Work Text:
There was something insane about the fact that a group calling themselves the “League of Villains” kidnapped a student from U.A. to turn into a villain.
And Izuku couldn’t stop thinking about that.
Insane that Izuku had to legitimately say to Kirishima-kun that Kacchan wouldn’t dare take anyone’s hand except Kirishima-kun’s despite being in the way of pros and them trying to save him (and that hurt because of course it was Kirishima-kun and not Izuku, except when had it ever been Izuku?). Insane in the way that Izuku was still wondering why Kacchan—the Bakugou Katsuki—was kidnapped to be turned into a villain…
He was a hero… Everyone said Kacchan was a hero…
Kacchan was brave and strong and powerful…
So why did villains think he would be a good villain? Why did they take him to convince him to be a villain? What about Kacchan made them think for one second he would be a villain?
Kacchan was a hero.
K̷͕̝̈́̏a̶͚̓̀ͅç̵̻̀c̴̯̊̍ͅh̵̖̠̃̕ą̸̛̱ń̸̮̥ ̸̱̼̍w̷̨̩̑̔ȁ̸͚̰ś̶̝n̵̝͉͛'̶̨́ṯ̷̛̬͛ ̷̡̅ä̶͎͆ ̴̤͝h̶͕̀͌e̷̹͐̐r̷̞̟͆͌ó̸̪́.̴̻̇̅ 1
Kacchan was going to fight villains and win.
K̶͔͉̲͖͉̫̰̗͚̊̓͆̆̅͘͠a̴̹̣̖̜̬̱̓̍c̴̢͚̱̫͉̘̉̚c̸͈̼̫̰͓͖͘͜͝ͅh̷͖̯̹͍̗̬͈̯͖͒̀̔͒̈́̈͘͘͠a̴̙͍͆͒ǹ̸̘͚̅̌̔̄̈̽̿̆̈́ ̵̺̜̬̫̥́̆͊w̷͖̥̺̝̤̜͛̄͝͝a̷̢̛͍͈͔̱̖̬̩̪͈͂̾̓̄̀̚s̸̨̧͕͎̜̻̜̹͔̞̰̽́̅̈́̏̽̈̊̋̚͠ń̷̡̼͓͓̯͎̺'̷̧̦͓̟͉̤̼̔͒̍̿̆͆͗̇̊̒̕͜t̸̛̼͊ ̴̙̩̟̘̖̼͝g̴̺̖̥̼̀́o̵̢̩̗̣͚̾͂́͂͒͆͊͘̕͜i̵̻̞͈̜̯̽ň̵̬͕̜̠̦̬̖̺̙̀̎̃͠g̸̭̙͍̰̟̦̫̍̄ ̵̛̪̯͍͕̯̦͓͚̼̙̇͊͆̈́̏͌t̴̜̲͔̹̠̱̹̃̍͊̈́͛̈́ô̴̗̆ ̷̧̢̠̦̯̬̺͆̋̎̓̐́̋̃̿͘ś̸̲̘̟̳͓̲͌̏̀ą̷̺͐̊̈́̈́͐v̷̺̙͎̥̒̆e̸̖̽̾͒͑̂͛͛͘ ̶̨̟̻͙̞͚͎̘̥͕̍̌̍̔́̽ṕ̸̡͉̼̟͜͠e̵̳͈͙̍̈̃̒̍͌̂̃̕͘ǒ̶̥͔̤͓͔̘͇͈̫̦͜p̷̢͎̥̀̎̂̒͊̉̒̑̓͒l̴̢͎͕̼̬̉̀̈̎̓͒͜e̷̢̥̙̣̠̟̗͕̱͙͖͆̇̓̏͊.̷̗̝̠͈͇̣̙͂̿̈́̍̚.̴͖̭̤̬̺̝̠̪͖̘̬͑͑̈́̒̃͝ 2
Kacchan was strong, everything a hero needed. Aizawa-sensei complimented him for his bravery, of course he was going to be a hero!
Ả̷̰̙̣̺͒i̵̦̘̰͌̋͑z̶͙͚̣̍͌͠ͅą̴̦̫̫̑͋w̸̙͖̻̔̽á̶̟̝̪̒͠ͅ-̸̝̎̿͠s̷̖̯͕̈́e̴̠̝̞̅͛̎͝n̴̤̲͑̚s̴̛̝͑̈̓e̷̤̬̱͆̄ͅi̸̖̱̿ ̴̡̣̺̌̆p̴̨͔̤̌̈́͠u̶̧̮̱̿ǹ̸̜̕ĭ̵͉s̷̡̰͙̓͊h̴̳̆e̵͍͕̲͖̍̋́d̶̪̝͍͆ ̶̯͒̂͠I̶͙̱̯͘z̶͇̆u̸̪͐k̵̙̤̠̖͑̀ŭ̴̢̯̫͎ ̸̬̣̱͍̏̊a̷̧͈̮͐ǹ̸͇͚̔͂d̵͖͙͂̈́̋͋ ̷̖̤̫̎̌T̶̛̞̺̔̃̄ͅǫ̷̗̘͒̀̅͝ḓ̵͍̈́͗̓̚ó̴̧̦̖r̵̫̮̭̣̐͠o̷̟̘̣̓̕k̶̡͚̪̠̓̒͒į̴̨̝̳̓̔̽-̴͍͚̝̉̇k̴̝̗͂̊u̶͈̼̓̂ṉ̴́̆̾ ̴̝͆̈ͅḁ̶̇̇ǹ̸͈͕̟ḏ̶̆̂͝ ̷̹̀̂̀̈́Î̵̉́̀͜ĩ̶̳̯̻́̓d̷̗̺̲̐̓̾̚a̶̢̘̝̺̎͒̈́̕-̷͕̿̈̀͘k̸͕͍̩̣̅͊͘u̶̟͉̩̫̍̿ń̸̖̇̊̃ ̷͕̲́ả̶͉̠̖̀̋ņ̷͉̤̠̈́d̶̦̹̦́͜ ̶̡̞̖̏̽͗Ṁ̷̭̓̃ỏ̶̻̬̪̺́͛̑m̸̟̗̹̘͒͌o̷͇͌́-̶̧͕͇̓͘ŝ̴̩̞̉̇̿a̷̰̥͂̌͌n̷̻̺̙̘͐̆ ̶̦͇̐̊̈́͛â̷̲n̴̙̩̬̎̓̈́́d̷͚͓͑͠ ̷̟̬͒K̶̥̱̆̒̚i̷̠̮̖̹͂̋͠r̴̜͕̱͔̓̈́̊́ĭ̷̬̆͜͝š̸̲̩̂̿h̶͙̯́̔͂͌ĩ̵̪̠͉ͅm̵̤̜̔̈́ȧ̷̭̼̬̓͌̀-̸͓̈̎̕k̴̜̎͐u̶̠̳͒ͅń̷̡͚̻ ̸̧̨̥̟̕͝f̵̯̠̔͌̔͜o̶̫̮̅r̵̨͉̰̈́̉͛̉ ̸̻̖̇͜t̴̝͊̈́̎r̵̝͈͑̾͑͜y̸̰͓̏̆̌i̶̯͙̲̅͗n̵̬͎̫̊͆̽̉͜g̵̱̬̙͌ ̵̰̓̑͘t̶̤͓̎̉͒o̵̹̝͍͕̚ ̸̗̲̩̺̏̌̅s̴̯͔͝ả̵͎̪̺͂̒v̴̺͈͎͔̋͂͐ĕ̶̱̺͕̰ ̴̟͛̉̂ș̵̄̄̒ỏ̸̼̈͌͗m̵̱͆͊̉̋ë̸̪͉͎̹́ò̸̱̘̺̜͊̓n̶̩͙̼̾͝ḛ̷̱̇ 3
Kacchan was a hero.
He never showed villain-like qualities.
He may be loud and rude, but he was powerful… He may scream “die” all the time, but he never actually wanted to kill anyone because Kacchan was a hero!
Izuku heard a snap and looked at his hands, black ink spilling over his hand and his notebook ruined.
He blinked, the light over his desk seemingly placing him in a spotlight and all his thoughts were on display and everything was off and his head was spinning—
What had he been writing?
…Right, an apology letter to Aizawa-sensei for leaving the hospital and going to do the job of the pros. He needed to restart.
Izuku sighed and flicked through the notebook. Nothing of interest to save, so he’d throw it as it was ruined.
He also needed to clean up the pen ink. He’d completely forgotten to control his strength…
This was just a whole world of exhaustion and the letter had to be given in tomorrow, or Izuku would be expelled. Aizawa-sensei promised to go through with it this time, so Izuku had to write this.
It took the better part of half an hour to clean the mess and by then, it was a quarter past midnight.
Izuku stared at his new blank page, new pen in hand, and the cup of coffee long cold on his desk in his dorm room.
