Chapter Text
Somewhere in Shizuoka, there was a teenager crouched down at the mouth of an alley. Dressed in a standard black school uniform, with his dark hair hanging down his face in waves and a beige messenger bag resting against his thigh, he was like a shadow off the course of the rush hour foot traffic, swinging a stand of red yarn in a kitten's face. It was a white and brown ball of fur, thin, fuzzy, jittery; at most two months old. He imagined what he must've been doing the day it was born: Probably at school, listening to his classmates chatter while he took sips from his juice box and did the homework assigned in the morning. A sardonic smile graced his plain features; this baby animal knew nothing of this world.
Letting go of the strand for it to chew and kick at on its own, he unzipped the outer pocket of his bag. His fingers curled around the aluminum packaging of the wet cat food. However, the kitten seemed to not like the sudden change of his movements, or maybe the sound of the zipper or the crumpling aluminum. It suddenly jumped onto all fours, its tail puffed up, and it bared its teeth at him, hissing. One cautious step away from him, then another, and then it bolted back into the darkness he had coaxed it out of, wobbling on tiny paws.
"Ah! No!" he called out to it desperately, falling on one knee, his hand flying out of his bag to extend towards it, but he didn't chase it, and it was gone.
His body deflated. His shoulders fell and his hair even lost its volume, becoming flat. He pulled his hand back, looked down at it, wondered why it always ended this way.
No one quite remembers the first years of their lives, though trying to do so often brings up a feeling of nostalgia, of freedom and insouciance. Everything that happens is meant to be. If there is happiness, there just is; if there is pain, it is deserved; if there is love, it belongs, and is warm, and endless.
Aizawa Shouta didn't remember the days leading up to the sixth week before his fifth birthday. All he knew was that something had changed. The eyes that watched him with anticipation had turned away, the kids pulling him this and that way in recess had left him to himself. For the longest time, he hadn't connected it to the manifestation of his Quirk: his very own, unique special ability in a world full of superhumans and heroes. It was so obvious now. So out there. So logical.
He'd been in this position before. A girl his age had been sobbing as she'd run past him and away from two boys, one with the legs and tail of a kangaroo, laughing as he chased the other one who kept spitting glue at her and didn't appear inclined to let her be. Shouta had put his foot down and glared at them, the roots of his hair tugging at his scalp, the collar of his elementary uniform top lifting to brush chin, glowing eyes itching. "Leave her alone!" he'd demanded, his voice pitching high, petulant.
The boys had looked around with scowls on their faces and ended up trembling in their boots. "Sh— Shocchan!" the glue-spitter had stuttered, leaving kangaroo-legs to squeak in fear. "Aaaaah! He's gonna take our Quirks!" they'd cried and kicked up dirt hightailing it. It'd gotten in Shouta's eyes, making him blink and rub at them, and whine because that only pushed it in. He'd opened them despite the pain to check on the girl. Her long grey hair had clumps of translucent white in them along with her clothes, the glue, and she still hiccupped where she stood, guarding her face with her milky arms.
Her sadness had infected him as well, so he'd reached out with his right hand. Just a little. She'd seen, had flinched, and run away.
He'd stayed frozen like that for half a minute. I wanted to help, he'd thought. Isn't it okay that I can't be a hero, if I can help?
Who would want to be saved by a villain?
Shouta stood up and patted his knees free of grime. He opened his bag to count his keys, wallet and stationary, just in case, before making his way home.
It was dark when he arrived at their single family house with old-yellow walls and a brick red roof, pots of violets decorating the windows, the lights that were on inside spilling out through light blue curtains. Steel clicked as he pushed the handle down, the cooler air hit his cheeks, the conditioner whirring in the living room. He toed his shoes off and closed the front door. Further in, on his left, he could see the back of his father's head over the back of the sofa, the familiar short trim of his black hair. He couldn't see his face as it was turned towards the TV, and he didn't bother with greeting his son, changing the channel for the news instead.
Shouta went down the hall and into the open kitchen. The bathroom was closer to it than to the living room, so he could now hear the muffled sound of the showerhead running. There was a bowl of nikujaga on the dining table, still lightly steaming. He hung his bag on the back of his usual chair and sat down, took the chopsticks set next to the dish, brought his hands up to say a quick prayer, and began to eat. At the same time, he thought of the kitten. Hopefully, it wouldn't get sick or hurt; it hadn't looked like it had a mother or siblings close by. He should've poured the food out anyway, it occurred to him, it could've come back to eat it. It was as if he'd punished the kitten for getting startled when he hadn't meant to, and he sighed, feeling ashamed.
He'd moved on to contemplating this month's literature assignment by the time his mother stepped out of the shower. She walked into the kitchen and beelined for the fridge, her slippers slapping on the parquet. She took out a frosted glass with a slice of lemon and two cubes of ice from the freezer, then the bottle of mineral water from the fridge. The ice cracked in the cold yet still warmer beverage. Water ran down her brown hair and soaked into her pink bathrobe. She tensed.
