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If anyone knows how to plan ahead, it’s Midoriya Hisashi. The archvillain All for One and Izuku’s father tumble and tangle within the man’s mind–they are one in the same; truly, they always have been–and the air around him grows denser and heavier in the wake of all his ideals. Oceans of everything unsightly and unforming crash against the sand of his skin and chip off pieces of the good in him until All for One is the only thing that is left. Solitary. But isn’t one the loneliest number, anyway?
The truth of his lies lie beneath his skin in an array of half-facts and white lily petals that swirl and mystify as he speaks, but never remove from within even when he is alone, sitting, waiting for the other shoe to drop–for something to go wrong. But All for One knows the pain of failure like the back of his own hand, pulsing and fluttering beneath the weight of his truths and his lies and what little good there might remain within him.
He dreams of a time and a place much unlike the one he finds himself in. He dreams of wicked, winged creatures streaking in tailwinds of frightened screams and bloodlust infernos against back-lit skies of starless darkness. He dreams of a world in ruin and the bulldozed face of reality and the goodness he could bring to it while rebuilding the Earth from the flatness of nothing and the joy of a chance. The world could be a better place–a happier place–he thinks, if he was the only puppetmaster pulling and picking at fraying strings.
The way things are now… well. They just won’t do, now will they? Heroes are glorified for their selflessness and their drive–their grit, really–but they aren’t the only ones spurred on by mammoth overloads of determination and a will to change things for the better. They are, however contradictorily it may be, the only ones working to make a difference–the only difference that truly matters for now–that also gain money, fame, and glory for their efforts. It’s not the way things are supposed to be. All for One knows this like he still knows his brother in some twisted, convoluted way; that the skull that had crushed beneath his fingertips was not an act in vain, whether or not the previous cracks of a snapping neck and a crumpling form were any statement of victory or of farce.
And he knows that the fall of hero society is just the right amount of chaos the world needs to fall into just the right amount of disarray and just the right angle upon his open, outstretched palm. He reaches out for a light in the darkness and wanes away from it. Blindsided against the wholly contradictory, mainly hypocritical path towards his own glory–his own ideals–there is just enough opposition to the hero society of Japan and the rest of the world to call his trophy “reasonable”, “necessary”, or something equally as untrue; white lily petals bloom and whisper sweet nothings beneath his skin. Because even though they are lies (as the good in him undoubtedly knows), they are damn good ones.
So, All for One starts scheming. Gathers the pieces of his dark and twisted chess board and paints red “X”s on the pieces who have… fallen.
Wind rattles leaves against the side of a lonesome apartment in the heart of Musutafu, and the sound might sound like rain to the unfocused ear. Backward pawns lie in rest within the building, sheltered by the darkness of night and the spaces between these pawns and All for One’s king piece. (They were supposed to be on the same side, weren’t they?)
Rain falls like the side-spray of a waterfall, light and seamless against the backdrop of everything that does and doesn’t matter.
All for One commandeers his men from the shadows; reveals himself seldomly. Commands dirty puppets on silver strings and sheds no tears when they remain fallen. The world has never been so kind to him and his kind, for God does not only treat the “good ones” as good as they deserve, nor as bad as they do. All for One prepares a facility and lies in wait for the pieces to near his own and for the pre-game planning to come to an end (as if it ever would).
/ / / / /
Skylights battered by wind and rain in early Springtime create orchestras of thunder and cheer that mingle about the room as Izuku and his mother play board games and video games and card games and watch movies until the power goes out and laugh above the soft light of waxen candles and oil lanterns long-obsolete but too reminiscent to be rid of.
Inko smothers her child in love and warmth and care and he soaks up her light like a moth or a plant, photosynthesizing. He knows these perfect days won’t last; knows it is not in God’s will to grant peace at all times, for future blessings are well worth fighting for.
He knows he will bend but never break in his pursuit of happiness–that the people he loves will always be in danger of tripping and falling behind him, unable to keep up–but he also does know with his might and his will and the strength from his friends and his mother and his peers and the heroes of this era, nearly anything will be possible.
And he knows All for One is scheming–planning something–despite not knowing what this plan may include in the slightest. He knows many fights are coming, and he knows that the world will be torn apart at the hands of a monstrous man, shrouded in darkness forever and crowded by foreign exposure to bioengineered individuals and the monsters that become of combination and hellish synthesis.
But none of this will come to fruition; not if Izuku has anything to say about it. Back rank. Checkmate.
/ / / / /
Padded room. Compartmentalize. Fear. All for One smiles and tightens his strings. Checkmate.