ears reddened. “For kids. Or apprentices. Or… who knows. People.”

She gave him a gently teasing smile. “You’re already planning your clientele, aren’t you?”

“I just want someplace safe,” Izuku admitted quietly. “Somewhere people don’t have to be alone.”

He didn’t say the next part:

'Somewhere I wished I had even berfore HE thought I would never be a hero.'

Upstairs, the living area was barely more than a loft. A small kitchen corner. Two old mattresses on the floor. And the couch—ugly, green, and sagging slightly in the middle—that he and Magne had hauled from Dagobah Beach.

Magne had declared it “a statement piece.”

“It says what?” Hanabi had asked.

“That we’re broke,” Magne said, dropping onto it with enough force to make dust puff out the seams.

Still… it felt like home.

Mornings were for work.

Afternoons for school.

Evenings for training Hanabi.

Nights for quietly remodeling the warehouse while Magne patched leaks or reinforced beams.

Izuku found a second job working at a late-night convenience store, stocking shelves and chasing out drunk college kids. His manager adored him—Izuku never complained, never caused trouble, and could lift crates twice his size.

But he was tired.

Some days he’d lean against the freezer door, eyes closing for just a second, and think:

'If I can get Hanabi ready… if she passes… then I can really do this.'

He’d return to the warehouse smelling faintly of fried food or cleaning fluid, only to find Hanabi sitting cross-legged in the middle of the training floor, waiting with her notebook.

“You’re late,” she’d tease.

“Sorry,” he’d say, stifling a yawn. “Let’s go over the hazard zones.”

And then they’d work until midnight.

Her control sharpened.
Her confidence solidified.
Her signals became second nature.

Izuku watched her grow with a strange mixture of pride and envy and joy.

She earned it. It still didn't stop him from wishing it could be him.

Izuku Midoriya watched with bated breath as Hanabi tightened the straps on her gauntlets. The metallic sheen caught the light—sleek, lightweight, designed to maximize her pyrotechnics. She glanced up, met his eyes, and offered a small, tight smile. But Izuku noticed the nerves anyway: the twitch in her fingers, the faint sparks threatening to slip loose.

“You’ve got this,” Izuku mouthed.

Hanabi nodded once and jogged toward the staging area with the rest of the apprentice hopefuls. The Apprentice Hero Licensing Exam was designed for apprentices—less about combat, more about practical application. The first phase: search and rescue. One hour. As many civilians saved as possible. Bonus points for speed, signaling, and coordination. From the viewing platform, Izuku leaned against the railing, eyes locked on Hanabi as the whistle blew. She exploded into motion—literally. A brilliant burst of crimson fireworks lit the sky, scattering sparks across her quadrant. Izuku grinned despite the knot in his chest.

That was her opening signal: Starting rescue. Colors sharp, timing perfect. He knew the code. They had built it together:

Red for active rescue.

Blue for danger or villain interference.

Green for civilians found.

White for cleared zones.

He should have felt proud—and he did—but the thought still crept in:

'Why does it work for her, and not me? A flaregun, and I could do the exact same thing.'

Hanabi darted between collapsed buildings, nimble and fast—not quite on Ingenium's level, but fast for someone without a speed quirk. She couldn’t move debris like thirteen, but she didn’t need to. Her gift was coordination. Every time she located civilians, a green burst soared skyward. Other examinees adjusted course instantly, cutting down wasted effort. Izuku’s chest tightened. She’s turning what people call a “liability” into an advantage. He couldn’t even do that for himself.

“She’s playing conductor,” said a quiet voice. Izuku startled, turning to find Hawks leaning on the rail, wings twitching as he watched the fireworks. “And the orchestra’s listening.”

'She’s good,” Izuku said, voice low but warm. “Not the strongest, not the fastest, but her signals make everyone else better.”

Hawks tilted his head, unreadable behind tinted lenses.

“Exactly. I don’t need muscle. The Commission hates brute force anyway. I need speed, instincts, and presence. Someone who makes everyone move more smoothly and efficiently. That’s how you save people without breaking things the lawyers care about.”

Below, Hanabi knelt beside a trapped ‘civilian,’ soothing them with a bright, easy smile. She pressed a tiny sparkler into their hand, the glow distracting them while she worked.