(And yet he wondered, still, as he wrote: Why? Why was he apologising for saving someone? Why was Kacchan kidnapped? Why?
Why?
WHY?!
Because, if saving someone makes him wrong… what does that make Kacchan?)
He didn’t remember falling asleep.
If he even did.
The page had blurred sometime between one blink and the next, the lines bleeding together like they were trying to escape the weight of his pen. His kanji blurring together, outside of the boxes, lines wonky and characters drawn so badly it looked like a different kanji entirely—a mess of apologies and ink, apologies and ink, apologies and—
Izuku blinked. The words had changed shape again.
He rubbed his eyes, groaning softly. The lamp buzzed above him, a low hum that set his teeth on edge. His dorm was too still, too quiet; even the faint wind outside pressed against the glass like something wanting in. The coffee had gone completely cold. His hands shook as he reached for it anyway, downing the bitter mouthful like it might make him feel awake.
It didn’t.
It sat in his stomach, heavy and sour, same as the guilt.
Same as the questions.
Why was he writing to apologise? He’d written the words—he’d rewritten them, over and over—but every sentence looked wrong. Empty. They said sorry but they didn’t mean anything wrong, and Izuku couldn’t tell if that was the point anymore.
He glanced at the clock. 03:12.
The night air felt thick and metallic, clinging to his skin. His eyes burned.
There was a sound—like static, faint and crawling at the edge of hearing—and Izuku froze. He looked to the lamp again.
It flickered once.
“...Stop,” he muttered to himself, voice hoarse. “You’re just tired.”
He pushed away from the desk, stumbling slightly as he stood. The floor felt unsteady beneath him, as if it was breathing with him, in and out, in and out—
He dug his nails into his palms and the world steadied again.
He should go to bed. Just sleep.
But the thought of closing his eyes and seeing Kacchan, seeing the League’s hands reaching for him, seeing Aizawa-sensei’s disappointment from last morning—
His breath hitched.
Kacchan didn’t need saving. Kacchan was strong.
He was a hero.
H̷̛͇̉̓͂͗è̴͓̩̲̺̰̳͈̖͉͊̍͗̽͝͝ ̸̞̿̅͊͂w̸̨̢̘̬̞̩̘̒̓͌̈́̓̈́̓̇̎̈̕ͅá̷̢̛̤̳̙̔̓s̶̫̣̐͊͊̌̉̎̓ ̷̦͉͖̘͈̹̆̒̀̎͗́͌͑̈́͜͠a̵̮͉̲̕ ̷͙͈͎̑̀̾̌̉̈́͌͊̚h̴̝̳̘̹̭̮̞̗̑̈̈̕e̷̡̧̨͓̠̋̇͋́͘r̶͚̾̆̋̅͛̊̔͌͑̕͝õ̶̧̯̞̝͚͐̊̏̐͆̓̓̍͘.̴̧̟͙̮̬͓̠͍̮̌̌́̊̏̕͝ 4
Izuku stared at the words on his ruined page again, the ink smearing under his thumb. His handwriting looked foreign. He couldn’t even remember writing this version.
He closed the notebook. Slowly. Deliberately.
He had to give the letter that morning. Say nothing else.
That would fix it. That would make it make sense.
When his alarm blared at six, Izuku was still sitting at the desk. The sun was cutting through the curtains in thin, gold lines, and he hadn’t moved all night.
He washed his face, dressed, tied his tie properly this time, and when he caught his reflection in the mirror, he looked—
—like someone else wearing his skin.
He smiled anyway. It didn’t reach his eyes.
He had class soon.
He couldn’t be late again.
By the time he reached the corridor, the day was already too bright, too loud. The voices of his classmates hit him in fragments: laughter, the scrape of shoes on linoleum, talk of new moves, new power. Izuku smiled and nodded at all the right moments, words tumbling past him like static.
Ultimate Moves…
Last night, before Tsu-chan and her breakdown, he would’ve been excited, but now all Izuku could think about was last night and her words and his head was pounding and his eyes were haunted from the lack of sleep.
Because, when Kirishima-kun said they’d go to save Kacchan, Tsu-chan had said, If we break the law, then we’re no better than the villains. And she’d admitted to it being harsh. And Uraraka-chan had added, We were all super uneasy about it. And we all want to start over again.
And he got it. Tsu-chan was regretting her words and wanted to support them properly. And Uraraka-chan also wanted the guilt and divide between them to be gone.
But Kirishima-kun had apologised.
Tsu-chan never said sorry outright.
Tsu-chan never apologised for calling them damn near close to villains.
And Kirishima-kun apologised for the divide.
She said she regretted her words. Regretted.
Not that she was wrong—just that she said them out loud.
So what did she mean? That she still believed it?
The thought snagged in his chest, sharp and unyielding. His breath came short, uneven. He was sitting at his desk, pen in hand, the page in front of him blurry at the edges. The classroom light buzzed faintly, the sound needling behind his eyes.
He could still hear her voice, steady and reasonable, like it hadn’t been meant to hurt anyone. That made it worse. He wished she’d shouted instead. He could’ve handled that. But the calm tone—the certainty—made it sound like the truth.
Ḯ̶̢̻̩̣̘̪̤̖͎̼͊̚͝f̷̰͓̲̳̦͔͕͋̂͐͒̒͛̇̇̊̾̅̾͜͜ͅ ̶̗̳͋͆͊͛̅̂̽͌̕͝͝ͅw̷̨̒̓͌̐ȅ̶͙̩̻̻̪͖̈̓̌͂ ̴̣͙̩̬͇͈̬̗̖̥̕b̷̧͎̮͐͆͜͜r̵̛̠͕͇̂̈͐͌̿̈͋̕͜͝ȩ̷͔̬̩̮̖̘̉̈́̈́̄́̇͌͗̓̊͂͠ã̷̡̨̛̞̭͇̲̞͖̪͓̈́̑k̷͉̹̻̥̑̈͌̆̽̔̄̒͒͋̚͝ ̷̗̻̯͉͖̱̝̯̙̠͙̓̆̒͒̎t̵̨̡̢̥͇̝̳̪͔̬̯͓̫́͂̌̿͐̌͌̽̔̾̈́̋̂ẖ̴̗̺̮͑̑͑è̷̼̞͕̠̏ ̶̡̡̼̤̖̦͎̭̳̀͆̑̌̇͑́́̾̇͌͗̕̚ļ̸̫̳͙̅ȧ̵̡͚͇͙͙̖̞̹̱̪̲͔̓̄̐̈̐̌̀̑̅̋̎͘͠w̵̨̢͓͕̖̯̦̤͙͈͇̳̻̙͘̕,̸͍̑̄ ̶̢̛̛͚̖͔̃̂̔̚w̶͈̹̲̟̻͉͉̯̜̤̭̣̃̊ḕ̴̛̩̫͕̦͈͉̼͉̝͙͚̞̒̓̃́̑̓̈́͋͐͘͝’̶̡̲͈̙̞̻͋̊̍̈́͠ŗ̴̠͈͙̖̜̺̜̒̎̀̓̚͜e̸̩̱͖̖͍̖͚̦͔̲̣̩̫̪͗̅ ̸̤̭̃͋͛̉̀n̸̢̛̯͍̦͍̋͊̋͊͒͛̚o̷͎͙̣̗͙͎̺̒ ̴̩͍͔̲̣̙̹̼̦̬̏̍̆̚b̴̧͔̻͍̯̭̻̯͕̀̀̕͜e̵̢̼̜͈̦̟̦̰̣̓̐̅͑̈́̇̆͑̐͋͝t̵̠̗̯̗̠͙̏̅̑̓̂̈͋̍͒̌͘͜͝ͅṱ̵̥̬́̋̑ę̷̢̙̠̝̝͓̰͎͕͎̃̌̀ṙ̷̝̮͓̹̮͉̠͔̋͆̎́͊͘͘ͅ ̶̢̜̻̬̞̫͍͋̑̏̎̅͘̕t̶̨͚̬͕͍̤͒̈́̓ḩ̷̢̧͍̗̟̗̲̘̝͉̈́̓a̴̯̬̹̼̩̰̪̯̾́̐̈́̂́̿̆̓̈̇n̸̠̉͒̋̈́̾̎̀͝ ̸͈̠͍͉̫͚̹͕̲̼̰́t̸͍̲̊͗̒͑̐̇́͂̾́̔̃͘͠ͅh̶̹͎̠̮̲̓̆̕͜͝e̵̡̢͓̦͋̀̔̆̉̔̆̽͂̈́̈́̀͒ ̴̰̻̒v̷̛̥͚̟̤͋͑̑̌̒̎̑͊͑͝i̷̭̺̣̖̜̗̅̊̈́͐͐͌̽̄͑̑͂̏̈́͜͝l̷̫̬̩͕̦̩̳͕̜̼̘̝̤͊͛͊̾͐̓͂̾̌̓͊̌l̵̛͕̣͈̫̙̠̙͇͂͊̂̆̈́ͅa̵̧̝̝̩̯̲̱̋̏͘i̸̢̮̟͇̣̦͉̰̰̫̘̼̲͊̒̉́̽̈̒̓͜n̴̛̼͎̈̓͗͊̓͑̃̔͑̂s̸̳̗̖̬̩͖̯̖͒̈́̽̕͝ 5
He’d thought he understood what it meant to be a hero, but those words replayed like an accusation.
