Chapter Text
Hizashi Yamada had a considerably hard life, but to his humble eyes, it was all just a series of chance.
***
The moment he came out the womb he had been hated. He'd blown out the ears of everyone in the hospital room, including himself. The nurses nearly dropped the preemie, and his too-young parents immediately decided they couldn't handle him. They'd left him that day at the hospital; alone and barely breathing, with nothing but a last name. Since his quirk manifested at birth, he was under a very watchful eye; much to the pity of the nurses. They had loved him, apparently. Bright blond, wispy strands at the top of his head and frighteningly bright green eyes, and always a wisp of a smile on his chubby cheeks.
They called him the sunshine baby, and they would've kept calling him that if he wasn't snatched away and dropped into an orphanage as soon as he became a normal weight. His destructive nature already put his future self into a lot of trouble, kinds he wasn't even aware of.
He learned as he grew older though. Jumping around from foster home to foster home and having all sorts of fucked up things done to you would make you a quick learner. Being muzzled in nearly every foster family, given quirk suppressants, being beaten into silence, it was a sure-fire was to make a kid reclusive and angry.
The first time he ever talked back, raspy and his quirk thrumming in the edges of his voice box, his foster father beat him black and blue. It was so awful that a case was opened when they took him to the hospital.
Unfortunately, it was closed almost immediately when they found out about his quirk. "He's a liability." They said. "Whatever was done to him was likely done in self defense." He scoffed at the words, and was dragged away by his newest caretaker's to his next scornful punishment. And oh so cruelly had he been restrained and forced to watch his hearing aids, the cheap, faulty ones given to him so graciously by the orphanage staff, crushed in front of him.
Eventually he was "adopted" by a couple scientists and well... you can guess what they did to him. Memories of syringes and medical tables, antiseptic, blood, and his fellow patients on the floor because he just couldn't control his quirk. He blocked out most of the memories by this point.
He managed to run way when he turned 9, packed away his scarce belongings, kissed his almost-siblings goodbye and broke out through the windows in his white-walled prison.
He had wandered for days, ducking when he felt sirens and tearing down missing posters. It was only when he rammed headfirst into a group of villains in an active crime scene and almost got himself killed in the process that his situation became gravely apparent.
He was all alone, and there was no one coming to help him.
He was much more careful after that. Yamada was hyper-vigilant on the streets, too paranoid for a kid his age. He stole food from trash cans, snuck in gyms to shower off the filth and grime he'd acquired—though most attempts ended up with him being chased out. The vibrations in the ground served him more than any other aid he'd been given, using it to guide him into places
One day, he collapsed in a park, exhausted and vacant. For such sunny weather, it was awfully empty out there. There was an old, abandoned walkman by the bench and a bag of cassette tapes sitting beside it. A note beside it read: Take what you want, it's free.
So that's what he did. He couldn't hear a damn thing once he figured out how to put the tape in and play the music. But he liked the vibrations, rhythmic and soothing and comforting underneath the hot sun that beat down on him. And all at once, it hit him.
His name.
The biggest thing he'd been deprived of. He'd been given insults, slurs, and a number from the scientists. Never a name. They didn't think he deserved one; his destructive quirk and previously sunny disposition had been made abundantly clear it was hated. His viridian, concentric eyes, or eye, since one occasionally turned a ruby red after late experimentation. His yellow-blond hair, his loud behavior and bright smile. He didn't know how he didn't see it before, how his name was right there, waiting for him to acknowledge it.
He knew with a quiet, no, loud, determined certainty, that this would be how he lived the rest of his days. Unapologetically himself. Loud, annoying, bright. Like the sun. And he smiledfaintly under the sun, his quirk rumbling readily, low in his throat and shaking the ground with his new-found elation.
Never would Yamada Hizashi hide his true self again.
_________________________
There was an undercover operative from the Hero Public Safety Commission watching him. She had been stalking him for a while, following his every move. It was hard to keep track of her, even harder to lose her when needed; it was like she had eyes everywhere he went. It unsettled him. So much so that he resolved to steal money for the first time and catch the next train out of Niigata and head to Musutafu.