“Winning personality? Check,” Hawks muttered. “Doesn’t flinch at attention. Cameras won’t scare her either.”

Another white flare lit the sky—zone cleared. Other examinees rerouted instantly. Hanabi wasn’t just doing her job; she was making theirs easier. And that was the difference, wasn’t it? Izuku could break through rubble, sprint faster, analyze patterns—but Hanabi lit the way. She could turn chaos into harmony. She could inspire. The last green flare bloomed overhead as the timer buzzed. Hanabi stood tall, smoke curling from her fingertips, chest heaving—and smiling, wide and radiant. Hawks gave a low whistle.

“She passed.”

Izuku’s heart jumped.

“You think so?”

“Kid, even if she didn't pass, I’d be an idiot not to take her,” Hawks said, smirking. “The Commission will eat her up—efficient, photogenic, doesn’t break things. And me? I think she’s exactly what I need.”

Izuku forced a smile as Hanabi spotted them on the platform and waved. He waved back, pride swelling in his chest. But under the pride was still that old ache—the question that wouldn’t leave him alone: 'What separates us, besides the quirk?'

The answer was simple: she was given the opportunity, and he, as much as he wanted to, knew he couldn't. Later, Hanabi sat on the bench, twirling sparks in her palm as Hawks leaned against the wall. Izuku hovered nearby, trying not to look too eager. Hawks noticed anyway.

“So,” Hawks drawled, nodding at the sparks, “let’s talk about that quirk. Flashy, loud, public-friendly. Rescue-oriented. Not bad.”

Hanabi laughed nervously. “You wouldn’t think so if you asked Eraserhead.”

One of Hawks’ brows arched. “Oh?”

“He called it useless for heroics,” she admitted, letting the spark fizzle out. “Said all I’d ever do is give myself away—or cause accidents.” Izuku tensed, guilt biting at him. He knew what it felt like to hear that word—useless. But Hanabi gave him a small smile before continuing. “But Izuku…” Her voice steadied. “Izuku saw something else. He helped me make it useful—for rescue, for coordination. Honestly, if he could do that for me, imagine what he could do for your sidekicks.”

The room fell quiet. Hawks tilted his head, golden eyes narrowing slightly—not suspicion, but thought.

“Interesting,” he murmured.

Izuku swallowed.

“I’ve always liked strategy. Helping people maximize quirks, figuring out new applications. It’s a path I could take. Maybe even pay the bills.”

Hawks smirked. “Kid, the Commission would have my feathers if I hired someone unlicensed. Liability. Paperwork. Blah blah.” He waved a hand. “But… they approved something last year. Independent contractors. Trainers. Consultants. Especially ones who aren’t tied to an agency.” He pushed off the wall, stepping closer. “How do you feel about being an independent trainer with Skybound Heroics?” Hawks asked with a grin. “Commission name, not mine. If it were up to me, it’d be ‘Birds of Prey Inc.’—but apparently that’s ‘unprofessional.’”

Izuku blinked.

“Wait—you’re serious?”

“Serious as a mid-air rescue.” Hawks shrugged. “I can’t employ you personally, but my agency can. You help my sidekicks shine, and I’ll make sure you’re compensated. Legally. With paperwork. Boring stuff, but worth it.”

Hanabi grinned.

“Told you he’d figure it out.”

“Fast learner,” Hawks said with a wink. “Comes with the wings.”

Izuku’s heart raced. Not with nerves this time, but hope. He’d been dreading what came next—when the money ran out, when options closed. But here was a door opening. He nodded, smiling.

“If we can work around my students, around my sceduled jobs… then you’ve got a deal."

Principal Nedzu poured tea with unnervingly delicate precision, humming a cheerful tune that had once made seasoned pro heroes flinch.

Across from him sat Mineta Minoru—sweaty, trembling, and visibly trying not to make eye contact with him. It always amused him how a good predator's staredown could make even the strongest heroes quiver in their boots. 

“Mineta,” Nedzu said pleasantly. “You’ve caused quite the… interesting chain reaction this year.”