Maybe she was right. Maybe they had been too reckless.
Maybe he’d pushed them all into something that real heroes wouldn’t do.
(Kirishima-kun had pushed him to help save Kacchan. Kirishima-kun, not Izuku.
And Kirishima-kun wasn't at fault for wanting to save his friend.
But had Izuku pushed them to do what real heroes wouldn’t?)
His stomach twisted. The room tilted slightly. He pressed a hand to his temple.
When had everything started feeling so uncertain?
When had “Hero” stopped meaning the same thing it used to?
And Izuku, once again, was left wondering what everything meant because he’d written his letter, hadn’t slept, got three more cups of coffee, handed in the letter, and now… now he was lost and unsure and confused because why say it if she meant something else?
Why did it sound like an accusation instead of forgiveness?
And why did it feel like Izuku’s world was breaking apart?
Because he was doubting Kacchan, doubting Tsu-chan, doubting the pros, doubting everything, and he was doubting himself.
He was confused.
Lost.
Unsure.
He wanted someone to tell him what to think. Someone to assure him that Aizawa-sensei was right to punish them, that Kacchan was a hero, that Tsu-chan hadn’t meant it…
He wanted the world to make sense again.
But the static behind his eyes only grew louder. His notebook was filled with neat lines of strategy, calculations, notes for improvement. All of it seemed meaningless. None of it told him how to fix this.
There was screeching of chairs on the floor and chatter and Izuku’s head snapped up, eyes wide. He’d zoned out, badly.
Everyone was standing, going to change, making ultimate moves.
For a moment, he didn’t recognise where he was. His throat went dry.
Then muscle memory kicked in.
Izuku moved on instinct, standing, grabbing his bag and shoving it at the locker in the back. He moved on instinct as he followed the class and his mind ran far away—
—back to the words that wouldn’t stop echoing.
Izuku wondered why the grenadier braces Kacchan had looked so… wrong. So dangerous.
He understood it stored Kacchan’s sweat. Understood it was a piece of equipment he needed and yet—
Yet he feared them, much like Izuku feared all of Kacchan, and why was he so afraid?! Why were Kacchan’s grenadier braces so worrying?
(But he knew. Izuku remembered…
Kacchan’s grenadier braces, filled with his sweat—
And he was grinning, like a madman, ready to fire.
Like he wanted to k̴̲̫̒̐̆i̶̡̡̋̓͠͠l̵͖͒l̴͈͎̲͇̀̚ 6; Izuku.
“HE WON’T DIE IF HE DODGES!”
Shouting. Screaming.
Pain.
So much pain.
Izuku was used to pain. This was fine.
I̴̤̬̎̈́̊͒̈́̍͑̕̕͜ͅt̵̨̖͍́͝ ̷̨̰͇̖̌̉̑͊̋w̸̙̟͓̜̩̿͊́a̶̮͕͙͚̹͂̓̈́͛̌͗̑͊ͅs̷̩̬̠͔̗͚͇̈ͅͅn̵̢̪̮͉͈͔͇̈́͂̾̽̅̾͘̚’̵̡͖̹̮͚̜̇͝ť̸̹̠̥ 7
And Izuku blacked out.)
Were those dangerous weapons safe for a hero? Was a hero supposed to shout “die” when they fought someone?
Every. Single. Time.
(Was Izuku supposed to always feel afraid?
Did Kacchan actually try to kill him?
Y̸̧̛̝͊̎̀̓̉̂̀͠͝ḛ̵̯͒͑͌̓͌̀̔ś̷̠͚̹̣̙̩̱̠̎̅̅̉͆̀͒͊̄́͂.̴̦̜̮̩̆͗̓̔̑̒̋ ̸̼͓͔̤̭́͐̈́̌͛̓͂Ỷ̴͇̙̖͕͎̈͒̍̕͜ě̵̡̠͖̰̮̙̟͉̬̜̭̑̀̿̀̋͠͠͝͝s̷̨̛̖̗̪̲̙̦͉̯̻͓̐̈́̀̂̔̊̾͗͘ ̴̡̥̝̝̯̻̹͖̦̎̾̔͛́̄͒͐͌͋ḧ̴̯̝̫̙̳̣̗̔̋̑͛̈́́̓͑͗͝͠e̸̫͇̻̪͙̭̔̅́̄ ̵̝̻̝͕͊̽͛̐̋͘d̸̢̛͎̹̞̥͎̼̪͔̯͕͛̍̂̍̈̾̃̚̕͝i̷̮͚̖̥͕͛̀̅̈́̽͂̆̋͑̊̎͘d̶͕̰͇̥̔̽͑͌͋͘͝͠ͅ )8
Izuku watched the grenadier braces and he felt like his world was ripping apart.
Ḥ̷̡̄̒̌́̽̎͘̕E̶̢̧̫̙͍͍̩̭̮̺̭̖̘̒̒͊͜ͅ ̴̼̲̳̓̂̈̀W̷̞̺̻̰͓͑̒̎͑̒͌̿̾̌̕͠Ö̷̢̰̠̦͍͕͇͙̜́́͂̉̍Ň̴̛͚̪͖͎̝̈́͊ͅ’̵͔̬̫̱̩̟͔̪̬͊͒̎͌̈́́͐̊̋̈́T̴̖̰̓͂̓̏̏̓ ̷̡͇͎͎̝̔̈́͒̓̿̅ͅͅD̴̢̯̬̗̱̙̞̜̿̂̈́͜ͅĨ̴̡̢̛͖̲̻͉̱͇͉̥̼̯̦͕͔̿̇̾̄̑͑́̈̂̾̕̚ͅË̶̖̥͙̥̬̞͕̹́̉̊͌̑̌̍͆̓͒̏̈́̕͝͝ ̴̨̞̺͔̣͓̭̩̼̤̗̦̺̟̪̻͒͆͗̓̌̈́̏́̚İ̸̙̳̘͖͜F̸̳̜̗̮̳̙̲̤̦̩͚̠̻̙͈̪̓̓̓̿́͛̓̂͌̿̀̀̄̚͘͝ ̴̧͇̹͓̠̬͈̖̰͍͈͎̞͈̋̅͊̋̎̅̽̐͌̀̿̈́͛͜H̷̨̜̠̮͎͈̳̑́͋̆̏̋͒̌̈́̒̀̕̚͝͠Ḕ̸̡̲̤͇̥͖̣̝̈͊̄́́́̄͗̐̎͘̚͠ ̵̛̛͕̗͔̻̥̙͎͐̆̑͑̈́̉̾̕̚D̵̮̻͇̼̲̦̪̒͝͠Ọ̵̥̱̜͙̮̣̖͕̠̈͑͆͑̉̽̇̽̀͑̉͑̚͠D̸̡̟͖͇̗͕̱̤̭̱̖̥͈͑Ḡ̴̡̠̘̥̥̪̗̲͈̞͎̱̒́̆̆͌̅͝Ȩ̶̨̡̞̠̜̱̳͎͚̗̻͖̹͑͝ͅŞ̵̲̮͉̣̣̥͔̭̘̼̦́̓̇̀͐͐̕͝!̴̧̛͕͈͈̜̱̦̜̣͕͒͒̃̉̐̄͘͘ͅ 9
Whatever Iida-kun was asking fell upon deaf ears as Izuku looked around and wondered. Endlessly.
His head hurt.
He was hungry.
He was running on an oreo and coffee and nothing but the thoughts of What does this mean? running through his head because what did it mean? What did it mean when villains captured Kacchan to make into a villain? What did it mean when he was punished with his classmates for trying to save their classmates? What did it mean when Tsu-chan explained, but didn’t at the same time?
What did it mean?
Everyone was already moving on Cementoss’ grounds, and against Ectoplasm, and Izuku was stuck staring at his hand.
“Not sure what to do for an ultimate move?”
Izuku jumped and the noises around him came into focus. He heard Kacchan screaming “die” somewhere and cheering and shouting, and he heard cement breaking and he heard and heard and heard…
Be he did not listen and he did not understand—
“Your Quirk is still pretty unstable, so maybe focus this session on working on your Quirk rather than Ultimate Move,” Ectoplasm advised.
Izuku blinked again (or was it the light that blinked as everything focused), zoning in then out then in again. He nodded mutely, staring at his hand.
He needed to focus. He was reading into things too much.
Kacchan was a hero.
Aizawa-sensei was correct.
Tsu-chan regretted dividing the class.