Her Quirk was 360 Vision. Shouta knew it helped her a lot in her job as a preschool teacher. They'd signed him up for her class when he'd been little and she'd always noticed any unscrupulous behavior. He hadn't had to worry about anything.
He drew his eyes away and pretended not to see how she relaxed out of the corner of them. They spent this time in silence, her drinking her fizzy drink, him tilting the remaining sauce into his mouth. He licked his lips clean and got up to rinse the bowl and utensils, checked the dishwasher, then put them in it for future washing. Shouldering his bag, he went to his room and threw himself on his bed. The covers bounced with him.
On his bedside table was a hefty novel with pieces of colorful note paper sticking out of the pages. He grabbed it, turned on his reading light, and picked up where he'd left off.
The next afternoon, he was dragging his feet along the same street, staring down at the career application form he was clutching in his hands. Their homeroom teacher had handed these out before the end of the day, saying they were third years now and that they needed to start thinking about high school sooner rather than later. "You're all pretty much planning to go into the hero course, right?" he'd tacked on straight after. As Shouta frowned at the sheet, blank except for the innocent template inked into it, his mind was just as empty.
Because the truth was that for all everyone treated him like a festering force of evil, he was nothing special. He wasn't strong or particularly vigilant. When someone said "hero candidate", they didn't picture a kid like Shouta. They pictured someone with the ability to split the ground in half, to send them into the air with a single touch, to run fast enough to bend a thug over their shoulder and chuck them into a jail cell in one breath. With Quirks getting weaker generation by generation, most villains today were desperate people with nothing to lose and most heroes, while they helped, were basically overpowered eye candy.
Why pay a sea of mediocre people to struggle and risk their lives when a few outstanding ones could do the job easily? There was no reason. As a result, a hero pummeling a thief they were five times the mass of into asphalt was a regular sight while commuting. It was cruel and superficial, and Shouta wondered if a villain would also think that way.
"We, as people, need to cultivate more empathy for each other," came a voice from his right, through the window pane of an electronics store. Shouta stopped in front of it, having recognized the place: the same store that had been playing soft jazz as he'd played with the kitten the previous day. He looked at the vintage phones and instruments as an old radio thrummed with the interview. "We don't choose what we're born with, so how can we judge each other's worth by that? How can we expect our lives to turn out the same?" The cadence of the interviewee's speech was calming, almost fatherly. Inside, sitting on a wooden stool behind a wide work desk was an elderly man, holding onto a cane and buried in a plaid shirt a few sizes too big for him. He smiled and waved at Shouta when their eyes met. Shouta tried to smile back but it felt more like a grimace. "We must consider that maybe our Quirks shouldn't define us. Maybe, what should define us is our ideals."
"Oh." Shouta pulled his bag in front of himself and hunched over it, shoving the paper into it and digging for the packet of wet food. He held it tightly and faced the corner leading to the alley. The kitten might not be there anymore but, even so, it would feed another animal, wouldn't it?
"Changing the world is difficult," the interview continued as he approached the alley, "but I believe we can do it."
He tore the top of the packaging. There was nothing but the huge, blue garbage container, crushed cardboard boxes, the closed manhole and the wire fence between the buildings. He got on one knee and squeezed the packet, pressing the saucy chicken out through the tear. The stewy smell of it filled his nose.
That was the moment when the manhole cover blew up into the air and landed behind the fence with a clang. A giant coalition of filthy slime emerged from it, carrying within its body a man with bushy, forest green hair, matching jumper and cargo pants, red boots and thick, white gloves. His big, green, horrified eyes found Shouta. "Run!" he yelled at him. Distantly, Shouta realized that it was the same voice as the one from the radio, along with the fact that the slime had its own pair of eyes and a mouth. "Everybody, get away!"
Shouta jumped to his feet and ran with the scrambling pedestrians. The man, who must be a pro hero if his attire proved anything, with his hands still trapped in the slime, bent his arm back to unclip a spray bottle from his utility belt before a line of ice crackled through the slimy criminal. They yowled, letting the hero drop into a roll, but recovered quickly and charged at him, only to be sprinkled even harder. Shouta hung back with the crowd to watch the fight from a distance, feeling out of place yet curious.
As the hero performed some complicated acrobatics around the villain, Shouta spotted what he was pretty sure were two handguns strapped to the sides of his belt, then a different spray bottle and two secured pouches, one on the back and one in front. The hero drew circles while freezing them bit by bit, aiming a kick or punch into their eyes whenever they got too close to touching him. He could've just sprayed their eyes but Shouta supposed that would not only cause them to lash out more but also make their attacks unpredictable.