Mineta flinched. “S-sir, I swear, the locker room incident wasn’t—”

“Oh, no need to explain,” Nedzu interrupted with a bright smile. “I already know. I always know.”

Mineta swallowed hard.

“Truthfully,” Nedzu continued, stirring his tea, “you’ve become something of an administrative inconvenience. Expulsions are… messy. Public relations nightmares, you understand.”

Mineta nodded vigorously.

“And yet,” Nedzu went on, tone lilting, “I abhor wasting potential. Even misdirected potential.”

Mineta froze. “Sir… what are you saying?”

Nedzu clasped his paws together.

“How would you like to… disappear?” he asked cheerfully.

Mineta squeaked. “Disappear HOW?”

“Oh, don’t worry! Nothing terminal.” Nedzu waved a paw. “Merely a transfer to my personal hero agency. A very exclusive one. Paperwork only, really. No fieldwork. No scandals. No opportunities to cause destruction.”

Mineta blinked. “You… have an agency?”

“Oh yes,” Nedzu said with a dazzling, slightly unhinged grin. “A safe haven for troubled heroes and aspiring ones who need… containment.”

“C-containment?”

“Think of it as early retirement,” Nedzu chirped. “With benefits. And invisibility.”

Mineta hesitated. Then nodded rapidly.

“Y-yes! Yes, sir! Disappear me!”

Nedzu’s smile sharpened.

“Excellent,” he purred. “I’m delighted you understand what’s best for you. And for UA’s reputation.”

As Mineta left the room—pale but relieved—Nedzu sipped his tea and murmured:

“One problem contained. One liability neutralized. Teaching is such rewarding work.”

Chapter Text

Aizawa Shouta didn't often set foot in the cafeteria during lunch hours. Too loud. Too many bodies. Too much sensory overload after a night of patrol that had stretched until 5 AM. He preferred the relative quiet of the staff lounge, where he could grab coffee and a jelly pouch in peace before passing out in his sleeping bag. But Vlad King had jammed the coffee machine again—something about "trying to make it stronger" and "it wasn't supposed to spark like that"—which meant Aizawa's options were: go without coffee, or brave the cafeteria. Not really a choice. He moved through the crowd like a ghost, a skill honed from years of underground hero work. Half-lidded eyes that looked barely conscious. Capture scarf obscuring most of his face. Steps so light they barely made a sound. Students parted without really noticing him, and that was exactly how he preferred it. The coffee station was mercifully close to the wall, away from the main seating areas. He could grab a cup, maybe steal one of Lunch Rush's jelly pouches, and escape before—

"So... what did you guys think of the first week?"

Aizawa's hand paused halfway to the coffee dispenser. That was Ashido's voice. But not her usual bubbly, energetic tone. This was quiet. Careful. The kind of carefulness that came from walking on eggshells.

"Honestly? Terrifying." Sero's voice, equally subdued. "Like, I know he expelled someone before the first day even ended. That's... that's intense."

"Midoriya-kun seemed nice," Uraraka said softly. "I met him briefly before the exam. He helped me when I was nervous."

"Yeah, well, 'nice' doesn't matter if you can't keep up."

That was Shinso. Aizawa's jaw tightened.

"That's the whole point. This isn't a charity. Hero work is dangerous. Better to fail here than die out there."

A pause.

"You sound like you're reading from a script," Kirishima said, his usual cheer notably absent.

"I'm being realistic."

And that hit Aizawa like a dart. Because hadn't he thought the same thing? He was just helping the Midoriya boy be realistic, wasn't he?

"You're being an ass," Ashido muttered.

Before that could escalate, Kaminari spoke up—and something in his voice made Aizawa freeze.

"I'm next." Kaminari's laugh was brittle, cracking in the middle. "I just know I'm next on the chopping block."

"Aww, Kami, don't think like that!" Ashido tried to encourage, but her voice wavered. "You know what they say—what we put into the universe is what we get back. I'm sure Aizawa-sensei will keep your effort in mind. You're working really hard!"