And Izuku needed to make an ultimate move.
“I KILLED YOU, ECTOPLASM! BRING ON ANOTHER ONE!”
Izuku looked up to see Kacchan thriving on the field. Thriving and fighting and winning—
—ḁ̵̙̟̫̙̪̤̳͚̼̮͛ͅt̴̗͎̠͉̯̮͙̭͕̭̔̓͋̑̉̄̋͘͘ͅẗ̷̛͕̥̼͕̘̞̮̭̙́̊a̶̢͓͓͕̠̠̰̥̣͚̬͇̱̲̎̈͒c̵̢̥͙͚̻͈̒̏̽̑͗̽̓͒͘͝͠k̴͕͕̲̼̦̞̰͓̂i̴̖̳̤̰͒̄̋̓͑n̶̠̖̻̻̳͖̪͍͍̏̉̓̾̀̆̿̋̄̀͘͠g̶̡̙̺̰͉̼̹̮̳̒͋̀̍̀͌̑̈́͝͝ ̸̲͔͒͆̓̅̚á̴̝̠̊̌ņ̷̛̫̮̍̋̕͜d̶͖͎̦̥̖̏͌̀͠͠ ̸̢̖̯͈͖͉̯̥̼̏̏̓͛̋̑͂̂̽͛͆̕͝ͅḩ̵̧̺̠̤͕͉͎͉̪̲̰̍̋̄̆͆̒̀̃̊̚ų̶̤̝̟̪̱̯̲͚̘̲̮̥̋̎̆́̔̆ŗ̶̱̝͚̼͕̫͇͌͐̔̂͊́͐̕t̵͙͍̠͉̟̠̘͇̝̩̮̳͑̆̈̾̈́̃͝i̵̢̯̞̣̪̳̲͚̤̯̳͔̦̊ͅņ̸̛̺̭̳͈̼̫̠̀̆͌̀̽͆̑̈́̓g̸̡̜̳̦͇̲̝̝̪̽ 10—developing moves in second.
Like a hero.
“He's something else,” Izuku heard and he turned to see All Might talking to Aizawa-sensei.
“And he's sure to get even stronger,” Aizawa-sensei agreed.
Of course he is. It’s Kacchan.
All Might nodded. “Yup.”
But something nagged at Izuku and something hurt as he thought.
(All Might pointed at the screen and Izuku cried. All Might pointed at the camera and Izuku knew.
All Might told Izuku it was his turn and Izuku knew he’d fight next.)
And Izuku was wasting time thinking over useless things.
Kacchan was a hero.
H̴͓̟̻̞̻̯̳͔̝̊̋̑̽͝ẹ̷̣̋̓ ̵̰̬͕̙͖͎͎͙͎͇̊̔̚i̶̧̟̙̝͓̓̿̊̍͒̚͝s̵̛̼̙̝̼̱̫͖̺̻̪̭͉͙̬̣͑̈́͊̐͐̆̐̌̇̚͠͠͝n̴̨̨̡͎̥̭̟̦̭̖̺͈̙̰̯͚̎̃̊̂̓̈́̽̄͠͝'̴̬̞̽͒͆t̵̡̢̛̩͙̯͍̝̦͎̩̮̭̦͊͂̒͆͊̂͆̑̌̊̀͠ͅ 11
Kacchan fought incredibly, and Izuku was wrong. Of course the League of Villains were just being silly, right? Why would they choose Kacchan?
B̶̡̳̯̱̞͉̬͍̗͙͒ë̷̳̠̮͖͚̺̺̭́͑̚c̵̨̻͔͓̗͈̯̱̖̞̝͒̒a̷̙͇͆̉͒̅̊̽̌͒u̷͖͗̈́̀̌̊͊͐͊̄͘s̷̞͉͎̈́̏̈́͗͆̾̈͝ͅe̴̫̥̽̅ ̶̢͉̼̗̣͇̣̒̋͜ḩ̴̨̭̙̤̟̘̖̫̗̌͗́̾̆̐̑͒̀͘̚͜ḝ̶̢̻͑̉̔̔͒͐̇͌ ̴̧̝̯͙̟̳̯̰͓̯̈́͋w̵̙̺͉͎̙̟͘ḁ̷̙̞̝̟̔̍͛́͛̉͜n̶̛̙̯͌̓̿̆̍̂̍̎́͝t̴̡̹̠̙͙̠͚̭͙̩̙͆s̷̼̜̣̺͈̩̰̼̀͑ ̸̮̩͉͍͎͈̼͍͍̇̈́ţ̸͉̪͉̼͌̋͐͗̑̄̅̚ô̸̧͍̱͔̠̟̫͖͊̔̔̑̾͘͠ ̴͕͓͈͚͓̦̯̫̳͙̎̅͘h̵̡͖͕̲́̍͗u̴̢͙̲̰̝͇͋ͅŗ̴̧̨̖̗̬̈́͆̄̓̆̕t̴̩̜̩̥̃͂̂͂̀̍͗̓̚͠ ̵̣͌̇̔̋̀͒̑̎ơ̸̧̩̗̰̝̜̮͇̠̼̈́̒̓̈́͛̈́͐͘͝t̵̨̢̖̣̻̝͈͍̰͒̔́̇̇̀͐͊̕͜ḥ̴̡̘̲̥̹̤̱̙̻͖̀̋̓̿́͘e̷̤̺̩̖̱͔̹̅r̶̡̛̩̒̊̎͐̓̃͝ş̵̛̠͉̜͓̱̼̥̙̓̌̽̀̏̈́̈́͒̃̕͜͜ ̸̭̘̩̈̋̓͐͊͝͠ͅj̷̡̢̘̝̬̞̫̦̱̦̓͊̃̉̅͜ṳ̸̘̣̦̻̣̪̝̅̔̆͂̿̄͗̎͜͜s̶͇̪̜̿͂t̶̘̣͗͋̽͝ ̴̧̢̹̟̃͊̓͋̉͝t̸̢̨̢̰̳̜̺̗͓̒̀͑̏̾͐̕̚͜ͅơ̷̛͙̤̥̋̈́̿̏̒̈̈́̆͘ ̷̭̞̟̯̯̦͓̦̘̠̠̒w̵̙͉̤̫̪̬̹̗̝̺͍͌͑i̷̢̛͈̤̣̬͓͕̦̖̫̿͑̇̒́̌̐̈̉͋n̴̨̧̤̣͈͊̔̏̑̀͝͝ 12
Kacchan is a hero.
Ţ̵̨̪̳̠̲̞̪̤̩̠̺̯̜̿̂̿͑̚͜͜ͅh̵̖̩͆͝ȇ̷͓̮͎̚͜ ̶̨̜̖̙̮͍̙̜̯͓͙͙̘͚̆͛͆̾̃̑̐̄̆̐͋͆̐̕͘g̷̡̢̢̡̤̪̣̖̣̗̜̀ͅa̷̧̧͔̜͍͉͚͓̩̺͉̗͔̩͔̰̟̎̏ȗ̵͚̱̦̹͉͇͍̬̝͙͇̭̦̈́̿̐͗͝͝͝n̶̛͚̻̱͇̻̝̄̅͌̚͝t̷̪͙͇͑̔̀͋͊̀ͅl̷̝̞̠̰̝̭̆͌̓̑̈́͛̈́̓̂̔̕̕ȩ̸̢̰͔̜̣̜̜̬̦̫̦̰̮͑̓͜ͅt̵̳͇̊̈͋́̈́̉̚s̵͈͕̹͍̺̩̜͎̯̈́́̉̈́̃̽̈́̆̄̎̏̽͊͜͜͝—̶̥͈͉͍̫̖̲͗͆̎̋̏̅͠h̵̘̜̏͛͒͌̋̑̏̑e̸̢̧̮͕̠̭̫͍̼͓̰̝̲̋̓̚͜ ̶̨̡̢̡̥͙͕̝̝̙̰͇̰͑͆t̴̻̜̖̪̖̩̟͇̃͆̑͂͛͝r̵̡̛͔͈͔̞̬̘͚̬̫̙̟̥̫̲̅̇̊̊͌̎̂̅͆͘̚͘i̷̱̰̿́̔̊͆̌̃̍̆̈́̍̎̑e̵͉̓̽̆̑d̶̢̛̬̣̤͎̤̼̝͙͉͇͇͎́͐͂̀̐͊̑̈́̒̈́͝ͅ ̸̡̡̡̢̨͖̗̝͕̣͓̟̪͚̤̫̘́̒t̸̛̛̛̠̯̯̫̼͉̖̤͕́̔̃ͅo̴̡͔͈͙̘̩͍̫̿͊͆͛̓͜ ̶̨̠͉̣̘̦̙͓̺̪͍̼͔̇̋͠k̶̯̏̊̂͊̐͒̊͋̿͛ì̶̡̢͙̹͙̳̫̥̅̑̋̇̓͂͛͗̿͆̄ͅḽ̶̚l̸̛͉̃͛̊͛̇̂̋̃͐͝͝ ̷̯̇̎̑̋̋̚ͅI̷̡̧̡̪̙̰̻̗̘̳͈̥͚̰̪͔̝̔̃̎̈́͆̌̃̐̎͘̚̚͝z̵̏̏̍͒̀̾̈͆̈́̒͜͠u̴̡͖̙̠̖̝͎̤̪͔̻̯̥̳̟̙͙͒̐̃̽̔̍̀̿͆͑́͊̿̇̈̃͆k̴̦̣̺̀̔͛̔́̋̌̃̃̕͠ư̵͖̠̬̪̻̟̮̩̇͂̃̅̓̌̈́̔́͐͆̕͘͜ 13
And Izuku needed to get training.
