Chapter Text
Inko Midoriya had been checking 5 year old Izuku’s face all morning.
Not in the casual “did you wash” way—more like she was afraid she’d blink and his eyes would change again. Every time Izuku looked up at her, those strange colors shifted like stained glass catching sunlight.
Izuku didn’t mind. Mostly.
He sat on the edge of the sofa in their apartment, swinging his legs a little, humming under his breath while Inko fixed his hair for the third time.
“Mom,” he said, patient in the way only a small child could be when they were trying to be brave. “We’re gonna be late.”
“I know, I know,” Inko said, voice too high. “Just—just one more second.”
Izuku blinked up at her. His eyes swirled with color.
Inko’s breath caught. She forced herself to smile. “Okay. Okay. Let’s go.”
---
The clinic was bright and clean and smelled like antiseptic and lemon scented cleaner. The waiting room had posters with cheerful mascots explaining Quirks in simple terms—cartoon kids shooting bubbles, growing vines, making sparkles.
There were other families waiting: a toddler with a tiny tail wagging back and forth, an older boy whose fingers kept steaming slightly, a little girl whose hair floated like it was underwater.
Izuku sat beside Inko, feet kicking the air, hands tucked neatly in his lap. He tried to look calm like he’d seen heroes do on TV, but his eyes kept drifting around the room, curious.
A fish in a small tank swam in slow circles. Izuku watched it, then leaned toward Inko and whispered, “Do you think fish have Quirks?”
Inko let out a tiny laugh—more relief than humor. “Maybe some do.”
Izuku nodded like that was very serious information.
Then Inko’s smile wavered again. Her fingers tightened around her purse strap.
Izuku noticed.
“Mom?” he asked softly.
Inko startled. “Hm?”
“You’re scared,” he said, matter-of-fact, like he was pointing out it might rain.
Inko’s eyes went wide. “I’m not scared, sweetheart. I just—”
Izuku leaned closer, voice small. “Is it bad? My eyes?”
Inko’s chest squeezed so hard it hurt. She shook her head quickly. “No. No, no. We’re just going to check, okay? It could be nothing. Or it could be… something. Either way, you’re my precious boy.”
Izuku nodded, absorbing it, then he held up his little hands and spread his fingers like he was ready to catch something invisible.
“If it’s a Quirk,” he said, “then I can be a hero faster.”
Inko’s lips trembled. “Izuku…”
He beamed for half a second, then looked away, suddenly shy. Four years old and still very much four years old.
A nurse opened the door. “Midoriya Izuku?”
Inko stood so fast her chair squeaked. “Yes! That’s us.”
Izuku hopped down and bowed like he’d practiced. “Hello!”
The nurse blinked, then smiled. “Hello. Come on in.”
---
The doctor’s office was smaller than Izuku expected. A desk, a stool, a handwashing sink, and shelves with neat little boxes. The doctor himself looked tired-but-kind, with a tablet in his hand and glasses that slid down his nose when he smiled.
“Midoriya-san,” he greeted, then looked at Izuku. “And you must be Izuku.”
Izuku nodded. “Yes.”
The doctor tapped at the tablet. “So, what brings you in today?”
Inko leaned forward immediately. “His eyes. They started changing color and now they’re… they’re like this all the time. I don’t know if it’s just—just a physical trait, or—”
“A Quirk,” the doctor finished gently.
Inko nodded hard. “Yes.”
The doctor’s gaze stayed calm. “Izuku, do your eyes hurt? Any headaches?”
Izuku shook his head. “No.”
“Any sensitivity to light?”
“No.”
The doctor nodded, then gave Inko a reassuring look. “We’ll do a standard Quirk factor screening. Blood sample, then the analyzer will tell us if there’s an active Quirk factor present.”
Inko swallowed. “Okay.”
The doctor looked back to Izuku. “Are you scared of needles?”
Izuku puffed his cheeks, thinking, then shook his head with the seriousness of someone making an oath. “No.”
The doctor’s eyebrow rose slightly. “That’s brave.”
Izuku straightened proudly. “A hero shouldn’t be scared.”
Inko’s eyes filled instantly, half laughter and half tears. “Izuku…”
The doctor’s expression softened. “That’s a good goal. All right—testing room.”
---
The testing room was colder and more clinical. A large machine stood against the wall with indicator lights and a screen. It looked like a tall cabinet made of metal and glass. A small chair sat beside a counter with sealed medical tools.