"No one ever has before." Kaminari's voice went flat, hollow. "They see the sparks, the voltage—looks flashy, right? Powerful. Electric Hero Chargebolt, coming at you with a million volts! But then I overload and fry myself stupid, and suddenly nobody wants to talk about how useful I could be. Just about how much of a liability I am." Aizawa's fingers hovered inches from the coffee cup, forgotten. "I've got ADHD," Kaminari continued, quieter now. "Had it before my Quirk came in, but the electrical discharge makes it worse. Way worse. My brain's already running at a hundred miles per hour, and then I pump it full of electricity? The doctors say every time I go into 'whey mode,' I'm doing permanent damage. They said if I go pro, if I keep pushing like this, I'll burn out my brain completely in five years. Maybe less."

"Kaminari..." Jirou's voice was soft, concerned.

"And you know what's funny? Aizawa-sensei's probably gonna expel me anyway. I can see it—I'm not fast enough, not strong enough, not controlled enough. I short myself out in every major fight. I'm exactly the kind of student he should have cut, not Midoriya." Kaminari laughed again, and it sounded wrong. Broken. "And if he does? My parents already told me the plan. I'll be working at the electrical plant. Union job, steady pay, punching a clock until it kills me. Just... slower than hero work would. More boring. Same ending."

The group fell silent. Aizawa stood frozen, coffee forgotten, a sick feeling spreading through his chest. He hadn't known. He should have known. Kaminari Denki was on his list. The mental list he carried of students who were "at risk of expulsion" if they didn't show significant improvement. Along with Hagakure, whose invisibility seemed more gimmick than practical. Along with Aoyama, whose laser was powerful but came with crippling drawbacks. Along with Midoriya, whom he'd already expelled. The quirkless boy whose red shoes still haunted his dreams some nights. The boy who'd earned his place through rescue points, through genuine heroic action, and Aizawa had thrown him out anyway because it was "logical." Because it was "safer." Because Aizawa had convinced himself that crushing the boy's dream early was kinder than watching him die later. But was it? Or had Aizawa just taken the easy path? Shoving aside students who required actual effort, actual accommodation, actual teaching—because dealing with their complications was harder than just... removing them?

'I expelled a quirkless kid to make room for a student I thought had "real potential," Aizawa thought, something cold and bitter settling in his stomach. 'And now I'm planning to expel a kid whose Quirk is actively damaging his brain. What the hell am I doing?'

"Hey, Kaminari?" Kirishima's voice cut through the silence, firm and steady. "You're not going anywhere. We're not gonna let Aizawa-sensei expel you without a fight."

"That's not how it works—"

"Then we'll make it work. You're our classmate. Our friend. And we're gonna figure this out together, okay?"

"Kirishima's right," Ashido said, her voice stronger now. "You're stuck with us, Denki. Whether you like it or not."

Aizawa finally moved, stepping away from the coffee station with empty hands. He didn't need caffeine anymore. He needed to think.

 "We need to discuss the makeup Battle Trial," All Might said, "After the... incident with Young Mineta, we never completed the exercise."

"Just run it again," Vlad King said with a shrug. "Same teams, same scenario. Simple."

"Perhaps we should reconsider the matchups," Thirteen suggested gently. "Given the circumstances—"

"The circumstances are that one student was a predator and has been dealt with," Aizawa cut in, his voice flat. "The exercise itself was sound. We run it again with the same parameters."

Nemuri—Midnight—gave him a long look.

"You okay, Shouta? You seem more grumpy than usual. And that's saying something."

"I'm fine."

"You're lying, but we'll table that for now." She leaned back in her chair. "Any concerns about specific matchups?"

Aizawa pulled up the roster on his tablet. "Bakugo versus Iida and Shinso. Bakugo plays the hero, the other two defend."

"Bakugo's aggressive," All Might said carefully. "But his combat instincts are sharp. With proper supervision—"

"He'll be fine," Aizawa said. "And if he's not, that's what we're here for."

If he'd been less exhausted, less distracted by the conversation he'd overheard, less consumed by doubts about his own methods, he might have thought harder about that matchup. He might have remembered that Bakugo's aggression wasn't just confidence—it was barely controlled rage. He might have considered that Shinso was still new, still learning his Quirk's nuances, still figuring out the weight of responsibility that came with mind control. He might have realized that putting those two together, in a high-stress combat scenario, with Bakugo's explosive temperament and Shinso's untested control, was a recipe for disaster. But he didn't. Later, Aizawa would add this to his growing list of failures.