His stopgap deserved more credit. That’s what All Might said.
(Izuku ignored Kacchan’s scowl, his displeasure, the glare.)
And Izuku was in his room again. Izuku was staring at his laptop again.
Izuku was fighting sleep again.
Izuku was researching.
Because training the body was in the day and training the mind was in the night and Izuku couldn’t sleep and the caffeine in his system from the coffee wasn’t gone.
He had opened a new document, an app he’d found that allowed him to create a mindmap-spiderweb diagram type thing where he could connect things. He also got out a new pin board, red string, note paper, and Izuku was ready.
His pin board was filled in an hour, League of Villain members with Kacchan at the centre. And everything he knew about the League members from Quirk to personality to dreams and aspirations.
Kacchan’s Quirk connected to the word “powerful” connected to “scary” connected to “villainous”. And more.
Three pages of his notebooks were filled with page after page of heroes turned villains, villains turned heroes (though there were a significant lack of these, only three known cases in the past five decades), and the laws surrounding vigilante reformation programmes (Izuku wasn’t even sure when that had appeared, but it had, and now it was in his notebook).
All he had figured out was the League of Villains had taken Kacchan’s “Fight and Win” attitude to mean “I don’t care about anyone but myself” and that was a gross mistake (Was it?).
So now, Izuku sat at his desk, staring at the pinboard covering an All Might poster, the near-illegible scribbles in his notebook, and nothing was clicking. Nothing made sense.
Kacchan was a hero. The League targeted him because of his “villainous” attitude.
What villainous attitude?
The only person Kacchan ever hurt was Izuku, who deserved it because he was a useless Deku.
Į̷̢͚͈̟̜͈̙̫̯̲̈̂̑̽̽̌̍̉́z̵̢̺̜̲̭͍͉̳̰͂̐͠ų̷̢̲͎̞͇̜͍̘̭̗͔̅̊̓̿̈́̈̄͘͝͝ķ̵̙͓̞͚̮̻͍̮̘̉̔̿̈́̽͊̚͝u̷̺̪͓̬̼͙̝̿͆ ̸̣̉̀͛d̴̢̖̰̹̲̮̣͎̥͔̙͕̉͊̂̊̒͑́̓̚į̵̮͎̬͍̤̻͑͜ḍ̸̘̽͌̃̾͋̕n̷̯̘̙̺̊̄͘'̸̢̓̄̆t̴̙̤͇͙̺̬̍̄̽̆̃̚͝ ̴̮̖͔̺̜͚̈́̿̏̐̈́̃͒̐̈́̓͜d̵̛̯̼̟͔̩̺͖̯͓̽̍̃̆̊͒̓̎̚̚e̷̢̛̝̩̪̞̭̯̼͕̩̾̈́̈̐̅̔̊̑̈́̕͜s̸͖̲͆͛͂̉̌̎͋́͋̍͋͝ͅë̴͚̫̦́̈r̷̢͚͚͚̙̲͋̇̽̓̉̀̊̃̂͘̕v̷̧̧̛̺͇̙͊͆̽̀́̓̿̒e̵̫̜̬̫̙͚̹̘̹͇͌ͅ ̴̊̕ͅt̷͚͔̗̮̝͚͇̜̰͗̀̍́̃̇͊̎͜͠h̵̪͉̳͙̲̗̘̼̰̗̹̱̓͒͊́̕͝ǐ̶͈̹̞̼̻̜͔̳̦͇̉̌͐̆̋̈͒̄͘͝ș̷͖̮̦͓̹͌ 14
The only person Kacchan had properly burned with his Quirk was Izuku, the badly healed burn on Izuku’s shoulder a testament to this fact.
I̵͕͖̩̒̊̿̌͐z̶̬͇͌͒̂̌́̈̔̑̿͘͠͠͝u̵̢̯͋̅̏̿͛̓̕̕͜͠ǩ̷͈ư̶̡̧̙͕̼͕̮̫̱͕̯̦̪͆̎̐́͛̾́̂̄̌͝͝ ̶̬̈̈͆̇̇͗̽͒̓̈d̴͖̼̅̐͊͋͆̒̋̉̐͌̊ͅͅḭ̸̞͚͉̿̇̀̃͗̈́̋͝͝d̶̩̦̏̂̀̌͑̔̇n̷̢̻̟̞̙͔̬̈͑'̸͓͖̭̫̘̹̥̗̲̰̂̀̈͑͊̀̈̓̽̆̈́̀͘͜͜͝ţ̸͔̤͕̌̔͆̓̒͜ ̵̩̖͔͊̎̐ḑ̸͉̟̜̞̄̅̑̄͐̾̓̅e̴̢̨̡̧͇͇̬̥͎̊̄͂̒̃̔̎͊̇̏͊͘͝ͅs̵̨͎̘̹͍͉̜̥̦̞̭̋́̄̄̋̀͋͜ȩ̸̣͈̥̇̍̏̔̓̽ȑ̴̢̲̣̹̜͖̠̭͖̻̼̫̙͑̾̂̓͆̃̑v̸̢̼̣̪̭̈́̎́̿͒̾͋̋̚é̴̦̱͠ ̶͉̰̹̫̟̐̀̈̈̀ģ̸̨̛͖͇̻̦̙͕̰̻̮̩̌̐͗̑͆̿̕͜ͅę̴̨̡̜̭͚̲̩̰͔̟͎̮̈͂̓̿̊̚̚t̴̙̔͛̑́̌͐̈́̐͊̀̀̋t̵̝͊̐̚͜i̴̡̧̞̩̱̣̪̘͚̳̠̘̖̍̓͑̊͒n̴͔̗̲̪̎̈́̃̉͑̈́͊͋̌͛̓̚͝͠g̶̩̲̿̈́͑̈̄͐̈́͛ ̸̢͎̮̝͉̈́̿̈́͑̂̔͒̿̒̑́̏͜͝b̴̨̯̮̝̒̓̽̎̆̂͑͝ů̸̝̮͚̜̟̻̖̹̇̂r̸̖͎̙̳͕͈̬̈͒̀̊̉͗̌̽͂͐͘͘ͅn̴̬͗̂ḙ̷̢̹͇̙̹͊̋̓͊͐̊̓̍̐͆́ͅḑ̴̛̜̒͒͌͒͆̍̿̈̊ 15
Kacchan hadn’t hurt anyone else…
H̷͈̠̿͌̃̔͛̈́̊̀͑̔̚é̷̡͔̘̣͙̟͈̭̻͂̆͊̌̽̂̃̏̏̌̃͘͝ ̶̝̜̞͉́͒̂̔͜h̶̻̳͕̖͎̯̺͚̺̩̼̜̯̱̣̯̅̈́͌̊͝͝ă̵͎̹͍͂̂̾͑̌̚͜ḑ̸̧̺̳͖̳͙̭͔̈́̿̈̾͌̍ 16
Kacchan was a good student.
