Chapter Text
Izuku Midoriya and his mother, Inko Midoriya, sat in the waiting room of the quirk doctor’s clinic.
Well, Inko sat. Izuku was practically a vibrating green blur—feet kicking, fingers drumming, eyes flicking toward the hallway every few seconds like it might magically summon someone.
“Sweetheart,” Inko said gently, trying to calm him down. “You’re going to wear a hole in the chair.”
“I can’t help it, Mom!” Izuku hissed back, eyes wide with excitement. “What if it’s cool? What if it’s super strong?! Or weird?! Or super weird and strong?!”
She smiled, brushing his bangs out of his face. “Whatever it is, we’ll love it, okay?”
Before he could spin himself into another round of theories, the door across the room creaked open.
A tall, slim woman stepped out. Her white lab coat looked freshly pressed, her long black hair tied into a neat low ponytail. Her yellow eyes scanned the room once before locking on to the green-haired kid practically buzzing in his seat.
“Izuku Midoriya?” she asked, crisp and to the point. “The doctor is ready to see you.”
“That’s me! That’s me!!” Izuku practically shouted, scrambling to his feet and grabbing his mom’s arm—dragging her with him, whether she was ready or not.
“Ow! Hair—hair, Izuku!” Inko winced as he nearly yanked it out by the roots. “Okay, okay—slow down, I’m coming!”
The testing phase was a blur of wires, blinking machines, glowing screens, and strange instructions. Izuku loved all of it. He had to draw shapes, write sentences, eat different kinds of food, and even run on a treadmill while they monitored the density of his sweat.
By the time it was over, he was sweaty, sticky, and slumped in a chair with his mom beside him, both of them facing a desk with a tired-looking young man behind it.
The doctor was probably in his late twenties. Short black hair. Clean glasses. Chin-length beard. Coat slightly rumpled, like he’d been reading reports for the last six hours straight and forgot how to blink. His name tag read: Dr. Hajime Kuroda – Quirk Analyst.
He glanced over the data on his tablet, nodded slowly, then looked up at them.
“Well,” he said, setting the device down. “The results are in—and I’ll be honest, this one’s… unique. Not unheard of, but definitely rare. Izuku’s quirk is classified as an Emitter -type, and it’s both creative and physically demanding.”
Izuku sat up straighter, eyes locked on the man.
“It allows him to generate a construct—a specialized notebook and pen—by converting stored body fat and calories into matter. Once created, these tools act as channels for his ability. With the pen, he can either write directly into the notebook or draw in open space. The ink is luminous and stable for a few minutes, depending on the detail and complexity of what he creates.”
Inko blinked. “So… he burns fat to make books and pens?”
Kuroda nodded. “Essentially. His quirk metabolizes excess calories and fat deposits into ink-like matter, which his body molds into tools. The pen and notebook aren’t ordinary, though. When used correctly, anything written or drawn manifests physically within a limited radius—usually a few meters. Small objects, basic shapes, temporary constructs. Think of it like… blueprint-based reality crafting.”
Izuku’s jaw dropped. “So I can draw a sword and use it?!”
“You can draw a sword,” the doctor confirmed. “But unless you understand how to draw a functional sword—handle, weight, balance, structure—it may come out brittle, or even collapse entirely. The same applies to anything with moving parts. Complexity burns energy. Too much, and you’ll pass out. Or worse.”
Inko paled. “Isn’t that dangerous?”
“Most quirks are,” Kuroda replied evenly. “But Izuku’s body adapts to compensate. His metabolism is unusually high for his age. If he trains properly, maintains a calorie-rich diet, and rests between uses, he’ll be fine. In fact…” he gave a small smile, tapping the screen, “he’ll likely never gain much weight. His quirk is constantly burning through fat stores, so he’ll stay lean regardless of intake.”
Izuku blinked, then grinned. “Wait—so I can eat whatever I want and still have a six-pack?!”
Kuroda chuckled. “In theory, yes. But you’ll also be exhausted if you overuse it. You’re not a machine—you still have limits.”
Izuku turned to his mom, practically bouncing again. “Mom! I can make stuff out of drawings! I can write something and make it real! Like— actual real! ”
Inko smiled weakly, still overwhelmed. “That’s… amazing, Izuku.”