He didn't really think about the fact there would be even more Hero's around Musutafu, and hardly thought about the fact that it was that exact city the HPSC HQ was located. No, he just needed to get out of this cursed city and fast. Around 1am, he snuck into the train station, avoiding the cameras and stole a ticket from a distracted passenger. While he had the (stolen) money to buy the ticket, his face was plastered all over the station in a large, red letter titled:
MISSING BOY:
LAST NAME: YAMADA
FIRST NAME: UNKNOWN
IF FOUND, PLEASE RETURN TO XXX-XXX-XXXX AT HSIAOZM
The letters were all jumbled up, probably from the alley cats or some annoyed civilian, maybe too annoyed by the fact their quirk couldn't do much and that they couldn't help him. Or they were just tired of missing kids being shoved in their face.
Hizashi slipped the money into distracted man's pocket and snagged the ticket, satisfied with his little heist. It was a busy place, and considering the woman's appearance, frightening aura, and broad figure, she would be pretty hard to miss. Yamada sighed gently, feeling his shoulders relax in what felt like months. He had a blueberry jelly packet in his backpack— his favorite flavor, and he was just now getting on a train to a new place. A fresh start. He couldn't wait.
The train doors opened with a hiss and Hizashi darted through the crowd into the car, securing a seat and leaning his head back against the window. His shaky hands smoothed back his "bright" blond hair, coming back filthy and caked with dirt. Gross, he thought. He needed to find a bathhouse, or a river. Speaking of rivers, there was a river he heard about in Musutafu that was just beautiful. It was hidden in a forest, but the trees parted for the cool blue rapids that flowed out. Perfect for summer, a secluded place where you wouldn't think to bother someone. Perfect for someone to lay low.
Yamada looked around the train car as the last passenger boarded; it looked like he was more lost in his head than he thought if he didn't realize the car had filled up this much. With a jolt, the train began to move, and idle chatter vibrated through the space. Hizashi looked over the faces of each passenger, studying them as carefully as his awful eyesight would allow.
There was an eccentrically dressed woman sitting to his left, her hair in spikes and jacket studded with rhinestones and more spikes. Her shoes were platform and shiny and her hair was neon pink, spiked with glitter in it. She was so cool, Yamada thought. She caught him staring and smiled like a cheshire cat. She reached onto her bag and grabbed a pin, holding it out to him. It read: I <3 being punk rock. He took it without hesitation.
The man to his right was dressed like an office worker, tired and slumped over. He was smoking a cigarette and crying. He caught his stare and flinched. "I hate my job. I hate my life. I hate this system." He cried mournfully. He learned to read lips a while ago, though he had to piece together the broken information most of the time. Hizashi reached into his bag and grabbed his jelly packet, holding it out to the man. He accepted it with a tearful smile, which immediately crumpled as he replaced his still-smoking cigarette with jelly. Standing up in front of him was a red-haired man, and his body heat made the car feel like a sauna. Hizashi avoided his gaze at all cost. He vaguely recalled him from TV, being Endeavor, second to All Might (the greatest hero ever).
Further left, there was a group of teens packed together in gray uniforms. UA's strict policy to look uniform (get it?) really seemed to last at all times. Yamada absently wondered why they were out so late in uniform. One of them had a guitar on their back, and another had a saxophone case and another had a trumpet and violin. Instruments. He loved those. He wanted to learn to so badly, it ached inside of him. It felt like his body yearned for the noise it produced, for the comfort it provided.
Past the teens were more people, but one person stood out the most. A woman with bright, neon blue curls. She was angelic. Her fashion sense was perfect, lace and flowy garments and all sorts of colors that sang together in a rhythm of wonder, he couldn't help but wonder if her quirk had to do something with comfort with how quickly he relaxed. He almost cried at how sweet she looked. He blinked back the tears, suddenly lost in his head. He wanted that. He wanted to be free to dress as punk as the girl next to him, to be freer than the poor man next to him, to play music like those UA students and save people. He wanted to be a hero. A hero like them. To do what he loved while making sure people were safe enough to do what they loved too.