Ę̸̢̧͈̪̝̻͇̩̺͙̩̗̀́̍̈́̈̈͊̔͛̎̌̓̃n̷̛̫̜̫̟͌̓̓̇̃̈́̏͂̅͘ͅa̶͎͈͖̩̹̺̜͛͜ḃ̷̳͚̜͍̟̲̺̗̠̠͎͚̥̲̜̘͕̠͓̉͌̄̈́̿̄͛̏́̀̐͌̇̀̿̚͘͜ļ̴̖̪̒̏̃̕ḛ̷̡̧̜̱̰̪̫̯͖̥̮̩͖̩̺̳̝̖̔̇̿̄̇̿͒̋̃̓̉͒̂͊͛̿͑̚͘̚͠ͅͅd̵̡̫̣̩̞̩̺͉̲̦̹̤̭̟͖̺͒,̴̡̧̘̲̰͎̻͖̰̳̹̦͇̺͛̽̈́͛̅͒͒̀̋̌͌͂̋̀͒̓̐͒̀̕̕͝͝ ̸̧̰̜͍̻̠̈́̊̃̅̓͆͑̎͊̾̏̾̉͒́n̵̡̧̛̰̰̩̗̫̫͓̣͈̱͚̪̭͌̃̎̾̂̄͆̀̅̿̇̍̀̃̃͛̌́̕͘͝ͅo̵̢̨͚̭̪̙͉͕̥͎͔̫̫̫̙̎̿̄̾͆̆͌̊͛̒̑̆̍̍̋̿̑̋̿̕̚͜ţ̷̛̛̟͚̮̩̰̯͍̪̻̰͉͍̟̭͇̼̃́̏̂̌͑̉̉̅̽̚͜ͅ ̷̡̢̪͈̰̰̮̮͈̳͙̜̫͚̪̝̈́̅̈͛̒͊͆̒͐̋̈́̂̓͋̀̐͌̊̂̉̏̄̕ğ̸̢̡̛̛̭͙̮̘̯̞͎̹̩͉̰̦̟̦̈́̉̄͛͆͛̐̒̊̈́̽́͐̕̕̕͝͝ͅỏ̴͍͚͕͎̣̯͍͈̽͒̄̽̾͆̒̋̇̑̀̽̂͝o̸̡̜͕͉̭͓͕͎̥͚̹͚̠̞̖̪̥͍̮̪̪̦͊̃̈́̀͌̾́͗̿͛́̎̓̒̓̇͐̈́̂͜ḏ̸̨̡̛͉͈̝̩̱̪͚̥̲̟̭̭͔̙͎̩̔͛͊̀̊̌̑̈́̃̍͐̇͛̽̍̒͊͘̚͜͝ͅ 17
Izuku took a deep breath.
He looked around, the fan on the ceiling wiring softly as he surveyed his room.
And his room was filled to the brim with hero merch. Filled with things he wanted, didn’t need. And loud and brash and bright and so, so overwhelming.
Too little. Too much. Too everything and nothing and so much All Might, not enough Izuku… Where was Izuku?
Where was Midoriya Izuku in this mess? Where did he stand among this powerplay?
Where could Izuku, the Ninth user of One For All, stand when all he could do was crumble and crumble and shatter while everyone around him was trying?
Izuku slept that night.
Barely. But he slept.
Two hours only.
And his mind drowned in a sea of uncertainties. Of lostness and pain and why?
Because why was he always so incapable? Why did he doubt everyone around him? Why was he always so afraid? Why did he never wholly believe in the trust people presented to him?
Why was Midoriya Izuku scared?
And who?
Who was he without All Might’s gift? Who was he without this power? Who was Midoriya Izuku when stripped bare and breaking at the seams?
Ȟ̵̝͋̄̕u̵̻͗͆̽͐ṃ̷͈̳̰̝̦̜̳̲̠̺̪͗͋͋̈́̌̐̀̋͊̚̚ą̴̹̺͚͈̣̠̙͖̏͛̂̈́͌̉͘͝n̷̢̡̨̞̘̻̝̣̪̹͇̯̮͛̋ ̷̡̨͎̯̺̤͓̰̣͈͚̩̳̑͜d̴̨̨͕̜̬̭̤̪̪̣̹̦͖̙̲̖̈́͋̌͐̇̿͝ḙ̸̻̮̼̲̤̀̾̔̍s̸̬͚̘͙̹͚̜̙͉͌͊̋͊̇̀̓̚͘͜͜͝e̵̢̡̞̮̣͍̙̙̳̊̉̒́̄͐̈͊̌ṙ̶̨̧̞̬͎͈͖̺̘̝͙̯͔͚͛̃͝v̵̧̬̼̻̳̣̳̣̤̫̣̦̙̼̼̪̂͘̚ĭ̴̙̞̰̤̺̮̘̠̖͔͉͚̣̗̼̦̱̿̏̆̈́͂n̵̡̡̛̞̱͇̯̔̉̋̂̅͛̈͝g̵̛̮͚̾̌̂̈́͌̔̾̈́̚͘͝͝ ̵̡̛̛̯͕̼̫͖̮̹̤̬͖̠̽̅̽̃́̾̑͒͑͊͒̎̀͝ͅs̵̛̛̩̜̱̳͊̍͊̌͊͋̊̀͒̊̚͝p̷̘̖̰̦̠̀͗ế̷̗̠̯̬̒̚c̴̡̛̗̪̝͓͙̈̒̓̾̋̋͑͌̀̈́͝ͅi̵̠̞̪̟̥̭͍̮̜͖̺̯͈̫̤̩̒̍́̀̉̈́̓̈́͐̈́̿̆̔͝a̷̧̼̝̫͎͈̻̗̥̜̗̓̒̿͌͠l̵̞̞͇̹̞̻̎͌̑͛̇͂̈́̏͌̕ 18
Izuku slept.
His mind wept.
4 AM.
Four hours of sleep. On and off.
Izuku rolled out of bed, sluggishly exiting his room with his slippers on.
Silently, he went to the bathroom on the second floor. Brushed his teeth. Washed his face.
Left and in his room again, he changed.
A morning jog to clear his head. He’d been off the past few days. He needed to get back into it. His pinboard and theories and mess of thoughts could take a backseat.
Izuku needed to relax.
Headphones on, pre-Quirk era music playing that Jirou-chan introduced him to, and he was off, running around U.A.
Shoes hitting concrete.
Winds of Japan’s autumn air, August slowly ending.
Deep breath.
Silence.
Nothing but the ground beneath his feet, his head clear, and music (a song called “Run Boy Run” from 2012, over a hundred years ago). And the song changed when it ended.
And time moved from 4:30 AM to 5 to 5:30 AM.
The Class 1-A dorms came into focus.
One hour of running, no one down yet, the sun slowly rising behind. Gold on the porch, shadows cast along the floor as the windows allowed light in.
And the world spun.
Izuku’s head was clear. He was fine.
A hot shower, breakfast (Kacchan glared at him, but that’s fine, Kacchan always glared at Izuku), brushed his teeth again, changed and headed for homeroom.
Izuku was fine.
K̶̛͇̣̯̼̳͊̆̅̒̚ả̶̧͓̮̣̞̖̈́c̸̡̟͙̯̄̎̃͛͊̕c̸̡̢͉̗͓͓͈̤̩̜̠̺͇͔̐̆͋́̎̾͌̈́̎h̵̛̺́́͂́͐́͌͋̓͋͑̚̕ǎ̶͚̊̓̿̌̈́ṉ̶̛͌̄͒͗́̓̈̂͌͘̚ͅ ̸̬̦̣͖̽̑̔̀̃̒̓̓͘į̵͈̫̳̬͈̱͈̭̜̔ͅs̴̡̧͇͕̖̙̼̫̒̍̽̀͠͝͝ņ̵̩͎̥͙̩̫̺͖̙̪̖̋͝ͅ'̷̢͙̤̤̯̱̬͙̋̿̓̄͋̄͂͆͐͗̽̈́͝ṫ̸̡̧̛̮̲̟̜̳̻̤̬̣͎͔̏̿̿͌̎̔͋̋̾͒ ̸̧̰̩͔̳̀̔̈́̐̔̃̀̋̌͑̔̿͘͝a̴̡̧̝̳̱̗̮͙͖̰̠̬̝̅̋̂̕͜͠ ̶̗͎͖̟̥̭͐́̍͊h̴̰̗͎̽́̄̕ͅe̷̢̢̛͕͍̙̼͖̗̎́̂̑͐͐͋̂̀̔̕r̸̡̢̪͖̝̪̩͚̬̐̿̍̊̀͒͂̏̉̃̒͐͘̕ͅò̸̧̯̦̥͙̤͓̟̮͚̝̼͌̈ 19
A̴̩͒͌̅̑͝į̶̟̺͑͑̉̀̓͆̈́z̴̨̡̡̦̳͇̳͖̯͎̑̿̍a̴̠̙̐͐̐w̵̪̜̓͝a̴̡̲͉̹̬̼͂̈́̂̂-̶̲̭͈͍̝́̀͊s̷̟̗͎̜͓̩̞͉͌̋̈̈̑͐̅͌̀̅͜e̵̻̲͍̲̽͌ń̸̳̺̞͓̫̊͋́͐̾̆̍̆̓ş̵̨͙͕̒̚ë̴̩͉̘̣̲͈̩́͜i̸̧̯̼͇͍͛̀̈̂̇̏́͐̂ ̸̨̢̳̫͖̮̹̩̇͝w̷̮̘͖̫͈̄͛̊̾̓̈́̉͐͜a̷̛͚̬͉͚͕̱͚̞̼̟̪̓͒́̐̔̆̔͝ŝ̵̟̫͠ ̶̢̨̧̡̼̲͈̹͔͈̔̐̈̀͌̚w̴̪͖̳͈̪͎̒̀͊r̸̖͖̳̓̾̈́̎̎̂͐̓̓̕͝ǫ̶͍̲̯̳̠̓̅͊͌͊̇͑̿͠ņ̵̞̪͎̠̘̯̼̠̀͐̂̏̆͝ͅg̸̟̱̝͂̆͜ 20
Izuku was fine.