Izuku climbed into the chair without being asked. He swung his feet once, then stopped, staring at the tray like he was studying it.
Inko hovered behind him, wringing her hands. “Izuku, sweetheart, if it hurts even a little—”
“I can do it,” Izuku said quickly, then quieter, “I’m okay.”
The nurse cleaned his arm. Izuku watched. He didn’t flinch. He did squeeze his other hand into a fist very tightly—because he was four and it was still a needle.
When the needle went in, his face scrunched for a second.
“Ow—” he blurted, then immediately clamped his mouth shut like he was embarrassed he’d made a sound.
The nurse smiled. “That’s normal. You’re doing great.”
Izuku nodded very fast, eyes a little shiny, but he didn’t pull away. “I’m fine.”
Inko covered her mouth, trembling. “Oh, Izuku…”
The nurse filled the vial and removed the needle. A bandage went on.
“There,” the nurse said. “All done.”
Izuku let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, then he looked up at Inko like he wanted praise but didn’t want to ask for it.
Inko leaned down and hugged him carefully. “You were so brave.”
Izuku’s cheeks went pink. “I—yeah.”
The nurse slid the sample into a slot on the machine. “Now we wait.”
The machine hummed.
Lights pulsed.
Izuku watched the screen like it was going to show a video of All Might.
Inko stared so hard she barely blinked.
Seconds passed. The hum deepened.
Then the display flickered—and text appeared.
QUIRK FACTOR: ACTIVE
CLASSIFICATION: EMITTER-TYPE
PRIMARY FUNCTION: ELEMENTAL CORE GENERATION
Inko made a sound that was half gasp, half sob. “A-Active… Izuku…!”
Izuku froze.
His eyes widened, the colors in them brightening like they were excited too.
He looked up at Inko, confused and hopeful all at once. “I… I have one?”
Inko’s hands flew to her mouth. Tears spilled over. She nodded, nodding so hard her hair shook. “Yes—yes—!”
Izuku’s mouth opened, then closed. His small fingers curled around the edge of the chair.
For one second, his face crumpled like he might cry too—because that was too big, too sudden, too much.
Then he bounced in place once, like his body didn’t know what to do with the feeling.
“I have a Quirk!” he said, voice squeaking high with disbelief.
The doctor leaned closer to read the scrolling details. His expression stayed professional, but interested—like he’d just been given a puzzle with a satisfying shape.
“Elemental core generation,” he said slowly. “Most emitter Quirks specialize—one element, one substance, one output. Yours looks like it creates a medium first… a core. That core is what determines what you can emit and control.”
Izuku blinked rapidly. “Core… like… a marble?”
“Something like that,” the doctor said kindly. “A small nucleus. One core equals one element.”
Inko hiccuped a laugh through tears. “Izuku… you…”
Izuku grabbed at Inko’s sleeve with both hands, bouncing again. “Mom! Mom! I’m not— I’m not—!”
He couldn’t finish the sentence. His throat got tight. He shoved his face into her side for a second, hiding, because he was suddenly overwhelmed and he didn’t want the doctor to see him cry. He wasn't quirkless after all, his quirk was just a little late.
Inko wrapped her arms around him, shaking. “You’re okay. You’re okay, my baby…”
Izuku sniffed hard, then pulled back fast like he hadn’t been crying at all. He wiped his face with his sleeve, messy and quick.
He looked at the machine again, eyes huge.
“Can I… can I try?” he asked, voice small now. “Right now?”
The doctor nodded. “If you’re willing, we can do a safe activation test.”
Izuku nodded too—hard enough his curls bounced. “Yes!”
---
The doctor led them to a padded space on the floor and gave simple instructions.
“Hold your hands like you’re making a small ball,” he said. “Don’t force it. Just think: make something small and safe. If you feel tired from producing it, you stop.”
Izuku held his hands up, palms facing each other, fingers wiggling a little because he was trying very hard and also because he was five.
His tongue peeked out between his teeth.
Nothing happened.
He frowned, then looked up anxiously. “It’s not working…”
“It’s okay,” the doctor said. “Take your time.”
Izuku took a deep breath like he’d seen heroes do.
A faint breeze moved through the room—barely more than a sigh—but it made Inko’s hair lift.
Izuku’s eyes went round. “Oh!”