Katsuki Bakugo was pissed. The original trial had been scrapped because that grape-headed freak couldn't keep his hands to himself. Bakugo's shot at proving his dominance—at showing every extra in this class exactly where they stood—had been stolen. And wasn't that just perfect? UA was turning out to be just like Aldera, and yet not at the same time. They'd tossed Deku aside on day one, just like everyone else always had. No one cared about actually helping people succeed—they just cut anyone who didn't fit their perfect mold.

Not that Deku deserved to be here. Obviously. The nerd was quirkless. He would've died. But the principle still grated, that Deku had been expelled and grape fucker had been allowed to stay, to almost... Whatever. Today, he'd prove his point. One hero versus two villains. Just like All Might. Just what was his right. He didn't need backup. Didn't need anyone.

After all, his opponents were two weaklings: Four-Eyes with his stick-up-his-ass attitude, and Eyebags, the creepy kid who'd taken Deku's spot, whose quirk he didn't know yet. But it didn't matter. He'd prove he was the best. Right here. Right now.

"Remember, Young Bakugo," All Might's voice crackled through the comm. "This is a training exercise. Control your explosions. The goal is to capture the weapon, not to injure your classmates."

"Yeah, yeah. I got it."

The whistle blew. Bakugo blasted up the stairs to the first floor, quickly clearing it and deciding that Four Eyes would probably think like a hero rather than a villain and put the bomb on the top floor. So up he went. Eyebags was waiting at the top of the stairs, leaning against the wall with that infuriating calm expression. Four-eyes stood beside him, already in a runner's stance, engines humming.

"Took you long enough," Eyebags said. "I was starting to think you'd gotten lost."

Bakugo snarled and threw an explosion at them. Both dodged—Four eyes with a burst of speed, Eyebags by diving left. Good. They were taking this seriously, at least. He pressed forward, eyes locked on the bomb behind them. Four eyes lunged at him, fast as hell, but Bakugo had trained against speed users before. He braced, let Iida overshoot, and blasted himself toward the weapon. Almost there. Almost—

"What, not going to face me like a man?" The taunt cut through the air, sharp and deliberate.

"FUCK YOU!"

And then everything went wrong. His body stopped responding. Muscles went slack, limp, completely beyond his control. His brain screamed at his limbs to move, to fight, to do something, but nothing happened. His hand was still raised, still clutching the pin of his grenade gauntlet—the support item he'd been reaching for, planning to use for one massive blast to keep them back. And he couldn't stop it. The pin slipped free. Eyebag's eyes went wide, the smug expression vanishing instantly.

"Wait—"

Four eyes dove forward, hands outstretched, trying desperately to grab the gauntlet and point it away. But the support item was too heavy, and Four Eyes wasn't a strong user. His fingers scrabbled at the metal as it dropped. The arm fell. The gauntlet hit the ground. And exploded.

CONTENT WARNING! TRIGGER WARNING! CONTENT WARNING! TRIGGER WARNING! CONTENT WARNING!

The sound was deafening—a concussive blast that rattled the entire training building. Heat and pressure and light, all at once, so bright that Hitoshi had to close his eyes. When he opened them again, the world had changed. Smoke. Thick and acrid. The smell of burnt... something. Something that made his stomach turn. And screaming. High and raw and animal, the kind of scream that humans weren't supposed to make.

Hitoshi's Quirk released automatically, shock breaking his concentration. Bakugo stumbled forward, free again, and turned. Iida was on the ground. His right leg—the one with the engines, the one that defined his Quirk, his future, his entire identity—was gone.

Not broken.

  Not damaged.

        Gone.

Ending in a blackened, cauterized stump just above the knee.

Blood pooled on the concrete despite the cauterization, spreading in a dark puddle that reflected the emergency lights.

Iida's hands scrabbled at the ground, his body twitching and convulsing, eyes rolled back in his head as his brain tried to process trauma that was beyond processing.

Bakugo stood frozen, his hands still smoking, eyes wide and uncomprehending.