He smiled as he entered the classroom, bag at his desk.
Izuku is fine.
“I’M GONNA FIGHT EVERYONE AND WIN! I’LL KILL ANYONE IN MY WAY!”
Izuku looked to his left and there Kacchan was, a blaze of glory.
There he was, hurting someone—
Hurting.
Hurting.
There he was, reckless endangerment, and Izuku saw.
“Young Bakugou is truly blooming,” All Might said.
A voice whispered, darkly, No, he isn’t. A voice in Izuku’s head, one that Izuku knew and didn’t, whispered furiously, He isn’t a hero.
The voice from his childhood, who shouted about the unfairness. About Kacchan hurting other kids. About the teachers uncaring because of Kacchan’s flashy, perfect Quirk.
It was there, whispering and telling.
Izuku remembered when he shut it out because Kacchan had to be right. The future No. 1 Pro Hero had to be right, but this was wrong and it felt wrong and everything was spinning.
Bakugou Katsuki isn’t a hero.
And Izuku listened.
Shoot style was his Ultimate Move, but something felt off. Why did his Ultimate Move consist purely of attacking? It was versatile, certainly, but he attacked with his legs and he limited himself.
Heroes fought to win. Of course his new move was for a flashy power show…
Why?
And Izuku hated the move as soon as he practised it again.
Why?
Again, he blurred through the day. The Provisional License exams were in two days, first of September.
Again, he found himself staring at All Might’s poster, one of the last left on his walls as he had peeled some of them off the walls and boxed them and sent them back to his room in his mother’s apartment.
And again, he wondered, what was a hero?
And again he looked at the pinboard, bathed in red string, and again he saw someone who fought to win.
H̸̢̛̱̫͎̹͈͇̰̞̦͕͇͑̑̀̃̊̀ǘ̴̧͓̞̞͕͉̼͔̥͔̫̻͈̣̜̘͒̂̓̐̅̓͗͑̋̏̚ͅͅr̴̩̟̙̹̙̼̲̥̬̺͕̲̹̲͙͕̦͍̤͇̜͍̮͇̗̤̾̈́̐̉̑̍̋̃̋̇̕̕͜͝t̵̢̠̖̘̥̆̎́̑̂̍͐̓̃̀͌̈́̏̈́̄͑̈́̋̽̓͝ ̸̢̤͖̲͒̾͗͐̍̔͒̇̒͑̓͆͛͘͠͝h̷͍̄͋̑̅͜i̵̡̥̱̮̖̰̬̟̩͍̙͎̩͚͐͌̎̈́̏̈́̿̃̓̀̍̏͐̏̍̃̅͗̎̇́͛͊̑̒͋͘͠m̴̨̡̡̻̱̥̺̫̼͔̟̺̰̟̰͓͕͓͕̅̃̿͝,̵̢̭̖͍͙͓̭͎̺̖̦͐̍̃̌͌̒́͐̀̐́̋͌̿͑̾̽̈́́̄̚͠ ̶̢̻̖̖͍̥̮̗̩͙̱̣̬̘̦̹͖̥̝̹͖̝͔̈̉̂̈͛͗͘̕ͅh̵̨̨̛̟̼͉̣̣̟̖̯̪̟̜̯͚̙͎̅̇̂̉̐̀̓̾̾́͂̒̈͒̆̃̈́͘͜ͅę̴̨̢͎̫͙͍͈͉̯̖̟̝͎̱͍̭̯̋̀ ̵̛̠͕́̋̒̽̀͆̑̍́͐̈̂͌̈́̈́͛̉̋̂͋͠Ḧ̴̱̫̯͙̜̳̫͚͔́̈́͌̅͋̎̏̓̀̚̚͠U̴̩͔̘̰͎̬̫̥͇͙͒́͗̊̽͆̋͗͋͂̍̓͋̍̓̋ͅR̴̨̠͈̲̟͙̘͙̺̝̤͔̙̓͆́͒͑̈́́̍͠Ṯ̸̱̦͙̟̪̣̯̞̘̳̏̓́͒̋̔͒̾́̂̿̉͋͐̆̋̓̈̍̅̿̕͘̕͠͝͝ ̵͕̯͐͊̍̈́́͛͗̔̊͜͝ͅh̷̢̫͎͙̻̳̜͙̆̈́̈̃̋̚i̸̘̥̫̣͈̩̪͈̞̭͇̤̞͚̰̼̰̲̘͕̙̖͚̯͓̗̿̅̐̿̆̀̉̆͋̉̋̀͋̿̕̚m̸̢͖̭͈͔̮̯̖͙͇̱̖͚̣̞̺̮͇͐ͅ 21
Someone who everyone said would be a great hero, even All Might said Kacchan would be a good hero…
Would he?
And Izuku hated the doubt. Hated the wonder.
But why would a league created for villainy find a hero student seemingly easy to turn villainous had he not shown villainous qualities?
Why had he ignored it?
Needless name-calling? Insulting nicknames? Shouting “die” at every turn?
Why had Midoriya Izuku ignored everything?
H̵͎̟̯͊͘ẽ̴̡̢͔̖̋́́ ̷̱̙̻̩̐̄̒̓̕ͅw̵̨̲̺̩̏͝͠ͅa̸̦͖͗̓n̷̺̜̖̍̓̒͘t̶͚̺͇̺̿͝ẹ̸͗̊̃d̸̲͔͔̦̬̂͑͛͐ ̵̥̩͇̎̐̓̚t̵̯̦̄̐͊̎͝ô̷̺̇͘ ̶̳͎͎̜̀͆͠b̷͎̠̖̫̀e̴̢̺͕͊ ̶̢̞̗̟̪͗̇̓s̸̖̉̉a̵̢̟̹̬͒͋͠f̵̝̣͕̦͌͂̆̐ͅę̴͕̦̜͊ 22
But what about everyone else? Who suffered because of Kacchan’s fury? What about everyone else?
Izuku became complacent, the anger directed at him, and he remembered the anger when Kacchan first told him to give up. He remembered the pain of falling but the joy of standing again.
He remembered their childhood of smiles and excitement and plans for working together.
The image shattered like glass.
Millions of shards.
Tore into Izuku.
And he knew, he’d ignored it because only he was getting hurt in the end, and he’d been Quirkless, he’d deserved it, right?
And the anger that had reared its head had slept because Izuku was okay. He was fine.
But Izuku was human and Izuku didn’t deserve that treatment.
And Izuku was scared of speaking up because he deserved it, but he didn’t. He never did. He never should’ve begged for people to stop. To worry about his assignments being burned. To constantly stare over his shoulder.
Izuku didn’t deserve any of it.
And now he stared, having fallen back onto his bed, stared at the pinboard. The notes hastily stuck onto the walls. The scribbles and something boiled inside him.
A group of villains attacked to catch a hero student who seemed easy to turn to villainy. An angry kid always shouting “die”.
A teacher who never punished the behaviour. Who watched and let it happen.
And a class, desperately clinging to dreams, ignoring the treatment because they wanted to be heroes. Heroes who…
Who what?
Who allowed a pervert to continue in class, harassing people? Who allowed a bully to push them around and act like the embodiment of arrogance?
Who what?
And everything returned to the question.
What was a hero?
Kacchan didn’t pass the Provisional Licence Exams. Nor did Todoroki-kun.
And now, in the dorms, Kacchan passed and asked Izuku to meet him out front.
Wait, no. Asked?
No. Kacchan demanded he did, like his word was law and Izuku would follow the order like some dog.
Izuku did not meet Kacchan. He didn’t go out that night after curfew.
Kacchan found him anyway, banging on his door, shouting.
Izuku opened it and promptly ducked as an explosion aimed at his head barely missed.
Ah, of course, why did he expect Kacchan to act normal when he didn’t listen to him?
He could hear shouts. Everyone was exiting their rooms and Izuku had already bolted down the hallways, down the stairs, flitting into the living room as Kacchan followed in a ball of rage.
It’s like a game of cat and mouse, others on the sideline watching with worry or exhaustion. Like this was normal.
Izuku can already see some of them looking at him in the corner of his eyes. The way they believe he instigated this fight.
And something like dread curls in his stomach. Something like anger burns in his chest.
Oh, he was wrong, it seems.
The lighting cuts. The green sparks die.
The explosions fade and it is blissful silence for a whole moment.
An endless, beautiful moment, fleeting like a butterfly, though that was where the beauty lay it seemed.
And Izuku looked at the impassive eyes of his teacher.
And he listens. To the scolding in front of his classmates.
“Three days suspension, both of you.”
And again, he’s furious, that calm that settled over him fractured as chains—shackles he placed on himself—snapped.
And it’s unfair. It’s so unfair!