Between his palms, the air began to swirl in a tiny circle. It wasn’t strong. It was like a baby tornado learning how to stand up.
And then—
Something formed.
A small, pale azur/tile sphere hovered between his hands, smooth and semi-translucent, with a soft bright center—like a glass marble holding light inside. The air around it curled in gentle spirals.
Izuku gasped so hard he almost inhaled it.
“It’s—” he whispered.
The wind tugged lightly at the doctor’s coat, fluttered the edge of Inko’s sleeve.
Izuku let out a delighted little laugh. “It’s floating!”
The doctor smiled. “Excellent. That appears to be a wind core.”
Izuku stared at it like it was the prettiest toy in the world. “I made it.”
Inko made a soft crying sound again. “Izuku…”
Izuku glanced at her and then suddenly got shy. He lowered his hands a bit and the core bobbed down with them like a balloon.
“I—” he mumbled, cheeks red. “I did good?”
Inko hugged him again, tighter this time. “You did amazing.”
Izuku squirmed, giggling because the hug was too tight, and because the wind core kept wobbling like it was excited too.
The doctor watched them for a moment, then continued, careful and clear:
“One core equals one element. Once a core forms, its element is fixed. If you create more cores later, they can be different—but each core stays what it is.”
Izuku nodded, eyes glued to the core. “More than one…?”
“Potentially,” the doctor said. “Now, about limits—your body’s fatigue affects how many cores you can produce and how quickly you can make them. If you push production too hard, you’ll tire out.”
Izuku’s eyebrows pinched. “Like… sleepy?”
“Exactly,” the doctor said, smiling. “Sleepy, sore, cranky—your body will tell you to stop.”
Izuku nodded very seriously.
“But the cores themselves have their own energy,” the doctor continued. “Using a core drains the core’s stored energy. If a core is completely emptied—drained until there’s nothing left—it can become dark and break.”
Izuku’s eyes went wide. “It can… die?”
“In a way,” the doctor said gently. “That’s why you don’t run them to zero. If you stop before they’re fully drained, they’ll recharge over time.”
Izuku hugged the wind core closer to his chest for half a second, instinctive and protective. “Okay. I won’t use it all the way.”
Inko sniffed, wiping her cheeks. “We’ll be careful.”
“And there’s another advantage,” the doctor added, looking at Inko now. “This Quirk is particularly compatible with support item creation. These cores can act as power sources. With the right design, Izuku could create his own support gear—tools built around the elements he produces.”
Izuku’s head snapped up. “Support items?”
The doctor nodded. “Yes. And because you can generate the cores yourself, you wouldn’t need to rely on expensive external power sources. With training, you could become a hero who fights using equipment you design.”
Izuku’s face lit up so fast it was like someone flipped a switch.
He bounced again—full-body, happy kid bounce.
“I can make hero stuff?” he blurted. Then, immediately, he slapped both hands over his mouth like he’d yelled.
The doctor chuckled. “Yes. Hero stuff.”
Izuku stared at the wind core again, then held it carefully in his palm when it finally settled. The breeze around it softened, like it was calming down too.
It felt like holding a tiny piece of his future.
He looked up at Inko, voice suddenly soft.
“Mom…” he said. “I can really be a hero.”
Inko smiled through tears so hard it hurt. “Yes, Izuku. You can.”
Izuku nodded, clutching the core like a treasure, and for the first time in a long time, his smile didn’t look like it was pretending.
It looked real.
The next day, Izuku woke up before his alarm.
He did that a lot, but today felt different—like his body had decided sleeping was less important than remembering something amazing.
He slid out of bed and padded to the mirror in his socks, standing on his toes to see properly.
His eyes were still like a swirling rainbow trapped behind glass.
“Still there,” he whispered, then smiled so hard his cheeks hurt.
He pressed both hands to the sink and stared at his reflection like he could will the world to confirm it again.
“I have a Quirk,” he told the mirror, very seriously.
Then—because he was five and wanted to be sure he tried to make another core.
He held his hands up like he had at the clinic. Palms facing each other. Fingers wiggling a little. Tongue poking out.
Nothing happened.
Izuku frowned. He tried harder.
Still nothing.
His eyebrows scrunched. He puffed his cheeks.
“Come on…” he muttered, like his Quirk was a stubborn toy.
Behind him, the bedroom door creaked.
“Izuku?” Inko’s sleepy voice drifted in.