"I didn't—" His voice cracked. "I wasn't—I didn't mean—"

The door exploded inward. All Might, moving faster than Hitoshi had ever seen anyone move, was at Iida's side in an instant. Recovery Girl was right behind him, medical kit already open.

"Don't move him!" she barked. "Someone call an ambulance! NOW!"

Cementoss was already on his comm. Aizawa appeared in the doorway, took one look at the scene, and his face went gray. Hitoshi stood in the middle of it all, unable to move, unable to think, unable to do anything except stare at Iida's leg—at where Iida's leg should have been.

'This is my fault. I provoked him. I knew what I was doing. I wanted him to react. This is my fault.'

END CONTENT WARNING! END CONTENT WARNING! END CONTENT WARNING! END CONTENT WARNING!

The hospital room was quiet except for the steady beep of monitors. Iida Tenya lay in the bed, sedated, his right leg ending in bandages and medical foam. His parents sat on either side, his mother's face tear-streaked and exhausted, his father's expression carved from stone. Outside the room, Aizawa stood with his back against the wall, feeling every one of his thirty years like lead weights.

"The Iida family is pressing charges," Nedzu said quietly, appearing beside him without warning. The principal had a gift for that. "Against Bakugo. Against UA. Against you specifically, as the homeroom teacher."

"Good." Aizawa's voice was hollow. "They should."

"They're calling for Bakugo's immediate expulsion and criminal prosecution. They want him in juvenile detention."

"Good," Aizawa repeated.

"They're also demanding a full review of your teaching methods. Your expulsion policy. Your fitness to teach at all."

"Good."

Nedzu studied him with those too-intelligent eyes.

"You don't agree with them, do you? You think they're right."

"Don't you?" Aizawa turned to face the principal. "A student lost his leg. His leg, Nedzu. His heroic career is over before it started. Because I put him in a situation with another student I knew was volatile, supervised by a teacher I knew was new, had no experience teaching, in an exercise I approved without thinking through the consequences."

"You couldn't have predicted—"

"That's my job." Aizawa's hands clenched into fists. "Predicting. Planning. Keeping students safe while pushing them to improve. That's what teaching is supposed to be. And I failed. Spectacularly."

Nedzu was quiet for a long moment.

"Bakugo will be expelled," he finally said. "The board has already decided. The Iida family's lawyers are... persuasive. And frankly, even without their pressure, this incident is indefensible."

"What about Shinso?"

"What about him?"

"He provoked Bakugo deliberately. He knew—or should have known—what his Quirk could do in that situation."

"He's fifteen," Nedzu said. "A child. Learning. Making mistakes. Should he have been more careful? Yes. Does that make him criminally liable? No." The principal's expression hardened. "Bakugo pulled the pin on that gauntlet. Bakugo created the explosive situation. Quite literally. Shinso's provocation was foolish, but it wasn't malicious. The same cannot be said for Bakugo's response."

Aizawa wanted to argue. Found he couldn't. "And you, Aizawa?"

"What about me?"

"The board is considering your termination. The Iida family wants your head almost as much as they want Bakugo's." Nedzu's smile was thin. "I'm fighting for you. But I need to know: do you want me to?"

Aizawa stared at the closed hospital door. The family beyond it, destroyed by his negligence.

"I don't know," he admitted. "I don't know if I should be teaching anymore."

"That's not an answer."

"It's the only one I have."

The next day, the students sat in stunned silence as Aizawa stood before them. He looked worse than they'd ever seen him—not just tired, but broken. Like something fundamental inside him had cracked and couldn't be put back together.

"Iida Tenya is in stable condition," Aizawa said, his voice flat and mechanical. "He's lost his right leg above the knee. It cannot be regenerated. His hero career is over."

Someone made a small, wounded sound. Maybe Uraraka. Maybe Yaoyorozu. Aizawa couldn't tell.

"Bakugo Katsuki has been expelled from UA, effective immediately. He will face criminal charges for his actions. The trial will likely result in probation and mandatory counseling, possibly juvenile detention."

Shinso sat at his desk, staring at nothing, face pale as death.

"This was my fault," Aizawa continued. "I approved the matchup. I supervised the exercise. I failed to predict and prevent this outcome. That is my responsibility, and I take it fully."

"But—" Kirishima started.

