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Midoriya Izuku has been alone for a long time.
He wasn't always alone. There used to be someone else here. His mother. Midoriya... Inko, he thinks, was her name.
He doesn't remember her very well. It's been a long time since she left, and a long time since she didn't come back.
He remembers that she was soft and kind and warm. Gentle and loving. He remembers how she would smile and kiss his forehead and hold him close and promise him that this wasn't going to be their forever. Desperate apologies and tears shed when she thought Izuku was asleep. Because she never wanted him to see her cry.
Izuku hated it, back then. Seeing his mother cry. But he thinks that's normal. No one would want to see their mother cry, right? There might not be anything normal about him. Probably. Except for that. Maybe.
Now, he would give anything. Anything and everything. To see her cry again. Because it would mean getting to see her again.
His room is small and quiet and lonely. Dark and dreary and all he's ever really known. When he was little, his mother would make fun games out of the lack of space. Testing Izuku's ability to tuck himself tightly into each little corner. Playing a victim, when Izuku excitedly ran from one end of the room to the other, declaring himself the hero who would rescue her from–
Izuku grimaces against the memory. His hands tremble against the carpet. Tiny scars etched into his palms. Marring his knuckles. That little fantasy never ended well.
Izuku's silly little dream was really nothing more than that. A way to lift the weight off his own shoulders and make his mother smile, no matter how briefly. He had always loved her smile. Soft and sweet and filled with nothing but love. A smile that never failed to make Izuku feel like everything was going to be alright.
(It makes sense, then. That smile is gone now. And Izuku has learned that nothing turns out right in the end.)
The wall is stained with crimson. Izuku's hands held tight beside his face. A stance perfected over years and years of dedicated practice combined with a near flawless impression of a spoiled child, begging for any kind of entertainment. It had granted him a collection of Martial Arts movies and a small TV to watch them on. An inspriation for his now constant passtime.
An outline on the wall, drawn in the same chalk his mother had begged for when he was a child, and splatters of crimson from Izuku's increasingly bloody knuckles, as he fantasizes about turning that damned outline into his hideous face.
Years of training are painted across his knuckles. A portrait of an endless fight that he’s never gotten to throw himself into. He wonders if the heroes in his movies ever got scars like this. Worn circles, showcasing just how many times he’s made his hands bleed from the effort.
He tries to stay positive. His mother wouldn’t want him to lose hope. She tried so very hard to give it to him. He wants to live up to the hopes she had for him. He wants to be the son that she deserved, and not the one she got.
When he bores himself with training, he curls himself onto the floor and turns on that tiny TV.
There’s furniture, but Izuku doesn’t bother to use it. The couches tained with the ghost of a little boy and his mother, laughing along to some silly song that she made up in her mind. She told him that she used to be a teacher. She told him that he would be a really good one.
Izuku thought so back then. That he’d be a good teacher. If his mom said it, then it must be true. He had no idea how to become a teacher. He didn’t really have a concept of what teachers were, really. His mom tried to explain it to him, but it never really stuck. Instead, she promised that he would know for himself someday. When they left this tiny room together.
Then she disappeared.
And Izuku has been alone ever since.
Until the day the lock on his door goes boom,
And Izuku kicks the intruder right in the head.
There are a million and one sounds that accompany a raid like this one, and Bakugou Katsuki has created a complicated mental graph to determine where they land between “smooth sailing” and “completely fucked.”
Quiet whispers and silent commands? Good. Things are going according to plan and they have yet to be discovered. Silence is golden as they always say. Iida seems to really like that expression. No matter how many times Bakugou threatens to burn his damn mouth shut to pove the hypothesis.
Alarms blaring and people screaming? Bad. Terrible, actually. Someone’s screwed up (and Bakugou can almost always guess who) and they’re all suffering the consequences of it. Lucky them he’s (usually) willing to forgive, just as long as everyone gets out of it alive.
Bootfalls against concrete? Can go either way. Depends on how frantic the boots are and how quickly they’re moving. Racing and stomping is never good. Calm and collected? Let’s keep it that way.
One of his hands stays curled tightly around the grip of his gun. The other keeps the muzzle braced. Stationary and tucked close to his side. His own bootfalls are accompanied by Eijirou’s, about two steps behind him.
Splitting up tends to be the most effective strategy for a raid like this. Three groups of two spreading out through the building is much more efficient than one group of six. More ground covered in less time. More variety in supplies to drag back to base.
(Fewer people lost if one group is discovered. More chance for the others to get away.)
Katsuki ducks behind the nearest corner. Eijirou ducks down next to him. Katsuki peeks around the corner, confirming the coast to be clear, and signals safety to his right hand.
The two round the corner together and continue down the dark and dreary hallway. The lights are dimmed. Where there was an endless array of doors stretching in every direction, here there is only one at the very end of the hall. A dim light keeps it visible. Dark green paint faded with age and small letters scratched into the surface, too small to see from a distance.