Izuku jolted like he’d been caught doing something illegal. He spun around, hands snapping to his sides.
Inko stood in the doorway in her house slippers, hair a mess, eyes half-open—but the moment she saw him by the sink, her face sharpened with worry.
“You’re not trying to make a core alone, are you?”
Izuku’s shoulders lifted up to his ears. He nodded… then shook his head… then nodded again.
“I just wanted to see if I could,” he said quickly. “Just a tiny one.”
Inko walked over and crouched until her face was level with his. She wasn’t angry. She was scared in that quiet adult way.
“I know you’re excited,” she said gently. “I am too. But we need rules, okay? For safety.”
Izuku nodded immediately, eyes huge. “Okay.”
“One,” Inko said, holding up a finger. “No making cores when you’re by yourself. Not yet.”
“Okay.”
“Two. No Quirk use at school unless a teacher says it’s safe.”
Izuku hesitated. His mouth opened a little, disappointed.
Inko touched his cheek. “You can tell them you have a Quirk. You can be proud. Just… no surprises.”
Izuku nodded again. “Okay.”
“And three,” Inko added, “if you feel tired from trying to make one, you stop. You rest. You don’t force it.”
Izuku nodded so hard his curls bounced. “Okay.”
Inko let out a breath, then smiled and kissed his forehead. “Good. Now… breakfast.”
---
The classroom felt louder than usual.
Maybe it was always loud and Izuku had just never noticed. But today, every sound felt like it bumped into him and bounced back.
He walked in with Inko beside him and the teacher greeting them warmly.
“Good morning, Midoriya-san,” the teacher said. “Izuku-kun!”
“Good morning!” Izuku said automatically—and then his chest swelled. “I have a Quirk now!”
The teacher blinked in surprise, then her face softened. “Oh? That’s wonderful news.”
Inko bowed politely, cheeks pink. “We visited the clinic yesterday. The doctor confirmed it’s an emitter Quirk. His eyes are… related.”
The teacher glanced at Izuku’s multicolored gaze and nodded. “Thank you for telling me. We’ll make sure everyone is respectful and safe.”
Izuku slid into his seat and tried very hard to sit still.
It lasted three seconds.
A kid leaned over. “Your eyes are so cool.”
Another whispered loudly, “Is that his Quirk?”
A third asked, “Can you shoot lasers?”
Izuku’s face heated up. He tried to answer all of them at once.
“No—yes—well—my Quirk is—um—” His words tripped over each other and he ended up ducking his head behind his chair and desk for half a second like a turtle hiding in his shell.
Then he peeked back out. “It’s called Elemental Core.”
“Oooooh,” the kids said, like that explained everything.
Izuku wished it did, because he didn’t know how to explain it without talking too fast again.
Across the room, Katsuki Bakugo had already arrived.
He wasn’t looking at Izuku.
Bakugo sat with his arms crossed, chin lifted like he owned the place. A couple kids hovered near him automatically, like they were pulled by gravity. Bakugo didn’t talk much—he didn’t have to. His presence did the talking.
Izuku glanced at him anyway.
Bakugo’s eyes flicked over for a moment, quick and sharp, landing on Izuku’s new rainbow gaze—
And then sliding away like it wasn’t worth keeping.
Izuku’s stomach dipped.
---
Later, the teacher clapped her hands. “All right, everyone! Settle down. I’ve heard exciting news today.”
Kids giggled and whispered.
The teacher looked at Izuku. “Izuku-kun, I hear you want to share.”
Izuku sat up straight. His heart beat fast enough to shake his ribs.
He remembered his mom’s rule: no Quirk use unless the teacher says it’s safe.
So he lifted his hand, small and polite.
“Um…, I have a quirk, can I show just a tiny bit… outside?” he asked.
The teacher smiled. “That’s a very responsible question. Yes. During recess, in the yard. I will watch, and everyone will stand back.”
Izuku nodded so hard his curls bounced.
Bakugo didn’t react at all.
He didn’t even look up.
---
Recess came like a reward.
The yard was cold enough that Izuku’s breath puffed in little clouds. Kids gathered in a loose circle. The teacher stood with arms folded, calm but alert.
“All right,” she said. “Everyone two steps back. No pushing. Izuku-kun, you can make a small demonstration.”
Izuku stepped into the center.
He swallowed.
He held his hands up like he had at the clinic—because it helped him focus, even if he didn’t need it.