"No." Aizawa's voice was sharp. "There is no 'but.' A student under my care was permanently maimed. Another student's life is effectively over. Those are facts. They happened because I wasn't good enough at my job."

The class fell silent again.

"Going forward, all combat exercises will be reviewed by multiple teachers. All potentially dangerous matchups will be reassessed. And I..." He paused. "I will be reevaluating my entire approach to teaching."

He looked at each of them—at Kaminari, whom he'd planned to expel. At Hagakure. At Aoyama. At Shinso, who looked like he wanted to disappear into the floor.

"I thought I was protecting you by being harsh. By cutting anyone who couldn't immediately keep up. I told myself it was logical. Practical. That it was kinder to end dreams early than to watch them die in the field." His jaw tightened. "I was wrong. I wasn't protecting you. I was protecting myself from the work of actually teaching."

Kaminari's head snapped up, eyes wide.

"So here's what's going to change," Aizawa said. "No more expulsions without exhausting every other option first. No more logical ruses that are really just excuses to give up on students. If you're struggling, we find solutions. If your Quirk has drawbacks, we work around them. That's what teaching is supposed to be."

He gestured to Shinso. "You need to learn control and judgment. We'll work on that."

To Kaminari:

"You need support equipment and strategies to prevent overload. We'll find them."

To the whole class:

"I will do better. I have to. Because I can't—" His voice caught. "I can't fail another student."

The silence that followed was heavy but somehow less suffocating than before. Finally, Yaoyorozu raised her hand.

"Sensei? What about Midoriya-san?"

Aizawa's chest tightened.

"What about him?"

"You expelled him on the first day. For being quirkless. If you're changing your approach... shouldn't he get another chance too?"

Every eye in the class turned to Aizawa. The quirkless boy. The one he'd thrown out to make room for Shinso. The one whose red shoes still haunted him. The one who might have approached that Battle Trial differently, who might have seen the danger, who might have—

"I don't know where he is," Aizawa said quietly.

"We could find him," Uraraka suggested. "We could try?"

Could they?

Should they?

Aizawa had taken that boy's dream and crushed it. Had told him he wasn't good enough, wasn't wanted, wasn't worthy. What possible right did he have to show up now and say, "Actually, I was wrong, want to come back?"

But maybe that was the point. Maybe facing that shame, that failure, was exactly what he needed to do.

"I'll think about it," he said finally.

It wasn't a yes. But it wasn't a no either. And for the first time in days, that felt like something.

Later that day, Aizawa sat alone, staring at his coffee, when All Might appeared in the doorway—skinny, exhausted Toshinori, not the Symbol of Peace.

"Couldn't sleep?" Toshinori asked, sounding surprised.

"Haven't really slept in days."

Toshinori poured himself tea and sat down. For a while, neither spoke.

"I keep thinking about that boy," Toshinori finally said. " Midoriya."

"The one I expelled."

"The one we both failed." Toshinori stared into his tea. "I told him he couldn't be a hero. You expelled him from the school he'd worked so hard to reach. And then we just... moved on. Like he didn't matter."

"He mattered."

"Then why didn't we act like it?"

Aizawa had no answer.

"Yaoyorozu was right," Toshinori continued. "If you're changing your approach, if you're committing to not giving up on students... that has to include him too. Doesn't it?"

He looked at Toshinori, eyebrow raised. 

"The staff talk, and gossip never stays quiet around here."

"He's probably moved on. Found something else. He doesn't need us showing up and reopening old wounds."

"Or maybe he's been waiting. Hoping. Wondering if anyone would ever believe in him." Toshinori met Aizawa's eyes. "We owe him an apology at minimum. A real one. Even if he tells us to go to hell."

Aizawa thought about red shoes. About Kaminari's voice saying no one has ever helped him before. About Iida's missing leg and Bakugo's empty desk and all the ways he'd failed.

"Yeah," he said quietly. "We do."

"So we find him?"

"We find him." Aizawa nodded. "And we hope he'll listen."

"And if he won't?"

"Then we accept that we destroyed that bridge and live with it." Aizawa drank his cold coffee. "But at least we tried."

It wasn't redemption. It wasn't enough. But it was a start.