In all of the buildings they’ve raided, they’ve never seen a hallway quite like this.
For every nasty thing that one could say about the Big Bad Demon Lord, unkempt is not one of them. His buildings are kept proper and prim, groomed like a well loved animal. Each storeroom is immaculately maintained. Each rack of weapons kept in perfect order.
(And yeah, Katsuki enjoys the chance to blow that perfect order right to smithereens. Sue him. The fucker deserves it.)
This hallway is… different. Katsuki can’t put his finger on why, but one glance in Eijirou’s direction confirms that he’s not the only one who’s noticed.
Something is different. This brand of eerie perfection is just a little bit off.
Katsuki swallows down his sudden burst of nerves. Only one door is a good thing, at the end of the day. Only one place an enemy could come from. Only one point to keep his focus on.
Eijrou looks his way for confirmation. Wanting to know what they’re going to do. Katsuki nods his head slightly, and the two of them make their way down the hall towards that door.
Calm, collected bootfalls put Katsuki’s mind slightly more at ease, but he doesn’t dare lessen the grip on his gun for even a moment. His chest feels tight. Like something reached out to curl its grip around his lungs. As the door gets closer and closer, the feeling gets stronger and stronger. Like whatever is behind that door is going to change absolutely everything and Katsuki has no goddamn idea how.
By the time he and Eijirou have fallen into position on either side of the door, he truly feels like he’s about to suffocate.
Eijirou tries the door handle and finds it locked. Obviously, Katsuki wants to spit. Did they really expect the lone door at the end of this creepy fucking hallway to be open??
Katsuki nods his head. Eijirou activates his quirk, hardening his body and ducking behind his arms. Katsuki positions himself in front of the door. His palms spark before igniting. The explosion stays small and controlled, localizing itself to the lock. Just enough to get the door open. Hopefully small enough to keep their presence quiet.
The handle clatters to the ground and the door quietly swings open. Katsuki falls back into place, back pressed up against the wall and gun held up. Ready to be used. Eijirou keeps his quirk activated. Katsuki lets go of the muzzle, his palm sparking in preparation.
The two of them wait, collectively counting all the way to sixty between them. Eijirou’s throat bobs. Katsuki twitches his fingers as if he’s playing a scale on the piano.
They share a nod and jump back into motion. Eijirou kicks the door the rest of the way open. Katsuki points his gun through the opening, only to find–
–a TV.
Katsuki blinks. Eijirou falls into place beside him – a few steps behind – and his face quickly twists in the same confusion that must be written all over Katsuki’s.
It looks like… a living room. A simplistic, mostly bare living room, but still a living room. An old, worn couch across from a small, severely out of date TV with a stack of DVDs resting beside it. The DVD player atop the box has certainly seen better days, but the lights still blink so it must be functional.
The walls are empty. Nearly empty. There aren’t any decorations. No pictures, no paintings, no artwork. Not even any shelves. Just a strange chalk outline of what looks like a person with giant crimson smears centered mostly around what would be the drawing’s face. Indents in the wall that range from barely present to all-too noticeable, like someone really and truly beat the ever-loving shit out of that drawing.
Then, throwing the whole “living room” aesthetic right out the window, there’s a bed shoved into one of the corners. Sheets rumpled and covers shoved aside. One beat-to-shit pillow and a stuffed bunny that looks like it’s seen better days tucked against the wall.
The whole room is… messy. Like it was haphazardly slapped together and barely maintained. Not his style at all.
“What the fuck…” Katsuki mumbles. He lowers his gun, not seeing any tangible threat. Eijirou still doesn’t deactivate his quirk. They share a look before Katsuki steps forward, trying to get a better idea of the room’s layout.
He’s met with a bright red shoe right to the side of his head and a suddenly very loud, very angry Eijirou shouting his name.
Katsuki stumbles back. Dropping his gun with both hands. The strap keeps it from falling to the ground. He covers the side of his head with one hand and holds the other out, palms sparking with explosives just waiting to be ignited. A blur of blue and green streaks past Katsuki’s vision as he struggles to find focus, and once he’s finally pulled himself together he finds–
A kid.
No. That can’t be right. Kid would imply that he’s younger than Katsuki and Eijirou.
(But they’re kids too, aren’t they? That’s what–)
A teenager, then. Can’t be any older than 15. 16 would be pushing it. Crouched into a tight fighting stance.
He’s wearing a light blue t-shirt with シャツ written across the front in boring black lettering, darker blue shorts, and the offending red sneakers. Atop his head is a mess of green curls, matching his narrowed green eyes. A long scar runs from his chin up to the corner of his right eye, with matching ones running all the way from his elbows under his sleeves. There’s a smattering of freckles across his face, and an angry downturn to his lips.