“Suspension?” Something tells him he doesn’t sound like he normally does. “Kacchan attacked me without provocation.”
“Midoriya, you probably said something again—”
“When? What? I said nothing. Kacchan came to my room, banged on my door, and attacked me. I did nothing.” He looked around and no one—maybe Uraraka-chan, but even she seemed skeptical—believed him. Because of course, Midoriya Izuku provoked Bakugou Katsuki. Of course, Midoriya Izuku played a part in Kacchan’s anger. Naturally. A law of nature, it could be said.
“It’ll be worse if you continue arguing,” Aizawa-sensei said, hair rising as a telltale sign his Qurk was activating.
And Izuku was done.
Ẃ̷̧͎̜̭͎̩͚̜̦̰͒͛̄̓̅͜h̷͙̟̍̀̆̅͜͝ă̵̡̛̝̜̜͎͗͘̕͠t̴̡̪͉̭̭̭̱̘̤̦̜̿̈́̓͌̍̂̈́̕͜ ̴̤̓̿̔̾̄͛͋̓̿w̸̯̗̰̭̑͋͗͛̈́͊̀̅͆͘͝a̸̧̡͎̘̟̞͌̌̃͘͘͝s̵̹̅͐̀͒̽ ̵̠͋̌̆̃̉̇̎̍̓͌̚ͅa̸͓̓͌͐̔̍̃̂͑̚͘͘ͅ ̵̡̢̫͎͖̻̫̬̝͙̫̼̦̗̼̐̿̄h̵̡̜̜̙̲̤̝̓̿̌̀͗͛̋͊̏̚ë̴̛̳̣͇̗̪͙̳̻̘̭͔̲̩̉̌̄̅͊͒̎͝r̷̜͙̬̝̬͈̄̾͝o̶̡̬̫͎̮̩̮̯͔̺͔͈̙͉͆͒̂̂͂̔̉͂̔́̈́̈́͘͠͠?̵̜̞́͋͗̂̓̄̀̓̔͒͗̚͘̚ 23
What was a hero?
What was a hero?
T̷̨̘͈̠̙̮̗̭͍͓̰̏͌͊̔̌̎̓̏̄̉̂̚͘͠͝ͅẖ̷̡̛̥̲̘͕͙͖̭̫̹̰̝̼́̀͂̑̔̄̉̃͂̎̕ȩ̵̤͇̬̫̟̖̘̠̠͔̠̺̹̩͙̟͋̂͆̉̀̀́̆̽͘͠͝ỹ̷̞̲͇̠̄͛͛̉̔̾͌̾̇̉͠ ̸̢̡̧̹̬̮̜̯̰̳̺̪̳̱̻̤͌͋͐͋̍͗̓̈́̈̇́͒͌̀̂͠s̵̹̖͋ả̷̛̗͈͎̳͕̰͈̦̫̜̹̺̫͂̊̈́́͐͆̈́̈́̎̒̒́͗͛̚ͅv̶̢̠͎̪̞̮̖̫̖̣̣͕̌̌́͛̔̂̋͌͑͜ͅe̶̢̢͉̺̗͍̩̰͍̰̻͆̀̋͂̎̑͆̔̐̎̿̑͜͝ͅ ̶̭̤͔͌͗̑͆̃̊̉͗͋̂̃̈́̏̈̈́̕͝p̸̧̣̼̫̜̮̱̗͇͇͕͍̱̏̓͛̓̓͑̉̀̿̽̄̃̍̈́͘e̶̢̜̰͚̲͔̼͈͎̹͓̹̓̅̇̍̂͌͂̆͆͂̍́͒̃ơ̵͓̦̥͓̓̓̌͂̅̍̅̿̽̔̊̏́͘̚͠p̴̧̳̞̠͎̜̜̻͊̂͗͊͌̈́͐̈́͆̌͒ͅl̵̨͖̠͈̝̱̓̓̃̔̎͗̈̇̇͑̌͠e̸̗̭̩̼͍̩̪͈͎̱̪̻͎̦͕͚͒̐̅̏̀̅̀̋̿̚͝,̵̣͙̼̔̐̾ͅ ̸̬̤͑̍̋b̶̟͉͚̰͎͉̜̠̹̮̱͔́̄̇̔̇u̷̧͙̖͔̫̮͎̙͖̔́́͂́̀̾̊̿̍͂͝ͅt̶̡̢̡̞̭̩͕̮̫̪̫̬̹̑̒̓̆̓̊́͂̈̈́̕͘͘ ̴͔͕͗́͗̚̕w̶̢̥͉̬̞̟͙̩̥̙̓̎̽̿͜ḩ̸̱͔́̎̚͝ơ̵̧̧̰͓̱̜̭̳͇̹̺̪̝̩̋͒̒͒̍̽̇͆͌̄̈́͘͘͜͝͠͝ͅ ̴̧̧̤̩͇̘̏̈͗̃̍́͜͜͠ş̴͎͓̬̻̼͚̠͛a̶̢̘̘̩̹̣̗̳̠̘͙̩̔̊̈́̃͜ͅv̵̠͔̹̪̈́̽̚͠͝͠͝ė̵͍̜̞̻̈͂̅͗̚s̴̖͓͈͛́̑̍̀̏̉̌͆̐́̅̃͐̚͘ ̸̢̛͖͍͖͓͚̺̳̖̓̽̉̅͐́̈́̈́̈͠t̸̮͓̭̤̺̰͖̞̙͋̅́ͅh̵̨̉͛e̴̡̧̹͖̳̙̭̼̝̹͂̅̑̍̌̿̿͌̑̾ͅͅḿ̵̨̨̼̜̱͖̘̟͇͗͛̌̓̓̉͌̌̆̕͠͠?̷̼̗͚͓̬̦̤̥͙̱͑́̈́͊͐̀̿̓͘̕͝ 24
Izuku wanted to be a hero. But he also wanted to be saved.
So he’d become his own hero.
And he would not be silenced. Not again. Not this time.
He glared right back. “What’ll be worse? Like when you doctored the results of the Quirk Apprehension Test, pretending I came in last when I know that half of these guys’ Quirks couldn’t help them run faster or throw further or any of it? What’ll be worse, Aizawa-sensei, then laying down and taking it again? Are you going to expel me for speaking back? For defending myself? For getting angry?
“Katsuki gets angry all the time, no punishment.” And it’s surreal to say his name, his actual name. And he savours Katsuki’s face of shock and Aizawa’s face of confusion. Izuku was not vindictive by nature, but even the kindest of people reached a breaking point.
Well here was Izuku’s.
“I didn’t provoke him. I never have. You wrote off our relationship as some great rivalry when he was a bully. He bullied me and I’m finally standing up and I’m blamed?!” There is a dam in Izuku that was cracking and the water gushed out.
“Bakugou Katsuki is a bully. Not a hero. He hurts others needlessly. He insults everyone around him and is praised for his powerful personality. He’s rude and arrogant and no one thinks that maybe someone should stop him before he goes out of control. Have you noticed, Aizawa-sensei? The rude nicknames he gave at first that everyone brushes off now, but these guys earned their place in the Hero Course as well, why do they have to deal with Katsuki’s bad attitude?!”
And he’s heaving. Like he’s inhaled smoke. And he’s trying to cleanse his lungs.
“Why did the League of Villains kidnap a Hero Course student? Why did they think they could make him into a villain?! Because he acts like one! Because Bakugou Katsuki acts like a goddamned villain and no one says anything because of his perfect, flashy Quirk!”
And he’s screaming as Katsuki, Aizawa, everything falls away and he stands in the remains of ruins.
Ruins that once stood for his entire world. Pillars of ideas that held together his city of heroes.
And it has collapsed like a house of cards.
“If a hero is someone who throws himself into the fight screaming “die” and not caring for civilians, for the casualties that could occur, for the harm they do to their surroundings, can they really be called a hero? A hero is someone who saves people, or anyone, any goddamned thing be it a dog or a mouse or a child or an elderly woman, or hell, even Shigaraki Tomura, if he wants to be saved!
“I don’t see Katsuki saving people. I see only a thirst to win, and what is he winning? Worst personality of the year? Well-fucking-done you just won it for the tenth year in a row!” Pillars he’d spent years shaping, sculpting, carving, crumbled into nothing but stupidity.
Izuku felt stupid.
So, so, so stupid.
Pulling Aizawa’s captured weapon off him and throwing it back, he glared up at the stunned teacher.
“If being a hero means being like Bakugou Katsuki, I’d rather never be one. Afterall, who wants to be mistaken for a villain?”
What was a hero?
A hero cannot be defined by simple words. It could be a person who gave you a smile on a bad day. Or someone who saved a mouse because the mouse deserved to live as well. A hero could be anyone or anything.
But one thing that a hero truly had to be: Kind.
A Hero could be small, short, funny, serious, but they had to be kind. And they didn’t have to save everyone.
Sometimes, they just had to save themselves.