He was shaken out of those thoughts when a gentle hand landed on his shoulder. He tensed up instantly, already having an idea of who was in front of him. He squeezed his eyes shut, and slowly looked up to the presence in front of him. He knew what going to happen, he'd read the stories, heard about what would happen if you were caught by an HPSC operative. His time in the lab told him that it would be less than enjoyable, and far, far more painful than anything he'd experienced before. Which, was saying a lot for Hizashi himself.
He couldn't bear to open his eyes when he felt her crouch down in front of him. He felt tears stinging at his eyes, and his high-pitched whimpers increasing in volume. His face began to twist in fear and self-loathing. He hated when this happened. He'd get upset, then lose control, and everyone would face the consequences. He was going to kill the people on the train. Hizashi was going to let his quirk slip, let Voice slip and pierce the ears of everyone and ruptured their organs and the glass would break and make them bleed and the train would veer off the rails from the noise and everyone would die and it would be his fault and-
Yamada suddenly felt the hand cup his cheek, and his eyes shot open. He winced as the woman's thumb brushed over a tender scar from his latest muzzling. Her hands were calloused from the work she did, but she was being soft with him, gentle. His viridian eyes looked over her face, typically pinched with focus and a vague stoicism that prevented any hint of emotion shining through, and found a warm, concerned expression shining through the cracks of her carefully composed disposition. Now that he could see her closer, not just her general, blurry shape on rooftops and behind walls, he was quite surprised that she was so... human.
With her crooked, bumped nose, downturned eyes and a slash trailing down her right eye and stopping at her mid neck. Her costume was, supposedly white, stained with blood and marred with tear stains. He couldn't tell if those blurry blobs were recent or not, if they were hers or someone else's. Her long, dark hair was actually peppered with gray, wisps of red staining the ends that Yamada wasn't sure was blood or hair dye. It was in the in between state he had seen in magazines and TV shows. Right before the blood gets out and the dye needs a touch-up is a color that reminds him of the stained checkered floor of the lab and the starry ceiling of the orphanage and the sun in the park that day.
Yamada couldn't hear what she was saying, it was too muddled for him to make out. Her thin lips didn't move enough for him to reach it. The tears fell, the fear welled up and the frustration bursted. He tugged away from her hand with a sharp twists and his shoulders shook from how much he was holding back. She took her hands away, her face twisted in contemplation. Then she reached into her pocket and pulled out a snack box. A... snack box? It was a pocky box, chocolate flavored. He didn't take it. He didn't know this woman, not even a little bit. For all he knew, she was still going to take him to the HPSC and they would torture him until he did what they wanted.
The woman opened the box, and ate a stick of pocky. slowly. It felt like she was treating him like a scared animal, too much to handle at once and he would dart away. But, it looked good. And he was hungry. And he'd gave away his jelly packet to the crying man bedside him. Carefully, Yamada reached his small hand into the offered box, and took out a pocky stick. He inspected it at first, making sure it wasn't weird looking or off color somehow. If he wasn't so focused, he would've noticed a sad look pass over her face at his intense distrust at such an early age.
When he took a bite, he felt that feeling of contentment rush back over him. It had been so long since he had chocolate that he forgot how good it could be. He devoured the first one and picked out another. And another. And another.
The woman smiled at him, a sun shining through the clouds and beaming into Hizashi's dark world. Gently, she took his small hand in hers, and he let her. She guided his hand on her throat, the vibration of her chuckle rattling through his body at the confused look that crossed his face. She cleared her throat, and Hizashi's eyes glazed over with wonder and overwhelming emotion alike.
"Hi." She said. Sunshine couldn't hear her, but he could damn well feel her.
"My name is Beckon, and i'm going to get you out of here."