“What the fuck,” Katsuki can’t help but repeat. He turns to look at Eijirou, who looks just as perplexed as Katsuki feels. Their eyes meet and Eijirou just shrugs.
“Who are you?” The green-haired boy asks. Demands, more like.
“Uh,” Katsuki blinks again. “I was about to ask you the same thing.”
“I asked first,” the stranger says, his eyes frantically darting between Katsuki and Eijirou.
“We’re, uh–“ Katsuki feels like his brain is rebooting. There are a million and one things that he might have expected to find behind the door at the end of that hall, but this- this wasn’t even on the fucking list.
“Friends!” Eijirou pipes up, quickly deactivating his quirk. He gets between Katsuki and the stranger. Holding his hands up in a placating gesture. “We’re not here to hurt you, man! We’re just, um, well–”
“We’re trying to hurt the sick bastard who locked you up in here,” Katsuki interrupts. He’s making a lot of assumptions, which seems to have worked out for him when the stranger’s eyes widen and he takes a small step back. His stance doesn’t drop, and he still looks skeptical, but Katsuki notices a spark in his eyes that almost looks like hope, and his chest feels tight.
“...that’s impossible,” the stranger whispers. “No one… no one fights him.”
“Think you’re ignoring a couple people there, huh?” Katsuki narrows his eyes. “Considering we’re standing right fuckin’ here you little–”
“Bakugou,” Eijirou hisses. Katsuki sighs heavily.
“Bakugou…” the stranger repeats, and his eyes widen slightly. He doesn’t drop his stance. In fact, he gets more tense. “...then you’re…”
“Bakugou Katsuki,” Katsuki introduces himself. “What, you’ve heard’ve me?”
“...he hates you,” the stranger says, quietly. His fists tremble where they’re held up on either side of his face. “He really hates you.”
“Good,” Katsuki nods his head, crossing his arms over his chest. Eijirou rolls his eyes. Lucky that they’re trying not to escalate the situation right now, because otherwise Katsuki would have absolutely decked him for it. “Means I’m doing my job right.”
“So what do you want with me?” the stranger asks, his eyes darting between the two of them, practically bursting with nervous energy.
“Nothing! We didn’t even know you were here!” Eijirou says, still holding up his hands placatingly. “We were looking for supplies, and just… happened to find you! I swear we–”
“Oi,” Katsuki interrupts, glancing around the room again. The shoddy state of the furniture and the beat up blankets and the stuffed bunny that looks like it could really use some repairs. The stack of movies that looks as though it’s been watched and reorganized and watched again more times than anyone could reasonably count. The chalk outline on the wall, stained with blood matching the scars on the stranger’s knuckles. “How long’ve you been in here?”
The stranger bristles. His eyes widen slightly. Eijirou’s mouth snaps shut.
“...I’ve always been here,” the stranger says, quietly.
“You’ve–” Eijirou starts, but Katsuki doesn’t let him finish.
“You wanna stay here?” Katsuki asks, tilting his head to the side. “You wanna be trapped in this little cell for the rest of your life?” He narrows his eyes. “You wanna die in this fuckin’ shithole?”
The stranger’s eyes widen into saucers. Eijirou is gearing up to yell at him again. The stranger, however, takes another small step back. His hands drop down to his sides and his face falls. Something about his face rips Katsuki’s heart into enough distinct pieces to actually feel, and he does not like it one bit.
“What’s your name?” Katsuki asks, gruffly. The stranger looks to the side.
“...Midoriya,” he says, softly. “...Midoriya Izuku.”
“Izuku,” Katsuki says, forgoing the surname entirely. He steps forward, closer, and Izuku takes a step back in turn. His shin hits the small coffee table between the couch and the TV, and Izuku trips over the table, letting out a cry as he falls on his ass. It would be funny, if everything else wasn’t so goddamn horrifying.
But the horrifying parts can be processed later. Later. Once Katsuki and Eijirou get the guy out of here and somewhere fucking safe.
Katsuki holds out his hand.
“Come with us,” he says. Izuku stares in silence at the outstretched hand, at the offer of freedom, like he doesn’t know what to do with it. “We’ll keep you safe.”
The silence stretches for a long moment. Eijirou’s head perks up at the sound of alarms blaring from the hallway. That’s bad. Someone fucked up. Katsuki will handle it when they get back. He ignores the alarm, despite Eijirou’s obvious panic as he rushes for the door and takes cover. He shouts that they have to go. They can’t just–
“...safe,” Izuku repeats, softly. He looks up at Katsuki with those wide, awestruck green eyes, and something in Katsuki’s chest aches.
Izuku, with hesitation and maybe a touch of fear, reaches out and takes Katsuki’s hand.
Katsuki hauls him to his feet, and they run.