Kuroda raised a finger. “Just remember—control is everything. Drawing in midair uses more energy but is faster and more visible. The notebook is more discreet. Heroes tend to prefer that, especially in covert ops or high-risk zones. Less flash, more function.”
Izuku’s mind was already racing.
He could see it. Sketching up a shield to block an attack. Writing “trap door” under a villain’s feet. Drawing chains midair to catch someone mid-flight. There were so many possibilities.
Kuroda leaned back in his chair. “If nurtured properly, this quirk could be extremely effective in both support and combat roles. I recommend applying for a developmental license early—maybe even a private tutor once his body starts maturing with the quirk.”
Inko exhaled and nodded. “We’ll do whatever it takes.”
Kuroda looked at Izuku, eyes sharp.
“You’ve been given a powerful tool, Izuku. It can build… or destroy. Don’t let excitement blind you to responsibility.”
Izuku nodded, serious now.
“I won’t,” he said.
He meant it.
Dr. Kuroda leaned back in his chair, arms crossed casually. “So, Izuku,” he asked with a small smile tugging at the edge of his mouth, “what do you want to call your quirk?”
Izuku’s eyes lit up like fireworks. “I WANNA NAME IT— AUTHOR!! ”
The room fell quiet for a second—then Kuroda let out a soft chuckle. “Simple. Fitting. I like it.”
Inko blinked. “Author, huh?”
“Because I can write things!” Izuku beamed, practically bouncing again. “And—and I make a pen! And a notebook! And it’s like I’m writing the world! ”
Kuroda gave an approving nod. “It’s got a strong image. Easy to remember. That kind of name sticks.”
The rest of the day passed in a blur of paperwork and congratulatory hugs. Inko treated him to katsudon on the way home—his favorite—and even let him get extra sauce.
But Izuku barely touched his food.
His mind was somewhere else entirely.
In the back seat of the car, seatbelt strapped over his chest and grease-stained bag sitting forgotten in his lap, he sat completely still—eyes closed, breathing slow, hands pressed flat on his thighs.
Come on, he thought. Come on... just a pen. Just a notebook. One little thing...
Kuroda had said it came from inside. Not muscle, not skin— energy. Calorie-burn. The core of the quirk was transformation through intention. Izuku focused, just like during the tests. He pictured the notebook in his mind. The pen. The way it had looked in the lab, black cover with silver trim, pages lined and smooth. He imagined it forming in his hand, imagined it sliding out of him like ink from under his skin.
He felt... something. A tickle. A warmth that buzzed like soda fizz under his skin.
And then—
“...!”
It started in his forearm. A shifting pressure, like squeezing toothpaste from the wrong end of the tube. It didn’t hurt, but it itched, like static crawling under his flesh. Izuku clenched his teeth, sweat beading on his temple. It felt weird.
Fifteen long seconds passed. Then—
Shlrrp.
A faint, slurping sound came from his arm.
A rectangular shape pushed itself out of the skin on his forearm, materializing slowly like someone feeding paper through a printer. It wasn’t bloody. It wasn’t violent. It was clean, like watching a solid object emerge from water.
Inko nearly swerved the car.
“Izuku??!” she gasped, looking in the mirror. “Is everything alright?!”
“I did it, ” he whispered, eyes wide, staring at the sleek black notebook now resting in his lap. It was warm. A little sticky. But it felt real.
He touched it. Flexed the cover. The moment his hand curled around it, the pen formed next—just behind his ear like it had always belonged there. He reached up, pulled it free. It came loose like a magnet, humming with potential.
His heart pounded.
He had summoned it.
His quirk worked.
He clutched the notebook to his chest and grinned so wide it nearly split his face. “I DID IT!! MOM, I MADE IT!!!”
Inko laughed, part startled, part proud. “Okay, okay! Just don’t explode in the car!”
“I’M A HERO ALREADY!!” Izuku shouted, holding the notebook over his head like a trophy.
Outside, the sun dipped low behind the buildings. But inside that tiny car, under the warmth of fading light, a kid with a wild dream and a brand-new quirk had just taken his very first step toward becoming something extraordinary.