This dance went on for a while, though the hero's spray wasn't running out and he didn't appear worried about it either. A civilian, in an attempt to assist, threw her open bottle of water at the villain. They absorbed the spill without even taking note of it. Shouta squinted at the wet trail their body left as they moved.
They swiped at the hero's feet once more. It was unclear whether he'd gotten tired or distracted but they caught him, flinging him up and swinging him back onto the road. He hugged his head but there was a sharp crack as he hit the ground. Gasps rippled through the crowd. The hero yelped as he was yanked up again, trying to hold on to something, the spray flying out of his grip and clattering somewhere. He landed on his back and choked as his breath left his lungs in a rush.
A restless energy travelled through Shouta's body. He gripped the strap of his bag, the weight of it grounding him to where he was.
The villain dragged the hero in an arc, getting ready to toss him for a third time. His nails left scratch marks in the asphalt. "Look around you, there's nowhere to go!" he yelled hoarsely. "You're only a thief! Do you think whatever you stole will make up for manslaughter charges?"
"I'm sure you have enough saved up, meat suit!" they taunted him back. "Don't worry, I'll make it look like a suicide when I'm done with your body!"
With that, the hero collided with the building on the other side of the alley. He dropped to the sidewalk and curled in on himself, holding his shoulder gingerly. The shadow of their mass eclipsed him as they wriggled up. He looked up at them, a dangerous glint in his eyes, and forced himself to stand. His left arm hung limply while the other bent back so that he could retrieve his second spray.
"Seriously?" they grumbled. He aimed the spray at their face like it was a shield. "You heroes never know when to give up." A demented grin stretched up to their eyes. "I guess you can always learn!"
They struck, flames burst forth from the nozzle, and Shouta activated his Quirk.
The hero blinked, watching the villain lose their independence of shape, pour down the street, and get on everyone's shoes. "Yuck," the people next to Shouta complained. He paid them no mind, keeping his eyes on what remained of the villain: a denser blob the size of a basketball with the same eyes and toothy mouth. The hero, for his part, made quick work of grabbing the water bottle the civilian had thrown and collecting them into it, then taping it shut. Shouta let go. He pressed the heels of his hands under his eyes, knowing that rubbing them directly would irritate them more. They were itchy, and his eyelashes felt brittle.
"Did anyone get hit?" the hero asked at large. A chorus of "no"s rose up. Shouta peeked through parted fingers to catch a friendly smile bloom across the hero's face and push his freckles closer together. "That's good!" The spray he'd lost was back on his belt along with the one that acted as a flamethrower. He'd removed his right glove, which had put his red, swollen, tangled hand right in plain sight. It was broken, badly so. He glanced Shouta's way and grinned.
Shouta figured that wasn't just because he was fond of kids. He sent the hero a barely there nod of his head before leaving the scene. No need to get in trouble for public Quirk usage.
Ten months later, Shouta woke up in his cat-print pajamas, frazzled hair tickling his nose, dry drool stuck on the corner of his mouth. He threw his covers aside and went to the bathroom to wash his face and brush his teeth. The clock on the hallway wall read 11.23, and the grocery list wasn't on the fridge when he got to the kitchen, so both of his parents were out of the house. He grabbed a glass, poured himself some carrot juice from the jug of it on the counter, spun a teaspoon of honey and mixed it. He took a sip.
Well, he thought, straight-faced, this shouldn't have existed.
Someone knocked on the front door. He put the drink down, ran his hands through water under the sink tap, and wiped them on his pajama top as he made his way to the entrance. "Yes?" he said, opening the door and stepping back.
Outside stood a man with forest green hair and just as green eyes. He was dressed in sandals, faded jeans and a t-shirt that said "socks" on it, and in his hands was an envelope that looked to be fresh out of the printer. "Hello!" he, the hero, greeted sunnily. "It's Midoriya Izuku! I'm from UA? I saw your application to the General Education Course—you passed, by the way—and kind of, sort of glimpsed your Quirk description. Not in a creepy stalker way! That'd be weird! You're not even in my class, so— Ah, but that's what I wanted to talk to you about because I recognized your Quirk from last year because of how cool it looked! I wasn't sure, since I've never seen a Quirk that could affect other Quirks before, but that is what it was! I just can't figure it out because I thought it had something to do with bioelectromagnetism, since the red glow of your eyes could be explained by the visible spillover from the coherence of infrared radiation; the thermal radiation would dry your eyes out, so that would've been why you were massaging them, but if radiation exerts gravity rather than weakens it, then how come your Quirk can create an anti-gravity field around your head? Because it's not just your hair, right?" He looked at Shouta expectantly.
Shouta stared back. "What?"
Midoriya blinked. "Oh, right! Shouta-san, would you consider transferring to the Hero Course?"
Bewildered, Shouta repeated, "What?"