He closed his eyes. He imagined the soft draft from yesterday. He thought: small and safe.
The air between his hands stirred.
A tiny swirl formed, tugging at the edge of his shirt.
And then—like a marble appearing from nowhere—
A small, pale Azur/tile sphere hovered in front of him.
Its center glowed softly, like light trapped in water.
The wind around it curled in delicate spirals, lifting a few loose leaves off the ground.
The kids gasped.
“Ooooo!”
“It’s pretty!”
“It’s like magic!”
Izuku’s face went hot. He smiled so hard his lips felt stretched.
“It’s a wind core,” he announced, proud. “It makes wind.”
The core bobbed slightly, responding to his excitement like it was excited too.
The teacher nodded. “Very good, Izuku-kun. Keep it small.”
Izuku concentrated, making the wind gentle—just enough to flutter a scarf and make someone laugh.
He felt… warm inside. Like he’d finally joined the world everyone else lived in.
Then he heard a sound from the edge of the group.
“Tch.”
Izuku turned.
Bakugo stood a little apart, hands in his pockets. He wasn’t in the circle. He hadn’t pushed to see. He looked like he’d only wandered over because everyone else did.
He stared at the core for a second.
Just one second.
Then his mouth twisted.
“That’s it?” Bakugo said.
Izuku blinked. “Huh?”
Bakugo jerked his chin at the floating sphere. “It’s just a stupid ball.”
The kids around them went quiet, like someone had shut a door.
Izuku’s smile wobbled. “It’s not— it’s—”
Bakugo cut him off, not loud, not dramatic. Just final.
“It's weak. And your still just a Deku”
The word felt heavy. Like it landed on Izuku’s chest and sat there.
Izuku’s eyes stung immediately, which made him mad because he didn’t want to cry in front of everyone.
“It’s real,” he said, voice small but stubborn. “The doctor—”
Bakugo’s gaze slid off him like water off glass.
He didn’t argue.
He didn’t care enough to argue.
He turned away mid-sentence and walked off toward the jungle gym like Izuku had stopped existing.
That was worse than yelling.
Izuku swallowed hard.
The wind core wobbled.
He squeezed his eyes shut for half a second and forced himself to breathe, because the teacher was watching and he didn’t want to mess up.
The teacher stepped closer, voice gentle. “Izuku-kun, you did very well. Now let's put that core safely in your bags.”
A kid near the front spoke up, quieter now. “It is cool…”
Another nodded. “Yeah. It’s really pretty.”
Izuku blinked fast until the sting went away.
He nodded, too. “Th-Thanks.”
He pulled the core closer to his chest like it could protect him from feelings.
---
After school, Izuku watched Bakugo from a distance.
Bakugo walked with his own little orbit of kids. He laughed once—sharp and loud—and Izuku flinched even though it wasn’t aimed at him.
Izuku didn’t follow.
He didn’t call out.
He just held his backpack strap tightly and walked home with Inko.
At the door, Inko asked, “How was school?”
Izuku opened his mouth.
Two versions tried to come out at once.
“It was good,” he said first, because he wanted it to be true. “I made a wind core outside and everyone saw.”
Inko’s face lit up. “Oh, Izuku!”
Then the small voice slipped out anyway.
“Kacchan said it was weak.”
Inko’s smile softened, not disappearing, just turning gentle. She knelt and opened her arms.
Izuku stepped into the hug immediately, because he was four and hugs fixed a lot of things.
Inko brushed his hair back. “Izuku… Quirks grow. And some people don’t understand what they’re looking at yet.”
Izuku sniffed. “He didn’t even… listen.”
“I know,” Inko murmured. “That hurts.”
Izuku pulled back and wiped his face fast, pretending he hadn’t needed the hug so much.
“I’m gonna make it strong,” he said fiercely.
Inko nodded. “I know you will.”
That night, Izuku got out a notebook—one he usually used for hero doodles—and wrote big, messy letters at the top of the page.
CORE NOTEBOOK
He drew a circle and colored it azur/tile with a crayon that didn’t really match, because he didn’t have the right color, and that made him angry for two seconds.
Then he wrote underneath, very carefully, tongue between his teeth:
- Wind Core
- Pretty
- Makes wind
- Bakugo says weak
- I will make it strong
He stared at the last line for a long time.
Then he added a little, shaky star next to it.
Because even if it hurt…
It still felt like a promise.